Cradle of Splendor

by Patricia Anthony

  Hiroshi was so tired that he couldn’t think. Who was lying now? The Americans, or Kengo? No. They were in it together. And they had seduced Kasahara.

  Kasahara clucked in concern. “So bad an indisposition, Hiroshi. Very, very bad. You must take a few days off.”

  * * *

  The hardest thing Roger ever had to do. He picked up the receiver, looked around. The phone was in an estuary of the shopping center, at this early hour empty but for a pair of teenagers sailing cardboard signs upwind, and an old guy with dark glasses and white cane, seated on a bench.

  The teenagers passed, laughing. Roger turned his back in case the blind man was trained to read lips, and the dark glasses some CIA one—way trick.

  Roger dialed the number from memory, dropped change in the pay phone’s slot. There was a flat, ugly buzz. On the other end of the line, the phone was ringing.

  A click. Then, “Sim?”

  He cupped his hand around the receiver and whispered, “Hello?”

  “O que? Quem é? Fala, pô.”

  Sounded like Fatty’s voice. Aw, jeez. Roger didn’t even know their names. “Sou eu.” Oh. That was brilliant. It’s me. That was good.

  Fatty was determinedly affable, the kind of guy who would always play along. “Pois é. É você.” He agreed: Right. It’s you.

  “From NASA.”

  Silence.

  Oh, man. Maybe Roger memorized the number wrong.

  “Dr. Lintenberg?”

  Roger let his breath out in a long sigh. “Yeah. Something’s happened. Something big. I’m gonna speak in English, okay? You can talk Portuguese. There’s a guy maybe within earshot, and I don’t—”

  “Where are you?”

  “Shopping center.”

  “What block?”

  “Uh ...” He pulled the map from his pocket and unfolded it.

  “What block?” Fatty was breathless.

  The map wasn’t any use. “I don’t know. Everything in this damned town looks alike. I got off the bus—”

  “Which bus?”

  “Shit. I don’t know.”

  “Look around you, Dr. Lintenberg. Tell me what you see.”

  “Just that blind guy.” The man was smiling, talking to himself, rocking back and forth, while a jazzy Elis Regina number drifted from a nearby music store. He looked like a white guy from Duluth trying to do Ray Charles. “I don’t think I was followed.”

  “No, no. Tell me what you see. Read the names of the shops.”

  “Oh. Right. Uh ...”He looked around, could see nothing from his alcove but some foliage, the bench, and the blind man. “There was a book store ...”

  “The name?”

  “Started with ‘Th.’ Thant? No ...”

  “Thot?”

  “Oh! Oh, yeah. That’s—”

  “Stay right there. Right there. No matter what happens.”

  “Uh, what’s going to—”

  But Fatty was off the line.

  Roger hung up. The two teenagers hurried through the alcove, this time signless, moving in the opposite direction. From the main part of the complex came the scent of brewing morning coffee and the cheerful cacophony of Brazilian retail.

  Roger imagined he could hear the moans of the dying UFO pilot, Maria Teresinha ... Seguro.

  Telling her that something was “certain”? Or that he was “safe”? Five last words, and the pilot spent four of them saying her name.

  Lab Coat had told Roger, “At first glance it seems like an ordinary Cessna; but look at this.”

  In the instrument panel were bird’s nests of wires, miniature cities of microchips, copper tubes, pumps, and jars of mercury—Rube Goldberg variations on the theme of propulsion. And yet, if Lab Coat was to be believed, they allowed this single—engine Cessna to hover soundlessly, to outmaneuver and outfly an F—22. The CIA had radar tapes showing the Cessna traveling Mach 9, making ninety—degree turns without slowing down. God. Roger wanted to get the word out. But who was going to believe it?

  He paced. Nibbled on a fingernail. The blind guy stopped rocking, leaned his head back, and sang along with Elis.

  Crap. Fatty was going to want to hear about hairy aliens with claws, a Latin American favorite. Or the little grays with the big black eyes, the Worldwide Best of Show. Or maybe Roger’s own choice, the pale, winged, beanpole Mothras who smelled like rotten eggs. Oh yeah. MUFON was going to expect a little more than some thirtyish guy in a flight suit with DELORENZO stenciled on his breast.

  Suddenly a man in a business suit walked around the corner, grim—faced, moving fast. He looked at the man on the bench, then looked at Roger. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket.

  Oh, Christ. Run.

  Too late.

  Then the guy who should have had a gun was somehow holding a walkie—talkie. He paused, whispered into it, and left.

  The CD of Elis Regina ended, and in the lull, Roger heard sirens whoop. Oh, jeez. What was going on? The blind man was starting to look worried.

  Get out quick. That’s what Roger should do. But which way? He was still trying to decide on a direction when he was spun around and captured in a rib—crushing abraço.

  “Let’s leave,” Fatty said into Roger’s ear.

  Roger hurried to keep up. Fatty’s car, a sun—faded Volkswagen, sat three blocks down, engine running. Marcel was in the driver’s seat.

  Fatty pushed Roger into the back, jumped in next to Marcel, slammed the door. “Go! Go!”

  Marcel peeled rubber. Roger checked the rear window. Despite the sirens, Roger could see no danger behind. But the front seat was suddenly a battleground.

  Fatty snapped, “Slow down!”

  “Oh, pardon me. I somehow got the idea you might be in a hurry. If you wish me to, I can stop right here. We can let the riot catch up with us.”

  “Riot?” Roger asked.

  Marcel said, “It was your choice to meet him at Edificio Eldorado, when the demonstrations were beginning not three blocks away. We could have had him meet us someplace safer ...”

  “He does not know the city.”

  “He could not find something easy, like the cathedral?”

  “The cathedral? Every dope dealer in Brasília meets there.”

  “Then by all means, let us sacrifice ourselves on the altar of the off beat.” To underscore his irritation, Marcel took a corner on two wheels and sped toward a yellow light, scooting under it just as it turned red.

  Roger searched frantically for a seatbelt. A taxi honked.

  Marcel took both hands off the wheel to give the taxi driver a cupped—palm fuck—you gesture. “I find it so upsetting.”

  A tsk. Obviously Fatty found it upsetting, too. “So you will do a Paulinho Bonfim against the next light—pole.”

  Roger found half of the belt. He dug his hand into the gritty rift between the seats for the rest.

  They raced a bus and won. Marcel shot in front of it and abruptly turned right. Roger looked out the side window. For a heartbeat all he could see was grille.

  “Well,” Fatty said dryly, “I have lost last night’s dinner into my pants, and I suppose you have outrun the rioters who, after all, were on foot,”

  The sense of velocity was terrible and exhilarating. Major McNatt would have loved it Roger symbolically girded his loins with as much as he had found of the seatbelt.

  “It was your idea,” Marcel said.

  “Guys?” Roger said. “Don’t you want to know?”

  They turned around. Both of them.

  “Watch the road!” Roger gasped.

  Marcel passed a truck by pulling into the wrong lane. Oncoming traffic blared. “So what have you found out?”

  Fatty turned around in his seat. “Yes. Go on. What is it?”

  “The UFOs you’ve been sighting ..
.” Roger raised his arm in an oh—well gesture, then let it fall. “They’re Brazilian.”

  A screech of tires. Roger flew forward, tumbling—onto the floorboard. When he sat up, he saw that the car had pulled to a stop at the curb in front of Deutsch Banc.

  Marcel peered over his seat at Roger. “What?”

  “Brazilians,” Roger said. “Piloting Cessnas.”

  To his surprise, they didn’t laugh.

  * * *

  Voices woke Edson. He sat bolt upright, and a headache met him like a wall. Pain made his vision blur. Even through that fog, he could see soldiers in his bedroom. Panicked, he lunged to the right side of his headboard. His holster was empty.

  “Puxa vida.” Playful Carioca Portuguese, the spoken singsong of Rio. A colonel in full camouflage gear parked his hands on his gunbelt, walked to the bed, and smiled down at Edson. “Good morning to you, too. Fortunate for me, neh? That I took your pistol.”

  The room spun. The bed rocked like a boat. Edson tried to steady himself by holding onto the headboard, but motion sickness won. He leaned over the side of the bed and threw up.

  “Opa.” Cheerfully, the colonel stepped out of the way. “Too bad we sent the maid home. Private, clean this up.” He put his hands to his chest in a theatrical display of candor. “Oh, please, Senhor Director. Don’t stare at me so. It pains me to see you distressed. General Fernando sends his apologies, and says to treat you with the utmost cordiality. Therefore we stopped on the way here and bought sweet rolls. Sergeant, make us a pot of coffee.”

  Edson unwound himself from the sheet, and sat hunched, head in his hands, over the clean side of the bed. He squinted at the clock. 10:15. Sun glared through the blinds, made his head throb. “I’m under arrest.”

  The colonel sat down beside him, patted Edson’s knee. “Just until the Army is in place. Consider this an enforced brunch.”

  “Have the Americans invaded?”

  “Only a little.”

  A private came into the room, carrying a pail, looking resigned. Over the stench of bile and last night’s whiskey, Edson could smell coffee brewing.

  The colonel said, “This morning there were more demonstrations, complete with signs. When have Brazilians ever organized anything more than Carnaval? Well, all right. To make the invasion go smoothly, General Fernando has us learning English; but that’s less organization than pragmatism, não é? So. Now rocks are being thrown at armed soldiers. That is anything but pragmatic. We caught one of the rock—throwers—a Panamanian. Imagine. We get rich, and everyone hates us but Peru. Yes! Peru. And I know you will sleep easier, knowing they are on our side. By the way, it was your own agent—the one from Blumenau—who arrested the Panamanian and interrogated him. You see? We continue to work together. General Fernando has no doubts about your loyalty.”

  Edson coughed so hard that he gagged .

  The colonel prudently inched away. “So. We told the foreign press about the Panamanian, but do they care? CNN compares us to Argentina and El Salvador—as if we would line up for the honor of dying for politics.”

  “Am I allowed to take a shower and get dressed?”

  “My dear Director, I hope you will take this in the manner it was meant: I wholeheartedly wish you would. The private will accompany you—won’t you, Private?—but he promises not to watch, and never to compare.”

  Edson got to his feet, watery—kneed. His whole body ached. The young private, still resigned, dropped the sponge in the bucket and got up with him.

  As Edson started toward the bathroom, the colonel called out happily, “General Fernando told me to keep your pistol. Nothing personal, neh? He says he beat you by a score of eight to six even when he was drunk. He fears you may not miss if the target is closer.”

  CNN, Live

  ... press was abruptly moved into the hotel. But I must point out here, Bernie, that if worse comes to worse, there are no bomb shelters in Brazil. Not even any basements. The hotel is converting a food locker; but ...

  Susan? What’s the mood there in Brasília?

  Ah ... Not quite panic—stricken. A great deal of confusion, though. Most seem to view this sudden switch to martial law as a simple inconvenience.

  I have the results of a recent poll. Susan? Can you see it there?

  Uh—huh. Yes, Bernie. I can see it now.

  A full sixty—three percent of Brazilians want Bonfim to step down. However, if you’ll notice, only thirteen percent believe that she acted illegally, or that Brazil has actually put weapons in space.

  Well, Bernie, Brazilians are nonconfrontational. They worship compromise. In fact there’s a term here, ‘Dar um jeito,’ which fits the mood here very well. If you’ll forgive my free—wheeling translation, it means something like, ‘There’s always a solution,’ and it’s understood—and silently agreed upon—that the solution might just bend the law a little. Law is far less important here than order. We Americans simply don’t think that way. No, Bernie. Brazilians don’t want to be bombed. They think their president is completely in the right, and that the U.N. is dangerously paranoid, but leveling the city to prove that point just isn’t worth it.

  WHEN HIROSHI walked out of the pharmacy holding his pink—wrapped parcel, he saw militia in the street: confused—looking children with angelic faces, automatic rifles in their hands. A knot of them stood at the corner, arguing about what was meant by “a defensive position.” They didn’t bother to look up as Hiroshi passed.

  What had happened? Was the American military already invading? The Americans would bomb, and Brazilians would be helpless. There were no sirens. No basements. No shelter.

  He clutched the package to his chest and walked quickly on. Around the next corner was another squad. The officer with them shot Hiroshi a suspicious look, then ordered him to stop.

  Hiroshi obeyed. The gun holstered at the back of his belt felt extraordinarily heavy. The tip of the short barrel dug at his kidney. He kept his eyes lowered so the officer would not see fear on his face, and search him.

  “What’s in the package?”

  That single—note drone in Hiroshi’s ears returned. “Please. Only medicine. Has some—”

  “Open it.”

  Tremendous pressure against his temples. It felt as if his head would explode. Hiroshi tugged the string free. His eyes stung.

  “Nervous?”

  The officer knew Hiroshi was hiding something. He would make him take off his jacket. Would see the gun and—diplomat or no—would stand him up against the nearest wall and have him shot. “Sorry. Please. I am only tired.”

  The man sorted through the bottles. “Um. Yet there is something here for nerves, I see. And for the stomach.” A pause that Hiroshi did not have the words to fill in.

  The officer prompted, “Aspirin. Vitamins. A lot of medicine.”

  “Yes. I have been ill. Has something happened?”

  “Papers.”

  Without raising his eyes, Hiroshi handed them over. He heard the officer leaf through his passport. Then leaf through it again. “I am a diplomat.”

  “Yes. I can see.”

  He couldn’t breathe. “If something has happened, I should return to the embassy.”

  A noncommittal grunt.

  “I said I should return to the embassy, perhaps.” He looked up. The man was comparing passport photo with Brazilian ID. “Do you find my papers in order?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Sato, is in order. You were on your way—?”

  “Home. But ...”

  Down the street, the squad had stopped a car. The driver, a Brazilian, was swearing.

  “Then go there at once. And stay inside until instructed you can leave. President Bonfim has declared a state of emergency.” The officer handed the medicine and the papers back. He waved Hiroshi on.

  The package was in tatters. Hiroshi let the wind take it. He
grappled with the armful of bottles. Half a block later he lost the vitamins, and didn’t stop to pick them up.

  Hiroshi made the turn into the breezeway of his apartment building. He would go inside and listen to the news. He would have a beer, and then another. He would call Taguchi so her voice could drown out that drone.

  Someone lunged from the bushes and grabbed his elbow. Medicine bottles fell, exploded. Pills scattered like roaches in the light. Hiroshi’s gaze moved up—sandaled feet, smudged work shirt—to be stopped by hot blue eyes.

  “My father does not know I came here,” Piehl’s son said. “I did not want him to worry.”

  “What—”

  The boy dug his fingers into the meat of Hiroshi’s arm. “Damn you,” he hissed. “You are the one who asked the questions that will kill my father.”

  Hiroshi shook his head, trying to make the words fall into place.

  The boy misunderstood. “No. You listen to me! You put him into the hands of the CIA. They have turned everything around!”

  Hiroshi stepped back. Pills crunched underfoot. “I am afraid. You must hide us!” the boy urged. “You are a diplomat. Give me and my father political asylum.”

  “Sorry. So sorry.” Hiroshi pulled away.

  A huge troop transport truck growled up the street. Piehl’s son withdrew, crouching, into the shadows. “They will kill you. Like us, you know too much.”

  * * *

  Mid—morning the soldiers came: three flak—jacketed commandos and a tense captain.

  During her life’s more melodramatic moments, Dolores pictured herself facing a firing squad. Her fantasies were wrong. It was the captain’s comical search for his wallet when Madalena demanded ID. It wasn’t stiff—upper—lipped courage, but the passivity of shock. It was trivial decisions: take her purse? a sweater?