[NT] - Rio
[For skids_sally.]
The Redeemer, perched half-way between the city and overcast sky, spreads his concrete and soapstone arms out in eternal blessing. Thick, hot, wet air rolls up the mountain in heavy waves, breaking against the peaks, washing around the statue's feet. There may be rain soon, even thunder-storms, and down in the marketplaces, awnings are already going up in anticipation. Still, there are crowds, spilling out from the streets, through the heat, down to the beaches and the bays. Traffic rumbles rise and fall through the chattering and laughter, fade before the occasional blare of the tram horns as they crest the aqueduct; amidst the noise, the whisper of the his arrival goes unnoticed.
He speaks smooth Brazilian Portuguese with the local dialect, sauntering through the crowds with the confidence and ease of the city natives, though his colouring and dress mark him as an outsider, coming far from this place. The heat does not touch him. Where he passes, flowers wilt and fruit rots; old aches and pains resurge; the air grows thicker, heavier, more exhausting. As he passes the Catholic University, an old woman makes the sign of the cross at him and darts inside. He smiles, just a little, and walks on. The windows and doors bang, all together, just once.
(For a moment, he remembers a face, carved into a city and the rock beneath. But that was Ecuador, of course. And before that, they'd been in Buenos Aires, and before that, in so many places, together, the two of them, the way it was supposed to be.)
In a cooler corner, he buys a rosy apple from a street vendor and leans back in the shade, waiting for who will pass.
The Redeemer, perched half-way between the city and overcast sky, spreads his concrete and soapstone arms out in eternal blessing. Thick, hot, wet air rolls up the mountain in heavy waves, breaking against the peaks, washing around the statue's feet. There may be rain soon, even thunder-storms, and down in the marketplaces, awnings are already going up in anticipation. Still, there are crowds, spilling out from the streets, through the heat, down to the beaches and the bays. Traffic rumbles rise and fall through the chattering and laughter, fade before the occasional blare of the tram horns as they crest the aqueduct; amidst the noise, the whisper of the his arrival goes unnoticed.
He speaks smooth Brazilian Portuguese with the local dialect, sauntering through the crowds with the confidence and ease of the city natives, though his colouring and dress mark him as an outsider, coming far from this place. The heat does not touch him. Where he passes, flowers wilt and fruit rots; old aches and pains resurge; the air grows thicker, heavier, more exhausting. As he passes the Catholic University, an old woman makes the sign of the cross at him and darts inside. He smiles, just a little, and walks on. The windows and doors bang, all together, just once.
(For a moment, he remembers a face, carved into a city and the rock beneath. But that was Ecuador, of course. And before that, they'd been in Buenos Aires, and before that, in so many places, together, the two of them, the way it was supposed to be.)
In a cooler corner, he buys a rosy apple from a street vendor and leans back in the shade, waiting for who will pass.