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remember it,’ Abena says. There is a smear of Lucasinho’s blood on her forefinger. Very slowly, very gracefully, she licks it off.

    Adriana Corta is slight and elegant as a bird among her tall children and taller grandchildren. Age lies lightly under lunar gravity; her skin is smooth and unlined, her body is unstooped by her seventy-nine years. She bears herself with the poise of a debutante. She is still head of Corta Hélio, though she has not been seen outside Boa Vista for months now. She is as rare a sight to many of Boa Vista’s residents. But she can still muster a show for family. Adriana greets her children. Three kisses for Rafael and Ariel. Two for Lucas and Carlinhos, one for Wagner. Luna breaks free from Madrinha Elis and runs to her Vovo Adriana. Gasps about the smudges on Adriana’s Ceil Chapman dress. Adriana doesn’t wear a Lady Luna pin. In her wild-catting years she drank more vacuum than all the moon-runners in Boa Vista.
    Lucas falls in behind his mother’s shoulder as she works the line of grandchildren, madrinhas and okos and guests. She has a word for everyone. Special minutes are spent with Amanda Sun and Lousika Asamoah, Rafa’s keji-oko.
    ‘Now, where is Lucasinho?’ Adriana Corta says. ‘We must have the hero.’
    Lucas realises that his son is absent. He bites back rage.
    ‘I’ll find him, Mama.’ Toquinho tries to call but the boy is off-network. Adriana Corta tsahs in disapproval. Protocol will not be proper until she has congratulated the party-boy. Lucas goes down to the band; a small ensemble of guitar, piano, double bass, soft-shuffling drums. ‘Do you know Aguas de Marco ?’
    ‘Of course.’ It’s a standard, a classic.
    ‘Play it sweet. It’s my mama’s favourite.’
    Guitarist and pianist nod to each other, count in the subtle off-beat. Waters of March : an old and lovely song that Adriana Corta sang to her children when their madrinhas brought them and set them on her knee, sang over them in their cots. It’s an impressionistic autumn song about the rain and sticks and tiny living things, about the universal in the hand-sized, at once joyful yet spiked through with saudade. Male and female voices exchange lines; snapping up each other’s cues; vivacious and playful. Lucas listens closely, passionately. His breath is shallow, his body tense. Tears haunt the folds of his eyes. Music has always moved him powerfully, especially the old music of Brazil. Bossa-nova, MBP. Elevator music; MOR bland-out. Smooooth ball-less jazz. The ones who say that don’t have ears; don’t listen. They don’t hear the saudade; the sweet sorrow of the fleetingness of things that makes all joys sharper. They don’t hear the hushed despair, the sense that beyond the beauty and the languor, something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.
    Lucas glances at his mother. She nods to the sidewinding rhythm, eyes closed. He has distracted her from prodigal Lucasinho. Lucas will deal with him later.
    The song’s highlight is the two voices playing capoeira over single words, cutting in on each other; tumbling and dodging. The man on guitar, the woman on piano are very good. Lucas had never heard of this combo before but he is delighted to have heard them. The song ends. Lucas chews back emotion. He applauds loud and clear;.
    ‘Bravo!’ he cries. Adriana joins him; then Rafa, Ariel. Carlinhos, Wagner. The applause ripples out across the party. ‘Bravo!’ Drinks come round again, the moment of embarrassment forgotten, the party rolls on. Lucas steps in for a word with the pianist. ‘Thank you. You have bossa, sir. My mamãe loved it. I’d like it if you were to come and perform for me, in my own apartment in João de Deus.’
    ‘We’d be honoured, Mr Corta.’
    ‘Not we. Just you. Soon. What’s your name?’
    ‘Jorge. Jorge Nardes.’
    Familiars exchange contact details. And then the waiter, the norte Jo Moonbeam with the cocktail tray, makes a sudden lunge at Rafael Corta.

    She likes