“Because it’s quite likely the cargo we’re expecting may be in a different hold, which would mean a great waste of time.”
Wilson shook his head stubbornly. “What do you mean! She has to be in it up to her ears. The information isn’t in any other hold; it’s in her pretty little head. And a few hours in a Rio police station ought to ease it out of her!”
“I’ll take it under advisement, but I doubt I’ll change my mind.”
“I still don’t like the idea of your going up to Paraíso without your American confederate...”
“Well,” Da Silva said with finality, “that’s the way it’s got to be!”
“Okay,” Wilson said helplessly. “I also gather, then, that you’re spending the evening with her. In which case, since I’ve already missed the last plane back to Rio, I suppose you’d prefer I spend the night elsewhere than the apartment?”
“It would be better,” Da Silva said, and glanced at the waiting girl. He turned back to the telephone, sounding brusque. “We’re wasting a lot of time on a simple proposition. Check into it and get in touch.”
“All right,” Wilson said. “And if you don’t hear from me before you catch your plane, I’ll be in the Jardim da Luz, third bench from the left. I’ll be the one with last week’s copy of Time for a pillow.”
“That should suit you comfortably,” Da Silva said solemnly, and hung up. He pulled his jacket straight and smiled at the girl. “Business, business! Well, shall we go?”
Chapter 13
From the gardened patio surrounding Fasano’s, on the balcony of the Prédio Nacional located on the Avenida Paulista, high on a hill in the center of the city, the lights of the vast metropolis spread to the horizon. Da Silva and Isabela, arm in arm, leaned on the broad stone railing and drank in the night in silence. Far beneath them, the tunnel of the Avenida 9 de Julho ingested and discharged an endless stream of automobiles, their headlights white trails illuminating the snakelike curves leading to the Anhangabaú. The city sparkled before them as far as they could see, an awe-inspiring sight, throwing a warm glow of light against the low-hanging clouds. Behind them, in the dim restaurant, soft music pulsed. Isabela tightened her arm in his almost convulsively.
“It’s lovely.”
“It is.”
He took his packet of cigarettes from his pocket, shook one loose for Isabela and took one himself. He managed to locate his lighter without releasing his arm, lit the two cigarettes, put away the lighter, and then pointed with his glowing cigarette.
“A long time ago,” he said, speaking reminiscently, “before this Prédio Nacional was built, and when this part of São Paulo was all old mansions and shade trees instead of concrete and apartment houses, Fasano’s was down there, in the penthouse of an old office building in the center of town. I remember all the elevators to the building were closed at night, except one that went up to Fasano’s on the roof. I knew the place very well. It had a narrow balcony — nothing like this patio — but it did allow one to go outside on a summer’s night and look out over the city, although there wasn’t anything like the city we have now to look over.” He smiled. “I remember they had a maître d’ who could make the world’s best crepes suzette from the world’s cheapest and rawest cognac. The management loved him because of the economy, and the clientele forgave him because of the taste. He was an artist. A Hungarian.” He shook his head almost sadly. “That was a long time ago. It makes me feel old just to remember it.”
“You’ll never be old,” she said impulsively, and then clamped her jaws tight as the import of her words came to her. She took a deep breath and then found to her surprise that she was speaking thoughts she had meant to keep concealed. “What made you become what you are?”
“What I am? What am I?”
In for a cruziero, in for a conto, Isabela thought, and faced him.
“You know what I mean. What made you decide to make your living the way you do?”
Da Silva looked at her quizzically. “You mean, stealing from the docks? You can say it; I don’t mind. Although it’s only fair to point out that nobody has proved it, yet.” He shrugged. “What makes anyone earn his living the way he does? What’s the story about the prostitute? Just luck, I suppose.”
“I’m serious!”
“So am I. What made you decide to be an insurance agent?”
“Let’s stay with you. What makes you steal for a living? You’re... you’re educated, intelligent...” She almost said “handsome” but bit it back. “You’re interesting to be with. You’re just a nice guy. Why? You could make a living more-more—”
“More legitimately? I suppose I could. Why?”
“I mean — don’t you have any ambition?”
“It depends upon what you mean by ambition,” Da Silva said. “I certainly make more money than — well, let’s say a run-of-the-mill insurance man, for example.”
“That’s not what I mean by ambition!”
“You mean, don’t I want to get ahead in my chosen profession? Move to bigger docks, larger ports—?”
“Damn you, I’m serious!”
Da Silva looked down at her, his face a mask. “Why?”
For a moment she stared back at him; then she turned her head, staring down at the city. She took a deep breath. “Who did you take to Fasano’s when it was down there?” she asked. “Who did you take there, that long time ago?”
“Girls,” he said, and smiled a bit sadly. “Girls unfortunately now long forgotten.” He looked down at her turned-away profile, noting the smooth skin of her cheek, the sharp patrician outline of her nose, the broad brow, the firm chin. “Why do we forget people we like?”
“I don’t know. Because it’s safer than remembering them, I suppose.” There was a strange bitterness in her voice.
Da Silva raised an eyebrow. “Is there someone in particular you’re trying not to remember at the moment?”
“No. Yes...” She loosened her arm suddenly and crushed out her cigarette. “It’s getting late. We should go.”
“Not yet. It’s early.”
“It’s late and you haven’t arranged a hotel for me, yet.”
“Ah, yes — that hotel! Well, let’s have one last dance, and then we’ll go out for that nightcap I promised you. At the Captain’s Bar — best piano in town. Or it was fifteen years ago.” He smiled at her. “There’s no rush; we’re not going until the last plane tomorrow. That means we can sleep as late as we like. But not too late, because I know a restaurant in Santo Amaro for lunch that you’ll enjoy. And another nice place for dinner. After which I’ll let you get me into that night flight to whatever-the-town-is.” His smile broadened. “Greater love hath no man but he alloweth himself to be strapped into one of those box kites pilotedeth — if there is such a word — by the ex-taxi drivers they use for night runs.”
If he expected his whimsy to get a similar response from the girl, he was doomed to disappointment. She took a deep breath and pulled away from him abruptly.
“I want to leave,” she said evenly. “Now.”
“Fine,” Da Silva said agreeably. “Where do you want to go?”
“To your apartment.”
His air of levity disappeared. He looked at her steadily. “Do you mean that?”
“Yes.” She gestured toward the restaurant. “Pay the bill. I’ll meet you at the elevator.”
He looked at her a moment more and then turned away, going toward the restaurant proper. Isabela looked out over the lighted city as if seeing it for the first time, and then walked slowly toward the bank of elevators around the corner of the gardened patio.