Inside it, a couple and a child gazed at me, bewildered.
“I’m sorry, I’m late for a flight,” I said, trying to patch up the curses I had shouted.
“You should have left earlier, then,” the woman said in a British accent.
She was right. After that, I remained silent all the way to the lobby.
The whole process of going up the elevator, packing my things and going down, took barely six minutes. But the moment I stepped out of the elevator I noticed a small suit-and-tie bald man, whose face I knew and already disgusted, coming round the revolving doors into the lobby.
That man was officer Paulo Pinto, and officer Roberto Rôla came right in his wake.
They must have been camping at Copacabana Palace since morning. Only this could explain so quick a response to the clerk’s call.
Officer Pinto ran across the hall to approach the clerk who had made the call. Officer Rôla stood by the door, parsing all faces going in and out the hotel.
I scurried along the corridor leading to the opposite side of the lobby. That way brought me into the restaurant. I took another corridor that led into a bar, then another one into a room full of poker tables, and, at last, I reached a hall with grand staircases draped by red tapestry and an arched door leading outside to a back street. It appeared to be a special entrance to the hotel used only in gala evenings.
I tried the doorknob, but the arched door didn’t budge.
The hall had been filled with boxes, tables, and wooden chairs, piled upon each other in a corner, as though on transit to some royal event. An employee of the hotel that didn’t speak English appeared at the hall and frowned at seeing me. He pointed a finger back to the corridor that brought me there, picked up one of the boxes and carried it away.
Clearly he meant I was in the wrong place.
Praia Palace had to have a service entrance. But to be able to use it I’d need to find it. Then talk my way through it. Which was out of question, considering that except for those front desk attendants, most employees, including backdoor security guys, didn’t speak English.
I stood inside the hall with sweat dripping down my forehead, my breathing increased as though expecting a sudden halt. I pricked my ears, eager for hints of the whereabouts of those two officers, probably already sniffing around the hotel after me.
I huddled next to the boxes in a corner. I lost sight of the corridor leading to it, so anyone eventually approaching the hall ought first to be heard. In that tiny place, squatting on my heels among tables and chairs smelling like years of spilled liquor—I heard my name.
I heard my name among other Portuguese words. People were having a conversation in the corridor, and Emily Bennett had come out of their mouths at least three times.
I craned my neck to get a view of the corridor. I saw officers Pinto and Rôla talking to the guy that had just carried the boxes out of the hall.
It was then that my phone rang the most absurd, obscene and obscure ringtone ever. The ringtone flooded the hall. Specks of dust stirred up from surfaces, staircases shaking from that ridiculous sound. I turned it off before it rang a third time. It was Joanne returning my call.
Then I heard the steps coming closer.
They knew I was there. End of the line, if it wasn´t for the click on the arched door. All of a sudden it opened, and a whole crew of workers entered the hall.
I didn’t think twice. While they looked at me as if I were a scruffy cat prowling among boxes, I darted out the door dragging my pink luggage behind me. Outside, there were two lanes of passers-by on the sidewalk, jammed like traffic on the road. I went left and followed the flow because the best way to disappear is to mingle in a crowd. When I looked back, I saw Pinto’s bald head scouring through the mass of people, but it was already too late for him.
Being among people gave me a sense of security. I still might be spotted, but I made it a hell of a lot harder for those two officers.
I had stopped at the corner of the block, waiting for the stoplight to turn red, when my phone rang. It was boss calling again. I picked it up.
“What do you mean by going back today, Emily? What the fuck has happened?” Joanne said.
“Look, a crapload of things ‘has happened’ since yesterday. I’m being chased. I’ll tell you everything but first I need to—”
Before I could finish the sentence, someone slapped my ear and the next thing I noticed was that my phone disappeared from my hands.
The stoplight turned green and the crowd started crossing to the other side. Someone jostled against my back. I was sent forward, stumbling to avoiding a fall. My handbag got pulled back, its straps straining on my shoulder, but then it snapped and was also gone.
When I spun around, the crowd had already cleared, dragging my pink luggage among them.
I stood in shock on the sidewalk, flabbergasted. I had been stripped of all my possessions without even getting a hint of who did it. I tasted the same poison I tried to deliver to officers Pinto and Rôla. The mugger, or muggers, disappeared among the crowd without ever giving me the chance of getting a glimpse of them.
At that miserable moment, I envisioned how my life would end: locked up in a filthy prison cell, unidentified, deprived of personal belongings, and weeping to the last drop of tear..
Dazed, my vision captured only the blurred figures of passers-by as the
