RainStorm
driven
also by personal factors. I didn't want to have to catch up over the
phone, to answer questions about where I was and what I was doing,
to explain my long delay in tracking her down. Better to get it
all out of the way in person.
Salvador was a two-hour flight from Rio, and in making my
way through this new city I was struck, as always when traversing
colossal Brazil, by the contrasts among the land's regions. Salvador,
nearer the equator, was hotter than Rio, the air somehow richer,
moister. In Rio, the ubiquitous granite cliffs seem to offer glimpses
of the land's strong skeleton; in Salvador, everywhere there was red
earth, more akin to a soft covering of skin. And the people were
darker-hued: a reflection of the area's African heritage, which revealed
itself also in the baroque carving of the town's colonial
churches; in the blood-pounding beat of its candomble music; in the
flowing, dancing moves of its capoeiristas, with their hypnotizing
mixture of dance, fighting, and gymnastics, all set to the tune of
the stringed berimbau and the mesmerizing beat of the conga.
Nascimento was well buffered by secretaries, and there was a fair
amount of back and forth before I was able to actually get ahold of
him. When I did, he told me that Naomi had left word with him
about a friend from Japan, someone named John, but that this had
been some time ago. I acknowledged the delay and waited, and after a moment he told me that his daughter was living in Rio, working
at a bar called Scenarium, on the Rua do Lavradio. He gave me
a phone number. I thanked him and went straight to the airport,
smiling at the irony. All these months of avoiding Salvador, only to
learn that Naomi and I were living practically as neighbors.
That evening, after taking steps to ensure that I wasn't being followed,
I caught a cab to Lapa, the neighborhood around Scenarium,
among the oldest in the city. I got out a few blocks away, per
my usual practice, and waited until the cab had departed before
moving in the direction of the bar.
I made my way along antique streets composed of rows of cobblestones
convulsed over the centuries into valleys and hillocks by
the ceaseless stirrings of the earth below. A few widely spaced
streetlights offered weak respite against the surrounding gloom, and
passing figures appeared indistinct, insubstantial, like phantoms
from the area's colonial past, shifting in confusion among the faded
facades and broken balconies, lost souls trying to locate once-thriving
addresses that existed now only as monuments to dilapidation and
disuse. Here and there were signs of new life--a repaired balustrade,
a reglazed set of windows--and somehow these small portents
made the shattered relics on which they blossomed a strangely vibrant
foreground to the modern high-rises towering beyond: tenacious,
more resolute, the ravaged sockets of their empty doors and
windows seeming almost to smile at the prospect of the eventual
passing of their newer, taller peers, who would age without inspiring
any of the devotion that promised to restore these ancients to
the vigor of their youth.
I turned onto the Rua do Lavradio and saw Scenarium. The bar
occupied all three floors of two adjacent buildings, the facades of
each suffering, like so many of their brethren in the area, from considerable
age and neglect. The light and music emanating from the
interior were startlingly vibrant and alive by contrast. A long queue
of cars waited in the street in front, as though in awe or homage. I
stood before the large, open entranceway for a moment, surprised
to note that my heart was beating rapidly, remembering the concentrated
time I had spent with Naomi in Tokyo, and how long it
had been since I had promised I would be in touch.
I walked in and glanced around. Hot spots first, by instinct and
long habit: seats facing the entrance, partially concealed corners,
ambush positions. I detected no problems.
I moved inside. The interior was vast, and decorated like a Hollywood
prop warehouse. Everywhere there were antiques and curios:
iron cash registers, a red British telephone booth, a cluster of
parasols, busts and statues, shelves of colored bottles and jugs. Even
the tables and chairs looked vintage. Had it been less capacious, it
would have felt cluttered.
The ceilings were high and of bare wood, the walls stone and
alabaster. In the center of the room, about ten meters in, the
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