Page 148 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
‘Atlas, there is something you should know.’
‘Go on, Georg.’
‘Cristina has given birth early. As far as we can tell, she didn’t even attend a hospital. The child was born on the streets of thefavela.’
‘Goodness. We must help her out of thefavelaimmediately. It’s no environment for a newborn. Could you have the Brazilian team find a suitable property we can rent for them?’
Georg sighed. ‘There’s more. I’m told that Cristina has taken the baby to an orphanage. Apparently, she simply left her and ran.’
My head whirled as I contemplated my next move. This fresh new life had just been handed the cruellest possible start to existence. ‘I think we should contact Beatriz. Let her know that she has a granddaughter. I’m sure she would be overjoyed.’
‘I do not doubt it, Atlas, but it is my job to remain practical and remind you of the consequences of such a course of action.’
‘Go on then.’
‘Firstly, Cristina is deeply unstable. You know that she had a falling out with her parents. Apparently, she stole her mother’s jewellery to fund her narcotics habit – which itself has only deepened her neurological problems. I worry that if she were to one day discover that her mother had taken her child, she might...’
‘I understand what you’re saying. It might not be safe for the baby. Imagine if one day Cristina turned up and tried to reclaim her child because it suited her.’ I began to pacefrantically around my office. ‘Plus, if I contact Beatriz, it will raise questions about her lineage which I swore never to reveal.’
Georg spoke solemnly. ‘It is difficult to know how to advise you. I can attempt to locate a suitable family in Brazil that might take her in. But it won’t be easy. The orphanages in Rio are full of newborns from thefavelas. Most struggle to find permanent families.’
I shuddered as I thought of Elle in the Apprentis d’Auteuil, unable to find a family. My heart broke into pieces all over again. Inaction was unacceptable. ‘No, Georg, I need to take personal responsibility for the baby. I will find her someone.’ I looked out onto the lake, which shimmered in the morning sun. ‘We’ll bring her back here to Geneva, and I will find her a suitable family. Just as I did for you. I want to fly tonight.’
‘I will arrange the ticket,’ Georg confirmed.
‘Tickets, plural. Marina should accompany me. I don’t know the first thing about babies. And do whatever is necessary to ensure we can collect the child as soon as possible.’
Within two hours, Marina and I were on my personal jet to Paris’s new Charles de Gaulle airport, where we boarded the jumbo to Rio. My travelling companion’s jaw positively dropped as we approached the Boeing 747 on the tarmac. ‘Are you sure this thing will fly,chéri?! It is bigger than the Arc de Triomphe!’
‘I assure you, I have flown in the belly of this bird many times, and she has never failed to get me to my destination in one piece. Plus, we’re going to be travelling in the first-class cabin. You’ll hardly even notice that you are in the air.’
During the flight, I told Marina stories of my childhood, and the kindness both her grandmother Evelyn and Laurent Brouilly had shown me.
‘How long do you think the littlebébéwill be with us?’Marina asked. In the years she had been in my employ, I had never seen her so excited.
‘Until I can find her a suitable home. It could take a few weeks. Perhaps a month.’ She struggled to suppress a smile.
Upon landing, we were met by a representative of the legal team I had hired in Rio de Janeiro, who escorted us to the Copacabana Palace Hotel. It cut an impressive figure on the Avenida Atlântica, towering over Rio’s most famous beach. The exterior reminded me a little of the Presidential White House in the United States. I did not doubt that the elegant, air-conditioned lobby would prove quite a contrast to thefavelawe were due to visit tomorrow.
‘I am very glad to say that all has been arranged, sir,’ said Fernando, the lawyer. ‘We are a highly respected firm here in the city, and as such, your documentation, alongside our recommendation, have been sufficient for the director of the orphanage to quickly accept your application to foster. To be frank, it is a struggle for many children to find homes, and they will be grateful for the space.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, the orphanage is expecting you tomorrow, and you will be free to leave with the child.’
‘Thank you for your assistance, Fernando. And please extend my appreciation to the entire team for the stalwart job you have done for me during the last decade.’
‘I shall, Mr Tanit.’ He bowed and walked out of the lobby.
That afternoon, Marina led me around the sticky streets of Rio, as she tracked down babygros, bottles, formula, muslin cloths, and all that we would need to return the child to Europe. I followed her around cluelessly, providing the funds for whatever she decreed was required. The mission was so exhausting that despite the significant jet lag I was experiencing, I slept like a baby that night, the sound of the ocean waves from the open window lulling me into a deep slumber.
The next morning, Marina and I took a cab to the Rocinha favela. The driver was reticent about taking tourists into the enormous urbanised slum, but I assured him I knew the risks.
‘Look,’ he remarked a few minutes into the journey. The driver pointed upwards to Corcovado mountain – on which a familiar white statue stood, arms open wide, embracing the city. ‘There is ourCristo Redentor. Perhaps you have seen him in photographs before now.’
I gave a smile and replied, ‘Yes.’ I gazed up at Landowski’s pale, elegantly sculpted figure, who seemed to be hovering amidst the clouds like an angelic apparition. Even though I had seen him up close in the Parisian atelier, the reality was breathtaking. Laying eyes on my old friend in his permanent home, I found myself overwhelmed by surges of pride and awe.
As we drove higher up into the hills, concrete and brick were replaced by wood and corrugated metal. Unsettling-looking liquid flowed in the cramped streets, with most of the settlement seeming to lack even basic sanitation. After a fifteen-minute drive – for that is all it took for opulence to become poverty – we were greeted outside the orphanage by an exhausted-looking woman. She had dark rings under her eyes, and her shirt was covered in stains of various colours and sizes.
‘Baby?Europa?’ She asked as we approached.
‘Yes...sí,’ I replied.
