by Sean Wallace
You Can Hear the End Approaching in the Motor Noise
Watching the moon above the trees from the main window of his library, old Miguel Ventura finally accepted the fact that the Aviz Ring had reached its end. There was no longer reason for the organization once Dom Pedro III died. Very soon, as he had verified the last time he saw him. He wasn’t sure exactly what his role would be, as an agent of the highest hierarchy, in relation to the little clone that Belisario Pena had managed to produce. Times were much more complex than they used to be. For the second time that day, he had the sensation that he really was a nineteenth-century man. The first was when he cleaned his favorite gun and noticed it was a mother-of-pearl-handled Colt.
The door opened. The wet nurse’s head appeared.
“Mr Ventura? The lady is here.”
“Ask her to come in, please.”
Joana Bras had never been pretty, in his opinion, but the natural haughtiness of her poise became the center of gravity in any setting. When she entered, however, that seemed to have disappeared in a mixture of weariness and badly removed makeup.
“Miguel,” she sighed.
“Joana. You look terrible. Like you came here on foot.”
“I did.”
Miguel didn’t doubt she was truly capable of walking the ten kilometers which separated their houses.
“They’re following me. I couldn’t think of anything,” she added, embarrassed.
“Miguel glanced down the corridor to be sure they were free from curious ears. He locked the door, turned back to Joana.
“Who is following you, my dear?”
“I’m not sure, but I suspect it’s someone tied to the military. I was there, Miguel. I witnessed the massacre of the integralists. The shooters were outside the building, not inside, like everyone is saying. That’s pure fiction. Someone is playing the communists against the integralists to create a crisis.”
“General Protasio Vargas,” said Miguel.
“How do you know?” asked Joana.
She saw him look discreetly at the revolver. With a brusque movement, she tried to snatch it, but despite his age, Miguel still possessed an astonishing agility. Before her hand even came close to the table, he grabbed the gun and pointed it at her face.
“I need you to think clearly, girl. The Aviz Ring is heading for an inglorious end, but don’t panic.” He opened a drawer and placed the revolver there.
Joana studied his eyes. There was sadness and some resignation there, but no vestige of a traitor’s shame or remorse.
“I’m sorry, I . . .” She allowed her shoulders to droop. “I don’t know whom to trust anymore.”
“A few days ago Cicero brought me evidence that military men of high rank might be involved in some conspiracy. His source in the American embassy sent him a copy of a cablegram destined for Washington. We’re fighting big dogs, Joana. We can’t stand up to the Americans, weakened as we are. Maybe . . .” His voice failed him at that point, as if the words cost dearly. “. . . it’s time for us to withdraw and review our options.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”
Miguel sighed. He drew six silver rings from the pocket of his robe.
“There is no more Aviz Ring. We’re the only two left. An old man and a confused woman.”
Joana felt her knees weaken.
“And Antonio? Cicero?”
“Cicero was assassinated this morning. The others came to the conclusion that there is no point in dying for a condemned Crown. They deserted. Antonio just left. He was the last to bring his ring. I thought you’d come to do the same thing.”
“Never.”
“You make me proud. But it’s over, Joana.”
A whirlwind of thoughts crossed her mind. Things to say, things to ask.
Outside the night brought a rumble of motors.
“They’re coming,” advised Miguel.
“We don’t need to confront the military and the Americans.” She spoke at first to herself, then, more confident, to him. “Our job is to protect the Emperor and the heir.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“We don’t even know if that . . . child . . . is really human. It was made in a laboratory. Our obligation dies with the old Emperor.”
Joana bit her lower lip.
“It least give me a decent gun.”
“You’ll die if you go to the palace.”
“Are you going to give me a gun or not?”
He sighed. He pointed to a painting between two bookcases, which portrayed a bunch of heads with smokestacks in the background. There was a niche hidden behind the canvas, full of guns. Joana chose a Tokarev submachine gun, little larger than a pistol, and hid it under her clothing. They looked at each other, not knowing what to say, until someone knocked truculently on the door.
“Open this door, Mr Ventura,” ordered a gruff voice.
“Hide under the desk,” said Miguel.
Joana obeyed.
He unlocked the door, unhurried. Uniformed men entered, armed with assault rifles. The leader identified himself as a captain and raised a document in Miguel’s face.
“Sign it.”
“What is this?”
“Your resignation from the public functions that you exert, official or not, and a declaration of support to the military junta which is deposing the Emperor.”
“I’m not signing anything.”
Joana heard the muffled blow and moan of pain. She repressed the urge to leave her hiding place, shoot those traitors, help Miguel. That would gain nothing. She would end up a prisoner, or dead, and that would be the end of the Emperor and the child. That’s why she stayed there, hearing the man who taught her everything being beaten until he could stand no more. With sadness, she felt the silent shame when he, unable to take any more, signed the document.
“The Emperor will return,” he grunted, just before being dragged away.
Joana understood it as a last sparkle of valor, a way of supporting her. Miguel didn’t deserve to end up that way. The Avis Ring didn’t, either.
. . . And That is Why You are an Assassin
Two heavy Army trucks entered Avenida Dom Pedro II, which was crowded with people. On top of the trucks, turrets equipped with machine guns, spotlights, and soldiers wearing gas masks. The soldiers called for the people to obey the order and return to their homes.
A spotlight passed over Jeronimo Trovao and his son. The two continued on, trying not to call attention. The plan was to arrive at the Plaza Maua pier and rent a boat with enough fuel to cross the bay to Magé. From there, they would climb the Iguaçu river and hide in the mostly abandoned city of the same name, until the dust settled.
Jeronimo shouldered a path through the sidewalk. One hand in the big pants pocket, where he held the Mauser. The other carried the rifle wrapped up in a blanket and sheets of newspaper. He hadn’t seen the Saint for hours. He couldn’t say that bothered him. Each day it became harder to conceal. The boy already suspected that something wasn’t right. He didn’t want to worry him. Living with a father who committed crimes to earn a living was already complicated enough.
Nomio came close behind, his head shrunk between his shoulders, heedful of every laugh, yell, or curse word around them. He was starving. Sleepy. But he didn’t want to say that to his father. His father’s life was already complicated enough without worrying about a crybaby.
They arrived at the pier. The slats croaked under their feet. A dense layer of clouds padded the nighttime sky.
“It’s dark here,” said Nomio.
“Better that way.”
The boy shrugged.
A small boat appeared. It was guided by an old man with a threadbare shirt, long pants, and flip-flops. Close to the pier, he turned off the motor. He stood, hand conched over his forehead.
“That’s not going to make you see in the dark,” said Jeronimo. “Is this the beauty of a boat you mentioned?”
“That depends.
Do you have the money?” The old man spoke with a north-eastern accent: lazy, singsong.
Jeronimo took two bills and waved them like a fan in his face. The old man jumped to the pier and grabbed the money, reckless.
“If you want, I can take you.”
“No,” responded Jeronimo, stepping into the boat together with the boy. “We’re going alone. We’ll leave this old tin can with Sister Celia, as we agreed.”
“Right, right. And where are you going?”
“That’s none of your business,” said Nomio. He sat at the prow, while his father, laughing at the rude response, made himself comfortable near the motor.
The boat was slowly swallowed by the night.
They went in silence for nearly half an hour, father and son. They heard only the waves tearing themselves below the hull. They were a good distance from shore, enough for the city of Rio de Janeiro to transform into a jumble of luminous points blinking against the darkness of the night.
Nomio felt cold. He wrapped his arms around his knees and lowered his head, blowing hot air inside his shirt. Every once in a while, he spied his father out of the corner of his eye. He seemed like a statue, hands on the gunwale, staring fixedly forward. He felt a stab of shame for having thought bad things of him. His father was still in the game. He still had fuel to burn. He thought of asking forgiveness, but didn’t have the courage. The closest he could come to that was asking where they were heading, after all.
“I told you. Iguaçu village. A ghost town,” responded Jeronimo.
Nomio insisted: “You mean it’s deserted?”
“Practically. It’s a complex of ruined constructions on the edge of the river. It was once an important point on the gold trail from Minas Gerais to the capital’s port. But things happened.”
“What things?”
“The river became too shallow for large boats. Then came the epidemics of cholera, smallpox. There were no doctors. Those who survived, left. To top it off, the Baron of Maua built the railroad a long way off. Everyone ended up leaving to live beside the railroad and abandoned the town.”
“Seems like God doesn’t like the place much.”
Nomio saw his father smile. For some reason, that didn’t seem like a good thing.
“Well, that’s where we’re going. Then, when it’s safe to travel by land, we’ll go to Guararema, in São Paulo province.”
The boy hid his face back between his legs and didn’t say anything else.
Rays scratched the sky around the sierra.
Your destiny isn’t Guararema, Dream-Man.
Jeronimo gulped. The Saint sat in the same place as him. The sensation was strange, but he didn’t risk asking how that was possible. He wasn’t expecting her presence so soon.
Saint Anthony will soon wake from his dream. Everything will disappear. You. Your son. The sky. Everything, everything, everything. To be recreated on the following night.
“What do you want from me now?” he whispered. He didn’t want his son to hear him conversing with an invisible saint from outer space and take him – rightly so – as a madman.
You mustn’t flee.
“If we stay here, my son and I will end up dead.”
If you turn your back on my message, death will reach you anywhere. That’s the way you must go. The Saint stood and pointed at a distant bank, her blue veil dancing noisily against the wind.
Jeronimo feared that the sound would awake the boy’s attention, but he only raised an uninterested gaze and rolled back into a ball, sleepily. He’d seen nothing but his father, heard nothing beyond the boat sailing the waves.
Jeronimo Trovao, for his part, had all his senses aroused by her presence. The divine scent, the hoarse voice, the marble skin that contrasted with his – the color of coffee with cream. She turned to the open sea. A bit of night broke off and formed, before Jeronimo’s eyes, the gigantic figure of a battleship. He knew it wasn’t truly there, it was another vision, but, like the Desert, it was real. The long cannon tubes; the anti-aircraft batteries; the supersonics; the more than two thousand shadowy marines with high-technology weaponry; the stars; the red and white stripes. Everything was real. At some spot not far from the bay there was an American aircraft carrier just waiting for an excuse.
He also saw – or felt, or imagined, he never knew for sure – all the links of a chain of events that would transform saviors into exploiters. Exploiters into opponents. Opponents into enemies. A friendly smile and figures flaunting the swastika. A terrible war devastating the entire globe; immense flashes vaporizing Brazilian cities. The Desert, at last.
“I’ll be far away when that happens.”
Of course you will. And that is why, Dream-Man, that you are an assassin.
He noticed, with terror, that you are an assassin left his own mouth.
“What is it?” yawned Nomio. His father steered the boat toward the bank.
“We have to go somewhere.”
Nomio knew he wouldn’t say more than that. The best thing to do was wait. See with his own eyes. Avoid annoying his father. He was every day more taciturn: whispering to the walls, making him pretend he couldn’t tell what was happening. But he could tell. And it hurt like hell.
After a time that seemed longer than it actually was, his father broke the silence, speaking to himself again. Nomio followed his gaze: a recess in the shore a few dozen meters away. A mangrove swamp, thick with trees and roots, spread out into the waves, a rotten smell coming with the wind. Shortly after, a gyroplane coming from the hillside road flew over the beach, maneuvered above the waves, and hovered over the swamp, searchlights lit.
Jeronimo was already standing, removing the blanket and newspaper sheets which swathed the N12. The rifle shone in the moonlight.
“You stay here,” he said to Nomio. He handed him the 96 Mauser.
“But . . .”
“If I’m not back in ten minutes, leave.”
“What’s going on?”
His father had already jumped into the water and was swimming toward the marsh, his right arm holding the rifle just over his head. When he penetrated the vegetation, Nomio let out a breath and draped himself over the stern. He felt the weight of the pistol in his hand. He pointed it at the gyroplane, felt his finger graze the trigger.
A shot echoed from the swamp like a small explosion.
“Dad!” yelled the boy. Without thinking twice, he threw himself into the sea.
No Matter How, It Ends Tonight
The throne room was situated on the second floor of the São Cristóvão Palace. Every time Joana Bras entered there, normally accompanied by Miguel Ventura, she admired the sumptuousness of the place, its majestic chandelier, the columns like an ancient palace. Above all, what most impressed her were the walls: painted to create the impression of high relief, they seemed to jump out at her. But this time, she didn’t have time to be impressed.
Passing by the guards outside hadn’t been a problem. The Aviz Ring gave her free access to the Palace, guaranteed by the Emperor himself. Joana found him sitting in a padded armchair, between two doors that led to the balcony. A blanket covered his legs up to the waist. He seemed even feebler, breathing with the help of a complex gas mask. A nurse stood at his side, ready to wipe away the saliva that ran from his mouth from time to time. In the wet nurse’s lap, the Heir. Pacing from one side to the other, the Minister-President Artur Bernardes; and a National Guard official, harbinger of bad news.
Joana knelt before Dom Pedro. He motioned for her to rise with a vague movement of his head. He tried to say something, but there wasn’t enough oxygen in his lungs to form the words. After calming him, she turned to Bernardes.
“He and the baby aren’t safe here. We have to take them somewhere secure.”
“How? The entire cabinet has been arrested, His Majesty can barely stand. The government disappeared from one moment to the next.”
“And the National Guard?”
The Minister-President and the Guard officia
l looked at each other.
The official spoke without the courage to look beyond his own boots. “The closest militia was in Jacarepaguá. All the equipment was destroyed. We’re neutralized at least until the first hours of morning, when troops from other municipalities and provinces can arrive.”
Joana knew what that meant: she was alone. There would be no help for several hours, if there would be any. Suddenly, she felt deeply tired.
A voice broke the silence that had taken over the room. The Emperor was trying to speak. The nurse slowly removed the oxygen mask and bent over him.
“The Emperor wants to know where his ministers and agents are,” she said.
Bernardes started stuttering an explanation, but Joana interrupted him.
“Majesty, everyone left is in this room right now. The Palace is the heart of the Empire. The conspirators won’t delay in coming here to stab it.”
While she spoke, the official was called to the door by one of his subordinates. He returned shortly after, his face contracted in a grave expression.
“I’ve just been informed that Army vehicles are approaching the Palace. My men want to know what to do. I must remind you that they have families and are far outnumbered, sirs.”
The Emperor mumbled again in the nurse’s ear.
“His Majesty doesn’t want to see the place where the memory of his parents and grandparents resides stained by the blood of his subjects. Everyone here, servants and guards, should surrender when the soldiers come in.
They heard a whirring sound.
A gyroplane descended suddenly before the windows, casting a blinding spotlight into the throne room. A megaphone thundered: “This is the Army of the Brazilian Republic. The São Cristóvão Palace is surrounded. Put down whatever weapons you have, turn over Mr Pedro Augusto Bragança of Saxe-Coburg and the child.
The baby bawled, frightened. Joana dragged herself to the Emperor and squeezed his bony hand.
“The succession . . . The prince . . .” he said, his voice so low that Joana could hardly hear. The old monarch handed her a tiny golden key. His pulse was weaker by the second. Sadly, she recognized his end was near.