‘I’m not the world’s greatest domestic, but it’s home,’ he warned me again. ‘Please come in.’

Floriano walked through the door as I stood on the threshold, experiencing a fleeting moment of trepidation that I was entering the apartment of a man who was, to all intents and purposes, a stranger. I pushed the thought away, remembering the first night we’d met, when he’d had to return home to let in the girl he lived with, and followed him inside.

The sitting room we entered was as Floriano had described: a jumbled melange of objects used and never returned to their rightful place. A battered leather sofa and armchair formed a seating arrangement and a coffee table overflowed with books, papers, a food-encrusted bowl and a brimming ashtray.

‘I’ll take you upstairs. It’s far more pleasant up there, I swear,’ he said, walking along the corridor.

Climbing another flight of stairs, we arrived on a tiny landing which had two doors. Floriano opened one of them to reveal a terrace, the majority of which was protected by a sloping roof. Beneath it was a sofa, a table and chairs and a desk in the corner which held a laptop, above which was a shelf of books. The front of the terrace beyond the overhang of the roof was open to the elements, and all along the balcony edge pots full of flowers added vibrancy and colour to the atmosphere.

‘This is where I live and work. Make yourself comfortable,’ he said, strolling to his desk, opening his laptop and sitting down.

I walked to the edge of the terrace and immediately felt the burning sun on my face. Leaning on my elbows, I looked upwards to see a small city of buildings tumbling haphazardly down the hill only a few hundred metres away. From the tops of the buildings, I could see kites flying in the breeze and hear the muffled thrum of what sounded like drums.

After the sterility of my hotel room, I suddenly felt I had a finger on the real, throbbing pulse of the city. ‘It’s beautiful here,’ I breathed. ‘Is that a favela?’ I pointed into the air at the houses on the mountainside beyond us.

‘Yes, and until a few years ago, a very dangerous one. Drugs and murders were commonplace, and even though it backs onto Ipanema, one of the most exclusive areas in Rio, no one would live in the streets nearby,’ Floriano explained. ‘But now it’s been cleaned up and the government has even provided a lift for its residents. Some said the money would have been better used for some kind of basic healthcare provision for them, but at least it’s a start.’

‘But Brazil is becoming very prosperous, isn’t it?’ I queried.

‘Yes, but as with any fast-growing economy, to begin with it’s a tiny percentage of the population that gains from the new-found wealth, and little changes for the vast majority who are poor. It’s the same in India and Russia at present. Anyway,’ Floriano sighed, ‘let’s not get onto the topic of social injustice here in Brazil. It’s my favourite hobby horse, and we have other things to discuss.’ He turned his attention back to the computer. ‘Now, I’m assuming that Senhora Carvalho is one of the lucky few who can afford to avoid the appalling public hospitals here in Rio. So I’m looking for a list of the private ones and then we can call them. Here we are.’ I walked back towards him and leant over his shoulder to study the screen. ‘So, we have approximately ten. I’ll print off their telephone numbers.’