"José, what is going on with you?" Gabriel asked in exasperation and with a little irritation. "We have been in São Paulo for a week, putting this deal together to take your business to a new level and just as we are getting there, you seem to be distracted somewhat."

José looked at his financial advisor with a little bit of resignation, or was it sadness?

"I'm sorry, I know," he replied, "there is something on my mind and I need to get back to Rio as soon as I can."

Gabriel looked at him with a slightly raised eyebrow, obviously looking for more information.

"It is just that I had a call from my bar manager a couple of days ago, telling me that one of my regular customers had been in after some time away and he was looking really sick, dying even." José continued.

"And?"

"Apparently he was there with his children and grandchildren from England for some sort of bizarre farewell or something. I didn't even know he was a foreigner."

"And?"

José gazed at Gabriel for a moment and a whimsical look came to his eyes and started, "Three years ago or thereabouts I was looking at having to close down the restaurant and bar. I was broke. For some reason the spark was gone. The tourists were walking past my place and no amount of offers seemed to get them to come in and spend. Even the best prostitutes had abandoned the place and were plying their trade elsewhere. Night times were a nightmare with cheap, troublesome prostitutes and drunks many too drunk to get in anywhere else."

He paused for a moment and explained. "Don't get me wrong, there were my afternoon regulars but they just spent enough to keep the place open, just, and this customer was just an occasional regular. I had seen him on a couple of occasions and never really paid him much mind, a kind of nodding acquaintance. Anyway, then one day about two years ago...."

Mark Chabuka ordered his ice cold, sweating beer at the L shaped bar which served both the inside customers looking for air conditioned coolness from the Brazilian summer heat and the covered outside patio area at the front. He took his drink that was served very quickly, nodded at the proprietor standing at the other end of the bar and strolled over to his 'spot' next to the American regulars table, where they were already in good form. These 'gringo' regulars met up nearly every Saturday afternoon, bought bottles of whiskey and drank and chatted all day, catching up with news form the States.

He liked sitting on this particular table because apart from picking up the latest US sports news and mainly politics from his neighbouring table, he got to have a good view of the pavements (side-walks to US Americans) of this side of Avenida Atlântica, the 6-lane, 4 km avenue running alongside Copacabana Beach in Rio de Janeiro in Brazil. He had a good view of the coming and goings in the whole patio area and he was about to spend the afternoon people watching, his favourite past time and especially good in Rio.

He really loved Rio and wished he could stay here full time instead of spending most of his time in Brasilia, the hot and humid capital far into the interior or São Paulo, the financial capital. Rio always felt good and as long as he didn't open his mouth with his passable but accented Portuguese, his mixed race brown skin, Zambian father and English mother, meant he just fitted in without drawing too much attention like the European and American gringos experienced.

There were a few tables taken in the place but it was hardly busy and just as he sat down he saw a young, European man walk into the establishment with a guitar case in his hand. Curious, he watched the young man order a soft drink and then approach several tables where brief conversations were had. Eventually the young man approached his table.

"Excuse me, mister, do you speak English?" A decent enough questions considering that Mark looked more Brazilian.

"Indeed, I do".

"Would you like to buy a guitar?"

Mark looked at the young man and motioned him to sit down at the table.

"Well that will depend on how nice the guitar and is and how much you want for it. May I have a look?" Mark asked. The young man opened the case on the floor, on the side of the table pulled out a beautiful, well looked after acoustic guitar. Mark took the offered instrument and examined it. He did not know anything about guitar brands but he did know, from an attempt to learn to play the instrument many years ago, that a sign of a good guitar is that the space under the strings at the neck are about the same as at the nut.

One of the Americans at the next table noticed them and remarked to the young man what a beautiful guitar that was. He kind of guessed at the make, which was correct, and hinted at the expensive cost of new one but ended any hope of a sale with "couldn't play one for the life of me" before returning to his conversation on his table. Mark noticed that the lone waitress wiping down the tables was slowly making her way in their direction.

"I paid fifteen hundred dollars for it new but I will take three." the young man negotiated. "It's only like five years old but it is well looked after as you can see, it will last another ten years."

"Right." Mark mused, revealing his profession a little, "At fifteen hundred dollars and a fifteen year life span, your guitar depreciates at one hundred dollars a year. At that rate, the guitar is worth a thousand dollars?"

"Who is going to give me a thousand dollars?"

"Is it that good a guitar? Why are you selling it?"

The waitress was now slowly wiping the next table and looking at the guitar. Mark gestured her over and harangued the young man to have a 'real' drink. He ordered the beers and as the waitress turned to leave to get their order, he spoke to her in his English accented Portuguese.

"Maria, it is Maria, yes?"

"No, Maria is the other waitress, I am Marcela." she replied with a hesitant smile.

"Marcela, what gringo music do you like?"

"Country," she replied, " I love Shania Twain."

"Oh," Mark remarked a little surprised "which song?"

"No one needs to know" she replied in her broken English and went to get the drinks.

"My girlfriend and I have come to Rio from the States with a view of picking up some work – teaching English or something - and have been here a couple of weeks. We were expecting some money to be sent over to us but something is holding up the process and we are late paying for our digs, " he paused, "and we have nothing to eat at the moment."

"But you are a musician?"

"Yes, but I can always buy another guitar when we get some money and I doubt I would get a work visa as a musician." he responded softly.

Marcela had now returned with the drinks and was laying them out in front of them.

"Do you play country music?" Mark asked, handing the guitar back.

"Is the pope catholic?"

"Do you know her favourite song?" Mark looked at Marcela who was now standing waiting for payment.

"Yes, I do."

"Do you sing?" he said to her reaching for his wallet in his back pocket. She blushed a little and tried to avoid answering.

"Play the song for me so I can check how good you guitar is.' Turning to Marcela, he took out a note from his wallet and said in funny Portuguese "You can keep the change if you sing the song with him".

Marcela was taken aback and hastily looked towards her boss, the owner, who behind the bar keeping an eye on proceedings. Mark gestured 'its all cool' and a thumbs up and the proprietor shrugged and nodded back his approval.

Marcela had a really nice voice and sang beautifully despite her lack of English and the young man could play and sing. The crowd quietened down and listened as they sang and when they finished they got a 'sitting' ovation. Marcela grabbed the money and dashed off back to the bar a little flustered.

Mark looked at the young man and asked him his name.

"Martin, I will do you a deal. I will give you five hundred dollars for your guitar but I have a problem. I travel around a lot so I am likely to lose or damage such a beautiful thing so I want you to keep it for me."

Martin looked at him surprised.

"I would like to see my guitar every week on a Saturday afternoon just around here," he gestured outside to the pavement area outside the bar's patio "and just to prove my guitar, and it is my guitar, is in good form, I would like you to play it for an hour or so to the good folks on the street and in the bar. I may not always be here but make sure to include Marcela's song. Deal?" He stretched out his hand which Martin took with a huge grin on his face. "And maybe one day, you will also buy a guitar from me. "

Jose continued to finish his story. "That day, the two of them finished their beers and left but the following Saturday, the customer did not come but Martin, that is the young gringo musician, turned up outside the patio area, set up and played for over three hours. People stopped and threw coins into his guitar case and then," he paused recalling the memory, "when he played the song, my regular gringo customers called for Marcela and got her to sing for a large tip."

"And all the while, especially, after Marcela sang, the patio area filled up and we had the best Saturday's takings in a while."

After the second Saturday, José realised what he had to do. He hired Martin and for one day a week, Marcela became a singer. That is just what Saturday at the beach required, some live music in the sunshine! The Saturday afternoons spilled into evenings, more people started to come regularly and the night crowd improved. Soon he extended the afternoon and evening sessions to Sunday too.

Some weeks later, Mark returned on a early Saturday afternoon. José did not notice him at first but soon did when he observed the Americans' offering him a seat to join them at their table. As soon as José spotted him, he told all his bar staff that any drinks ordered by that customer, go on the 'tab'. He told them to ensure that all waitresses, yes he had to have a few on duty on a Saturdays now, knew that no money was to be taken from him. 'By all means get money from the others' orders, but all his orders were free''.

When Martin and Marcela came in for their Saturday performance, even before they set up, Martin took out the guitar and they both walked up to the table singing the song. Mark clapped with the others and grinned as they approached him. They spoke for a bit doing some catching up and Mark got to check that his guitar was still in good form.

As they returned to set up, Marcela beckoned a waitress over to them and asked her to get him a drink on them. "What for?" the waitress asked, "the boss is already giving him free drinks as much as he wants." Martin and Marcela smiled at each other and proceeded to have a great afternoon's performance.

During that afternoon, Beatriz arrived. Marcela and Beatriz knew each other quite well. They were both from the north around Salvador where the African influence both in the society and in both women's genetic make-up was evident. Whilst Marcela was good looking, Beatriz was more lovely. She was more full bodied than the typical 'Americanised' thin light-skinned Brazilian models the press so love and spoke a reasonable level of English, a rarity amongst Rio prostitutes. She was a mix of Amerindian and African with a touch of European features that made her a very popular prostitute especially with African American men. Marcela suggested Beatriz look after her nice friend.

Marcela and Beatriz met up a few days later in the favela above Rio where they both lived. Marcela was aware that Beatriz, a single mum, could have been out of pocket for the favour and so wanted to ensure she was OK. Beatriz said it was all fine.

"He was the perfect gentleman. We left and he took me to dinner, then we went dancing and he generally treated me like his lady. And when we got back to his place late, he told me he could not do anything until he knew me better and even though we slept in the same bed, I didn't have to work. I had a great time."

Beatriz didn't always have the time to pop into the restaurant and nor was Mark there every Saturday, but occasionally they would meet up, have a few drinks and maybe a few dances and disappear.

Even when the owner was not there, Mark noticed that his drinks always seem to be on the tab. Whenever he asked about it, he was told the 'owner' had said it had been settled. Little did he know that it did cause some chaos on one occasion when the waitresses saw him come in and they had to argue with the new manager and warn him of his impending dismissal should anyone as much as take a penny of Mark. The manager had the foresight to check with José instead of overriding the waitresses.

Martin loved the Saturday and Sunday afternoon gigs. Music was his life and it was his escape. His now wife and him had settled down in Rio, got regular jobs and they were now expecting a baby. When he heard the news of the baby, Martin told his wife that he needed to buy the guitar back before that 'spoilt brat gets his hands into my pocket'.

His chance came a few Saturdays later when Mark dropped in on his occasional sorties. During the break, he went over to Mark to negotiate the sale of one guitar. After some chit chat catching up, Mark thought for a minute then he asked a waitress to get José to come over.

"Mister," he explained to José, not really knowing how to address him, "this young man wants to buy my guitar which I am willing to sell to him. To determine the price, I need to know the value of that never ending tab that I seem to have at this establishment."

"My name is José? What is yours?"

"Mark, Mark Chabuka. I am originally from England." They shook hands.

"Well, Mr Chabuka," José said, and in that moment Martin knew the middle name of his son, "that tab will never ever have a price on it for what you have done for me is priceless." Mark looked puzzled as he tried to fathom what it was he could have possibly done. José looked around his packed restaurant bar, shook Mark's hand again and strolled away ordering a waitress to take drinks to the table. José never had to worry about the 'tab' because it never was much anyway. Most of the time people bought Mark drinks, he was just that sort of person.

"Ok. I'll tell you what. I will sell you the guitar for four hundred dollars since it will have depreciated somewhat now." Martin made to object but was motioned silent "and you will only give me three hundred dollars because I am gifting you new child one hundred dollars from his adopted Uncle Mark. Get him something to remember me by."

Lately, Martin had noticed that Marcela appeared a bit distant and distracted. Later on another music break that same day, she walked over and sat down at Mark's table. They was a bit of small talk, catching up in a mix of Portuguese and English and then she mentioned something about family pressure to settle down and find someone and she was debating whether to return back north to a simpler way of life. Mark smiled and looked straight in her face and said. "Sometimes love is right under your nose and you don't see it." and with that he looked directly at a couple of obviously Brazilian men a few of tables along. She turned to look and stared right into the gaze of one of the men who gave a huge smile. Her heart skipped a beat, she had noticed him a few times beforeand she shyly turned back to Mark. As she left the table, behind her back, Mark looked at the young man, smiled and gave him a thumbs up. The man said something to his friend, got up and followed Marcela up to the bar.

Back in São Paulo, Gabriel was still not getting it. Eventually, José just said "Gabriel, there are some people in the world that have this gift. They are like a good omen and everything they seem to touch makes life better for other people. I tell you that man has that gift. And now that it appears that he is dying, I want to shake his hand one more time so maybe, just maybe, he can leave me a little of his magic.".

Gabriel saw the sincerity on José face. "Ok then, then lets get this deal done and get on the plane today, tomorrow is Saturday."

Unfortunately, they could not leave that day but José and Gabriel arrived back at the restaurant early Saturday afternoon and Mark was there, this time with company including some children. When he spotted him, José was taken aback by Mark's physical appearance. Mark seemed to have just wasted away. He walked over to the table closely followed by Gabriel and Mark saw him coming, smiled widely and stood up.

"People, people," he announced to the table, "here is the owner of this place." He shook José's hand as everyone looked up at them, except the children of course, who were busy with other things. "This fool believes I am a customer even though I never appear to pay for anything in this place."

"José, these are my family over from England. They return tomorrow so we are having a farewell lunch." He then introduced his son and wife and two grandsons and his two daughters, one of whom was the mother of the sole grand-daughter. José introduced Gabriel and when everyone settled back, he asked quietly.

"Yes, my friend I am very, very sick. I have my children and grandchildren here to say my goodbyes but I will stay here, this is were I have come to belong. I have made my arrangements."

The sad news came via Marcela who had been told by Beatriz. Beatriz had been the one to help Mark with the 'arrangements'. Two weeks later Rio cried, the rain came down in buckets as a small group of people stood on Copacabana beach getting drenched and watched the ashes been thrown to the waves, a fitting resting place for a man who had come to see Rio as 'his place in the sun'.

--END--