Carioca Fletch

A few doors from Teo’s, a last Carnival party was in progress. It was Shrove Tuesday night.

A couple dressed as the King of Hearts and the Queen of Diamonds scurried across the sidewalk from a taxi into the house.

There was the sound of laughter coming from the house. Singing. Above all, the sound of a samba combo. Of samba drums beating, rhythms beside rhythms on top of rhythms beneath rhythms. From all sides, every minute, day and night, came the beating of the drums.

“Bum, bum, paticum bum.” Fletch started the car. “Prugurundum.”

Most people in the world Fletch had known had stopped hearing the melodies from the drums.