‘What a lovely story.’

‘There are many moving stories such as that. For example’ – he beckoned me forward and we walked right up to the statue – ‘the whole of the outside of the Cristo is made up of a mosaic of triangular pieces of soapstone. Society women spent many months sticking them on to mesh netting to make large panels, which meant the outer coating was flexible and therefore the statue would not be prone to wholescale cracking. An old lady who was present during the process told me that many of the women used to write the names of their loved ones and a message or a prayer on the back of the tiles. And there they are, sealed forever onto the Cristo.’

My heart missed a beat, and I stared at him in amazement.

‘Senhorita Maia, are you okay? Was it something I said?’

‘It’s a very long story,’ I managed, eventually finding my voice.

‘Well, you can imagine that those are my favourite type,’ he said with a mischievous smile, before searching my face for one in return. On doing so, his expression changed to a look of concern. ‘You are suddenly pale, senhorita. Perhaps it’s too much sun. We will take a photograph – of course you must stand in front of the Cristo with your arms open wide in imitation – and then we will go downstairs to the café and get you some water.’

So, like many hundreds of thousands of tourists before me, I posed as Floriano requested, feeling very stupid standing there, arms spread and trying to force a smile onto my features.

That accomplished, he led me back down the steps and into a shady café, instructing me to take a seat at one of the tables. He returned shortly and sat down opposite me, placing a bottle of water in front of us then pouring some into two glasses. ‘So, tell me . . . what is your story?’

‘Floriano, it really is very complex,’ I sighed, unable to say any more.

‘And I am a stranger to you and you are uncomfortable sharing this with me. I understand,’ he said, nodding phlegmatically. ‘I would feel the same. So, may I ask you just two questions?’

‘Of course.’

‘Firstly, is your “very complex story” the reason you are here in Rio?’

‘Yes.’

‘And secondly, what was it I said that has shaken you?’

I pondered his question for a few seconds as I sipped my water. The problem was that if I told him, I’d end up having to explain everything. But as he was probably one of the few people who could tell me if the smooth, triangular tile with the faded writing on the back of it had once been destined for the Cristo, it seemed I didn’t have much choice.

‘I have something I’d like you to see,’ I said eventually.

‘Then show me,’ he encouraged.

‘Actually, it’s back at the hotel in my safe.’