Cradle of Splendor

by Patricia Anthony

  Freitas remained squatted, watching his own blood drip. Edson took out his handkerchief and daubed at his cuff until the handkerchief was stained red.

  “Edson? Are you listening? I had to pull my little girl out of class so she wouldn’t hear me called a murderess. You promised me you would take care of everything.” Her voice was sharp and high—pitched. Not at all like Ana.

  Edson forgot his disgust. Suddenly he was aware of how tiny Ana was, as if he was seeing her for the first time without the aid of a telescope. And it scared him. “No, Ana. I never promised you that.”

  * * *

  Roger was waiting for the bus when he felt a hand grab his elbow. He turned. A fiftyish black man in a blue knit shirt, with a duffel bag over his shoulder.

  Velvet baritone and American English. “Don’t look.” Friendly chestnut brown face, and a muscular fireplug of a body. “The next bus. Get on.”

  JARDIM ZOOLÓGICO, the sign on the bus read. “But I’m not—”

  The man hissed, “Just do it.”

  They boarded. Roger took a seat near the front. The man passed him, and sat next to a woman with a straw basket. He didn’t look Roger’s way.

  Roger considered getting off at the next stop, but the bus had turned down a broad avenue and picked up speed. Soon he was lost.

  When they arrived at the zoo, the man exited with a group of schoolchildren, Roger followed. He bought his ticket and went through the gates. The children were clustering around the concession stand. The black man in the blue shirt was gone.

  A nearby peacock gave him a sharp black stare. Hands in his pockets, Roger walked on. Except for the animals, the park was empty. The bears slept indolently in the midday heat. A lion, belly to the concrete floor of his cage, lifted his head off his paws as Roger passed. A band of monkeys hooted and screamed and chased each other across a rocky island.

  Someone bumped his back. A mumbled, “Desculpe.”

  Roger flinched. The man in the blue shirt was regarding him. “Vocé ié estrangiero, não é? Americano?” he asked so fast that Roger’s confusion and Berlitz Portuguese left him mute.

  “Alemão? Ingles?”

  “Americano.”

  “No shit. I’m an American, too.” The man’s smile was irresistible.

  Roger found himself smiling back.

  “I love watching the monkeys.” The man propped his elbows on the steel bar and looked across the moat to monkey island. “Look at that guy. Look at him run.”

  A trio of monkeys was chasing a fourth. The three were screaming murderously.

  “There’s a gun in the duffel. Play it casual.”

  Roger’s grin failed.

  “Hey, you like penguins?” Challenging dark eyes met his.

  He swallowed hard. “Love penguins.”

  “Come on,” the man said.

  They walked the sun—dappled path side by side.

  “What’s your name?” the man asked conversationally.

  “Roger.”

  “I’m Jack. Jack Jackson, actually. Youngest of eight children, born just as my mom surrendered to tubal ligation and redundancy. Glad to meet you, Roger.” He was occupied with his duffel bag, and didn’t offer to shake hands. “What do you do?”

  They passed the cheetahs. Roger looked at them for help, for clues. “When?”

  Jack’s laugh, too, was engaging. “You know. For a living, I mean.”

  “I’m with NASA.”

  “Must be interesting. I’m a librarian.”

  “A librarian?”

  “Uh—huh. With the American library. Pretty boring stuff. I taught at Arizona State until the wife left me. Did the middle—age crazy. Lost myself. Found myself again. Found my lady. You?”

  Roger glanced at him uneasily. “What?”

  “Got somebody waiting for you at home?”

  “Uh, not yet.”

  “I tell you, Roger. It’s worth waiting for. I didn’t marry until I was thirty. Now I can’t imagine a life without. A lady makes things home. Upper midwest?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your accent. I’m kind of a linguistics nut. I’m originally from south central L.A., although Columbia muddled my homeboy idiom. Columbia University, that is.”

  “Nice place, south central L.A.”

  Jack looked at him.

  “Nice place, Columbia University.”

  “So. Roger. You’re from the upper midwest, right?”

  “Minnesota.”

  “Oh,” Jack said, nodding. “Then you’ll like this.”

  The inside of the penguin building was dark and cool and empty. A shove. Roger stumbled forward, hands outspread. He caught himself against the glass. Penguins peered at him in mild interest.

  Jack’s voice wasn’t conversational anymore. “Don’t turn around. Who are you?”

  The glass was chill against his cheek. “I’m Roger Lintenberg. I’m with NASA.”

  A hand patted his jacket, rummaged in his jean pockets. Took out his passport, his wallet. Slid down his pants legs. Disconcertingly ran up the inseam. “Hey! Hey!”

  Cold metal pressed the back of his ear. “Don’t move.”

  Roger gritted his teeth as strong fingers probed his genitals. Suddenly Jack stood away. “Unzip your pants.”

  “What? What did you—”

  “Unzip your pants.”

  Roger’s zipper stuck halfway down. He tugged at it frantically. Giggles and chatter from the far doorway. The schoolchildren. Roger froze, imagining small corpses on bloody concrete, the mute witness of penguins. But Jack’s gun was back in the bag. Confused, Roger stood, hand gripping his fly.

  A little girl pointed. “Is that man going xí—xí?” And the chaperon, in a fluster, hurried them out.

  When they were gone, Jack laughed and shook his head. Then he gave Roger back his passport and wallet. He lifted a red plastic bag. “See what I found in your pocket? Small round things. Feels like ...”

  “Transmitters.”

  “I thought so. Did you know that silencers don’t make a lot of noise? Hence the name. Did you know that if you shoot someone in the heart, they don’t bleed much? I like that shirt, Roger.”

  Roger looked down at his maroon shirt anxiously. “Please. Come on. I don’t know anything.”

  “What are you doing with these transmitters?”

  “The CIA gave them to me.”

  Jack sighed. “May we get right to the point? We don’t have much time.”

  “I’m getting to the point. Really. Gimme a hint.”

  Jack took the gun from the duffel. Long barrel. Silencer. The gun took forever to emerge. “Who were you sent to kill?”

  “Oh, no. Aw, Jesus. Please don’t.” Roger’s stomach tightened when the muzzle touched it. He went tiptoe and squeezed his eyes shut. “Please. I’m a member of MUFON, the Mutual UFO Network. About a year ago I started leaking some NASA information: video clips, photos. The CIA found out. Threatened to tell my boss if I didn’t do a little UFO investigating for them in Brazil. I didn’t want to be fired. That’s all. Swear to God. But ...”

  “But?”

  “If you’re with the Americans, didn’t they say?”

  The gun pressed harder.

  “Okay, okay, okay. They want me to be a go—between for that painter, too. You looking for a hit man ... uh, person? Well, it’s her. It’s Dolores Sims.”

  The gun went away. Roger opened his eyes a slit. The barrel was still aimed at Roger’s belly. “Who was the asshole who told you that?”

  “She was. I mean, she told me. No. No! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot, okay? Just—oh, please—can’t we chill here?”

  “You’re shitting me, son. Don’t shit me.”

  “Wait. See? She told me to tell the CIA that she wanted two million dollars. And the
n ... lemme get it straight. Uh, McNatt and that dork from Raytheon ... Oh, right. I don’t know if this is important, but they said she was a dyke—”

  The pistol barrel punched a neat round bruise in his belly. Pain took his breath away.

  “Ow. Hey. I’m just telling you what they said. And then they said she killed somebody once. But she seemed okay to me. I kinda like her, lesbian or not. Personally I don’t have anything against, you know ... In fact, some of my best—”

  “Stupid—ass white boy. You don’t know dick.” Jack put the gun in the bag and walked out.

  Roger could breathe again. He slid to the raw, stained concrete, among the gum wads and candy wrappers. Above his left shoulder birds in formal dress paraded, flapping their flightless wings.

  By the White House helipad

  Mr. President! Mr. President!

  Nice tie, Kurt. Hi, Joan.

  Mr. President, is it true that you’re on your way to meet with members of the U.N. Security Council?

  What? Sorry. The rotors ...

  Mr. President! Please, Mr. President! Won’t you ... thanks.

  Only a minute. Hey, Freddie. How’s the golf game? We filming? Okay. I’ll have some news for you very soon concerning Palmer Bank. President Bonfim was involved, and I believe CIA employees have overstepped their bounds. I’m ordering the CIA to turn over all files to Congress—we’ll be working very closely on this, uh, Congress and the White House, to get to the truth. Probably a hearing’s in order: I’m sure there’ll be indictments.

  And the radioactivity reported, sir?

  Well, that one’s a no comment.

  Are you—sir. Sir! Mr. President! Nothing at all?

  Okay. I will say this: I will do everything in my power; and that means everything, to preserve the safety and well—being of the American people. Thank you.

  Does that include possible military action, sir?

  Mr. President!

  Mr. President! Does that include war, sir?

  A SHORT Two—Hour bus trip north from Florianópolis and you will arrive in Blumenau, the jewel of the Itajaí Valley, famous for its porcelain, towels, and crystal ...

  Hiroshi put the guidebook in his pocket and opened the door. A bell chimed overhead. The man behind the gift shop counter didn’t look up.

  Could he have guessed wrong? The storekeeper had a sweet, grandfatherly face. His gray head was bent over his work. Reading glasses were perched on the end of his nose. From behind the wooden barrier came a sporadic click—click. Cleaning a gun?

  Ignored, Hiroshi wandered the aisles of expensive breakables. When he looked at the counter again, the man was looking back. His eyes were a disturbingly brilliant blue.

  “Paraná?” the man asked. “São Paulo?”

  “Sorry. I am from Japan.”

  The man returned to his work.

  “The porcelain is very fine.”

  Gray eyebrows lifted in disbelief.

  “Japan has fine porcelain, too. But not so many happy colors.” Hiroshi approached the counter and, with a bow, presented his card. His heart sank. The man wasn’t cleaning a gun. He was darning a sock.

  The storekeeper dropped the card carelessly on the counter. He bent over and adjusted his glasses. “Yes, Mr. Shinobu, is it? What may I do for you?” Then he returned to his darning, the needle clicking on the marble egg.

  “I am in the import business, as you can see.”

  The man nodded. “You will want directions to the factories.”

  “Yes, Mr. Piehl, that would be fine, but there are certain matters that only you, personally, can do for me.”

  Blink. That sudden. The blue eyes were focused on him again. The face was soft; but the fingers were strong and deft. Reinhard Piehl had killing hands.

  “Japan is in dire need of imports. We seek other countries to work with. Countries which are in need, as ours is.”

  Piehl put down his darning, looked at a porcelain wall clock shaped like a passion flower. “I will be closing the shop in two hours. Why don’t we meet for dinner?”

  Before Hiroshi could respond, Piehl went on. “There is a restaurant, a quiet one. Die Blaue Gans. Or Die Blaue Ente. I forget which. When you leave, turn right. Seven blocks until you see the construction, and turn right again. Three blocks and you will come to a winding street. A half—block down, you’ll see a small yellow building with a blue goose—maybe a blue duck?—painted on the side. You can’t miss it.”

  “Six o’clock, then?”

  “Six—thirty.”

  Hiroshi bowed, but the man was darning again.

  Outside, the sun was bright, the air pungent with car exhaust. Hiroshi walked to a nearby cafe and sat down, wishing his mentor, Shuma Kasahara, was there. Yet that very loneliness made him feel heroic—like one of the masterless samurai. He opened his guidebook. No listing in the restaurant section for a Die Blaue Gans or Die Blaue Ente. An out—of—the—way spot, then. A perfect and very romantic place for espionage.

  A waiter approached who spoke such limited Portuguese that Hiroshi ordered by pointing to the bottles on a nearby table.

  ... founded by Dr. Hermann Blumenau in 1859 ...

  The waiter returned with a Brahma Chopp. Hiroshi nursed the beer and watched the front of the store .

  ... World War II. Laws were passed forbidding German to be taught, and even to be spoken ...

  At six o’clock a chubby middle—aged woman—Piehl’s wife?—turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED. She walked back into the shadows, and didn’t emerge. Neither did Piehl. A back door, then.

  Hiroshi tossed money onto the table and hurried out. The construction, the only spot of dirt on the immaculate sidewalk, was five blocks down, not seven. He halted in confusion. Turn right, or walk the other two blocks?

  He turned, and soon found himself in a residential area.

  ... traditional Alpine gingerbread houses set amid native tropical vegetation. Notice the boats in every garage which, before the dams ...

  Two blocks of garaged boats later, the street dead—ended at the river. Panicked, Hiroshi retraced his steps.

  Six—fifteen already, and Piehl would not understand if he was late. At the construction, he stopped a blond—headed couple. “Pardon me.” He bowed hurriedly. “I seem to be lost. I am looking for a winding street and a small yellow restaurant.”

  They smiled and shook their heads.

  “Do you know of a small yellow restaurant? Die Blaue something?”

  “Blaue, ja?” The woman looked to her husband for help.

  “Bitte? Ich spreche nicht,” he said apologetically.

  Hiroshi bowed. “Sorry. So sorry.” And he rushed on. Ahead of him, emerging from a bank, was a pin—striped, round— faced burgher. “Excuse .. .”

  The man shot him a look. Waved a hand. “Nein, nein.” He strode purposefully down the sidewalk the opposite way.

  Hiroshi looked around for help, but at early evening the mercantile section of Blumenau was nearly deserted. Time was running out. He quickly walked two blocks past the construction and turned right. Three blocks of gingerbread houses and palm trees, and he ended up at the river again.

  No. It couldn’t be. Had he lost count? He started back to the main thoroughfare, his thighs aching, his back dripping sweat.

  There. Ahead. A pair of black men, strolling loose—limbed and graceful. Hiroshi trotted to them. “Please!”

  They stopped. Turned.

  “Please! So sorry to bother you!” He bowed.

  After a confused pause they bowed, too.

  “I am lost, you see. I am supposed to meet someone at six—thirty at a little restaurant and the town is unfamiliar.” He glanced at his watch. Six—thirty—eight already. Could Piehl trust someone who couldn’t follow directions? “It is a little yellow restaurant with a blue bird.”

&
nbsp; They shrugged helplessly. Looked at each other. “Auslander,” one said.

  “Ich spreche nicht Portuguese,” the other told Hiroshi.

  The name of the restaurant came in a blinding gestalt. “Die Blaue Gans? Die Blaue Ente?”

  “Die gans?” They smiled broadly. “Ah, ja! Ganse.” Pointing now. Rapid spurts of German. One man took a notebook and pen from his pocket and scribbled a map.

  One block. Turn right. Two blocks.

  Map in his fist, Hiroshi ran. He ended up at the quiet riverbank. Tall grass to either side. A tumbledown boathouse. And a flock of geese.

  “Raise your hands. Turn around.”

  Hiroshi did as he was told, dropping the map, slipping a bit in the mud. Piehl stood a few feet away. There was a lead pipe in his fist.

  A deserted spot. A blunt instrument to make it look like robbery. The river to dump his corpse. And no one would guess the truth. Hiroshi knew that he had only himself to blame. The nail that sticks up is hammered down.

  The man sat on a fallen log, panting for breath. “A good chase, that. It proves you don’t know what you are doing. How did you find out who I was?”

  Behind Hiroshi, the crackle of a shoe on dead leaves. He fought the urge to turn, struggled to keep his voice from shaking. “Indirect information only. From letters sent to England. About a girl from Santa Catarina that Vyacheslav Lavinski met. MI5 did not recognize the significance in what was said in the letter. I did. I tracked you through your mother.”

  A hand slid around him, patted pockets, reached inside his jacket and brought out his passport. “Hiroshi Sato, Japanese embassy,” a voice behind him said.

  Piehl smiled. “Why would the British share the letters with you?”

  “The letters had been declassified. I told them the truth: that my hobby was collecting spy stories. They had me fill out forms, and pay a small copying fee.”

  Two laughs: a baritone from Piehl, a tenor from the man behind.

  Hiroshi’s arms were beginning to ache. “An interesting man, your father. To be shipwrecked and live for weeks on what he could kill with his bare hands. To die in a plane he himself sabotaged. An explosion that also killed two suspected moles in the PZPR. That is how I knew he was working for the Soviets.”