Mac relaxed slightly, now perplexed.
"But," continued Braga, "as our new instructions indicate"—he paused for breath—"the name of the sub-manager—the necessary requirement; now essential these six months past—is missing—from both the letter of credit and the letter of introduction: a Senhor..." again he paused.
"J. P. Shipp,"said the assistant acidly.
"Sim—Senhor Shipp," said Braga.
"With two P's for Pedro." The assistant made his point, thought Mac, with one P for impossible.
There was no answer. He knew it. And already the silence had grown to six seconds. Two pairs of eyes fixed him un- * waveringly. Mac felt clammy and knew his brow was giving away far too much. It felt decidedly damp. He shifted in his seat a little and said the only thing possible.
"Well, I wonder how the omission could have occurred." He tried a smile. "Accident, perhaps?"
Suddenly Braga represented a huge, ponderous society that would come crashing upon Mac's head at any moment.
"I can think," said Braga "of no other reason." Grimly he looked at Mac. "Can you, senhor?"
Mac just wanted to be out—of the room, the corridor, the huge portico, the city, the country, the continent. He hoped still that it was a dream.
Braga continued, his voice firm: "For us, you see, it is important, as you already have ten thousand pounds sterling in Brazilian currency, and the paper I have here"—he indicated the letter of credit—"is worthless without the corroborating signature."
Mac knew they were truly finished. Or more precisely— George and Austin being unknown to either Braga or the authorities—he was finished.
If he left the bank, he would be unable to leave the country. If he remained more than forty or so days, as of course he would be forced to do, proof would return from England, by steamer, of the transaction already made, indicating that the bank had been deceived. Strictly enforced passport control, which the trio had already experienced at the Cais Pharoux, made Brazil a "difficult" country to leave without official sanction. So even if Mac was allowed to go to his hotel, he knew that he would have to return and, at Maua and Company, placate suspicion. But how? He did not even know what the signature of Shipp was like!
He remembered George's indicating the age of the original letter he had obtained in London and cursed himself.
Sparrows may fall, and God may see every little one—but all the same, they fall. There is no divine providence, only happenstance, or so Mac believed. In a conversation with May many months later, he was to revise his opinion. As people the world over share that most precious of all things, time, in their respective parts of the same day, at that very moment in England, in the hansom cab she had hailed to take her home, May was emitting thoughts of love and blessing with the power of faith in creation, in its various divinities and, more especially, in Mac.
Prior to his departure he had kept his promise and given her the security of which she had never before dared dream. In Braga's office, Mac suddenly had a picture of himself signing the lease of May's rooms, using a blotter to dry the ink.
"Have you," he asked, "an original example of the letter—as it should now look?"
Braga and his assistant were momentarily surprised. Mac became indignant. "I have with me other letters, and substantial bills of exchange, and most certainly to have the mistakes of others affect my credit so far from home would be more than inconvenient." Mac's brow was not yet dry, but he knew that it was considerably less damp.
"May I make," he said, "one further request?"
The eyebrows of Braga responded. He was still confused by the renewed confidence of the man before him.
"Some more of your excellent Brazilian coffee?" Mac's trump card was played. He had, the previous day, made a fuss in appreciation of the coffee presented him by the Manager at their first meeting. This request, Mac knew, would not be denied.
The assistant had given the original letter to Mac and was returning to the Manager's side. The timing was perfect. As the Manager turned to the assistant, who immediately gave full attention to his superior, Mac casually wiped his brow, then laid a damp finger across the signature he saw before him, written boldly in black ink. He quickly turned the paper over so that it was face down on other letters and bills he had now taken out of his pocket and that lay on his lap.
"Milk or cream, senhor?—I forget," asked Braga, turning to Mac.
"If it is fresh, senhor," said Mac, "cream."
The Manager's gaze shifted momentarily to the assistant, long enough for Mac to put pressure on the form along the back of the signature of J. P. Shipp.
"May I... ?" requested the Manager, Braga, extending an arm.
"Of course," smiled Mac. The paper was taken quickly from his hand by the assistant, who placed it on the desk.
"My assistant has indicated to me that coffee will take some moments to prepare, so perhaps if you would like to..." the Manager did not finish.
"Then perhaps I will forgo it; I do not wish to disturb you in any way," Mac said.
"Indeed, sir"—Braga's face was without expression—"it is I who appear to have disturbed you.''
"That," said Mac, attempting a wry smile, "I will not contradict." He stood up decisively. Braga was immediately on his feet.
"I have a luncheon appointment," said Mac, with as much calm as he could muster. "Immediately after which I shall return to my hotel." He paused. "You have the address?"
Braga nodded warily.
"Good," Mac went on, his speech betraying not one shred of the terror he was suppressing. "This afternoon I will survey the documents I have with me. Those relevant to Maua and Company I will, of course, bring back for your inspection."
Braga was about to speak, but Mac took the words from his mouth.
"Should I discover further—omissions—all the relevant papers must, of course, be returned to London."
Braga nodded. "Exactly so, Mr. Morrison."
The assistant was silent, but his gaze remained unwaveringly upon Mac's every move. For a moment, nothing happened; then Mac found the words that got him out of the bank. They were strangely simple.
"Would eleven tomorrow be convenient?" he asked.
The Manager glanced at his assistant. A pause held.
"I hope then," finished Mac with a magnificent smile, "to be able to continue our business, which will, I have no doubt, prove mutually profitable."
"You have every confidence, it seems," began the Manager.
"In the London and Westminster," interrupted Mac as he moved smoothly toward the door.
"Why is that?" asked the assistant suddenly, his voice harsh, by no means sympathetic.
"Because," continued Mac, finding charm from he knew not where, "I cannot believe that so excellent a system as that bank operates can allow more than one mistake to pass its scrutiny." Mac was already home—but not, as yet, dry.
"Eleven," said Braga. "Tomorrow," the Manager went on, the trace of a smile on his lips, "I shall have coffee waiting."
Mac shook hands with Braga, ignored the assistant until he had opened the door, then followed him through into the anteroom. Outside, an attendant escorted Mac along the cool corridor to the main entrance. Mac took his hat and cane, nodded his thanks and stepped into sunlight. He stood a moment and breathed deeply of the welcome air. Hot and humid as it was, to Mac it felt delicious.
George, watching a second game of bowls the two old men were playing in the sand of the small square, looked up to see Mac emerge from the Maua and Company offices, then put on his hat, remaining at the top of the steps. Perplexed, George watched Mac take papers from his pocket and look closely at them. In the strong sunlight, Mac found the faint impression of a signature, resembling what a mirror might well, he sincerely hoped, reveal as that of a British assistant manager by the name of Shipp. Mac, giving no signal of any kind—in fact, without even glancing at the square—descended the steps two at a time, reached the pavement, turned directly toward the city center and was
, in the next moment, lost in the crowd.
George, now sensing something wrong, was already on his feet when a first shout went up from the several old men and women come to watch and judge the return bowls match between the two players of the day before. The winner of the previous day had lost this decisive and most public confrontation. A combination of nerves, heat, humidity and wine of the night before had taken its toll of aging flesh.
The defeated old man staggered, then fell heavily into the sand. George, already at the gate leading onto the road, was unaware of anything but his own alarm. Shouts of consternation and the rasping breath of the fallen player were of no concern to George, for the day appeared to have taken an altogether unexpected turn.
"DISTANT thunder," said The Times, reviewing July, "was a frequent occurrence throughout the month, which as a whole may be said," it continued, "to have consisted of one grand prolonged demonstration of the vast powers that elemental storms of the nature witnessed, illustrate to even the most exalted among us." The weather in England became sultry, the sky the color of ink.
In the late evening of that first day of the seventh month, threatened rain which fell in light showers during the afternoon became torrential the moment a simultaneous flash of lightning and crack of thunder denoted the eye of the storm directly over Westminster.
Streets were submerged, houses flooded; reservoirs burst and rivers overflowed. The great storm became a minor cyclone, and what was thought to be fearful enough became fearful indeed. Brilliant shafts of light illuminated horizon to horizon; the sharp and reverberating thunder rose in volume, as did the wind in strength. On such a night, man could believe in the fantastic.
As May looked out the upper window of her rooms, unable to sleep, she was struck with awe at the sight presented to her—unleashed fury which before she had only cowered against in some alley or night lodging crowded with vagabonds, gin-drunk and beer-swilling. She had survived the cholera that had claimed her family and left her destitute. Now, it seemed, as she gazed out from her own rooms at the great storm, she was to survive the hell of poverty on the streets that claimed the body and ruined the soul. She conjured visions of a future which now held promise and excitement. Her imagination was fanciful, nurtured by a father whose compositor status had provided sufficient earnings to buy what he had loved most—books. As a child May had listened to her father, enraptured by the stories he read her before going to his night employment. She often recalled his voice. Now May thought of Mac, who for a time had recreated the atmosphere she loved, reading to her words from a mind of the past. Immortality within her cozy rooms and obvious reminders of mortality outside, Mac had said. She sighed and wished him back soon.
Torrential rain lashed at the glass; the wind moaned; somewhere below in the building, doors creaked; May pulled the newly acquired robe about her. Lying in a chair, as she was now, warm and snug, she thought, without looking at them, of the books on two of the walls behind her, in shelves put up by Mac: books that were full of information, ideas, the imaginings of man; books of words—magic letters that put together could make whoever understood them laugh or cry. She had seen it in her father and had felt it herself when he, or Mac, had spoken the words as written. She still hoped that one day perhaps she too would be able to read.
Accustomed to the noise now, even as it roared louder, May allowed her eyes to close, allowed herself to dream of love and lands beyond the great ocean. This way she saw Mac clearly, and with his smile came words difficult for her to remember, given to her in childhood:
"Mighty winds that skirt the bounds of some far-spreading wood of ancient growth, make music not unlike the dash of ocean on his winding shore " Her memory faltered. That was it, she thought: it was all, all the furor outside, like some great symphony Mac always talked of. "... that lull the spirit," she knew the poem finished, .. and fill the mind."
The candle on the table beside May was suddenly extinguished, but for the lovely woman, now asleep, darkness no longer was fear. Tortured nightmares of the past had received a balm that healed the wounds opened up in her by the raw existence she had led before Mac and she had chanced to meet. She was now flying high over a roaring sea and could see beyond the horizon where a land of sunlight beckoned. Mac seemed to appear and blow a kiss; then all was suddenly instant darkness, and for the first time in many months, horrors of the world she had known surrounded her.
Although she was asleep still, May's brow furrowed with inexplicable anguish. The roaring elements had now become a threat, and her position in the dream on the wind, high above a now black ocean, was perilous. She could no longer fly, and as her momentum ceased, the bird or creature shape she had assumed dissolved, to leave her naked in the nightmare, about to experience what only Icarus could have told her of—but then it was too late. She screamed all the way down. That night God was busy. Sparrows fell in abundance.
§
Mac put down a large brandy and wished himself, not for the first time that evening, in two small rooms with a loving woman of his acquaintance—most importantly, eight thousand miles away. He looked again at papers on the table before him and extended his hand once more. It was not steady; again he tried to put out of his mind the prospect of the following day. Angry at himself, he dropped his pen and shouted an obscenity.
George and Austin had come to Mac's rooms at the Hotel Estrangeiros, to be more of comfort than of assistance. Only Mac could relieve the situation in which they now found themselves. He, as they did, knew it all too well, and that didn't help.
Mac took another sip of brandy, then finished what remained in one swallow. He had transposed the faint signature of J. P. Shipp so that it was at least legible. The difficult part was in finding the right flow to re-create what would pass as an authentic specimen. This to be put on two further letters that it had taken him hours to re-create.
Outside, it poured; rumbling thunder over Rio's Guanabara Bay followed occasional flashes of lightning that momentarily lit all the peaks and islands. Open French doors allowed some rain to splash into the room, but the humidity was so oppressive that Mac had demanded a circulation of air when Austin went to close the shutters. Now Mac just sat still, obviously nervous and distraught.
"It was an old letter I copied, George. You pointed that out when you saw it." Mac spoke almost in a whisper.
"We should have checked on current procedure," said Austin.
"I should," replied Mac. He was now staring out into the approaching night; George could see that he was exhausted and depressed.
Thunder rumbled long and loud from one side of the bay to the other. The day's afterglow added to dark clouds and the black sky, a diffused red and deep orange that seemed to build mountains on mountains beyond the true land mass; vast phantom ranges stretching away to an horizon lost in a murkiness that the rain made of twilight.
Nature dominated the room, and for a moment all three men felt their danger. Mac, at least, had the preoccupation of his immediate problem. Austin, dulled by the understanding of what had happened, was glum, but at least his confidence and natural optimism buoyed him up, and he merely reflected on possible solutions and potential escape plans. George—intelligent, imaginative and now pessimistic—was in another world where he stood answering to divine judges. He shook his head, seeing amidst his gloomy philosophizing the ludicrous aspect of their predicament. He then did what has saved many a life and often rescued a situation. He began to laugh. His laughter was infectious; soon all three were in paroxysms.
"George," Mac began, unable to control his laughter, "it's up with us—with me, anyway—tomorrow if I can't..." His eyes filled with tears. Mac was unable to finish as his laugh became a suppressed roar.
"Keep cool, Mac," George coughed amidst laughter. "Have another brandy."
"George, I. . ." Mac couldn't finish. He looked at Austin and was silently racked. He held his stomach and pointed, speechless. Below, on the terrace, under an awning, the evening music began as several violins st
ruck up. This only set the trio off into further peals of laughter. Austin stood up and, staggering to the table, managed to splutter out a few words.
"What you write in the next moments," he said, tears streaming down his face, "decides what we do the next twenty years."
A flash of lightning and crack of thunder effectively curtailed the trio's fragile euphoria. As the prolonged fading rumble raced off toward the horizon, they were left with their own silence, the pouring rain, badly played violins below and, with a return to reality, an agony of speculation. Hard-eyed and cold sober, Mac took up the pen.
"Give me," he said, "another brandy."
§
Rain fell on Rio out of the pitch-black heavens. It was already midnight; standing alone at the open doors to the balcony, despite the humidity and distant city sounds Mac felt cold and isolated. The oil lamp behind him on the table flickered as a gust of wind brought rain into the room. Mac's face and shirt were spattered with wet drops that ran down his cheeks and soaked into his skin. He saw himself as an adventurer presented with a crisis and hoped he could face calmly the dangers of the day to come.
Despair offers discipline thereafter to whosoever conquers challenge to the spirit, or defeat to those others who succumb to their weakness. Sieges are broken by heroes created by a resilience that sustains their passion to overcome. Difficult voyages are completed by captains whose ambition denies them the alternative of return. The insurmountable is achieved, the unassailable breached, by men who banish all from their minds but the objective.
Mac blew smoke out into the night rain, then threw away his black cheroot. He had done his best, and on the table was the result. The signatures were by no means perfect to his mind, but they needs must do—there was no alternative. He turned away from the balcony and went back to a large armchair, into which he slumped. He could think of nothing but his fears for the unknown day ahead. He took up an old copy of The Times lying next to his empty brandy glass on the small desk; he began to read. It was going to be a long night. The syndicated article became interesting, and it might take his mind off the time: Six hours to dawn, God, he thought—six hours.
The Four Hundred Page 12
