RainStorm

ceiling
    disappeared and the room was open to the second and third
    floors above. Below this space, a three-man band was performing De Mais Ninguem, "No One's But Mine," Marisa Monte's modern
    classic of choro, a style that might loosely be thought of as Brazilian
    jazz, given that both choro and jazz are based on improvisation and
    the mixture of African and European musical elements. But choro, though less widely known, is in fact older than jazz, and has a distinct
    and sometimes melancholy sound of its own. The crowd, clustered
    around warrens of wooden tables and five across at couches
    along the walls, was singing along passionately.
    I made my way to a staircase in back, which I took to the second
    floor. This, too, was crowded with diners, and no less replete
    with ancient odds and ends, but was somewhat less boisterous than
    the area below.
    The third floor was quieter still. For a few moments, I leaned
    against the railing surrounding the open center of the floor, gazing
    down at the band, at the patrons at the tables before the stage, and
    at the waiters crossing between, and felt an odd sadness descend,
    both remote and heavy, as though I was watching this lively scene
    not so much from on high but rather from an impossibly detached
    and alienated distance.
    A waiter came by and asked in Portuguese if he could bring me
    anything.
    "I'm looking for Naomi," I told him.
    "She's downstairs, in the office," he said. "Who shall I tell her is
    looking for her?"
    I paused, then said, "Her friend from Japan."
    He nodded and moved off.
    I walked over to the end of the room and out onto one of the
    balconies overlooking the Rua do Lavradio. I leaned against the
    railing, pitted and worn as driftwood, and felt the old surreal calm
    steal over me, the kind I always feel just before the final moments
    of a job, like a sniper relaxing into his shot. There was nothing I
    could do now. It would turn out the way it would turn out.
    A few minutes passed. I heard the floorboards behind me creaking
    with someone's rapid approach. I turned and saw Naomi, her
    hair longer than it had been in Tokyo, her caramel skin darker, and
    when she saw that it was me her face lit up in an enormous smile
    and she made a sound of almost childlike delight, and then she was
    in my arms, pulling me close and squeezing hard.
    She smelled the way I remembered, sweet, and somehow also
    wild, her own scent, which I will always associate with heat and
    wet and tropical ardor. Her body felt good, too, petite but ripe in
    all the right places, and her shape, suddenly in my arms, along with
    her scent, flooded my mind with a jumble of conflicted memories.
    She pulled back after a long moment and glanced down at what
    she had already felt was there, then punched me in the shoulder,
    hard. Her face was mock-angry, but I saw some real distress in her
    eyes, as well.
    "Do you know how many times I promised myself I wouldn't
    do that?" she asked in her Portuguese-accented English.
    "How many?"
    "A lot. Most recently as I was coming up the stairs over there."
    "I'm glad you didn't listen."
    "Why didn't you call me? Why did you wait so long? I thought
    that maybe you weren't interested. Or that, after everything that
    had happened, something bad had happened to you."
    "You were wrong about the first one, but were almost on the
    mark with the second."
    "What happened?"
    Her green eyes were so earnest. It made me smile. "I had to settle
    some things in Tokyo," I said. "It took a while."
    "You came all the way from Tokyo?"
    "I've been moving around a lot."
    "Are we going to keep secrets after everything that happened
    between us?"
    "Especially after that," I said, telling her the truth. But she
    looked hurt, so I added, "Let's just spend a little time together first,
    okay? It's been a while."
    There was a pause. She nodded and said, "You want a drink?"
    I nodded back. "Love one."
    "A single malt?" she asked, remembering.
    I smiled. "How about a caipirinha, instead?" The caipirinha is
    Brazil's national cocktail. It's made with cachafa--a Brazilian liquor
    made from distilled sugarcane juice--along with lime, sugar, and
    ice, and I'd grown fond of the drink during my time in the country.
    "You know a lot about Brazil," she said, looking at me.
    I realized it might have been safer to go with the single malt,
    which she had been expecting. "Go ni itte wa, go ni shitagae," I said
    with a shrug, switching to Japanese. When in Rome, do as the Romans
    do.
    She smiled.