‘Maia, this is Ramon. He’s been a resident of thefavelasince the day he was born, but now he works for the government as a’ – Floriano stared at his friend for inspiration – ‘a peacemaker.’
The man’s white teeth flashed as his lips parted and he threw his head back with laughter. ‘My friend,’ he said in a deep, rich voice, ‘you are definitely a novelist. Senhorita,’ he continued, extending his hand to me, ‘it is a pleasure to meet you.’
During the following two hours, as we walked around thefavela, stopping to eat and drink beer at a ramshackle café that some entrepreneurial resident had set up in the tiny space they owned, I learnt a lot aboutfavelalife.
‘Of course, there is still crime and poverty in the streets of everyfavelain Rio,’ Ramon explained to me. ‘And there are some places even I would not dare to venture near, especially at night. But I have to believe that things are improving, admittedly far more slowly than they should. And as everyone now has the opportunity to gain an education, and with it a sense of self-worth, I hope my grandchildren will experience a better childhood than I had.’
‘How did you two meet?’ I asked as I baked in the stifling heat.
‘Ramon won a scholarship to my university,’ Floriano explained. ‘He was majoring in social science, but he nodded his head in the direction of history too. He’s far cleverer than I am. I keep telling him he should write a book about his life.’
‘You know as well as I do that no one would publish it here in Brazil,’ said Ramon, suddenly serious. ‘But perhaps one day, when I’m old and the political situation is different, I will. Now, I’m taking you to see my favourite project.’
As we followed Ramon along the maze of alleyways, Floriano explained quietly that Ramon’s mother had been forced into prostitution by his father, who’d been a known drug baron and was now serving a life sentence for a double murder.
‘Ramon had six little brothers and sisters to bring up alone when his mother died of a heroin overdose. He’s an amazing man. The kind who makes you feel hopeful about human nature,’ he mused. ‘He works ceaselessly to lobby on behalf of the residents for some form of basic healthcare and better facilities for the children here. He’s dedicated his life to thefavelas,’ Floriano added as he took my arm to guide me down the uneven stone steps.
From far below I could hear the sound of the drums getting louder, pulsating through my body as we continued to descend the steps. I watched the way Ramon was greeted with respect and affection from every narrow doorway by the residents, and by the time we reached the bottom and he led us through a wooden door surrounded by high walls, my own respect for him had multiplied. I thought how he’d turned round his own life using his own dreadful circumstances to improve those of others, and felt humbled by his dedication and strength of character.
Inside the courtyard we’d entered, I saw twenty or so children – several even younger than Valentina – all dancing to the strong rhythm of the drums. Ramon led us discreetly around the wall and into the shade that the building above us provided. He indicated the children.
‘They are preparing for Carnival. You know thefavelasare where it all began?’ he whispered, offering me a warped plastic chair so that I could sit down and watch.
The tiny bodies of the children seemed to throb instinctively to the beat of the drums. I watched their rapt faces, many of them with their eyes closed, as they simply moved to the music.
‘They are learning something we callsamba no pé. It was what saved me when I was a child,’ Ramon said quietly into my ear from behind me. ‘They are dancing for their lives.’
I wished later that I had taken some form of photographic record of the event, but maybe it could never have captured the ecstasy that I saw on the children’s faces. I knew what I was witnessing would be burned into my memory forever.
Eventually, Ramon indicated it was time to leave, and I stood up reluctantly. We waved goodbye to the children and walked away from them through the wooden door.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Floriano, again placing a protective arm around my shoulder.
‘Yes,’ I managed, my voice breaking with emotion. ‘It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’
*
We left thefavelaand hailed a cab back into the city, my heart and senses still full of the sheer, joyous abandon of the children’s dancing.
‘Are you sure everything’s all right, Maia?’ Floriano asked as he reached over and took my hand solicitously.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Honestly, I’m fine.’
‘You liked watching the samba?’
‘I loved it.’
‘Good, because that’s exactly whatwe’regoing to do later on tonight.’
I looked at him in horror. ‘Floriano, I can’t dance!’
‘Of course you can, Maia. Everybody can, especiallycariocas. It’s in your blood. Now,’ he said, halting the cab at the square in Ipanema that was filled with market stalls, ‘we need to find you something suitable to wear. Oh, and a pair of samba shoes.’
I followed him like a lamb through the market as he went through racks of dresses and picked out the ones he deemed suitable for me to choose from.
‘I think the peach would suit your skin colour best,’ he said, proffering a figure-hugging wrap dress made of silky-soft material.
I frowned. It was exactly the kind of thing I would never pick out for myself, considering such styles far too revealing.
