Roger cleared his throat, shifted nervously on his feet, bent over and studied the object. It was a faithful reproduction of a television, right down to the channel changer. Instead of a screen there was a terrarium of plastic flowers. A statue of Ana Maria Bonfim stood in the center of that never—wilting garden. Her arms were spread in welcome; her smile was beatific.
Over the hiss of a faucet Flavio offered to kill the chicken.
The woman said no, she would. Roger prayed: Please, God.
The woman: “Florida? Mickey Mouse?”
“And Donald Duck.”
Not even the Cape. A chicken dead for his sake and he’d have to eat and talk Orlando.
Flavio came into the living room with two water glasses. There was half of an orange—fleshed, green—skinned lemon in each, and the bottom third of the liquid was pearly with sugar. Roger took a cautious sip. The rest was pure cachaça.
“See? A heaven on earth, Doctor: Christ on the wall and Presidente Ana on TV.”
The play—television was pathetic. “You must like her.”
“Boss does. I guess she’s okay. More honest than we’re used to, than maybe we deserve. And she speaks well to the spirits, have to give her that. So, life changes. We have more money. Gas stove, washing machine, a refrigerator.”
Confused, Roger’s attention drifted. He tipped the dimestore glass back and forth. The juiced rind waved tendrils, an undersea creature. At the bottom, sugar syrup rolled like mucus.
“I used to beat her.” It was a moment before Roger realized he hadn’t meant the president. “When the Women’s Rights were passed, she had me arrested.” He shrugged. “I suppose things are better now. Maybe the women are happier, I don’t know. I was getting too old to beat her, anyway.”
Chickens in the backyard squawked in alarm. Aw, jeez.
“Tell the boss all about Disney World.”
Behind the house a sudden ominous silence. Roger took a steadying sip of his drink. “I’ve never been to Disney World.”
“Make it up.”
Flavio, a bottle of cachaça tucked under his arm, led the way to the front porch. They sat down together on the steps. “Disney World is a place of magic,” he said.
“Uh—huh.’ A plane, landing lights gleaming, lifted off from the nearby Air Force base. It rose thirty degrees into the purple evening and suddenly, precipitously tumbled out of the sky. Roger’s stomach fell with it. “Jesus! Oh, Jesus! You see that?”
No fireball. No sound of sirens. The sky was empty again. Still shaking, Roger took a gulp of his drink. Then another. Flavio refilled his glass.
“I’ve seen them five times the size of the full moon and eight different colors.”
Roger drank, swallowed a lemon seed.
Flavio said, “They were all in it together. Padre João came from the spirit world and told Juscelino. And Juscelino told Oscar Niemeyer. That’s why Niemeyer built those buildings—so the space people would feel at home.”
From the house the sizzle of something frying, the smell of garlic and peppers.
“So. Oscar Niemeyer tells Lúcio Costa, who plans the city in the form of an airplane. Why?” Flavio pointed a finger at Roger’s nose. “To invite the space people down. And how could they resist?”
On the horizon something glittered. Something breathtaking. Roger got to his feet.
“Destiny. Padre João prophesied that from this spot a city would rise which will rule the world. And three generations later—just as promised—Juscelino built Brasília with Presidente Ana in mind.”
A huge golden ball, shimmering in the thin desert air. Too bright for the moon. Wrong color, and too big, for a plane. “Aw,” Roger breathed. “Aw, jeez.”
Flavio said, “A conspiracy. Christ was in it, too. He vowed the meek would inherit the earth; then Presidente Ana gives black people power, frees the women, and makes Brazil rich so that I can buy a refrigerator.”
Forty—five degrees into the spangled sky, the light swelled to twice its size and exploded into sparkles of red. The sparkles shot off to the southeast.
“Shit!” Roger tore his shirt pocket trying to get to his miniature camera. His glass toppled and bounced loudly down the steps.
“Early,” Flavio said and, retrieving the glass, poured Roger another drink.
An emerald delta wing rose and sank before Roger got the binoculars to his eyes. “Aw, jeez.” He leaned his head back, spread his arms. Flavio put the glass into his hand.
“I’ll put in a good word for you, Doctor. Could I have your jacket?”
Roger walked out onto the hard baked clay of the front yard. “What?”
“I want your jacket: I’m not of the ruling class yet, but it’s only a matter of time. When judgment comes, I’ll speak for you. I figure that’s fair.”
Roger upended the glass so far that the lemon rind rolled down and hit his nose. He gave the empty glass to Flavio. Then he gave him his jacket.
“More cachaça,” Flavio mumbled, and went into the house.
Arms out, Roger spun around and around in the barren yard. A flock of amber squares flew heavenward. Roger snapped their picture. “Aw, jeez.”
Flavio came back and they drank some more. Crystalline globes iridescent as peacocks. Pentagons of blue flame that changed in an instant to pink.
“Come sit down. Boss has the chicken ready. We can eat on the porch.”
“Aw, jeez, Flavio. Look at that.” Roger couldn’t eat. Barely noticed when the son—in—law arrived. Laughing like a kid, hands snatching, he chased UFOs like fireflies.
He realized he was cold when Flavio brought him a blanket. “Eleven o’clock, and you’re too drunk to go home. Besides, drive south and the Chinese will shoot you. Let’s go in.
“It’s so fucking pretty.” He’d never go inside. Didn’t dare close his eyes. An apricot moon swung lazily back and forth over sixty degrees of sky.
Flavio brought him a pillow. Made him lie down on the porch. The night was so bright. So quiet. “Will you be mad at me when I take over the world?”
“God. Look at that.”
Lights whirled. The day’s dust settled, the hot—metal air turned sweet.
Flavio took a deep breath. “Nice out here. Sometimes I think death’s like this. That maybe it’s a good thing, really. A magical thing. Something to look forward to. Do you think?”
“Oh, man.” In the dark of the desert a nightbird chittered. Tears welled in Roger’s eyes, scattering the light. “It’s so damned beautiful.”
* * *
Nando stood teetering on the jeep’s seat, arms flailing for balance. His right hand jerked, aiming Edson’s revolver first toward the sequined sky, then toward earth.
In the passenger seat, Edson ducked and threw his arms over his head. “Watch out! You will shoot me. Every cow in O Vale do Amanhecer is in danger.”
“The cows here are good Spiritists. Maybe they will reincarnate as my wife’s housecat.” No warning stillness, no obvious aim. The .45 barked loud and deep. The orange strobe from the barrel lit up the night. At the turn of the road, another streetlight blinked out.
Nando said, “Eight to six. See? Drunker than you, and I have only missed two shots. We never made it to the Valley.”
Edson drank from the Dewar’s bottle. “I don’t know why you wanted to talk to a fortune—teller. I can see our future without a crystal ball. Sit down. You’re lethal.”
Nando dropped behind the wheel and gave Edson the gun. “But the score is eight to six.”
The barrel was hot, the grip still damp from Nando’s palm. The air was spicy with gunpowder. They drove toward the gleam of the next streetlamp, the headlights sweeping the brush.
“I have been thinking about Ana,” Edson said quietly.
Nando stopped the jeep and set the emergency brake. “What about her?” Th
e general’s voice was suspicious.
Edson lost his courage. “Look where you parked!” He clapped a palm to his forehead. “You always bring yourself in close for a good shot. You think I’m too drunk to notice.”
“Liar. Complainer. We’re one tenth of a kilometer from the last light pole.” A grunt as the general bent over and felt his way along the dash. The siren whooped. “Shit,” he whispered.
A light went on in a nearby farmhouse.
One last mechanical sob from the siren, and it hushed. Nando fumbled. The under—dash lamp clicked on. Light lapped at their ankles. “There. Can you read the odometer?”
“I’ve lost count.” Edson clambered up on the seat. He let go of the door and stood unsteadily. His left hand was occupied by the bottle, his right by the gun. One—armed, he aimed, thought of Ana, and squeezed the trigger. The report made his ears ring. The recoil nearly flung the gun from his fingers.
“Still eight to six,” Nando said.
When Edson dropped into his seat, Nando grabbed the bottle. He shut off the engine, the headlights. “I have been learning En—glish. I think that is prudent.”
Edson cleared his throat. “Closing the universities played right into the Americans’ hands. I warned her. Now no one in the U.N. supports us. We end up trying to counter CIA lies about radioactivity and space weapons. Now we face an ultimatum.”
No answer. Not even a grunt. Edson took a breath and went on. “Her first blunder was disbanding Congress.”
A laugh. “Yes. The people would have been happier had I aimed my cannons and shot them.”
“But don’t you see, Nando, what a predicament that put us in? Americans hear ‘dictator,’ and they think of death squads and brutes in uniform.”
Nando took the gun from Edson’s lap. “The brute expropriates.” He planted a knee in the jeep’s seat, and shot out the final streetlamp. When the sharp clap had died away, and the fire was a violet afterimage on Edson’s retina, the general said, “Somehow I don’t think I frighten the American Army. Is it the uniform, you think? Maybe more medals. One for when that jeep ran over my foot. A big one with a death’s head for flying in Air Force planes. Now that scares me.”
The road was black. Only two lights burned: the faint 10— watt bulb under the dash, and the far yellow square of the farmhouse window. Odd how lonely, how wide, the darkness seemed. “Does Freitas scare you?”
Lit as it was from beneath, the general’s affable face looked eerie.
“I imagine killing him sometimes,” Edson said.
“Um. The devil arrives with roses, and poor Ana can’t send him away. Some women are like that.” He took a drink. “You know how we climb up on the jeep seat to shoot, and there is nothing to hold on to? Ana can’t stand by herself.”
“She must.”
The rotund general was slouched, bottle snug in his crotch. His head was lowered. Abruptly he leaned forward and turned off the under—dash light. Edson felt vertigo, and a fleeting panic, as darkness leaped at him.
Nando said, “The thing in Freitas loves her.”
Not the insurgency Edson had hoped for. He peered into the black rural night but saw only Freitas’s hands on Ana—that strange listless passion in his eyes.
The wind stroked hair from Edson’s forehead, then moved restlessly off through the roadside brush. He might have thought he was blind if it hadn’t been for the yellow glow from the farmhouse and the sky’s ice—blanket of stars.
“It loves the way my brother—in—law loved before he killed my sister,” Nando said in his gentle bass. “I blew his brains out afterwards, you know. My brother—in—law. He said it was her fault that he stabbed Rosinha sixteen times. He said she should not have tried to leave him.”
Movement in the house. Someone walking between the window and the light.
“We have to do something, Nando. The technology we get from the other universe is not worth letting the Americans take over. If Ana is too weak to handle Freitas, here is what I think—”
“Shhh,” he ordered. But it was the other sound that made the words stick in Edson’s throat: the precise, metallic sound of a hammer being cocked. “I know what you have been thinking.”
Edson strained to see Nando’s face. Was he angry? Did he wear a teasing grin? The general was merely a hulking shape, the quiet sounds of breathing, and the smells of whiskey and sweat.
“Nando ...”
“Shhh. I have been watching you. I see how you look at Ana.”
Not angry. Deadly serious. Edson’s faint, questioning smile died.
“Nine years, and I still miss my sister.”
Someone was standing motionless at the window now, looking out, too far away to be more than a blot in the light. Perhaps the gunfire had awakened a baby. And the cries had roused the wife.
“I figured out what is wrong with love,” Nando said. “I had to, in order to sleep. Women’s mistake is giving, even when the man doesn’t want what she has. Men’s mistake is taking, even when they have no right.”
Did guilt keep the one in the window awake? If so, that was the husband.
The under—dash bulb came on. Edson had been fighting to see, so even the dim glow was dazzling.
Nando sat back, the gun cradled in his lap, and regarded the dark road. “I will tell you a secret, one that I have known for some time: there is nothing but the Freitas—thing on the other side of the Door, I know because I saw that same emptiness inside my brother—in—law. He called it love. My sister wasted her life trying to fill it. She thought that was love, too. I suppose women are happiest when they give. And I suppose that when men have an emptiness, they can’t help eating things. My brother—in—law ate his future, his mother’s heart, the happiness of his family. Strange, isn’t it—how they let him.”
Nando met his gaze. “So, Edson. I will not help you take over the government. And I will not let you hurt Ana.” He eased the hammer down, handed the gun back. “When the time comes, let me kill Freitas.”
NIGHTLINE
... has been trying for years to ruin President Bonfim.
Ms. Ambassador? This is getting us nowhere. If you’ll—
What about the photos? You see the—
Ms. Ambassador? Congressman? I’m tired of playing referee.
Ted, in a few hours we will prove what he say. That CIA agent, the American painter, will confess how the CIA has conspired to ruin Ana. It is dangerous for the United States government, for all governments. In other countries, men are in power. Yet here is a black. A woman—
Oh, give, me a break.
She makes you afraid.
... makes me sick, you guys fall back on this female—as—victim routine. This is a political question, not a gender one. Why don’t you let the inspectors in?
You want to control us.
Who’s wanting to control you? Look. If you don’t have anything to hide, just let the inspectors in.
I must agree with the congressman, Ms. Ambassador: It seems simple enough. Why not allow the inspectors in?
Everything must be as the United States wants it. Latin America is tired of complying. Women are tired of complying, of being kept silent.
This is getting us nowhere.
HIROSHI AWOKE during the hush of the night. The beer he drank at the restaurant with Shuma Kasahara and the others was a dull pressure in his bladder. The vatapá he had eaten smoldered, sending up fumes of shrimp and dendê oil. He should get up to relieve himself and take an antacid, but he was too sleepy, and his nest in the blanket too comfortable.
Then he noticed the smell. Oily. Familiar. Recognition made gooseflesh break out beneath his sweat. Candle wax.
He opened his eyes to slits. The room was dark but for the sapphire shimmer of the open window. The balconies of the neighboring apartment building were limned by the amber glow from the streetl
amp three floors below.
He listened for extraneous noises—heard his own breathing, the quick—step march of his own pulse.
Had he locked the door? Fastened the chain? What if there was a burglar? What if the man was in the shadows now, knife in hand? Would Hiroshi have time to reach his gun?
But he clearly remembered locking the dead bolt, hearing the tumblers click.
Kengo. Only he had the opportunity to make a key. Only someone from Covert Ops would know how, with a wire, to free the chain. Of course. It was Kengo Fujita standing in the dark, waiting to make his move. He had stolen Hiroshi’s diary without leaving a trace on the embassy videotape. Now he had entered Hiroshi’s apartment without making a sound, just to frighten him, just to burn a candle ...
No. Absurd. Hiroshi lifted his head. And screamed.
Something was perched on his hip. Something winged and black. Hiroshi vaulted out of bed. The sheet tangled with his legs. He hit the floor shoulder—first, still shrieking.
He clawed at the nightstand. Alarm clock and gun and lamp came crashing. What was it? Had a vampire bat flown through the open window?
His grasping fingers found the gun. Once his hand was around the grip, he felt silly. Shoot, and the neighbors would hear. The police would come. Kengo would find out. Let me tell you how Hiroshi killed an intruder. And he would relate the story again and again, like a rakugo comedian telling a favorite joke, until the audience knew it by heart.
Hiroshi swept his hand over the floor, found the lamp, and switched it on. He pecked over the edge of the mattress, studied the rumpled sheets. The bed was empty.
Then he spotted it in a corner—an explosion of glossy ebon, like a dead crow. He crawled across the hardwood and crouched, afraid to touch it. A thing of black feathers, white paint, and red beads.
Gun held high, his left hand steadying his right wrist like they did in the movies, Hiroshi crept out of the bedroom and around the next blind corner. He was trembling so hard that his breath came in staccato snicks.
Cradle of Splendor Page 9
