Chapter 1

A wall of hot wind hit me the moment I got off the cold, air-conditioned bus. Before stepping off, I stuck my head out, looking from side to side to see if any crazy cyclists or motorcycles would come out of nowhere before I dragged my worn-out, two-wheel pullman suitcase down the steps. I made a mental note for the millionth time to buy myself a decent four-wheel one as I tried to keep it balanced on its two wheels on the irregular sidewalk. I had to get off at the first stop after the tunnel, cross Barata Ribeiro Street into Belfort Roxo, and turn right into Ministro Viveiros de Castro. In the boiling, 45 degree January summer heat, the light sweater I put on the bus in order not to freeze in the cold air-conditioning had suddenly become impossible to wear, so I stopped, removed it and tied it around my waist before crossing the street. These banal movements made me break a sweat. I dodged distracted tourists, dizzy alcoholics, sneaky street urchins, and fruit stands in Belfort Roxo Street before entering the quieter Viveiros de Castro. I could tell most buildings were from around the 30s to 50s because of the beautiful Art Deco architecture style, which I have always loved. I walked slowly, admiring the grandiosity of the well kept old buildings, relishing the symmetrical designs on the iron the gates, peering quickly in the doorways to see the designs in the marble floors and chandeliers of the lobbies. One of them had a red carpet and and a floor design that led up to the doorman's chair in the center, resembling a king on a throne.

While dragging my clunky brown suitcase in the irregular sidewalk and taking in the sights of the stunning old buildings, I was in a sort of daze, thinking, "I have made it." I had finally been able to find an affordable place in Rio, a dream that had been postponed for years due to a sudden spike in housing costs that ocurred in the years leading up to the World Cup/Olympic Games. I was in such a desperate state of mental and physical disarray after facing around hours of daily traffic, which had doubled the commuting time from coming and going from a leafy Niterói suburb where I lived with parents to my university in Gávea, that I leaped at the chance of renting a penthouse studio in Copacabana, two blocks from the beach, for the unbelievable proce of 500 reais, the price you would pay to share a room, half, or even a third of the price of a room for yourself in the Zona Sul of Rio. I negotiated with Dona Ilse, the landlady, who lived the penthouse apartment on the same floor as the studio. I actually transferred two months' rent in advance before I even saw the place, just to guarantee my spot. A penthouse studio in Copacabana for that price is worth it even if its a dump, I thought. I was racked with worry in the following hours fearing the worst and regretting having taken such a decision by impulse, but when I arrived at the building the next day and saw that it was undoubtedly the most beautiful Art Deco building on the street.

It was an imponent, gray, gothic looking building with zig-zag designs jutting out on the façade. The balconies were made of a matching, angled metalwork and followed the jutting-out zig-zag pattern. The window panes were of a pale yellow, contrasting beautifully with the grey extrior. I gasped in happiness like a child on Christmas day. "Calm down" I reminded myself "Don't expect too much, you haven't even seen the room.With such a low price in such a wonderful location and building, something has to be wrong with it!" But I knew that just by living in this building, in a place all to myself would be worth it. I wobbled  the suitcase towards the doorway and tried to make out its name. "Edifício Guahy" it said. I walked towards the steps and the big black arched metal gate that looked like a gaping mouth. The doorman, a short, stocky man with a cheerful demeanor promptly opened the gate and then the elevator door for me after I identified myself and said where I was going. "Ah, Dona Ilse's new tenant, ok, you can go on up."

I got in the iron elevator and went up the 4th and last floor. The door opened to reveal a square hallway with three other doors, besides the elevator. What caught my eye first was the Art Deco design of the floor, of black and white marble, similar to the desgin in the lobby but more adapted to a square I guessed D.Ilse's would be the door in front of the elevator, in the center, an imponent dark wooden door, engraved with art neaveau motifs, while the one on the left, an black iron one with a curved handle and on the right, a doorway with a red stairwell curved downwards to the floors below. So I rang the bell and after around 20 seconds later a tall, thin, elderly woman with a her hair in rollers, covered in a brightly colored hermes scarf opened the door the door. Although her almost translescent skin was very wrinkled, with high cheekbones that gave her a certain glamorous look about her, and had piercing eyes with an undeniable youthful spark. She spoke in a friendly, yet distant manner. "Ah, you must be Sarah. I am Ilse. I've got you keys here. Follow me, I'll show you the place."

I was grateful for no awkward waiting moments for her to get the key, and followed her throught the iron door on the left that, as I'd guessed, led to a circular iron stairs to a stunning iron and glass Art Deco door. The glass was put in a way that you couldn't see through it. She opened the door with an ancient decorated, handed it to me and led me in. "This used to be a servants' area. We turned it into a penthouse that was part of the apartment downstairs and a few years later, as I was alone here I separated it from the house in order to rent it. I have no interest in renting for tourism and much rather have one tenant at a time living here, instead of a family or a couple. And again, as it is only I, I think a female such as yourself would be appropriate."