‘Admittedly, if a complete stranger walked into my garden, even if she did bear an uncanny resemblance to my mother, and then announced she’d been told she belonged to my family, I would indeed view her with suspicion,’ Floriano agreed soberly.

‘So, where do we go from here?’ I asked him.

‘Back to see her. I think I should accompany you. It will help give you some gravitas when she hears my name.’

I couldn’t help a wry smile at Floriano’s total conviction that the old woman would know who he was. South Americans, I’d noticed, seemed to have a refreshingly unabashed openness and honesty about their own gifts and achievements.

‘I also want to see that sculpture you mentioned, Maia,’ Floriano continued. ‘Would you mind if I came with you?’

‘Not at all. You’ve been so good helping me with all of this.’

‘I can assure you, it’s been a pleasure. After all, you are the spitting image of one of the most beautiful women Brazil ever produced.’

I blushed, feeling uncomfortable at the compliment. My cynical mind turned immediately to whether he’d expect favours in return for his help. Casual sex was the norm these days, I knew, but not something I could ever contemplate.

‘Excuse me,’ he said as his mobile rang and he spoke in fast Portuguese to someone he called ‘querida’. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’ He looked at me and sighed. ‘Sadly, I have to leave you,’ he said, draining his caipirinha. ‘Petra, the girl I live with, has managed yet again to lose her key.’ He rolled his eyes and signalled for the bill.

‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘this is on me, as a thank you for all your help.’

‘Then I say thank you too.’ He nodded graciously. ‘What time should I collect you tomorrow?’

‘Whenever suits you. I have no plans.’

‘Then I suggest ten thirty, before Senhora Beatriz Carvalho has lunch and an afternoon nap. Don’t get up,’ he said as he rose from his chair. ‘Stay here and finish your wine. Until tomorrow, Maia. Tchau?

He walked away from me, nodding easily at the waitress who was staring at him with a look of appreciative recognition. I sipped my wine, feeling ridiculous that, just for a moment, I’d imagined he would want to sleep with me.

But, just like everybody else, he had his own life. Well, I thought as I lifted my wine glass to my lips, perhaps I was about to find mine.

12

Floriano arrived promptly in the lobby of the hotel the following morning and we took off in his red Fiat. He weaved through the incessant traffic confidently, as I caught my breath at the near misses.

‘Where do you come from?’ I asked him, to take my mind off his terrifying driving. ‘Are you a true Brazilian?’

‘And what do you think is a true Brazilian?’ he asked me. ‘There is no such thing. We are a race made up of half-breeds, different nationalities, creeds and colours. The only “real” Brazilians were the original nativos that the Portuguese began murdering after they arrived here five hundred years ago, claiming the riches of our country for themselves. And many more who didn’t die a bloody death succumbed to the diseases the settlers brought with them. To cut a long family history short, my mother is descended from the Portuguese and my father is Italian. There’s no such thing as a pure bloodline here in Brazil.’