The Naturalist by Alissa York

Author:Alissa York [York, Alissa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-345-81501-9
Publisher: Random House of Canada
Published: 2016-04-12T00:00:00+00:00

20

There are children on the dock, a boy perhaps four years of age, a girl no older than seven. His cousins, Paul realizes with a jolt.

“Papai!” the boy shouts, and his sister after him, “Papai!”

“Oi, Vitor,” da Silva calls back, “Lene!”

“This is it, Paul.” Iris tucks her arm through his. “This is where you were born.”

He does his best to smile.

The children are on board before the Bridie Mac comes to a complete stop. “Olá, meus macaquinhos!” Da Silva presses them to his side, keeping one hand on the wheel. The girl hugs him about the waist, her brother clinging giddily to a leg.

While Tuí and Deolindo make the launch fast, Paul’s uncle presents his children to their guests. Vitor turns shy for the introductions, but Lene stands straight-backed at her father’s side.

“Pleased to meet you, Senhora Ash, Senhorita Weaver.”

“My,” says Iris, “such good English.”

The girl beams. When Paul extends his hand, she surprises him by turning her face up to be kissed.

“Well?” says da Silva. “Aren’t you going to greet your cousin?”

Flustered, Paul drops a hasty peck on the girl’s cheek.

“Welcome, Senhor Ash.”

“You must call me Paul.” He glances at his uncle. “Paulo.”

“Paulo,” she says. “Like Papai.”

He nods, and Vitor takes courage. “Paulo!”

Da Silva laughs, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Onde está Mamãe?”

Vitor turns, pointing up the bank to where a long thatched-roof house sits overlooking the bay. A lone figure stands on the verandah—yellow shift, black hair drawn back from her face. Paul feels something turn over in his chest.

“Viva, Carolina,” da Silva calls up to her, and she raises a hand.

The dock is simple but serviceable, as are the split-log steps set directly into the bank. Paul is the first of their party up the steep incline, the children tugging him by both hands. Forty-four steps—he counts each one, his eyes on his boot tips. At the top, he meets a loose assembly of fruit trees, an overgrown capsicum bush, the peppers cherry-bright. He turns, no longer able to avoid his aunt’s gaze.

“Aqui está Paulo, Mamãe,” Lene says as she and Vitor lead him onto the verandah. They release him as their mother steps forward to close him in her arms. She is precisely his height. Her scent overwhelms him: woodsmoke and farinha, fruit.

“Meu menino,” she says in his ear. “Menino de Zuleica.”

At the sound of his mother’s name, Paul is helpless. He concentrates on breathing, on willing the strength back into his knees. When he feels able, he breaks gently from his aunt’s embrace.

She wipes a knuckle under each eye. “Bem-vindo, Paulo. Eu estive esperando por você.”

Welcome—he knows that much. And esperando—hoping? Waiting? Esperando. A state Paul recognizes only now as his own.

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