"Who's CordeUa?"
"Oh, Cordelia's my sister. She helps run a shelter for street children in one of \hefavelas. She should be working there this afternoon. We can go after lunch."
"OK/' I said.
''By the way, Cordelia has some news," said Luis to Isabel.
Isabel thought a moment, and then looked at her father. "She's not pregnant, is she?" The comers of her mouth twitched upward.
Luis shrugged, but couldn't suppress a smile. "You'll have to ask her yourself."
Isabel grinned broadly. "That's wonderful news! She must be so happy. You must be so happy. I think I can see you as a grandfather."
Luis beamed. It was clearly a role he was relishing.
"Well, we definitely have to see her this afternoon," Isabel said to me.
"I don't want to interfere in anything. Perhaps you should go by yourself."
"No. I'd like you to meet her," said Isabel. This caught me a little by surprise. Why should she care whether I met her sister? "I mean, it would be good for you to see the shelter."
"That's fine, then. I'll come."
6
I was sweating like a pig as I trudged up the dusty path under the midaftemoon sun. I panted hard, each breath pulling in the foul smell of human waste, sweetened occasionally by the aroma of stale food or alcohol. In England I would be described as tall, dark, and thin. Here, clambering up tliis hill of dirt and slime, I felt like a big, white, fat, rich man.
We had left Luis's car and driver well behind to begin the ascent of the hill. Most of the favelas are on hills, land too steep to build real houses. Makeshift dwellings crowded either side of the path. They were constructed from all kinds of different materials, although brick and plywood predominated. Small holes in the walls served for windows, and occasionally I heard a mysterious rustle of movement from the darkness within. Washing hanging from window ledges added splashes of color to the red-brick or gray-plastered walls. There were children everywhere, most of the boys wearing nothing but shorts. One group was playing with a hoop; another was kicking a ball, a difficult business on this slope. A two-year-old staggered in front of us crying, his hair a shock of yellow. A black woman trotted after him and picked him up.
We passed a small row of stalls selling vegetables and fruit. Behind one of them, a nut-brown man sported a yellow T-shirt proclaiming in English, who dies with THE MOST TOYS WINS. WJwre the hell did he get that? I wondered.
A group of older kids eyed us with cold, proud eyes as we climbed past. They were passing around a bag, and each one breathed deeply from it with an air of solemn concentration.
''Are you sure it's not dangerous here?" I asked.
"No," said Isabel, puffing a few steps ahead.
"So it is dangerous?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
It hadn't rained for a couple of days, but every now and then the ground underfoot changed from dust to mud. An open sewer ran along the side of the path. I tried not to think what I was stepping in.
Eventually we came to a smaU plateau, which supported a tiny white makeshift church and a larger rectangular structure, decorated with brightly colored murals. I turned and paused for breath. Beneath me was one of the most spectacular views I had ever seen. The white buildings of the city snaked between green-clad hills down to the sea glistening in the distance. I looked for the statue of Christ, visible from almost anywhere in Rio, but it was lost in a cloud that clung to the mountains behind.
"You would think someone would pay a lot for this location," I said.
"Believe me, you pay to live here. And with more than just cash."
We approached the entrance of the building, stepping carefully through a small but well-kept garden.
The splashes of red, blue, yellow, and white were a welcome relief from the reddish-brown dirt.
The door opened, and a woman rushed out, hugging Isabel. There was a family resemblance, although Cordelia was heavier, older, and tougher. Her face was lined, marks of both compassion and