Invisibles E-Book

Ed Siegle

• Herausgeber: Myriad Editions
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Joel Burns has always believed his father is still alive. His mother Jackie has long been glad to know Gilberto is dead.When a sighting on a news report from Rio de Janeiro suggests Joel might be right, he travels to Brazil determined to find his long-lost father. Nelson, a down-and-out musician guided by the spirits of Jesus, Yemanja and his late Aunt Zila, helps Joel retrace his childhood steps -- and face up to the contrast between his rosy memories of Gilberto and his mother's accounts of the man's cruelty. Back at home in Brighton, Joel's trip stirs up Jackie's own recollections of her life in Rio -- from the beautiful early years of Gilberto trying to make it in the bossa nova scene, to the violent times following his arrest and imprisonment by the military authorities.Invisibles spans two cities by the sea and four decades of music, torture and romance. From the streets of Brighton to the bars of Rio, Ed Siegle weaves the rhythms of Brazil and the troubles of his characters into an absorbing story of identity, love and loss. At once familiar and foreign, this sweet, sad and compulsively readable first novel throngs with visceral memory and unbreakable ordinary heroes.

Leseprobe

For Louise, Sam, Zoe and baby

This is just a little samba,

Built upon a single note,

Other notes are bound to follow,

But the root is still that note,

Now this new one is the consequence

Of the one we’ve just been through,

As I’m bound to be the unavoidable consequence of you.

‘Samba de Uma Nota Só’ (Antônio Carlos Jobim and Newton Mendonça)

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphOneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSevenEightNineTenAcknowledgementsAFTERWORD:SourcesAbout the AuthorCopyrightAdvertisement

One

The man on the late news laughed, showing a gap in his teeth, and for a moment he looked like Joel’s dead father. His body was thin, his dark face creased. He wore a soiled red and black Flamengo football shirt. He was one of a crowd watching the polícia flounder round a hijacked bus, and Joel didn’t need to be told the pictures came from Rio de Janeiro.

The footage switched to the windscreen of the bus, on the inside of which a hostage was writing in red lipstick: ‘At six o’clock, he’s going to kill everyone’. Night fell in an instant as the report skipped towards its climax. Cameras flashed and sirens wailed. An anchorwoman seemed an eye of stillness in a cyclone of pandemonium. The shot panned to the crowd and there Gilberto was again, if it was him. Joel caught another glimpse of a gap-toothed smile and begged the lens to zoom in and remove all doubt, but instead it showed the hijacker being dragged into a police van. As the report came to an end, a crowd tore at the vehicle’s windows, howling vengeance for the woman lying lifeless in a fireman’s arms.

Joel rummaged for an old tape and recorded the footage the next time they looped the news. He played it again and again, crouching near the screen, moving from side to side, trying to find the perfect angle. He sped through the fatherless parts and watched the relevant sections in slow motion. Frozen, the frames were blurred. Natural speed gave a sharper image, but each snatch ended too soon to be sure. Joel smiled when the man smiled, and ran his tongue from canine tooth to canine tooth, pausing to feel the central gap. His father felt alive in him again, in flesh and tooth and the spaces in between.

Some time after midnight, Joel turned off the television, went into the kitchen and poured himself a tumbler of gold cachaça, then sat on a step outside in the yard as the liquid warmed his guts and he looked up at the stars. He wondered just how incensed Debbie would be if he rang her this late to tell a tale she wouldn’t believe. His dad was alive! Joel couldn’t sleep at the best of times and these were surely the very best. He looked at his bike, sitting black and inert in its shed across the yard. Then he fetched trainers and a black jacket, manoeuvred ticking wheels down steps and launched himself along the street, pushing elation into the pedals. The air rushed cool against his face as his dark shape flew through the multicoloured streets, squeezing through parked cars, past a startled fox, then turning up the hill with barely a breath, until he was hurtling into Queen’s Park Road where he turned towards the sea, speeding downhill now, rounding a chicane by the old park gate, taking the racing line across the wrong side of the road, guessing from silence that nothing came the other way. Through the lights of Edward Street and down Rock Gardens, until the road ran into the promenade of Brighton seafront, where he slithered his bike around a bend and down two ramps, then along the beachfront itself, pedalling hard again, past the chained-up Palace Pier, until he reached a groyne with a donut scuplture, which he rode along until he reached the end.

Joel stood looking across the sea, breathing the air through wide nostrils.

‘I’m coming to get you, you old bugger!’ he yelled.

But Joel wanted to be closer to his father immediately – not in weeks or days when he could catch a plane – so he swung his bike on to his back, jogged down the groyne, and strode across the pebbles. He stripped and stood before the sea, with the light of the moon on his skin and the sound of waves in his ears, and spread his arms wide. The sea lapped at his calves then up his thighs until he dived beneath the surface, emerging with a shriek. Out from the shore he swam, bobbing under waves, spinning on to his back. Joel looked towards the beach, which was dotted with clubbers and smokers and drinkers and snoggers – and every now and again he could hear a cheer or a bass beat on the wind. He wondered if Debbie was out tonight, and if she was with anybody yet – it was only a matter of time.

Jesus, it’s freezing, what am I doing? Joel thought, then dived under the water a final time, letting his body sink, with his eyes open and stinging beneath the waves and the water like iced silk on his skin. He swam then hobbled on to the shore and spun a few times in the breeze to dry himself, which only made him colder. He pulled his clothes back on, feeling a little damp at the skin, and sat on the pebbles longing for a cigarette. The cold was definitely winning, so he jumped up and down a few times, then wheeled his bicycle up the beach, mounted and pedalled home.

He parked his bike in the yard, watched the video again then went upstairs and sat on his bed. He listened to his breathing until it slowed, calling ‘Undiú’ into his head – the song his father liked to sit on the end of his bed and sing when Joel was a kid.

Orange light slipped past the curtains. Birds hadn’t started singing yet, and he was glad. He tried to sleep, but his mind would only spin Brazilian memories. Joel reached under the bed, retrieved a shoebox, opened the lid and took out a silver compass, feeling its weight in his palm. He looked at pale, round-cornered photographs of himself and a dark brown man with black hair and a gap-toothed smile. There was one of them kicking a half-deflated football in a square lined with palm trees, another of them holding green coconuts on Ipanema beach. He thought about the news footage and wondered how his dad’s Flamengo shirt had become so soiled. Joel sang under his breath, ‘Uma vez Flamengo, Flamengo até morrer’ – ‘Once Flamengo, Flamengo till I die’ – a chant Gilberto and Joel had once loved to sing along with the red and black thousands, high in a stand of the Maracanã.

But Gilberto wasn’t dead. He was alive, and smiling. Twenty-five years without a word and up he pops with a smile.

Bar do Paulo sat on a corner in Lapa, a few blocks from the white viaduct over which trams rattled to Santa Teresa. Seven stools lined a zinc counter which sliced across the front. The regulars were ignoring Fat Paulo’s grumbles about the stupidity of the polícia, and chattering at a television that hung in the top left corner, looking as if it was going to tumble. The walls were adorned with Flamengo team photographs and pennants, and to the right stood a six-foot cardboard cut-out of the Pope, dressed in the red and black shirt of that Holy team. The Pope’s fingers were raised to bless the enlightened patrons, to remind them to keep the faith – no matter how woeful the missed chance or crushing the loss at the feet of the Devil’s team: Vasco da Gama. Part of the counter housed a window on to savoury pastries: pasteis and coxinhas and empadas. The glass was always visited by an ant or two and the regulars would stage races, betting on the ants’ attempts to scurry to pastry heaven.

Nelson arrived at five o’clock to find a stranger on his stool. He caught Fat Paulo’s eye and shrugged an appeal, but Paulo merely stared back because Nelson was way overdue with his tab. Nelson felt in the pocket of his shorts in vain. His stomach ached at him and he tried to keep his eyes off the beautiful pastries. Maybe he could win some money on the ants, he thought, though Zemané was the only man who might just lend him a stake, and Zemané wasn’t on his stool – though his stool was being reserved. So Nelson stood back, squinted at the television and told his mouth to stop nagging him about a glistening beer.

The television wasn’t showing football. Cameras were trained on a bus, around which policemen and reporters crouched and scrambled. The shaking picture showed a man gripping a weeping girl by the neck, holding a gun in her mouth. Someone had scrawled on a window in red lipstick: ‘They cut off his mother’s head’. A reporter said the hijacker, Sérgio, was threatening to kill the hostages at six o’clock. Sérgio looked drug-crazed, or perhaps he was mad from living on the street. He was talking, talking, talking – right there on centre stage, telling the cops what to do, moving the hostages around and scaring the life out of them all. Nelson was surprised they hadn’t already shot Sérgio – it must be some kind of record for a black man in a siege – but there were crowds barely yards from the bus, men and women and kids, and maybe they didn’t want to solve this crime the usual way in front of the locals and thirty million Brazilians watching on TV.

Nelson knew most people wouldn’t feel sympathy for Sérgio, but he couldn’t help cheering for him, lined up as Sérgio was against the guns and cameras of the world, and he found himself clenching his fists in empty pockets and willing Sérgio to win – to escape from the bus and get the money or whatever he wanted, whatever the police didn’t want him to have. And Nelson thought, for a moment at least, that maybe he should hold up a bus or a car or an American and grab some money to pay off his vast debt. Perhaps he could buy himself a chance, a fresh start in a flat with a view of the sea and a place on the roof to grow hibiscus plants, somewhere he could play his guitar and refine his compositions. Secure a foundation, work hard and the rest would follow – that was what Zemané always said.

Beers were poured and pastry numbers dwindled as the regulars slouched, transfixed. Lights flashed around the bus as the moment of death drew near. Nelson watched as best he could, but his legs were aching. He was just thinking he might go home and practise guitar when Zemané arrived, cuffed him around the head, kicked the usurper off Nelson’s stool and bought him a beer. Fat Paulo glared at Nelson, who raised his glass and winked. On television, pandemonium broke out as Sérgio was wrestled into a van and a limp woman was carried away in a fireman’s embrace.

The regulars sat and stood and waved their arms as they argued about Sérgio. Some thought he was a hero; most shouted that he was a devil. Everyone agreed the police were to blame, and celebrated the fact with swigs of beer and a slapping of hands. Zemané dissected Sérgio’s kidnapping technique and pointed out improvements to police tactics, creating a mock scene on the counter with his straw hat for the bus and a cigar for a bazooka. Nelson sided with Zemané and was rewarded with two more beers, but no one bought him anything to eat and he didn’t want to say he was hungry. To be unable to afford a beer was one level of poverty; to be unable to eat was penury of a different order, and not something you showed to bar-friends. Nelson told his stomach it would have to wait until he was paid for the gig that night at the Bar das Terezas.

At nine o’clock, Nelson left his stool, assuring Fat Paulo he’d pay his tab the very next day and treat everyone to a beer – two if he won on the ants. He walked through dark, thin streets which sloped into the beginnings of the hills, where the mansions of Santa Teresa stood silent, their shutters clammed, hoping not to be spotted by the million-eyed beast of the favelas. Beyond the mansions and favelas slept the forest. And above the forest stood the giant statue of Cristo Redentor, arms spread on the highest point, staring down on all of Rio.

Nelson climbed some steps and pushed open a door into a tall house. He took off his flip-flops and hurried up three flights, trying not to make a sound. He paused at the top of the stairs. He could hear cars, somewhere, and a television on the floor below. No sound came from his room, but a blade of light sliced from the door. He peeped through the crack and saw an enormous black man in a Vasco da Gama singlet sitting in the armchair with his eyes closed. Apart from a mattress, the chair was the only piece of furniture Nelson hadn’t sold. He’d kept the armchair because he couldn’t squeeze it through the door, which annoyed him because someone had obviously managed in the first place. Nelson doubted the Vasco man bore glad tidings, but he needed his guitar. He tried to push the door silently, but it creaked and Vasco opened huge white eyes.

‘You don’t live here any more, Flamengo,’ Vasco said.

Nelson grinned and scratched his wormy hair. He might be smooth broke but he still had all his hair, even at thirty-nine years old.

‘Beleza!’ he said. ‘If I can just pick up my things, I’ll be on my way.’

‘Make yourself at home,’ Vasco replied, and grinned – now he saw Nelson wasn’t going to fight.

On the mattress in the corner was a tidy pile. Nelson had read in a magazine he’d found that there was a new craze in America: ridding yourself of possessions you didn’t need, to let your life breathe. My life has gigantic lungs, he thought. There were two T-shirts with faded logos, a pair of black shorts the same as those he was wearing, a plastic razor with bristles between the blades, a bar of soap, a book of songs, and a photograph of himself aged sixteen with a spherical afro and his arm round his little sister Mariana. He put the items in a plastic bag.

‘I was wondering,’ Nelson said. ‘My guitar?’

‘Adolfo sold it,’ Vasco replied, and closed his eyes.

Back in the street, Nelson sat on the kerb and wondered what to do. He couldn’t play the gig without his guitar, and he couldn’t say someone had sold it because he owed them an ocean of money. The manageress of the Bar das Terezas had only given Nelson the gig because he’d convinced her of his respectability. It wasn’t any old Brazilian place she ran – though it looked like one, because that was how foreigners liked it. You had to be of a certain calibre to work there, she often said, because Americans didn’t want to come to a bar where some marginal might rob them because he was down on his luck. Nelson had lied that he worked in the smart – but fictitious – Hotel José Manoel, giving her the number for the Bar do Paulo. When she’d rung for a reference, Zemané had pretended to be the owner.

It was sad to have blown the gig, but almost the end of the world to have lost the guitar. It wasn’t the fanciest one in the world, but he didn’t have much left from his late aunt Zila and he liked to think he could feel her presence when he played. He could hardly bear to think of another man coaxing its strings into a melody, so he resolved to walk and walk until he found a place to pine and sleep. He looked up then down the street, and decided up was better than down. Besides, one of Zila’s Eleven Commandments was: When presented with several paths, always take the first. Nelson had spent much of his life interpreting this by doing the first thing that came into his head – a policy which had won him friends and lost them again in equal measure; which had led him to learn the guitar and a thousand songs, but which had lost him every real he’d ever earned and a fair number of those earned by others.

He walked through alleys, round corners and along cobbled streets. He came across tram tracks and followed them through the heart of Santa Teresa, where people spilled from a bar or two and the smell of black beans and fishy moqueca slithered through the air. I’ll eat tomorrow, he told himself. On he walked, past shuttered houses and high-walled mansions, until most of the buildings fell away, revealing a landscape of a million shimmering lights: favelas sparkled, office blocks were patched with yellow squares, and chimneys far away spat flames into the night. Turning the other way, he saw the statue of Cristo through the trees.

Nelson noticed a house standing slightly apart on the edge of the vista across the city. He didn’t think Cristo’s eyes had seen him, since they were looking over the bay to somewhere far beyond – America, he wouldn’t be surprised. If Cristo hadn’t spotted him, Nelson could hardly argue the appearance of the house was a Sign. He stood in the middle of the road and wondered how his life had come to this: hungry in an empty street at night, perhaps being shown a place to sleep by an indifferent Jesus. Life could be worse, as his aunt Zila was fond of saying – at times when it was hard to see quite how. He tried not to remember her pastries. Anyway, if Jesus wasn’t helping, that was his problem. Yemanjá was the deity that really mattered, and Nelson was sure she’d be up here helping in person, if it weren’t so late and he weren’t so far from the sea.

Nelson took off his flip-flops and padded over to the wall round the house. The sensation of warm cobbles on the soles of his feet made him think of playing as a child. The wall was eight feet high and topped with broken glass. He wondered if there was a dog: most dogs liked him, but you could never be sure. If only he had something to feed one. He chuckled through a rumble from his stomach. If he had something to feed a dog, he wouldn’t be feeding it to a dog. He eyed the wall and thought about an attempt, but noticed a wide door set at least a metre deep. Its dark recess beckoned. His blinking felt slow and his thoughts far apart. He sat against the door and, pleased to hear no sign of the potential dog, made a pillow on the step of his bag of possessions, lay down with his legs curled tightly, and fell asleep.

Two

Joel awoke early, jogged dowstairs and sat in the flooded light of the kitchen. He listened to the kettle reach a crescendo, made a mug of tea and stirred up some porridge. He ate his breakfast on the step in the yard, where yellow roses were shedding their petals and blue alkanets ran wild. Then he watched the clip again a few times, hoping daylight would help to confirm the man was definitely his dad.

At eight o’clock he called the surgery and told them he’d contracted food poisoning. When he thought it was late enough, he rang his mother.

‘You up yet?’ he asked.

‘Very funny,’ Jackie replied.

‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’

‘Give me the good, go on.’

‘I’ve got the day off and I’m coming over,’ said Joel.

‘Lucky me!’

‘So, are you ready for the bad?’

‘Bad for you, or bad for me?’

‘Worse for you, I’m afraid.’

‘Isn’t that always the way?’

‘I saw dad on the news last night – in Jardim Botânico.’

‘Typical,’ Jackie said with a tut.

‘I’ve got it on tape.’

‘Oh, joy of all joys.’

Joel walked along three or four streets of terraced houses with brightly coloured doors until he reached Jackie’s, where he let himself in. In the living room, an ashtray spewed cigarette butts on to a coffee table and tooth-marked pizza crusts lay in a box on the floor. There were empty wine glasses bearing faint prints of lips, some of which were probably Debbie’s. Joel picked up the ashtray, took it into the kitchen, threw away the butts and washed it out. He put the kettle on and watered a limp basil plant on the windowsill. Jackie came in, wearing a furry coat, red lipstick fresh. They observed one another. A trace of perfume reached him. He nodded towards a mug on the side.

‘I’ve given you sugar,’ he said.

‘Well, don’t blame me if you end up wth a hippo for a mother.’

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ said Joel, holding up his hands. ‘But he’s there in glorious Technicolor.’

‘Name your price,’ said Jackie. ‘I’ll lay any odds you like.’

She sank into the sofa and watched the video. Joel watched her. The curtains were still drawn, and light from the television flickered on her skin. He looked for quivers in the movements of her face, but her eyelids maintained as steady a rhythm when the man who looked like Gilberto appeared as when the hijacker ranted in Portuguese, ‘Are you watching this? This isn’t one of those films you see on TV. This is my film! I made it myself! Just watch while I blow off her head.’

‘They should blow off your blinking head,’ Jackie said.

‘Dad, or the hijacker?’ asked Joel.

She reached for an ashtray, crushed a pinkish butt, then checked her make-up in a leopardskin compact mirror.

‘Best be off,’ she said, standing up. ‘Don’t want to keep Miriam waiting.’

‘That’s a mighty fine dress for the bookies.’

‘I bet better when I look my best.’

‘Aren’t you even going to entertain the possibility that it’s him?’

‘You mean impossibility, I think.’

Jackie left the room.

‘Instead of chasing ghosts, why don’t you ring Debbie?’ she called from the hall, all chance of response denied by the closing of the front door.

It was obvious she wasn’t meeting Miriam, but Joel wished she’d find a less ridiculous man than Carlo to be secretive about.

Jackie walked to the corner, stopped and lit a cigarette, then looked back towards her door. She enjoyed standing on corners smoking: it felt pleasantly seedy. She winked at her reflection in the double-glazed door of number 1A. She was starting to think the coat was a mistake; it was warmer than she’d thought. Her red dress didn’t really go with it, and the coat didn’t really go with anything, except perhaps road-kill. But Jackie liked to look on the edge of shabby because at least it was looking something. Her exterior might be a little wrinkled, but underneath she was pure milk.

She wondered if Joel was ever tempted to follow her – as Gilberto had in the last months in Brazil. Joel was a man who wanted all the facts. When they’d fled to England twenty-five years ago, it had not been enough for a ten-year-old Joel to know Brazil was ‘over there, petal, past the end of the pier’; he’d needed to know the compass bearing.

Life was complicated enough without the old goat playing tricks again. Jackie had one relationship to extinguish and another to set alight – the last thing she needed was Gilberto jumping out of his grave to muck it up. He was dead and he could bloody well stay that way. She felt a stab of fear for Joel. There was no need to panic, she told herself. Joel would come to his senses, she was sure. It could not possibly be Gilberto. Joel would watch the clip again, doubt would creep in, and everything would settle to its normal chaotic level. Sooner or later he’d patch things up with Debbie. There’d been plenty of rows, sure, but if you didn’t row – that was when you had to worry. She told herself they’d work it out, that before you knew it they’d have a couple of little ones and there’d be no more time to fret about the departed.

Jackie squashed a butt under her shoe then ambled down Islingword Road and round the corner towards town. She crossed at the lights and walked under the trees that flanked the skate-park, where whiter-than-white kids in baseball caps, trousers hanging low, slouched on BMXs at the top of ramps. Two boys watched her pass, faces set.

‘I can see your pants,’ Jackie yelled, which made one of them swear and the other blush.

A man with a bare chest and a dirty sleeping bag asked for change for a cup of tea, but she didn’t pause because she was thinking of how best to end it with Carlo. Heaven only knew why she’d even started it. Anyone who added an ‘o’ to their name deserved to be given a wide berth. He’d been fun for a while and there was always something to be said for a slightly younger man. Most older men were dead from the hairy nostrils down. The trouble was that, although Carlo had initially been inflamed by her individuality, now he wanted her tailored to his design. He had started to make remarks about her Thursday nights with Miriam at the Rusty Axe. At first Jackie thought that if she saw a little less of him, he might forget about ownership and remember to enjoy the parts she was prepared to lend. But it was clear, now, that he wanted all of her, and since all of him didn’t add up to all that much, it was time to move on. She was fifty-seven and she wasn’t about to change her ways. Besides, there was a genuine prospect of something developing with Tony, a delight she’d resisted considering for several years, mainly because he was the senior partner at Joel’s surgery. Tony’s retirement loomed, Jackie’s good intentions were withering and, more to the point, Tony seemed to be finally over the death of his old moo. Thankfully Jackie had yet to spot the woman haunting any news clips – though knowing her luck it’d be the Apocalypse by Friday and all the dead would be raised, just when life was looking rosy.

Jackie hurried through the streets of North Laine. Finally she stopped to check her reflection in a shop window, opening her coat to view the settle of her dress. Then she smiled, tied the belt loosely, turned the corner and waved at Tony.

Joel cleared a space on his mother’s sofa, lay back and watched the clip again. He wished he knew what she really thought. Did she still think about Gilberto? Joel wondered how she would feel about him going back to Rio. He couldn’t believe it had been so long: twenty-five years, though it sometimes felt like yesterday. Debbie had often asked why he hadn’t gone before. His old mate Liam had even been working there for the best part of a year, with a flat and a spare room – Christ, Joel was the reason Liam had caught the Brazil bug in the first place.

It wasn’t easy to explain. I’ll go next year, he’d always said, and told himself he didn’t want to aggravate his mother’s scars. Over the years he’d convinced himself it wasn’t that important, that he wasn’t really fussed. Brazil was just a place he’d been as a kid, his father had died – fathers did die – big deal. What was there to gain? It had no bearing. He didn’t get much holiday and he could use it to better purpose. He had a good life, a good job, a good set of mates. He was happy. There weren’t any cavities to be filled.

He wondered whether his mother ever thought about the early years in Brighton, following their escape. Joel would always remember entering Britain in ’75 as if descending to some nether world – a thousand white hands at Heathrow stretching to grasp returning loved ones, rows of pale faces staring until recognition sparked dead eyes. Children skipping into the arms of grannies and grandpas and uncles and aunts and sisters and brothers and mothers and fathers – fathers seemingly everywhere: filling the airport, stuffing the world, arriving and waiting and pushing trolleys piled with family luggage, while Jackie and Joel stood like boulders in a river. Joel clutched a shoebox and wore green shorts and a yellow T-shirt; everyone else wore jumpers and coats, most of them brown or black or grey. Then, just when it seemed all colour had drained from the world, with a shriek and a waddling rush came a woman wearing an endless multicoloured scarf. Jackie and Miriam hugged and hugged and Miriam covered Joel’s face in kisses, then led them through crowds of ghostly faces into a forest of concrete pillars where Joel remembered the cold moved through him in a sheet – so different from the gentle chill which sat on your skin late on a Rio winter’s day.

Joel and his mum had huddled under a blanket in the back of Miriam’s Renault 4, sipping sugary tea from a Thermos cup, as Miriam tried to rattle them back to Brighton before they froze. He remembered the orange strobe from street-lights which hung frozen above an empty motorway. He saw his breath like smoke, his mum’s too. Their eyes met often. She smiled and stroked the back of his head.

They stayed with Miriam in a terraced house on a hill with a view of the grey sea. Joel remembered a black Christmas, his first touch of snow, nights which fell at four and rose at ten, leafless branches on rigid trees, a cold white sun, pebbles like eggs on a sepia shore. He discovered scarves, mittens and bobble hats, men with pallid skin and hairy faces, mashed potato and baked beans. No one in Brighton was anything but white. He felt like the butterflies he sometimes found flapping against steamed-up windows. A change had come over the world, like a dream – yet part of him didn’t want to wake up, because he could see his mum was becoming happier.

At first, Jackie slept clenched in a ball in Miriam’s spare bed. Joel was supposed to sleep on a camp bed by her side, but would sneak into the other end and coil his arms around her legs, which sometimes thrashed as Jackie dreamed. Buried under the covers he would softly snore, as if asleep, while Jackie told Miriam the tale of her past few years. As Jackie gave up her stories, he felt her limbs unfold. Over time, there was more talk of England and less of Brazil. She went for walks, a duffel-coat hood pulled up. She would ask Miriam about the news, the changes in her thirteen years away, songs she heard on the radio, current fashions. One day Miriam took her shopping. That evening they went to the Rusty Axe.

Joel remembered Miriam returning with a woman who laughed with a cackle, and he lay in bed wondering who it was until he heard her say ‘my little Joel’. She came to deliver a goodnight kiss and stroked his head, her hair loose, exhaling a sharp, sweet smell. Before he faded into sleep he heard chinking bottles, a needle scratch across vinyl, music starting too loudly then turned down, Miriam whooping and his mum cackling again. Joel had a feeling they wouldn’t be going back to Brazil for a few more weeks at least.

Twenty-five years of weeks and counting still.

As time went on, Jackie did her best to forget the Brazilian years and Joel tried to etch them into his mind. As she slept in, he would sit in his pyjamas at the bottom of the stairs and wait for letters to fall on to the mat. At night he would lie awake and wonder how long it would be until they heard from his dad. One day Mum will take me to one side, he would say to himself. She’ll say, ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ The bad was never all that bad; the good was normally something you expected. So the bad might be that Gilberto was still in prison (but alive!) and the good would be that he was being released. When he came out, Joel knew he would probably have to come to Britain. It wasn’t so bad: it was cold, but the people were nice. The police didn’t have guns, so they couldn’t shoot him even if they wanted to.

While he waited for such a revelation, he kept his spirits up through nightly conversations. ‘Did you go for your swim today?’ he would ask a picture of his dad on the beach. ‘I bet you sat on the sand and drank a coconut; I bet it tasted as sweet as it always does when your mouth is salty. I’m keeping an eye on Mum for you, like you said. Write when you can – I know you keep meaning to. When you can find the time to sit down and write a proper letter – I know how it is. We’ll laugh about all of this one day, when you’re freed.’

Sure enough, bubbles of conversation floated to his room. He heard Jackie arguing on the phone in Portuguese, talk of papers and once the word ‘release’. He determined to be patient. His mum wouldn’t want to excite him until it was confirmed. Perhaps Joel would have to wait even longer to see his father, until Gilberto had fully recovered. Prison would have taken its toll. I’ll wait forever, he thought.

When spring arrived and he felt the sun on his skin, Joel came to see that England had its charms. He went for bike rides on the Downs, climbed trees, and threw pebbles into the sea. He started at school. He muddled his words sometimes and was the only child in his class who wasn’t white, though with his brown skin but pale blue eyes, his curly but not afro hair, there were those that weren’t sure how to label him. One girl decided he was a coon and a couple of lads preferred to call him a Paki, but most just saw another kid and gradually he slotted in between them. Parents would comment on how good he must be at football, given there was ‘a touch of the Pelé’ in him, and everyone wanted him in their team, until they saw him play. But Joel had to admit he liked being the foreign kid, the one they couldn’t quite suss, with a secret called Brazil they could never own.

One day Joel came home and Jackie said, ‘I’ve got some news.’

There were tears in her eyes.

She borrowed Miriam’s car and drove Joel up to Devil’s Dyke. She turned off the engine.

‘I’ve always loved this view,’ she said, and took a tissue from her bag and blew her nose.

Joel looked over the ever-so-English landscape stretching north below the Downs. There were one or two other cars. A few people sat on the grass which fell away off the swell of the ridge. He looked through the windscreen down the slope. Panic was close. The news was bad, he knew it. It was always bad if they didn’t say there was good news and bad news. The fields below looked as far away as the bottom of the sea. He wished he were in a boat, with his dad, beyond the horizon, a million miles from here. He felt again the way he had on the mountain, Pedra da Gávea: as if his blood had turned to wire. Jackie was talking about his dad and Joel could picture him on the mountain, running away, as blades swooped from the sky and he thought of pterodactyls. The wires pulled in Joel’s veins and he clutched his knees. Jackie said his dad was dead; they were sending the papers; she shuddered with tears. The money, the flat, the body was missing; the papers were on the way. The prison, the papers, the flat, the money, the body, the body, the body…

Joel stopped the video, leaving the tape in the machine in the hope that Jackie might see the light, and let himself out of her house. He turned towards the seafront, his feet falling hard as he strode over the top of the hill, down past the police station and across St James’s Street. When he reached the Palace Pier he walked a short way along the promenade then shuffled down some steps on to the beach. He found a spot on the pebbles, sat, and gazed past the dying West Pier. He was glad to feel his brown forearms starting to burn and his shaved head sting. Pebbles jutted into his Brazilian flip-flops. He could hear wind tinkling in the rigging of surf-cats, summer tunes drifting from bathers’ radios, screams from the rollercoaster on the Palace Pier. He stared into the molten white of the sun on the sea and remembered reading that Newton had stared directly into the sun, discovering that light scorched his vision red and black. The nutter had even wedged a bodkin between his eyeball and its socket, to gauge the effects of pressure. Joel wasn’t sure what a bodkin was, but he’d happily give it a whirl. He took out his compass, breathed on the glass, polished it on the hem of his Flamengo shirt and placed it on a stone, cocking his head to ensure it was flat. The needle swung to stillness, precisely over north. He edged round until he could stare across the sea, southwest at 219 degrees. It was 5,734 miles to Rio de Janeiro. Keeping his eyes on the bearing, he kicked off his flip-flops and walked barefoot across the pebbles, hurting the hollows of his feet until they sank into shingle in the shallows. If his old man were also in the water, in Brazil – would they not be connected by a transatlantic wave of particles? It would be eight-thirty in Rio. Perhaps he still went for a morning swim on Ipanema beach.

Joel wandered back from the sea and sat on a wall by a basketball court. He watched kids slip balls between flexing knees, corn-rowed heads bobbing. A pick-and-mix of youth in Knicks and Lakers tops, tall baseball caps set wonky. Stringy boys smoked cigarettes to the butt and flicked them to the ground. Skaters rattled their boards and scooter kids licked Mr Whippys. Tourists walked past, pointing at the piers. Suddenly Joel sensed a coolness in the air, and found himself submerged in a suspension of temperatures, hot and cold together. He turned to look across the water but the sea mist had dissolved everything.

In Nelson’s dream, Yemanjá poured wine from an amphora into his mouth until it overflowed. When he awoke he found this strange, because Yemanjá was not the sort of deity to have much time for amphorae. Something a little more natural – more Brazilian – would have been in keeping: a coconut perhaps. The starry sky was starting to promise light. Nelson sat up, wiped dribble from his cheek and thought about food. Man, his stomach ached. Then he realised neither light nor hunger had woken him, but voices on the other side of the wall.

Half a leg was numb, but he grabbed his bag and hobbled round the corner. Beyond the wall a man hummed ‘Happy Birthday’, a woman giggled and keys chinked.

‘What’s the code, honey?’ the woman’s voice said.

‘Now think, sugar,’ said the voice of the man.

‘My birthday! Thirteen, o-six, sixty!’ said the woman.

‘Happy birthday, my little cherry stone.’

‘Can I really be forty?’ she said with a sigh.

‘And more beautiful every year.’

Nelson heard six bleeps, a high-pitched whine, a heavy door closing and keys turning in locks. Torchlight fanned behind the wall. The man was panting, dragging suitcases on plastic wheels. Nelson withdrew further as a black Mercedes pulled up.

‘Perfect timing! Oh, honey!’ said the woman.

‘I love New York in June…’ crooned the man as he opened the door in the wall.

‘Oh! So do I, honey, I’m sure I do! And London in July!’

‘A foggy da-ay… in London to-wn,’ sang the man as a driver helped him dump giant cases into the boot.

‘Oh, how I’ll adore the fog!’ said the woman.

Nelson peeked around the corner. The woman was as small as a bird. The man was fat and having trouble squeezing into the back of the car. Nelson heard a final giggle and a forthright command to a driver who surely already knew the destination: ‘To the airport: the international airport.’

The car rolled away and Nelson emerged. He wanted to slap hands and chink glasses with everyone at Bar do Paulo – though upon reflection this piece of fortune might serve him better if kept secret. It could be the very break he’d been working so hard to find. He didn’t know whether to thank Cristo or Yemanjá, so he thanked them both – as was only fair – by sticking his thumb up at the distant sea and at Cristo on the hill. He saw that the sky was almost pale and thought he’d better climb over before the streets started to trickle with people. He found a piece of wood and wedged it against the wall, then, using it as a foothold, reached up and gripped a patch which was bare of glass. He hauled himself up, on to, and over – taking care not to snag his plastic bag as he let himself down.

Nelson roamed his new domain with swinging arms. There was a yard between the house and the wall, which was cluttered with ornaments, tubs and beds of flowers. There were hibiscus bushes, gloriosas with yellow-magenta petals and the cornet blooms of copo de leite. At the back was a sheer drop with a view over the city towards the bay. Spilling down the hillside to the left and spreading underneath the house was the motley red-brick slide of a favela. Smoke rose from morning fires like steam from the hide of a beast. Radio music and cries drifted over the valley. Nelson observed it as one might a bull in a corral: not without fear; not without admiration. Borrowing a view like this, looking down on his brothers and sisters, made him feel like a rich man for a minute, until his stomach burned. It was almost light. Soon car doors would be slamming and trams waking in their sheds. Maids would already be walking down from the hills or catching buses from the edges of the city to make breakfast for richer folk.

In the yard, there were a half a dozen sandstone carvings of Buddha and a four-foot-high Ganesh. Nelson promised to worship whoever was sitting on a key, but he lifted them all in vain. The ground-floor windows had bars, so, half breaking his back, Nelson dragged Ganesh until he sat under a balcony, then climbed on to his head. He pulled himself up and over a balustrade and, keeping low, examined the french door into a bedroom. Nelson tried the handle and grinned when he found the door locked: the gods weren’t dispensing miracles. But as he yanked the handle up and down he was encouraged to feel a little give, so he sat with his back braced against the balustrade and started to kick. He kicked until his feet were sore then crouched and used his shoulder, trying to time his bashes to coincide with cars, which passed more frequently as day arrived. Perceiving a definite loosening, he let himself down to the ground and hunted for something to insert and prise open the gap. He found a trowel, the tip of which he managed to worm into the hinge. He twisted and hammered and twisted until he started to hear the divine sound of splintering. With a final heave the door gave up.

Nelson stumbled on to polished floorboards and an alarm started to scream. He bolted downstairs, found the key-pad and jabbed silver keys. 13-06-60.

Silence settled on everything.

He found the fridge, which was unplugged and empty. He ducked his head under a tap and drank until he felt sick. In a cupboard he discovered a can of tomatoes and a bag of penne and said, ‘How about a little pasta arrabbiata, senhor?’ – a dish he knew from working as a waiter in an Italian place. He opened the tin and took half a mouthful of pasta and half of tomatoes, gulping the crunchy blend so fast that nausea swept it into the sink. After that, he slowed and finished off the rest.

Marble surfaces glowed in the light of dawn. Nelson wandered into a living room strewn with sofas and rugs, which beckoned him to snooze. As sunlight lit the walls, he noticed a door in the corner which looked as if it opened on to the cliff. He crept towards it, turned a knob and beheld steps down into a blazing hexagonal room with bay windows giving on to a view of half the world. In the centre he found a chair and a music stand with a book of bossa nova songs open in its arms. Against a wall, sleeping like vampires in black cases, were instruments: a violin, a mandolin – and the unmistakable shape of a guitar.

Nelson flicked the catches of the guitar case open with his thumbs and ran his fingers over red velvet. He lifted the guitar gently from its bed, sat on the chair and laid the sleeping instrument in his lap. A label inside said, ‘José Ramirez, Madrid, 1975’, and just by the feel of the wood Nelson could tell it would really sing. He tuned the strings, savouring the sweet cacophony of an instrument finding harmony, then started to strum a few chords, speeding up and slowing down, getting a feel for the instrument’s flight until he began to sing ‘Song of the Sabiá’ – which seemed an appropriate melody with which to bless this latest start. Even sad Jobim songs made Nelson happy, as if singing of solitude made him feel less lonely, but this was a more optimistic number than some. He sang partly in homage to Yemanjá – for she alone could be behind this lucky day – and partly for poor Sérgio, who needed a song sung for him if anyone did; but mainly for himself. Of course, there was nothing like an audience – and now he had a guitar he could ask for another chance at the Bar das Terezas. He’d need a shrewd excuse for his no-show the night before, but with Yemanjá unrolling a magic carpet before his footsteps there was certainly hope.

As he felt the strings fall in with his fingers’ caress, Nelson looked over the favela below and imagined he was inside an enormous eye, unblinking, surveying the world around which he had scrambled for thirty-nine years with varying colours of success. And as he gazed it struck him that there was something impudent about a favela. He knew this wasn’t a helpful thought, given that right at this moment a million favelados were sweating as a squeegee boy, a maid, a whore, a pickpocket, a petrol pump attendant, a bus driver, a street sweeper or simply standing with a dozen brothers in a prison cell meant for two. But a favela was created by hands carrying bricks and sheets of metal up towering slopes to build a home, when the rest of the city wished they wouldn’t. ‘We’re here,’ the favelas said, ‘and there’s nothing you can do.’ To make matters worse, many favelas had the cheek not to squat by the swamps on the fringes of the city nor to sprawl on scrubland heading into nowhere – but to sit on the central hills that made Rio the ‘Marvellous City’. And these hills were so beautiful that playboys in the South Zone had no choice but to look up and see the brick and concrete boxes, which weren’t going to vanish, no matter how much rich folk wished they would.

He could see black kids in bright shorts kicking a ball, a fat woman heaving bags up twisting steps. Nelson wondered how God came to develop the intricate logic by which it was fine to sit on His celestial arse instead of helping. Still, he had to admit it was better to be up here looking down than down there looking up. Besides, Nelson couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for Him. It must be hard to be around and amongst people all the time without anyone noticing. It was bad enough at Bar do Paulo when you didn’t have a real and Zemané was nowhere to be seen. God didn’t have a Zemané; he was the Zemané – but it was better to be the mortal one, in a way, because he was right there before your eyes, bang slap in the middle of life. Immortal, invisible, lonely as hell: that was how Nelson perceived God. He smiled and wondered at his own intricate logic – by which it seemed better to be the bossy but generous owner of a bar than creator of the universe.

The room began to heat like an oven, so he put down the guitar, fetched a glass of water and drank it while reclining on a giant cushion. Whatever life gave or took today, it was better to start from a velvet cushion than a mattress on the floor. His aunt Zila used to say that every day you didn’t make your future better was a day you made it worse – though Nelson suspected a few days doing precious little helped to lubricate the whole machine. But today was not a day to sit fat like Buddha and contemplate the beauty of it all. Nelson didn’t know much about money, but Zemané was forever talking about liquidity. That meant turning this place into some cash.

Nelson’s stomach burned and he considered more pasta and tomatoes – but how much better to stroll down to a restaurant, select a table under a fan and tear open a cheese-bread roll as a stew bubbled on a hob. He looked at a clock on the wall – a pretty thing with Roman numbers and a frame of silver rays – and thought: fifty reais. But while he might have been able to sell the clock, he liked the clock, and ever since he’d sold his watch to a frightened tourist for five dollars he’d been longing to know the time. Nelson had to admit he didn’t really like to steal. Were he to possess a greater affinity for that line of work, he’d be in a very different place in the order of the world: rich or dead, no doubt. He had the skills: with his musical fingers he could pluck a wallet like a ghost. But every time he tried to commit a crime he heard Aunt Zila saying, ‘You don’t have to tell me, I can see it in your eyes.’ In any case, Nelson owed Adolfo too many reais to approach him with anything to hawk, and Zemané would insist on knowing his source. There were other faces that might help, but Nelson wasn’t much of a negotiator. Besides, if he wanted money for lunch he’d have to carry his booty down the street in the fullness of morning light, and that would not be clever.

There must be some cash in a house like this, Nelson thought. A maid he’d once dated, who worked in an American’s apartment, used to buy Nelson clothes with the change the man would leave in an ashtray by his bed. ‘Go ahead, take it,’ the man would say. She had sometimes done so but kept a note of how much, in case he changed his mind and wanted it back. Two friends of hers had lost their jobs for stealing things they hadn’t stolen, so it wasn’t worth the risk.

Nelson looked in the drawers of a writing desk, in scented cedar boxes and china pots painted with dolphins. He tried cupboards in the hall and storage jars in the kitchen. He loped upstairs and hunted in a dressing table then went through a dozen handbags stuffed in the top of a wardrobe. His fingers wormed into the pockets of countless pairs of giant slacks and he even tried on a pair, posing in a floor-to-ceiling mirror, holding the waistband far in front, pulling faces. Finally, inside a pocket of an enormous jacket, he felt a thin wad of notes.

‘Show!’ Nelson said.