Realising I was about to be drowned if I didn’t close the window and pull my upper half back inside, I ran to the bathroom, scattering drops across the carpet, and took a shower. I emerged, headache gone and feeling as refreshed as the storm-cleansed air around me. Lying on the bed, I looked at the letters that Yara had given me and tried to make sense of all she had told me earlier. But my thoughts kept spinning back to Floriano, to the patient way he had waited for me all afternoon and the sensitivity he’d shown afterwards. And I realised that whatever these envelopes contained, I wanted – really wanted – to share the contents with him. I picked up my mobile and scrolled down to find his number.

‘Olá, Floriano, it’s Maia here,’ I said when he answered.

‘Maia, how are you?’

‘Watching the storm. I’ve never seen anything quite like it before.’

‘It’s certainly one of the things that we cariocas can say we do spectacularly well,’ he agreed. ‘Do you want to come round and have some supper? It’s pretty basic, I’m afraid, but you’re very welcome.’

‘If the rain stops, then yes, I’d like to.’

‘I’d give it another nine minutes or so, looking at the sky. So I’ll see you in twenty, okay?’

‘Yes, thank you, Floriano.’

‘Enjoy the puddles.’ I heard the smile in his voice. ‘Tchau.’

Exactly nine minutes later, I ventured downstairs and outside, my Havaianas and ankles submerged in the deluge of water that was still flowing off the pavements and down into the inadequate drains. There was a wonderful freshness to the air and as I walked, I saw more and more locals emerging back onto the streets.

‘Come up,’ Floriano said when I rang his intercom.

Arriving at the top of the stairs, he met me with his finger to his lips. ‘I’ve just got Valentina to bed. She’ll be up immediately if she thinks you’re here,’ he whispered.

Nodding silently, I followed him upstairs to the roof terrace, which was miraculously snug and dry beneath the sloped roof.

‘Help yourself to some wine and I’ll go downstairs and organise supper.’

I poured myself a small glass of red, feeling guilty I had come without an offering and promising myself I’d take Floriano out for dinner the next time we met to repay him for his hospitality. He’d already lit candles on the table, for darkness had fallen in earnest now, and there was the sound of soft jazz music playing from hidden speakers in the eaves above me. The atmosphere was tranquil, which was surprising, placed as it was in the centre of such a throbbing city.

‘Enchiladas with all the trimmings,’ he said as he appeared with a tray. ‘I went to Mexico a few years ago and fell in love with their cuisine.’

I stood up and helped him unload the steaming dish of enchiladas and bowls of guacamole, sour cream and salsa, wondering if he ate like this every night.