I looked up and saw the heels of Christ the Redeemer, mounted on a high plinth. The sculpture soared so far above me I could barely take in the rest of it. Watching my fellow passengers begin to mount the stairs, I wondered whether Floriano had meant that we should meet at the top or the bottom of them. But not wanting to waste any further time, I began to climb. And climb. Hundreds of steps later, I caught my breath, panting in the warmth of the day after my exertion.

‘Olá, Senhorita D’Aplièse. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance in the flesh.’

A pair of warm brown eyes smiled into mine, a hint of amusement in them at my obvious surprise.

‘You’re Floriano Quintelas?’

‘Yes! Don’t you recognise me from my author photograph?’

My gaze swept briefly over the handsome, tanned face, the full lips parted in a broad grin revealing very white, even teeth. ‘I do, but . . .’ – I gestured towards the steps beneath me – ‘how on earth did you arrive faster than I did?’

‘Because, senhorita, I was already up here.’ Floriano grinned.

‘How? Why?’ I asked him, confused.

‘Obviously, you have not read my author biography in detail. If you had, you would know that I am an historian by profession. And that I can also be occasionally employed as a guide, by anyone of distinction who wishes to share my superior knowledge of Rio.’

‘I see.’

‘Actually, the truth is that my book is not yet earning me enough money to live on, so this is how I supplement my writing,’ he admitted. ‘But it isn’t a hardship at all, showing and telling visitors about my wonderful city. This morning, I had a group of wealthy Americans who wanted to be up here before the crowds. You can see that now it is already very busy.’

‘Yes.’

‘So, Senhorita D’Aplièse, I’m at your disposal.’ Floriano gave a mock bow.

‘Thank you,’ I said, still feeling flustered at his immediate and unexpected appearance.

‘Are you ready for the history of Brazil’s most iconic landmark? I promise you, you don’t need to tip me at the end,’ he quipped, as he led me through the crowds and we stood on the terrace, facing the statue. ‘This is the best view of Him. Isn’t He incredible?’

My eyes soared upwards to the Cristo’s gentle face, as Floriano talked to me of how the statue had been constructed. My brain was so full of the visual image, I hardly took in the spoken details he was relating.

‘The miracle is that no one was killed during the construction . . . Another interesting fact is that the project manager began work on the Cristo as a Jew, but then converted to Christianity by the end of it. Senhor Levy wrote down all his family’s names and secured them in the heart of the Cristo before it was sealed into the statue with concrete.’