Travelers tide pushed down the aisle of the Boeing. Before long I stepped onto the jet bridge. All signs inside the airport were written in Portuguese and English, and that’s how I found directions to the bathroom.
Whenever I travel to non-English-speaking countries, I always feel a sense of detachment, of being among humans and not being one of them at the same time. It’s hard to mingle with people I can´t understand. Language can either be a blessing or a barrier.
I glanced at the clock when it hit 3:00 p.m., six hours after Carlos’s transfer services schedule. I took for granted he was gone. No driver would wait for so long.
And such a thought led me to look at my phone again. Offline. There was a whole set of messages locked out in a distant vault somewhere in the cloud. Statistically, I knew what to expect from them: 10% worth my time, 80% spam, 10% I wish I hadn’t read. Strangely enough, the moment I found myself offline those pieces of data became attractive, as though they were 90% gold—the 10% I wish I hadn’t read still there.
Being offline led to new perspectives. It’s actually productive not having to read all that daily “leaving mistakes behind”, or “forgiving is the utmost virtue of mankind,” or even “I had a moment of fragility that won’t happen anymore, I love you” sort of pleads because they all sounded the same to me:
“I’m very sorry for screwing your best friend. That won’t happen again. Next time I’ll be pulling down my co-worker’s panties.
Love, Marlon.”
I kicked him out of my life soon after I found his face tucked into my Belinda’s thighs, under our recently bought, just-married bedsheets. I wasn’t even aware that his face knew how to find a way into someone’s thighs. He’d never found his way into mine. But life is like that. We better kick shit out while it’s fresh, because once it ages and dries out, it clings forever.
Makeup reapplied, I suffered an additional hour-long immigration bureaucracy and, after cleared, headed to the airport’s baggage claim section to pick up my case. Pink, wrapped in plastic, pineapple tag dangling from the handle.
Now, I need to find my way to that hotel.
Chapter 2
Outside the baggage claim area, a human corridor had been formed to receive travelers. On its borders, people raised signs with names on them: Maria Antonieta, Clark Smith, João de Deus, André Moraes.
I still had some speck of hope inside me. While I wandered looking for my name, I witnessed some lucky travelers find their own version of Carlos.
I never thought I could envy people like that.
Winding among the mass of tourists flowing out, some guy bellowed, “Need taxi, Senhora?” right into my ears. I immediately hurried on to avoid him. My boss had told me to take care in Rio, the city had a bad reputation with pickpockets.
What I needed was Carlos, the only driver in Rio I knew would comply to all Johnson & Brothers security policies.
I sauntered along the corridor and scanned signs scattered in a sea of arms, searching for my name. I found it at the end: Emily Bennett, Johnson & Brothers.
The hand holding the sign was part of the crowd, but even so I noticed that old man Carlos ought to be a tall one.
“Here, I’m Emily Bennett, I’m here,” I said, my waving hands trying to catch his attention.
I craned my neck to see Carlos, but I tripped on my carry-on and let my phone fall to the ground. I leaned over to pick it up, and a heat wave blew from behind me.
“Let me help you, Senhora Bennett,” a man’s voice said, which I assumed was Carlos. The problem is that it sounded too stiff, too jovial, to pertain to an old man with bladder issues.
Before I could face the man behind me, I felt his other hand coming over mine, the one with which I dragged the suitcase. A strong, coarse palm slid over the back of mine and squeezed, as though never willing to set it free. A stream of cold rushed through my arms, all hairs along it standing on end.
“I’ll take care of your suitcase,” he said close to my ears.
“Wait . . . Are you Carlos?” I said, jolting around to look at his face.
Square gorgeous complexion, black undulating hair. Carlos was a slim, sunburnt, swimmer type. He carried a lavish scent, a smell I could easily miss. What the hell did my boss have in mind when she scheduled a driver like this?
I freed my hand from the suitcase handle and took a step away from him, my mouth dry.
“I’m sorry, Senhora Bennett, but Carlos is sick today. My name is Renato, his nephew. I’ll take you to your destination,” he said.
Renato gave me a crooked smile, tucked his hand inside his purse, and brought out of his trunks a small card.
“Your company asked us to deliver this Sim card to you,” he said. “I hope you had a pleasant flight. Now, please follow me.”
He turned his back and walked across the airport parlor. I had a bit more room to breathe and take a good look at him. He was wearing floral trunks, white t-shirt, and sandals that scratched the ground with each step. He looked like someone ready for a holiday at the beach, not a professional driver fit to greet a businesswoman like me. He had unsuitable clothes and bad manners, which were unforgivable.
I replaced my Sim card with the one Renato had provided me. After that, I strolled behind him. My phone, now online, popped off sound notifications. All those vaulted messages delivered at the same time, both the gold
