by Jack Rylance
On a good afternoon there would be five or more of them present and they would stay for three or so hours and the conversation would cover pretty much everything. Pete always liked to participate. Not only were you not expected to say much about your past, even your present was considered largely off bounds. Your personal circumstances were abandoned in favour of speculation, commentary, jokes.
Pete was a mixer by choice. For as long as he had encountered social circles different to his own, he had liked to move into them. It required confidence, a lack of contempt, the suspension of one’s prejudices. It was a practise he had always felt comfortable with. Also, he knew instinctively what he had to offer in return.
Pete was admired here, as elsewhere, for his sense of humour. He specialised in sceptical asides. Without knowing why or how, the words had always clicked into place for him. He would often start a sentence with no idea of how it would end but then finish it satisfactorily all the same, often with a comic flourish. He rarely stumbled. He often made his audience laugh. Sometimes he had them in tears.
“And so now it dawns on Collins that he’s being treated to an afternoon at the most exclusive whorehouse in Brazil, the preserve of eminent politicians, business leaders, the great and the good, and that quite possibly he is the first gringo ever to be afforded this great privilege…”
John had now tuned out completely. He was still weighing up Pete’s opening remark: “This is my friend John, visiting from England.” What did that mean? That he was expected to go back shortly? How the fuck could he do that? He hoped that Pete was not thinking to offer up the kind of advice you saw on television and which had it that honesty was always rewarded, as was facing up to the truth. The kind of ending that made you laugh out loud, curse it good naturedly, and say “Fuck off. As if that would happen…”
“So into the bedroom he goes, hand in hand with his two new friends, one blonde, the other brunette, the most exquisite young ladies imaginable.” As Carter continued to relate the tale, Pete understood which of the men was yet to hear it. It was James Allen, a Canadian building contractor. You could tell by the way that everybody was looking to him now, anticipating his incredulity and delight.
“And you heard him tell this story?” Allen interrupted.
“On my honour. Straight from the horse’s mouth.”
At the same time that Pete followed the table’s conversation, he could sense John’s discomfort. He looked at the youngster out of the corner of his eye as John sat there guardedly, drinking his cola, chain-smoking, giving himself something to do. He looked down at John’s fingernails. The kid had bitten them to the quick.
Pete imagined that John was rubbishing everything these men said; slyly insulting them one by one: Knobhead. Knobhead. Knobhead. It was an idea that saddened him. Not that these same men would be entirely without prejudice regarding John – he was not difficult to size up – only they were better at concealing it. They had a lifetime of subterfuge behind them. It was how they’d got where they were today, these Americans, Canadians, Scandinavians, fellow Brits. No doubt they thought him too young to be of any conceivable interest. Nor did John look or sound precocious for his age. He showed every sign of acting it, employing the sullen quietude one might have expected, retreating into his shell.
John leant over and spoke quietly in Pete’s ear. “I’m just going to get some more ciggies. Where’s the nearest place?”
“There’s a kiosk, two blocks away. Just walk along and take a right.”
“OK.”
John stood up as unassumingly as possible. He was glad to have his excuse to leave the table. No doubt he would take his time.
“And that,” Carter said emphatically, bringing the final chapter to a close, “is the story of Charlie Collins and his time in Sampa.”
“Just one of many stories that Charlie has to tell,” Thor added.
Now Pete lifted his chair slightly and carried it over to Frank Delaney’s side. He considered Frank to be his closest friend in Rio de Janeiro. Now that he thought about it, there were certain similarities between his relationship with Frank, and John’s relation with him. Pete was also looking for Frank to show him the way forward, although it was not the passage into manhood he wanted help with but the journey into old age.
Frank Delaney was sixty-five years old and appeared to be coping admirably with this fact. His was a commendable approach to growing old. It required a gritty, laconic defiance. It helped that he remained burly, broad, and appeared physically undaunted for the moment.
“So when did your young friend get into town?” Frank asked.
“Monday.”
“And how long is he staying?”
“That remains to be seen.”
“He’s staying at your place?”
“For the time being. I’m going to have a word with Martha tomorrow, get him his own apartment.”
“What is he, a relative?”
“No, I went out with his mother years ago.”
“I see.”
“And no he’s not.”
“What?”
“Mine.”
Frank smiled.
A candour existed between Pete and Frank, although it was not wholly reliant on what was actually said. They credited each other with appropriating the truth from the gaps in their respective stories, large as those gaps sometimes were. Certainly, Pete thought Frank’s perceptiveness unfailing and believed that whatever was left unspoken between them was still as good as read. Frank knew a hell of a lot about Pete, Pete felt. Especially his demons.
Frank was from Chicago. He had retired to Copacabana three years earlier. His son and daughter had disowned him as a result. It was not difficult for them to see this move as a disgrace. “They imagine I’m spending their inheritance on whores,” he’d said, when they first met. “Their mother will have given them that idea. She’s always been very good at that – giving them ideas.”
Thor clapped his hands and woke Pete from these thoughts. “It is time for my siesta, I think.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Jarvis.
“I’ve got a phone call to make,” Carter explained.
The moment had come for them to close the bill and then haggle over it. This was a regular song and dance which the men all enjoyed. There was always the suspicion that the company had been overcharged by their waiter for the afternoon and so the payment was never completed without contention. They handed the bill around amongst themselves and scrutinised it at length and went back over everything they had eaten and drank these last few hours, and then checked it against the waiter’s written record. It was the principle that counted. For their part, the waiters at Cabral acted sad and disappointed by this careful scrutiny and it was hard to know whether or not this hid a genuine disgust.
After the bill was finally settled, Frank stood up and put a hand on Pete’s shoulder. “Give me a call. Soon.”
“I will,” he said.
Returning a couple of minutes later, John looked happy to find the table empty except for his one true friend. He had timed his errand to perfection. “I think I’m ready for a beer,” he said, as if to celebrate these recent disappearances. “How about yourself?”
“I’m alright for the moment,” Pete answered. “Let’s start off by talking about last night…”
“You wouldn’t believe what that bird did, Pete…” With this, John launched straight into his explanation. Clearly he had already rehearsed it in his mind several times. In fact his story was all too credible; predictable even. It was a classic Copacabana sketch.
Being incredulous was a definite weakness in this city. You were better off accepting things at once without batting an eye. Pete had seen the same thing happen to a hundred tourists. It had happened to Pete also. The difference was that he brought it on himself. He knew what he was doing. He saw trouble coming in advance but did nothing to steer clear. He thought Fuck It and then went right on ahead.
“What were you thinking, tryi
ng to buy coke? You told me you don’t even like it.”
“I don’t,” John answered.
“So…”
“I dunno.’ He shrugged.
Just how many shrugs did John have in him, Pete wondered. Just how commonplace was this useless reply? “Well I hope to Christ you’re not going to do it again.”
“No way.”
“Good.”
Pete’s mood appeared to be changing for the better which pleased John no end. Plus he’d adopted that tone of voice which meant he had wisdom to share. John always liked it when Pete talked in this way, and at such times he hung on his friend’s every word, trying desperately to take them all in. If he could only store up these words, and live his life in line with their meaning, then life would change dramatically for the better. But try as John might to fix them in his mind, the words and meanings kept getting away.
“So what we’ll do is get you sorted with your own apartment and take it from there,” Pete said.
“Whereabouts?” John looked up, concerned.
“Close to mine.”
“OK, but what are you gonna do with all that money, Pete?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” This was the truth. There were several options. He might find them a Brazilian partner and sink it into a business over here, but he had seen that idea go horribly wrong many times before. Relations tended to break down quickly, and once they did, you were more or less doomed. Extricating yourself from this kind of situation was one thing – and no mean feat in itself – but retiring with your money intact was something else. When it came down to it, there was no arguing with the law in Brazil. Its patriotism was unflinching and it would always side with its native sons, no matter how ludicrous their arguments. They were the heirs to its many ins and outs. For this reason it would be better to store that money away some place safe. One of the men who’d been sat at the table, Carter, had formerly been based in the Cayman Isles, spending a long time in the banking sector there. Pete had considered asking him about setting up an offshore account on John’s behalf. Something that would as good as run itself. He’d looked to mention it this afternoon, to lightly touch on the subject, but an opportunity had not arisen.
The problem was John’s lack of intelligence. Intelligence could not be bought at any price. If he was left to his own devices, the kid could be guaranteed to fuck up, blow this money on something stupid or have it taken it from him through any one of several cheap cons. There would be no end of bad advice available. He would inevitable fall in with the wrong people. There were always more than enough of them to go around once you were flush.
Especially here.
Frank Delaney had once shared with Pete a quotation attributed to Antonio Carlos Jobim: ‘Brazil is not for beginners.’ This was even more true of Copacabana. The district put paid to intermediates as well, and not even the experts could rest assured. It was not a place that lay waiting to be discovered; it was far more likely to find you out first. Its curiosity was relentless. It took you on: contesting your understanding of life, the way in which you regarded yourself, especially if you regarded yourself highly. All this begged the question, how was John ever going to fit in?
“And what are you going to do with your time?” Pete asked.
“What?”
“How are you going to spend your days now that you’re stuck here?”
“I dunno. The same as you?”
“That would be a very bad idea.”
“Why?”
“Just do as I say, John, and not as I do. For fuck’s sake, don’t try and follow my example.”
John lit a fresh cigarette and took a drag on it, blew the smoke out. “You should have heard what Riley was saying about you before I left.”
“What was he saying?”
“He said you were a grass.”
“A grass…”
“Yeh.”
Pete smiled. John waited for him to rubbish this claim. “I don’t think I ever met Riley,” Pete said.
“No, you did once. You met him in the Prince Albert with me.”
“Well I don’t remember him.”
“He’s a horrible two faced twat.”
“That sounds about right.”
All things told, Pete would have preferred to hand this money back, and call time on the whole sorry mess, but he knew this option to be fraught with difficulty. Once he’d announced himself and declared this intention there was no going back. It might be interpreted as out and out weakness and only encourage this lad to pay them a visit. It would be better to wait for an inquiry to be lodged and then try and field it. It would be better to step forward at that point and try and meet this Riley halfway.
Pete knew Riley’s type. He was in his early twenties, obsessed with trying to take the next step up. At this stage, he wouldn’t fancy Rio at all. There was more than enough back in town for him to contend with, and for all his bravura he would also accept that in Brazil he’d be way out of his depth. For these reasons, Pete dearly hoped that the money did belong to Riley and that he hadn’t been looking after it for somebody else.
“So,” said Pete, “I think it’s time you told me exactly what happened back home and how you chanced on that shed-load of money.”
John put out his latest cigarette and kept grinding the stub into the ashtray as if playing for time. “What?” He said. “Now?”
Chapter Six
HELP was a sordid, raucous, explosive nightclub, and although Pete had quickly grown accustomed to its sights and sounds, he was still taken with them for a very long time. Now he only went there to meet Ester.
As a large venue with two busy floors, the action it generated was chaotic but also purposeful: men came here to meet women, women to meet men, and money to change hands. As such, the discotheque was like a super-collider demonstrating its own lurid physics, allowing for sexually charged impacts and sizeable debris. The club’s rolling cast of characters included Bavarian bull-dykes, homeboys in full pimp regalia, lapsed Mormon missionaries, Hell’s Angels, sailors on shore-leave, off-duty policemen and international flight crews. Here you met with parvenus and pornographers, big spenders of every stripe, along with special guest stars from the NFL, NBA, MTV. There were also a couple of hundred working girls from all over Brazil, and theirs was the constant presence. They came here to do business. In the process they profited, endured, lost the plot, sank without trace.
It was Ester’s first night back in town. Pete sat with her up on the balcony of the club, overlooking the packed dance floor below. A half-full bottle of champagne graced their table, cooling in its bucket of ice, resting against the metal lip. This arrangement was customary. It went to the heart of their union, what time they spent together. They would meet in this nightclub, drink their fill, and later end up in bed. There were no other stops along the way. The two of them had kept to this same pattern for the last nine months and it bordered on a superstition. It always seemed to work.
One of Ester’s friends approached their table now and helped herself to a refill from the bottle. Her name was Marissa and she frowned openly at Pete. This disapproval was genuine. She was one of those who thought Ester crazy for spending her time freely with this man. Luckily for Pete, Ester would not bow to these arguments, even though they made perfect sense, and he remained her favourite weak spot.
“Hey Marissa, you look lovely this evening.” Pete liked to taunt Ester’s friends by being overly nice to them, dismissing their resentments. Marissa gave him an ugly smile in return, acknowledging his sarcasm, then turned heel and walked off. Now Pete looked across the table at Ester, enjoying this small triumph. “So how was Italy?” He asked.
“Boring.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“It’s the truth,” Ester said. No doubt she’d been paraded through the streets, the restaurants, and the bars of whichever town her lover lived in, doing the man proud, in accordance with his wishes. “And of course I missed you,” she added.
She gave him the punch on his arm that he was looking for. “Liar,” she said. Of course it was a lie. This was the time and place for them, just as afterwards, in the dark, he would revert to passionate declarations. Not that these were entirely true either.
Ester had a provocative build, all slopes and curves, which her clothes alluded to, although it was a classy suggestion they made. Much was still left to the imagination. An awful lot in fact. She had a regal air about her. It belonged to a princess who made headlines for all the wrong reasons. A princess who cut these headlines out and stuck them in an album and took great pleasure from them all. Ester also possessed a Louise Brooks smile, girlish and scatter-gun, highly accomplished and incredibly potent. It was issued from her wide pale lips. She would train this smile on the whole of the nightclub and men would inevitably throw themselves in its way. The effect was enhanced with big brown emotive eyes which always conveyed the message she intended, but which were impossible to pin down, as if they knew their privacy to be compromised. Ester also had a mellow voice and a sweet temper and a genuine liking for Pete Murphy. It was a welcome flaw in her character, although he was never certain of its actual size.
Ester lived in an apartment in Leblon, a fashionable neighbourhood of the South Zone, and had two abiding patrons – an Italian restaurateur and a Chilean industrialist – who were both of a certain age. Between them they paid her rent and kept her in the style to which she’d quickly grown accustomed after arriving in Copacabana eighteen months before from Espirito Santo. Pete had no idea what stipulations were laid down for her by these men in terms of fidelity, but suspected they were reasonable and only required her to drop everything else when they came calling or called for her in turn.
Apart from these principle donors there were also weekends away with rich Brazilians; other brief assignations which paid well. Ester worked out of HELP infrequently and always received top dollar. Mostly she went there to socialize with her friends. She would command a table on the second floor, watch the proceedings, and drink those bottle of Moët that she’d thoroughly earned.
