Carioca Fletch

by Gregory Mcdonald

  Now, as you must remember, not only were you known to be able to dance better and for a longer time than anyone, with more admiring eyes upon you, also you brought to the favela many new things about kick-dancing, capoeira, it being a skill which really developed in the interior. You taught the young men in Santos Lima more about capoeira than people knew in all the other favelas in Rio.

  At that time, the Carnival Parade was beginning to become more organized from just a street competition among the favelas to the more formal presentation and attraction it is today.

  Immediately, the samba school of Santos Lima became most famous for its troupe of capoeiristas you had trained. Santos Lima still has the reputation as having the best capoeira group in Rio de Janeiro.

  But the first prophecy of Fernando came true.

  You did not return immediately from Carnival that year. For days afterwards you were missing.

  Finally you returned to Santos Lima from somewhere in the city. It was clear you had been physically beaten, and very badly. Your body was black with bruises. There were knife cuts on your upper arms and shoulders. Your face was as lumpy and welted as the bed of a couple married fifty years. You dragged yourself home like a beaten dog. Obviously, you had ended up beaten in a gutter.

  People remarked, in hushed voices, the change in you. Silently you sat in your little house, licking your wounds. You never said what happened. You spoke to no one. Your laughter was not heard anywhere in the favela. You never went out and embarrassed Idalina by being with other women, to such an extent Idalina was beginning to lose her pride in you.

  This is as I have the story from my mother and my uncles. Is your life beginning to come alive for you?

  Then the second prophecy of Fernando came true.

  After sitting quietly at home, not working, not playing, for almost all of Lent, you rose up and, carrying nothing, taking nothing with you except the working shorts you wore roped around your waist, you walked down the favela without a salutation to anyone, and disappeared. You wandered away.

  Everyone was sure you were gone for good. Fun had gone from the favela.

  Everyone commiserated with Fernando for having an abandoned daughter and two small grandchildren living out of his pocket, and congratulated him on the accuracy of his prophecies.

  But the next winter, nine months later, you came back. You sailed into Guanabara Bay in a fishing boat you said was your own, a big boat ten meters long. You said you won it playing cards in Uruguay. The name painted on her side was in Spanish, La Muñeca. Surely you had sailed a long way. You were as thin as a street dog and very badly sunburned across your nose and shoulders. Some people said you went to Uruguay and stole the boat. Did you?

  So now you had your own fishing boat.

  In the inactivity caused by your absence, one of the Gomes brothers had become too fat to fish, the other too drunken. They both said they wanted to stay ashore now and think about bookkeeping.

  You took on another young man, younger than you, named Tobias Novaes, to help you fish.

  You worked hard. Shortly, you had a house near the top of the favela, higher even than Fernando’s house. And for every married year, you had a child from your wife, Idalina. And every one of those children had children to play with their own ages who were also partly fair and looked as much like them as cousins.

  At about your present age, it happened that a girl younger than you, who was as fair of hair and skin as yourself, came to the favela. Immediately, the favela said, “Oh, poor Idalina! This one will be serious! If they love themselves, how can they not love each other?”

  And it was noticed that you became more serious then, worked longer hours, seldom looked up from your work. It was if you were trying to ignore the inevitable: Ana Tavares, her name was.

  But the inevitable is the inevitable, and as if your seed were transmitted by the wind, it was soon seen that Ana Tavares was glowing in her pregnancy.

  This was especially noted as Ana Tavares was only waiting out the year to be old enough to join the convent of The Sacred Heart of Jesus. People marveled that a girl who spent so many hours of the day and the night kneeling before the statue of the Blessed Virgin could become pregnant. They attributed it to the wind.

  Spending just as much time in prayer as always, Ana did not explain or complain.

  Her father, however, whose life had not been as saintly as is recommended, was outraged. It had been his fondest wish to have a daughter a nun to pray for his soul before and after it departed.

  You, having no father or brothers to attack, and being too young and strong, too expert a capoeirista, to attack, laughed for days after old Tavares attacked your father-in-law, Fernando, for his trouble-making son-in-law. Your father-in-law did not defend you. He too carried such rage at you that he yelled back at Tavares, and the two fathers of women became so enraged thinking about you that soon they were beating each other with their fists, then rolling on the ground, apparently fighting about which had the greater rage against you.

  In truth, the son of Ana Tavares was entirely fair. She became the wife of a carpenter, and the boy—most likely another of your sons—became a Puxador de Samba, a singer of great repute in the samba school.

  Yes, Oswaldinho there, in the window, is a son of that son of yours. You see how fair he is? Clearly, he has your blood, as have I.

  Then the third prophecy of old Fernando came true—really came true.

  One night you did not come home. You did not come home most nights. You were still young and perhaps by now considered it your obligation to entertain the favela with your tricks and to continue increasing your ever-growing audience by copulation.

  But after this night in particular, after a heavy sea storm, you were found on the beach, face down, with your throat slit ear to ear. Your blood had drained from your neck into the sand. Your shorts and hair and skin were caked with salt water, as if you had swum a long way to shore.

  People say that in that particular spot on the beach, it has been impossible to light a fire or even light a match, ever since.

  Your boat, La Muñeca, was missing, and never seen again.

  Never seen again also was the boy who had helped you on the boat, Tobias Novaes.

  For many years it was believed you had been murdered by young Tobias, although that surprised people, as it was generally believed he was a good boy. People thought he had slit your throat and stolen your boat.

  But years later, his father got a letter from him, saying he had become a monk in Recife. Instantly, they had a letter written to him, asking if he had murdered you and stolen your boat.

  The answer came back, eventually, that he hadn’t known you were dead and that he felt himself greatly indebted to you as it was your example, and the example of your life, which had made the unworldly, serene, contemplative life of a monk seem so ideal to him.

  For all these years your murder has been a mystery. There were so many people who could have killed you. Someone in the favela who did not like a trick you played on him? Did Tobias murder you for the boat? Did Uruguayans come and murder you and take back their boat? Or had the boat wrecked in the storm? How about old Tavares? He believed your preventing his daughter, Ana, from becoming a nun, surely condemned him to hell…?

  My grandfather Fernando made three predictions about you. That you would end up beaten in the gutter. You were beaten up, but you survived it, became your old self again. That, sooner or later, you would wander away. You did, but you came back. That some day, someone would take a knife to you and kill you. That happened.

  My mother, Idalina, who is very old now, as you see, wants to know the truth of these things. Who murdered you, and why?

  How is it that her father was so right about you?

  Twenty-four

  “What Laura says is true,” Fletch said to Marilia Diniz across the lunch table. “Anyone can tell you any story, and say it is the past.”

  Leaving favela Santos Lima totally unsatisfied, Fletch and M
arilia led a parade of plucking pixies and curious adults down the hill and along the city street to his car. He had made his courtesies, thanked Janio Barreto Filho for the story, shaken hands with all the adults, thanked Idalina for her coffee and hospitality, generally wished the favela well in the parade of the samba schools that night, but left the airless little house as soon as he could. The heat in the room had become almost unbearable. But the eyes of everyone told him how unsatisfied they were. They had expected the story of Janio Barreto to bring his memories alive so he could tell them before leaving who had been his murderer.

  Solemnly, Fletch promised he would think over the whole story.

  He and Marilia drove to Colombo, a sparkling clean tearoom noted for its great pastry.

  Marilia asked, “Do you still think it is a joke being played on you by Laura and the Tap Dancers?”

  “I don’t see how it can be. All those people in the door and windows, all those people in the street had heard the story before, knew parts of it well enough to correct Janio, add elements to it—and all with high seriousness. If it is a trick, it’s the most elaborate trick conceivable.”

  Their waffles were warm and tender.

  “You have heard the story now,” Marilia said. “What is the answer?”

  “How would I know?”

  Marilia’s eyes flickered at him. “All right. But use what you do know, use your training. You were trained as an investigative reporter….”

  “Yeah: investigating how come the city’s water pipes run an extra five kilometers to avoid the property owned by the water commissioner. Big deal. This is not quite the same sort of situation.”

  “Nevertheless…”

  “Investigative reporters do not make guesses just to satisfy people with a conclusion to a story.”

  “But investigative reporters do think, don’t they?”

  “Think about documented facts. How can I think about something that happened on a beach in Rio de Janeiro forty-seven years ago? However long I am in Brazil, I will never be that prescient. Or postscient.”

  “What will you tell them?”

  Fletch made sure there was syrup on each part of his waffle. “I suppose I’ll tell them the kindest thing I can think of: Uruguayans came and slit his throat and took their boat back. It would be kinder than blaming someone in the favela dead or alive.”

  “Janio said he won the boat playing cards.” Marilia chewed thoughtfully. “There is some evidence he did.”

  “What evidence?”

  “If you stole a boat, even from a different country, wouldn’t you change its name?”

  “Of course. I suppose so.”

  “The name of the boat was in Spanish. La Muñeca. He never changed its name. They said after Janio was found dead, La Muñeca was missing. Never seen again.”

  Fletch sighed.

  Marilia said, “And if Uruguayans killed Janio Barreto, why didn’t they kill Tobias Novaes as well? He would have been on the boat with Janio.”

  “Perhaps the Uruguayans appeared after they docked.”

  “Could be,” Marilia said.

  “After Tobias wandered off to become a monk. Marilia, that’s too big a coincidence in timing. How could Tobias wander off to become a monk without telling anyone what he was doing, just before Janio got his throat slit?”

  “There had been a storm at sea. I have heard of people becoming very religious, very suddenly, during storms at sea. They make deals. Spare my life, oh Lord, and I will devote the rest of my life to singing Thy praises.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I think the boat sank. And both Janio and Tobias swam ashore. Tobias to join a monastery; Janio to get his throat slit.”

  “That’s fine. It’s great to guess. But how can we know?”

  Again, Marilia’s eyes flickered.

  Fletch said, “Tobias himself is a good bet as the murderer. Surely he wouldn’t be the first to commit a heinous crime and then, after a while, so weighted with guilt, he hies off to a monastery to spend the rest of his life atoning.”

  “True. Tobias could have killed Janio. He could have stolen the boat. But after years of being a monk, could he have lied about it?”

  Somewhat in imitation of Tito Granja, Fletch crossed his eyes.

  “After years of atonement,” Marilia said, “Tobias would know he would be risking his soul to lie.”

  “‘Risking his soul.’” Fletch repeated. “That brings up the father of the girl who was going to be a nun. What was his name? Tavares. Apparently he thought he was going to end up in hell anyway. Why wouldn’t he have killed Janio?”

  “He might have. Still, murder is the greatest crime. And there is always the possibility of personal salvation.”

  Fletch looked at Marilia’s bracelet. It was made of rotting braided cloth. He had seen many such bracelets in Brazil. He had difficulty understanding the significance of them.

  “Fernando,” Fletch said. “Idalina’s father. Certainly he hated Janio. Over a long period of time. He got into a fistfight over him.”

  “Kill his son-in-law? Leave his daughter a widow, his grandchildren fatherless?” Slowly, Marilia said, “I suppose so. Fernando apparently thought Janio not a very good husband or father.”

  “And he had reason to be envious of him. Fernando could never find work as a bookkeeper. Then Janio shows up with his own boat. Becomes a prosperous man. Even gets to live in a house higher up in the favela than Fernando.”

  Marilia, a slim, trim woman, surprised Fletch by ordering one of the bigger, more sugary pastries.

  Fletch said, “You know, once you make prophecies about someone, there is the instinct to help them become fulfilled.”

  “Fernando said someone would take a knife to Janio and kill him, and it wasn’t happening fast enough to satisfy Fernando, so he did the job himself?”

  “I suppose prophets have to work at their reputations, as much as anyone else.”

  “Mmmmm. So what will you do, Fletcher? What will you tell these people?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not about to point the finger at a monk. Or at the grandfather of the family. Or at the memory of some other deceased citizen whose daughter was deflowered by the victim. Any one of hundreds of people could have done in Janio.”

  “Now that you’ve heard the story, will you be able to sleep?”

  “Will I?”

  They finished their pastries in silence.

  Fletch said, “Marilia, tell me about that bracelet you’re wearing.”

  Self-consciously she touched it with the fingers of her other hand. “Oh, that.”

  “I see many people, men and women, wearing these cloth, braided bracelets.”

  “Just a superstition, I guess.” Her face flushed. “You make a wish, you know, for something you hope will come true. As you make the wish, you put on this braided bracelet. You wear it until what you wished for comes true.”

  “Supposing what you wish for doesn’t come true?”

  Slightly red-faced, she laughed. “Then you wear in until it falls off.”

  “You believe in such a thing?”

  “No,” she said quickly.

  “But you’re wearing such a bracelet.”

  “Why not?” she asked, resettling it on her wrist. “It does no harm to act as if you believe in such a thing, just in case it is true.”

  Outside the restaurant they stopped at a kiosk. Marilia bought Jornal do Brasil and Fletch bought Brazil Herald and the Latin America Daily Post.

  A healthy-seeming curly-haired man of about thirty was leaning against Fletch’s MP. It appeared he was waiting for them.

  He spoke rapidly, happily to Fletch.

  Then, seeing he wasn’t being understood, he spoke to Marilia.

  She answered him, happily enough. While talking with him, she opened the small purse tied to her wrist, took out some money, and gave it to him.

  The man stuffed the money into his shoe.

  Then he leaned against the next car, a Volkswag
en bug.

  In the car, Fletch asked, “What did he want?”

  “Ohhhh. He said he had been taking care of the car for us while we were away. It is for him to take care of the cars along this section of curb, he said.”

  “Is it?”

  “He says so.”

  “Who gave him charge of this section of curb?”

  “No one. It is just something he says.”

  Fletch started the car. “If it is just something he says, then why did you give him money? Why didn’t you just tell him to get lost?”

  Flustered, Marilia was looking into her handbag, perhaps rearranging the interior. “I suppose I owe it to him because I just had such a nice lunch.”

  Twenty-five

  “Fletch?”

  “Yes?”

  “Toninho Braga, Fletch. Look what time it is.”

  “Shortly after noon.”

  “That’s right. And so far no one has reported finding Norival’s body.”

  Over the phone, Toninho’s voice sounded more hushed than alarmed.

  Fletch had driven Marilia Diniz to her home in Leblon, thanked her for accompanying him to the favela, repeated he still had no way of solving a forty-seven-year-old murder mystery, but he would return to the hotel to try to sleep.

  His room at The Hotel Yellow Parrot had been cleaned. The unslept-in bed had been freshly made up.

  He telephoned The Hotel Jangada and asked for Joan Collins Stanwyk in Room 912.

  No answer.

  Across the utility area, the man was still painting the room.

  He was about to strip, to shower, to darken the room, to get into bed again, to try to sleep, when the phone rang.

  “Toninho,” he said. “It’s Sunday. A big day of Carnival. Communication is slow.”

  “That’s exactly it, Fletch. There would have been hundreds, thousands of people on that beach, shortly after dawn.”

  “Finding a body—”

  “Norival is not just a body. He is a Passarinho. That would be news.”

  “First the police have to be summoned—”