Carioca Fletch (18 page)

The
passistas
cause the greatest excitement and appreciation. Young people from the
favela
, the youngest fully formed, girls and boys, the most beautiful and most handsome, clearly the most athletic, as near naked as possible without being cumbersomely nude, dance down the parade route together acrobatically, tumbling, doing cartwheels, climbing each other, leaping off, being caught by others a centimeter before disaster, all the while singing, of course, doing all this in a choreography so intricate, so closely timed it has taken them the full year to study it, learn it, practice it. Some of the young men may have developed a
capoeira
routine which is so graceful while so vicious, so rife with genuine danger, that the sight of it might stop the spectator’s heart if the drums weren’t controlling the heart, keeping it going.

Adrian Fawcett says something to Fletch.

Fletch yells, “What?” but cannot hear even his own voice.

Adrian cups his hands over Fletch’s ear and yells with his full voice, virtually taking a full breath to blow out each word: “Think if all this energy, planning, work, skill the year ‘round went into revolution instead!”

Fletch nods that he heard him.

Interspersed among the
alas
, a few
alegorias
have passed, huge floats depicting scenes from the Amazon, one a section of jungle bejeweled by women in G-strings suggesting plumed birds in their tall, bright, feathered headpieces; slim boys-men with the heads of snakes slithering over the rocks; children
with the heads of monkeys dancing in the trees. Another
alegoria
depicts an Indian village, live fire centering thatched huts, costumed Indians dancing with mythical fish-headed and monster-headed figures.

In the middle of the presentation comes a small float, a disguised pickup truck, really a sound truck with amplifiers aiming every direction. On the back of the truck-float, dressed formally like a nightclub singer, stands the
Puxador de Samba
, microphone close to mouth, singing over and over at fullest personal volume, belting out the lyrics of the samba school’s song for that year:

After a few more
alas
does the
bateria
begin to pull out of the bull pen and join the parade. An entire army of drummers, perhaps a thousand or more powerful men from the ages of fifteen to whenever, uniformly dressed in dazzling costume, all beating their drums in patterns practiced all year, all singing, all dancing despite the size of their drums, pass by. The sound is overpowering. It is perhaps the maximum sound the earth and sky can accept without cracking, without breaking into fragments to move with it before dissipating into dust.

Near the end of the parade comes the samba school’s principal
alegoria
. In this case, for
Escola Guarnieri
that year, a nineteenth-century riverboat slowly comes down the parade route, if not full-sized at least impressively huge—as white, as delicate, as ornate as a wedding cake. Its prow moves majestically down the street high above the heads of the
bateria
. The bridge is proud in its height. Steam comes from its funnels. The cap of its whistle funnel rises and lowers, and doubtlessly the sound of a steamboat whistle comes out, but so high is the level of sound generally that even a steamboat whistle cannot be heard fifteen meters away. The white, gleaming hull moves by slowly. The mere sight of the upper decks and into the interior
cabins and ballroom of the ship instantly creates the feeling of a grander day, grander people, a grander way to travel, to move, to be. Sedately move the side wheels of this riverboat, exactly as if they were thrusting water behind them. And as the riverboat passes, its stern turned up to be high above the final dancing
ala
behind it, the last to disappear down the stream of swirling costumed dancers and drummers, instant yearning for it fills the heart, the instant and full desire to experience again the passing of this ghost, this
alegoria
of the past.

“I think you’re going to have to tell me that there is life after Carnival,” Fletch said.

At the bar table at the back of the box, Teo laughed and handed him a sandwich.

Other people were coming to the back of the box for drinks and sandwiches.

“Does everything become real again?” Fletch asked.

Adrian Fawcett said, “Reality has hunkered down somewhere in my gut, assumed the fetal position, and promises only in whispers to return.”

The sound level had lowered to the merely very loud. Across the parade route, the
bateria
of
Escola Santos Lima
was organizing itself in the bull pen.

Jetta put her hand on Fletch’s shoulder. “Are you supposed to be some kind of a present?”

She looked thoroughly sound-struck, sight-struck, mind-blown, and jaded.

He smoothed his bright red sash.

“I’m a present,” Fletch said. “Maybe I’m a past. Maybe I’m a future.”

“And did you come
par avion
?”

Chewing, Teo said, “Did you and Laura come by subway?”

“Yes, Teo,” Fletch said honestly. “Never have I seen an underground transportation system so modern, so quiet, so clean.”

Dressed like a Christmas package and as an eighteenth-century musician, Fletch and Laura had ridden Rio’s subway
to Carnival Parade at Teo’s suggestion. Everyone had told them they could not get a car or a taxi within kilometers of Avenida Marques de Sapucai.

The ten-year-old Janio Barreto had followed Fletch and Laura from The Hotel Yellow Parrot to Avenida Marques de Sapucai.

In the subway station he ducked under the turnstile onto the platform. Fletch thought the underground official saw him, but the man took no notice. Who would keep a wooden-legged boy off public transportation because he had no money? On the train, Janio stood away from them, not looking at them, not speaking to them.

Fletch pointed him out to Laura, briefly told her about him.

She seemed particularly disturbed by being following by a small boy on a wooden leg.

Janio hobbled after them through the dark back streets to the Carnival Parade. At the entrance to the boxes he was stopped. Security was very heavy there, very official. Even with tickets, Fletch and Laura physically had to force, squeeze themselves through the bodies of the guards. They would not let anyone, even or especially a ten-year-old boy on a wooden leg, through the entrance to the boxes without a ticket.

“Yes.” Fletch was aware Teo was watching his face. “A magnificent subway.”

The Italian racing-car driver came to the bar table. “There are some Indians out there calling for you.”

“Me?” Fletch asked.

The racing-car driver jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the area beyond the box rail.

Laura was dancing in the center of the box with Aloisio da Silva. The heat had caused her leggings to drop over her patent leather shoes.

On the packed earth between the box and the pavement of the parade route stood Toninho Braga, Orlando Velho, and Tito Granja. Again they were dressed as movie Indians. In that light, their shoulders and stomach ridges shone with sweat.

“Jump down!” Toninho shouted.

Fletch put perplexity on his face.

Cupping his hand over his mouth, Orlando shouted, “We need to talk to you!”

“Later!” yelled Fletch.

“About Norival!” shouted Toninho.

Tito waved his arm to encourage Fletch to jump down to them.

Fletch turned around.

Dancing with Aloisio, Laura’s eyes were on Fletch’s face.

Her own face was so expressionless it was unfathomable.

From behind him, Fletch heard the name
Janio
shouted.

He jumped the three meters from the box down to the Tap Dancers.

Toninho clapped Fletch on the shoulder. “You look Brazilian with that red sash. Probably just the way you did fifty years ago.”

“Laura brought it to me from Bahia.”

The four young men walked along the area between the boxes and the parade route.

Fletch said, “I was in a
favela
this morning. I don’t see how the people in a
favela
can afford to put on such a presentation, all these drums and costumes and floats.”

“It takes every
cruzeiro
, and then some,” Toninho said. “By the way, I have lots of your money, your poker winnings, at my apartment. It’s safe there. And dry.”

“Thousands of beautiful costumes,” Fletch mused. “Each must be individually made.”

Tito said, “Everyone in a
favela
pays dues to the samba school every week. Also, the samba school gets some subsidy from the government for Carnival Parade. It’s good for tourism.”

“The
jogo do bicho
,” Orlando said. “The
jogo do bicho
pays a lot.”

“The illegal numbers game,” Toninho said. “The people who
run the illegal numbers games give a lot of money to the samba schools for Carnival Parade. It’s their way of giving some of the money back, paying taxes—”

“Because they’ve been stealing from the people all year,” Tito said. “Stealing their false hopes.”

“It’s good public relations for
jogo do bicho
,” Tito said. “A business expense.”

They had passed two or three of the judges’ viewing towers.

Tito turned around and walked backwards. “Here comes
Escola Santos Lima
, Janio. Some of your descendants are parading.”

“
Escola Santos Lima
has the best
capoeiristas
in all Rio de Janeiro,” Orlando said. “Maybe all Brazil. A huge what-would-you-say squadron of them.”

Toninho held Fletch’s elbow. “Listen. Norival has not appeared.”

“You miscalculated, Toninho. Miscalculated the currents. His body must have been carried out to sea.”

“Not possible. Remember last night when I was swimming ashore? I swam into Norival. That proves that already he was floating toward the beach.”

Against the noise of Carnival Parade the four young men held their heads close together as they walked.

“It would be terrible if Norival were eaten by a shark,” Tito said.

“You don’t see Norival as fish food?” Fletch asked.

“If it looks like he has just disappeared,” Orlando asked practically, “how do we tell his family he is dead?”

“His poor mother,” said Tito.

“His father will be awfully angry,” said Toninho. “And Admiral Passarinho…”

“They will never forgive us for burying Norival at sea without them,” Tito said.

“How would they ever believe us?” asked Toninho.

“You have a problem,” Fletch admitted.

“The tide has been in and out and soon comes in again.” Toninho looked sick. He looked as if the tide, with all its wiggly
life, were passing through his own stomach and head.

“What do we do?” Orlando asked.

Fletch said, “Got me.”

“What does that mean?”

“I haven’t any idea.”

“You are our friend, Fletch.” Toninho still walked with Fletch’s elbow in hand. “You helped us with Norival.”

“Now you must help us think,” said Tito.

“I don’t think I can,” said Fletch. “Someone I know who is alive has disappeared. Other people tell me I died forty-seven years ago and must name my murderer. I haven’t slept. I am drunk with the sound of the drums. Norival has died and disappeared. Everything is becoming less real. How can I answer if I don’t understand?”

They had walked half the length of the parade route.

Fletch stopped. “I must go back.”

“Yes,” said Tito. “He must see Santos Lima parade.”

“You will tell us if you think of anything?” Toninho asked.

“Sure.”

“Now we cannot fish the whole ocean hoping to catch the corpse of Norival,” Orlando said.

“We’ll telephone you,” Toninho said. “Tomorrow, after the parade is over.”

If it were not for his wounds, Fletch would have been willing to believe that finally he fell asleep and dreamed the most horrible dream.

As it was, later he was unsure of when he had been conscious and when he had been unconscious.

Dizzy with sleeplessness, having somewhat the sensation of intoxication from the constant sound of Carnival drums, perhaps staggering a little, alone he began to walk back along the parade route to Teodomiro da Costa’s box. His eyelids were heavy, his vision diminished in that glaring light. The
Abra-Alas
of
Escola Santos Lima
passed by, the first
alegoria
reminding the spectators to expect a literary theme. The walk back to da Costa’s box seemed as big a chore as crossing all
Brazil on foot. He was aware of the passing of the
Commisão de Frente
. He stopped, swaying, trying to focus in the glare on the dancing of the
Porta Bandeira
and the
Mestre Sala
. Their dance steps were too quick, too intricate for him to follow with his eyes. At the first
ala
, he staggered forward again, only dimly aware of the passing of the thousands of dancing, singing people, the swirling costumes and flesh to his right.

Once back in Teo’s box he would curl into a corner and sleep. For only an hour. People might be amazed or insulted at his sleeping during Carnival Parade, but he could not help it. He would arrange with Laura to wake him after an hour so people would not be too insulted. Even in that noise, he could, he had to sleep.

Just as he was comforting himself with this decision, using it to strengthen him to make it all the way back to Teo’s box, strong hands pushed suddenly and hard against his left shoulder.

Instead of looking at who had pushed him, Fletch tried to save himself from falling. The edge of the parade route’s pavement shot out from under him.

Someone pushed him again.

He fell to his right, into the parade.

A foot came up from the pavement and kicked him in the face.

Staggering from the blow, arms raised to protect his head, he looked around him. He was just inside the edge of perhaps a hundred young men doing their murderous, practiced kick-dancing. A foot landed flat against his stomach. Immediately, the air was gone from Fletch’s lungs. Gasping, he tried to duck sideways, back to the edge of the parade.