Cradle of Splendor

by Patricia Anthony

  Piehl tipped his head to the side, inquiringly. “Maybe Papa hated Poles. Maybe he hated planes.”

  “Please hear me out. If I am right, Mr. Lavinski, there is not much time left. I believe President Bonfim has made a fatal mistake allowing the space launch to be televised. Americans are jealous, and they are heavy—handed. The CIA is asking all the wrong questions. I wish to find out why Brazilians are disappearing. I must solve this riddle first, in order to save the new technology.”

  Late sun slanted through the trees. From the river came the honking of geese.

  Finally: “Why me?”

  “Because your father was so good at his job that both the Americans and British dismissed him as a joke. And because the KGB is not hampered as the American CIA is with silly rules.”

  Piehl pulled pensively on his lower lip. “Japanese trust no one but Japanese. Are you working naked, Mr. Sato?”

  “You will forgive my bluntness, but I think you are not completely under the umbrella of the KGB, either.” Hiroshi relaxed and, at last, let his arms fall. “I believe, Mr. Lavinski, that your father did not die in that plane crash in 1960. I believe that he brought you into the business and taught you tradecraft. Now Russia lacks money, and Japan is fast becoming poor. Work with me. I promise you that both countries will benefit. And we will let America go begging.”

  “Interesting proposition.” Piehl got to his feet. “I’ll think about it.”

  “But ...”

  Someone walked past Hiroshi, bumping his shoulder. A lanky teenage boy carrying a machete. He looked back, grinning. His eyes were that same hot blue.

  “By the way,” Piehl said. “Some advice my father gave me in ’82 just before he died: Do exactly what people expect, and you’ll blend into the background. The guidebook is a nice touch, Mr. Sato, but Brazilians expect to see Japanese tourists with cameras.”

  Hiroshi felt his face stiffen into an automatic public mask. He bowed—more a brusque nod. The spy’s son and grandson walked away together, leaving Hiroshi mired sole—deep in the mud.

  * * *

  Dolores tucked an edge of the fitted sheet in place only to watch the opposite corner pop loose again. She gave up and refilled her wine glass.

  The squeak of a soft—soled shoe against tile brought her head up. She set the glass on the night stand and, patting her sweater pockets, crept toward the living room. What had she done with her gun?

  Only Roger. He stood by the sofa, looking worried. “Why’d you put my furniture on the front porch?”

  “That’s not your furniture. That’s Harry’s furniture. I’m getting rid of Harry, Roger. I’m exorcising Harry.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, leaving a lock of it standing on end. “Oh. Good. I thought ... So where am I supposed to sleep?”

  “Can’t sleep. It’s an exorcism party. Get yourself a glass and come on.” She retreated into the guest room.

  The corner of the sheet had pulled loose for the eighth time when Roger came in and looked around. He was holding the crushed Coke can. “Where’d this bed come from?”

  “Storage.”

  “The room’s all different. I hate this. I thought I’d come back to the house, relax a little ...”

  “The only way to get rid of the monster, Roge: redecorate his lair.”

  Somehow the sheet ended up as an amorphous lump in the center of the mattress. Dolores sat down to study the problem.

  “I suppose you wrestled everything out on the porch by yourself. God. Macho shit. Just like that guy today at the zoo. You’ll never believe—”

  “No choice, Roge. The Spiritists told me they’d pick up everything tomorrow, but I wanted Harry out of my house. I wanted him out of my goddamned house.”

  He sighed, monumentally.

  “Hey, Roger? You know what’s strange? I was around thirty—five, I think. Harry was almost forty. Just before he got sick. So ... what was I saying?” She looked up. Roger had sat down on the overstuffed chair she had brought in. He was still holding the Coke can, and he looked put out. She couldn’t remember if she had checked the furniture for spiders. “Oh. Leaving Harry. That’s what I was trying to do. And I was holding the car keys when he grabbed my hair with one hand and forced the key into a wall socket with the other. Direct current: one side nothing, the other 210 volts. Harry was surprised we lived. Asshole thought the socket wasn’t working. Roger? You see what I’m talking about? Harry told everyone it was my career that stood in the way of us having kids. But it was him. You can understand why. Well? Can’t you? Have you seen the evening news?”

  Roger was staring.

  She got to her feet, slapped the sheet on the mattress, yanked the corner down. When the opposite end gathered in a roll, tears sprang to her eyes. “I just want to make the goddamned bed! Is that too much to ask?”

  “Okay. Okay. Don’t get upset.” Roger rose, fumbled with the other end of the sheet.

  She tore it out of his hands. “l can do it myself!”

  “Right. No harm, no foul.” He held his palms out in capitulation.

  “Why did I let him ruin my life? I hate leaving things unfinished. Let’s dig Harry up. I need to kill him.”

  “Hey, I know! Let’s have some coffee:”

  “No. Put the Coke can down. Get the shovel.”

  “Sure. Okay, we’ll do that. But you gotta tell me the truth now, all right? Promise me, ’cause I’m on your side.” He held the crushed can toward her, gingerly. “Just ... okay? Just tell me what this means.”

  She flapped the sheet over the mattress. The elastic in the hem made the material ball, like a spider touched by a flame. “God: You’re such an amateur. The Company puts a can at a drop to tell the field agent to call the office. Haven’t you seen the news? The bank scandal? The demonstrations? I’ve been trying to call Jaje, but no one’s answering. What’s wrong with me?” She spread the top sheet and threw on the quilt. Not too bad. The bottom sheet was a lump in the center now, a poorly buried corpse. “Am I that neurotic?”

  Roger sat in the chair and regarded the lumpy quilt.

  “I’d lie about it, you know, Roger? I’d say, like, ‘He needed me.’ But half of me learned to blank out—divided the world into light and shadow, form and space, simple unemotional crap like that. And the other half believed I couldn’t leave him, because he’d come after me in his walker, dragging his oxygen bottle. He was a monster, right? So you couldn’t kill him. Not easily. I’d have to—I don’t know—pour gasoline on him and set him on fire. Throw him in a tree shredder. Stake him. That’s what I have to do: dig him up and stake him.”

  Roger looked morose. “Is that it? Call the office? That’s all? What’s the deal about the two million dollars?”

  “Two ...” She remembered. “Sorry.” She sat down, patted his hand. “Life’s just a cover story. That’s my philosophy. Come on, don’t pout. Have a glass of wine. Or two. Or eight. That always worked for Harry.”

  “God! Nothing is fucking real around this place! And to think I used to believe I was a cool undercover kinda guy: fixing the Xerox machine at NASA so it wouldn’t count my copies, sneaking the stuff out of the office in my Jockeys. Then this morning you convince me we’re rerunning ’63 Dallas. Kinch and McNatt take a long lunch to jerk off my brain. And, oh yeah, this guy pulls a gun on me. A gun! At the zoo! And he groped me. A librarian. Let’s see what’s hiding here in the stacks—”

  Adrenaline ice shot through her, tingled down her arms. She squeezed Roger’s fingers together so hard he yelped. “The librarian—was he all right?”

  “He’s goddamned nuts. He told me to unzip my pants. We looked at penguins. I hate penguins.”

  “Shhhh!” An engine was purring up the drive. Roger cowered as a car door slammed.

  “Probably just the Spiritists coming early.” She went to the window and peered out. Men were stepping u
p on the porch, eyeing Harry’s sickroom furniture. Three men, dressed like police officers.

  “Roger.” Before he could answer, she clapped a hand over his mouth. “You never saw that librarian.”

  An officious knock on the front door.

  “Keep your head down. Don’t let them know you’re here.” She released him. Pulling her cardigan tighter, she went to answer the knock.

  All three men eyed her, then “Dolores Sims?” one of them asked.

  “What do you want?”

  “You are Dolores Sims?” He had dark curly hair, a swarthy complexion. Looked and acted Brazilian. Spoke in the fast—talking mumble of a Goiás native.

  “Yes.”

  He hiked his gunbelt, stepped forward. “Come with us, please. You are under arrest.”

  CBS Evening News

  I’m standing here in front of the science building at the University of São Paulo. As you can see, Dan, everything is quiet now. There on the steps just a sprinkling of lights—red candles—for the missing; but it was not so quiet earlier today When students clashed with police.

  So far; President Bonfim‘s popularity has held among blacks and those of mixed race, and of course among women. That is the majority. According to recent polls, however, her popularity is swiftly eroding among the young, such as the students, here behind me, and among the country’s white population, located mostly in the south.

  The consensus among Bonfim supporters seems to be that the space weaponry is an American fantasy; and that the missing Brazilians are somehow, too, our fault.

  Well, Robert. I’m sure your interviews are met with resentment ...

  Not really, Dan. Brazilians are, above all, pragmatists. Even in the rural areas you get a sense of ‘seen it, done it, and who cares?’ No, Brazilians think America is naive and somewhat gauche.

  Naive and what?

  Gauche.

  ANA MARIA slapped the manila folder closed. Her tone was the one Edson had long ago learned to catalogue as fury. “Close the universities.”

  General Fernando Machado’s frown made him resemble a congenial frog. He folded his arms over his girth and looked at Edson, who shrugged.

  “Do it,” she ordered.

  Perhaps too many drinks for dinner. Perhaps only because it was three in the morning and Edson was exhausted—he came to the general’s defense. “Don’t overreact, Ana. That is what the Americans hope to force you into. They expect another Tiananmen Square.”

  Through the glass wall, Edson saw Freitas in the neighboring atrium. The man was looking out the window where the northern district of Brasília arced, the wing of a glowing albatross.

  Ana made an irritated tsk. “I’m talking about a handful of soldiers. No violence. The students are the same age as my own daughter. Do you think I’m some sort of monster?”

  Edson met her gaze. She rubbed her temples as if a headache plagued her, not guilt. He imagined the heft of the gun in his hand, the sound and the smell of the shots, the heavy—rain patter of blood against the polished table. Should he? Could he? Edson took a breath, and wondered how history would remember them.

  “Don’t let the CIA push you into doing something rash,” he said. “If you send in soldiers to confront those students, I guarantee there will be more than unarmed Brazilians in the crowd. This is what the CIA does, Ana. They agitate. And no one is better at it. Now. Please. Let us not compound our mistake. It was stupid enough to cut the Americans out of the technology, but keeping people prisoner in the other universe is insane. Tell him to bring them back.”

  Her eyes darted to the atrium. “I’ve asked.”

  The way Freitas stood there, unmoving, Edson wanted to grab him by the shoulders and whirl him around, to see the look on his face. “Ask again.”

  She picked nervously at the folder. “If the Americans want to play games, so be it. We’ll officially blame the disappearances on them.”

  The general waggled his hand—not outright disagreement, but ...

  “What?” Ana asked.

  “You would have to declare war to make it look believable.”

  Ana leaned her head back, closed her eyes. “God bless.”

  “And it would look as if you are accusing them only to distract from the bank story—”

  “I have plugged that leak,” Edson said.

  Ana kept to that annoying silence she had picked up lately. Damn her. Friends for almost thirty years, yet she didn’t ask if Dolores was still alive. “Ana? I —said I’ve—”

  “I heard you. So. For the time being, we will ignore the demonstrators. Let the CIA go broke paying them to carry signs. People go missing all the time, don’t they? Edson, release a statement saying the police believe the disappearances are linked to a rise in crime.”

  The back of her neck, that niche where graying ringlets strayed from her bun. Or between the eyebrows, the bullet’s angle down. Ana was a small woman. If he jumped to his feet right now, caught her sitting, looking up ...

  In the atrium, Freitas suddenly turned. Did he know what Edson was thinking? Assassinate them both, maybe. Hope Nando didn’t try to stop it.

  Nando coughed. “Your decision, of course.”

  “Worst—case scenario,” she said. “If the Americans take over, how will they do it?”

  The general yawned and loosened his collar. “The U.S. won’t act unilaterally. But they will not have to. Success has made Brazil enough enemies. The Americans will charge us with civil rights violations. Intervention will become a moral imperative. The U.N. will order bombing runs. They will destroy as much of the infrastructure as they can.”

  Like coming out of anesthesia—Edson’s discomfort slowly blossomed to agony. He had never realized how fond he was of Brasília’s desert—sculpture buildings. His vision blurred, and with it, his judgment. Assassinate Ana? Only because he’d been awake for thirty—eight hours straight.

  “What about the new aeronautical system?” she asked.

  The general nodded. “I like it. It’s pretty.”

  “And?”

  “We use it to tease the spy planes that are coming over from Bolivia and Paraguay.”

  “You told me last month you had armed our Air Force planes.”

  “Well, we had to. The lights are only attracted to them if they are armed. But if our pilots try to fire their missiles, their antigravity systems fail and our planes explode. It’s some energy bubble design problem. I don’t know, Ana. Ask the engineers. Better yet, ask Freitas, since the engineers don’t seem to understand how some of his technology works.”

  “The Army has always been completely yours, Nando. I have never meddled in such matters ...” Ana’s voice trailed off. Considering repercussions or loyalties? No sense in that, Edson knew. They would all share a coffin. “But how in the world do you plan to protect us?”

  The general massaged his eyes. His voice was a rumble. “Pray they bomb on a weekend.”

  Laughter burst from Edson, loud and cathartic.

  “Here is my plan.” The general shoved his thumbs into his belt, leaned back, and spoke to the ceiling. “We will evacuate Brasília on a Friday evening. Everything will appear normal, and the Americans will not know what has happened until no one shows up for work on Monday. We’ll desert those belligerent assholes the way the Portuguese did Napoleon.”

  Edson, overcome with merriment, wiped away tears.

  Ana touched his arm. “Please, Edson. Please, Nando. Tell me what to expect.”

  Nando patted his pockets, looked around the table, and finally picked up the ornate silver sugar bowl. “The Americans, and whoever is opportunistic enough to join the action, will bring a small tactical force into Brasília. To distract us, they will pound the coastline. A war on at least two fronts, you see? They have the manpower.” With the spoon, he drizzled a line of sugar. “Rio,” he said, and incr
edulously Edson was looking at the wide sands of Copacabana.

  “It’s in range of their navy guns. São Paulo is close enough for their cruise missiles.” A sparkling pile south, and inland. The quiet alley of Butantã. Pacaembu Stadium. That little Japanese restaurant Edson always went to when he was in town—what was its name?

  An anticlimactic chime as Nando dropped the spoon back into the bowl. Edson battled the urge to rush to the phone, to call Gilberto Muller. To ask him the name of that restaurant.

  “Luckily Brazil is a big country. Expensive to overpower.”

  “I see.” Ana’s face was pale, her cheeks so taut it seemed the bones would pierce the skin. “I see.” Her voice was very soft. “And you could win such a war?”

  “Win?” Nando roared, and slapped his knee. “The Americans will whip our ass!”

  * * *

  They didn’t handcuff her. In the squad car no one spoke. They drove Dolores down a discreetly lighted street that was identical to all the other residential streets, and past apartment buildings that were ultramodern clones of each other. At an elegantly understated police station they stopped and got out.

  Gilberto Muller was waiting by a potted palm in the mosaic—tiled booking area. “Come with me, please.”

  She followed him down a hall that smelled of gardenia potpourri. He ushered her into an interrogation room, and they sat across a table from each other. Muller pulled an envelope from his jacket, slid it across the Formica.

  “A statement that is to be videotaped. Memorize it.”

  She pushed it back. “Tell me.”

  He ignored her, folded his hands.

  “Tell me what it says, Gilberto. Tell me now while I’m drunk.”

  “Years ago you became Ana Maria’s friend and gave money to her campaign. Now that Brazil is rich and the United States wants our technology, you have finally disclosed to her that you are an American spy. You tried blackmail. Poor Ana. She had no choice but to arrest you.”