One strange thing I observed: there were quite a number of men dressed up as women. There was no question of their sex; some were big and muscular, and one had a mustache. After my recent homosexual accusation—I just couldn't get that indignity off my mind!—I found this transvestitism a queasy matter. Did these men have repressed homosexual desires? I saw no, er, hankypanky going on, though. Well, it wasn't anything I understood.
I forgot to hang on, and my pants dropped again. Damn! I grabbed for them—and leaped as I felt a sudden burst of extreme coldness, as if I'd sat down bare in a snowbank. Someone had squirted a shot of ether between my legs, the rapid evaporation making it icy. Another damned practical joke!
Actually, this was evidently the season of pranks. I saw people pelting each other with confetti, serpentines, rotten eggs, flour from bags, and something I learned later was called bombitas de peo, literally translated as "little fart bombs"—filled, of course, with the most appalling stench.
The afternoon was wearing on, and I was wearing out. The scant prison lunch seemed far in the past, and my stomach was growling. I felt like a fart bomb myself. I stumbled into an alcove where, oddly, there were no people, and paused, getting my bearings. I saw a little roadside shrine, evidently a monument to one of the voodoo gods. It was a lump of brownish stone or clay or packed dirt streaked with grease, formed into the shape of a grotesque head whose eyes and mouth were formed with small seashells. A parody, surely, a joke, like a gargoyle; it reminded me of the time years ago when both Huntley and Brinkley broke down in chuckles on the evening news, telling how people were sending gargoyles to friends for Saint Valentine's Day. Yet somehow this was real and malignant, unnerving. Probably it was my guilty conscience stirring for what I was about to do. The thing was on some sort of wooden platform, covered by a cloth, with burning candles set around it, and several big, beautiful conch shells, and some dried-out pieces of coconut.
I had heard something about these. (I have a lot of funny bits of information jumbled about in my head.) People left offerings of food and clothing, much as they burned candles to saints. Apparently the food just sat there until it spoiled, or some hungry animal got to it.
Well, I was a hungry animal! I hoped the voodoo god would not strike me down for my sacrilege, but hunger would certainly get me otherwise. I picked up a huge banana and peeled it, or tried to. I was so weak I had trouble even with that; the thing resisted my efforts as though possessed. By the god, maybe. I finally tore it open and took a bite—and it was so hard and fibrous I had to spit it out.
No wonder. This was no banana, it was a plantain. The huge cousin to the banana, so tough it had to be cooked. Served me right.
I ate some stale bread, and an overripe mango, and they really were good. There was also a little bottle of Cachaca, the ubiquitous alcoholic beverage of Brazil. I was thirsty, so I picked it up, considered the pale liquid inside, remembered my inevitable regrets over alcohol, felt a redoubled thirst, opened it and took a swig. And fired it back out in a blast like that of a blowtorch. It seemed like almost pure alcohol. If the voodoo god drank that firewater, no wonder he was such a grouch! I recapped it with my eyes streaming and put it back. Instead I pocketed the handkerchief full of black American pennies that also sat there. No kidding; they were genuine Lincoln-heads, anomalous here in Brazil. Genuine money, and I might need it. Not merely for money, but for self-defense. The fact is, a stocking filled with coins is one of the best blackjacks available. Hoods used this kind, and when the police search all they find is loose change. I dare say it would be a dandy way to dispose of a weapon, too: drop the stocking in the trash, spend the money, and how would it ever be recovered or identified? For that matter, a sack full of sand is pretty good too. Anyone can arm himself if he really wants to. Anyway, there were seventy-seven pennies—yes, I counted them as I ate—and I presumed this was a magic number. A good mass.
There was a large floppy battered peasant hat beside the food, another offering. I put it on my head. Finally I took a long red scarf and wrapped it around my waist. That served in lieu of a belt, and was a godsend. A voodoo godsend. Now I could keep my white rear hidden as well as my face. "Thank you, voodoo god," I said sincerely. "If I ever have a chance to return the favor..." And it seemed to me that there was a momentary glint in the eye of the grim statue. I shuddered.
I started to rejoin the throng, then had another thought; I picked up the bottle of Cachaca and held it in my left hand. I had no intention of drinking it, but it would do nicely for camouflage. Now I looked just like a peasant on a spree; the Death Squad would never identify me.
Well, there was one other thing. I squatted, scooped up a handful of dirt, and smeared it over my hands and arms. This darkened my skin and gave me that unwashed look of the illiterate farmer. For good measure I put some in my hair too. Now at last my costume was complete.
I merged with the crowd again, feeling better. I had little reason, for I had no idea where I was. Even if I found my way back to the hotel, I would not be safe, for the Death Squad thugs would surely be watching it. That meant I had no way to get Kan-Sen's message, and could not proceed with my mission. Dulce was my only hope—and where was she now?
Somehow I would just have to get some more money and locate the airport and take a plane home. Then I could check directly with Kan-Sen, and start over.
Only two or three things wrong with that notion. First, how could I locate the airport, let alone obtain the money for passage? Seventy-seven cents would hardly cover it. Second, where would that leave Dulce? Alone and hungry in these teeming streets? Third, with no proper clothing and no identification, how could I get back into my country? And wouldn't the Death Squad be watching the airport and the other routes out of the country?
In short, I was nowhere. So why the hell did I feel so good? I looked about, more or less free now from the pangs of hunger, embarrassment over my bare-assment, and apprehension about the pursuing Squad. So I could better assimilate my surroundings. And they were impressive.
Brazil I had heard was as large and populous as all the other South American countries combined. I could believe it! I had never seen so many people, so packed, so hurried, going nowhere I could fathom, but going there fast. Cars plunged through the multitude: Volkswagens, Simcas, Mercedes, and big American cars, zooming by each other, through red lights, squealing around corners while the pedestrians drew aside just barely enough to avoid disaster. Why hadn't I been aware of this suicidal streak in the natives? Maybe prison had sharpened my sensitivities. Or, riding a taxi and dining with Dulce, I hadn't paid proper attention.
Dulce, somewhere in this incredible city. I'd never find her! A group of blue-faced, white-nosed—and I mean poster-paint white, baboon-bottom blue!—black-foreheaded clowns went by. They had huge bouffants of orange fuzz in lieu of hair. There was a jangle of music, one might say tintinnabulation, as the pace of frolic intensified. Children paraded by, their bare feet dancing in the dust in rapid-Samba patterns. They carried drums, whistles, musical triangles, and the cuica, a weird wheezing instrument. Many adults wore brightly colored masks.
There were also elaborate costumes emulating the colonial rule of the past: fancy laces, expensive satins, powdered curly wigs, billowing hoop-skirts. Many outfits looked quite expensive, and I wondered how the poor people could afford them. In contrast, there were also a number of formal European suits, and near-naked young women. And Egyptian slaves in short white tunics and silver chains. Alpine peasants in thin white blouses and brief green shorts. Sultans' concubines in gold brassieres and flimsy silk trousers through which the panties showed. And so on; myriad and delightful were the ways in which the girls showed off their unquestionable charms. Anything, it seemed, went.
I passed a girl dancing on a bandstand. "Oba! Oba!" she squealed as she gyrated. This was one of the words I was catching on to; it meant "Wow!"
And suddenly I realized: the jailbreak must have been timed for this carnival-time, so that the escaping pris
oners could lose themselves in the milling throng, just as I had done. Those army tanks, bogged down in the mire of holiday traffic—beautiful!
Now the crowd parted to let a parade squeeze by with its accompanying band and costumed dancers. They seemed tireless, like the Oba-girl I had passed before, but my bare feet were hurting. I wedged back against a shop window with its big sign saying LIQUIDACAO—apparently a big sale.
A blowzy woman clutched my arm. "Boa tarde!" she cried exuberantly. Evidently a salutation.
I looked at her, repelled by her fat, flushed, coarse face, and tried to pull away. "I don't speak Portu—"
"Seu nome?" she inquired, tightening her hold.
Nome? Ah: Name. "Jason," I said. "But I don't—"
"Nao compreendo," she said. "Voce doente?"
I glanced back-and saw Mr. 300-lb. Football Linesman cruising down the wide street, peering this way and that through the crowd. I couldn't stay here; I was right in his path. Those Death Squadders sure were after me.
I tried again to draw away from the woman, but she held my arm in a grip like that of a wrestler. Suddenly I realized I was going at it wrong; I could use her for camouflage. My pursuers obviously were searching for a tall lone foreigner.
"Have a drink!" I said, offering her the bottle of Cachaca.
Her eyes lighted, and that was a good trick, considering how bloodshot they were. She grabbed the bottle and popped the cork with her teeth. She was obviously expert at this sort of thing; I had twisted it off like a screw-on cap, in my ignorance. She tilted the bottle to her mouth and gulped the firewater down. Then she paused, with a half-glazed look of contentment, politely proffering it to me.
Her slobber was on the rim, and I didn't want to touch any more of that paint-dissolver anyway. But the Squad player was closer yet, and now he seemed to have a couple of henchmen. I became very uncertain of my camouflage; how could dirt and a hat convert me into a native? So I had to do it: the smell of liquor on my breath would be the finishing touch, for they surely knew I didn't drink. I gulped a gulp, knowing that this time I had to swallow, not spit.
And gulped. A river of fire coursed down my throat. I coughed, my eyes smarting. The woman whacked me on the back helpfully. "Oba!" I gasped.
When my eyes cleared and normal breathing was restored, I spied the Squad leader almost on top of us. I had to hide my face. I took the woman in my arms as though she were my girlfriend. She giggled, pleased, jiggling all the way from her double chin to her double kneecaps, while the D.S. man squinted suspiciously. Did he recognize me? I had flipped him on the beach, and that's the sort of thing a man remembers.
The woman was fifty years old, dirty, and sweaty from her dancing. Not that I was in any position to comment, with my own dirt and sweat and feet. Her hair straggled in sodden banks, looking like a frizzy fright-wig. From her mouth came a strong, bad odor; in fact her teeth were no more than rotten stumps. Her breasts must have been marvels in her time, but now resembled cow udders. She was some sort of mulatto with dark bronze skin, a huge waist and a very wide mouth. But the Squadder was still watching. So I nerved myself and kissed her. I had to squat down somewhat to embrace her, as she barely came to my collarbone; this added awkwardness to indignity.
Her lips were like liquor-spiked mush. Her huge breasts and belly shoved into me like inflated cushions, reminding me distressingly of the water-tortured man. What brutish things people did to their own bodies, in the name of uncontrolled appetite! I heard demonic laughter, and imagined for a moment it was that of the voodoo god whose chapel I had robbed, but it was the D.S. man, as he turned away. He couldn't see why anyone would want to kiss such a monstrosity. If only he knew!
The crisis was over. I came up for air, and tried once more to disengage, but now the bitch was hauling me into an alley. With the sausage-thick fingers of one hand she was unbuttoning her blouse, showing her ponderous mammaries jiggling on her barrel-belly. Good God—she wanted the finale!
I remembered what Hiroshi had told me of Fu Antos's early days: how he had made love to an ugly feebleminded woman, before an audience. But I was not Fu Antos, and I had had enough. I had to apply a simple wrist lock to free myself of her hold, and even then she resisted determinedly. I broke away, dragging her roughly forward in the process. She fell to elbows and knees, her exposed breasts almost dragging in the dirt.
Her manner changed abruptly. She cursed me in Portuguese—I could tell it was profanity by the pistol-shot explosion of syllables—and swept up a broken fragment of a brick.
I turned and ran. The brick caught me between the shoulder blades and fell down, split in half. What aim that woman had! Then I was out in the crowd again, and safe; I would have a bruise, but nothing bad.
The Oba girl was still dancing. I made my way toward her merely because she served as an attractive landmark. She was petite with a plump face, lovely red lips, and jet-black hair reaching down to her buttocks. Her waist and hips were small but well formed. Her handsome thighs flashed under her skirt and her necklace of seashells bounced on her bosom. She had half the age of my alley-bitch, but ten times the sex appeal; it was fun to watch her. I really had nothing better to do.
Abruptly the girl stumbled and pitched forward off her stand. I dived to catch her before she hit the pavement. I made it; she landed neatly in my arms. A lithe, light morsel.
"You're okay, I think," I murmured, setting her on her feet. "Just tired. Take a rest."
But she stared wildly around. "Umbanda!" she exclaimed.
"I'm sorry. I don't speak—"
"Umbanda!" she repeated. She started to walk, and stumbled again. A second time I caught her. It was not a chore I objected to.
"Look—your legs are dead," I said. "Don't get me wrong—they're beautiful legs! But how long have you been dancing here? Two hours? You can't go-go forever. You've got to rest."
She looked at me with seeming comprehension, while the crowd cruised by obliviously. Then she gestured toward the row of shops fronting the street. "Umbanda!"
It must be a place, I decided. Maybe a hotel where she was staying. She wanted to go there so she could rest and eat. "Okay, I'll take you there," I said. Fickle as I am, I'll do anything for a young pretty woman, and nothing for an old ugly one.
I picked her up by knees and shoulders and carried her through the throng like a bride. It took time and effort, but every wave of the crowd shoved that pleasant torso against me, and that was fine. We made it to the edge, and I followed her gestures until we came to the place she wanted.
It was a little shop with the word UMBANDA. A family business? We entered. The shop was crowded with statues of Catholic saints as well as voodoo replicas. The shelves were full of a variety of herbs, powders, lotions, essences—as well as more modern aerosol cans with printed labels.
The proprietor came forward. He was an old Negro at least seventy, bowed down with those years, with frizzled white hair. The girl spoke unintelligibly, and he nodded. He went to a shelf and brought down a small package of powder.
I looked around and saw a voodoo statue just like the one in the alcove whose offerings I had borrowed. This was a voodoo store! The shell-eyes of the figurine seemed to be watching me. I had taken its offerings; did it mean to punish me?
The proprietor said something, the girl answered—and I became aware that something was amiss between them. Something to do with the purchase. Haggling over the price?
The girl turned to me. "Por favor," she said pleadingly. So she was out of cash. Inflation was rampant here, I knew; prices could double in a few months. But of course that could happen back home too. If I could put a strangle on inflation and wipe it out-but no judo hold could do that, unfortunately.
I turned out my pocket and produced the seventy-seven black pennies. "That's all I have-but if it'll help..."
The proprietor shook his head. Not enough. Not surprising. The girl gave a little sigh of resignation. She picked up her money, returned my pennies to me, and turned to go. "Espera
r!" the proprietor said. He held out the package. He was agreeing to the price after all.
We paid our money and accepted the package. On the way out, my eye caught that of the idol again, and it gave me the shivers all over again. I was acutely conscious of the source of my limited wealth. The voodoo god did know!
The girl saw my glance, and nodded knowingly. "Umbanda," she repeated.
Oh. Maybe that was the name of the voodoo god, my benefactor.
Ah, well. "Umbanda," I agreed. "Where to now, Oba?" I expected her to return to her bandstand. It had been a pleasant little interlude, and I was glad to have helped her, but I had other concerns to attend to. Such as finding Dulce before the D.S. found me.
The girl gave a start and glanced at me as if I'd goosed her. She stood at the edge of the throng, looking across it at her stand. I saw that another girl had taken it over. She looked down at her package, then again at me. She shrugged, making a decision. "Vir," she said, taking my hand.
It looked as though she had adopted me. Well...
We sidled along between the stores and the crowd. Now it was dusk, and the lights were coming on. I had spent the whole afternoon in my wandering.
The carnival showed no sign of abating. If anything, it intensified into a seeming frenzy as the darkness enveloped the city. Colored lanterns bobbed in bright waves, swung by dancers. Many were on tall poles, and looked heavy, so the dancers had to be strong and skilled. Down the street was a whole group of lights, an organized band of dancers twirling them. Each person had a sort of leather belt like an apron, with a place to catch the bottom of the pole, and they swung it with their hands to make it twirl and wave. Very pretty, singly and in concert. Despite my predicament, I was getting to like Rio. But now my Oba-girl seemed to have lost interest.
Amazon Slaughter and Curse of the Ninja Piers Anthony Page 10