Carioca Fletch (21 page)

“What’s that?” she asked. “Your lunch? Enough to tide you over to the other world?”

“My poker winnings.”

“Ah, they buried you with all your worldly wealth. All your ill-gotten gains. So you can tip Charon after he rows you across the River Styx.”

His time in the coffin had stiffened his muscles again. “How come you’re here?”

“Toninho called me at the hotel. Said you had fainted. I should come in the car and pick you up. Adroaldo and the others had to go with Norival in his coffin to the Passarinho home.”

Fletch’s heart had slowed, but he was still sweating. “What if you hadn’t come? I could have run out of air—”

“Why wouldn’t I have come?”

“Supposing the car had broken down, or—”

“You could have gotten yourself out of there.”

“I could have died of cardiac arrest.”

“Were you that frightened?”

“Waking up in a closed coffin is not something one expects to do—under any circumstances.”

She was studying his face. “You’re a mess.”

“I got nearly kicked to death.”

“They told me. Your whole body like that?”

“At the moment, I am not very sleek.”

“Was there any reason for it you know of? I mean, getting attacked?”

“I think so, yes. Help me out of this damned coffin, if you don’t mind.”

“Also, there was another message for you at the hotel.” She balanced him by holding onto his hand. “A Sergeant Paulo Barbosa of Rio de Janeiro police would like you to call him.”

“What did he say?”

“Just left a message. How much trouble are you in?”

“Oh, my God.” A body wounded in every part is painful to lift out of a raised coffin and set on two feet on the floor.

“You really are a mess,” Laura said. “The car is just outside.”

“You’d better drive.”

“Seeing the last vehicle you tried to drive is a coffin …”

“Not by choice, thank you.”

“We’ll go back to the hotel. The Parade is over. It was really wonderful. You missed most of it.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Fletch, you always seem to be someplace you’re not supposed to be, doing something you’re not supposed to be doing.”

“Got any other news for me?”

“Yes.” They were crossing the wide, cool foyer of the funeral home of Job Pereira, heading for the dazzling sunlight beyond the front door. “Paul Bocuse is the chef at Le Saint Honoré. I’ve made reservations for tonight, in your name. Have you forgotten the ball at Regine’s? That’s tonight. Tomorrow, I thought we’d drive up and have a quiet lunch at
Floresta
.”

“You mean Carnival still isn’t over?”

“Tomorrow night it’s over. I’m not at all sure you’ll make it. I’ll have to start preparing for my concert tour soon enough. Not a worry. We’ll go back to the hotel and rest now.”

“No.”

“No? You want to go play soccer now?”

“I want to go to
favela
Santos Lima now.” Over the top of the
small yellow convertible, she gave him a long look. “I’ll never rest until I do. You said so yourself.”

“I don’t think I know the way.”

“I do.” He lowered himself gently onto the hot passenger seat. “Just follow my directions.”

Sore with wounds, dazed with sleeplessness, Fletch walked into
favela
Santos Lima like a
Figura de Destaque
. The sun was searingly, blindingly hot.

Laura traipsed along a few steps behind him.

The children of the
favela
followed him too, of course, but they walked at a distance from him, quietly. As they climbed the hill, adults from the little houses and the little shops followed them.

By the time they were in front of Idalina Barreto’s house, they were a large crowd.

The tall old woman recognized Laura immediately. Hands on her hips in the doorway of her little house, she began talking to Laura even before Laura got to the front of the house. The old woman asked, repeated some question of Laura.

The crowd outside the house was quiet. They wanted to hear Fletch’s answer.

Laura said, “She wants to know if you’ve come to identify your murderer.”

Fletch said, “I think so. Tell her I think so.”

Laura frowned. “Are you serious?”

“Is anything serious?”

“How do you mean to do that?”

“I mean to walk slowly through the
favela
, look into everyone’s eyes. I shall identify my murderer.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“I don’t believe …” She looked around at all the people quietly awaiting Fletch’s response.

“What don’t you believe?” he asked. “What do you believe?”

Fletch waited a long time for her to answer. He asked, “Would you like to believe I’m about to perform magic? That I’m about to do a trick?”

Still Laura did not answer.

“Would you like to believe, as some of these people do, that I am Janio Barreto returned from the dead after forty-seven years to point out my murderer?”

“I believe …” In the heat of the sunlight, Laura took a deep breath. “I don’t believe you should play with these people.”

“Am I playing?”

“At least some of these people believe this story. Because the old lady wants them to believe. The others are just curious. They love any story.”

“Anybody can make up a story and say it is the past. Right?”

“Identifying someone as your murderer, as the murderer of Janio Barreto, would be a very serious thing for these people.”

“I hope so.”

“You have no idea what they might do to such a person.”

“I can guess.”

“Fletch, you must tell me what you know.”

“You want a fact?”

“I want something.”

“Okay, Laura, here’s a fact: The person who murdered Janio Barreto forty-seven years ago truly believes I am Janio Barreto returned.”

“How do you know that?”

“Look at me.”

“I don’t think you should play with the, what’s-the-word? credibility of people.”

“I am taking advantage of the credulity of only one of these people.”

“Someone believes—”

“Someone either believes I am Janio Barreto returned. Or he
has decided to act as if he believes I am Janio Barreto returned, just in case it is true.”

In the sunlight, Laura sighed.

Now there were even more people standing around outside Idalina Barreto’s house awaiting his answer.

The child Janio Barreto had appeared. Of all the people in the
favela
, he stood closest to Fletch.

“Please tell the old woman I am here to identify my murderer.”

Laura started to speak to Idalina, but then stopped.

Instead, she said to Fletch: “You’re putting it to me too, aren’t you?”

“Hell, Laura, we haven’t even gotten to know each other.”

“All this will be on your head,” she said.

“Fine. My head is so sore now, it doesn’t matter.”

Speaking loudly, as if making an announcement, Laura answered the old woman.

The crowd cheered. Many gave the thumbs-up sign.

The old woman asked another question.

Laura said, “Do you really mean to just walk through the
favela
, up and down the streets, until you point someone out?”

“I want to see, to look into the eyes of everyone in the
favela
. Tell her, if the murderer is here, I will find him.”

Laura translated, in a less robust voice.

Idalina Barreto came out of the shade of her doorway.

In the sunlight, she took Fletch’s arm.

Together, Laura walking behind them, the people from the
favela
all around them, Fletch and Idalina Barreto began to walk through
favela
Santos Lima.

“I know your trick,” Laura finally said to Fletch in a low voice. They had been walking a long time. Her hair had collapsed with perspiration. “You’re going to walk through the whole
favela
and point no one out.”

“Maybe,” Fletch answered. “Would that permit me to sleep?”

Favela
Santos Lima was far more extensive than he thought.
It was a senseless warren of streets and alleys and footpaths. The banged-together, stuck-together hovels seemed placed by the whimsy of the moment, or some invisible convenience. On some of the paths only he and Idalina could walk abreast. The stream of their followers flowed a kilometer behind them in some places.

“We’re having our own Carnival Parade,” Fletch said to Laura.

“Not bloody likely.”

Sweating, the middle-aged Janio Barreto Filho appeared and asked what was happening. His mother told him
Janio Barreto
wished to look into the eyes of everyone in the
favela
. He would identify his murderer.

Janio Barreto Filho organized boys and men to walk ahead of Fletch and Idalina and get all the people out of their homes so Fletch could look into their eyes as he passed.

It was the afternoon after the Samba School Parade, and most of the people in the
favela
were sleeping. Barreto’s squad called through the windows of their homes, entered, awakened people, and politely asked them to come outside.
No, no, it is not the police. It is an important matter. To solve an ancient matter having to do with the
favela.
We are about to find out who murdered Janio Barreto, a long time ago
. Shy of most clothes, faces puffy with tiredness, the people stood at their doors rubbing their eyes in the sunlight.

Perhaps they understood a feat of legerdemain was about to happen: a voice from beyond the grave was about to speak. Perhaps they understood nothing but that someone had asked them to wake up and stand outside a moment. Something interesting was passing by. Sleepy or curious, they cooperated.

Fletch asked Laura, “Are you deciding what you believe now?”

“All these people.” Laura looked back at the river of people following them. “Many of them are laughing at you.”

“I would hope so,” he said.

“Turning this into a joke. Is that what you’re doing?”

“Isn’t it a joke?”

“You’re going to lead them around in a circle and then say there is no such person as your murderer here.”

“Perhaps.”

As he walked, Fletch was becoming less stiff. He was thirsty. The sun was stinging his various wounds on his face and arms. His head throbbed like a samba combo. A few times, the bright sunlight dimmed on him unnaturally. He stumbled. Idalina Barreto’s grip on his arm was strong.

Of course he did not know if he was going up and down every path in Santos Lima. He had to leave that to his guides. It certainly felt as though he was going up and down every path, looking into the eyes of every person in Santos Lima.

“I’m going back,” Laura said. “Here are the car keys. I’ll take a taxi.”

“No,” said Fletch. “Stay with me.”

“I don’t care to see out the end of this act of yours.”

“It’s not an act.”

Fletch was seeing the people of
favela
Santos Lima. He was seeing males and females, the old, the young, the tall, the short, the beautiful, the ugly, the misshapen, the healthy, the insane, the doddering, the dignified, the ashamed….

Ahead of him on a narrow path, he saw a lean, gray-haired man dressed only in shorts leave a house. He crossed the path and entered another house.

Walking more quickly, Fletch approached that house.

In excitement, Idalina Barreto gripped his arm even tighter. She kept up with him.

Young Janio Barreto looked up into Fletch’s eyes. Then, calling others, he ran ahead and into the house.

Fletch entered the house. It was empty. There was a doorless back door.

From behind the house came the sound of young Janio Barreto calling loudly.

As Fletch went through the house, the mob following gathered speed. They went through the house and round the house.

Now they had the idea they were pursuing someone.

“What are you doing?” Laura said. “Madman!”

Fletch looked back. A wall of the little house they had just gone through fell flat in the dust. The other three walls fell forward but did not collapse. The twisted tin roof kept three of the walls up.

“You’re out of your mind!” Laura said. “There is no understanding this!”

Above the little house he came to a wider path. To his left down the path, young Janio Barreto held onto the black shorts of the gray-haired man he knew Fletch was pursuing. Other boys, men, surrounded the man.

More slowly now, Fletch walked toward the group in the middle of the path.

As he approached, one of the young men said to the gray-haired man, “Just let him look into your eyes, Gabriel.”

“
Gabriel Campos!”
Idalina Barreto shrieked in her highest crone’s voice. “
Gabriel Campos!”

Clearly the man wanted to bolt. He was surrounded now by twenty strong young men, by more than thirty children. He was being approached by more than one hundred fellow citizens of his
favela
.

With dignity, he stood his ground. His body was mostly light, sinewy muscle. The top of his stomach was pumping hard. The man had not moved that far, not moved that fast, to be so out of breath. Not for a man in his condition. A disingenuous smile played on his lips.

“
Gabriel Campos!”
Idalina shrieked. Then she shouted something about Janio Barreto.

Standing close to him, Fletch looked into the eyes of Gabriel Campos. He had seen those eyes before.

Gabriel Campos’ eyes flickered. He looked at the crowd and back at Fletch.

His smile came and went like a flashing light.

Slowly, Fletch raised his hand.

He pointed his index finger at Gabriel Campos’ nose.

Fletch already had checked the ring the man was wearing. It had a black center. Intertwined snakes rose from that center.

Instantly, Gabriel Campos ducked. Throwing back his
elbows, he darted backward through the circle of young men, children, knocking over a child.

Idalina Barreto shrieked.

Others began to yell, move forward.

Two of the young men grabbed for Gabriel Campos.

Campos kicked one in the stomach; the other in the face.