Cradle of Splendor

by Patricia Anthony

The scratching shook the window. He had to open his eyes now. “Please, I—”

  “Say it for me!”

  “Kengo Fujita.”

  “And someone has lied to you,” she said. “Tell me his name.”

  “Dr. Clark Christopher Kinch.”

  “When you have someone’s name, Samurai, you cannot be alone. When you have someone’s name, you steal their place. Now. Someone is standing behind these two, in the shadows. Someone dangerous. And what I want you to do is, call his name.”

  The hand crept up his thigh. Such a small hand, like a child’s. Hiroshi let his breath out. The floor seemed to sway like the sea. “Major Douglas McNatt.”

  She grabbed his fingers. Hiroshi could feel a vibration pass flesh to flesh. She squeezed so hard it hurt. “You have done well. And now Maria Bonita will prove to you how much Spirit is pleased.”

  The window rattled fiercely. There was a thud, like a small body falling.

  “Open your eyes.” Bahian. Tired and old.

  Only two candles were left lit. He and Xuli were kneeling, holding hands like schoolchildren. On the woven rug between their knees lay Hiroshi’s diary.

  * * *

  Marcel Marceau seemed to find Roger’s telephone call disconcerting. “But there are troops.”

  “No big deal. The Army’s letting people through. The soldiers hardly paid any attention.” Roger propped his elbow on the pay phone and winked at Jaje. She stood against the wall of the appliance store, twisting a lock of hair.

  “Still ...”

  “Look. I got somebody with me, guy. Understand? I can’t say the name over the phone, but this is big. You gotta help us get out of the country, okay? You gotta do this for me. Shit. You gotta do this for Brazil, man. Are you listening?”

  From the receiver, mutters. Suddenly Fatty was on the line. “Okay. You can come.”

  They got back into Dee’s car and drove to Marcel’s apartment. Jaje’s nearness made Roger’s chest ache from shoulder to heart. They could go away together. Roger would give her some time. Then they’d buy a house in the piney woods near Houston. He’d take her skiing at Telluride in the winter, snorkeling in the summer at Cancún.

  And so what if rednecks gawked? Jaje was sexier than a movie star, prettier than a model. For once in Roger’s life other guys would envy him. And if the racism got too much, well, they could avoid those NASA barbecues. Jaje was all the company he needed.

  “Just a few blocks more,” he said.

  She sighed and then—oh, Christ—she curled a lock of hair around that tiny finger, and this time the gesture knocked life right out from under him, demolished everything Roger had been, rearranged his future. The loss made him feel like he was falling.

  I love you. But the words were too new, too big to say.

  Roger found a parking spot a half—block from Fatty’s and helped her out of the car. He couldn’t tell her, but maybe she could feel it. He gently took her arm, led her past a knot of preoccupied soldiers, and into the apartment building.

  Fatty opened at Roger’s knock. And froze. “Nossa.”

  Marcel Marceau pushed Fatty aside. He saw Jaje, and his eyes widened.

  “Let us in,” Roger said.

  “Kiss my ass.” Marcel slammed the door shut.

  Roger knocked louder.

  Fatty jerked open the door. “Nossa Senhora, Roger. Do you know who that is?”

  “Let us in.”

  Marcel said, “No.”

  When Fatty stepped back, Roger put his arm around Jaje’s waist, pushed past Marcel, and steered her inside. Parquet floors shone. A painting of nighttime Rio hung above the sofa, a beefcake poster over the dining table. In the corner was a new stereo system with waist—high speakers, big enough to woof and tweet the building down.

  Fatty let out a long breath. “Ah ... Have a seat.”

  Two open doorways: one led to a tiny kitchen, another to a single cozy bedroom. Oh. Roger was finally starting to get the picture. “You gotta help us get across the border to Peru.”

  Easy magic. An abracadabra wave of Fatty’s hands. “All taken care of.” His cheeks were pasty and he was sweating. “We called some people. They’re on their way over.”

  “These guys know what they’re doing?” Roger asked.

  “What? The people? Oh, yes. Relax.” Fatty snatched a section of newspaper off the couch, crumpled it, dropped it on the parquet. “Mineral water? Beer?” Fatty was all smiles—an airplane steward on his last, fast ride down. “Coffee?”

  Jaje collapsed on the sofa, crossed her legs, jiggled a foot.

  Roger stood guard over her. “Get her a Coke.”

  Marcel clapped his hands to the sides of his head. “The president’s daughter wants a Coke. Oh. By all means. The president’s daughter, who is sitting on our couch, with her mother’s soldiers outside, the whole world but Peru against us, the Americans about to invade, and she wants a Coke.”

  Jaje crossed her arms. Her foot went up and down. “So are these the guys who are, like, going to save me and everything?”

  “It’s okay.” Roger sat beside her. “I got the gun. All we need now are forged IDs.”

  Marcel cried, “He has a gun!”

  Fatty put out his hand to Roger. “Give it to me.”

  “What? No way.”

  “Listen to me, Dr. Lintenberg. Guns are dangerous. Nobody, uh ...”

  Marcel: “We—we just hate guns. It ...”

  “It is customary. Like visiting a Japanese,” Fatty explained. “You know how you must take off your shoes? Well, at our house—”

  Jaje asked, “Would it, like, be too much of a bummer for somebody to get me a beer?”

  A knock at the door. Marcel whirled. Fatty said urgently, “Roger. Give me the gun. These people are the nervous type, you know?”

  “Who ...”

  From the hall, the scrape of a key, a click of the lock. The front door opened.

  And Major McNatt walked in.

  It was weird how, in that instant, Roger noticed everything: that McNatt was wearing a jacket, even though it was hot. That Jerry’s baggy shirt hid his waistband. McNatt looked more sad, really, than angry. And that’s when Roger knew that the CIA had kept him on a short, short leash. And that he was about to die.

  Roger pulled the gun out of his pocket. Marcel leaped. The impact of Marcel’s shoulder knocked Roger back hard into the sofa. Roger pulled the trigger. Again. Again. No bangs, just muffled thumps. And Marcel was screaming.

  Wait. How did the two things become intertwined: Marcel’s hand and the revolver? Then Fatty was pulling Marcel one way, and Jerry shoving Roger the other, and McNatt was holding the gun.

  McNatt looked at Jaje. “That, I believe, is Teresa Solange Bonfim. I don’t like this.”

  Roger sat back, breathing hard. Fatty prattled a string of apologies. McNatt said to shut up, that he had to think. Marcel Marceau rocked back and forth, cradling his hand, sucking on the bruise left by the revolver’s hammer.

  McNatt shook his head. “This is trouble.”

  “God. Don’t hurt her.” Roger didn’t even know he had spoken until the words came rushing up his throat. “Please. This is all my fault. She hasn’t done anything. I haven’t told her about ... you know. Not a word.”

  Jaje asked, “Who are these bozos?”

  Finally McNatt seemed to come to a decision. “Hey, Jer?” he said. “We’ll need three.” Jerry left, and returned a few minutes later with an intense—expressioned guy.

  “God. Please don’t,” Roger said.

  McNatt put his arm around Fatty’s shoulder. He led him into the bedroom, and they closed the door.

  Roger tried to comfort Jaje, but she pulled away. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was. Wanted to tell her how much he loved her, but Jerry and Mr. Intense were watching.
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br />   McNatt came out of the bedroom holding a pair of handcuffs. “Mind if we use these?” he asked Marcel.

  Marcel didn’t mind at all.

  “Aw, Jesus. Please.” Roger held Jaje’s hand so tight that she yelped.

  McNatt asked if Marcel wouldn’t mind showing him how this brand of handcuffs worked.

  No problem. Marcel stood up. Two snaps. That easy. McNatt had pulled Marcel’s arms behind his back and cuffed his wrists. Before the man could protest, Jerry put a bag over his head.

  Roger couldn’t believe it. He sucked in a quick breath. Marcel couldn’t believe it, either. He sucked in a mouthful of plastic.

  Oh. And Roger was suddenly looking down the barrel of Mr. Intense’s gun.

  On the parquet in front of Marcel’s cheap couch, the three men struggled. “Get him into the bathroom,” McNatt said.

  Jerry grunted, tried to wrestle Marcel toward the door. The Brazilian was stronger than he looked.

  “He’s going to shit,” McNatt warned. “Pull his pants down, Jerry, before he shits.”

  Marcel’s stocking feet slid on the polished wood. He went down—bang—on one knee.

  Mr. Intense never took his eyes off Roger, even though there was life and death going on. He backed to the stereo and hit the power button. António Carlos Jobim sang a song about March waters and the ends of roads and being a little bit alone, while Marcel fell the rest of the way to the floor and flopped like a fish. His mouth opened and closed. Opened and closed.

  “He’s gonna shit,” McNatt said.

  Jerry fumbled with Marcel’s zipper, and jerked the pants to his knees. Marcel’s muscles knotted. Some autonomic reaction had made him half erect. He gulped in plastic, made a gargling sound.

  Then Jaje ordered them to stop, to let him go, let him go, goddamn it, and Mr. Intense was pointing the gun and telling her to shut up.

  Roger wrestled Jaje to him, warm against him, forced her head onto his shoulder and stroked her hair. She tried to sit up, but he held her down. “Shhh. Shhh. Everything’s going to be all right.” Please, God, he thought. Don’t let them do that to me.

  Marcel’s feet whipped back and forth. His back arched. His veins bulged. And, aw jeez, he was crying. Roger could see that even through the foggy plastic bag. Face as blue as a West Texas norther. Dying in front of an audience. Bare—ass naked, with half a hard—on, and tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “Shhh,” Roger crooned. While Jaje fought to pull away and Jobim sang that it was a toad, a frog, a forest in the morning’s light. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  Let him die now, Roger prayed. But Marcel sat up again.

  When life left, it left catastrophically. Marcel’s eyes rolled back in his head. He went loose—limbed. Jerry let go; McNatt danced backward. Marcel’s head collided with the floor, and the crack could be heard over the speakers.

  “Shit,” Jerry muttered.

  Oh, Christ. Marcel had. “No paper towels,” McNatt ordered. “Just enough toilet paper to flush. And turn that stereo off.”

  Mr. Intense bent over the CD player. Jobim went silent.

  McNatt said, “Jerry? There’s some amyl nitrate in the bedroom on top of the nightstand. And a jar of petroleum jelly.” He drew his gun. He stepped over Marcel’s sprawled body, perched on the edge of the coffee table, reached into his shirt pocket, and, one—handed, popped a Tums.

  Roger put his body in front of Jaje’s. She elbowed him painfully in the side. “Just ... don’t ... I don’t want it to hurt.”

  “Dr. Lintenberg, really.” McNatt shook his head. “We’re not going to hurt you. I am disappointed, however, that you were so predictable.”

  “But everybody’s been lying to me.”

  McNatt looked surprised. “Of course.”

  The gun lay loose in McNatt’s hand, as if he had forgotten it was there. Jerry, humming now, brought a towel from the kitchen. He bent, wiped the handcuffs clean.

  “Ms. Bonfim,” McNatt said. “I’m sorry you had to see this. We had no choice. And no time to deal otherwise with a pair of rogue agents.”

  Jaje shoved herself free in time to see Mr. Intense painstakingly wipe Marcel’s ass.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  Even considering what had just happened, McNatt looked far, far too solemn. Roger’s body went hot, then cold. His bowels cramped.

  “I wish there was an easier way to tell you, but there has been a coup by the Brazilian Army. Your mother is dead.”

  “Oh, man,” Roger whispered. “Man. Man.” Relief left him guilt—ridden. It looked like Roger was safe, but Jaje’s mom was dead, Marcel was dead ... and, hey. Where was Fatty?

  Mr. Intense picked up the toilet paper and walked into the bedroom. Roger waited for the sound of Fatty’s voice. Wanted to hear him say something, anything. Jerry dragged the bare—assed, purple—faced Marcel after. He was humming “Oklahoma.”

  “The United States government has instructed me to offer you political asylum.” McNatt started to put the roll of Tums back in his pocket, reconsidered, and bit off another. “The thing to do now is see you safely out of the country, General Machado may quite possibly see you as a threat. The good thing is, your presence at this apartment came as a complete surprise. Believe me. A complete and utter surprise. And these two didn’t have a chance to pass the word along to the Brazilian Army. Well.” He slapped his knees. Looked expectantly at Jaje. “That’s settled. As soon as we clear the area, we’ll be on our way.” He stood, put the Tums in his pocket, tucked the pistol in his waistband.

  Jerry stuck his head out of the bedroom. “Hey, Mac? Scenario’s fag accident, right? One heart attack, one erotic suffocation, isn’t that what we planned? Well, would you tell Artie, please? I already greased down the fat coronary, but Artie’s got a load of K—Y in one hand, and the other guy’s cock in the other. It’s so wrong.”

  So McNatt killed Fatty so quietly that only murderer and victim had marked the passing. Odd. Roger wasn’t sure which was worse: Marcel’s battle or Fatty’s quiet surrender.

  “Right. Coming.” McNatt bobbed his head apologetically to Roger. “I’ll just be a moment, then.”

  Roger leaned toward Jaje, kept his voice low. “Hey. I’m sorry about your mom. You can come to Houston with me. Stay as long as you want. We could, you know, maybe buy a house later and everything. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

  McNatt came back into the room. He was dusting off his hands. “Artie. Don’t leave your prints on the popper capsule. Ready?” he asked Roger.

  Poor Jaje, upset about her mom and about seeing Marcel killed like that. She was shaking and crying just like a kid. She stumbled a little, getting up. Roger helped her to the door.

  The street was clear, the car parked at the curb. Roger started to climb in the Buick when a deep—throated roar tore the door from his hand. Wind blew him face—first onto the seat. Store windows rattled. Roger sat up in time to see a flock of pigeons explode skyward.

  McNatt shouted, “Come on, Ms. Bonfim! Get in!”

  The northern sky was a wall of black. McNatt caught Jaje’s arm and pulled her into the car. Artie slammed the door. Jerry gunned the engine and sped east.

  Artie said, “Well. More great USAF timing. A day too soon, and there goes Brasília’s whole goddamned military.”

  McNatt tugged on Jaje’s arm. “Stay down!”

  They took a corner too fast. Roger poked his head up to look out the rear window. Brazilian soldiers were standing, mouths ajar. Roger asked, “When did the deadline expire?”

  “Get down,” McNatt said.

  The car swayed as they took another corner. Roger heard a click, heard McNatt’s grunt of surprise, felt him lurch left. And then the door was open and, oh Jesus no, Jaje was hanging halfway out, and McNatt was holding her wrist.

  “Jerry! Stop!�
� McNatt said.

  Artie was reaching over the seat. “Get her inside, Mac. Right now. There’s a squad up ahead.”

  A fierce rattling sound. Jerry said, “Fuck!” and floor—boarded the accelerator. The car leaped forward.

  Roger flung himself over McNatt and grabbed Jaje’s other arm. She kicked and screamed.

  Over the stutter of gunfire, McNatt shouted, “Get in the car, you stupid little bitch!”

  Jaje kicked him in the face. His head snapped backward. The car whipped around the next corner, threw Jaje into McNatt, tossed McNatt into Roger, sent Roger tumbling toward the door.

  Blood gushed from McNatt’s nose, his mouth. He crumpled. Roger couldn’t lose her, couldn’t, and so he pushed McNatt the rest of the way onto the floorboard and crawled over his back. Suddenly he and Jaje were face—to—face, inches apart.

  No sign of tears. Her eyes were bright with fury. “Let me go!”

  “I can’t. Oh, God, Jaje. I can’t ...”

  “Roger! Let me go!”

  Roger was too weak, his palms too damp. His grip loosened. She struggled—Christ—then she was dropping. Dropping under the wheels.

  Her hand slipped from his. Roger shut his eyes. McNatt pulled Roger back into safety, and slammed the door to. Roger knelt up on the seat. Jaje was lying on the sidewalk. Part of him wanted to run to her. The rest of him wanted to close his eyes again.

  “Get up. Please. Get up,” Roger urged under his breath.

  He was watching Jaje so intently that he didn’t notice when a soldier fired. Didn’t realize at first that the thumps he heard were rubber bullets hitting the Buick.

  That sound. The thumps. He should have heard the thump of tires passing over Jaje’s body.

  Then the soldier and Jaje grew small. Soon they were far away. And when they were gone from sight, it was like Jaje was too beautiful to have ever been. But Roger’s arms still ached from trying to hold her. His chest ached from letting her go. The street swam. He wiped his eyes. My whole life, he thought.

  McNatt daubed blood from his nose. He looked dazed. “Jerry? She jump?” His voice was muddied by a split lip.

  “Yes, sir. Too bad.”