The Brazilian



 

 

  Other Titles by Keith R. Rees

  Legend Upon the Cane - FICTION

  Quill and Ink - POETRY

  The Brazilian

 

  By

  Keith R. Rees

 

 

  For my brother, and fellow adventurer, John.

 

  Introduction

  In the summer of 1970, the country of Brazil triumphed in the World Cup football tournament that was held in Mexico City. They were led by the outstanding play of their national hero, Pelé. He led them to a jubilant victory over Italy, four goals to one. It was the third World Cup victory for the Brazilians in four tries. The victory set off excited celebrations all over the country and among Brazilian football fans around the world. The Brazilian team was the first ever to accomplish three victories at the World Cup. Their incredible feat entitled them with the honor of permanently keeping the prized Jules Rimet Trophy.

  Four days earlier, the Brazilians had to get past the talented national team from Uruguay. They trailed early, but fought back and won the frantic semi-final match, three goals to one. That same summer day of June 17th, a young Brazilian man had just returned from a historic journey. His name was Rodrego Ouliveyra. As the country rallied around their national team, young Rodrego gladly returned to his homeland and his anxiously awaiting family. Once, he was a simple neighborhood boy, growing up in Brasilia. All he ever dreamed about was playing football. He loved to play the game and was especially excited during the days of the World Cup. But, unbeknownst to his fellow countrymen, he had just completed a journey of principle and of self-discovery. Little did he or anyone else know the importance of his task. A task he had been thrust into unwillingly. But, in the end, he would find it to be the journey of a lifetime. And soon, he would learn the significance of his trek. Although he would largely miss the biggest event of his national pastime, he would discover the secret of his family that had been passed down from generation to generation. A secret that would cause his country’s government to stop at nothing until they themselves acquired it. And now, it was his turn to discover what his family had held on to for so long.

 

  Chapter 1

  The afternoon sun grew hot in the coastal city of Salvador. It was mid-May in 1970 on the Brazilian coast. Above the dusty-brown colored villas that lined the coastal streets were the terraces on top of each building. Some were covered with clotheslines and TV antennas, while others had palm trees in large planters with various tropical plants around them. Each villa was a different shade of dusty-brown. Occasionally, there were villas painted colorfully, some in bright orange or vivid red. Only a few clouds were in the bright blue sky and the sun beat down on the steamy streets and rooftops.

  On top of one of the villas that lined the sloping street called Bay View Lane, an elderly man sat outside, rumpled in his chair out on a small terrace. A glass of sun tea, with two fading ice cubes in the glass, sat next to him on a rickety, old metal tray. The terrace was plain with no plants or trees around, not even a clothesline, just a couple of old, dusty folding chairs and a small table. In front of the old man was a light brown leather satchel which appeared to be brand new. It lay on its side on the table and had a leather shoulder strap, so it could be worn across one’s shoulders. The flap was held closed with a leather strap and shiny belt buckle clasp and had the initials ‘ESB’ etched into the leather.

  The old man was well into his eighties, with dark wrinkled skin around his eyes. He sat sipping on his glass of tea, occasionally staring towards the sea. He breathed a heavy sigh and melted down into his chair. He looked across the table and stared at the man sitting across from him in the only other chair on the tiny terrace. His name was Jacomé. He was a trusted friend of the old man for the last fifteen years.

  The old man whispered to Jacomé in a raspy voice, “Do you think he is still there?”

  Jacomé was nearly sixty, but still much younger than his old friend. He was the father of one daughter who had left home long ago and moved to Sao Paulo. His wife had died two years before, and now he spent most of his days sitting on terraces and in bars talking to whoever would listen. Hardly anyone would pay him the attention he wanted, except for his old friend, Enso.

  Enso rarely left his villa anymore. His health had declined over the years, and he could no longer negotiate the two flights of stairs that led to his home. So he shuffled from room to room each day, and on good days, he would go out on the tiny terrace and relax in the warm sun. The sun soothed him and always calmed him as it had for the last eighty-three years in his home of Salvador. But now, he had to rely on a few friends to bring him groceries from time to time each week. He had always known the shopkeeper down on the corner of his block, Pereira, or Perry as he was known to all the locals. Perry would bring Enso things from his store when he could. Other times, Jacomé would bring them to him. But, on this day, Jacomé came to visit Enso for another reason.

  “Do you think he is still with her?” Enso asked Jacomé again.

  “It’s hard to tell,” Jacomé answered. “You haven’t contacted her in so long. When was the last time you spoke to her on the phone?”

  Enso continued staring at the water with a skeptical look on his face, “She probably doesn’t even remember my face anymore, I’m afraid. Besides, my damn phone doesn’t work anymore. Those bastards cut the line months ago.” He sat staring out into nowhere for a while longer. He thought about his youth and working life as a carpenter. All those years of hard work and building things, but he never took the time to appreciate what had been given to him. He looked down at his worn hands that ached.

  “You’re the only person I know that can help me with this, Jacomé. You’re the only one I can trust. Can you get this to him?” he asked again anxiously.

  Jacomé stared at the satchel on the table. “I will try, Enso. Brasilia is a long way, and is very large.”

  “Promise me you will find him. Before it is too late,” Enso pleaded with a serious look. “I would go myself, but…”

  “It’s alright, friend. Don’t worry yourself. I promise I will find him,” Jacomé assured him. He smiled and looked across the rooftops. “Hell, Enso, this is the first time in years I’ve had something important to do. It’s really lifting my spirits. I’m looking forward to this big adventure. Makes me feel twenty years younger just thinking about it!”

  Enso was glad to see that his friend was up to the task. He knew it wouldn’t be easy to find his great nephew in such a large city. He hadn’t seen him since he was a toddler. He knew where his sister lived in the city, but had no idea if her grandson still lived with her.

  “Be cautious, old friend. Don’t let this out of your sight.” He pushed the leather case across the table to Jacomé. Then he reached across to shake his hand.

  Jacomé stood in line at the bus depot waiting to buy a ticket to Brasilia. He wiped sweat off his forehead. He spotted a newspaper and soda stand down from the counter. He stepped up to the counter to buy his ticket.

  “Brasilia, please, round-trip on the two forty-five,” he said to the attendant. He took his bus pass and then walked to the concession to buy a newspaper and a bottle of soda. He found a wooden bench along the wall in the shade and sat down and sighed in relief. He took a long drink from the bottle and sat sprawled on the bench, watching the people pass by on the sidewalk. He had just under an hour before the bus would depart.

  Two benches down, a man dressed in a beige overcoat and dark fedora, sat with a newspaper. He peered over the top of the page at Jacomé, and then looked down at his paper again.At twenty minutes to three, t
he call was made to board the bus for Brasilia. Jacomé wandered over to the loading curb and waited his turn to get on the bus. He carried the leather satchel with the strap flung over his shoulder and one small traveling case in his hand. His newspaper was rolled up and stuffed under one arm. The man in the overcoat walked up behind Jacomé and bumped his arm holding the newspaper and knocked it to the ground.

  “Oh, pardon me, sir, terribly sorry. Let me get that for you,” he said picking up the paper for Jacomé.

  “Ah, that’s alright,” Jacomé said, perturbed and somewhat agitated.

  “After you, sir,” the man said politely, and handed the paper back to Jacomé. Jacomé stepped onto the bus and the man stepped aboard right behind him. Jacomé found a bench to himself in the middle of the bus. The man in the overcoat smiled and continued towards the back of the bus and sat alone several rows behind Jacomé. Jacomé settled in for the long ride as the bus pulled away from the station. They would not arrive until early the next day.