“Your wife is preparing one of my canoes,” Anton said in Portuguese, looking at him squarely and speaking slowly and distinctly. “My wife is helping her. They will put everything in it that you will need for a trip downriver and back. It is my best canoe, and you will take good care of it.” His hand came up, extended. “I have here two papers and some foreign money. These papers are to be given to the man in the telegraph office in Pôrto Itapurá. He is to send them as cables. Do you know where Pôrto Itapurá is?”
“I know where Pôrto Itapurá is. I will find the telegraph office.”
“Good. But first you will find a câmbio and exchange the foreign money for cruzeiros. With the cruzeiros you will pay the man to send the telegrams. The cables are in a foreign language — the language of the Americans — but they will send them, letter by letter, whether they can read them or not. And you will sit there in the office while the man sends them. Is that understood?”
The small brown head bobbed. Anton’s voice hardened subtly.
“It is extremely important that these cables be sent. I am trusting you to see that they are. I am also trusting you not to lose the money and not to spend it on anything else. Whatever is left over when the cables have been sent, you may keep. Do you understand?”
Carlos nodded and then cleared his throat. “Does my wife—”
Anton kept his face straight. “Your wife will not know about the money. But if you do not do exactly what I have just told you to do, then she will be told.”
Carlos straightened up to his full height of five foot six; his black eyes flashed. “Senhor, you have my word!”
“Good. Then take these papers and keep them safe. And boa viagem.”
Carlos tucked the papers into his short pocket and buttoned it down; he turned to the man in the bed. Even though it was obvious that the stranger would not understand, there were still the courtesies to be observed.
“Your cables will be sent, Senhor. You may depend on it,” he said with simple dignity, and turned smartly, putting on his hat with a slight flourish, marching proudly through the door into the sunlight.
Half the village — at least twenty people, including his wife and the two eldest of his children — were at the river’s edge to watch him depart. His exact mission was still not clearly understood, but there could be no doubt that it was highly important. Even his wife was looking at him with a semblance of pride for the first time in years, while his children, eyeing him owlishly, seemed abashed by his sudden rise in the eyes of the village. Carlos studied the contents of the canoe a moment and then, satisfied, stepped in. Willing hands instantly pushed him from the narrow sandy beach; he reached for a paddle and expertly corrected the swaying induced by the eager hands. Above him a hot sun burned in a cloudless sky; he took a deep breath and dipped his paddle, sending the light canoe shooting for the more rapid water in the center of the stream.
They had been wise to choose him — Carlos — for the mission! Nobody in the village, least of all Anton, could handle a canoe as well as he, nor was anyone in the village as conversant with the river as he! And no one — but no one — was more honorable! The cables would be delivered into the proper hands in Pôrto Itapurá, and he, Carlos, would personally stand over the man as he tapped them out!
Of course, his trip would take him past Cachimbo de Fuma on the Paraná, and he would spend three or four days with his cousin there, because Plínio knew every feminine possibility within a radius of twenty kilometers. And if that little brown girl from five years before was still working at that botequim in Queimadura, there could be little harm in spending a few days there, as well. But once these essentials were attended to, on to Pôrto Itapurá!
Satisfied with his schedule, and pleased that his integrity was properly appreciated by others, and even more respected by himself, Carlos bent over his paddle. From the riverbank, Anton Sverdlik watched the diminishing figure with speculative eyes.
Book Two
8
Seen from the height of Da Silva’s Apartment, the wide beach of Copacabana twinkled in the hot night with scattered groupings of lit candles. There was something faintly foreboding, as well as beautiful, in the flickering pinpoints of light spread in little circles at odd intervals across the broad expanse of sand, each surrounded by a chanting coterie, the women in long white dresses, and the men in clean shirts and slacks; the shadows of the twisting figures danced grotesquely, intertwining on the hard sand.
After sunset the sweeping Avenida Atlântica normally faced a dark, deserted strip of beach, but tonight activity covered the wide stretch, for this was New Year’s Eve, and the macumba ceremony of Iemanjà was in the process of preparation. Along the patterned mosaic sidewalk that flanked the scene, curious couples either strolled or stood and watched; automobiles lined the curb, filled with spectators, while others drove along slowly, taking in the fascinating sight. There was a sense of excitement in the air, a feeling of tense expectation for the ancient ceremony to begin.
Wilson, leaning on the marble window sill and waiting for Da Silva to finish dressing, stared down at the sight without actually seeing it. Jill had returned to her hotel from São Paulo, because he had called to check, but as usual she was out and had not left a message. He only hoped she would really show up at the party, that she hadn’t forgotten the address, or lost it, or — which was equally possible — lost the purse containing it. It was odd how she would never let him pick her up or take her anywhere where they could be alone, but these were minor whims which time, he hoped, would cure. His thoughts were interrupted by Da Silva, coming from the bedroom carrying a string bowtie. The tall Brazilian walked over, peering down at the beach over Wilson’s shoulder.
“Some sight, eh?”
Wilson nodded. “It’s a funny thing,” he said slowly, “but in all the years I’ve been in Brazil, I never saw it before. Either some assignment out of Rio, or I was on home leave, or something. They float rafts of flowers out to sea at midnight, don’t they?”
Da Silva walked over to the wall mirror in the hallway, frowned at his image in the glass, and began the ritual of tie-tying. The frown was in anticipation of his normal difficulty with the task.
‘Sometimes rafts; sometimes they just wade out into the ocean and throw flowers. Even some of their jewels, at times, depending on how much they get worked up.” He sighed in desperation at sight of the tangle about his neck and then pulled the thing loose, beginning again. “Damn all neckties!”
Wilson paid no attention to the complaint; it was one he had heard many times before. “It looks like it ought to be a field day for pickpockets.” He put the thought aside; tonight was not a night to think of police matters. “I know the ceremony is a part of macumba — which I know is something like voodoo — but I’m sorry to say I don’t know much more about it. I know tonight is dedicated to one of their gods, but frankly I don’t know which one.”
“It’s macumba, all right, and its similar to voodoo in a way. They all come from the same African root — macumba, voodoo, umbanda, quimbanda, gambé... But tonight isn’t dedicated to a god. It’s a goddess. Iemanjà.”
As if at the mention of the hallowed name, the black strip of silk in Da Silva’s hand suddenly decided to cooperate; he hastily took advantage of its complicity and tugged the ends neatly even. He removed his hands warily, waiting. The tie remained presentable. He smiled. “That’s a good boy.” He picked up his white formal jacket and walked to the window, tapping Wilson on the shoulder. “Let’s get going. It’s after ten, and I’d like a few minutes with mine host before, as you say, I get too drunk to know what I’m saying.”