Journey to the River Sea

After a week of sailing down the river they stopped at Santarem, a port where a big market had been set up. The passengers were allowed ashore and it was now that Maia heard the familiar ‘snap’ and saw that Miss Minton had opened her large black handbag.

‘Mr Murray gave me some money for you to spend on the journey. Is there anything you want to buy?’

Maia’s eyes shone. ‘Presents for the twins. And perhaps for Mr and Mrs Carter. I should have done it in England, but it was all such a rush. Have I got enough?’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Minton dryly, handing over a packet of notes. She would have been glad to earn in three months what Mr Murray had given Maia, yet she had to admit that Maia seemed to be quite unspoilt.

The market was dazzling. There were watermelons bigger than babies, and green bananas and yellow ones and some that were almost orange. There were piles of nuts heaped on barrows, and pineapples and peppers and freshly caught fish and fish that had been dried. There were animals tugging at their ropes, and delicate lacework and silverware and woven baskets and leather bags. And selling them, talking and laughing, were beautiful black women in brilliantly coloured bandannas, and Indians in European clothes and Indians with painted chests and feathers, and slender Brazilian girls with golden skins.

But buying presents for the twins was far from easy because Maia was sure that what they would really like were some fluffy baby chicks or a duckling or even a white mouse.

‘Things that are alive are always the best presents,’ she said, but Miss Minton was firm.

‘You can’t buy them animals till you know what pets they have already. You don’t want to get your present eaten on the first day.’

So Maia bought two lace collars for the twins and an embroidered shawl for Mrs Carter, and for Mr Carter a leather wallet with a picture of a jaguar on it.

Then she disappeared and Miss Minton was just getting anxious when she came back, carrying a blue fringed parasol with a carved handle.

‘Because you ruined your umbrella on Henry Hartington,’ she said, ‘and this will be better for the sun.’

‘And you, Maia? What did you get for yourself?’

But the only thing Maia wanted was a mongrel puppy scratching its fleas in a wicker basket, and once again Miss Minton was firm.

‘They’ll probably have a dog already, to guard the house,’ she said. ‘Several I dare say,’ – and Maia had to be content with that.

They still had a few days to travel down the brown, leaf-stained river. Then a few hours before they were due to dock at Manaus, the passengers were called on deck by a loudspeaker and shown a famous sight.

They had come to the Wedding of the Waters, where the brown waters of the Amazon joined the black waters of the river Negro and they could see the two rivers flowing distinct and side by side.

Then as they steamed up the Negro, Maia saw the green and gold dome of the theatre; she saw church spires, and the yellow building of the customs house.

They had reached Manaus. They had arrived.

Chapter Three

Maia had been certain that the twins would be at the docks to meet them, but there was no sign of them or of their parents.

The passengers had all left the ship; their luggage had gone through customs; the bustle of the quayside had died away, and still no one came up to them.

‘Do you think they’ve forgotten us?’ said Maia, trying to sound off-hand. Suddenly she felt very forlorn and incredibly far away from everyone she knew.

‘Don’t be silly,’ snapped Miss Minton, but her nose looked even sharper than usual as she turned her head from side to side, searching the quayside.

They had waited for over an hour when a man in a crumpled cream suit and a Panama hat came up to them.

‘I am Rafael Lima, the agent of Mr Carter,’ he said. He had a sad yellow face and a drooping moustache, and his hand, as he shook theirs, was moist and limp. ‘Mr Carter has sent the boat for you. He could not come himself.’

They followed him and the porter to a floating dock on which were moored boats of every kind: dug-out canoes, fleet sailing boats with names like Firefly and Swallow, and trim launches with gaily striped awnings and gleaming paint.

But the Carters’ boat was painted a serious dark green, like spinach; the awning was dark green too and there was no name painted on the side, only the word CARTER to show who owned it.

As they came up to the boat, an Indian who had been perched on one of the bales of rubber waiting to be loaded, got up and threw away his cigarette.

‘This is Furo, the Carter’s boatman. It is he who will take you there.’ And with another limp handshake, Lima was gone.

Furo was not like the Indians they had passed, smiling and waving; not like the sailors on the boat with whom Maia had joked. He showed them into the cabin and shrugged when they said they wanted to sit out on the deck. Then he started the engine, lit another cigarette and stared, unsmiling, out at the dark river.