In Rio's Shadows

Chapter 7 The Meeting

CHAPTER 7

THE MEETING

After eating dinner with Julio and Maria that evening, Blanca fell straight into bed. She tossed and turned in her sleep. A beautiful dream of a tranquil, sunlit morning changed to a scene of a wide lagoon surrounded by trees and shrubs. A distant shadow beckoned her to follow, but she couldn’t move. She stood frozen as an icy feeling took over her body. She entered an old, decrepit home, covered in cobwebs and dirt, which vanished. Another older, dirtier house appeared before her. A window flashed before her. It had a dirty blanket covering it. A packet of cigarettes lay on top of a tall fridge. She cringed at the smell of blood. A tightness in her chest enclosed her. The small space trapped her. Someone had to save her.

With a gasp, Blanca woke up, wide-open eyes staring at the ceiling, body shivering and teeth chattering. She wiped her damp forehead with a tissue and consciously slowed her breathing. Placing a quivering hand over her chest, she closed her eyes and pushed the nightmare aside.

Her dreaming brain drained her. The dreams had become more vivid and real since she had come to Brazil. With her most recent dream, she felt she knew the home in her nightmare, its darkness and coldness. Something had happened to her there. It had to be that place. Something about it had to unlock the emptiness and mystery inside her. Surely, these nightmares would eventually stop.

Blanca showered, ate breakfast before her family woke up, and drove to work with her head pounding.

As she made her way to her office, Elina the receptionist reminded her of the staff meeting. Isabela had mentioned it the day before, but Blanca had forgotten about it. A nervous energy filled her body as she walked to the conference room. She rubbed her hands together as she stepped inside.

The whole staff sat around a long oak table, facing Pedro at the head. He exuded a commanding presence as he held the agenda in his hands. “Take a seat, Ms. Castellano,” he said.

She wished he’d called her Blanca, but he obviously wanted to keep things formal. She sat next to Isabela and noticed Carlos peering at her with a shy grin. She ignored her somersaulting stomach and focused on Pedro.

“I want you all to captivate me with ideas for the next issue of the magazine. A show of hands, please.”

Hands raised as a few staff members reported ideas showcasing the mining, oil, gas, and auto-manufacturing industries, all of which held a strong presence in the development of Rio de Janeiro.

Isabela raised her hand. “I spoke to a few people in industry about foreigners and Brazilians setting up businesses in Rio de Janeiro. How the economy’s grown because of the scope of business development. It’ll be a story about the locals and foreigners looking for business opportunities in the heart of Rio de Janeiro.”

Pedro held his thumb and finger under his chin. “That’s good, Isabela. I like it.”

Blanca limply raised her hand. “What about looking at how Rio’s developed since 2010—and the concern about crime impacting businesses, particularly in the favelas?”

Pedro hesitated, clearing his throat. “It sounds promising, Blanca. Look into it with Isabela. Interview a few people, and either make it a longer article merging the two ideas or have two separate articles. I trust you can make it work, ladies.” He turned away from Blanca and searched the room. “Now, any other suggestions?”

In the middle of their discussions, Blanca noticed Carlos jotting in a notepad. When he looked up, she flicked her eyes away. Oh, damn! He’d seen her staring. She felt warm in the face and thought she must be still adapting to this unfamiliar weather. Or perhaps the air conditioner might not have been functioning well.

Carlos intervened and put up his hand. “I’d like to tell the story of the favelas through my photos, Pedro. We can focus on crime, but also on infrastructure development in the favelas. Is it okay if I work with Blanca?”

Blanca’s heart beat faster at his proposition. She wondered what it would be like to work with him. No doubt he was a photographer who could creatively tell the story of poverty, which had improved somewhat in the favelas, the low-income slum areas, neglected by the Brazilian government for many years. She’d written a few articles about the favelas for the Spanish edition of the magazine, but nothing as comprehensive as she would have liked.

Her reverie broke when Pedro replied. “Fine, Carlos, but you have other projects, too; don’t neglect those. If you do, I’ll have to get Diego to do the photos with Blanca. I want your other work in my inbox by the end of the week.”

Carlos nodded. “Sure. Not a problem.”

She stared at Pedro, who held such presence and power, and wondered what had happened between him and her father. The more she knew about Pedro, the sooner she could figure out what had happened in Brazil all those years ago. There had to be a reason Pedro no longer kept in touch with him when her father kept in touch with his other old friends.

***

Carlos stood hunched over a group of photos he’d taken showcasing the CEO of a large conglomerate and his new team as they opened their investment firm. He arranged the images to tell a story—in this case, the wealth and materialism of a company that wanted to outshine its competitors. On a deeper level, it showed the real emotions behind the façade. He worked to capture those different perspectives and make a statement—a visual story.

He moved over to his computer, worked with his photo-editing software when his mind turned to Blanca. Her long, jet, black hair that flowed beautifully around her shoulders, her slim curves that made him wonder what she’d feel like in his arms, and her well-toned physique. Her green, soulful eyes bore into his own as if she questioned his own morality, and her well-defined features would make any man look twice at her.

No woman had caught his attention since Sofia had passed.

He shook away those thoughts. He had work to do. He began editing and cropping the images, paying close attention to details that would make each image newsworthy.

Saving and closing the images of the investment firm, he turned to the photos of the favelas, which captured the story of poverty. Decrepit buildings adorned with amateur paintings and graffiti, and debris-strewn streets. A malnourished young boy walked barefoot across the rocky ground, past rusty, corroded gates that were in need of repair.

Carlos remembered the day he got the poor malnourished boy’s mother a job that didn’t involve selling her body. He’d made a difference to the young boy, and occasionally he visited to check in on mother and son who were both thriving. Warmth filled his chest when he was able to help a few of those residents who were unable to survive financially.