Senor Nice (27 page)

‘That’s still there.’

‘But they were renovating bits of it, and visitors weren’t allowed.’

‘Why the interest; are you keen on castles generally?’

‘Not particularly, but the architect who redesigned the interior and exterior of Cardiff Castle, giving it all those towers, pinnacles and stuff, was William Burges. I think he’s the best architect ever. He was a friend of William Morris and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, which I was well into in the old days. In fact, my London house Burges built as his own home. You having another drink?’

‘Sure. So you plan to try again?’

More chilled beer arrived.

‘Funnily enough, today, just before I met you, I was on the phone to Matthew Williams, the curator of Cardiff Castle. He’s writing a book on Burges and wants to have a look at my place. I agreed provided I got a personal tour of the castle. I’ll be over there in a couple of months. Let’s exchange phone numbers. I’d like to come to one of your shows; I’ve heard they’re hilarious.’

‘I’d be thrilled if you did.’

‘Don’t you get a lot of 1960s has-been rock stars coming along?’

‘Yes, but they disappear without coming to say hello. I don’t think they like it backstage.’

‘Well, the thrill does wear off. It’s nice just to be a spectator sometimes, like just now with these Capoeira kids.’

‘Why did you choose Lencóis as a home?’

‘You can blame my wife for that. She’s Brazilian and loves the place. I love it too now, as you can gather.’

During the early 1990s Jimmy and his wife Jimena tirelessly
involved themselves in charitable projects to help and support children and pregnant teenage girls living on the streets of Brazil. Since witnessing an armoured invasion of a shanty town, Jimmy has worked to relieve the plight of Rio’s street children. He and his wife associated themselves with Task Brasil, to whom he has made massive donations, including Casa Jimmy, a home for abandoned children in the hilltop district of Rio de Janeiro’s Santa Teresa, the same area now lived in by Jim Shreim and at one time by Ronnie Biggs. Fundraising concerts have provided further money, as have sales of rare rock memorabilia.

We drank another beer as twilight joined us. Ropes of fairy lights twinkled as the sun disappeared behind the hills. Night stallholders displayed their crochet, lacework, trinkets and bottles of coloured sand collected from nearby lake and river beaches. Scores of people of all ages poured into the streets and bars, singing, laughing, dancing and lighting small bonfires.

‘Do Brazilians like all music?

‘Pretty much. They definitely revere the British sixties stuff. Techno confuses them a bit. They like it if they can dance the samba to it, which they usually can. I’m working with some Brazilian musicians now. In fact, tomorrow I have to go to their recording studio. I never seem to be in Lencóis long enough. Do you need any help in your search for the Welsh? I know most people here. I’ll ask around tonight.’

Jimmy disappeared into the dark streets. I didn’t hear from him before he left Lencóis, and I doubt if he ever came to any of my shows, but he remains the most talented and genuine 1960s rock idol I have met.

The next morning I went to the Lanchonete Zacão, a photographic gallery that served food, and consumed a breakfast of several different fruit juices, cheese-filled balls of dough and manioc pancakes. I scoured through the old photographs and asked the waiter where I could find information on the names
of people who lived in Lencóis years ago. He suggested I visit the town’s two churches and the
prefeitura municipal
. I did so but despite examining numerous lists of house owners, mine employees and the usual birth, marriage and death registers did not encounter a single Welsh name. After lunch and a few
cachaças
, I decided to abandon my search. If there ever was a Welsh community here, it had long petered out and left no trace. Maybe they gave up singing hymns, learned the samba and immediately integrated. Who could blame them? In any event, it was time I went to Rio. I had been expected there two days before.

The bus bounced me back to Salvador, where I had no wish to stay; I still couldn’t forgive the place for stealing my Buddha. I took a cab to the airport and caught the next flight to Rio de Janeiro.

The city’s name (River of January), the photographs of it I had seen over the years and its coastal location led me to believe that I would be landing near a substantial river estuary. Instead, the plane descended from above the Atlantic Ocean through a mile-wide channel between rocky promontories on which forts had been erected and touched down on the shores of a landlocked gulf twenty miles long and five to ten miles wide full of rocky islands of every imaginable shape and size. Only small streams entered this huge salty inlet, and whales were found basking in its brine. Why Portuguese explorer Gaspar de Lemos thought it was a river remains an enigma.

The city of Rio itself exudes confidence and cockiness as if proud of itself for having edged between the hills and the sea, met the jungle and trounced it. Gleaming with the complacence of a successful opportunist, it struts along the southern edge of the gulf shore for several miles, commanding all the space between the water and the mountains behind. These are clothed in luxuriant forest or rise in precipices of grey granite.

I checked into the over-the-top art deco Copacabana Palace, a favourite hotel of royalty and rock stars, and left a message on Jim Shreim’s answerphone. I plugged in my laptop and checked for emails. There was one from Gilberto: ‘Dear Howard, I hope you enjoyed your holiday and are now tasting the delights of Rio. It’s a wonderful city. Today, I visited an old friend working at the Livraria Brandão, the biggest bookshop in Bahia, and found a book that seems to answer all your questions about the Welsh in Brazil. I was very surprised. Can you give me an address to send it to?’ I intended to stay for at least a few days, so I gave Gilberto the address of the Copacabana Palace and then went out for a sunset stroll.

Mosaic pavements depicting rolling waves separated the hotel from the palm-fringed Copacabana Beach, which was staging sensual performances by what appeared to be a selection of Miss Universe finalists and male bodybuilding champions modelling the latest swimwear fashions. The musclemen provided daunting competition for any guys hoping to pull, but were heavily outnumbered by the women so you could continue your fantasies without fear of immediate failure and rejection.

I sat down at a beach bar and ordered a coconut full of milk and a
cachaça
. A voluptuous beauty wearing a G-string and two eggcups, whom normally I would ignore as being out of my league as a possible companion for the night, sat down opposite me, introduced herself as Rowena, ordered a drink and said she loved me. She enquired where I was staying and asked if she could escort me back to my hotel so we could have some fun. I was well up for it but felt I was being taken for a ride of the kind well known to anyone other than those who had first arrived in Rio some minutes before. I mumbled something about hotel rules forbidding non-residents from visiting guests’ hotel rooms. She suggested using one of the many short-stay hotels just a few yards away. I shook my head. Rowena left, and her place was quickly taken by another top
model, Laura, who trotted out the same line coupled with an offer to get me Viagra. I said I had an appointment, stood up, paid for my drinks, including the untouched ones ordered by Rosa and Paula, and returned to the Copacabana Palace, furiously cursing myself for having lost my youthful sense of adventure.

Jim Shreim had called in my absence. He would be busy with his film-making for most of the next day but would be free in the evening.

The next morning I walked swiftly away from Copacabana Beach and took a cab to the Biblioteca Nacional in Avenida Rio Branco, the largest public library in South America, and resolved not to leave there until I had followed through the Internet references to the Welsh in Brazil that I had discovered before coming to the country. I had just two place names to check, Rio Grande do Sul and Chupat. Rio Grande do Sul is Brazil’s southernmost province, on the borders of Argentina and Uruguay. Its capital city, Porto Alegre, is the country’s sixth-largest city. I turned the pages of every English book and skimmed through some Portuguese ones on Rio Grande do Sul, but there was no reference to anything Welsh. I pored over every large-scale map but couldn’t find a single place name remotely linked to any Welsh word. The telephone directories carried every conceivable surname other than Welsh ones. The province appeared to have fewer Welsh connections than any other part of the world. The results for Chupat were even worse: the place simply did not feature in any map or publication. The library shut at 8.00 p.m. I left empty-handed. It seemed that as far as Brazil was concerned, Wales ceased to exist when Pelé knocked them out of the 1954 World Cup.

Jim Shreim was waiting for me in the hotel bar. We hugged each other and laughed.

‘So you’re here at last, Howard. Welcome to Rio. This is Johnny Pickston, a close friend of Ronnie and Michael Biggs.’

Johnny, a few years older than me but fitter despite having to use a walking stick, gripped my hand.

‘Good to see you, Howard. Jimmy said he’d met you in London at the benefit gig for poor Ronnie. Blinding book, by the way. Got a copy for you to sign if you don’t mind. So what brings you to Brazil? Not that anyone needs a reason. Look at these birds coming in. Beats Bognor, don’t it?’

‘Certainly does, Johnny. I’m impressed with what I’ve seen so far. The women are friendly.’

‘And cheap.’

‘I was going to ask you about that, but I mustn’t get too distracted; I’m on a bit of a mission trying to track down Welsh people in Brazil.’

‘I think Tom Jones came here a few times. Seriously, though, what do you mean?’

‘Well I read months ago there used to be a Welsh colony in Brazil. I’ve spent all day today in the library, and it seems as if I’ll have to go to Porto Alegre—’

‘Don’t mention that fucking place.’

‘Is it that bad? It didn’t look too great from the books I saw, I must admit.’

‘I don’t know about that, but Porto Alegre is where those dirty bastards who tried to kidnap Ronnie were pretending to make a film. They made out they were taking him there for a shoot, then stuck poor Ronnie in a bag and took him to Barbados. Me and me missus, Lia, were with Ronnie just before. We did all we could to get him back, and we did. Those dirty bastards, they ought to be shot. That’s all I know about Porto Alegre. I won’t go near the place.’

Jim Shreim tactfully changed the subject: ‘You know the Super Furry Animals, don’t you, Howard?’

‘Sure I do. They’re fellow Welshmen and amazing musicians. Why do you ask?’

‘They’re coming here soon. Maybe you could hook me up with them?’

Johnny chipped in: ‘There you go, Howard. Wait here in Rio with us until the Welsh come to see you. You’ll have a lot more fun than in Porto Alegre, I promise you. Is that a video camera you’ve got?’

‘Yes it is, but I’ve hardly used it.’

‘Can you video me with a message to Ronnie and get it to him?’

‘Of course. You want to do it now?’

‘I’ve got a better idea. Tomorrow I’ll take you up Corcovado and we’ll do it there. You should see it, anyway. Ronnie used to love the place. Tonight, we should go to Help – it’s the biggest disco in South America. It’s rammed wall-to-wall with hookers and will blow your mind, I guarantee. It’s on the same street as your hotel here, the Avenida Atlantica.’

Whatever happened next took all night, and Johnny and I were as hungover and tired as we had ever been when our cab dropped us at Rua Cosme Velho, where a funicular train took us almost vertically up Corcovado to the 100-foot-high, 1,000-ton statue of Christ stretching out his arms in cosmopolitan welcome. I recorded Johnny’s tearful and heartfelt video message to Ronnie Biggs. Then we threw coins into a shrine and silently made our private wishes – I prayed for the health and long life of my mother.

Gilberto’s parcel was waiting for me at the reception desk of the Copacabana Palace. I opened it as soon as I was in my room. The book inside was
City of Frozen Fire
by Vaughan Wilkins. It concerned the nineteenth-century discovery in the forests of Brazil of a Welsh civilisation that, without the rest of the world’s knowledge, had existed there since the twelfth century. At last I was on to something; my trip to Brazil was proving worthwhile.

Then came a voice message from my sister: my mother’s health had taken a serious turn for the worse; she urged me to come home immediately.

Several months later I realised I would never escape from the trauma of my mother’s death. I might become familiar with the loss, but I would not recover from it. For a while life became frighteningly empty and pointless. My capacity to concentrate evaporated, childhood memories filled my mind, and I looked forward to nothing. It seemed silly to carry on with the search for my ancestry when I had just lost the most precious part of it. Great-aunt Afon Wen had also passed away, with her cloudy memories of my Native American, smuggling and Welsh Druidic heritage. Great-aunt Katie was still alive, but her health was failing. My track record uncovering ancestors was poor; I had only found a new descendant.

I discovered the references to Chupat, Brazil I had found on the Net should have been to Chubut, Argentina. They related to Patagonia. I eventually read
City of Frozen Fire
, the book Gilberto had sent me in Rio de Janeiro, and it was indeed about the discovery of an ancient Welsh civilisation in the forests of Brazil; Paulo Coelho’s recollection had been correct. But it was a poorly written fictional boys’ adventure story providing nothing of interest and plenty of disappointment. I
continued living in York, waking up early every morning, walking around the city walls, breakfasting at British Home Stores and returning to my flat with a firm resolve to resume writing. But the blank screen just got blanker. I stopped doing my column for
Loaded
; I couldn’t even write 1,000 words a month.