The taxi veered into the street, which was desolate. Astrid peered out of the taxi window, trying to locate a sense of life amongst the debris of the street. An old pram lay against the gutter. It was midnight. The row of shops was silent. There was only one streetlight working. The row of steel-shuttered shops looked like a great train, come to rest for the night, sleeping, or ground to a halt forever. There was no visible door to the façade. She got out of the taxi and prodded the shutter with her foot. It didn’t move.

“Is there anybody there?” she said, as she tried again to rattle the shutter. The driver showed little interest, looking straight ahead and smoking his joint. A moth flickered under the pool of light. Perhaps he had gone, or changed his mind, she thought.

“Is there anybody there?” she said again, with less certainty, giving the shutter a kick. The driver looked at her and smiled, his smile a scrawl across his face. There was no other sound but for a cicada chirping in triplets, evenly.

The next morning Astrid decided to take a bus out to the Corcovado. The bus ride, though only half an hour, had rendered her lifeless because of the heat. She had to recuperate by a fountain. She could see the statue from where she was sitting. The face and hands were French, she had read in her guidebook, but the rest she supposed was local. As she walked towards it through the crowds, keeping it as a point of navigation, a man was also looking upon the outstretched hands of Christ the Redeemer. He had his back to her as Astrid wandered near. She stopped behind him and her eyes travelled from his back to the crown of his head. Pale skin under glistening hair like dark noodles. She wanted to move her fingers amongst it, among the curls. He twitched slightly, moved away and the sun flashed from beyond the statue, into her eyes. She could not see for a moment. She looked again at the statue, which looked like an angel, about to dive into the crowd.

When Astrid returned to the hostel, there was a note for her that had been half pushed
under her door. It read ‘I have arranged a walk for you. Call me. Marcus.’

The beauty of the language was made lovelier by her inability to speak it. Astrid just listened as they picked their way through the red wood and splurges of green, blacks and chewy browns, the short-toed man talking all the while, explaining this or that tree to Marcus and herself.

Hot even in the shade, it was impossible to escape the weather, or how it made her feel. Astrid wished for a breeze or a spattering of cold rain or a darker sky. Evening was eight hours away.
“Nothing can prepare you for such heat. Except maybe sleeping in an oven all day” she said. Marcus put his arm around her shoulder but she shrugged him away.
“Too hot for touch” she said. “You’ll make me hotter and I’ll die.”
“I’ll die if I can’t touch you.” His hair was silver as a tankard.
“Later perhaps.” She smiled, but not at him.

Astrid thought about how it might be. He would sit close to her, look sideways at her. With his hand, he would gently turn her to face him, his face already close, his lips already parted, prepared. She might avoid his kiss, but let him hold her, all night maybe, closer in sleep than out of it, avoiding the mysterious signals that are the yes or no to love.