Carioca Fletch

Twenty-nine

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 Commisao 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.

Again he was pushed, hard.

Spinning, he fell more deeply into the group of capoeiristas. He was surrounded by fast-moving, swinging legs striking at crotch height, stomach height, shoulder height, head height. A blow landed against the back of his right knee. He fell against someone. All around him flashed intense eyes. Aw, shit, was in Fletch’s head, I’m messing up their presentation. A damned North American, a tourist. He was being kicked from all sides. The eyes of the capoeiristas were seeing him, popping in amazement at his being there, but usually only after they had pirouretted, when it was too late for them to stop their momentum, avoid kicking him.

I don’t belong here.

Someone had pushed him into the capoeira troupe, not just once but three times. Whoever pushed him doubtlessly was still between him and the edge of the parade. Arms over his head, Fletch ducked. Keeping as low as possible, he began to scurry across the parade route to the far side, toward the stands.