by Robert Moss
The morning after Doctor Alcibiades’ party, Colin Bailey strolled the Avenida Atlantica and took a seat at a sidewalk café facing the water, half a block away from the Valhalla Guest House. He downed two cafezinhos, while several boys hopped about, offering to shine his shoes or arrange an assignation with one of their sisters. Bailey contemplated hiring one of them to carry a note to Johnny. Then he saw a tall, striking blonde come out of the pension and climb into a little black Ford. He knew Helene immediately from the photographs. She was superbly turned out in a suit with high, padded shoulders and a tailored jacket that drew attention to her narrow waist. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and dark glasses. Bailey wondered who she was setting off to meet. The Ford lurched out into the traffic.
With Helene safely out of the way, Bailey decided to risk a frontal assault on Valhalla. A Negro boy answered the bell. He became nervous and flustered when Bailey asked for Senhor Gruber, and apparently spoke no English. He ended by slamming the screen door in the Englishman’s face.
Bemused by this reception, Bailey walked round the block and found that the guest house had a service entrance at the back. He was testing the door when a lace curtain was pulled back and the snout of a long-barrelled pistol poked through the window.
“Johnny?” Bailey called out.
“Hold on.”
When Johnny unlatched the door, his gun tucked away beneath his jacket, he was apologetic.
“I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” he told Bailey. “I told the boy to tell anyone who asked for me that I was out.”
“Is there some problem?”
“I was worried about the police. These Brazilians aren’t very security conscious.”
They took a walk on the beach, and Johnny told Bailey about his excursion with Nilo. He made the Brazilian sound like the type who had become a radical because he’d failed to get into the First Eleven at Eton. Bailey resolved that when he got back, he must get Diana to ask her brother, another old Etonian, whether he remembered anything of this Brazilian. Apart from his nervousness about the police, Johnny seemed in good form. But the meeting did not end well for Bailey. He took off his shoes to walk on the sand, and, distracted by a ravishing Carioca in a scandalously skimpy swimsuit, he managed to step on a jellyfish. He hardly noticed it at the time, but he ended up spending much of the night soaking his foot in cold water, until the drums from the favelas started pounding inside his head.
Bailey’s subsequent meetings with Johnny took place on safer ground. The Englishman came to favour the warren of gaming rooms at the back of his hotel, which habitués called the Necrôpolis. There was a grand casino on the second level of the hotel, with an endless supply of free champagne for the fashionable clientele who turned out to play roulette and blackjack. But Bailey ruled this out as a suitable place for a meet after his first brush with the physionomiste who had a perch in the lobby. Physionomistes had a photographic memory for faces. Casinos employed them to screen out professional cardsharps and other undesirables. Bailey also had found uses for them. This one, unfortunately, was worthy of his keep. He told Bailey that he remembered him from Divonne, though Bailey had visited the casino there only once in his life, and that had been a decade before, at the least.
In the Necrôpolis, evening dress was not a requisite, and the management did not bother with complimentary champagne or canapes. The physionomiste was replaced by a couple of obvious heavies in lounge suits. The rooms were packed with compulsive losers, mostly Brazilians.
The Necrôpolis struck Bailey as an ideal place for a brief meeting or a brush contact, and he taught Johnny the old roulette ruse. To decide the date and place of the next meeting, he would place his chips on red or black — meaning the Necrôpolis itself, or a beachfront café — and then on two separate numbers, for the day and hour.
Bailey learned from Johnny’s reports that the principal conspirators would not arrive until after Carnival, traveling by steamer via Montevideo. A radio man was en route from California. There were plans to arm peasant leagues in the north. Nilo and Miranda were confident of their support in the armed forces and expected it to grow dramatically once a front movement, in which the Communist involvement would be disguised, was launched.
Two problems still confronted Bailey: how to communicate with his agent once he had returned to Europe and what, if anything, to tell the Brazilian authorities.
At the end of his first week in Rio, Bailey went around to the embassy to send his mail and pay his respects to His Majesty’s Ambassador Plenipotentiary, Sir Evelyn Paine. The British Mission was pleasantly situated on a leafy boulevard in Flamengo, fronting the sea. The window behind Sir Evelyn’s desk was a picture postcard, with the Sugarloaf in the right-hand corner. Summerhayes, the Head of Chancery, had counselled Bailey to seek a morning interview. Sir Evelyn was apparently in the habit of taking a siesta in the afternoons, leaving the business of the embassy in charge of his wife, who treated the striped-pants contingent as an extension of her domestic staff.
Bailey found Sir Evelyn preoccupied with arranging his seasonal escape to Petrôpolis, where the president had his summer palace, before the start of Carnival.
“Damned lot of noise and African mumbo jumbo,” was Sir Evelyn’s description of the latter. “A poor excuse for an orgy.”
“Kipling enjoyed Carnival here.”
“I can’t think why,” Sir Evelyn said stuffily. “You’d be well advised to get away before it begins.”
Sir Evelyn made it plain that, from his point of view, Bailey’s departure could not come too soon. He presumed to inform the head of Section V that he belonged to the “old school.” In other words, Sir Evelyn thought that diplomatists should not be required to dirty their hands by consorting with spies. Bailey refrained from pointing out that his own “school” was rather more ancient than the ambassador’s; it could trace its genealogy at least to Moses’ spies in the land of Canaan.
“I’ve been instructed to assist you,” Sir Evelyn said, rattling through the small phalanx of medicine bottles arrayed on his desk. “But I do hope you’re not going to cause any fuss.”
Bailey accepted Summerhayes’ invitation to lunch at the British Club, near the racetrack. The club was full of the types he had used to avoid at Simla. Summerhayes told him in a conspiratorial whisper that the members were engaged in a last-ditch effort to keep up standards; they were trying to keep Americans out.
Summerhayes resembled a melancholy greyhound, but he had a dry sense of humour that appealed to Bailey and seemed well informed on the Brazilian scene.
“I’d like to pick your brains for a bit,” Bailey announced after the second gin.
“How can I help?”
“Tell me about President Vargas.”
“Getulio? That’s what they all call him in the street, you know. Let’s see. He’s five feet four, goes about in white suits and black cigars and has sons named Luther and Calvin — which is quite a feat in a Catholic country, you know. He’s also a fanatic about golf, although he plays so badly I’m afraid even Sir Evelyn has trouble losing to him graciously. He’s a very mild-mannered dictator, as dictators go. He got in because of a revolution, one of those typical Brazilian affairs in which almost nobody gets shot.
“Some of the coffee planters backed him because the old government wouldn’t do anything for them when coffee prices fell through the floor after the crash on Wall Street. A lot of the tenentes — the young nationalists in the military — sided with him too. And of course the cowboys. He’s from the south, from gaucho country. He’s a reformer, in his way. He’s brought in a new constitution and is moving in a more liberal direction. He’s doing a lot for the middle class and for the cities. The people who hate him are the old establishment, especially in Sao Paulo, and various regional warlords who are used to running their own show and don’t like the fact that he’s increased the power of the federal government. And some members of this club,” he added, cocking an eyebrow. “They think he’s an upstart, especial
ly since word got around that he received Sir Evelyn at his summer palace wearing his pyjamas.”
“Is it true?”
“It was a Sunday morning, one gathers. Brazilian men think it’s perfectly proper to be seen in pyjamas on Sundays, provided they are freshly pressed.”
“What is the president’s attitude toward Britain?”
“Relations are correct. Getulio plays golf with H.E., as I mentioned. We have some useful connections in the government. But of course the Americans and the Germans are gaining a great deal of influence. They both have vigorous partisans in the government.”
“What do you see as the biggest threat to our interests?”
“Well, there is tremendous pressure to cancel the foreign debt. I don’t know whether you heard about Souza Dantas. The head of the Bank of Brazil, you know. He went to the United States on a mission and horrified the bankers by announcing that Brazil couldn’t afford to pay its debts. Vargas showed some common sense; he promptly reassured everyone that Brazil would go on meeting its obligations. When Souza Dantas got off his boat at Rio, he was met by an honour guard of local Fascists — they call themselves Integralistas — in their jackboots and green shirts. I happened to be meeting the same boat, so I saw the whole thing. It was quite uncanny. The Greenshirts let out Red Indian war whoops—”
“Did you say Red Indian?”
“Yes. Brazilian Fascists are frightfully keen on being indigenous.”
“What an extraordinary country!”
“The Greenshirts borrowed their war cry from the Tupi Indians. It goes something like this. Anaue!”
A florid gentleman at the next table turned and gave Summerhayes a withering glare.
Summerhayes blushed and lowered his voice. “The long and short of it,” he pursued, “is that both the Fascists and the Communists stand to gain from the financial crisis, and the place is full of woolly-headed subalterns who will join any revolt as long as it’s sufficiently picturesque.”
“We may be able to offer some assistance,” Bailey said quietly.
When they went in to lunch, Summerhayes was visibly excited.
“I take it you told H.E. about this,” the Head of Chancery said over the roast veal.
“Not in any detail. I think it’s best not to involve the embassy any more than is strictly necessary, don’t you?”
Bailey explained what he had in mind. He would need a friend at the embassy to pass on cables that could not be entrusted to the commercial services, and to help in an emergency.
Summerhayes would be useful, but as a catcher, not a bowler. Bailey had no intention of entrusting Johnny to anyone from the embassy. Sir Evelyn’s languor might be contagious and was almost certainly terminal. Besides, Bailey had already found the man for the job.
Harry Maitland lived on the fringe of the Tijuca rain forest, in a Gothic Victorian house with a high, pointed gables and a wide verandah where hammocks were slung under mosquito nets. The forest smelled of rain. All along the winding road, the bright coral reds of impatiens — the Brazilians called them Shameless Maries — blazed among the green.
As Bailey mounted the steps, he was greeted by a low barking sound from close at hand, followed by a series of piercing whistles. He looked around for the dog and found a bird in a cage.
“It’s a curupiāo,” Harry told him. “A natural impressionist. Actually, it was a present from our friend the mayor. I imagine he keeps birds to feed to his snakes. Come in and have a drink.”
The drinks were served by a girl with smiling eyes who moved at a gently rolling gait, more a dance than a walk, that made her whole body quiver. Her skin was cinnamon; her billowing white skirts were trimmed with gold. Her assurance and the way Harry looked at her told Bailey she was more than a housekeeper.
“Her name is Luisa,” Maitland said. “She is from Bahia.”
The smells of dendê and coconut oil wafted through from the kitchen as Luisa prepared some of the favourite dishes of her native city — little crabcakes, sizzling in the dish, ximxim de galinha and a sugary dessert, made with beaten eggs, that looked like a mass of fine yellow hair.
It was a farewell dinner, and Bailey was glad that Harry had decided to share another part of his life with him.
Bailey had made his proposition the day after his lunch with the man from the embassy.
“There’s no money in it to speak of, I’m afraid,” Bailey had warned. “Although of course we’ll see that you’re not left out of pocket. No glory either. And you’ll be pretty much out on a limb. If you get into trouble, the embassy will deny all knowledge. You’ll be working for a service that doesn’t officially exist.”
“No thanks if I succeed and no help if I fail?” Maitland grinned, paraphrasing Buchan.
“That’s about it. But you’ll be helping both your own country and your adopted one — and a chap I think you are going to like enormously.”
Bailey didn’t need to dress up the offer to feel confident that it was one that Harry couldn’t refuse. How could a man who would sail up the Amazon in search of a lost explorer turn down another adventure? Besides, Harry was perfect for the job. He had proved that both in Lisbon and at dinner with the mayor. He had both spunk and connections, as well as the ability to think on his feet. He was going to need all of them.
Bailey was not disappointed.
Harry’s questions were all practical, to do with how to arrange safe meetings and how to send secure messages. Bailey was able to give him all of a day’s instruction in basic tradecraft. They went to inspect some possible dead drops. Bailey was pleased that Harry had some ideas of his own, including a church collection box, though he had to rule out a few of them as impractical.
Bailey stressed again, as they smoked cigars after dinner, that Johnny must be protected at any price. If it became necessary to alert the Brazilian authorities, it must be done in such a way as to hide the source. Perhaps, if the occasion arose, Maitland would be able to build on his relationship with Colonel Plinio.
“I’ll be sorry to miss Carnival,” Bailey said. He did not mention the cable that had persuaded him to return on the next boat. Things were coming to a head in Copenhagen where acting on Johnny’s information — he had set in motion an operation involving a certain Captain Werner of Russian military intelligence.
It seemed hotter and stuffier outside, as if the rain forest were swallowing the air, and Bailey began to perspire under his light jacket.
He shook hands with Luisa. Her touch was warm but dry. He said, “It was a magical dinner. And you’re very beautiful.”
“I’m afraid Luisa doesn’t speak English,” Maitland said. But Bailey felt that she answered him with her eyes.
As they strolled towards Harry’s car, a circle of dancing lights by the roadside drew Bailey’s attention.
They were candles, surrounding a curious arrangement of objects — a bottle, a cloth, cigars laid over each other to form a cross, a clay figurine or doll.
Bailey bent down to take a closer look. He reached for the doll.
He felt the restraining pressure of Luisa’s hand, light yet firm, against his arm.
She murmured something in Portuguese.
He felt the warmth of her skin. She carried the faint, bewitching aroma of burnt cloves he had smelled before, borne in by the breeze across the Bay of All Saints, when his cruise ship had laid anchor at Bahia, en route to Rio.
“What is she saying?” he appealed to Harry.
“You musn’t touch that. It’s a despacho, an offering to one of the spirits. Those who ask favours must bring gifts.”
In the car, Bailey said, “Luisa believes that stuff, doesn’t she?”
“She’s a daughter of Yemanja.” Harry did not volunteer any further explanation.
Bailey remembered the gold talisman he had seen on Doctor Alcibiades’ watch chain and asked about it.
“It’s just a figa,” Harry explained. “A good luck charm. Many Brazilians wear them.”
“So
this — voodoo — is widespread?” Bailey had begun to notice other despachos, scores of little candles flickering in crevices along the road.
“Call it voodoo if you like. It works for some. There are spiritists in the government. Even among Prestes’ followers.”
“Do you believe in it?” Bailey suddenly asked him.
“I believe in the power of all faiths,” Harry said. “I’ve seen things — no, let that pass. I believe what Unamuno wrote. To believe is to create. We create gods out of our need, and they are nonetheless real.” Harry smiled at his own solemnity. “I told you this was a country of gods and men.”
Back at the hotel, folding shirts for the journey ahead, Bailey thought about Harry and Luisa, and then about Kipling. On the face of it, Sir Evelyn was right. It seemed out of character for Kipling to have fallen in love with the land of Carnival. It was hard to imagine a greater contrast than that between the life and attitudes of an Englishman under the Raj and those of the Brazilians. But then again, not entirely out of character. The part of Kipling that was Kim would revel in Brazil and its freedom from the taboos of his tribe.
7 - The Art of Insurrection
For a cornered mind, salvation lies in action.
-JAN VALTIN,*
Out of the Night
*Pseudonym of Richard Krebs.
former Comintern operative.
1
As the Baby Ford crested the rise above the docks, Johnny had a view of two elderly Brazilian warships. They looked as immobile as the stone fort at the mouth of the harbour. On the other side, above the baroque cathedral, shanties clung like mussels to the side of a granite mountain. Scores of them had been washed away during the rains, but they had sprouted up again as fast as the xuxu weeds and the Shameless Maries. Soon they left the city behind and were traveling across swampy flats towards another mountain range, smoky in the distance. From the passenger seat, Johnny looked out at the brown faces of women and children at wayside stalls selling manioc root and caldo de cana, sugarcane juice. Then they were climbing. Two small boys waved at the car and held up an enormous bunch of ladyfinger bananas. As Johnny looked back, one of them tore off a piece of the fruit and squeezed from the bottom, gulping down the mashed banana that came out like toothpaste. The road tilted up a steeper incline, and at last they left the soggy heat of the Rio summer below.
