The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  Below the gaslights on the terrace, where, as was usual each evening, violins played sweet romantic melodies, the large, dark-featured Rio citizen sat, as he had since one o'clock that afternoon, looking up at Mac's windows.

  Tonight the sky was clear, and the Southern Hemisphere offered its stars embedded in a deepening purple heaven. At any other time, Mac would have enjoyed naming those he knew, but now his mood was almost black; not in despair—Mac was angry. His temperament would not allow inefficiency as an excuse of any kind.

  Here he was, the focus of the biggest blunder he'd ever made. He was, he decided, becoming one of the fly-by-night idiots who were snapped up in New York streets almost as the ink dried on their first attempt at forgery. By God, he thought, I'd better face the word now, because I'll soon be hearing it resound in some courtroom before my incarceration behind bars or down some pit on a work island, a prisoner— guest of the Brazilian regime, detained at its pleasure.

  He had never been unaware of the risks he ran. In fact, that was a part of the excitement he sought. It made him the man he was, fighting a bureaucratic system he knew well, and despised for its hypocrisy. When a man understood the power of money, he knew the machinery of human motivation. To Mac, money was like the counters of a game. What would he do with vast sums, anyway? He enjoyed what he did. He was good. The best—or had been. The first bill had been without fault, as the transaction at Maua proved, but the letters...

  Omissions were worse than a heavy stamp, poor-quality paper or too light an ink; to an omission found, there was no answer. But to be faulted on a spelling! Dear God in heaven, Mac thought, as he looked up to the night sky's zenith, is this why you brought me to this sleazy little tropical city? Am I to end here? Mac's thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock at the door. He shouted, "Come in!" ~~

  Austin entered, closed the door and crossed to Mac gingerly. Insensitively, he ignored his friend's mood.

  "They're in the lobby, the hall and outside—front and back."

  To Mac's ears it was said with relish, and he turned to his so-called friend, who was actually smiling. "Terrific," said Mac.

  "Bags all packed?" Austin continued to grin.

  "What do you think?" asked Mac sarcastically.

  "Three weeks from now we'll be laughing* at all this." Austin gestured, as if to take in not only the hotel but the entire city.

  "Let's," said Mac emphatically, "talk about now" "Okay." Austin moved away. "Let's go." "You mean,” asked Mac, as if Austin were an idiot, "just walk out of here?"

  "That's right," grinned Austin. "George is at the station." Uncomprehending, Mac remained at the balcony, incredulous.

  "Look," Austin continued, "they still don't have proof for certain. The only thing they can do is wait the forty days till the word comes back from England for them to be sure. So you can travel around." Austin paused, understanding the strain his friend was under.

  "Wonderful," said Mac sarcastically.

  "They won't arrest you."

  "Even better."

  "They know you can't leave the country!"

  Mac turned on Austin, who finished lamely, "So..."

  "So... ?" questioned Mac. He opened his arms in answer, a gesture indicating that he had no choice.

  "In an hour," Austin now went on quickly, "you're going downstairs, telling the clerk where you're off to—and then taking the train a thousand miles up the Amazon."

  "What?" Mac was more than confused.

  "Well," said Austin, withholding laughter, "they've a great opera house in Manaus; you can sit and swill with the rubber barons—they're goin' bust too!"

  "Now, listen, Bidwell," began Mac ominously.

  "Only," finished Austin, "you'll be Liverpool-bound."

  Mac frowned and sardonically started, "How in hell am I—" He was cut off as outside a firecracker exploded and loud, fast music from the streets drowned even Austin's laughter. He began to shout over the noise, details of a plan he and George had conceived for Mac.

  §

  Bern ingles is a Brazilian expression meaning "quite English." It was used most often to describe an Englishman in his cups, in a public place. Eventually the term became one that was applicable to white, English-speaking Anglo-Saxons en masse.

  It was the expression laughingly exchanged by two porters and the receptionist at the Hotel Extrangeiros as Mac strode boldly out of the main lobby and tripped down the steps toward his waiting carriage. Austin, in the marble foyer, seated to one side under the potted palms, made a note, despite the grimness of the situation, to remind Mac exactly of his very public exit as all others in the lobby attempted to understand a tune the seemingly drunk American was bellowing to the ceiling, floor, walls, pillars and any willing face that turned in his direction.

  Austin watched the large Portuguese detective fold his paper slowly; then, rising from the corner sofa, cross to the main entrance. Outside, Mac climbed into the carriage already loaded with his luggage and made the first of what were to be several departures.

  §

  Although the holiday on the Eve of St. John was over, the excitement created by great beach fires, lit to observe the event, still lingered. Dancing processions in conga lines or maxixe groups continued in the streets.

  To Mac it seemed that the lascivious nature of the people, their languid movements with strong sexual overtones instinctively responding to a fast background rhythm, created dance forms that illustrated their unrepressed pleasure in obvious abilities frowned on by the more cloistered spirits of Rio society.

  Thus it was that the poor quarters of Rio remained alive, with a throng reluctant to relinquish this festival spirit. So when Mac arrived at the Estacao Dom Pedro II, ostensibly to take the train north, the streets were alive with lights, music and dancing figures in brilliant costumes and masks. The immediate future, Mac knew, would be decisive; if he failed, the two "tails" would know he was on the run, and he would, without doubt, be taken by the authorities. But he had no alternative.

  Mac walked into the station. At the ticket office he booked a first-class journey, far from direct, that would end eventually at Manaus, then turned to supervise his luggage, now being carried onto the platform.

  Mac could see George outside the entrance, according to plan, seated in the rear of a mule-drawn brougham. Fireworks illuminated the night behind him, and then the silhouette that George had become for a moment lost its edge and once more Mac saw only a pale face, patient, impassive, awaiting the agreed-upon signal.

  Mac took off his hat, hit the crown once, replaced it, turned and walked through the crowd assembled outside the station's barrier, to gain access to the second platform and a train that would take him north into the night-time oblivion of a vast jungle.

  George watched the two detectives—one apparently Portuguese, the other a dark-featured Brazilian, both too large to be inconspicuous—speak a few moments with the office through an open hatchway; then, having purchased tickets, they followed in the direction in which Mac had gone.

  The harsh shriek of a double whistle startled all the gaslit faces of a predominantly mulatto crowd on the platform. Those who were traveling, hastily disengaged from their well-wishers to board the long train. Railways were still something of a novelty in South America, and the many who had not traveled before made no attempt to conceal their wonder, joy or fear at the adventure they were about to undertake.

  At the rear of the train, Mac supervised the loading of his luggage. He now knew the faces of both detectives quite well. They tried hard to merge into the bustle and panic of the platform, but were too obviously calm and sure of their task, shadowing Mac; consequently, perhaps only to Mac, they stood out—one nearby reading a paper, the other farther up the platform. Mac was boxed in.

  Overhead, the large station clock dropped its minute hand to sixty seconds from the half hour, and again a whistle echoed beneath the high galleried station roof. The last of Mac's bags were aboard the baggage car. The porter stood grinning at
the long sliding door.

  A railway official aboard had checked each piece and stacked them together against the opposite side of the railway car; he now joined the porter. Forty seconds to go. Mac looked quickly behind him at the guard with his whistle and green flag. Quickly Mac reached up and gave the porter what, when it was counted minutes later., was a huge tip.

  Thirty seconds. The Portuguese detective watched the porter shake hands .briefly with the railway official, then climb down from the baggage car onto the platform. He became lost in the crowd. The railway official shook hands with the American; thenThe two men parted and the sliding door was pulled across. The American began to walk beside the train. The Portuguese detective folded his paper; remembered the directive from his employer, Senhor Braga, to "follow this Morrison" wherever; thought of the advance in his office safe and began to make his way up the platform after the tall American.

  Twenty seconds. Mac passed each carriage of third and second class, looking through the compartments beyond the figures at each window crowding forward for a last farewell. Each compartment was self-contained, with its own door. Farther ahead the first-class section shone—fine wood polished to a reflection.

  Fifteen seconds. Another blast from the engine's whistle, and Mac increased his pace. Ahead, the Brazilian detective was walking with a firm stride; one behind, one in front, the two "tails" kept pace with Mac until all three could see the engine in front pouring out steam onto the platform and, above, smoke into the great space beneath the high glass and metal-grid roof. A long moaning blast sounded out. The engineer looked to the rear. The guard waved a flag.

  Five seconds. A piercing cry called out by the guard provoked last embraces, kisses, the reluctant tears and arms aloft that a departure always elicits from those who must stay. Mac walked on, still nonchalant. Suddenly the great engine jerked forward, and tremors passed through each carriage. Six massive wheels bit into the iron rail and began to pull their huge load with slowly mounting speed.

  The three men were now walking faster through the waving relatives and friends. The Brazilian in front anxiously turned, to see that his quarry seemed not to care whether he boarded or remained in the station. The large Portuguese detective behind was struggling to keep up. He cursed. What the hell was the American playing at?

  Mac timed it perfectly. The moment before the trio would have had to break into a run to stay with the moving train, he turned in mid-stride, reached out for a handle, opened the door of what he knew to be a first-class compartment and hoisted himself in. Immediately, front and rear, the two detectives followed suit; then both, pushing away others in the compartments they had entered, leaned out the windows—in second class, where the Portuguese found himself, and a mere gap in third class, where the Brazilian had boarded—to ensure that Mac was ensconced for the night.

  Smoke and steam obliterated much of the crowd and platform, but both men assured themselves that their quarry lay between them. They sat down in their compartments, satisfied to wait until the first stop, two hours away.

  The Rio businessman and his wife were both astonished by the late arrival of a tall American, but that was nothing to his exit. Mac, on entering the first-class compartment, oblivious of any occupants, crossed two paces to a corresponding door on the other side, leaned through the open window into the steam and smoke, released the lock and leaped out.

  Mac rolled painfully on the gravel, then lay absolutely still as the wheels of fifteen carriages passed him. He looked up only as the baggage car went by, now traveling with considerable speed. The railway official was sliding shut the car's off-side door. A brief salute from the man could have been to Mac, or across to another colleague: Mac never knew; he just felt a surge of gratitude that finally something of which he was a part had worked.

  A distant cry into the night, as if from a lost wolf cub, and the train was only a memory. Steam and smoke settled in the station. Crowds dispersed to fondly cherish whatever images they retained of their loved ones. Few people looked at Mac as he stood shakily, then brushed himself down.

  The porter appeared and pointed down the line to what, even from forty yards, looked to Mac like a pile of luggage—his. They reached the bags and cases; the porter grinned.

  "In one side, senhor, and out the other." Mac knew enough Portuguese to understand. He smiled ruefully, bruises taking the edge off his immediate pleasure. "Senhor," said another voice.

  Mac looked up and saw George. He closed his eyes.in disbelief at the success of their plan. George finished in the same mock South American accent. "Your carriage awaits."

  The ride into the night streets of Rio was, as Mac would always recall, like a strange dream; figures appeared, torches flickered, fire was in the sky and fast music seemed to come out of the very walls of buildings that flashed by at a speed George continually urged from the brougham's driver.

  The whiskey Mac had since taken to relieve the pain of his bruises had released again what he'd already consumed. His intoxication this time was euphoric; a silent grin and lolling eyes showed George that Mac's tension was ebbing away. George offered the whiskey once more. They had been lucky—so far; now there was only the one hurdle remaining. The Cais Pharoux.

  The brougham emerged from the labyrinth of streets into the Praca Maua, where at the center a great fire blazed and costumed crowds circled slowly, moving to a rhythm created by maracas, drums, tins, instruments of every kind, manufactured or improvised. The colors, light, movement and noise against a background of darkness gave George the feeling that he was a witness to ritual with origins in prehistory. Those crowds, masked and bedecked, were as if Hades-bound; the conjured imaginings of a priest at vigil. George was not superstitious, but that night in Rio, he swore that his shoulders had brushed with ghosts, and the entrance to the hereafter —Heaven or Hell—had not been far from that square. Of course, this conviction might also have been attributed to the whiskey Mac had been unable to finish. Truth to say, George was himself partially drunk, but not without a purpose.

  §

  The two boatmen had been well paid and were in no hurry when they saw the Senhor and Senhorita come out of the small caf6 on the Pharoux docks. The Senhor had already indicated the luggage in the carriage, and it had been duly loaded onto the boat. The brougham paid off, the Senhor, with a sizable valise which he insisted he must retain, had gone back to the half-built customhouse to sign his exit visa and find his companion. One of the boatmen nodded to the other; as they well understood, tonight was for pleasure—or money.

  The Senhorita on the Senhor's arm was no surprise to the boatmen. They decided that as soon as they returned from the long row out to the ship Ebro they would acquire their own equivalent of this vision before them. George, returning from the Port and Customs office, sensed the boatmen's reaction and played to it. Police on the Cais Pharoux were walking in pairs everywhere.

  The last thirty minutes had not been easy for George. Half drunk in reality, he had appeared completely bern ingles to the port police, and with a sympathetic amusement they reserved for the wealthy Anglo-Saxon, the formal exit of a Mr. Wilson from Rio de Janeiro had been documented. George smiled his thanks and took back the stamped passport; he had left the office as easily as they all would, he hoped, leave Rio.

  The Senhorita was a blind. For George it would mean, in the state he continued to assume, that he would, to the boatmen, be just another ingles—or americano if they were sharp-eared—who wished a final night of joy from the female wealth of South America. "What women we have, eh?" they exclaimed to the prostrate form of George, propped with the Senhorita at the rear of the boat as they rode away from the hell of Rio behind them.

  What big feet they have, thought George as he looked at the not altogether attractive company he had the misfortune to accompany aboard ship.

  With much nudging and winking up at the quite obviously drunken port officer above, on deck of the Ebro, the two boatmen helped the Senhor and his Senhorita onto the floating platfo
rm and thence, by gangway, on board. Face to face, George and the port officer—who could barely see the passport or ticket George proffered—were, to all who cared to observe, brothers in their cups. Both swayed a little, George trying to keep time.

  "A night's entertainment, senhor," he said. "A last taste of Latin beauty."

  "Sim, Senhor Wilson," the port officer managed to get out, squinting at the Senhorita. He belched, then remembered. "But," he went on thickly, "you have another visitor below."

  For a moment George became utterly sober; then whiskey determined him to now accept whatever or whomever fate threw up.

  "Oh?" he replied. "Then I shall have to get rid of him." He smiled long and slow and clasped his fellow drunk.

  "Boa noite" said the official, "senhor"; he tipped his hat. "Senhorita"; he bowed slightly.

  George and his liaison of the night went across the moonlit deck, where peace predominated, broken only by muted sounds and distant fire flashes from the city, several miles across the water. Feeling, for a moment, a tranquillity in the tropic night, George allowed the sobering effect to penetrate deep before accompanying the obviously eager Senhorita below.

  The facetious behavior of the two boatmen with the port official, as the luggage Mac had brought with him to the Cais Pharoux, was unloaded, could have entertained a theater audience quite successfully. The sight of a burly laborer of indeterminate parentage carrying heavy luggage up, and waltzing down, the suspended gangway, in imitation of a bawdy Portuguese female, eventually took all three to their backsides on deck, leaning against the ship's rail to share the contents of a gallon drum of liquor with a broken seal that had already incapacitated the port official.

  In the end, more than an hour later, all three went overboard to compete for the best dive; sobered sufficiently to want more pleasures of the flesh; then went ashore to the Pharoux, where, arm in arm, the three crossed the praqa, still surging with life, and entered a labyrinth of delights that liquor can make of the most squalid brothel, if money can buy.