‘So, your initial mission has been completed successfully, although I am sure you are eager to see the construction site at Corcovado Mountain,’ Levy continued. ‘It is truly something to behold. I am living up there with the workers, as we only have a relatively short time in which to complete the project.’

‘I would love to see it,’ Laurent said eagerly. ‘I’ve struggled to imagine how it is possible to build such a monument on the top of a mountain.’

‘So have we all,’ Levy agreed phlegmatically. ‘But rest assured, it is happening. Now, Senhor da Silva Costa tells me that you are in need of accommodation while you are here. He asked me if I would help you find some, given that I’m sure you don’t speak a word of Portuguese.’

‘No, monsieur, I do not.’

‘Well, it just so happens that I have an apartment going spare. It’s in an area called Ipanema, not far from Copacabana Beach where you are staying presently. I bought it in my bachelor days before my marriage, and have never had the heart to part with it. I would be happy to let you have the use of it for the time you are here. Senhor da Silva Costa, of course, will pick up any bills, just as you agreed in France. I think you will like it as it has a spectacular view and is full of light. Perfect for a sculptor like yourself,’ he added.

‘Thank you, Monsieur Levy. I am overwhelmed by your generosity.’

‘Well, we shall go and visit it. And if it suits you, you can move in later today.’

By late afternoon, Laurent was the proud tenant of a spacious, airy third-floor apartment in a beautiful block near Ipanema Beach. The graceful high-ceilinged rooms were elegantly furnished and when he opened the door to the shady balcony, he could see the beach in the distance. The warm wind brought with it the unmistakeable smell of the ocean.

Levy had left him there to settle in after they’d retrieved his suitcase from the hotel, telling him he’d be back later to introduce him to the maid who would cook and clean for him during his stay.

Laurent wandered wide-eyed from room to room, the luxury of having such space all to himself after his squalid attic room in Montparnasse, let alone the thought of a maid to wait on him, almost too much to comprehend. He sat on the enormous mahogany bed and lay back, enjoying the breeze from the ceiling fan that brushed his face like tiny wings. Breathing a sigh of contentment, he promptly fell asleep.

That evening, as promised, Levy brought Monica, a middle-aged African woman, to see him.

‘I’ve warned her that you don’t speak any Portuguese, but if you agree, Monsieur Brouilly, she will clean the apartment, shop for provisions in the local market and prepare your evening meal. Anything else you need, there is a telephone in the drawing room. Please, call me at any time.’