Page 7

Chapter Six

Shantal

‘I think this map’s upside down.’

I attempt to give the map on my phone a look from a couple of different angles, but none of it makes sense. This place, as beautiful as it is, has turned out to be a maze as complex as London.

Raya groans from the video call. We’ve never been too fond of each other, co-workers who kept one another at a distance, but I wasn’t sure who else to call. In hindsight, Raya Almeida probably should have been Conquest’s number-one choice for this job: well-travelled, social butterfly, half-Brazilian and fluent in Portuguese. She has a framed photo on her desk, where she stands at a party in a sparkly gold dress, Neymar Jr’s arm around her waist from the left, Richarlison de Andrade’s from the right. She also knows both Rio de Janeiro and S?o Paulo, the site of the F1 race that will take place later in the year, inside out. She probably grew up next door to this Darien. I have the feeling that if it weren’t for the high quality of my work on the sim and all the sleepless nights I’d contributed to this project until we finally got to a ‘eureka’ moment, it could very well have been Raya here instead of me.

‘Your map is not upside down,’ Raya is doing a bad job at hiding her smile. ‘That’s how Rio looks . Where are you exactly, again?’

I look around for some indicator, but it’s all just people everywhere. I swear the taxi dropped me off right where I’d be staying, unless my poor pronunciation landed me somewhere else entirely. Wherever I am, it’s extremely loud, samba blaring as people congregate around small tents stocked with drinks, and yet more start to dance in the middle of the street.

‘There’s some arches here,’ I attempt. It’s the best I can do; there are, in fact, rows of arches that form what looks like an aqueduct behind the crowds and tents. ‘Old looking. People are partying here.’

‘Arcos da Lapa,’ determines Raya off-handedly. ‘Great, so you are near Santa Teresa. There’s a tram that goes over the arches, have you seen that?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good. Then what you’re going to do is—’

I wait for a directive, but none comes. Raya’s face has frozen. A little exclamation point pops up, above the words No Connection .

‘Shit!’ I give my phone a desperate smack – nothing. My lifeline is gone.

With shaky hands, I turn the screen and give the photo of the map one more try, but I’ve already lost my composure. I’m working on my own here, completely and utterly. I have to keep my wits about me, or at least pretend to. I take a deep breath. Rio is huge. Where am I, even? Santa Teresa, what is that?

I knew coming here was a stupid idea. It’s what my gut has been telling me the whole time. I feel the gaping hole beside me where Sonia would be, solving our map problem in the jab of a finger, more now than I have in months. But it’s not our problem. It’s mine, and I can’t, for the life of me, figure it out.

‘ Oi, tudo bem? ’

I jump a little at the sound of a distinct voice. Portuguese, of which I know about two words. I ignore it at first, until I hear it behind me again.

‘Um, are you good?’

This time, it’s English, a distinct American accent permeating each word. I turn to its source: some guy who looks rather amused by my map.

‘Do you speak—’

‘English,’ I finish. ‘And I’m fine.’

‘Hmm.’ He shoves his hands in the pockets of his black football shorts. ‘Your fake map says otherwise.’

‘My what?’ I glance down at my map. ‘This is perfectly real.’

‘No, look, your Ipanema is, like, on a big-ass hill. Ipanema’s that way.’ He points in the general direction of the beach. ‘It’s flat .’

His cocoa eyes crinkle as I take in this information. This man is holding back laughter right now.

‘Are you sure?’ I reply, sceptically.

He looks slightly surprised at this. He tilts his head, making just a few strands of the blond-tinged curls from the top of his undercut of dark hair fall out of place. ‘You really …’

‘I really … what?’

‘Nothing.’ It’s like he’s trying not to burst out laughing as he peers at my map. ‘But actually. Find a new map.’

My eyebrows slowly climb up my forehead. ‘I’m sorry, why should I trust that advice?’

‘Dude. I’m a Rio native,’ he says, miffed. ‘Pretty sure I know what I’m talking about.’

You sound American , I’d love to mention, but I keep my mouth shut and instead focus my energy on finding another map. Unfortunately, the search engine stalls and gives me that same error. No Connection .

‘Listen,’ I sigh. The guy has got on my last nerve, but I admit it, I need help. ‘Could you just point me to, um Vila Atlantica?’

‘Oh … for real?’ He grins, this time with no sarcasm or snark. ‘You’re a ten-minute walk from here.’

My mouth nearly falls open. Seriously? A ten-minute walk? That’s it ?

‘Every “ten-minute walk” I’ve tried so far hasn’t turned out that way,’ I say in a fairly horrible attempt to justify my lack of direction.

‘Okay. I’m being a dick. Rio is a hard city to navigate, I don’t blame you,’ he admits rather sheepishly, scratching the side of his neck. I catch a glimpse of angel wings tattooed there. It looks like that’s not the only one; I catch sight of more ink on his forearms, lines forming detailed drawings across his dark tan skin. ‘Do you want me to walk you?’

I’m not sure what my expression betrays, but he adds, ‘It’s not far. I could just show you how to get there, if you want.’

So I either get hopelessly lost in the streets of Rio de Janeiro (again), trying to follow this guy’s instructions, or I go on a walk with said guy and hope I make it to my lodgings alive.

This is why I was never the travel-savvy sister.

I sigh. Here we go. ‘Could you possibly walk me, Mister …’

From the crowd of dancers and drinkers behind us, someone suddenly yelps. My eyes travel back to where a quickly growing clump of people have begun to gesture towards my new guide, murmuring in rapid Portuguese. One or two bring out their phones.

‘Uh. André,’ he manages after a beat, gaze flickering to the makeshift paparazzi for just a moment. The lights around us cast shadows on his face, highlighting his strong nose, well-defined jaw and muscular neck. His eyebrows knit together and create a small furrow in his forehead.

‘Are you on the national football team or something?’ I joke. At least, it’s intended to be a joke. André, who’s already starting to walk off, doesn’t seem amused. He waves an arm with urgency.

‘Let’s go,’ he calls.

We pick our way through the sidewalks, me trying very hard to keep up with André’s clipped pace. Fortunately, he slows down a couple of minutes in, enough for me to catch my breath.

‘So,’ I huff as I match his steps, hiking my backpack straps up on my shoulders, ‘you never answered my question.’

‘No, I’m not on the team … What’s your connection?’ He points to my shirt, Heidelberg Hybridge’s kit from last year. It has the ice blue and white, and the printed logos of the sponsors. ‘The city’s got Formula fever with that new track out here, and that livery’s one they know well. They can probably smell the affiliation on you.’

‘I’m no driver,’ I start.

‘What are you? Paddock team?’

‘Here to set up the training program,’ I explain. ‘I’m integrating it with their practice plans.’

‘That’s pretty cool,’ remarks André. ‘Are you a fan of the sport?’

There’s humour in his voice, as if he sees right through me, but I just shrug. ‘I watch on and off. Maybe Silverstone each year, nothing much.’

‘Okay.’ He nods. ‘Is there something you have against it, or …?’

‘I don’t know. It’s a little long.’ I struggle to find the right words. ‘Two hours of just racing? The same path, over and over?’

‘Two hours isn’t the worst.’

‘That’s true, but I’m impatient.’

He chuckles. ‘Yeah. Speaking of which, this should be you.’

I follow his line of sight, and indeed, there it is: Vila Atlantica, as promised. It’s not a traditional hotel, with just a few floors and a terrace rooftop. The exterior is a fresh cream colour, illuminated by both sconces and pole lights.

‘Is that the only bag you’ve got?’ André remarks of my backpack.

‘They said the rest will be sent over.’

‘Ah. Sure you aren’t a driver?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Fairly positive.’

He smirks, still apparently amused. It’s a great first hour in Brazil if my stupidity has already been exposed by a local who’s also had to serve as my tour guide. That would be enough on its own, but the laughter dancing in his dark eyes sends me spiralling into a pit of questions. If this André finds me so funny and inept, what will that say about my work here?

‘Don’t worry.’ He seems to know just what’s on my mind. ‘Rio gets easier as you spend time here. She’s not as bad as she seems.’

The diamond studs in André’s ears glint under the streetlights as he waves with a charmingly dimpled smile, stepping back the way we came. Lights cast perfect shadows on his strong nose and slightly stubbled jaw. ‘Good luck.’

He’s around the corner and out of sight within the minute. I look up at the cosy villa and, with one last tug of my backpack strap, I make my way up the stairs to the door.