"You are of course angry," he said, "and justly so. That is regrettable. I regret having around ill-will even more than I regret having made a mistake. However, what is done cannot be undone. There are many things in this country which will provide you with happy memories. São Paulo is a world in itself, a world of the future. You will see. There is much beauty and power, and the future of all South America is being forged here daily. When you leave, it will be this that you remember. These memories should serve to mitigate your most recent ones. Let us speak of them no more. Have you any questions? Is there anything that you want?"
"Did you find it?" I asked him.
"What?"
"Whatever was taken from Emil Bretagne’s safe."
"No," he replied.
"Did you find Emil Bretagne?"
"Not yet," he said.
I smiled.
"This, however, should come soon," he added.
I permitted my smile to deepen.
He looked away.
"Miss Borsini?" he inquired.
"No. Nothing," she said.
"Very well, then," he said, rising. "I am going into the city now myself. I will drop you at the Othon Palace."
Neither of us said a word, but we rose and followed him. Maria immediately seized my hand, and I realized that she was trembling on the verge of tears. I put my arm about her shoulders and we walked out to the car that way.
Dominic followed with the bags and Victor slid into the driver’s seat. We had the rear of the vehicle to ourselves and she cried silently, all the way to the hotel.
*
On the way in, I committed every twisting and turning of the road to memory, as well as the position and the name of every elevated and ground-level roadway we traversed once we achieved the city proper. The drive lasted well over an hour, but at the end of that time I was certain I could retrace the route.
"It is beautiful, is it not?" said Morales at one point, a concrete-crowded section of the city burning white beneath us.
We did not reply. We had not replied to any of his attempts at neutral conversation on the way in.
He sighed and gave up again.
Relief and continuing fury were my only emotions, mixed with surprise that the ordeal had ended as abruptly and strangely as this. It seemed weeks, rather than days, that they had held us. Now they decided they had made a mistake, said, "Sorry about that," and were acting as if hardly anything had happened. Beyond the fact that it made little sense to me, their attitude almost seemed calculated to infuriate. Pain, humiliation, indifference and dismissal—signifying that our only value in the universe was whatever information we might possess that they wanted. Very well, then. I hoped it would not be too long before they learned the value this had caused me to place upon them. They were quite special to me now.
"…I suppose you will complain to your embassies," Morales was saying as we drew up before the hotel. "This will result only in our explanation and regrets being cast in the form of a letter. I say this only to save you time better spent in viewing our lovely country and enjoying its capital."
We stepped out of the car. Dominic fetched the luggage from the trunk and placed it beside us on the walk. He was smiling.
Morales stood before us.
"Enjoy yourselves," he said, and extended his hand.
I looked at his hand, looked at his face, turned away. I picked up the luggage and took it into the lobby. Neither of us looked back.
I sketched a quick map of the route and jotted the car’s tag number as I waited to check us in. We were given a room several floors up, toward the rear.
When our luggage was on the racks and the door had closed behind the departing bellhop, Maria and I stared at each other for a moment and then she was in my arms. She was shaking and she sobbed aloud now. I held her tightly, rubbing her neck, stroking her hair. It was several moments before I realized that I was also kissing her. I didn’t stop. It was a reflex, a release for both of us.
Things simply progressed without a word being said. We were on the bed within minutes. Then came the wild ride down the best of roads, dream-silent, through a hot landscape of flesh, her hair knotted around my hand, her softness flowing beneath me. For a time there was nothing else that mattered.
Later, as we lay there, I stared at the ceiling and smoked and she clutched my left bicep to her breast. "What are we going to do now?" she finally whispered. "Find out what happened," I said. "It’s too soon to kill Morales. I may have to wait a few months. Possibly even leave the country and come back again. But I’ll get him." Then, after a long while, she asked, "But what of the other matter?"
"It’s all connected," I said, "somehow. I’m certain of that."
Her grip on my arm tightened, then eased.
"How shall we begin?" she asked.
"By reporting what has just occurred to our embassies."
"What good will that do?"
"None. But I think it is expected of us. Let us seem predictable for a time."
I put out my cigarette and stroked her hair. After a while we slept.
VIII.
Donald Mason was his name. He was in his late forties, I’d say, and his black hair was only lightly sprinkled with gray. His dark eyes were steady, his movements slow and deliberate. He was well-tanned, and there was a reassuring air of competency to his clipped, Boston accent.
It was early afternoon and the two of us sat in a small office at the American Consulate, a bright day’s traffic making noises below the window.
It was two days after our release. I had telephoned the Consulate that same afternoon, identified myself as a U.S. citizen connected with a certain government agency and requested a meeting with a security officer. I added that it was urgent, gave my name and telephone number and hung up. Then Maria and I had ordered dinner from room service and waited in our room.
It was early evening before Mason called. It was a long distance call. From where, he didn’t say. We’d made arrangements and met in that same office that following morning. I had told him the whole story then. He had listened, then said that he would check into it and get back in touch.
Now we were there again, a little more rested.
Now he was telling me that it was all over.
"You mean I am not wanted in connection with the killings in Rome?" I asked.
"That is correct. Our people are handling that investigation, with the cooperation of the Italian authorities. The Italians might put it the other way around, but it amounts to the same thing."
"Any luck yet?"
"There have been no arrests so far."
"What about Father Bretagne’s death?"
"We have been assisting the Portuguese authorities in looking into the matter."
"Anything there?"
"No arrests yet."
"What is my status in connection with Carl Bernini’s murder?"
"You appear to be off the hook."
"The agency cooperation with New York authorities? Or is it the other way around? I forget."
"Let us say you are pretty much out of the picture now, and the investigation continues."
"Any arrests?"
"No."
"What about our storm trooper treatment by Inspector Morales?"
"There is an Inspector Morales on the local force, and he fits your description. However, he denies the entire story. He says he has never heard of you or Maria. His department backs him up, to the extent that their records show nothing concerning your being arrested or held for questioning."
"Is he the one investigating the Bretagne robbery?"
"Yes."
"I gave you a description of the building where we were held and a map showing its location. What’s there?"
"A deserted farm, with a main building more or less fitting your description."
"Signs of recent occupancy?"
"Some."
"Who owns the place?"
"An old couple, living in a retirement hotel in Poços de Caldas. Th
ey’ve had the place up for sale for some time now."
"What about the license number I gave you?"
"It’s police, all right. And the car is assigned to Morales."
"So?"
"It stops there. Anybody could write down his license number and describe an old building. It’s your words against his, and he’s theirs and you and Maria are foreigners. You certainly don’t look as if you’ve been abused recently."
"Do you believe Morales’ story?"
"Of course not. I’m just telling you to forget about it."
"That will take a lot of forgetting."
"Take the rest of your life if you care to."
"Thanks. What about Emil Bretagne? Has he turned up yet?"
"No."
"You are looking for him, aren’t you?"
"Ovid…"
"Yes?"
"You do not seem to understand what I have been saying. It does not matter whether he is being sought or whether he is found. Not to you. Not now. I have just accepted your final report. You are out of the picture now. I thank you on behalf of the agency. You are free to go about your own business as you would."
"That’s just peachy keen," I said. "Do you mind telling me what it is that I have accomplished for you?"
"I would like to," he said.
"—but I have no need to know?" I finished.
He nodded.
"That, basically, is it," he said.
I nodded back.
"I understand. Very well. Since you can do nothing for me and you want nothing more from me, I guess that about winds things up. Doesn’t it?"
"I’d say so. What are your plans now?"
I shrugged.
"Since I’m here, I might as well enjoy it—see some of the sights, visit the galleries and museums. Things like that. Why?"
"Just curious," he said. "I would hate to see you get involved in any more difficulties—now that it would serve no useful end."
"Are you trying to tell me that it would be dangerous for me to remain here?"
"No, I was not implying that at all. You can find danger anywhere if you go looking for it."
"I see," I said. "I wasn’t planning on hunting for any. Why don’t you tell me where I can find it, so I’ll know what places to avoid?"
He smiled, showing teeth almost too perfect to be his own.
"The thought simply occurred to me," he said, "that you might have become so involved in this thing that you would wish to follow through on it on your own. I would recommend against this."
"I wouldn’t know where to begin," I said, returning his smile and lighting a cigarette. "No, I intend only to spend a couple of weeks visiting this lovely country, then return to the States, pick up the reins of my business and sell my story to Rolling Stone."
His smile went away.
"I would not joke that way," he said, slowly, softly.
"Of course you wouldn’t. You’re an employee. But then, I’m not joking. Somebody, somewhere, should be interested enough to at least pay me for my expenses on this trip. I make out, but I’m hardly what you would call wealthy. This running around is costing me and hurting the gallery."
The edge went out of his voice.
"I believe your expenses are reimbursable," he said.
"Nobody said anything to me about it," I said. "But in addition to my expenses, I lost what business I could have been doing."
"I am certain something can be worked out. Submit your bills for the trip and an estimate of your losses to the man who will get in touch with you about a month after your return. He will take care of the matter. Does that sound satisfactory?"
"I suppose."
"Give me a definite answer. We get enough bad press without you adding this to it."
"All right: yes. My answer is yes."
"Good."
He sighed.
"Now I believe we have covered everything," he said.
"It seems that way."
He rose and extended his hand. I took it and shook it.
"Thank you," he said, "and I apologize for not being able to specify for what. I doubt that I will ever see you again. So have a pleasant vacation and a good trip home."
"Thank you."
As I turned away and headed toward the door, he added, "Good luck."
*
Maria and I dined that night at an overpriced fish house that the guy who wrote the guidebook claimed was good. For me, it was an obscure sort of celebration. I was free of something, according to Mason. No matter that I did not understand what that something was. It had influenced my actions for the past several weeks, gotten me shot at, shuttled between countries and beaten up. Now that phase of my existence was ended, according to Mason, and this seemed to warrant an evening in an overpriced fish house.
Physically, I was feeling fairly normal again. My feelings toward large, impersonal organizations with lots of power were unchanged, but then I’ve always been an anarchist. Now, but for two promises, I was free to tend my gallery.
Maria either did not remember, did not care or had dismissed as hysterical my ravings about the CIA during the worst stages of our questioning. Just as well, that. Our connection was meaningless to me, and such things are generally difficult to explain. An inquiry by an Italian official had gotten her the same story I had received concerning Morales. I had telephoned the Bretagne place. The first time, the maid had checked and told me Mrs. Bretagne was unavailable. The second time she simply hung up. I filled my mouth with fish and thought of Kafka.
Maria had just finished asking me her what-are-wegoing-to-do-now? question for the sixth or seventh time and I was preparing a variation on my wait-a-while-andlet-me-think answer, when I heard my name spoken, prefaced by a polite obscenity.
Walter Carlon’s hand fell upon my shoulder as I turned.
"…and well-met," he finished.
"Don’t I know you from somewhere?" I said, shaking his hand.
"Maria, you’re looking well," he said.
"Thank you," and she smiled.
"May I join you?"
"Sit down," I said. "How long have you been in town, Walt?"
"Got in the day before yesterday," he told me. "Came up from Rio. Spent a couple days there. Galleries and the Press Club, mostly. Then I heard there was a lot of good stuff being shown here."
He lowered himself into a chair and sighed.
"There’s a lot to see. My feet are killing me."
I nodded and grunted a noncommittal reply. He returned his attention to Maria.
"Too bad about your boss," he observed.
"What?" she said, "Bruno?"
"Yes. You mean you hadn’t heard?"
"No. What happened?"
"Auto accident. A little over a week ago. I was at the funeral."
We had stopped eating. Maria’s face was tight, and she was staring at him. He dropped his eyes.
"Hell of a way to start a conversation at dinner," he said. "I thought you knew. Sorry."
"How did it happen?" I asked.
"Just like I said. He was up in the hills and he went off the road. Maybe he fell asleep at the wheel."
"I take it there were no witnesses?"
"No."
"Had he been drinking?"
"I don’t know, but I’m about to." He turned and ordered a drink from an approaching waiter. "Let’s talk about something else, huh?"
I nodded and resumed eating. Maria did the same.
"You know, you’re what brought me here," he said.
"Oh? How?"
"That night in Rome, talking about Brazil," he said. "You got me to thinking about it. I’d been wanting a change of scene, and I didn’t feel like visiting the States. So I packed up and came here."
"How do you like it?"
"Fine! I’ve seen tons of stuff by Portinari that I never knew existed—and Camargo, Bandaira, Scliar, Elsas, Carybé, Eurydice. Great! You were right. I’m glad I came. I felt like doing a year’s worth of columns yesterday. Don’t you feel
like spending at least a month in the Museum of Contemporary Art?"
"I haven’t been there yet."
He laughed.
"Really," he said.
"I’m not joking," I told him. "I haven’t seen it."
"What have you found that is so much better?"
"Nothing."
"I don’t understand."
"Neither do I. We’ve been locked up for days and interrogated
by maniacs."
"You mean kidnapped? One of those terrorist things?"
"That explanation seems as good as any."
His brows worked themselves together as he studied me.
"You’re not joking?"
"No. I’m bitter as all hell."
"Did you report it to the American Embassy?"
"Of course. No satisfaction there."
"That’s terrible!"
"We agree."
"What was it like?"
"Not now. I’m eating."
"But what did they want? How did it happen?"
"We were just lucky enough to visit the home of a guy named Emil Bretagne the morning after it had been burglarized. We gave some so-called cops a phony story, and that’s how it all started."
"Bretagne," he said, nodding. "No wonder."
I glanced up.
"What do you mean, ‘No wonder’?"
"Well, everybody wants him."
I lowered my fork.
"How so?"
"My God! Don’t you read the newspapers?" He paused to accept his drink, sample it and ask for a menu. "He is a much sought-after man," he said then.
"Why?" Maria inquired.
"Money," he said, gesturing simply. "The story broke while I was in Rio. He was a big wheel at the place where he worked—Investment Director or something like that."
"Bassenrut," Maria said.
"Yes, that’s the outfit. He’s been gone a couple weeks now. He did a lot of traveling, keeping tabs on their investments, so nothing seemed unusual about his taking off on another trip. It was several days before they got wind of what he was up to—and then they wasted several more days trying to be discreet about it. By then it was too late. He moved very fast and was able to clean out some accounts and liquidate a few assets before they could freeze him out."
I had to swallow before I could sigh.
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