Carioca Fletch

He did not move. No part of his body wanted to move. Every muscle in his body had been kicked at least once. The skin and tissue against his bones throbbed. For a while, the thighs of his legs would hurt; he would think about them, then his shoulders; and he would think about them, his back, the area high in his stomach just below his ribs. Even his fingers and toes hurt. Anything was better than thinking how his head hurt. His head felt as if the inside had been kicked loose from the outside and rattled.

Laura would return. Sometime during the morning. Or perhaps within an hour after the parade was over, by two or three in the afternoon. How could she know, at the parade, he had been kicked almost to death? All she knew was that he had left the box to take a walk with the Tap Dancers. She would return.

Daylight came through the balcony drapes. Then direct sunlight entered the room. The television coverage of Carnival Parade continued. The room grew hot.

In his bed he experimented moving an arm. Then the other. One leg. He dug his fingers into his left leg to cause it to move. Slowly, he rolled his head back and forth on the pillow.

His head was clearing. He had not been unconscious for a long time now.

It was nearly noon when he could resist no longer.

Slowly he rolled himself to the edge of the bed. Heavily he lifted himself up. The semi-dark room went out of focus for a minute. He took a step forward. There was no part of his body which did not hurt.

After using the toilet, he turned on the bathroom light and looked at himself in the mirror. To his regret, his head was on frontwards and stared back at him. Swollen eyes, bruised cheekbones, jaws. One ear was inflamed. There was still blood in his hair. A shower would cause his bandages to fall off. Backing up, he saw the blue bruises on his upper arms, his chest. The top of his stomach was purple.

Brushing his teeth gingerly, he spat blood into the basin.

Then he returned to bed and waited.

Laura would come and they would have food. He would tell her what had happened to him. Would she listen? What had happened to him? Would she be interested, or would this be a level of reality which didn’t interest her much? While he talked, would she be hearing something else? As he was leaving the box to join the Tap Dancers, her face had been inscrutable. What did the fact of the wooden-legged boy following them through the subway mean to her it did not mean to him?

Laura had not returned by the time Toninho called.

“You must be better,” Toninho said. “You’ve had almost twelve hours to meditate.”

“I need twelve years.”

“Who tried to kill you?”

“I’m thinking about that.”

“Ah, Carnival,” Toninho said.

“He was wearing a goat mask,” Fletch said. “A man in his sixties, I’d say. He tried to kick me to death.”

“He must have slipped into the personality of the goat. Carnival does that.”

“No goat has such training in capoeira.” Fletch wanted to switch the phone to his other ear. Then he remembered his other ear had slipped into the personality of a tomato.

“The news is that Norival has showed up.”

“Great! In one piece?”

“Yes. He came ashore way down the coast, a hundred kilometers south of where we thought.”

“I always thought that boy would go a long way.”

“Apparently he got caught in a current, which took him south, then ashore. He was on the beach this morning. A jogger found him. They are bringing his body up now.”

“Good. Great. All your worries are over.”

“The report so far is that he drowned. His boat broke up and he drowned.”

“That’s good. So Norival did die at sea. His mother will be so glad. Admiral Passarinho will be ecstatic.”

“So we’ll see you at the funeral home in about a half an hour.”

“What? No way. Toninho, I can’t move.”

“Of course you can move.”

“Why should I go to the funeral home?”

“To help us distract the officials.” Toninho’s voice fell to the conspiratorial. “To distract them from any idea of an autopsy. We need to stand around in a circle and say, yes, he drowned. We saw him go sailing and indeed he certainly did drown. They’re more apt to believe you, you see. They don’t know you as well as they know us.”

“I don’t think I can move.”

“You must move. If you don’t make yourself move now, you’ll stiffen up, like Norival, and not be able to move for days.”

Fletch hesitated. He remembered past injuries. “You’re probably right.”

Still, he had had no real sleep.

“Of course I’m right. The funeral home of Job Pereira. On rua Jardim Botanico. The business part of the road.”

“I’ll find it.”

“I’ll bring all your gambling winnings to you.”

“You needn’t bribe me.” Fletch tried sitting up in bed. “On the other hand, maybe you do.”

Thirty-one

At the funeral home of Job Pereira, Fletch tried to find a doorbell to ring, a door on which to knock. There was neither.

It was a large stucco and stone house sitting in the deep shade of its own trees.

“Hello?” he called. “Anyone?”

The quiet from inside the building was tomb-like.

He stepped into the coolness of the foyer. There was no reception desk, still no bell to ring. There were short, dark potted palms in each corner.

“Hello?” Fletch called.

The only response was a faint echo of his own voice.

It had taken him longer than the promised half hour to get from The Hotel Yellow Parrot to the funeral home of Job Pereira.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he had ordered food from Room Service.

While still at the telephone, he called The Hotel Jangada and asked for Room 912.

No answer.

No, Mrs Joan Collins Stanwyk had not yet picked up the envelope Mr Fletcher had left in her box.

Every step, every movement, however small, caused him pain. He opened the drapes to the balcony. Across the utility area, the man was painting the room. Perhaps the man’s permanent job in life was to paint that room. Fletch opened the door to the balcony. The air was warm and dry and felt good. The televisions were still blaring the news of Carnival Parade.

Life goes on.

Shaving was like walking barefoot through a field of glass. Finished, he had to affix one more bandage to his face.

Alone, with stinging lips and sore jaws, he ate breakfast.

Every minute, he thought Laura might return.

Finally dressed in a pair of clean shorts and a T-shirt, sneakers and socks, he went down in the elevator. The desk clerk and the few other people in the lobby glanced at him and immediately looked away. Despite the glue stuck to various parts of his face and body, he gathered he no longer looked like a Christmas package.

The avenida in front of the hotel was emptier than he had ever seen it. Citizens either were still watching Carnival Parade or were worn out by it and sleeping.

Finally a taxi picked him up. All the streets were empty. All the way to the funeral home, the taxi radio kept up an excited description of the last escola to parade.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

The funeral home was lifeless. There was not even the sound of a radio or television reporting the