He refused to consider any possible blame of his own because of his inadvertent study of the corner sink. He had never been in favor of the mirror in the first place; when both he and it had been new at Bordeirinho, he never knew but what somebody might not be studying him. And anyway, long before two-way mirrors had been invented he had gotten what information he had required from prisoners and saw no reason why the old ways were still not the best ways. He shook his head again and returned to his desk, slumping into his chair, wiping sweat from his forehead, waiting for the stupid idiot behind the mirror to come into his office with his film and tape. And, of course, his damned cigarettes...
Rather than abate, the storm in Rio de Janeiro had intensified with the day, and now, at eleven o’clock at night, it struck at the city with renewed force. Da Silva, quite naturally, had checked the airport, convinced that certainly all planes would be grounded; instead the voice that answered subtly suggested, without using the words, that only a cretin thought a bit of rain kept airlines from flying.
It might not keep airplanes from flying, he thought sourly as he bumped through the night in his cab, but it certainly played hell with driving. Rain drummed on the cab roof with machine-gun violence, as if the drops drilling down from the black sky actually entertained hopes of getting through the rusting steel and attacking the driver and his passenger. The sound within the cab was deafening; the rain, sweeping in sheets, occasionally veered to beat wildly against the streaming windows. The windshield wipers flashed madly left and right in a vain attempt to maintain some small degree of clarity; the taxi driver hunched forward, squinting fiercely, driving more by instinct than by vision, his foot held tautly, ready in an instant to move from accelerator to brake, his brain wisely refusing to picture the result if he ever had to do so.
It was sticky hot in the humid enclosed space. Da Silva leaned back against the worn upholstery of the rear seat glumly, his attaché case on his lap, his suitcase rigidly held on the seat beside him, more for his own stability in the swaying car than for the protection of his luggage. Through the blurred windows recognition of the area through which they were passing was difficult, but he estimated from the roughness of the road that they had to be somewhere in the vicinity of the warehouses along the docks. Substantiation came as they bumped over the crossing at the Ponte dos Marinheiros with the bright lights of the bus depot a white blotch in the rain that disappeared behind them as quickly as it had appeared, leaving them once again at the mercy of the frail headlights.
The Avenida Brasil was deserted, a rarity at any time, storms included; the cab-driver, no fool, did not allow this unusual situation to reduce his concentration in the least, nor did he permit it to induce him to increase his speed on the rain-drenched highway. He patiently crept along, past the cemetery, past the black factory fronts, the occasional dimly lit botequims, with a hunched figure now and then peering from beneath the waterfall of an awning, awaiting a chance to make a mad dash for home. A traffic light, barely seen, a sharp curve, and he welcomed at long last the lights glowing faintly on the bridge to the Ilha do Governador, and then the even greater cluster of lights at Galeão International Airport.
The driver pulled to the curb, nerves slowly unwinding, relieved and slightly amazed to have made the perilous trip without accident, flat tire, or failing engine. Even the windshield wipers had cooperated. He accepted his fare with a calm bob of his head, took the generous tip equally calmly, well aware that he had earned every cruizeiro, and equally aware that he intended to wait out the torrential rain in the nearest bar before attempting to return to the city, with or without a fare. In his considered opinion anyone who drove on a night like this had to be as crazy as anyone who flew.
His passenger would have been the last to disagree with him. The large mustached detective watched a skycap approach holding a huge umbrella over the cab door — a rather useless gesture against the wind and the slanting sheets of rain. Still, it was the thought that counted, Da Silva had to admit with an inner smile, and felt better for it. He made the series of leaps necessary to reach the protection of the terminal lobby with his attaché casé firmly in hand, followed by a skycap who had long since given up all thoughts of dryness and who now squished hopelessly after him carrying his bag. The captain paused to fold the useless umbrella and set it aside, and made his way to the Varig counter, glancing about the lobby as he did so, as if seeking someone.
Flight 916 from Buenos Aires to Miami by way of Rio, Recife, Belem, and Port-of-Spain, was not only flying despite the storm, but was scheduled to arrive and depart on time. A regrettable situation, the captain thought, leaving very little time for necessary personal fueling for the flight. He was quite confident that had the night been clear and the winds calm, the plane would have been mysteriously delayed several hours somewhere back along the line. It seemed to be the way planes were where he was concerned.
He took the receipt for his bag, his seat check, and walked to the front of the terminal once again, staring toward the bridge leading to the city. No cab appeared to be approaching. With a sigh he glanced at his watch again, shook his head disconsolately, and mounted the broad steps to the second floor bar-restaurante, pushing through the swinging glass doors to face an empty room, the expanse of white tablecloths making the barren room appear quite antiseptic. One expected doctors, but only a waiter was present, leaning indolently against the cash register behind the bar reading the Jornal de Esportes. The large mustached man seated himself, his attaché case held on his lap, and ordered the best brandy in the house, well aware that the best in this particular restaurant was far from the best. Still, it was obviously better than facing the takeoff on an empty stomach, something all experienced travelers had assured him was inviting disaster. He swallowed the drink quickly, shuddering at its pungency, and ordered another, staring at the doorway as he did so as if willing someone to appear there.
A sudden raucous screech from the wallspeaker almost caused him to spill his drink, although the waiter engrossed in the newspaper across from him didn’t move a muscle. Either deaf or plucky, Da Silva decided. The volume on the loudspeaker was adjusted and the announcement repeated more intelligibly. Flight 916 was coming in to land, and would passengers be so kind as to present themselves for embarkation. Da Silva upended his glass and tossed money on the counter. He studied his watch for the fourth time and glowered at the message it gave him. Apparently the storm had prevented his expected companion from joining him. He only hoped they could meet in Port-of-Spain; possibly he could arrange a cable from the plane. With a shrug at a fate seemingly determined to thwart him at every turn, he descended the staircase and made his way to the loading area at the rear of the terminal.
On the edge of the tarmac, skycaps stood with umbrellas, awaiting the few passengers who were boarding; two officers and two stewardesses also stood and waited, staring equably out at the torrents of rain washing down. Apparently the crew changed in Rio, Da Silva thought, and envied those who were disembarking here. There was a sudden flash in the sky as the incoming plane turned on its landing lights; twin beacons cut through the pelting rain, outlining the glistening needles, misting the black field with blotches of light. A Caravelle lowered itself gracefully toward the field, its turbines suddenly audible over the beat of the storm as it swept past the terminal, touching down in a sheet of spray.
Da Silva glanced at his watch for the last time and shrugged. There seemed no doubt but that he was going to make the trip alone. He stared back at the empty lobby; shutters were being raised over the Varig counter, the only one displaying any activity at all. There was no evidence of anyone hurrying to join the flight at the last moment. Damn! he thought, and turned his attention back to the Caravelle. The tail doorway had been lowered; a moment later several officers and stewardesses appeared in the square of light, hesitated a moment, and then hurried across the field from the plane under the protection of umbrellas. They waved briefly at the new crew and disappeared inside the building. No passengers descended. There was a momentary pause; then the new crew dashed for the plane. A moment later he felt an umbrella being thrust into his hand and he was also hurrying across the slippery concrete. One of the new stewardesses relieved him of the umbrella, and he climbed the steep steps under the protection of the high tail to find a warm, dry, congenial atmosphere with soft music playing a popular samba. Much better, he thought approvingly, and made his way forward toward his seat. Now, if the plane just stayed on the ground and didn’t attempt to take off, everything would be fine.