Revelations

Just pronouncing the name of Rio's airport - Galeao -  could put one in a Carnaval-ready mood, Schuyler thought.  Gahhhlaaaeonnn. Now she understood why so many people traveled to this country: even the name of its airport promised sultry and mysterious adventures.



Schuyler, however, felt far from romance of any kind. She couldn't manage to think of Jack without thinking about Oliver. It was too painful. Getting away from the Forces had been easy enough: she just walked out the door. Charles was holed up in his study again, Trinity was away on a girls-only spa vacation, while Mimi was traveling to Rio with the Conclave. Jack was to remain in New York. The other night he had left her another book under the door. A copy of Anna Karenina. But she didn't go to meet him. She didn't even have the heart to take the book along with her on the nine-hour flight.



She didn't sleep at all during the trip, and the cramped coach seat didn't help. Schuyler had only ever traveled with Cordelia or Oliver and his family. With her grandmother they had taken little prop planes to Nantucket, and Oliver only traveled first class. She had once thought of herself as a hardy girl who didn't need life's little luxuries, a common enough mistake made by those who've never experienced life's little inconveniences.



The plane finally landed, and Schuyler retrieved her carryall from the bin and shuffled her way to the front of the line. The airport itself was a disappointment, not at all living up to the magical promise of its moniker. The customs and immigration spaces were large and open, but the decor was cold, utilitarian, dated, and institutional. Not at all beachy, sexy, or whatever it was Schuyler had assumed would greet her when she arrived. It was empty and quiet. She'd expected a party, and was met by the Kremlin.



Schuyler understood that the city was considered pretty dangerous, and kept a wary eye. Lawrence was still frustratingly unreachable. The latest messages she'd sent him had been unreturned, and Schuyler couldn't get a lock on his signal. She followed the crowd out to the front of the terminal. Bliss had advised her to take a taxi, but with the little money she had left, she decided to brave it by taking one of the rickety buses that drove down the central areas along the beaches and stopped around the major hotels.



The bus was full of noisy Australian backpackers, and Schuyler found a seat in the front so she could look out the window. The ride from the airport was confusing, as the highway made various curves and bends, including going through a few tunnels, which left her with little sense of direction. Once in a while Schuyler saw magnificent, moss-covered rock cliffs and hills covered with tropical vegetation, above a coast of yellow-white sand beaches and blue water. She also saw glimpses of the storied favelas - the country's urban slums that dotted the cliffs and hillsides. Evidence of the earthquake's aftermath was everywhere, from the trash-covered lots filled with scavenger birds to the two-story piles of debris that dotted the landscape.



In between the views of mountain and sea she glimpsed towering high-rises, steel-and-glass buildings that were unaffected by the disaster. On the way she also noticed several cars off on the shoulder of the highway, stopped by heavily armed policemen at some sort of ad hoc checkpoint.



Everything was exotic and beautiful and ugly all at the same time. Finally the names on the road signs looked familiar: Ipanema, Copacabana, Leblon. She saw the famous statue of the Jesus with his arms outstretched as if embracing the city, Christ the Redeemer, O Cristo Redentor, on top of Corcovado. She was enjoying the view as the bus chugged along, when its engine suddenly died.



The bus driver cursed profusely as he pulled to the side of the road.



Schuyler was confused, especially when the driver asked the passengers to disembark along the highway, and to take their luggage with them.



"This again," one of the lanky Australians complained.



"Does this happen a lot?" she asked.



"All the time," she was told.



The bus driver advised them to take a break and come back after an hour while he attempted repairs. Fortunately they weren't too far from the main boulevard. All along the shorefront was a paved walkway with inlaid seashells in a mosaic pattern, crowded with joggers, walkers, Rollerbladers, and strollers. Schuyler found a juice stand nearby and bought a drink. The tropical heat was making her feel wilted.



But when she returned to the designated spot an hour later, the shuttle bus, along with the boisterous Australians, was gone. She was alone. Her annoyance was compounded by a flash of uncertainty when she noticed a couple of young toughs - thin, barefoot guys in faded shorts and holey Chicago Bulls T-shirts walking toward her. They looked curiously at the black-clad tourist. "Turista ? "



She knew she had nothing to fear, but she didn't want to blow her cover. The boys came nearer. Only then did she notice one of them was holding a broken bottle.



And just when she thought she would have to start defending herself, a shiny black car pulled up. It looked bulletproof, with darkened rolled-up windows.



What now? Schuyler thought she'd only found more trouble.



Then one of the windows rolled down. Schuyler was sure she'd never felt happier to see the boy inside.



"Took a while to find you. Sorry I lost you at the airport. My flight got delayed," Oliver said as he threw open the back door. Schuyler noticed he had two security men in the backseat, and one in the front, including the driver. "What are you waiting for? Get in."