Carioca Fletch

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.