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Chapter Nine

Darien

‘D o they need to follow us around?’

Henri isn’t loving the security detail flanking us as we leave the complex and walk towards the parking lot. Thankfully, they back off once we’re well among the cars.

‘Not any more.’ I click my tongue. ‘Four of us. I can fit us all in, but it’ll be tight. Anyone else?’

‘Two-seater,’ declares Miguel.

‘Same,’ Henri says. Is that guy even old enough to drive?

‘All right, squeeze it is.’ I lead the walk to the AMG, just a short way across the lot.

‘Shotgun!’ yelps Henri. He’s still got a baby face which, paired with big green eyes, makes for the happy visage of a pre-schooler. He can’t be a day over eighteen.

Miguel laughs and gestures Shantal’s way. ‘Hold on, mate. You can’t call shotgun when you’re driving with a woman.’

‘I don’t really mind,’ Shantal tries. ‘It’s all the same to me—’

‘No!’ Henri protests. ‘What would it say about us if we made you squish into the back seat? Sorry, Miss, um, Shantal, you go ahead.’

‘It’s just Shantal.’ She shoots Henri a quick smile. The kid looks as though he’s going to pass out. Miguel and I exchange a look of amusement.

Over our last year on Heidelberg together (and because he put a ring on the finger of the woman who’s basically family to me), I’ve got a lot closer to Miguel de la Fuente. He has loads more experience than I do – he’s twenty-six-ish years old with a World Championship under his belt. However, I’d hardly consider the guy to be a mentor. He causes more chaos than almost anybody, drives like he’s still a teenager, and sets up pranks in the paddock. Once, he even snuck a bottle of Jack Daniel’s into his suite when we were in Austin and had the thing shipped all the way back to Barcelona. It’s a miracle his trainer never found out. I can’t lie – before I knew him well, it was hard to separate him from his family name. But the more you learn about Miguel, the more he tends to prove you wrong.

I unlock the car and we pile in like we’re on our way to family dinner – Shantal to my right, Miguel and Henri in the back.

‘Ready to see Rio?’ I ask Shantal.

‘It depends.’ She pointedly raises an eyebrow. The effect is startlingly attractive, whether she realizes this or not. ‘Is Darien showing me around, or is André?’

I choke on sheer air, managing a violent cough of surprise. ‘Who is André?’ Miguel prods.

‘Oh, no one,’ I start. I don’t need him having that particular bit of ammo on me, but Shantal, evidently, would love nothing more.

‘Well, see, Darien here lied to me about his identity when we met yesterday because it made him feel like one of the common folk,’ Shantal takes over dryly. ‘Our own little Princess Jasmine from Aladdin .’

Henri and Miguel explode into a chorus of ‘What the hell?’, Henri’s exhortations punctuated by an exasperated ‘mate’. I groan and press my face to the steering wheel. ‘Can we drop André, please, Shantal?’

‘Maybe’ is her one-word reply.

‘ Maybe? But—’

‘Drive!’ everyone in the car demands in unison.

I roll my eyes. It’s ‘hate on Darien’ day, I guess. ‘Fine. First stop, Sugarloaf.’

The track is located conveniently near Sugarloaf Mountain, best described as a slab of giant grey rock sticking up from Urca. The view of it from the Ring is spectacular on its own. Seeing it up close is somewhat horrifying.

As much as I’d love to go further up, we don’t have that kind of time on our hands and we still have plenty of spots in the main city to hit. I start by taking us to Copacabana, from where, I warn the others, we’d best walk.

Shantal is undeterred. Henri stares at her in disbelief as she swaps her sandals out for a pair of sneakers she brought in her bright pink tote bag.

‘Someone came prepared.’ Miguel nods in approval, and Shantal returns him a small smile. Great, Miguel has gotten on her good side. To my knowledge (and judging from the way she looks at me with murderous intent), I’ve made no progress in that direction.

Shantal throws her hair into a quick Founding Father-esque ponytail. She looks like a genuine tourist. We’ve all changed to blend in, but Shantal understood the assignment too well to be intentional. The white strapless crop top and blue skirt combo is selling it hard. She’s even got the sunglasses and crossbody belt bag.

‘Do you own any flip-flops?’ I ask her with a raised eyebrow.

She shoots me a look. ‘I didn’t bring those. I’ll be on my feet all the time.’

‘No flip-flops?’ I gape. ‘In Brazil?’

‘What, should I have some?’

‘Maybe,’ I remark sarcastically, although I am being truthful. Flip-flops are every local’s shoe of choice, whether you’re walking a foot or a mile. We’ll certainly solve this problem for Shantal along the line.

Copacabana, naturally, is packed. There’s barely room to breathe. Seeing it full is one thing, but today, the umbrellas are nearly overlapping. Some great big sand football thing is going on; people are gathered all around. The boardwalk isn’t any better, with throngs of cariocas – locals – and tourists alike flooding the area.

‘It’s … crowded,’ remarks Miguel. Out of us all, it’s he and Henri who are most shell-shocked by real Rio. I can’t quite get a read on Shantal, even when she removes her sunglasses. She doesn’t look quite as turned around out here as she did near the arches.

‘Is this familiar to you?’ I go out on a limb and ask her.

She startles when she turns my way, but she nods. ‘Somewhat. I grew up near a … slightly less chaotic beach.’

‘In the UK?’

Shantal glares at me. Her irises flash a paler brown than I’d initially thought they were in the light of the sun.

‘You’ve got an accent,’ I say nervously.

‘I know.’ She turns back to the beach, and a smile lights up her face as she watches the crazy football game. ‘We lived along 63 Beach in Guyana until I was maybe ten.’

‘Not far from here.’

‘A little far.’ She tucks a wave of hair behind her ear. It gets caught in the back of her gold heart earring, and even the breeze doesn’t make it budge.

I think about that for a moment. Obviously, Brazil is big, and Guyana is far, but we share a border. Maybe we’d have crossed paths somehow. Maybe if Shantal had stayed in Guyana, she’d be up in Teresópolis with the CBF, running their football training programme instead of ours. I wonder how the world can be so big and yet so small all at once.

‘Let’s go!’ calls Miguel. Looks like he’s enjoying this unusually jam-packed version of the beach much less than he’s letting on.

‘Wow, he’s loving all the buzz,’ Henri jokes. Shantal purses her lips as if holding in a laugh. I notice that about her: she keeps her feelings to herself, unless you lie to her about your identity, in which case you’ll have your ass handed to you on a platter.

We stick to following the boardwalk for a while, though I’d argue the experience is inauthentic without visiting the favelas just past the beach. I’m biased, with my aunt and uncle living near one of the two in the bairro , Cantagalo. Sandwiched between Copacabana and Ipanema, Cantagalo-Pav?o-Pav?ozinho is what I’d call a safer favela. It used to be pretty nasty back when I was younger, but it’s gotten a lot better. The food can’t be beaten.

‘What’s up there?’ Shantal gestures to the houses and buildings built against Cantagalo Hill like a landslide of life, as if she’s read my mind. ‘That’s a neighbourhood?’

‘Yep, neighbourhoods,’ I tell her. ‘Favelas.’

‘Favelas,’ she repeats. ‘Is it true what the guides say about staying clear?’

I shake my head. ‘Not quite. Some are worse than others. But it’s like in any big city: crimes, gangs. Mostly, it’s just people trying to make a living. They have shops, crafts, food, all of that.’

‘Can we go there?’ asks Shantal, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looks up at the hill.

‘Maybe when we have more time. It’s a bit of a hike.’

‘What about that tram up there on the arches, back towards Santa Teresa?’ Shantal continues to enquire. It’s almost funny how methodically she’s extracting information from us.

‘Well, that’s a way off,’ Henri helps out. ‘I remember this. My mom’s from here, Dad’s from Perth. We came here once when I was younger. That tram’s on the other side of Christ.’

‘Right,’ I say, searching for the appropriate analogy here. ‘Rio is like a … Pac-Man. If Cristo is the eye, Santa Teresa is the top of the mouth. We’re on the chin.’

Miguel stops and blinks at me. ‘Pac-Man?’

‘We have Pac-Man here,’ I say by way of explanation. Miguel just rolls his eyes.

We just make it to Ipanema on foot before giving in and buying ice pops for the walk back. We weave through some of the streets, glimpse storefronts, residentials, and the beginnings of the favelas. It’s always brought a smile to my face, so I feel pleased to see it does the same for Shantal. Except beneath her smile is a layer of melancholy. This reminds her of something else, something sad, and I don’t think it’s just Guyana.

And as much as I’m sure it’s intrusive of me, I wonder what this girl is hiding. I barely know her, just met her, but it’s the way she looks at our beach. Something in me wants to find out more.