He'd never been in a place this filthy, this beat-up, or this unsafe before, so he did his best to ignore the fear that was building within him with each step upward.
He heard some crazed laughter. Then two ragged boys, about twelve or thirteen, rounded the corner. One was dark, almost African looking, and the other was tawny skinned with kinky blond hair and watery blue eyes. Both wore cutoff shorts and filthy T-shirts; neither wore shoes, and their feet were blackened with grime, up to the ankles. Each clenched a brown paper bag in his fist.
" Gostaria? " The darker boy asked him. He held the bag toward Carlo, still keeping it closed. " Vinte reais."
"No, obrigado," Carlo replied. "What is that?"
He opened it to reveal a plastic bottle inside. " Cola de sapato."
Shoemaker's glue. The drug of choice for poor kids in Brazil. "No, no. Obrigado."
He said, noticing that the boy with the blue eyes looked stoned out of his mind.
How was he going to make it down all those stairs?
"Cocaina?" the boy asked, hopefully.
Carlo shook his head.
The blond smiled, raised his eyebrows and rubbed his crotch. " Sim, sim? "
"No!" Carlo waved his hands in the air. " Estou procurando por Afonso Peres. Sabe onde posso encontra-lo? "
The pair burst into laughter, then continued their descent, so Carlo continued upward. Then he glanced down and saw, with relief, Braulio and the other bodyguard leaning against the car.
They waved up at him and he waved back.
Pendejos, his father would have called them.
He spotted an ancient woman sitting behind an open curtain; she was crocheting something from yellow and green yarn. " Com licenca, Nana," he called out to her,
" estou procurando por Afonso Peres. Sabe onde posso encontra-lo? "
She eyed him suspiciously, then reached forward and snatched the tattered drapes together.
He looked around for someone else but saw no one, and was wondering what to do when a teenage girl in a denim skirt and red bandana halter top emerged from a doorway and began picking her way down toward him.
He shot her his friendliest smile. "Excuse me, but I'm looking for Afonso Perez,"
he asked her in his best Portuguese. "Please, do you know Afonso Perez?"
Her eyes quickly examined him. "I know no one by that name."
As she sidled past him, he had an idea. "Babalu. Do you know Babalu Perez?" He pulled the photograph from his pocket and held it up. "He is my cousin."
She turned. "Babalu?" She smiled, and he saw she was beautiful. "He is my friend.
You are his cousin?"
"From California. Los Angeles. I'm trying to find him. Please, I am Carlos."
She held out her hand, and he placed the photo into her palm. "So that was young Babalu?" She giggled before handing the picture back. "I am Xuxulu." She pointed up to the left, at a door painted bright yellow. "Babalu is there. A pleasure meeting you." Then she continued her descent.
" Obrigado! " he yelled to her back.
He leapt up the remaining stairs, then stood before the door and knocked.
"Babalu?" he called out. "Babalu Perez, please?"
No answer. "Babalu Perez?" He knocked again. "Babalu?"
" Entré," answered a meek voice.
He pushed open the door.
He was surprised to see a comparatively tidy room with a cleanly swept floor, one chair and a small bed in the corner. And sitting in the other corner of the room, smoking a cigarette and watching a game show on his tiny color TV, was the man who might be his cousin.
"What is it you need?" the man asked in English, with a voice that could not be described as male or female.
"Are you...were you Afonso Perez?"
"Who are you?" the man asked suspiciously.
"I'm Carlos Martinez, your cousin from the United States. My mother, Eva, was your mother's sister. I've come a long way to find you."
The man abandoned his cigarette on the side table, then pushed himself up, with the help of a cane, from the chair. He approached him, squinting. Then he smiled, and Carlo saw there was still handsomeness underneath the evidence of many difficult years.
"No one has called me Afonso in some time," he said. "Please call me Babalu; it is my only name now."
"I go by Carlo now, too. I wanted to be different from my father."
The man looked him up and down. "You are very handsome. And muito forte," he added, puffing out his scrawny chest.
"Thanks. My sister Carmen said we look alike."
The man laughed. "I might have looked like you many, many years ago. now no one would say such a compliment to me. Please sit." He motioned to the chair.
"May I offer you some drink? I have white wine, but only some popcorn if you are hungry."
"No, thanks," Carlo replied as he went over to the chair and sat. Babalu, in turn, perched himself on the side of his bed, still clutching his cane. "So tell me, why do you come so far to find me?"
"First, I have some sad news. My mother has died."
Shock registered on his face. "I am so sorry, Carlitos. She was my mother's favorite sister." He withdrew another cigarette from his pack, then lit it. "Of what cause did she die, if I may ask?"
"She had cancer of the...womb."
He sighed. "of this my poor mother also died. It is sad that what gives so much life to you and me can rob the givers of theirs. It does not make sense."
"I'm sorry your mother has passed away also. I remember her as a kind woman, who laughed a lot. Especially with my mother."
He smiled. "They are together, once again," he said, pointing skyward. "Perhaps they are sharing a joke even now?"
Carlo nodded, on the verge of sudden tears because of the picture in his head.
"How long ago?"
Babalu looked at the ceiling. "Three years, this November. And your mother?"
"It was a year ago this past June."
"And how is your father? He must be very lonely without her."
Carlo's face darkened, and he shrugged. "He's OK, I guess."
"He was not the nicest man, if I recall my mother's stories."
"He hates my being gay. But I don't care."
"So you are like me, then?"
"I guess." He looked at the broken-down man in the hovel that was his home, and felt sorry for him. "Yes. I'm like you. We're very much alike in that way."
"I hope not so alike," he stated ominously, then sucked on his cigarette.
"Why not?" Carlo asked, already knowing the answer.
Babalu laughed bitterly. "You cannot tell by looking at me? or by the smell of death in the room?"
"I was told you weren't well. That's one of the reasons I'm here."
"You are kind to come, but I am not yet ready to die. You must be here for some other reason; this is a long way from your home."
"My amante brought me down here on business, and I wanted to find out if there was anything I could do for you while I'm here--like to give you money. For a doctor."
"There is not much that can be done for me," his cousin said. "I have not been well in so long that I cannot remember what it feels like to feel good. So this is what I am used to."
"Then maybe I can offer you something else."
He raised his eyebrows, and Carlo saw they were painted on. "Please do not play with my hopes. I'm afraid I do not have much patience, so if you have something to make my life better, will you please tell me?"
"I might have an opportunity for you. But it would depend on your health, and what you're able to do."
His eyes narrowed. "Tell me what you know; then I will be the judge."
"I know someone, a friend. I told him about you, and he has offered to give you a job. Some work, if you can do it."
"Do not tell me it has to do with drugs."
Carlo laughed. "No, no drugs. Or anything else illegal. It has to do with a resort we're building--beautiful hotels and pools and casinos. On an island
about an hour's flight north of Rio."
"To work at an American hotel?" A smile opened his cousin's face. "That is something I have always wanted to do; the people are so elegant, and the food is perfect. When I was young I visited clients in the Copacabana Palace many times.
Is it like that? When will the resort be finished?"
Carlo felt excited--this was what he'd come here for. "That's funny, because we're staying at the Palace, or we stayed there when we got into Rio. So that's something you'd be interested in?"
Babalu stood, and began hobbling back and forth in the tiny room. "To think I will have a beautiful place to work again, and then I can have an apartment, maybe down near Ipanema." He turned to Carlo. "When can I meet this friend of yours? I will need some new clothes to see him. Do you,"--he hesitated--"think you could give me money for some new clothes? I would not like for him to see me like this.
I will pay you back. Please tell me you did not tell him I am sick. He won't hire me if I am sick, not in a fine hotel."
He held up his hands. "He already knows, Babalu. He made the offer knowing you're not well."
He shook his head. "Who can this saint be?" he asked. "What is his name?"
"His name is Elegbara. Dom Elegbara Fabi--" Carlo started to say.
"Fabiano?" Babalu interrupted.
They locked eyes.
Then they both said, "El Gigante," in unison.
Babalu laughed bitterly. Then he coughed. And coughed.
Then he sat. "How do you know this man?" he whispered suspiciously.
"It's a long story."
He paused. "What is more important is what you do with him now. Your business."
"My lover has investments with him. Real estate. Hotels, like I told you. We came to Brazil to meet with him and to inspect the hotels he is building."
"Your amante; he is an old man?"
"No, primo, he is young like me."
"And he is already rich?"
"His family is very rich."
"And he is an honest man?"
"Why do you ask?" Babalu looked away, then began speaking in a low voice.
"This man you speak of; he is...very bad."
"How bad?"
"You need to leave, my cousin. Go home. Take your lover and get out of here."
"But his work isn't finished yet."
"Do you love this rich boy?"
Carlo managed a smile. "Very, very much."
"If you love him, you must protect him; the less you know the better it will be for you, because you still need to smile into Fabiano's face. Just find a way to go home today or tonight if you can. You cannot know how much danger you are in."
"But I came here to help you," Carlo insisted, trying to calm his rising panic. "And I want to, still. What can I do to help you?"
Babalu smiled. Then he pushed himself up from the bed, and made his way to Carlo. "There is little left for me in this life," he said. "And what life gave me I already used; you can see the proof of it in these bruises on my hands and by how I walk. Time for me is growing short."
"I guess I can see that." Carlo tried to look away from him--his breath stank.
"You...you have much to live for." He put his hands on his shoulders. "This world belongs to you. You live in America. You have youth...and most importantly health. You have the rich boy's love. Take him away from here and--"
There came a knock on the door. "Dom Martinez," a man's voice called.
They exchanged glances.
"Si?" Carlo stepped to the door and opened it, while Babalu turned to face the wall.
Braulio was standing outside. "We must leave, please," he announced in Portuguese. "The weather is getting bad for flying." He pointed to the sky.
Carlo surveyed the looming clouds and decided they looked bad. "Just a minute."
He closed the door and turned to Babalu. "Don't worry about me, primo. And I'll be back to help you. But here, take this." He pressed the money he'd brought for him into his hand. "This isn't much, but take it anyway."
Babalu threw his arms around him. "The gods arranged for us to meet today. They are watching over you, even now."
"I'll come back with more money if I can."
"You were so kind to come find me. I'll pray that we see each other again." He kissed his cheeks, then whispered, "Please...if you can, remember this saying of my mother's: 'If you dance with Exu, he'll make you think the full moon is the sun,'" he recited slowly, squeezing Carlo's hands, "'but moonlight cannot warm you--no matter how white the sands beneath you, or how black the shadows behind you.'"
Chapter 22
"You're gonna need a hat," Arthur told Jeremy as they were heading out the door.
"It's gonna be unbelievably hot today."
Jeremy stopped to glance out the window. "But it's cloudy." "Doesn't matter. You can get some of the worst sunburns on days like this."
Jeremy shrugged. "I didn't bring one."
"Use mine." Arthur took the straw hat off his own head and pushed it onto Jeremy's. "Now you look like some dorky farmer kid from Kansas," he said, smiling.
"Then what're y'all gonna wear then there now?" Jeremy drawled.
He laughed. "Where'd you learn to talk like that?"
"Fresno, remember? The first dude I was ever hot for talked like that; he lived on a farm out in Clovis. Total hick, but could've been an Abercrombie model. Anyways, here. I'm OK." He started to give the hat back, but Arthur stopped him.
"I'll be fine," he said, going over to his luggage and grabbing an old blue bandana from his stash, "as long as you don't mind being seen with a pirate."
"Does that mean I get ta see y'all's booty?" Jeremy giggled.
"If you mean my sunblock and towels, then sure," Arthur told him with a playful punch on his shoulder. "let's go." And as he tied on the bandana, they walked out the door and began their shoulder-to-shoulder descent toward the waterfront.
Earlier, after their morning's tour concluded, Dom Fabiano offered them one of the island's powerboats for a trip to the future european Beach on the other side of the island. So after a quick stop at the catering kitchen for some barbecued chicken and flatbread, cheese and grapes, and sodas and bottled water, they made their way across Brasiliana to the unfinished marina, where they threw their backpacks into a red-and-white twenty-four-foot Sundancer. Then, with the ropes from the moorings coiled neatly aboard, they headed out, with Arthur at the helm doing his best to maneuver the big boat, and Jeremy laid back and grinning on the seat next to him, his heels perched on the dash.
Once out of the harbor, the graceful watercraft cut through the waves beautifully, after rising up on plane with only a gentle nudging of its throttle; the familiar drone of the big V-8 burbling through the wet pipes at the stern excited Arthur--it reminded him of being a kid at the lake where his family went camping every year, where he'd spent afternoons on the shore hugging his knees watching the ski boats he'd never ride in roar by, in all their orange or red or blue metal–flaked glory.
With the wind in his face, the steering wheel in his left hand, and the throttle lever in his right, he tried to relax, for he was as delighted as he was nervous to be alone with Jeremy--even if it was only for a few hours.
Fabiano had instructed them to travel counterclockwise around the island at medium throttle for about ten or fifteen minutes; then, after they passed a sizable jetty of rocks, there would be an inlet where the approach was deep enough for them to beach the boat easily, or to anchor fairly close to shore, and swim or wade in.
But he was anxious to get there. So he pushed the throttle all the way forward.
"Whoa!" Jeremy exclaimed, as instantly, the engine's drone went from growl to bellow and the prow rose up and at once they were tearing through the wind and slicing through the whitecaps, and a delicious, cooling sea spray curled up around the hull and misted his face and sunglasses. "Look!" he yelled, pointing off the starboard with one hand and holding the straw hat on his head with the other.
&nb
sp; "Dolphins, Arthur! They're running with us!" He stood and grabbed the windscreen's edge. " Woo-hooooo! "
Arthur turned and saw the glorious creatures as they breached, then dove, and breached, then dove. " Woo-hooo! " he howled along with Jeremy, feeling for a moment like that hot dad from the old TV show Flipper-- with Sandy, his adonic son, by his side. Then he looked up and saw that the clouds overhead were cleared almost to the horizon and the sky was now a Crayola blue and the coastline to the port side was pristine and savage, and his body felt tight and young and energized, and he puffed out his chest and breathed in deeply and squared his jaw and grinned at Jeremy, and Jeremy stepped sideways over to him and put his arm around his waist, and Arthur put his arm around Jeremy's shoulder and hugged him to his side and thought, I have to remember this perfect, perfect moment.
Ten or so minutes later, after passing a fair-sized peninsula of scattered boulders, they spotted it: a tilting semicircular stage of sand nestled inside a grand amphitheater of verdant hills.
And not a soul in sight.
Arthur nosed in and slowed toward a flat patch of sand, and moments later, as if he'd been doing this his whole life, he cut the throttle at the perfect moment and trimmed the propulsion system upward.
The sand made a lovely sound against the fiberglass hull, like dry hands skimming together.
They stopped.
"Nice job, skipper!" Jeremy laughed as he whirled his backpack as far as he could out onto the sand and hopped over the side into knee-high water. Arthur threw him one of the tie-downs, which he caught; then he trudged up through the sand to knot it clumsily around the closest palm tree.
Moments later Arthur dropped into the water and waded toward where Jeremy was already setting up camp on the beach.
"I wanna be in the sun, if it's OK with you," Jeremy announced upon Arthur's approach.
"Sure. If I get too hot, I can find some shade. Wherever you want is fine."
"That boat is great!" Jeremy exclaimed. "We could get one, you know? Keep it at the marina in town--I didn't even know you knew how to drive one."
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