The Dead Man's Brother (20 page)

We smoked and made noises and listened to the music and sang along with it, and after a time I excused myself.

On my way to the restroom, I picked up a newspaper that was lying on a vacant table.

It was a long while before I returned, and when I did I did not sit down. Instead, I slammed the folded-back paper down onto the table, upsetting Walt’s beer glass. For some reason, it did not break, and he caught it before it rolled over the edge.

"What the hell!" he said, his arm wet, his head snapping upwards. "What’s wrong?"

"You son of a bitch! That’s what’s wrong!" I said, pointing.

He looked down at the paper, stared a moment, then smiled.

"Yes," he said. "I see it. I repeat, ‘What’s wrong?’ "

I repressed an impulse to take a swing at him.

"I told you something in confidence," I said, forcing my voice soft and steady, "because I’ve known you a long while and because I thought I could trust you. Thanks a lot!"

The article—complete with a fuzzy photo of me—occupied one of the inner pages. It stated that I, an agent for the CIA, had been kidnapped and questioned under torture by local terrorists, then released. It said little concerning my antecedents, other than that I was an art dealer; it did not mention Maria and there were several paragraphs as to how the government was continuing to crack down on such groups. All of this under Carlon’s byline.

"Mm," he said. "They cut a lot and they added a lot. In fact, they rewrote the whole piece, dammit!"

"That’s all you have to say about it?"

"It’s a lousy picture, too," he added.

I hit him then and called him every name in the book.

It knocked him over backwards, but the table behind him saved him from going to the floor.

There was an instant of silence followed by a babble of voices, then a number of people converged. Patrons, employees or both. I don’t know.

My arms were seized and I did not struggle. No one attempted to hit me. The bartender was shouting that we would have to leave.

I did not resist as they escorted me out.

Maria joined me moments later.

"I paid the bill," she said.

"Great."

I was looking up and down the street for a cab then.

"I’m going back inside now to see how Walter is."

"Like hell you are!" I took her arm. "You’re coming back to the hotel with me—now!"

She jerked free of my grip.

"Like hell I’m not!" she said, her eyes flashing dangerously as she backed away. "I do not have to be your accomplice in bad manner, too!"

"Then go ahead!" I snapped, and she turned and I was alone on the outside of a closing door.

I walked on up the street then. I found a cab and returned to the hotel.

*

After ringing up a drink, I sat by the window, staring out, with just a small light on, thinking things over.

I felt hurt. The only two people in town who I thought I could trust were against me. Walt had always seemed to have a newsman’s background from somewhere or other, but I had thought those days were far behind him and had assumed he was beyond the point of betraying an obvious confidence for the monetary pleasure of a byline. So I was wrong, and that hurt.

I could call Mason, Collin, et al, mad as hell. This did not serve to cheer me up. They had wanted no publicity, and here was a fractured piece of my story in a big daily, with a photograph yet. I wondered briefly how it had gotten in, and could only conclude that the government had wanted it to appear, with comments cautioning Saci’s people to ease up and reassuring everyone else that something was being done. It seemed I was off the CIA’s hook now, but I did not want to do anything to antagonize them. Walt was therefore welcome to keep them company in hell.

The thing that really caught in my craw was Maria’s going back to apologize to the bastard, keeping him company, doubtless sympathizing with him. And she was taking a long time doing it, too. Even now they were probably sitting together, mumbling nonsense and assurances, smiling occasionally. Perhaps their hands lay together…

My God!

Was I getting jealous?

Of course not. She was just another girl, and I happened to like her. We had a few things in common. That was all. I had no intention of keeping her around on a permanent basis when this whole thing was over. So what did it matter what she was doing at that moment?

Nothing.

When this whole thing was over…

It was over now, so far as I was concerned. I was done, finished, dismissed. I had made Maria a promise, true. But such things are only good if they can be kept. The way things looked now, I was in no position to find Claude’s killers and never would be.

So there was no real reason to stick around, and several good ones for going away. I had a business to take care of, I had things to do in New York.

I took a big swallow of my drink and these things seemed even more true. I had no real reason to be in Brazil at all now.

Nothing I had done that had brought me here had been a matter of real choice on my part. Now the pressures had abated and there was nothing to keep me here.

Nothing, except for the fact that since I was already on the scene it would be a shame to waste the opportunity to see the rest of the local museums and galleries worth seeing.

I took another sip.

Yes, that was the answer. I would remain in Brazil for a few days, perhaps a week. Then I would go away and encourage my memories to do the same.

…for about six months, I’d say. That should give him plenty of time to forget, also.

Then I would come back and kill Morales.

I finished my drink, mixed another.

Everything was settled now, so far as I was concerned.

I lit a cigarette and watched the city.

*

Four days passed. There had only been a few nut calls. I had told the callers that I did not speak Portuguese—or English either, when they tried that—and hung up. Then I had told the desk to stop putting through telephone calls and the problem went away.

Maria had come in later that night, after I had retired, and slept on the couch. I took the couch on succeeding nights and let her have the bed. We were still on speaking terms, but that was about all. She felt that I had been mean to poor old Walt, who she insisted had not really done us any harm; I’d done all the harm myself when I’d told him my story, and he’d done no more with it than I should have expected. She also recalled once more that I had not given her Claude’s killer’s head yet and did not seem to be taking its quest as seriously as I should. I told her she was out of the picture now, so far as I was concerned, and she could damned well do what she pleased. As for me, though, I was gong to spend the next few days enjoying myself. She was welcome to join me if she wished. She was not too keen on the idea, but she went to a couple places with me—just to keep an eye on me, I suppose. She did not tell me what she was doing the rest of the time and I did not ask her. I knew she was seeing Walt, though. He had picked her up at the hotel on a few occasions. I had not spoken with him myself since I had hit him, and he had made no effort to get in touch with me. In this, I would say he was wise.

Four uneasy days went by in this fashion. Otherwise, though, I had a fairly interesting time. After all, I had not been playing for keeps.

I found myself unaccompanied in the Museum of Brazilian Art. It was only mid-morning, but I had already achieved an old, familiar fatigue. I was growing jaded. Too much of a good thing. There was a lot of great stuff hanging on the walls about me. But I appreciate strawberry sodas and martinis, too, and I would not care for a steady diet of either.

So it was that I found myself contemplating the end of my sojourn in São Paulo. Another day, I decided, and I would fly to Rio for a quick look. Then I would go home.

"Mr. Wiley. Oh-vid Wiley," a somewhat nasal voice intoned behind my right shoulder, and I felt a hand touch my sleeve.

I turned slowly and regarded the small apparition which had addressed me. Vaguely female in form, it was about five feet in height, the color of uncreamed coffee, had on a bright red blouse, a skirt of every colored paisley, enormous riding boots that had seen better days, huge circlets of copper through the earlobes, no fewer than ten bracelets of various materials—most of them kind of snakey—and a yellow scarf over long, streaked hair. The eyes that met mine were the darkest I had ever seen.

"Oh-vid Wiley?" she repeated, thrusting a folded-back newssheet toward me and indicating a section with a pudgy thumb.

I did not look at the paper. I simply nodded.

"Yes," I said.

"I wish to speak with you," she said softly, lowering the paper.

"Go ahead."

She glanced quickly about the room. There were a few other people at its opposite end.

"Not here," she said, and gestured with her eyes toward a doorway.

"Please," she added when I hesitated. "It is very important."

"All right."

I followed her about the wing until we came upon a deserted section. Apparently satisfied, she steered me out of range of an overhead television camera, drew close to me and said, "Emil Bretagne wants to see you."

"Oh? Why?"

"He has something to give you."

"What?"

"I do not know. He did not tell me that."

"Why me?"

"He did not tell me that either."

"Okay. I’ll talk to him," I decided. "Where is he?"

She shook her head.

"I may not say. I may only take you to him."

"When?"

"Now. We should go now."

"Is it far?"

"Yes."

"Will I be gone overnight?"

"Yes."

"Then I want to go back to my hotel and get some things."

"No," she said. "There is no time."

"Well, I’m going to take the time," I said, "whether you think I should or not."

"If you do," she told me, "then I may not take you to him."

I suppressed a sigh and immediately considered the consequence of my going. I had already written myself out of the script and I knew that if I went alone with her it would somehow lead me into more trouble. Also, I had been dismissed by the people who had gotten me involved in the whole stupid business.

On the other hand, being a primate endows one with a certain curiosity, and when one has wasted as much time as I had on a fool’s errand one is often willing to go another step if it may serve to remove something of the foolishness. Pride, I’d call it.

So, "All right," I said. "I will go with you now."

She took my arm.

"Then we must hurry," she said.

We did.

IX.

I just sat and smoked and watched the jungle unwind about me. It was maddening. My new companion, whose unpronounceable name we compromised to "Vera," had the window seat. She was not very talkative and she alternated her chewing between gum and snuff. Maria had a seat across the aisle and stared continually out the window, either ignoring me or fascinated by vegetation. The driver was a demented clown with a bottle of beer in one hand and a missing ear. He only lowered the bottle when we passed another vehicle, at which times he exchanged an elaborate series of hand-signals with the other driver. I learned later that this "language of the road," so to speak, is somewhat common in that mad country. He manipulated the groaning bus by occasionally adjusting its passage to roughly coincide with the direction the battered roadbed was taking. At times, he sang to us. I could not tell whether the vehicle possessed brakes.

I had with me several paperbacks I had managed to pick up at the last minute, but I could not get interested in reading. Neither of my companions was especially communicative. The jungle was monotonous and the heat oppressive.

Maria was an accidental fellow traveler. Vera and I had encountered her as we were leaving the museum. She had been on her way in, unaccompanied. She was, she explained, at a loss for anything better to do, so she was seeking my company. She recalled the itinerary I had announced that morning. And where was I headed now?

So I told her. Over Vera’s protestations, of course. It was the only safe thing to do. Pity.

She then insisted on accompanying us to the bus station and purchasing a ticket for herself—again, sending Vera into a pout. The little woman appeared to be weighing the situation for several moments, then agreed to this addition to her plans.

We caught a shuttle bus which took us to a stopping point where we met and boarded this horizontal roller coaster whipping us through the Matto Grasso on its day and-a-half run.

When I had suggested that it would be considerably speedier and more comfortable to fly, rather than take that thousand-plus-mile road I understood to have been mainly napalmed through the jungle, Vera had simply said, "No," and she would discuss the matter no further. So I watched that damnable green unwind and lit another cigarette.

In a way, I was glad that Maria was there. I felt a certain responsibility for her, since I had brought her to Brazil, since I was instrumental in those things which led her to suffering here. I did not want her to think I had deserted her. I was troubled, though, by the rapid change in feeling she caused in me. I was annoyed to find myself alternating between affection and anger on a schedule I could almost chart. She—either fortunately or unfortunately—displayed similar rhythmic behavior, and our cycles did not coincide. I considered this with a combination of pique and thankfulness. I was not certain whether I wanted to fall in love with her, felt that perhaps I was doing so and was annoyed with myself for my uncertainty.

We stopped several times, for food, fuel and to attend to basic human needs. The places where we stopped—and the ones we simply passed—represented a dissertation’s worth of material in their progression from the ramshackle to the truly primitive. I saw very little cut lumber after the first several hundred miles. Delimbed trees supported roofs of corrugated metal or thatching. I saw jeeps, junkers, burros and pickup trucks about some of the clusters of buildings we passed. The emptied oil drum appeared to be the basic unit of furniture. The most common garb was khaki shorts, with or without an undershirt, and boots or sandals. Children ran naked as often as not; grizzled faces grinned at us; bright birds perched on rooftops and rails.