“As to the information you were fishing for … during my time with the ship, we have carried four Germans, three who were definitely Nazis and one I wasn’t sure about.”
“Any women?” asked Sybilla.
“You’re the first. The others were all men.”
Sybilla put on her concerned face. “I’m trying to locate a friend of mine I worked with in Germany. I think she may be in danger,” she glibly lied.
Hess shook his head. “Unless she was escaping from America, she wouldn’t have used this route. Most German immigrants to Argentina travel from Italy.”
“Yes, of course. I should have realised that.”
Under directions from Hess, the driver took them on a whistle-stop tour of some of the sights of Paramaribo, which included a Hindu temple and a wooden cathedral incongruously painted yellow and blue. The highlight was a visit to Independence Square to view the fine government buildings. Whilst there, they chanced upon a group of people forming a circle around a number of bird cages.
“We’re in luck!” said Hess. He instructed the driver to wait for them, then taking Sybilla’s hand, he walked her towards the birds, placing his finger on his lips to adjure her to silence. As they joined the other spectators, Sybilla was astonished at the beauty of the bird songs she could hear. Each cage contained the same type of bird—some species of finch, black and glossy—and each bird sang loudly, as if responding to the audience. One man was circling the cages, listening intently to each bird before moving on to the next.
Enthralled, Sybilla was disappointed when Hess, looking pointedly at his watch, indicated that it was time to leave.
On the way back to the ship Hess explained that they had witnessed a birdsong contest, not an uncommon sight in the gardens. The proud owners would bring their birds along for the songs of each to be judged, and one bird would be declared the winner. The man circling the cages had been the judge.
“But they were all using the same species?” It was more a question than a statement.
Hess nodded. “It’s a type of finch, known as the twa-twa. Nothing else can compete with it.”
They arrived at the ship with little time to spare. Sybilla didn’t even have a chance to thank him properly before he rushed off to the bridge. Less than thirty minutes later they were moving away from the wharf and heading out onto the open sea.
The journey from Paramaribo to Rio de Janeiro was pleasant and interesting, if rather hot. There was some excitement at least—on the part of Sybilla if not anyone else—when they crossed the equator. She had read of ‘crossing the line’ ceremonies on cruise ships, but there was none of that on the Sigma Miranda. She imagined that the crew and probably the two businessmen had done it many times before.
Hess was even more attentive than ever and never missed an opportunity to stop and chat. He would tell her about the towns and cities they passed and those coming up, but the ship was so far off the shore she couldn’t make out any detail other than that hazy line of bluey-green on the starboard horizon. To port there was nothing but sea for mile after mile.
A sudden squall blew up as they rounded the promontory of Jaoa Pessoa. It only lasted a few hours, but it was enough to send Sybilla’s fellow passengers fleeing to their cabins. She rarely spoke to the two men, and when she did, it was invariably about the weather or the food. Conversation was difficult because they were both Brazilian and hence spoke Portuguese. However, both had reasonable Spanish and very occasionally the conversation went a little further. She was able to glean that both were in businesses with interests in Mexico. However, in the main, there was little of common interest and Sybilla left them to themselves, although she always made a point of being friendly. She had ruled them out as possible Nazis within days of meeting them.
After passing Salvador, which she could barely make out on the shoreline, there was nothing until they sighted Vitoria Espirito Santo a day and a half later. ‘Sighted’ was not how Sybilla would have described the experience. She could make out the bay but had to take Hess’s word that there was a town nestling somewhere inside it. However, after passing Vitoria, Sybilla noticed that the ship was drifting closer and closer towards the shore, ready for the impending arrival in Rio de Janeiro.
They docked in Rio a full seven days after leaving Paramaribo. She watched as her two fellow passengers left the ship. This was their destination. She was on her own from here on. Hess appeared less than an hour later, begging Sybilla to go ashore with him that evening to sample the famous nightlife. Sybilla hesitated, pointing out that she didn’t have the right kind of clothes.
“I don’t mean this to be offensive,” said Hess, “but in Rio when men look at women, they don’t see the clothes. Billa, you would be a knockout in a potato sack!”
Sybilla, smiling, assumed that had been some kind of compliment and nodded her head. “Okay, Hess, I promise to wear my best potato sack, just for you.”
Hess directed the taxi to take them to the district of Lapa, where they soon found themselves surrounded by restaurants, bars, nightclubs and music venues. They opted to dine at a small bistro before making their way around some of the night spots. Sybilla felt exhilarated after being cooped up on the Miranda for a week and allowed herself to unwind. They danced, drank wine, even joined in the songs without ever knowing the words, and best of all, they laughed a great deal.
Back on board, Sybilla took Hess back to her cabin where they made passionate, uninhibited love to one another.
Buenos Aires
Hess’s duties prevented him from
