Apparently I can either stick to my 20-chapter plan or produce chapters of manageable length; not both. I rather like the 20-chapter sequence, so here is another whopping 8,000-word chunk, a mix of anecdotes, travelogue and extended flashback.
There is crazy, and then there is business deadline crazy. Last week's sick leave was all but wasted on working from home, and half an hour ago, just as I was looking forward to writing another chapter or two today, I was informed that this time tomorrow I'll be on a plane for a four-day trip, trying to frantically meet a deadline for a project that, as of last Monday, is de facto dead, or at least pointless, anyway. My apologies; as of this coming Thursday all this will likely be history and I can finish my tale, now nearing its halfway point, in relative peace.
Thanks to klcthebookworm for catching my Joker mistake :)
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xxx
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"Are you sure there's positively no way I can do it? I can leave a deposit. You can talk to my banker, he can get you a guarantee for the full cost amount…"
Bruce is really doing his best to be charming and persuasive. It has worked part of the way; the receptionist, who pulled in the managing director just as he was about to sneak off for an early lunch in town, is still staring starry-eyed at the handsome stranger who does his best, in a mix of English and Italian, to persuade Senhor Nogueira that he is perfectly capable of flying a helicopter even though his pilot's license is for a Cessna Skyhawk, that he has flown plenty of similar craft in rough conditions, and can leave heaps of money as a guarantee in case he puts so much s a scratch on it. For a minute or so, even Nogueira looked swayed; but then his shoulders slumped and he waved a hand in resignation.
"I apologise, Mr Wainwright. I'd really like to let you do it but we have very strict rules here at Guarulhos. Sometimes they'll come up with a spot check before take-off to see that we have all the necessary kit on board. If they see a passenger about to take off piloting one of our craft, they can confiscate and impound it and make us pay a fine of 200,000 Reais. I know you're offering to pay it, but it's too much to pay for a half-hour airport transfer, don't you agree?" He looks at Bruce with an expression meant to placate. "I assure you, our pilot is at your full disposal and can take any route you may want to indicate to him… so long as safety rules allow." She suspects that the real reason for the reluctance is not the danger of airport authority spot checks but the fear that she and Bruce may be hijackers – after all, modern scam artists can engineer a call where an accomplice answers what seems a legitimate phone number pretending to be a bank manager, credit card verification can be similarly faked, and you never know what intentions may hide behind respectable looks; she herself has used conservative dress and demure manners for criminal ends lots of times, and can sympathise.
Bruce decides not to push it. "I understand, Senhor Nogueira. I apologise for trespassing on your lunchtime and thank you for the offer. If your pilot could fly us along the oceanfront past Sugarloaf, then west over to Corcovado, then swing further south to Leblon and then go back east along Ipanema and land at our hotel, we'll have seen most of it."
"Of course, Mr Wainwright. Juliana, please tell Diego what the senhor wants."
"Right away, Senhor Nogueira." The receptionist picks up her desk phone to relay the message, and half a minute later, having done with the thanks and smiles and handshakes, they are escorted to the landing pad.
"It was worth a try," Bruce says to her, apologetically.
"No worries, caro, I'll still see it." It would be more fun if he flew it, but you cannot have it all.
He lets her take the co-pilot's seat in the front and settles in the back with their carry-on suitcases, and they soar toward the clear sky. As soon as they are a couple of hundred feet off the ground, Rio once again unfurls its majestic panorama that she glimpsed from the plane on their approach: the endless fringe of beaches glowing white against the turquoise ocean, the city sprawling next to them, scrambling up onto the steep hills, against the sharply rising green backdrop of the Tijuca forest covering the Serra da Carioca, the sleek statue of Cristo Redentor floating above the rest of the ridge in lofty solitude. There is a whiff of resemblance to Hong Kong, but where Hong Kong is all about the triumph of man over landscape, full of ultra-modern sleek glass and glitzy technology, with the hills almost indistinguishable underneath the skyscraper jungle and the beaches squeezed away by relentless construction and relegated to Lantau Island across the bay, Rio rejoices in its glorious setting and still wears its untamed side with pride. She could live here; they say it is notoriously unsafe, but what is that to her when she can single-handedly beat half a dozen men if things get tough? In another life, perhaps… For now, she must be content to survey it from the skies and look forward to two days of exploring with a dinner in between.
They set down on the helipad on the roof of the Sofitel on the Arpoador, a sort of urban isthmus between the world's two most famous beaches, Ipanema and Copacabana, its upper floors commanding a grand view of both and of the little Praia do Diablo in between. They have booked the enormous Imperial suite that wraps around the semicircular southern front – Bruce picked it and she certainly did not mind – and for the first couple of hours, rather than heading straight into town, they lounge around, drinking the welcome cocktails and snacking on a light room service lunch, walking between the suite's eight balconies to see which one has the very best view angle, and, as per Bruce's euphemistic invitation, testing the mattress. Still, by the time it is half past two, they figure they'd better get out and see the main sights before it gets dark.
They put on their least conspicuous clothes, Selina having left not only the pearls, but even her wristwatch at the safe, and do the slightly reckless but decidedly fun thing by renting a convertible – at least they make sure it is an old, slightly shabby-looking Jeep Wrangler that is an unlikely target. If they had more time it would have been nice to walk on the grand oceanfront promenades stretching all the way from the western end of Leblon beach to Morro do Leme near the foot of Sugarloaf, but driving along the beachfront in the fresh ocean breeze is probably just as much fun. They go on from the eastern end of Copacabana to the elegant spiral curve of the Gloria marina up north, then double back to the sheltered nook of Botafogo beach and take the cable car from the foot of Morro da Urca to the round top of Sugarloaf in the late afternoon, in time to see the sparkling white sand turning rose gold in the setting sun, before heading to the top of the soaring Corcovado mountain and there to the foot of Cristo Redentor for a breathtaking city view in the dusk.
"Like it?"
What sort of question is that? Of course she likes it. "It's gorgeous. Probably the most beautiful city setting I've seen, and that includes Sydney and Hong Kong. Shame about the tourists or else we could have…" she pauses and gives him a dirty sideways look.
He laughs. "You just can't stay at a mountaintop location and not get the urge to have sex."
"I didn't know you had a problem with it."
He keeps chuckling. "I didn't say I had one. That's why I was thinking that after dinner we could go to another mountaintop with a view that's every bit as good. Provided we'll bother to admire it. That one is really busy during the day but totally deserted at night."
She is intrigued, to say the least. "It's a deal."
xxx
They take a cab to their 8 pm dinner appointment with Armando. Selina herself picked the Gero Ipanema, apparently the chic-est local venue to see and be seen with great food to boot, and their middle-aged Wrangler is not the sort of vehicle to take to a place like that if they want a good table. With the same in mind, she puts on one of the two smart dresses she packed on this trip – she figures Armando has seen enough of her in black so she goes for her favourite cornflower she got in Lugano two days after she left Hong Kong. She takes the pearls out of the room safe and slips them into her handbag; she may be good in a fight and accompanied by an equally good, if not better fighter, but there is no point in tempting fate by putting on the eye-catching necklace until they are at the restaurant.
The restaurant is open but practically deserted; it is still early by local standards. They take seats at the bar to wait for Armando. He sent them a text five minutes ago to say he would be ten minutes late, and asking if it was OK for him to bring a friend.
"I said it was fine," Bruce says, shrugging his shoulders. Selina is guessing that he is probably pleased; if the friend, as she suspects, is female, then he can probably dismiss Armando as a threat where Selina is concerned. "I told him I was bringing a colleague, so I guess he figured it was a table for four anyway."
She shakes her head in mock disbelief. Girlfriend or not, he still wants to see what happens when she is revealed to be his wife. Then again, it is bound to be entertaining.
"Brandon!" Their dinner date greets them with a cheerful wave from the entrance. The wave falters just a bit when he sees Selina – from surprise more than shock, and pleasant surprise at that, judging by the broad smile. "Celine, what a pleasure to see you again." Not surprisingly, he goes for the twin kisses on the cheek for a greeting before a handshake with Bruce, and immediately turns his attention back to her. "Brandon told me he was bringing a colleague, I had no idea it was you!" He turns to Bruce again with a reproachful look. "If only you'd told me who it was you were bringing I wouldn't have been so stupid as to let my current girlfriend tag along." He asks the bartender for a caipirinha and turns back to them, glass in hand, as Selina does her best to suppress the laughter before he notices.
She pulls a serious face and tells him the bad news. "Armando, I'm married now."
He is completely undeterred. "So long as you are on your own here, it's not a problem," he assures her with a conspiratorial wink and a quick sip of his drink.
She is about to say that she is very much not on her own when Bruce cuts in with his trademark deadpan delivery. In a perfectly pitched voice – he could be greeting an eminent guest at a diplomatic reception – he makes the formal introduction, of half-introduction as the case may be.
"Celine, I believe you know Armando Alves de Mello, senior business development manager at Quimetal, our subsidiary." Armando makes an impatient face but lets Bruce continue. "Armando, this is Celine Wainwright, my wife. Who also happens to be my colleague," he adds; by then Selina is busy tapping on Armando's back as the poor man has choked on his caipirinha. "You okay?" Bruce finishes innocently. "Ye-es," Armando manages, and Selina is glad that she is out of his direct line of sight and free to give in to the quiet giggles.
"You said your girlfriend is joining us?" she asks when he has regained his breath and taken a gulp of the strong cocktail, pretending that she never heard the stupid and current girlfriend part.
Armando looks both sheepish and resigned, but has to make a brave face and rescue the situation as best he can. "Yes, she told me she's never been at Gero and would love to try it." Much more likely, she heard that her well-to-do and reasonably good-looking boyfriend is off to a mysterious dinner and wanted to keep an eye on him. "She doesn't speak much English but I suppose we'll manage."
Selina gives him her sweetest smile. "I'm sure we will."
Armando has not yet fully recovered, however. "You- you told me you were-" He stops, realising that perhaps could be is betraying a dirty little secret of Selina's by reminding her of her Hong Kong "widowhood".
She is not in the least worried, though. Perhaps it is time Bruce heard the story.
"I told you I was a widow, I know," she finishes for him, ignoring Bruce's surprised expression. "You see, I thought he was dead and didn't feel like moving on too fast, though we weren't married at the time. We hadn't even been dating. Well, we had one or two dates," she corrects herself, though it is admittedly a very loose interpretation of their Gotham encounters. "But when I found out he was alive and living in Lugano, the day you and I were supposed to have dinner, I had to go see him. And it sort of went on from there."
There is no question that Bruce is flattered. Enough so, apparently, as to magnanimously forgive Armando for the earlier faux pas and be reminded of something he said to her a year ago in Hong Kong when the two of them stopped by there. "So really, I have you to thank for getting us together again. You see, I'd got into a bad car crash and Celine had no idea I'd survived, and then when I knew I'd make it I sent Celine these pearls she's wearing with a card and my number inside the case, and she only discovered the card when she decided to wear the necklace for the dinner you two never had." It is not the exact truth, but a close enough approximation without giving away too much.
"And I wanted to apologise again for standing you up," Selina adds.
"No problem," Armando replies, with both a smile and a sigh. "I'm glad to have played a part in such a romantic story." He takes another look at her neckline, whether to admire the pearls or to sneak a peek at her cleavage while he has a pretext. "Those are exceptionally good pearls," he muses. "Must be seriously expensive, too."
"About a million Reais," she informs him matter-of-factly. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars; and that's a conservative estimate.
"And you wore them on your way here?!" Armando gasps.
"I had them in my bag," she assures him.
"Did you at least get an armoured car from the hotel?" he insists.
"No, we took a cab, we figured it was less conspicuous. It's just a mile and a half from the Sofitel to here, anyway."
"Well, you aren't taking a cab on your way back. I've got an armoured Mercedes and I'll give you a lift."
"Thanks. Is it really as bad as this?"
"Not always, but you never know. They often keep an eye on people leaving fancy places."
"Then I'm glad I didn't bring my wedding ring," she replies, also to explain why there is no outward indication of her civil state.
"Is it more expensive than the pearls?" he queries incredulously.
She rolls her head from side to side. "Oh yeah."
"About…" Bruce runs a quick mental calculation, "…two hundred and eighty times as much."
Armando does not choke this time; he just stares. "You're damn right it's a good thing you're not wearing it," he exhales finally. "With that sort of thing you wouldn't just need an armoured car, you'd need an armoured carrier. Better still, a brigade of them."
It is probably true. And Lugano may not be as breathtakingly stunning as Rio, but one of the advantages of living there is that over there, she can wear the outrageous item in plain sight and not risk much more than envious stares from the bankers' wives.
"So what can I do for you guys?" Armando asks them when the shock has subsided. "You said," he goes on, addressing Bruce, "that you needed a few samples. What sort?"
"The minicams," Bruce explains. "The smallest ones we can get, autonomously powered. The sort of thing you can wear and hide in a pen or a watch – or a piece of jewellery, incidentally. Also a few night vision ones, again the smallest you have, and a couple of shielded ones. And a few miniature microphones. We have a client in Italy who's been getting Mafia threats." The white lie is a quicker and safer explanation to make in a public space compared to the truth of having been commissioned by the CIA.
"Sure. You know the shielded ones we make aren't exactly wearable, but they're reliable."
"That's the important thing. The micro stuff will do for most uses, and if we need these, they can be installed as stationary devices."
"I've heard they make good small shielded cams in the US," Armando suggests. "You could try contacting Honeywell or Wayne or Raytheon to see if you can buy some from them."
Bruce waves the suggestion away. "No, it's OK, we don't have much time. Besides, Wayne doesn't make the stuff themselves. In fact they asked us a while back if they could buy from us – that would be from Quimetal through us." They being Lucius, of course, who has been the designated intercompany liaison for the past year, working for the same owner in his living and posthumous guises.
The mention brings up a business rumour recollection in Armando's mind. "Is it true that Wayne tried to buy a stake in your company last year?"
Bruce smiles. "They tried. They found me less willing to sell than they'd hoped."
Armando shakes his head. "Their owners must have thought you were batshit crazy."
"I am crazy, I know," Bruce assures him readily.
Selina turns away to hide the grin.
xxx
All things considered, the dinner was a less entertaining affair than the drinks that had preceded it. Their lively discussion was soon interrupted by the arrival of young, tall, slim, dyed-blonde and expensively-dressed current girlfriend Leticia, whose easy greeting to the maître d' left Selina in little doubt that her story of not having been to Gero had been a bald-faced lie. The part about her not speaking much English was true, however, so that Armando had to translate for her when she joined the conversation – which was not very frequently, as for the most part she was there just to make sure Armando's eyes did not stray too often in Selina's direction. She was distinctly displeased when Selina paid for dinner, with the explanation, unfortunately translated at face value, that she was paying him back for a big favour he had done her in Hong Kong. The poor guy will either have to start taking her along on his business trips from now on, Selina thought, or start looking for a new girlfriend. She suspects she knows which option he'll go for.
Half an hour after Armando and sulky Leticia dropped them off at the Sofitel with a promise to deliver the gadgets tomorrow afternoon, they are driving out again – once again in the Wrangler wearing simple clothes, with Bruce at the wheel and her in the passenger seat, heading for the mountaintop Bruce had intriguingly promised to take her to. It is only ten miles west, but it takes them almost half an hour to get there – for once she asks Bruce to go slowly so that she can take a good look at the beaches they are driving past, and when they take the right turn onto the roughly paved, unlit track leading away from the beach and north into the mountains past the suburb of Sao Conrado for the final four-mile ascent, he slows down further to avoid giving them both a bad case of tremors with the hard suspension.
The spot, when they get to it, is well worth the trip and would probably be worth a trip twice as long. It is not, strictly speaking, at the top of the mountain, but at 1 700 feet, it is high enough. Above them, she can make out the peculiar turret-shaped top of Pedra da Gavea a thousand feet up and about a thousand feet to the southeast against the night sky, the bare rock shimmering softly in the light of the crescent moon. Far below, at the bottom of a sheer drop, lies Sao Conrado strung along the Praia do Pepino; further to the east is the glowing golden strip of Ipanema and the scattering of city lights next to it, and in between are the steep, jagged double hilltops of Dos Irmaos, silhouetted black against the bright city. It looks magical, and there is not a soul in sight.
Yet contrary to their usual modus operandi, rather than take advantage of the lofty spot and get frisky, they just sit down a couple of feet away from the edge of the wooden hang-glider launch platform and take in the view. Part of it may be due to the fact that the platform slopes down as it nears the edge to facilitate take-off – not exactly helpful for an amorous couple perched near the edge of a seventeen-hundred-foot drop without the benefit of hang-gliders, or any other means of sustaining flight, for that matter.
Bruce is the one to take issue with it. "Fuck, this is ridiculous. It would be so much fun flying down from here, we could fly over to the Pico Dois Irmaos and see Ipanema up close, and now I'm sitting here like an idiot and can only show it to you from the platform. Why the fucking hell didn't I think of asking Lucius for a memory cloth cape when we were in his office yesterday? I already knew we were headed to Rio for fuck's sake."
"Maybe because bringing the Bat-cape in your baggage and flaunting it flying around Rio might get in the way of keeping a low profile?" she reminds him wryly. It would be fun, sure – she has never tried it but can certainly believe it – but sometimes Bruce forgets the whole being dead thing and what it means. It is bad enough that he has been strutting his stuff in more Swiss and Italian extreme sports events than she'd care to remember. It is a tempting proposition, though. "Maybe we can come back tomorrow morning and rent a glider from the pilots?"
He perks up at the suggestion… somewhat. "It's not as good as flying with the cape would be, these things are fully rigid and less manoeuvrable. But on the plus side, if they give us the double one they use for passenger flights, it'll have a harness for you to strap yourself into instead of holding onto me."
Holding onto him is not really an unpleasant notion per se; on the other hand, doing it for the better part of a quarter of an hour while hanging a thousand feet in the air might be pushing it. "See, it makes more sense anyway."
"I guess it does." A pause, long enough for her to star wondering what is going on in his head. "You know, it's funny you should have mentioned the cape." What's so funny when you were the one lamenting its absence, sweetheart? "I was just thinking, when we were leaving Gotham, that now I can finally rest easy in the knowledge that Batman is really no longer needed there." Ah, that's what it is… now this, the fact that he thinks so whether it is 100% true or not, is good news. "They've got Blake as the Nightwing, they've got Gordon who really cleaned the city up, even without the Dent Act to rely on. I kept thinking if I went back there I'd feel like a traitor for leaving a city that needs me. Instead it's a relief to see that it no longer does. But I still miss it sometimes."
She can understand the sentiment even though she does not quite share it; for her Gotham, for all its energy and drive and the odd cosiness of living among high-rises, was never a choice, more of a survival obstacle course than a home. He was its golden boy, of course, at least for a while… maybe that's what he is missing. "What, need your fix of partying?"
He laughs. "Of course not. It's more about the people, Lucius and Gordon, and the company, I feel bad about no longer having any part in what my father built. And the city itself, I never really had a chance to enjoy it, I don't mean the partying, just walking around, looking at it. These past two days were the first time I could do it since when my parents were alive. I'd like to go see the orphanage at Wayne Manor, see what it's like…"
"I went there." She did not tell him until now; when she came back that morning there wasn't much time, then after their meeting it did not seem like the right moment to bring it up. She figured she would tell him eventually, just was not sure when.
He does not answer at once. "So that's where you went yesterday."
"Yep. I thought you were asleep."
"I woke up at about nine and you were gone. I didn't know where, and didn't want to corner you with it. So you went to see Blake?" There is a hint of suspicion in his voice, a far cry from full-blown jealousy but with just a touch of sulkiness.
She chuckles. "No, I went to see the Regency Room."
He takes a second to answer, again; as far as she can tell, he is impressed by her recollection of the circumstances of his birth. "You know it isn't the original house, though," he comments cautiously.
"I do, but I recall reading that it's an exact replica." She does not particularly care to recall when and under what circumstances she read it; the fact is, she studied the blueprints for the original Wayne Manor deposited at the city archives when she was getting ready to steal his fingerprints. "So it was the closest I could get to the real thing, anyway."
"You're right, it is an exact replica. Apart from the foundations, we reinforced the part above the cave and installed a new lift system there after the fire." He falls silent again, and she momentarily berates herself for the awkward choice of subject. This is turning into a waste of a glorious mountaintop opportunity.
"How was it?" he asks at last.
"Big. Impressive. I could tell though that it must have been a cold place to live in."
"It was… after my parents died." Died, not were killed. Has he finally moved on from the pain?
"I think it needs a lot of people to make it feel more like a home. I think it was a great idea to turn it over to the kids. They run and shout all over the place, but for them it's fun, so much space and all this fancy Gothic stuff. Blake tells me the younger kids call it Hogwarts."
This finally gets him laughing. "I'm glad they enjoy being there. So you went all the way there just to see the Regency Room?" Not suspicious, just surprised.
"That, and the East Drawing Room where we met. Where you caught me," she corrects herself.
"Where I failed to catch you," he corrects her, making her chuckle.
"I don't think you were really trying."
"I'm flattered. I don't think I was in any shape to. Besides, you were quite a sight. I still remember watching the best-looking pair of legs I'd ever seen jumping out the window, and being unable to do anything to stop you."
"So it wasn't about the pearls, then," she teases. Joking aside, she is positive that the real reason he went after her was recovering the necklace.
"It was 50/50." She was half wrong, then. "Of course I wanted the pearls back, but I could've stolen them from your apartment when you were out." True. "What I wanted apart from the pearls was to see you again and to show you that I wasn't just this miserable broken creep you'd seen. You'd… embarrassed me so much that I wanted to prove to you that I could be worth a second look."
"Prove to me. To a jewel thief who had robbed you." Whatever she is now, it was true then.
"To a very good-looking and obviously very smart thief who had made me realise what a total wreck Id become. I remember lying on the floor after you'd escaped feeling really ashamed of myself, for the first time in years, of how I'd let myself go wallowing in self-pity, and thinking I deserved to be embarrassed for that. The truth is, for years I didn't give a fuck, ever since the Joker was caught." She knows what he really means by that reference. "At first I still got out and kept up appearances and put an effort into running the company. Then I had this big bright hope of building the reactor and I thought this was my chance of being Gotham's hero without the cape, I'd give the city this infinite source of power that would make life better and easier for everyone, not just the rich. Then when I found out how easily it was converted to military use and that hope died, I just stopped caring. Lucius used to write to me, I didn't really answer the phone, I mean I told Alfred to say I wasn't there, but I read the emails and answered some, occasionally, and he used to joke I must have uploaded my brain onto a computer. In reality it was worse than that, I'd buried myself alive. In a way, you embarrassing me at our first meeting was the best thing that could have happened."
So if he is to be believed, she is to be credited with being the Princess Charming who broke into his enchanted castle and woke him up, the Sleeping Beauty… to live happily ever after? Well, if he likes to see things that way, she doesn't want to argue.
"All those years I'd been punishing myself for Rachel's death, by refusing to live. I'd been thinking of her as my only chance of a normal life, the only person who would accept me both for who I was and for who I'd been, who didn't care about my bank account like most people did, and didn't think of me as a freak knowing I flew around Gotham hunting down crime lords. I think she saw that I'd sort of boxed her in, in my mind, into this future that was only possible if she was with me. In the end we both wanted to be free, but what I saw as the condition of my freedom was what she saw as the end of hers. I don't think I'd have been as bad as she thought," he continues bitterly, "but I half suspect we'd have probably divorced in a month anyway. I'd made her into a symbol, and I think she hated that. I knew, at the back of my mind, that I could never have her, but it only made me go into denial and want to fight to keep her near me. Anyway, she wrote to me just before she died to tell me she was marrying Harvey Dent, and gave the letter to Alfred."
"I know; he told me." Alfred also told her that in hindsight, burning it was one of his greatest regrets – but, he had added, "all's well that ends well."
Interesting how Bruce has apparently been thinking along exactly the same lines. "In retrospect, I wish he'd told me right then. It would have hurt more, but it would have allowed me to let go sooner. But so long as it brought me here, it's OK."
"As opposed to bringing you to Miranda Tate, I suppose?" she comments wryly.
"As opposed to anyone."
It is an exaggeration, surely. "I don't know. I think you have this type you're attracted to, I just happened to be the next one that fit."
He chuckles. "Yeah. Tall, dark and handsome, smart, good legs. Preferably good fighting skills."
"Well, I suppose the dark part rules out Harvey Dent," she teases.
He sounds embarrassed when he answers. "You know… I did like him."
"As in, like him?" That's something of a curveball; but it does explain all the self-flagellation over Dent's death.
"Yeah… of course it never went anywhere. I don't even think he knew. Maybe it was just displaced jealousy over Rachel, because they were together. I never even slept with her, you know." Now that's news too; Selina has heard enough about his previous reputation to be positive that Rachel had, at some point, surrendered to his charms.
"So if Harvey had lived you two would be an item?" she muses aloud.
"Who knows. And if they both had lived, maybe we would have become Gotham's most famous threesome." He laughs, but she can tell he isn't really finding it entertaining. "But so long as I would've ended up meeting you," he continues seriously, "I would have still ended up trying to get you and left the two of them to themselves."
"How come?"
"You were too much of a challenge for me not to want you."
This is interesting; she never thought that he saw her exactly the way she saw him.
"What did you think when I showed up and saw you in the drawing room?"
That's a tricky question. Not because she does not remember what she thought – she does, and not because it would be embarrassing for him to hear – it isn't; but because it would likely lead to yet another admission of what a huge effect it ended up having on her, and even now, after a year of marriage, she is wary of exposing her feelings too much, even to him.
"You surprised me."
"By shooting an arrow to within an inch of your ear. You know, I knew it wouldn't hit you."
She laughs. "No, not that. I mean, the arrow sure did surprise me, but it was more… the way you carried yourself."
"Like a scruffy bum, you mean."
"Not quite. For one thing, you didn't have eight-inch fingernails."
His turn to laugh. "It that what you expected?"
"That's what I'd heard."
"You sure it was fingernails you heard them talking about?"
She elbows him in the ribs. "The way I recall it, the person I overheard saying it was Daggett. If he wasn't talking about fingernails, I don't want to know what the story may be behind that."
He laughs again. "Oh shit. You should have mentioned the source at the start."
"And spared you a few blushes? No, I'm glad I didn't. Anyway, what I meant was…" At least it has become light-hearted enough to keep her safely from confessing anything too deep. "What surprised me was the way you took everything in stride, the way you took me in stride. Here I was, stealing a necklace that belonged to you, having broken into a safe that you believed uncrackable, and you talked about it like it was some kind of joke, or at least a daily occurrence."
"In truth, I was too busy ogling you."
She snickers in outward acknowledgment, but it only takes her further away from acknowledging the real, serious truth: after the initial surprise of that meeting wore off, after the added surprise of seeing him at Miranda's charity ball had run its course – and sure enough, he had surprised her then by cleaning up very nicely indeed - what kept her thinking about him through the months of Gotham's occupation and the endless weeks of his presumed death and ultimately made her fall in love with him was not his defiance of expectations but his persistent refusal to judge her and his belief in the best in her – a belief that had ended up a self-fulfilling prophecy, if the direction her life has taken is any indication.
"And then when you found out the prints I'd taken were used to steal your money, you still showed up to talk to me like nothing had happened."
"I knew it was Bane's doing and not really yours. For that matter, you took me in stride too. And you were probably the only person other than Lucius who treated me exactly the same way after I was supposedly bankrupt as you had before. You were still every bit as snarky to me, and I liked that."
"I just think you're masochistic."
He snorts. "That, too... It has limits, though. By the time I was in hospital in Geneva, I was really done with the self-punishment idea, at least in the sense I'd been doing it in Gotham. I did torture myself physically, kind of, but the purpose was exactly the opposite of self-punishment. I really wanted to get into shape, to be able to have a normal life. And I must admit, the memory of lying on the floor in that drawing room was an extra incentive. If I ever saw you again, I thought, I'd better not be a miserable cripple."
This time she cannot help protesting out loud. "I don't think you were ever in danger of being that." No matter what callous words she may have said once when escaping Wayne Manor.
"Anyway, it helped me recover faster."
"And then?" She has heard him talk briefly about that time, but she still wants to know more.
"And then I started thinking about what to do. You see, my original plan had been to kill off Batman and stay in Gotham as Bruce Wayne. That was sort of my version of the CleanSlate; if I could see that I was no longer needed to fight crime, I could pack up the persona and have a life. I didn't see much point to it after Rachel, but when Alfred told me about her letter, after I'd thought about it, I thought I could still do it. I'd written a will and made arrangements in case I didn't make it, before I went to see Bane, just in case. Then when I was recovering in Geneva, by the time I knew I'd live, it hit me that I didn't really want to go back if it meant just being Wayne. I'd have probably been tempted if I'd heard you were there, but I realised that after I'd spent years sacrificing Wayne's reputation to protect the Batman identity, I was left with a really shitty rap sheet, and people would always see me as the guy who'd burned down his house and threw huge parties just so he could be rude to his guests and had threesome after threesome and whatnot. Some of the facts were true…" – she wonders absently how much of the threesome part was true – "…but it all added up to someone who wasn't really me and no matter what I did and what I was like, most of them would always judge me on that basis, as a foregone conclusion, and I didn't want that."
She wants to say that the only way to be truly free of that shadow is to go back and fight it, but catches herself. She does not want to give him ideas; not that it would be a deal breaker for the two of them, but it would surely complicate things if he wanted to move back to Gotham, because she surely does not. Still, if he has made up his mind, she'd better know about it.
"And now?"
"Now I feel free to go back there if I want to. Who knows, I may even come back and let people recognise me. I don't think I'd want to move there unless you want to…" – she shakes her head, relieved to hear it – "…but I'm OK with going back every now and then."
Well, she can live with that.
xxx
This is déjà vu all over again.
"Are you sure there's no way I can do it? I can leave a deposit. You can talk to my banker, he can get you a guarantee for the full cost of the glider…"
They are back at the Pedra Bonita hang-glider launch platform, and Bruce is making a valiant attempt to stick to their last night's plan and talk the twentysomething pilots into letting him – or preferably, both of them – use one of the contraptions. They have been cautiously optimistic on the way up, Bruce even quipping that "they won't let me fly a helicopter but I hope I can at least bargain for the use of a strip of cloth on a frame". Too optimistic, as it turned out. Their fallback option is to let her take the double-harness glider in tandem with one of the regular pilots, but where she was OK with being flown around in the helicopter by the official pilot, she'd rather have him as her pilot in this flimsy flying contraption, both because it would be more fun and because she is just the tiniest bit nervous. Fighting and driving on the ground is one thing; flying up in the air without engines is still a new thing for her.
She wonders whether she should offer to get her pearls from the hotel and leave them as an exaggerated security deposit – they would probably buy the entire Pedra Bonita hang-glider fleet – when it starts looking like Bruce is making headway with one of the pilots, whom the others refer to as the daredevil. He is not exactly eager, but he is not shaking his head outright.
"Come on, I'm not as bad as I look," Bruce cajoles him. "I swear I've done this before, I won't break it."
Selina figures the guy is their best chance and decides to throw her weight into the discussion. "And if you're worried he'll steal it you can keep me here as a hostage." Never mind that she could probably take all of them hostage if the situation called for it; this is the time for doe eyes and demure looks.
Whether from innate recklessness or from Bruce's persuasive tone or from her added entreaty, the kid gives in. "It's your funeral", he informs Bruce nonchalantly with a wave of his hand.
"Great." Bruce instantly changes tone from pleading to upbeat and decisive. "You guys can pick me up on the Praia do Pepino. Or my mortal remains, if you turn out to be right."
Five minutes later, he is off the platform and up in the air.
Five and a half minutes later, the entire pilot contingent is standing on that same platform gaping at the spectacular display of impossible aerobatics that the crazy foreigner is pulling off. Selina has so far avoided being a spectator at the extreme sports events Bruce loves going to – partly because she often had other things to do and partly because she did not feel like encouraging him to show off even more and be even crazier than usual, which she suspects her presence might do. Watching him now, she thinks she may need to – want to, as a matter of fact – revise her stand on that. This is simply too beautiful not to watch and enjoy. She isn't sure she'd be up to the same sort of tricks on the double flight, but knowing him, the greater danger would be that he'd make it too safe rather than too risky with her as his co-pilot.
"Who is this guy?" asks the owner of the glider, who finally ran out of what sounded like admiring expletives. They all look at her expectantly to hear the great mystery resolved.
"My husband," she replies sweetly. "Come on, he'll be landing soon and we have a quarter of an hour's drive to pick him up."
The glider crowd is not so easily brushed off, however, for when the three of them drive back up from Sao Conrado with the glider – needless to say, in spotless and fully intact condition – Bruce instantly becomes the centre of attention, with variations of "who are you, man?" directed at him from a dozen pilots in a mix of Portuguese and English.
He hesitates for an instant – presumably deciding which version of the truth to tell and weighing full disclosure against the keeping a low profile imperative. Apparently, vanity wins over; seeing him gawked at in this way, she cannot even blame him.
"My name's Brandon Wainwright. I used to fly... something similar, but I mostly do BASE jumping. I've been to a few competitions in Europe in the past year, but not here. You can see the clips on Youtube…"
Apparently this rings enough bells; one of the pilots stares at him before proclaiming, "You – you are the winner of the European BASE jumping competition."
"Yep."
"I saw it! I was there, man, I didn't recognise you." An iPad is produced and the clips are searched for and found. "You should come here, we have a South American event in November– "
"I couldn't compete in it."
"You could be a guest of honour, you could do demo flights!"
"I have to ask my wife's permission," he replies in a convincingly timid voice. To his credit, he does ask her about going to these things, though stopping him is usually a lost cause as he will mope around until she gives in.
She has to admit, being married to an instant local celebrity has considerable benefits. There is no more question of him begging for the use of a glider; from this point onwards, the guys themselves take turns begging him to use theirs. After three or four more equally spectacular descents, he commands and is instantly given a double glider, and Selina finally gets her chance to experience the thrill.
And what a thrill it is. She has already seen the view, sure; but there is a huge difference between seeing it from a static viewpoint, even from an engine-powered, enclosed aircraft, and seeing it like this, in motion and airborne purely by virtue of the soaring currents that Bruce is an undisputed expert at handling. The adrenaline rush is overwhelming; the second they touch down, she asks him – begs him - to do it again, and they end up doing two more flights before going to grab lunch with the glider crowd on the same Sao Conrado beach they all land on.
They come back in the afternoon, and after two more flights she finally gives in and lets him do more crazy stuff for the others' benefit – not without a bit of regret; she could so get used to this. They call it a day at four, but instead of heading down and back to the hotel, their penultimate destination is the towering Pedra da Gavea just south of Pedra Bonita. At an impressive 2700 feet, it is a good five hundred feet taller than Pedra Bonita itself and has a view that is nowhere short of breathtaking. They make it to the top after half an hour's hike, just in time to see the amazing play of light and colour sweeping Rio before sunset, the sky's glow, alternating between orange and pink like an imperial topaz or a padparadscha sapphire, reflected in the molten gold of the bay and the subtler matte sheen of the city beaches, against the jagged purple backdrop of the low mountain ridges jutting out into the ocean further east. It is a beautiful ending to a beautiful stay; as they head back to the Sofitel in the gathering dusk to pick up Armando's gadgets and head for the airport, she catches herself thinking that she is sorry to leave. She can come back, of course, but now that the mission that brought them here looms closer, there is no telling when, or whether, she'll manage it next.
.
TBC
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Notes
If you are curious to see a few snapshots of Rio and Pedra Bonita, feel free to check out the picspam I put together a year ago when I hoped to finish this a year earlier than now looks likely, at [http] 01cheers*livejournal*com/7023*html. I've done most of the things they do in this chapter with the exception of eating at Gero, sitting on the Pedra Bonita platform at night, and hiking to the top of Pedra da Gavea (for which last point I am now hugely envious of Selina), but have seen pictures taken from its top (if you go to Google maps satellite view and dangle the little guy above the mountains just west (left) of Sao Conrado, itself 4-5 miles west of Ipanema/Leblon, you'll see numerous photo spots – the ones taken from the top of what looks to be the highest mountain at sunset are really magnificent.
I triangulated the value of Selina's necklace from similar lots recently sold at Christie's – see forbes*com/sites/anthonydemarco/2013/06/05/natural -pearl-necklace-sells-for-1-6-million/. , the helpful part is the list at the end. The $70 milion price tag for the Shawesh entire-diamond ring was announced by the jewellers that made it when it was unveiled.
A padparadscha sapphire is an orange-pink variety (combining both hues in one stone); of all the "fancy" (non-blue) sapphires, it is the most valued.