Even the very smell of the air was new and exotic. Like many of his French compatriots, the fact that their home country provided them with every form of season – from the exhilarating snow-covered slopes of the Alps to the glorious south of the country with its beautiful scenery and climate – meant that Laurent had never been tempted to travel abroad before.

But now, standing here, he felt ashamed he could ever have thought that no other country had anything more to offer him.

He wanted to explore Rio, but before he did so, he had to meet Monsieur da Silva Costa’s construction manager, Heitor Levy, who had left him a note at the hotel saying he would collect him at eleven that morning. The head and hands of Christ had been taken off the ship yesterday before it docked in the main port, and had been placed on some open land close to the port, where Monsieur Levy owned a small farm. Laurent only hoped that the delicate pieces of the moulds had made the journey intact. He’d carried out a check on them four times a day down in the hold, and now he could only pray that they had survived the unloading.

He began to dress, noticing that his legs were covered in small, circular welts. Laurent scratched them and pulled on his trousers, knowing that some hungry Brazilian mosquito must have done its worst drinking his blood in the night.

Walking downstairs for breakfast, he entered the dining room and saw a feast of exotic fruits laid out on a long table for the guests. He had no idea what they were, but took a sample of each, determined to embrace this new culture; he also took a slice of some kind of delicious-smelling cake, still warm from the oven. A waitress served him some hot, strong coffee and he drank it in relief, feeling comforted that some things were the same here as at home.

At eleven o’clock, he made his way to the reception area, and saw a man standing beside the desk, checking his watch. Surmising correctly that it must be Monsieur Levy, he walked over and introduced himself.

‘Welcome to Rio, Senhor Brouilly. How was your passage?’ the man asked him in decent French.

‘Extremely comfortable, thank you. I learnt all manner of card games and lewd jokes from my fellow sailors,’ said Laurent with a smile.

‘Good. Now, my car is outside and we shall drive to my fazenda.’

As they drove through the streets of the city, Laurent was surprised to see how very modern it was. Landowski had obviously been teasing him when he said that the residents were all natives, running around the streets naked, throwing spears and eating babies, as this city seemed as civilised and western as many in France itself.

He did, however, find it strange to see the deeply tanned skin of the locals clad in carbon copies of his own country’s modern fashions. As they drove through the outskirts, Laurent saw a large slum town appear on his right.