“You know, in the colonial times they didn’t have any inns, not an inn in the whole country. Traveling people had to have letters of introduction if they were somebodies and they stayed at the big houses, but there weren’t any public facilities the way they had in Europe. At least that’s the way I hear it. We had this man who was staying here, a historian working on a history of Brazil. Knew more about my own country than I did. Said he came here to learn the truth about it before he wrote his book. He’d been to all the major libraries in every country where people had something to say about Brazil, which means he’s been nearly everywhere. Brazil, he said, was his last stop before he wrote his book. That seemed a curious thing to me, that it would be his last stop instead of his first. But he was disappointed, you know, because he felt he still did not know the truth about it. I don’t know why I brought up that matter. Maybe it’s just that folks are always looking for one big truth, and maybe there are just a lot of little truths. But the thing about the inns was a nice thing to know, since I run one.” She smiled. “And do my running in one. I suppose if you weren’t one of the somebodies you just slept under the trees. Then they built their own shelter, if they decided to stay . . . This inn used to be one of the big houses. We renovated it, put in electricity and running water, made it modern. His dad and me. His dad’s half Black and half Tupi Indian; that’s called cafuso, the historian told me. Sounds like confusion to me. He’s always off and about somewhere, like he’s being chased, then’s back here when he’s a mind to. Me? I stay put. I’m like my plants. No, I’m like a root. Valerio—that’s his dad—he’s like a root too, though, but one of those magic roots that can pull itself up and plant itself wherever it wants to be. I used to be a gadabout in the old days, but now I like my surroundings and they like me I guess. I’ve got my healing garden in the back. I don’t think of Ensinanco as any sort of root, though. I think he’ll plant himself in Rio when he starts his engineering practice, come now and then like he always does. He’s not a root, and if he’s a plant I don’t know what kind. He only thinks he knows which way he wants to grow. You can’t grow up without growing inside.”

When I told Ensinanco I was going, we had just made love and were sitting in cane chairs, eating mandarin oranges and fresh coconut. We dipped our whole hands into the coconut shells and fed each other.

“You’ll be back,” he said shortly.

“I don’t think so.”

“Yes, you’ll be back,” he said. He put a finger full of coconut meat into my mouth. I licked his finger. “Anyway, there’s a place for you here. When you come back, I’ll have started my engineering firm and I’ll have a place of my own.”