Ann tossed her head as if to show what she thought about that comment.
Thirty-one
Avenida Oceânica extends all the way from the lighthouse in Barra, the district located on the southwest tip of Salvador, to the Rio Vermelho district. Both areas are relatively prosperous, dominated by the middle class, but with small favelas here and there too.
On the avenue one of three parades takes place in February during Carnival, the world’s biggest outdoor party, which goes on for a week.
The parade in Barra, starting just south of the harbor, is dominated by whites, a number of them coming from São Paulo and Rio, who pay to be part of a bloco, one of the sections that make up the parade. Each bloco is led by a gigantic trailer with musicians and singers, followed by those who have the money to buy a T-shirt or costume to participate. Those holding the ropes that keep out those who don’t have the money are overwhelmingly black, as are the observers crowded on the sidewalks.
Preparations for Carnival starts weeks in advance. Along the entire parade route bleachers are set up where for 100 or 200 dollars you can buy a seat. An inconceivable expense for most.
Carnival had become business. Brant preferred the one in Pelourinho, the historic part of the city, which is more like a folk festival, where people drink beer, splurge on trinkets, dance, listen to music at a couple of permanent stages or by groups of musicians that wander through the narrow, cobbled alleys.
At eight o’clock in the morning Anders Brant and Ivaldo Assis got into a taxi on Avenida Oceânica. Before that they had coffee, which they bought from a woman who had set up a portable stand, some thermoses, and a pile of plastic mugs, on the sidewalk.
The coffee was too sweet, but Anders Brant suspected he would need energy to survive the day.
Right across the street, on the shore promenade, the white, or half-white, Salvadoran middle class was running in brand-name shoes and fluttering linen. They silently observed the joggers; nothing needed to be said. Pointing out that a pair of Nikes cost as much as a minimum monthly wage was unnecessary. Brant knew that, and Assis had experienced it.
The taxi ride was short, the jail was only a few blocks from Campo Grande, and when Brant paid he said something to the effect that they might as well have walked. It struck him that Assis probably seldom took a taxi, and perhaps he liked getting out of a taxi in front of the entry to the jail where his nephew Vincente was imprisoned. It looked good; maybe he hoped that someone on the staff would notice the arrival.
Besides, his comment might be taken to mean that he thought he was wasting money on an unnecessary taxi ride, and he was ashamed.
“But a little air conditioning was nice,” he said. It was hot and sticky outside and the taxi’s air conditioning had cooled them for a few minutes.
The jail, one of forty-two in Salvador, was a circular structure whose exterior did not reveal anything surprising. It was also surprisingly calm, both outside the entrance and in the small reception room into which they stepped. Anders Brant had expected groups of relatives, police cars arriving to drop off persons under arrest, agitated voices, and heart-wrenching scenes.
In the room a wall-mounted TV was blasting out a cooking show. The program host was white, of course. The picture rolled, but no one bothered to adjust it. It was on simply because that was Brazil; something has to make noise.
There were three small open booths, like in a Swedish pharmacy, where the arrested person was admitted and where the general public could also report crimes. Only one booth was manned, which reinforced the quiet impression.
Everyone’s eyes were turned toward Brant and Assis. Everyone took it for granted that the gringo had been robbed or the victim of some other crime, and that the older man would help him, possibly submit information important to the case.
Ivaldo Assis stood passively, perhaps expecting that Anders Brant would act, which he had no intention of doing. It was Ivaldo who had taken the initiative, and it was his relative they were going to visit.
After a period of mutual indecision, the official in the booth waved them up.
“Good morning,” Assis began. “Is everything okay?”
The policeman nodded, somewhat nonchalant but still curious.
“This gentleman has an important errand,” Assis continued.
His white shirt was already stained dark with sweat.
The police turned his eyes toward Brant.
“If it’s a report, then it’s better if you talk with the federal police,” he said, in an attempt to avoid paperwork and other inconvenience.
“It’s not about a report, but a visit,” Brant explained.
“Wednesday is visiting day,” the policeman interrupted. “You can come back next week.”
“By then I will have left the country,” said Brant quietly.
“Then that takes care of it automatically.”
Brant knew from experience that it was pointless to get worked up. It was crucial to preserve dignity and remain polite.
“It’s about a murder,” he said.
Consciously he had raised his voice to capture the other policemen’s attention; one of them had retrieved a chair and was fiddling with the TV.
The policeman got down from the chair and came up to the odd duo.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
“Vincente Assis,” said Brant.
The policeman nodded, as if to confirm that he recognized the name and was interested in continuing.
He was solidly built, more dark than light, with the sleeves of his T-shirt rolled up, perhaps to show the swelling biceps, and his gaze was alert. I must gain the man’s confidence, thought Brant, choosing his words with the greatest care.
“I witnessed an incident that was shocking, a man died before my eyes. I would like to visit Vincente and with my own eyes see if he is the one I believe.”
“And who are you?” the policeman asked, turning toward Ivaldo.
“Ivaldo Assis.”
“Father of Vincente?”
“Uncle. It was my son Arlindo who died.”
The policeman’s expression did not reveal what he was thinking, but with a head movement indicated that they should follow him.
They passed a door, following a passageway that looped in an arc between the windows on the one side and small rooms on the opposite. Anders Brant was reminded of a roundhouse. A number of doors were open, Brant looked in and was met by indifferent eyes.
The policeman stopped suddenly and opened a door.
“Here we won’t be disturbed,” he said. “This is actually our lunchroom.”
They sat down at a small, wobbly table.
“You want to see Vincente?”
Brant nodded.
“To identify him.”
“You witnessed the incident, you say. Why didn’t you come forward earlier?”
“I was in shock,” said Brant, but realized at once that this was not a good answer. “And then, I didn’t want to get involved. The incident was tragic but didn’t concern me directly. But since then things have changed so that-”
“You speak excellent Portuguese,” the policeman interrupted. “Do you live here permanently?”
“No.”
“Do you have problems with your visa? Was that why you didn’t want to talk with the police?”
“All my papers are in order,” Brant answered, making a motion to take his passport out of his money belt, but the policeman waved dismissively.
“We’ll deal with that later,” he said, getting up quickly. “I’m going to take you down to the cells. You will get to see Vincente, but you may not speak with him. I want you to point at him. After that we can sort this out. Senhor Assis, you can wait here.”