A Casa das Orquídeas, Laranjeiras, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

I searched my mind for the exact details of the conversation I’d had with Pa before deciding on my university degree. There was no doubt he’d encouraged me to take up Portuguese as one of my languages, and I remembered how learning it had come as easily to me as my mother tongue, French. I wandered into the sitting room to find the small, triangular-shaped tile that had been in the envelope, pulled it out and studied the faded inscription on the back.

Looking at it now made far more sense, because I realised it was written in Portuguese. I could make out some of the letters, and a date – 1929 – but I couldn’t decipher the rest of it.

A sudden shiver of excitement ran through me, but I stifled it immediately. Surely it would be ridiculous to simply up and go to Brazil?

And yet, would it?

I pondered the thought over a second cup of tea. Once I had calmed down I decided that yes, perhaps sometime in the future I would make the journey. After all, I had a valid reason to go there, given that I translated Brazilian authors into French. I could arrange to visit the Brazilian publishers of Floriano Quintelas – the author who’d contacted me only recently – to see if they would recommend me to work with other authors who needed my services.

My mobile rang again. I stood up and went to retrieve it from the bedside table, and heard the voice alerting me to a message from the earlier missed call. I put the handset to my ear as I walked back to the kitchen, as another, all too familiar voice spoke to me.

‘Maia, hi, it’s me, Zed. I hope you remember who I am,’ he said with a casual chuckle. ‘Listen, I don’t know whether you’ve heard the dreadful news about my father; so terribly tragic. To be honest, we’re all just getting over the shock. I wouldn’t have called, but I heard about your father yesterday through a sailing friend of mine. Apparently, he just passed away too. Anyway, I have to come to Geneva in the next few days, and I just thought how good it would be to see you. Perhaps we can cry on each other’s shoulders. Life is bizarre, isn’t it? I’ve no idea if you’re even still living in Geneva, but I’ve got your home number somewhere. So when I arrive, I’ll give you a buzz, or even try my luck and call in at the famous Atlantis if I don’t hear back from you after this message. I’m so sorry about your father. Take care.’

A beep alerted me to the end of the message as I stood, rooted to the spot, the shock of hearing his voice for the first time in fourteen years rendering me immobile.

‘Oh my God,’ I breathed, as I processed the thought of Zed turning up here on the doorstep in a couple of days. I felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights; part of me wanted to crawl under the bed and hide, just in case he was already in Geneva and would arrive here any second and find me.