“Because they were naughty people. Obviously.”
“And how did you do?”
“Poorly,” Da Silva admitted ruefully. “I didn’t get one.” He thought a moment and then revised his statement, the smile fading from his face. “That’s not exactly true. I got a part of one. Wrapped in cellophane and plastic — tightly — packed in an army knapsack and locked in my front closet.”
“Sounds absolutely lovely,” Wilson said. “I hope for the sake of the neighbors you have it packed in dry ice—”
“It doesn’t smell too bad. Not the way I’ve got it wrapped. Anyway, it only has to last until I get it to the Institute tomorrow.”
“And what happens when they open it?”
“That’s their problem,” Da Silva said. “Anyway, they’ve got air conditioning, and I don’t.”
“Just remind me not to go into your closet for the next couple of weeks,” Wilson said. “Just where did you happen to find the part of this one?”
“You wouldn’t know if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“All right,” Da Silva said equably. “I’ve been visiting the interior of our fair country. I’ve been roughly eighteen kilometers from a crossroads in the mato known to everyone in those parts — possibly ten people, nine of them Indians — as Santa Isabel de Água Branca. Known only to them, I might mention. I never heard of it until I got the assignment; it isn’t on any map. It also isn’t as big as its name, at least not when seen from the air.” He smiled faintly. “Does that answer your question?”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Wilson sighed, conceding defeat. “You’re right; I still don’t know. And I gather from your tone that when you want me to know, you’ll tell me.”
“True.”
“Well,” Wilson said, getting back to the matter on his mind, “the important thing is that you’re back. I need your help. Suppose we meet at Mario’s for dinner. I’ll even pick up the tab.”
“Dinner?” Da Silva frowned; the word had a faintly remembered ring. Now that he considered it, he hadn’t eaten since eight that morning, and then only farinha and coffee, taken under the wing of the plane while the usual morning mist cleared from the airstrip. However, at the moment, given a choice between food and sleep, the calories had to take second place.
His frown cleared. “I’ve got a better idea — why don’t we meet for breakfast tomorrow morning? Or maybe even the day after tomorrow, depending on how long I sleep? I’m exhausted.” He thought a moment and then clenched his argument for not leaving the apartment. “Besides, I can’t go out tonight. It’s impossible. I need a shave and all the barbershops are closed.”
“Of course, they’re closed,” Wilson said with exaggerated patience. “It’s Christmas Day. Or rather, Christmas night.”
“Christmas?” Da Silva frowned. “Are you sure?” He sat up slightly, staring at the telephone in surprise. “So that’s why there wasn’t any traffic in town!” He thought a moment more. “And I’ll bet that’s what she was trying to say to me at the airport? She was trying to wish me a Merry Christmas!”
“When you leave a subject, you really leave it, don’t you?” Wilson said, almost admiringly. “I don’t know who ‘she’ is, but if it clears the air, I’ll do it for her. Merry Christmas. All right?” Wilson paused. “Now — where were we? Ah, yes. We were talking about barbershops. Well, you can shave yourself. You have a razor, don’t you?”
“Certainly. The maid uses it to cut string and scrape paint off glass.” Da Silva shook his head at the other’s abysmal ignorance. “Whoever heard of a Brazilian shaving himself? Especially a Brazilian with a mustache?”
“I have no idea,” Wilson said, sounding both honest and unconcerned. “I suppose I could find out if it’s vital.” He dropped his light tone. “Come on, Zé. Get cleaned up and meet me at Mario’s. It’s important. I need your help. I want you to meet somebody.”
“You need my help to meet somebody?”
“Damn it, Zé, don’t be cute!”
“I’m not being cute. I’m just tired.” Da Silva proved it by yawning elaborately. “So bring him up here. If Maria didn’t throw a party while I was gone, I ought to still have some liquor around.”
“It isn’t a him,” Wilson said patiently. “It’s a her. And a lovely her, too.”
“And you call yourself a friend?” Da Silva sighed and shook his head. “When I’m feeling fine, rested, clean, and charming, you introduce me to Senators, ambassadors, kindly clergymen, and the like. When I’m so tired I can hardly see, let alone sparkle, you want to introduce me to lovely ladies. What kind of system is this?”
“In this particular case it’s a good system,” Wilson said coldly. “I’d just as soon you didn’t exert your overwhelming Brazilian charm on this particular lady, anyway.”
There was a note in his voice that caused Da Silva to raise his bushy eyebrows quizzically. “Ah? Do I hear aright? Do my unfailing detective instincts point me in the right direction? Do I note in your voice an indication that the indomitable Wilson has finally met the woman of his life?”
Wilson laughed. “I don’t know about that, but I can say this — if we spend all night talking on the telephone, the chances are that neither one of us will meet her. At least not on time.” His voice became serious again. “Well? She said she’d meet me at Mario’s at eight. Are you joining us or staying home?”
“You don’t leave me much choice. I can’t very well pass up an opportunity to meet the woman who’s finally broken down that famous Wilsonian reserve, can I? I’ll be there, but I don’t promise to stay awake.” Da Silva grinned at the instrument. “I’ll meet you in the bar. First one there orders the drinks.”
“Make it the tables outside,” Wilson suggested. “I don’t want to miss her. She doesn’t know Rio.”
“Good enough. Even better, in fact,” Da Silva agreed expansively. “I’ve eaten so many meals outdoors lately that I’d probably get claustrophobia with walls around me. If you could arrange some mosquitoes, I’ll really feel at home.”
“You’ll take flies and be happy,” Wilson said coldly, and then grinned. “I’ll see you at eight, then.”
“Right,” Da Silva said. “I’ll be the one who’s sound asleep.”
“Just keep your brain awake,” Wilson said with sudden sobriety, and hung up.
3
Mario’s Restaurant had earned its reputation as Captain Da Silva’s favorite dining spot in Copacabana for many good reasons. To cite the most cogent, it was handily located a few blocks from his apartment, the food was excellent and the service adequate — which is about the best one can hope for in Rio de Janeiro — and the cocktail lounge with its high-walled booths was maintained in an obscurity properly conducive to either solitary thought or unsolitary romance, whichever was on the docket at the moment. In addition, and most important of all, behind the long jacaranda bar was exhibited the finest collection of brandy in all Brazil, and each bottle was what the Brazilians call ligítima — meaning that one did not have to question the validity of the label. This, in itself, marked Mario’s as a rarity in that city of readily adjustable virtue.
Captain Da Silva, relaxed from a steaming bath and both pleased and surprised that he felt as wide-awake as he did, strolled along Avenida Atlântica in the direction of the famous bistro, happy that Wilson had called him. Nearly a week in the jungle certainly called for some recompense, and what better than an hour or so with friends and a good drink to hand? Unless, of course, he thought, it might be sleep? Even the torture of removing his wiry beard with a razor that had served its apprenticeship dislodging paint and severing string had done little to depress his spirits. The feeling of clean clothing against his skin was also welcome, and the fact that the sidewalks were almost deserted — a very rare situation along the beach — added to his sense of freedom. To his right, as he walked slowly along the wide mosaic sidewalk, the foaming tips of waves served as a wavering boundary, limiting humans to the confines of the land, but graciously allowing them to share in the benefits of the offshore breeze with its touch of coolness in the humid night.