The Dead Man's Brother (19 page)

"Most of it. The story broke last week. My fellow journalists in Rio filled me in on some of the details."

"Where do you think he is?" Maria asked.

He shook his head.

"There aren’t even any good guesses. He could be in Switzerland by now."

She raised her napkin and bowed her head. She began to sniffle.

"Then they were just shoo—shooting in the dark," she said.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"When they arrested us," she said.

"I don’t understand…"

"When they pulled us in," I said, "they were kind of rough, and that was a touchy point."

"You say that nothing at all came of it when you complained?"

I could not even manage a cynical smile.

"That’s right."

"And there is no record?"

"No record. We just imagined the whole thing."

"How rough were they?"

"Let’s change that subject."

"What was the business about a phony story? Why the hell were you at Bretagne’s in the first place?"

"A good question," I said. "Answering it could take a long, boring while."

"I’ve got plenty of time."

"Why not?" I said. "Just remember that you asked for it."

*

Our fourth cup of coffee had grown cold and we were sipping after dinner drinks when I finished. For a time, the two of them just stared at me.

Then Walt said, "That is unbelievable."

Maria said nothing.

"I agree," I said. "Only the guys who started the ball rolling and the guys who kept it moving would believe it—and they seem to have dismissed me from the whole thing. I don’t know what function I served or why, and nobody seems to care. That’s why I told you. Nothing that I did or that I say about it matters. It is as if nothing had occurred. Also, I wanted to cry on somebody’s shoulder."

"Now I wish I hadn’t asked you," he said, the corners of his mouth growing tight. "Now I’ll be seeing Saci in every doorway."

Maria continued to stare at me. It made me somewhat uncomfortable.

"Saci?" I said. "What’s that?"

"A nasty chap who throws bombs and kidnaps diplomats, holds people against their will."

"I’m afraid I never heard the name."

"It’s a nickname," he said. "There was a small write-up in the
New York Times
some years ago. He may not really be an individual. It is a name that has appeared on ransom notes, been painted on buildings and shouted at demonstrations."

"How long has he been around?"

He chuckled.

"Oh, a couple hundred years, I’d say. Saci-Pererê is the full name. He’s a minor figure in lots of legends, a small black elf who wears a red nightcap, smokes a long pipe and hops about on one leg. He is invisible most of the time. He takes great delight in all sorts of mischief. A good name for a revolutionary leader—though it is not exactly revolution that he seems to have in mind."

"What then?"

"I guess secession would be the best word. For years there has been an on-again, off-again movement for the States of São Paulo to break way from the rest of Brazil and become an independent country. The last time it made world headlines was in the early sixties. I think it was around then that Saci was first mentioned. The revolutionary, I mean. Not the elf."

"How strong is the movement now?"

He shrugged.

"I don’t know. Nobody knows. This is because nobody understands Brazilian politics, least of all the Brazilians. I do understand that the State of São Paulo has the best militia in the country, and it is axiomatic that whoever controls the military can control the country. But then, nobody can be certain who controls the military, least of all the military commanders."

"It sounds somewhat screwed up."

"Face it, this is a feudal country in a post-industrial world. São Paulo sticks out like a hitchhiker’s digit. It’s big, rich, industrial, urbanized and growing. It’s an anomaly, and there is a faction that wants out. Hardly a Marxist dream. Somewhat the other way around, I’d say. Though I’d also guess that some elements of the group—the ones who get stuck with all the dirty work—are snapping at the carrot of a Workers Republic of São Paulo or some such. Saci may be the carrot-wielder. Or a dupe. My friends’ theories varied on that."

"You think it was people such as this who had us prisoner, who questioned us?" Maria asked.

"Frankly," he said, "yes. Political activity costs money at all levels, and there was a lot involved in the Bretagne thing. You showed up in a bad place at a bad time and started lying to them. They wanted whatever you knew. From what you said, you will have to admit that if you knew more they would probably have gotten it."

"If your guess is correct," she said, "I am surprised that they released us at all."

"Why not?" he asked. "You’re harmless. What have you been able to do to them? Nothing. What can you do to them? The same. Such men are not always complete monsters. To some, violence is a scalpel, not an axe. If that was the case here, you are fortunate."

Maria laughed softly.

"How lucky we were!" she said.

"I’d say so," he agreed, lighting a cigar. "Actually, it might not have been human decency that spared you, though. Ovid’s mentioning the CIA might have frightened them. If he was indeed working for them on a different matter, they would not be too anxious to arouse the agency’s interest in their business. The last thing they would want is a gang of U.S. snoopers investigating the death of one of their own people by those who oppose a U.S.-supported government. Your release produces a haziness as to the motives and even the identity of your captors. Any number of guesses might be made. Death, on the other hand, would have narrowed the field and drawn unwanted attention. Either way, whatever determined your release, you are fortunate."

"But we can identify them—Morales and the others," she said.

"So what? You’ll probably never see them again, and if you were to it would be your words against theirs. For that matter, your Morales may not even be the Morales on the local force."

"True," I said, "and we are left with a fistful of water."

"It’s better than being dead."

"What are we to do now?" Maria said.

"I believe you should let me take you to some of the museums tomorrow. You haven’t seen any of them yet, and you really should, you know."

"That sounds excellent," she told him, then added, "Why don’t we, Ovid?"

"That would be nice," I said.

"I meant—" he began.

Maria gave me a somewhat nasty smile.

"We might as well do something," she said.

I nodded. Hell, I wasn’t looking for an argument.

Things grew quiet then and we settled up and found a taxi, agreeing to meet at the Museum of Contemporary Art in the morning. Maria did not speak to me on the way back. I picked up a newspaper in the lobby, for something to do later.

*

We moved from canvas to canvas, room to room, wing to wing. Maria clung to my arm and we moved slowly, not always noting everything that was before us, not always hearing everything Walter said. The museum was a glorious place, I think.

We had had our argument the night before. I hoped the rooms were soundproof.

Since she wasn’t talking to me, I’d decided to return the compliment. I’d hung my jacket, seated myself and began to read the paper. She was in the bathroom for a time, then out of it. Then pacing. Then sitting. Then sitting and smoking. Then sitting and smoking and staring.

I had located, read and was re-reading an article on Emil. It contained nothing that I did not already know, complete with photo. It was not a good picture, but it was clear enough so that I could see the strong resemblance recalling those I had seen of Claude.

…Then sitting and smoking and staring and making a noise like a pre-whistle hiss of a boiling teakettle.

I glanced up and was hit by a wave of Italian adjectives, some of which I could not catch, as they were in an unfamiliar dialect. I did catch several versions of "liar!", "pig!", "slanderer!", "coward!" and "stupid!", though.

When she paused to inhale, I asked her what she was talking about.

This gave me time to light and enjoy a cigarette, then begin another.

It grew more interesting when she added pantomime to the words and gestures. A not-too-loose black slip in motion is an undeniable asset when it comes to getting points across.

I was many things for not telling her the full story of my forced involvement in the Bretagne case, and many more for telling everything to someone else—especially with her sitting there. I had made her seem a woman of the streets, even if I had not said she was sleeping with Claude. What other conclusion could anyone draw? I had done nothing intelligent the whole time we had been together. I had gotten us arrested and tortured. We had learned nothing we wanted to know, and it was unlikely now that we ever would. A brave man would be out learning what had happened and righting wrongs. She detested São Paulo, and I was another pig for taking advantage of her innocent young body at a time when she was not really responsible for its movements…

The gods had seen fit to grant me a vision at that point, in response to some feeble speculations during the previous few days as to what married life with Maria might be like. I shuddered and drew back from the abyss, flames singeing my hair and eyebrows, scorching my crepe-soled shoes.

I waited till she paused again, then said, "Is that all?"

She threw back her head and let out an animal-like bleat. Then I dropped my newspaper and seized her wrists as she sprang at me. I avoided her kicks as best I could. Fortunately, she was not wearing shoes.

Then I thrust her back onto the bed and stood over her.

"Three things," I said, over her noises. "Hear three things, and then I’ll go away and you can yell all you want.

"First," I said, though her sounds did not diminish, "I told Walt much of what had happened because I felt like it. I will also tell anyone else I feel like telling now. You are free to do the same. It doesn’t make a damned bit of difference, and it made me feel better. In fact, we learned something as a result.

"Second," I said, and she was merely whimpering now, "I didn’t tell you everything because I never anticipated our getting this involved together. Once we did, it was too late. We were moving too fast, and I still wanted to keep you out of it as much as possible. Now you know anyway, and what difference does it make?

"And finally," I told her silence, "if I seem to be doing nothing right now, it is because there is nothing to do at the moment but waiting and thinking."

"Waiting for what?" she spat. "Thinking of what?"

"Waiting for more news of Emil. It will determine what I do next. If you don’t care to do it my way, I can get you a ticket on the next flight back to Rome. In fact, that sounds like a good idea anyway."

"No!" she said. "I am with you until we find Claude’s killer."

"Well, you are not helping to find him by bitching over everything that’s happened. You used to give me credit for having some brains and some luck. The luck seems temporarily out of stock, and there’s not much for my brains to chew on. If you can’t understand that, you might as well leave. Or I will."

"I am not leaving."

"All right," I said, shrugging. "Shall I?"

"Where would you go?"

"Down to the desk, to get a room on another floor. A quiet room."

She studied the carpet.

"No, do not go," she said softly. "You must understand how it is with me when I am upset or when I am depressed—or both—as I am now. I must do something. I must complain to someone. I grew disappointed over the way that things had gone. I did not mean it the way it sounded. Do not leave me."

She took my hand and looked up at me.

"I only scold at people I care for," she said, and she pressed my hand to her cheek.

My eyebrows grew cool and I slipped off my shoes. The abyss seemed to have closed somewhat.

I held her hand against my side and stroked her hair.

"I understand," I said, turning then and seating myself beside her.

I put my arm about her. I raised her hair and kissed her neck.

I kissed her lips, her throat, and after a few moments with the straps, her breasts.

She leaned back and I felt the tenseness go out of her.

"I understand," I said.

The black nightgown fell to the floor and did not move again that night.

…The museum was a glorious place, I think. We moved in a half-high, dreamy sort of way through corridors of color, contour, crystal and light. That morning all artists were great, and the birds of the mind made invisible music in the bright air.

That day was good for both of us. Walt was a shadow-figure, a genie with good suggestions and a rented car, as useful and unnoticed as electricity or air. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to be without responsibility and cares for a time. A small, rodent-like thing at my mind’s roots called attention to the fact that every other time I had felt good recently, the day had ended in disaster. I decided not to pay it any heed.

This time it had not been a coupling of desperation, like the congress of frenzied baboons, but something pathetic and tender. Such things seem to occur with less and less frequency as the world grows older about me, so my pleasure was not unmixed with gratefulness. We walked and we saw what we would. We touched one another frequently and laughed often.

The day was controlled by the old Time:Joy equation—the more of the latter, the less of the former—or something like that, and the sun was forked by towers and masticated by concrete molars after what seemed but the briefest of whiles. When the shadows flowed together and the lights of the city came on, we found ourselves in a small café.

*

We laughed and talked, not really caring what was said so much as enjoying the sounds and the echoes of the day’s colors. There was music in the little place, and the window beside us opened upon a small garden where the flowers slept now but left a bit of their sweetness behind, to come cool and occasional on a stray current of air across our table. We ate thick sandwiches and drank beer and were happy.