I decided the best and most passive way to contact him was by text. I’m not sure how many minutes I spent composing it, then editing and rewriting, but finally I was happy with it and pressed ‘send’.

The moment it had gone, I of course reread it.

Dear Floriano, I am delighted to be here in Rio and it would be nice – I’d deleted ‘a pleasure’ – to meet up at some point. I’m going up to Corcovado now to play the tourist, but you can contact me on this number. With best wishes, Maia D’Aplièse.

Satisfied that I had managed to convey warmth and distance at the same time – I was a writer too, after all – I went to visit the concierge in the hotel lobby to discover how I could travel up to see Christ the Redeemer.

‘Senhorita, we can offer you either the luxury or the real experience, the latter being the one I would personally advocate,’ the concierge told me. ‘Take a street taxi to Cosme Velho – tell them you’re going to visit the Cristo – and then take the train up Corcovado Mountain.’

‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’

Ten minutes later, I was in a taxi on my way to Cosme Velho and the Cristo. My mobile rang in my bag and I answered, seeing it was Floriano Quintelas.

‘Hello?’

‘Senhorita D’Aplièse?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Floriano here. Where are you?’

‘In a taxi on my way to see the Cristo. I’m just near the train station now.’

‘May I join you?’

I hesitated and he heard it.

‘If you prefer to visit alone, I understand.’

‘No, of course. I’d be glad of a local’s guidance.’

‘Well, why don’t you take the train up the mountain and I’ll meet you by the stairs at the top?’

‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘But how will you recognise me? There are bound to be many people there.’

‘I’ll recognise you, Senhorita D’Aplièse. I’ve seen your photograph on the internet. Adeus.’

I paid the driver and stepped out in front of the Estação do Corcovado, the tiny station at the foot of the mountain, wondering what Floriano Quintelas would be like in person. After all, I’d never met him, only fallen in love with the way he wrote.

After buying my ticket, I climbed aboard the two-carriaged train, which reminded me of the fragile Alpine railways that snaked up the mountains in Switzerland. I sat down and heard a cacophony of different languages – notably, none of them Portuguese. Eventually, the train began moving upwards and I looked out at the densely forested hillside, in awe that a jungle such as this could lie so close to a big city. It would never be allowed in Geneva.

I felt my head tilting backwards as we ascended, amazed at man’s ability to create a vehicle that could take me and my fellow passengers up what seemed like a near-vertical mountainside. The views became more and more spectacular, until finally we came to a halt at a tiny station and everyone alighted from the train.