María took the book gingerly in her hands. She held it out to her aunt who directed her to open it and read the first page. Then Carla called Arlene to her side and asked for some private time with “her Sobriñita María.” Arlene and Ray both kissed Carla’s cheek before they left the room.

“Go on, now, read that first page out loud. Be careful those papers don’t fall out of the book now, bebita,” Carla weakly raised her hand and brushed her finger across the stained, brown cover. The word Viajante, Portuguese for “Traveler,” was engraved in the soft leather.

María replaced one of the yellowing newspaper articles that had fallen out when she opened the book. She took a deep breath to steady her voice and began to read the wispy handwriting on the title page: “Dedicated to María, dearest of my heart. This book contains within it truth and love, words smudged by tears and made alive by laughter, pages marked with the muddy fingerprints of affection.” María looked up after she read the first two lines. She looked quizzically at her aunt who urged her to continue. So María turned the page and continued to read aloud: “I have been in Brasília for several weeks, now, and the language is not all that is daunting. Noises surround me, even in early morning—the cacophony of the chickens being carted to market in small boxes, the raucous barking of the lean stray dogs and the drooling watch dogs, the cries of street vendors tauting the freshest bananas and bread, and the general shouting of people buying, selling, running, accusing. I always feel as though I am a dartboard and each person is practicing their own way of striking the bullseye to make a sale.”

The words stopped in the middle of the page. María looked at her aunt who appeared to have fallen asleep. She continued reading silently to herself.

Carla was not asleep as María had thought. She had closed her eyes to see her memory play its reel-to-reel. She remembered the scents and the sounds. She was glad she had taken the time to write of her first few weeks as a journalist on assignment in Brazil. Brazil fast became her home and she did not look forward to the day she would have to leave. ‘I remember how I was full of idealism. I had the pen and the paper, the power to expose the corruption in the government, the brutality of the police, and the plight of the down-trodded and oppressed. I held that power in my hand and threatened anyone who would oppose my words,’ she thought, with an imperceptible chuckle at her memory. ‘As if I could ever be threatening to someone—I knew the words but didn’t have the experience or the courage to make them come alive. I wrote so many articles for that silly magazine I worked for in the States and translated them into Portuguese to distribute them to the hundreds of underground publishers I expected to find. I never did find many of those, and even if I did, they were unwilling to take articles from me. A white, foreign woman. How could I know anything, they would say.

‘They were right for a while. I didn’t know anything. I knew what I had been taught in my language classes, in my political science courses, in my journalism classes. But it was all nothing to me when I got there. None of my so-called cultural sensitity courses in Brazil helped, either. They taught me the holidays and the local slang, they advised me on how to bargain with the best of them and how to never have the dust thrown into my eyes by wiley street vendors. They told me to watch out for the meninos de rua, the street kids who terrorized the store owners, the tourists, the policemen, and even the poor dogs. “Ay, the rats are even afraid of these mini-terrorists,” one of the teachers said to me. He called himself a nativo and took me aside one afternoon after the class to whisper another special hint in my ear. “If any of these meninos de rua bother you while you’re here, Señorita, you give Javier a call, no? And I know personally the people who will take care of those brats. You see, I have a special alliance with Sr. Muñez, one of the chief police. He specializes in removing them, if you know what I mean. And is for only a small fee.” His whisper was uncomfortably vaporous and close to my ear. I wanted to run, but he had his hand on my shoulder. He reached inside his blazer with leather patches at the elbows and pulled out a dog-eared business card. He wrote his home phone number on the back. I’m glad I never called him.’

Carla opened her eyes again. María was still reading. Her eyes glistened unnaturally until she slid her forefinger along the bottom of both of them. She wiped her finger on her pants leg before she turned the page. Another newspaper article fluttered to the cold tile floor. She picked it up to read it, but it was written in a language she did not recognize. Instead of reading the article, she held it close to her face and inhaled its musty scent. She looked across the top of the paper and noticed her Tía was awake.

“Tía, what is all of this from? I didn’t know you had ever been to Brazil,” she said.

Her aunt nodded. “Yes, María, I was in Brasília for a long time. I have always wanted to return, but I’m unable to because of this.” She pointed at the IV tubes running into her arms. “This is the main reason why I had to leave. You were another reason I left, only I was not discouraged to leave on your account. But there are other things I need to tell you, first. How far did you read in the book?”

“The first few pages. I read how you were only planning to be there for a few weeks and how you moved out of the hotel your company had provided you. Is it really true that there were fleas in your bed there?” María couldn’t hide her disgust. She usually tried to forget how terrified she was of bugs in general, but the idea of a dirty, flea-infested hotel was too much for her. Especially because she read how Tía had witnessed the maid preparing the room for her first night’s stay: the maid took off the blankets, removed the sheets, and walked to the window. Then, she held the sheets outside the screenless window, shook them, and re-made the bed. Her aunt wrote that the maid appeared careful to put the used side of the sheet against the mattress.

“Yes, it was quite a bit different from the hotel I was in last night,” her aunt answered her. “Ach, that medicine I had to drink earlier. It was terrible, but I am feeling better. Sobrinha, could you ring for the nurse, please?”

María did as she was asked. Her aunt continued making small talk with her until the nurse appeared a few minutes later. Carla introduced the two women.

“This is my sobrinha, María, the one I told you about earlier while you were trying to put that mask on me,” she said to the nurse. “María, this is my nurse, Vicki. Vicki, could you bring us some water, please?”

“Of course. Just so you know, though, visiting hours will be over pretty soon,” Vicki said, before she wrote another note on Carla’s clipboard and walked out of the room.

“OK. Thank you, dear.” Carla said to the nurse’s back. She returned her attention to María and asked for the book. María handed it to her along with a picture of a dusty toddler and a younger, smiling Carla that she had been admiring. The familarity of the picture disturbed her. She grimaced inwardly at the metallic taste in her mouth that usually only followed her nightmares.

“That’s a nice picture, Tía. Who’s that in the picture with you?” she asked.

“That’s what I am going to tell you. Patience is a virtue, always remember that, María.”