“As soon as the officer in charge of processing forms can see you, he will,” the woman replied. “If you had your passport, sir, it would go faster—”
“I explained that to you already. My passport was stolen. Along with my wallet, my money, my credit cards, and everything else that was in my pocket.” He fell into a kind of lethargic, but still vocal, brooding. “My God. It’s like something out of Kafka. I’ll probably never get out of here. I’ll wither and die, right in this very station—a victim of terminal bureaucracy.”
“I am very sorry, sir,” the woman said with almost saintly patience. “All of the officers are otherwise engaged. It is a busy day.”
“I’ll just bet it’s a busy day,” the man said. “I’ll bet you anything petty thievery is the number one business in Alsdorf. I knew I should have stayed in Rio.”
A member of the Polícia Militar emerged from a room in the back of the station and walked through the office, making his way across the waiting area.
The tourist leapt from his chair. “You! Hey, you!”
The police officer completely ignored him and disappeared out the front door.
He turned back to the secretary. “What is he, deaf?”
“He is busy on a case, sir,” the woman said.
“Of course. Probably another pickpocketing. No doubt the guy who got me is out robbing more Americans.”
The woman shook her head. “No. No pickpocketing.”
“So what, then? What’s so important that they can’t see me? I’d like to know!”
The woman behind the desk did not respond to this. And rightly so, Mrs. Waxman thought. She had a good idea to give this obnoxious man a piece of her mind.
Now the tourist was peering out the front door again, looking in the direction the officer had gone. “Maybe it’s not too late to catch up with him,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ll stop him, tell him my problem. He’d have to help me then.”
The secretary shook her head. “He is much too busy.”
“Too busy? Right, too busy drinking coffee and eating doughnuts!”
The woman, provoked at last, said rather crisply: “He is investigating murders.”
Mrs. Waxman sat up in her chair.
“Murders?” the obnoxious tourist repeated. “What murders?”
But the secretary had clearly said more than she intended to. She merely shook her head again.
The tourist sat back in his chair, rolling his eyes. “Some local bar fight, no doubt. Meanwhile, I’m sitting in here, stripped of my identity in a foreign country. My God.” A beat. “You said murders. More than one?”
The woman simply nodded.
“What, you got a serial killer on the loose or something?”
The woman gave away nothing beyond a firming of her lips. Suddenly the problem of the traveler’s checks didn’t seem so important to Mrs. Waxman. Murders? Maybe she should forget about the complaint, find her husband, and get back to Brasilia as soon as possible.
While she was considering this, an idea seemed to strike the obnoxious man. He sat up and fished around in the pocket of his shapeless linen pants, pulling out a wad of Brazilian reals. Then he leaned toward the low gate, in the direction of the secretary.
“Here,” he said in a stage whisper that was still fully audible to Mrs. Waxman. “The pickpocket didn’t get these. Give twenty reals to that officer in charge of, whatever, of forms processing. Maybe that will grease the wheels of progress.”
The other office workers looked over at this. “I cannot do that, sir,” the woman said quickly, frowning.
“Not enough, eh? Okay, I can play that game.” The man pawed through some more of the crumpled bills, pulled out another. “Here. Fifty reals. Give that to him.”
The woman shook her head again, more emphatically. “No bribes.”
“No bribes? Who are you kidding? This is Brazil, right? I wasn’t born yesterday, lady.”
“There is no bribery of police in Alsdorf, sir,” the woman told him in a firm, public voice, not without a tinge of pride. “The colonel doesn’t permit it.”
“Colonel?” the tourist asked, in a tone of deepest skepticism. “What colonel?”
“Colonel Souza.”
“I don’t believe it,” the tourist replied. “What—are you looking for more reals? Thinking of splitting it with the officer yourself, are you?” He scoffed. “That’s looking out for number one, all right.”
“Sir, put your money away.” The secretary finally seemed to have reached the limit of her patience. “Look—I will let you wait in the outer office. If I permit that, will you agree to wait in silence until your turn is called?”
The tourist looked at her suspiciously. “Will I be seen more quickly?”
“It is possible.”
The man shrugged. “All right. Lead the way.”
He stood up, and the secretary led him through the gate, past the worktables, and into an open doorway in the rear. A blissful silence reigned. Mrs. Waxman finally rose and, not even bothering to tell anyone, scurried out the door, looking for a cab to take her and her husband as quickly as possible out of the town of Alsdorf.
The tourist in the flowered shirt and shapeless linen trousers waited until the secretary had pointed him to a chair. Once her footsteps had receded, he quietly moved to the door, grasped its knob, and gently pushed it until it was almost closed. And then he turned and surveyed the outer office. It had a single table, surrounded by four chairs. Three of the walls were lined with filing cabinets. As he let his eye run along their length, the tourist smiled faintly.
A series of local deaths. A police chief who could not be bribed. This was proving to be promising indeed.
“Excellent,” the man said in a dulcet southern accent far different from the one he had employed in the waiting room. “Most excellent.”
51
ON BLUMENAU’S VILA GERMÂNICA, THE FESTIVE AND brightly painted heart of German Village in the center of town, tourists could find a profusion of beer halls, beer gardens, and taverns. Many were jolly establishments, full of carousing patrons and faux-German wenches in gaudy costumes balancing numerous one-liter steins in their hands as they wound between the tables. But one or two of the drinking establishments were quieter, catering primarily to the locals; while still of remarkably authentic Bavarian architecture and interior design, they were darker inside, without the frantically convivial atmosphere of their neighbors.
One such place was the Hofgarten. Inside, it was low-ceilinged, with thick hand-hewn beams running just above the heads of the evening’s patrons. Framed prints of German castles decorated the walls, and the daily menu was listed on chalkboards. Bavarian Brezen came free with each dinner order. A long bar ran around two sides of a central island, but many of the patrons seemed to prefer the deep wooden booths that lined the tavern’s walls.
In one of the booths, a man sat reading a local paper. He was short and barrel-chested, with powerful arms and a head that seemed ever so slightly too small for his body. His face was clean-shaven, with hair slicked back by brilliantine, and although his features were Brazilian, not German, they were nevertheless fine, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. He was drinking a stein of beer and smoking a short, slender cheroot.
He glanced up to see that a man had slipped into the booth, across from him. The movement had been so quick and silent, the stranger was already sitting comfortably by the time the smoker noticed him.
“Boa tarde,” the stranger said.