Finding Cristina: A New Life

By Emilia Rosa

In the previous novel, "Finding Cristina," the beautiful young Cristina found her true identity, her parentage and the love of her life. In this sequel, after moving to New York City with her husband, she gives birth to her son. She and her new family travel by ocean liner to Rio de Janeiro, her childhood ho

• Language: English
• Publisher: MystWorks, LLC
• Release date: Feb 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986963518

Emilia Rosa

Emilia Rosa is of Brazilian extraction and lived in different places in Brazil. Her childhood was spent in Rio de Janeiro and her love for the sea comes from that period. She also loves Ancient Egypt. Rosa worked in international trade shows in a multilingual capacity, and as a fashion model in Brazil, Italy, and the US. She has always been a voracious reader, but never thought that passion would steer her to become an author herself. Her favorite authors are Jane Austen, Agatha Christie, Ellis Peters, and Dorothy L. Sayers among many others. Before turning to fiction, she had poetry published, and won a library poetry contest. That made her decide to try to bring a taste of poetry to a novel. And her love of history and knowledge of Rio de Janeiro, decided the timeframe and setting of her first novel, which was taken to the sequel. She is doing research and starting to write the third sequel. Brazil, the country of her family, where she lived many years, figures prominently in her two novels.

Book preview

Foreword

This is a sequel to my first novel, Finding Cristina. Most characters in this story come from that prior novel. Please, refer to it to better understand this story.

I would like to thank my husband, Terry, who helped me with the fight scenes and the poker game. Björn Larsson, for the priceless 1920s cruise ship brochures. Anke Herrmann (ankeherrmann.com) and Inge Coad, who helped me with their mother tongue, German. Jake Ehrlish, who helped me with his knowledge of wristwatches. Karen Hochman of thenibble.com for the story of brownies. Patricia Guimarães (senhoramesa.com) for the recipe of Mineiro de Botas. Mocotó was adapted from the website amigofoods.com. Last but not least, Flora Church, my editor: this book would not exist without her. If I forgot anyone, I blame my memory, not their importance in the making of this novel.

You will find recipes at the end of this book, in the Appendix. Some have been adapted from a book from my German-Brazilian grandmother, vó Olga; others were transcribed from memory and the ingredients are not exact. Vó Olga made all kinds of goodies, from cakes, kuchen and breads, to fresh gnocchi, and compotes—carrot, sweet potato, guava, and bitter orange. Her iced cakes and special docinhos always graced my birthdays, as far as I can remember. 

Finally, I am not a historian. I tried to portray historical facts as well as the sources I used explained them.

Emilia Rosa

Ohio, September 2022

Chapter 1

Rio de Janeiro in summer was sweltering and the sharp noon sun imposed its tanning light through the hats worn by the unlucky Cariocas¹ who had to be out and about on daily chores. It shone mercilessly and, coupled with the humidity and lack of a breeze from the glasslike sea, made it feel as if you stood in front of the open door of a hot oven. These poor, afflicted souls found temporary shelter under marquees that, sprinkled throughout the street, became like oases in the desert. And on they plodded, sweat gathering at their temples, dampening the hair to a steamy clump under the protection of the hat—oh, the deceptiveness of a brim!—clothes showing wet spots, eyes squinting, dazed by the light, suffocated by the hot air radiating from sidewalks and cobblestoned streets.

It was a sordid little boteco² a few streets from the docks in Rio de Janeiro. The corrugated metal door had two panels and only one was rolled halfway up, just high enough to allow customers to enter, and keep the sun and heat out as much as possible.

Inside the boteco it was cool. The old marble floor, chipped relic from colonial times when it was a successful business, reverberated the sound of the whispered conversations and dragging feet, giving the place a sleepy atmosphere. 

Listen very carefully: I do not want him killed. Just stun him.

He was a man of middle height and spare figure, with a close-cropped beard, pointed at the chin and darkened with dye, the same used in his hair. Horn-rimmed green-tinted glasses hid his expression from the world.

This man must be alive when you deliver him—and in good health. Do you understand? he asked, emphasizing each word.

The man across the table nodded agreement. His little cold eyes were deep set on a reddish face. His shaved head sat on a bull’s neck. His muscular arms, although hidden inside a suit, were clearly discernible. From the accent he realized that, unlike what he had initially surmised when his special skills were requested, the man with the green-tinted glasses was actually Brazilian, like himself.

Then you changed your mind, boss?

The man ignored the comment. Here is half of the money as agreed upon by your partner, and a bulky, wrinkled envelope slid across the table top, was reached by a large calloused hand, and quickly disappeared inside a suit pocket. 

Follow the plan as I explained and you will receive the rest of the money. I will let you know when the ship he is travelling on arrives in Rio.

And the man in the green-tinted glasses got up and left, while the other stayed to finish his glass of cachaça³, the popular Brazilian spirit.

Robert looked out the window. From the leaden sky snowflakes fell, like ashes thrown from an erupting volcano. He looked down. The streets were covered by white and brown streaks, a mix of snow and dust, plus automobile soot. He sighed. Another lovely winter day in New York. He enjoyed the cold and the snow, the change of seasons—to which his wife, Cristina, invariably added that seasons should never change, it should always be summer. He also loved New York, but the effect of snow in a crowded town was not to his taste. He turned on his heels and, passing through rooms where the furniture had lost their shape under white sheets, went to Donny’s room.

He opened the door and stopped short at the scene that met his eye: Bunky lay stretched on the floor, eyes closed, mouth half opened and his face twisted into a painful expression. His son, wrapped in a heavy winter coat, holding a sword, stood in the background, a gleeful expression on his face. 

What have you done, child? his father asked with a dramatic inflection and, turning horrified eyes back to the inert figure on the floor, lightly nudged it with the tip of his shoe and got no response. You killed him, he intoned dramatically to which comment the child’s smile broadened. Bunky, Bunky, he kneeled and shook the other violently until he heard a groan. Oh, he is not yet dead, thank heavens! Call an ambulance, and be quick about it, boy!

Okay, enough of playing, children, said a woman’s voice from the corridor, outside. They just phoned that the car is downstairs, waiting for us. Shall we go? 

Bunky quickly climbed to his feet—and in so doing, heavily burdened his joints, to which hot irons would not make him admit—brushed his coat and trousers and looking at the boy, signaled the door with an outstretched thumb:

You heard your mother. Outside, mister, and make it quick. No, leave the sword. They won’t allow such dangerous weaponry on board the ship.

The boy’s smile died away, but he dutifully put the wooden sword into the chest that kept his other toys. 

Don’t you want to go see your granny? Robert asked and his son assented with a nod. Well, then put that smile back on your face and let’s go or we might miss our boat!

Yes, was the boy’s answer and the mischievous smile was back on his chubby little face.

The boy grabbed his father’s hand, and followed by Bunky, the three left the room.

Their baggage had been sent the prior day, the taxi cab headed to Pier 14 in Hoboken, New Jersey, where a steamer of the Lamport & Holt Line, the Vauban, would take them to Rio de Janeiro, arriving there sixteen days later. On the way they would have the opportunity to visit beautiful places, like Barbados, and sight Dominica, Guadeloupe, Montserrat and Nevis, the birthplace of Alexander Hamilton, the steamer sailing so close that individuals on shore can be seen.

On their very first night on the Vauban an accident almost turned into a tragedy. Robert was leaning against the rail, smoking and enjoying the deserted deck, waiting for his wife, who was getting dressed for dinner. The setting sun painted everything with ruby fire. Suddenly he was violently shoved from his side and had to hold tight to the rail not to fall.

What the—

Before he could finish the sentence, his attention was diverted by a missile coming down from the deck above. A large bucket hit the rail, right where Robert had been a second before, and went clattering down, repeatedly hitting the hull as it did. As it gained momentum, it would have hurt him badly.

After the first moment of shock, he looked around to see his savior. He was a young man about Robert’s age and same athletic build, if a little taller. He had sleek black hair, clear green eyes fringed with thick lashes and surmounted by dark eyebrows. The corners of his lips were two horizontal comas; the mouth might have been thought too feminine, were not for a strong jaw, where the valley of a shallow cleft divided his chin and reinforced the strength he exuded.   

I guess I must thank you.

Instead of hitting me, the young man added, and his eyes twinkled good-humoredly. For a second I thought I was going to get to Rio with a black eye.

It was providential that you were also walking the deck, Mr….

Rafael Souza.

Robert Laughton.

They shook hands. Robert would later learn that Rafael Souza was staying in one of the state cabins that faced his, separated from view by the Pursers’ Office.

I wonder what that bucket was doing so near the rail, Rafael said after leaning out on the rail to try to see the deck above them. He looked at Robert. Not a good place to leave it. Someone was careless. That would have cut your head pretty bad.

Luckily for me you acted quickly. As he saw his Cristina approaching them, he whispered, I do not want my wife to know what happened, Mr. Souza.

I understand.

And from the moment he met her, the heart of Mr. Rafael Souza, so far untouched, beat fast at the sight or thought of Mrs. Laughton, that lady being innocent of snaring the young man. 

A couple of days after this incident, Robert entered his cabin one evening to get a shawl for Cristina. It was laying on her bed. He grabbed the tip of it, quickly pulled it and was paralyzed with horror. Coiled on top of the bed was a snake. It had been hidden under the bundle the shawl formed over the bedspread. It had raised its ugly head when uncovered, menacingly, then started to slide towards the floor. Robert quickly left the room, locked the door and went to the Pursers’ Office, the door that faced his cabin. He explained his predicament to one of the pursers. The man was so stunned Robert had to explain the incident twice.

It must belong to Mr. Carolus—the magician who is going back to Brazil, explained the bewildered man. What I don’t understand is how it was able to come up from the hold, where it is kept in a very secure container.

He offered a hundred apologies and promised the stowaway animal would be removed without delay. He promised a special dinner with a bottle of French champagne would be sent to Robert’s cabin the next evening, as a courtesy for this inconvenience.

Please, don’t do that. I don’t want my wife to know what happened. You must promise this will be dealt with the utmost secrecy.

The purser was only too happy to comply and keep the incident secret—what a terrible scandal if that leaked through the ship!

While Robert returned to his wife, who he had left on the deck, he remembered her telling him where he would find the shawl: in the first drawer of her trunk. Not laying on her bed…

Robert walked into the smoking room to the empty fireplace, where he sat in one of the comfortable leather armchairs, a small table between him and the hearth. He lit a cigar. He puffed at it appreciatively at long intervals. Cristina had gone to bed, and, restless, he had paced the deck for a few minutes and finally decided to go to the smoking room. There he passed a table where a silent group of passengers played poker at a table by the bar. He walked to the opposite side of the room to find a quiet spot.

Hello there.

Robert turned and saw the neat figure of Rafael Souza standing by his side.

I feel safe here, no buckets around, he smiled and the other reciprocated. Please, sit down. Join me.

He took a cigar case from his jacket’s pocket and offered it to Rafael.

An excellent idea. But there is something missing here, and at Robert’s inquiring look, Rafael continued. Brandy. I was just going to the bar to order one. Can I offer you one?

That sounds good. Thanks.

Rafael was back and soon afterwards a waiter came bringing two snifters on a tray. Rafael accepted the cigar and lighter Robert offered. He then touched the tip of the cigar to the brandy and puffed. They remained silent for some time, as men often do when smoking. There seems to be a kind of camaraderie, a brotherhood that naturally flourishes in these quiet moments. Their chat was random and, although friendly, remained impersonal, the pairing of cigar and brandy seeming to naturally fill in the vacuous moments of silence.

Suddenly Robert started to feel lightheaded, but he kept it to himself.

I think it is time I turn in. He stood up a little unsteadily.

Are you all right? Rafael asked, starting to get up.

I am fine, Robert motioned him to stay. Probably just the brandy. I might have drunk it a bit too fast. Good night and thank you for the company.

He steadied himself not wanting to make a spectacle of himself in front of the other man, and left. Rafael watched him, eyes narrowed, until he disappeared from view as he walked past the fireplace on the way to the stairs that would take him to C deck and his cabin.

Miraculously, he made it without tumbling down the steps. He had to go through another flight of stairs to reach B deck. There he would have to pass half a dozen cabins to get to the hospital. He knew the way, since many times he had to rescue Dr. Albertson, the ship’s doctor, from the clutches of his curious son. He smiled inwardly; somehow, through the tourbillion of his sleepy mind he remembered his son’s fascination with the hospital. Then he thought of his wife.

Holding on to the walls to steady himself, he prayed the doctor would be there. He finally saw the sign for the hospital, at the end of the corridor. As he stumbled a pair of strong hands held him from falling.

Take it easy, we are almost there.

It was Rafael. He had followed Robert soon afterwards, concerned with his drawn looks.

They turned left into the short corridor that gave to the surgery and the doctor’s cabin. Rafael knocked at the cabin door. After a few minutes, that felt like hours to Robert, the doctor opened the door, disheveled, tying his house coat and adjusting his glasses. At first glance he thought the young man was drunk and was of a mind to give him a set down. Then, he looked at him more closely.

He’s not drunk, doctor. He started feeling odd and I helped him get here.

Come to the surgery. Help him in, he asked Rafael.

The two went through the door and Rafael guided Robert to the exam table, where he practically collapsed. His eyes started to close and his breathing was coming a little bit faster.

Robert! Robert, the doctor shook him several times until he was rewarded with the opening of a bleary eye. Stay with me, do not fall asleep. Do you hear me? he asked and the urgency in his voice was palpable. Did you eat anything that made you sick? Dr. Albertson thought the young man understood half of what was happening. Not obtaining a coherent answer, turned to the other young man.

I don’t know what he ate at dinner, but we both had a brandy.

That would not have caused this. Now, you might not like to see this. You can wait outside if you want.

I’ll stay, was the short answer.

The doctor decided not to lose time. With steady movements he started to work and it was a long time until he felt easy about the condition of his patient.

Watch him while I look for a steward.

Despite the late hour he was able to find one of the stewards.

Go to State Cabin B and call Bunky—you know who he is. But, mind, be discreet, and he stressed the words. Try not to wake anyone up. Tell him to come to the surgery.

What if he don’t wanna come? the somnolent young man asked, yawning and giving his head a good scratch. He looked at the buckets and tubes on the floor and twisted his nose with disgust.

Just tell him Robert is here. That he was not feeling well. Now, run along and make it snappy!

The young man ran out of the surgery and the doctor checked on Robert. Satisfied with his steady, peaceful breathing, he started to clean the mess left from the gastric lavage, refusing the help the young man offered. He hated leaving the mess for his nurse, Mrs. Bennett, to deal with. But first he saved some of the liquid in a small flask. When Bunky, out of breath and disheveled barged into the room, he was almost done.

Come in! Don’t stand on ceremony.

Bunky did not heed the doctor’s sour comment, nor the presence of Rafael, but approached the recumbent figure on the exam table. He passed a large paw over the young man’s sweaty forehead, then smoothed his hair. Only then did he seem to notice Rafael, leaning against the wall near the door, smoking a cigarette and the doctor who, with crossed arms, observed the scene.

Not sure what it was. I emptied his stomach. I hesitate to say, but it feels like poisoning. Bunky turned a shocked face to him. I know! Who in this ship would do that? And why? he added. I cannot be positive, but the symptoms were there: mental confusion, sleepiness, unsteadiness. He shook his head and spread his hands out, in a gesture of helplessness. I can’t understand it.

Bunky looked at Rafael.

He was okay. We each drank some brandy and smoked cigars. Then he said he was going to bed, but I thought he looked strange and decided to follow him…

And here you are, Bunky said with a convulsed expression.

Here I am, the young man agreed.

Should you keep him here, doc?

Until the morning. I’ll leave the communicating door open so that I can keep an eye on him. He threw a light blanket over Robert, and as the two turned to the door Rafael was gone.

The doctor turned the light off, and both men left the room. Outside, in the corridor they continued their whispered conversation.

Before falling asleep he asked me not to tell his wife. Don’t know how we can hide it from her.

I’ll deal with that. And I’ll stay there tonight, Bunky pointed at the surgery with a thumb.

But there is no place to sleep, retorted the annoyed doctor.

For some reason the man bothered him. Were Dr. Albertson in the habit of mirror gazing—which he did only when shaving and brushing his teeth—he would have noticed the physical similarities between himself and Bunky; if not for the sparse hair on the doctor’s head, they might be able to pass as siblings.

Doc, Bunky looked at the other man intently, I’ve cared for this boy since he was a tot. I intend to stand watch tonight. I saw an armchair in there; I’ll crash on that. And before the doctor could create more objections, he continued. I’ll let my wife know—God only knows what I’m gonna tell ’er. He turned his back and started walking away. And close your door. I snore—loud, he threw the last words over his shoulder.

Dr. Albertson shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, then went back into the surgery room where his patient seemed to be resting easy. It was lucky the young man had come to him early. Had Robert taken longer, and, if he was right, there would have been nothing he could have done. He scrutinized the handsome face and wondered who wanted him dead. He could not positively state it, could not pinpoint the poison used, but poisoning he was almost sure it was. He sighed and went back to his cabin. He hoped that big male duenna could protect Robert.

Robert woke up. The first, hazy morning lights were sneaking into the room through the porthole and piercing the darkness with an icy gleam. He looked around. For a few seconds he did not recognize his surroundings and was confused. Then he recalled the exchange he had with Dr. Albertson and realized he was still in the exam room. Poison? The man must have been mistaken. It was certainly something he ate. At this point his thoughts were interrupted by a rumbling noise. He raised himself on an elbow and there was Bunky’s huge bulk squeezed into a small armchair. Of course, he should have expected to find him here. He chuckled and pushed the blanket away.

Getting to his feet was not as easy as he thought it would be. The room seemed to be dancing and he felt a little weak. The worse was the sore throat. He steadied himself against the exam table. Walking unsteadily, he reached a sink he saw behind Bunky and started bathing his face. The cold water revived him. He heard a huge yawn.

Good morning, sleeping beauty, he said without turning around.

I should have known you’d start with your cute remarks as soon as you got up, Bunky said, extricating himself from the armchair. Poisoned yesterday, making light of it the next day. It’s you all right!

There was no poisoning. It was something I ate, he tried to make light of it.

Doc said poisoning. I agree.

I think Dr. Albertson is inclined to exaggerate things a bit.

He said you was pretty fagged. First, he thought you was plastered and was going to sermonize you.

Reverting to your gangster vocabulary. Lovely. I wonder how your wife likes that side of you early in the morning. Must be endearing to her, he said while wiping his