American Drifter Read online

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  For Chynna Skye Pozzessere and Steven Christie, who conceived and instigated the concept of Chad and I working together.

  For Michel Marrache, who was kindly willing to share so much about Brazil.

  And for Mauricio Ferrer, who also taught me so much about his homeland.

  To my wife, Sarah, you are, without a doubt, the definition of grace. Without you I’d be nothing more than a caveman. For my two children G and A, Dada loves you more than you’ll ever know. You inspire me with each breath, moment, and memory. Finally, thank you to Heather for guiding me through this adventure. Your thoughtfulness, teachings, and honest approach to all that life encompasses will never be forgotten.

  P.S. GO BUFFALO!

  PROLOGUE

  Maybe he was a crazy man.

  The old woman watched him watch the fountain, staring as if entranced, entirely unaware of the busy flow of humanity moving through the crowded streets of Rio de Janeiro.

  Dressed in khakis and a T-shirt, he carried a backpack, as did so many of the americanos who came to travel the rain forests and small towns of Brazil. Their American dollars could still buy much; they could drink and play easily in the cities surrounded and secreted by the jungle-like growth of the countryside.

  This one seemed to be different; there was something about him. He was shaggy like the others; his hair was too long and his face was scraggly with an untrimmed beard. Beneath that untrimmed beard, though, was a beautiful face, well formed, and eyes that were a gentle blue, nice against the tawny gold color of his hair.

  Something about him touched her. He didn’t come to the fountain to pop open a beer, inhale it and toss down the can. He didn’t light up a cigarillo or pull out a bag of marijuana—as some did here, heedless of the foot traffic. He stared at the fountain with awe and appreciation, as if it were an oasis in the desert.

  The fountain … yes, it was special. Tio Amato had built it years ago, but had now forgotten it, other than to see that the water kept flowing and once a year it was cleaned. While fairly new in the old city, the fountain and the sculpted cherubs and elegant goddess statuary that surrounded its center hinted of Greek artisans, and the water flowed pure and free. In the center there was a giant obelisk. It seemed phallic, but then Tio Amato was a man much impressed with his own sex, so that did not matter. Or maybe it did; maybe to Tio Amato it was like the pride and youth and sex he thought he would keep forever. Maybe, in his mind, it was like the heat of Brazil and the beat that could stir so much of the country.

  The water was a gift to the people, and the children of the neighborhood came there to play. They were young and innocent, free from the cares of money and hard work. They didn’t care about class distinction; they didn’t mind that they shared the fountain’s waters with one another. Not unless their mommas or nannies pulled them away.

  Yes, Tio Amato kept the fountain flowing; it was his contribution to the neighborhood where he had been born, where his “enterprises” had made him rich, where his massive casa sat, and where he could reign as the king. But no matter why Tio Amato had built it, the fountain was good. It was a strange picture of wild beauty in the rush and hubbub of the city. It was bordered by a little patch of scraggly trees and a bench where she could sit and feel the breeze without the heat of the sun.

  As she watched, she felt a kinship with the young man. She had seen many such a man in the city, many that looked like him, some speaking to themselves, others sitting with vacant eyes, cups before them. Sometimes they begged; sometimes they did not. They were weary and their eyes were dead while their bodies still lived.

  For several moments, this man stared at the fountain with the same dead eyes. Then he dropped his backpack and began to shed his clothing. She thought that she should speak then, and tell him that she was there and that the rush hour of humanity that thronged the mornings of Rio was about, but she held silent.

  Carnaval was coming to Rio de Janeiro; the city was insane with visitors of all nationalities, rich and poor, black and white, native and other—and yet, among them, she thought that there was something special about this man.

  He hadn’t come to Rio to use the city.

  He had come to be a part of it.

  He was ragged and dirty and possibly one of the craziest men here. Something in him had broken, she could see that. But he also made her think of something pure. His love for the fountain had a touch of the fantasy seen in a child’s eyes. So she sat silently. Naked, he stepped into the fountain. He lifted the water and sent it high, sparking as it lit into the air. He laughed and began to move, dancing, as if offering up homage to a god on high.

  She smiled. He was much more beautiful than any other man she had seen come to the fountain. She was glad that she hadn’t spoken; for an old woman, it was a strange moment of joy to watch the movement of his supple young body. He played in the water, savored the feeling of it, and delighted as he frolicked there beneath the sun.

  But soon, she noticed a certain car winding through one of the side streets to the square. She rose from her seat in the shade and moved forward. “Senhor, Senhor, come out now, you must come now. He is coming. Tio Amato is coming!” she said. She spoke English, but not well.

  He paused and turned to look at her, frowning as if he couldn’t comprehend her words.

  “Senhor, Senhor, come out now; if it is Tio Amato he will hurt you, or see that you are hurt. If it is only his men … they will hurt you worse. They will force you out, they will be cruel. Please, come out.”

  She hurried toward him with her shawl, heedless that the precious piece of clothing might be ruined, and wrapped it around his shoulders. “Come … come.”

  He stepped out of the fountain, looking at her. She wished that she were young and beautiful, but he smiled, and he seemed to like the many wrinkles that crisscrossed her face.

  “Thank you, senhora; gracias.” He carefully returned her shawl and reached for his clothing.

  “This is the city. It is Tio Amato’s neighborhood. The law here is different. The law is what the rich men say the law should be.”

  “But it’s beautiful,” he told her, reaching for his backpack and throwing it over his shoulder. “The fountain is beautiful. And you are beautiful. Thank you.”

  “I am old,” she said, flushing as she straightened his shirt, as she would have done for one of her niños, her grandsons. “You must be careful. You should be back in your country. What are you doing here?”

  “Senhora, I’m stronger than I look,” he told her. “And I’m here because … I must be.” A look of pain crossed his face, quickly replaced by a s
mile. “I have done my duty, and now I’m here.”

  She saw something in his eyes, and she felt as if his soul was damaged, though she didn’t understand at all.

  “I’m looking for something,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  He shook his head. “I have to keep looking.”

  “You should go home,” she warned.

  “Maybe I am looking for what makes a home, senhora.”

  The car that she knew to belong to Tio Amato was wending its way through the busy morning foot and automobile traffic. The driver must have slammed his fist on the horn because a loud blast disrupted the heat of the day.

  “Go, please,” she said.

  “I will see you again, senhora.”

  He turned and headed down a side street, joining the throng of humanity, as she made the sign of the cross over her chest, praying silently.

  God keep him, she thought, for only God could watch over fools and crazy men.

  And the lost.

  CHAPTER 1

  River Roulet knew the strange whistling sound—it was far too familiar.

  The sound heralded the arrival of a bomb.

  His body instantly flinched as his natural instincts for survival set in.

  The bomb fell. The earth shuddered and exploded into a violent storm of debris. Men screamed and missiles seemed to hurl around the dusty desert landscape.

  The missiles were men—and body parts.

  He felt himself breathe; he hadn’t been hit. His hearing was numbed and he was blinded for several seconds and then the debris began to clear.

  He saw them—the woman and child—standing atop a small rise in the dry and brittle landscape far beyond the bombing. They were there … a distant blur in the distance, as the mist of dust and dirt began to clear. He struggled to stand, to warn them there was danger, but they were gone, and when he looked around, he was alone in a sea of death.

  He let out a hoarse cry.

  And he woke himself up from the nightmare that plagued him far too often.

  There was no desert around him; the air was rich, his surroundings verdant with the foliage that grew in profusion on the outskirts of the city of Rio de Janeiro.

  For a moment, he lay shaking, trembling. He took a deep breath, fighting the confusion that made it seem as if the mist from the imagined explosion had crept into his mind when he first awakened from the dream. War was behind him; he had come to Brazil to explore what was beautiful and different in nature, far from the past and far from memories of the past. The battle was over; he had let go of everything except that which he could carry on his back.

  There was no regimen to be followed, there wasn’t anything he owed to anyone, and his days were now free; he’d vowed to forget the bombs and violence that had plagued the years gone by.

  He’d had a glorious bath in the fountain—something he could manage because it was Brazil—and the morning stretched before him with a magnificent sun overhead, a touch of cool moisture in the air, and this new world to be explored.

  For a moment, he felt a sharp pain in his head. The dream awakened memories; memories he didn’t want to have, memories he had come here to lose. They were there somewhere, he knew, at the back of his mind, but if he pressed his temple between his thumb and forefingers, the threat that they would erupt in full subsided.

  The past seemed to tease. It would return in the nightmares, but if he awakened, if he pressed the nightmares back, nothing bloomed into truth in his mind. He’d come here to bury the horrors that had gripped him, to begin anew.

  He forced himself to feel the ripple of the breeze and hear the lilting, tinkling sound of the nearby stream as water danced over pebbles and rocks.

  The pain faded.

  He’d slept under the canopy of the jacaranda trees; the earth had been soft enough and it had been good to sleep in the open, but tonight, he’d head to the hostel owned and managed by Beluga, the massive African-Brazilian he could count as one of his few real friends in the Rio de Janeiro area. Beluga’s place was outside the city, surrounded by foliage and rich farmland. It was a beautiful place to sketch, and a pleasant place to stay.

  He paused for a moment to take in the quiet. He loved Rio at any time of the year, and it was particularly hectic now that Carnaval grew near. The city felt supercharged. The horns blaring in the busy streets were enough to deafen. No matter—samba bands vied with them now at all hours of the day and night.

  Being here right now, where the jungle retained a tenacious hold, he could hear the sound of the leaves rustling as birds swept by. It was a nice change.

  Just as Beluga’s would be nice tonight.

  River rose and stretched, shaking off the remnants of the dream. He paused for a minute and listened again to the sound of the jungle that encroached upon the city. As he looked up, a parrot took flight and soared over the trees; he wished he knew more about the birds and other creatures here, but he had time to learn. He had all the time in the world.

  Rio de Janeiro was wonderful—one of the most wonderful cities on earth. On the one hand, it was massive, with a population of more than six million of the world’s most diverse people—twelve million in the larger metropolitan area. While Portuguese was the primary language, people could be heard speaking any language known to man. They were black and white and every shade in between. River thought that was one of the things he loved most about Rio and Brazil—the diversity of people and the way that skin tones and backgrounds had become so multitudinous that only the very rich or incredibly snobby ever noticed any difference between white, brown, black, or red—or any color in between.

  Two things were incredibly important in Brazil: samba and soccer. Not that there weren’t world-class museums and theaters and concert halls. But the people loved their soccer teams and their music. Samba schools were everywhere. And, at any time, when music could be heard through an open doorway, people might be seen dancing in the streets—practicing their newest moves.

  And the streets were constantly filled with that music beneath the ethereal shade of the mountains, the blue skies, and the deeper blue seas. The city was magic and River loved it, from the beaches of Ipanema to the jungle forests that encroached upon the city.

  This was Rio. While acceptance of just about anything was the general rule, it was still a country where there were the very rich; there were the very poor. It was true that money could matter; that the rich could consider themselves a bit more elite. But when Carnaval neared, there were the very rich everywhere, and the very poor everywhere, and it seemed that then, it didn’t matter so much. There were also the tourists—who did not know the bairros, or neighborhoods, of the city. There were big city buildings, skyscrapers that touched the clouds. And there were farmers on the outskirts still tilling their fields as if the land had never seen the arrival of big business. Rich tourists might go to many of the big balls, but even they knew that the Carnaval was really in the streets.

  Carnaval had been celebrated in one way or another since the eighteenth century; first, it was taken from the Portuguese Festa de Entrada, or Shrovetide festivals—always a day to enjoy before the deep thought and abstinence of Lent. In later years, the Rio elite borrowed a page from the Venetian Carnavale and introduced elaborate balls. The majority of the people were not the elite—they had their own festival in the street and it was more fun, and soon, even those who were very rich wanted to play on the street, as well. The bands were magnificent: the samba was done on the walks and boulevards, and performers were everywhere.

  There were so many wonders to be seen in Rio. But the greatest wonder of Rio was still to come, and one could feel the pulse of a city that was filled with natural beauty and joy. As in most cities, there were neighborhoods, and if you stayed, if you became part of the people, you knew the little fountains and the mysterious trails into the jungle and the special places where, in the midst of that twelve million people, you could be alone.

  He was glad that he hadn’t com
e just for Carnaval. He had come to explore. To know and understand the people.

  Reaching into his pack, he drew out his map of Brazil. He loved to study the map and read the guidebooks on the country. It was huge and he intended to see a great deal of it, beyond Rio, at his leisure. Later, he’d talk to Beluga, and see what Beluga had to say about the wonders to be seen when he started traveling again. He set his finger on the map, circling Rio de Janeiro and São Paolo, thinking that he might travel to the Southwest. Or, perhaps, he’d head inland to see the wonders of Brasília, the planned city that now housed the federal capital. The country was massive; there were so many places he could go.

  River gathered his belongings, shouldered his knapsack, and headed toward the sound of water. The picture that met his eyes was beautiful and peaceful; wildflowers grew haphazardly next to water that glistened beneath the sun. The sound of children’s laughter drifted from downstream, closer to the city. He splashed cold water on his face, dug in his bag for his toothbrush, and cleaned up.

  He was hungry. There was an open-air market just down the hill and he could find all kinds of delicious things to eat there.

  The walk, he thought, was as beautiful as all else. He knew that a lot of Americans considered Brazil an exotic place—but one to visit, not a place to stay. It was true that here the middle class was slim; people tended to be very rich or very poor. But it cost nothing to look at the wild profusion of foliage and trees, breathe in the air, and feel the warmth of the sun.

  There was a noise up ahead.

  Without thinking, River paused. He didn’t know what made him refrain from moving forward, but some instinct kicked in.

  Now a splash. On the road ahead where a little bridge crossed the river.

  He moved off the path, climbing up the foliage- and tree-laden hill that rose next to the river to see what had given him chills. Carefully, he moved to a jagged crest and looked down.