Chapter 2 Hectic life

Rio de Janeiro – 2019

I raced through the hospital corridors as the microphone announced my name for an emergency heart surgery. I worked in both the public and private sectors, earning a living through practicing medicine while occasionally enjoying a social life. My life was enriched by the presence of my two best friends, who, like me, were also doctors. Since childhood, they had warmed my heart and shared my love for Brazilian music, particularly the joy of a lively samba circle on the beach.

I graduated from the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro, securing the top spot in my class. Despite my academic success, there was always one passion that kept me away from books: samba. Even during the demanding periods of mandatory internships and throughout my residency attending, I always found a way to participate in rehearsals at my favorite samba school. My friends, ever loyal, were always there to support me.

Cardiology had always fascinated me, but the decisive factor in choosing this specialization came from witnessing a heart problem that my father faced. However, this somewhat painful story will be shared another time.

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At the end of the afternoon, exhausted after a thirty-six-hour shift and three surgeries throughout the day, I was finally able to rest. My residency encompassed both general and cardiac surgery.

My faithful friends, who have heard me talk since childhood that one day I would be a doctor, say that I love fixing others. Observing my passion for the craft, they too were drawn to the same path. The truth is that I see an operation as a way to heal, my eyes light up when I can perform a surgical procedure and watch the person wake up and go through the recovery process.

I left the hospital with my body aching all over. Ângela and Lorena were already waiting for me. It was Thursday and whenever we could, we had happy hour on the waterfront. However, that day, without knowing exactly why, I wanted my house. The food I made, and the bed, seemed to call me homesick. Maybe if I were listening to good music and drinking beer, my world wouldn't have changed so much.

They still insisted, but when I put something into my head, it had to be very, very persuasive to convince me.

"Shall we go to the waterfront, to any bar we see ahead, or to the rooftop bar?"

"Today I will disappoint you. I'm exhausted, potentially I have a fever or a virus. The shift and three surgeries, one after the other, exhausted me. I'll drink some wine at home and then head straight to bed."

"Julia..."

Oh, that's my name.

"I believe in the first option. You must have a fever or a virus. I've seen you perform six surgeries in a twenty-four-hour shift and still go to the samba circle. Your body, even when exhausted, seems to forget all its tiredness when you hear a tambourine or tambourine. Something is really strange. The hot brunette's body can't help but move to the sound of the tambourine, like a samba singer's daughter."

"But today it won't be like that. Possibly, I have a virus because my body is sore all over. And, strangely enough, unwillingly."

The two approached me and playfully touched my forehead to check if I had a fever. I pulled away, pretending to be annoyed, and kissed them both on the cheek. I got in the car and went straight home. On the radio, I heard one of Mom and Dad's favorite songs, "Again." The memories came in the form of longing.

I lived in the small Korean community of the Marvelous City. I inherited the building from my parents, who lived there for over thirty years until they were involved in a car accident in 2016, leaving me an orphan. I still remember being on duty at the hospital when the two ambulances arrived. That day, I despaired. I needed to have confidence not to interfere in the procedures; It was suffocating, and I even hurt my arm. It didn't help; a day later, he buried Dad. In the early hours of that fateful day, he went into cardiorespiratory arrest. His mother left five days later, due to a hospital infection and multiple organ failure. The greatest flag bearer of Portela, a samba school that was dear to her heart, had passed away.

In addition to the apartment building, built in the nineties, with four floors, and eight units, they had a restaurant serving typical foods, both Brazilian, my mom, and Korean, my dad. The point was sold to another owner. The four-story building, which he built for us to live in and to generate rental income, was built by Dad. I lived on the first floor, I didn't even need the elevator, and all the tenants were long-time acquaintances. The youngest one had lived there for over fifteen years, meaning I was always supported.

I parked the car in the garage and, instead of going straight up, I went through the lobby to collect the mail. It had been two days since my last visit home, and the bills always had their way of arriving. Mr. José and his wife, who had worked there for over 20 years, treated me like a beloved daughter. He was the doorman, and she played the role of caretaker. They lived in a small building at the back of the building. Their two children had been raised there, and although they are currently married, they brought their grandchildren over on the weekends, to the delight of their doting grandparents. During the night, from seven o'clock onwards, two other security guards took over until seven o'clock in the morning the following day.

When I arrived at the reception, even though I was tired, I smiled.

" Good evening, Mr. José. Is there any correspondence for me?"

"Were you on duty? I haven't seen her for a few days now."

"Yes."

"That's why there's a lot of correspondence here. We are here. However, something curious happened. That man in the suit has been sitting there, waiting for you for a long time, I would say a long, long time. He didn't even get up to take a drink of water. I found the situation strange, but I also realized that he was wealthy. His suit is the designing and making of fashionable clothes, and he holds the book and that folder with a certain charm." Mr. José shared his comments with a smile on his lips.

"And who is he?"

"He did not say. I even tried to ask, but I believe that the English you taught me wasn't sufficient for me to carry a conversation with him."

I looked at the sofa that adorned the lobby. I saw a tall man who, from his features, appeared to be Korean. Straight, black hair, around forty years old. His expression was serious, yet at the same time, jovial. He was reading a book and seemed so focused that he didn't seem to realize he was being watched.

"Did he at least say why he wanted to talk to me, Mr. José?"

"No, Ms. Júlia. He did not say anything. I think I need more English classes. I didn't understand what little he said at all."

"I'm going to find out who he is and what he wants from me."

"I'll keep an eye on things here. It could be dangerous. He's probably a secret agent trying to arrest you, so I'll have to punch him." The man who cared for me so much laughed again.

I left my bag on the counter and walked slowly across the lobby to the leather sofa by the window, which overlooked a small conservatory.

"Good evening. Are you looking for me?" I asked as I approached the red couch where he was sitting.

His presence was imposing, filling the space around him with an aura of sophistication. Every gesture, every movement conveyed a sense of natural elegance, as if he had been born to occupy a prominent position.

Mr. José's words now made perfect sense. The man before me carried an undeniable distinction, something that went beyond mere attractive appearance.

He responded in Korean. He asked who I was. I think he thought I wouldn't understand.

"My name is Julia. The doorman told me you were looking for me." I responded in Korean, since my father insisted that I learn it, despite never having set foot in South Korea. He taught me the language, and at home, he spoke to me only in his mother tongue. It was a way of never forgetting his origins, despite never having returned there since arriving in Brazil. That's what I knew.