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As fate would have it, I’m seated at dinner with the Schlemmers and their traveling companions, the Markmans, who are also from Athens, Ohio.
The Schlemmers work as professors at Ohio University, while the Markmans own a bed and breakfast near the school. They’ve been friends for years and communicate with a shorthand mostly lost on me, though Harvey Schlemmer eventually seems to remember I’m seated beside him.
“I’m ignoring you,” he says sheepishly. “Forgive me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“We live nearby the Markmans, but we don’t get together that often. These trips are how we catch up. We’ve traveled together for years.”
“Did you all go to Ohio U?”
“No, no,” he says. “Marnie and I went to Penn State. Sara and Gerald met at the Culinary Institute in upstate New York.” He tilts his head to the side. “Where did you go to college, Yara?”
“Hofstra,” I tell him. “In New York.”
“Sure. I know it.” Quiet descends for a moment before he asks: “Enjoying the dinner?”
I push the remaining food around my mostly-full plate.
For all that the cuisine on this ship was highly recommended, I’m not enjoying it. There is a spaghetti-looking dish made from palm tree shoots seasoned in lime that made me gag. And the fish—which, if I’m not mistaken, was identified as piranha—was deep fried, which isn’t my favorite. I had a few bites of sauteed banana, but otherwise, this food isn’t palatable to me, and I’m not in the mood to be adventurous.
“It’s not really my thing,” I tell him.
“My guess? We were supposed to have catfish and the shipment spoiled. Piranha isn’t a popular fish among visitors, but it’s bountiful here. Give the kitchen another chance tomorrow. I bet it’ll be delicious.”
Though I smile politely, I don’t share his optimism.
“What do you teach?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Latin American studies. History, economics, and political science.”
“Ah. So this trip is a write-off.”
“I bet you were a business major,” he says with a chuckle.
I nod, thinking about my father’s pride when his only child graduated from college with a bachelor’s degree in Business Administration in three years instead of four. “I work for my father’s company now.”
“Family business, huh?”
“Yes.” An unexpected lump forms in my throat. “But he—he passed away earlier this year. My father.”
“I’m sorry, Yara,” says Harvey gravely, shaking his head. “Awfully sorry. You’re very young to have lost him already. Our children are quite a bit older than you.”
His sympathy and kindness turn on a spigot inside of me.
“He was Brazilian.” The words tumble out of my mouth. “But he never talked about his childhood or growing up here. It’s almost like his life didn’t begin until he arrived in America and started his company. And now he’s gone...and...”
“And you can’t ask him about it.”
I nod, swallowing to clear my throat. “It hurts.”
“Of course it does.” Harvey taps on the tablecloth, his face thoughtful. “But I bet—if you knew him as well as I suspect you did—you can figure out some of the answers to your questions.”
“How do you mean?”
“You said he grew up here...did you mean here here? Manaus?”
“More or less. His death certificate said he was born in a little town upriver called Uarini, near Miraflores, which is what he named his company.”
I don’t share that his death certificate contained another riddle: my father’s birth name was listed as Fernão Maranhão, not Fernando Marino, as I knew him for my entire life.
“You don’t mean Miraflores, the lingerie company?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Of course! Your father was Fernando Marino?”
I’m stunned to hear my father’s name come out of Harvey’s mouth so easily. My lips part in surprise. “Yes.”
He smiles at me, his eyes crinkling. “My goodness! He was quite a businessman, your dad.”
“He was, wasn’t he?”
He nods, his expression admiring. “I didn’t realize he’d passed away. I’m so sorry, Yara.”
“Did you know him?”
“No,” he says. “I never had the pleasure. But I have mentioned him a time or two in my lectures. He rose from humble beginnings—I mean, relative obscurity, really, and very little formal education—to being CEO of one of the largest garment companies in New York.” He scratches his head. “He attended Hofstra, too. Later in life, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not,” I say. “You’re exactly right. He got his degree when I was a little girl. He wanted me to go to college and felt he should lead by example.”
“I’m not surprised. He was a good man, your father; taking care of his Thai factory workers long before it was fashionable. He was a very good man,” says Harvey, raising his glass and smiling at me. “To your dad, Fernando Marino, an ethical boss and formidable businessman.”
I lift my glass, the contents blurring as my eyes fill with grateful tears. “To my dad.”
We each take a sip of our wine, and I sniffle softly as I place my glass back on the table.
“I wish I knew more about him,” says Harvey, “but he wasn’t one for interviews.”
“I’m his daughter, and I barely know a thing about the first two decades of his life.” I pause for a second, remembering what Harvey said before he was distracted by my father’s name. “What did you mean before about my being able to figure out the answers?”
“Oh...only that I’m sure you knew him very well, and from knowing someone, you can figure out a lot. Well-adjusted people take care of those around them. Your father took care of people. He was fair. He built something from nothing. Where did that drive come from? That confidence? That spirit and courage and optimism?” He scans my face. “Early beginnings, I’m guessing. Someone loved and encouraged him. Believed in him. Someone special, I’d wager.”
“But we never knew his family. He never spoke of them. I know almost nothing about Brazil. I don’t speak Portuguese. I didn’t even know what a caipirinha was until yesterday.”
“But you can learn, can’t you? You already are.”
“Sure. But why didn’t he talk more about Brazil? Why didn’t he teach me the language? The customs?”
“You can come from somewhere solid and good, and still decide to leave it behind,” says Harvey, his index finger tracing a crease back and forth on the tablecloth. “In fact, I think it’s easier that way. For some people.”
“How do you mean?”
“You can’t go back,” says Harvey.
“Sure you can,” I insist. “There are ten flights a day from New York to Rio.”
“No, Yara.” Harvey shakes his head, repeating himself in a more professorial tone: “You... can’t... go... back.”
“Is this a quote or something?”
“More of a philosophy, I think, from Thomas Wolfe’s book, You Can’t Go Home Again. I’ll find the exact quote for you later, but the gist of it is that once you leave home, you change. And home—whatever it was to you once upon a time—ceases to exist. The only way to preserve it is never to go back.” He tilts his head to the side, swirling the last gulp of his wine around its glass before drinking it. “When your father left Manaus, he had to know how difficult it would be to return—both actually and metaphorically. Maybe it wasn’t about turning his back on his home; maybe it was about protecting it for himself. Another thing to remember when searching for answers, Yara,” says Harvey with a kind smile, “is that everyone’s entitled to their secrets. Even dads.”
“Secrets?” asks Marnie, leaning over her husband. “Are you two telling secrets?”
“I don’t have any secrets from you,” says Harvey, kissing her cheek.
They don’t exactly remind me of my parents—Harvey and Marnie are cerebral, plump and frumpy, while my dad was dashing right up until the end, and my mother is still just as beautiful as ever—but the Schlemmers are kind, and their affection for one another makes something ache deep inside of me.
“Can I get anyone something from the bar?”
I look up, over Sara Markman’s gray head, to find Rio standing at our table. Although he’s posed the question to all of us, he’s staring at me. I swipe at my eyes and look away from him.
“A round of caipirinhas for the old-timers,” says Harvey, then turns to me. “And what’ll you have, Yara?”
“Nothing, thanks,” I say, flicking my glance to Rio.
He looks at me curiously, his gaze lingering on my watery eyes.
“I think I’ll take a walk on the deck,” I say, folding my napkin and standing up.
Harvey and Gerald Markman half-stand as I leave the table, an old-fashioned courtesy that touches my heart.
“Thank you for the chat,” I say to Harvey, reaching for his arm and squeezing it gently. “It was lovely talking with you.”
“And you,” he says.
Before my tears fall, I quickly head outside.
It’s a little after 6:30pm, and sun has mostly set, but I can still see the wideness of the river through the dimming twilight. I’d always thought of rivers as narrow places where you can easily see each bank clearly from the middle, but the Amazon is vast and mighty, with the silhouetted shapes of trees and hills in the distance. I watch the outlines until they unite with the blackness of the night sky.
You can’t go back.
Leaning my elbows on the prow railing, I can make out single lights here and there on the left bank of the river. No towns. No villages. Nothing I can clearly see. A light here. A light there. A quiet life in the jungle as our boat slides by, its motor humming, the lights from cabins, decks, and dining rooms a moving torch on the otherwise inky river.
Is Harvey Schlemmer right? I wonder. Did my dad leave this place and never return to preserve it—and the people he loved—in his memory?
“Are you...okay?”
I turn to find Rio standing behind me, his muscular body backlit by the light streaming through the glass window behind him, his handsome face in shadow.
“I’m fine.”
“You didn’t look fine. At the table. You looked...very sad.”
I take a deep breath and let it go slowly. I know from experience that he’s easy to talk to. I also know from experience he’s not interested in me. Bearing both in mind, I decide that chatting with him won’t hurt anything.
“I miss him,” I whisper, turning back to the dark banks of my father’s river.
You can’t go back.
Rio’s hands land on the railing beside mine, his body buffeting me from the cooling breeze.
“Your father?”
“Mm-hm.”
“My father died when I was a baby,” he tells me.
“I’m sorry.”
Harvey’s children will lose their father someday. I lost mine as a young adult. Rio lost his as a child. There is no rhyme or reason to loss. No pattern to explain or anticipate it, which means that no matter when it happens, it hurts. Badly. And forever.
“Yara,” he says softly, staring at the water, “last night at the hotel...I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
My cheeks flare and I’m grateful the darkness hides it.
“You are beautiful and charming. Extremely desirable. You must know that.”
I open my mouth to say something, then close it. My father was fond of saying, “If a question isn’t asked, don’t offer an answer.”
“But my job,” he says, “—this job...I need it. I need it, and... and...onde se ganha o pão não se come a carne.” He stands up straight, crossing his arms over his chest and looking annoyed.
Now, I don’t speak Portuguese, but I’d bet my life he just recited a rendition of “don’t shit where you eat” to me, and you know what? I get it. I own a business. I take business matters seriously. If there’s a rule against fraternization with cruise guests, I shouldn’t be breaking his balls for complying with it...even if it did hurt my pride to feel rejected.
I take a deep breath and let it go, turning to him slowly.
“You’re a bartender at the hotel and on the ship?”
He nods. “They’re both owned by the same company. Two cruise ships and three hotels here in Manaus.”
“Sister properties.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re a tour guide, as well?”
“Sí.” His posture relaxes a little. “You’ll see me in action tomorrow. I’m the best! I’m leading the morning tour.”
Although part of me wishes he was, he’s not flirting with me when he says this. He’s just cocky as hell and owns himself completely.
“And what exactly will we be doing?”
“Oh, Miss Yara from New York, I’ll tell you.” He leans his elbows on the railing, gesturing over the water. “Tomorrow, just before sunrise, we will set out by canoes to explore Lake Janauacá and the waking forest. As we paddle you to the shore, you will keep your eyes open for the white-throated toucan and the king vulture.”
“The king—” I wrinkle my nose. “—vulture?”
He nods at me, his eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “Oh, yes! It looks like, um—not the penguin, but the, um... the puffin!”
“A vulture that looks like a puffin?”
“Yes! It has a white and black body with a very bright orange and yellow beak. It is a great sight to see!”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say, my lips twitching. His enthusiasm is contagious. “What else?”
“If you are lucky? We might see the famous pink river dolphins!”
I grin at him. “I’ve read about them.”
“And you know the legend?”
“I know they’re endangered.”
“Yes. True. But they’re also enchanted.”
“Okay. I’m game. How, exactly, are the pink dolphins enchanted?”
He winks at me. “In traditional Amazonian folklore, the pink dolphin becomes a handsome young man at night. He comes ashore in a white hat, seduces a girl, impregnates her, then returns to the river in the morning and becomes a dolphin again.”
I stare at him, waiting for a redeeming conclusion to this awful tale, then shake my head back and forth when I realize it isn’t coming.
“Another horrible, misogynistic fairytale!”
“What? It’s charming!” he insists, furrowing his brow and staring at me like I’m the crazy one.
“There is nothing sexy about a shapeshifting dolphin rapist.”
“No, no, no!” Rio insists, holding his hands palms-up between us. “The encounter is consensual...and very sexy.”
“Seduction, impregnation and abandonment aren’t sexy.”
I grip onto the railing and look down at the dark waters, wondering how many shady dolphins with bad intentions are swimming beneath us.
He takes a deep breath and sighs. “You are a tough girl, Yara Marino.”
“I just say it like I see it.”
“And you see it all bad.”
Ouch. That stings.
I turn to him, my eyes narrow, my lips tight.
“You don’t know me, Desidério Gabriel,” I say, parroting the same words he said to me earlier.
He faces me, crossing his arms over his chest and looking me straight in the eye. “Maybe not...but, I know that you are young and beautiful and very rich, but you have the weight of the world on your shoulders. You yell. You frown. You’re angry. You’re sad. You’re traveling alone. You—”
“Is that what this is about?” I scoff, putting my hands on my hips. “I don’t have a boyfriend or husband with me? I have the audacity to be a solo female traveler?” My chuckle is humorless. “It’s not just your stories that are misogynistic!”
“I have seen a hundred woman traveling alone,” he counters, “who are happy. They are fulfilled and confident and full of positive energy. They are living the life they want.” He pauses, tilting his head to the side. “Why aren’t you?”
“I am!”
“No,” he says softly, shaking his head back and forth slowly. “You are not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because there is music, but you don’t dance. There are songs, but you don’t sing. There is food, but you don’t eat.”
“Now, wait a sec—”
“You know what I think, Yara Marino?” He says, stepping toward me until we are just about nose-to-nose. “I think you never left New York. Your body might be in Brazil, but your head is stuck back there.”
I stare at him—at this cocky, sexy, bartender-tour guide-truth-sayer whom I only met yesterday—with mounting fury. Sure, what he’s saying makes sense. It even resonates with me. But I’m furious that he’s called me out on it. I’m on vacation! I’m the guest and he’s the help! Who the hell does he think he is talking to me like this?
My hands fist at my sides as I lift my chin in defiance of his observations.
“You know what I think, Desidério Gabriel? I didn’t ask for your opinions or advice, and I don’t give a flying fuck what you think. Go to hell!”
And with that, I turn on my heel and head back to my cabin.