And the competition is most strictly judged, and therefore, of course, always the subject of much controversy.
As Fletch heard the Tap Dancers discuss these matters, which school had the best song for this year, possibly the best costumes and floats, as they knew of them, the best drummers and dancers, which did win and might have won last year, the year before, he heard the names and snatches of the songs that were now being heard everywhere, on the streets, from the radio and television. Months before Carnival, the new song of each samba school is offered the people like a campaign pledge and promoted like a political platform or an advertising slogan. The Tap Dancers discussed the various samba schools one by one, from the oldest, Mangueira, to one of the newest, Imperio da Tijuca; from one of the more traditional, Salgueiro, to the overpowering drum section of Mocidade Independent de Padre Miguel. Toninho seemed to think this year’s winner would be Portela, judging the song that school was offering and what he knew of the costumes. Orlando thought Imperatriz Leopodinense had the better song. Tito agreed with Toninho about Portela. Norival drank his beer, belched, and just said, “Beija-Florr
Fletch wiped the sweat off his skin with his rolled-up shirt.
Breaking into English, Toninho said, looking through the rearview mirror, “Fletch, you should hope for Santos Lima to win.”
“Then I do.” Leaning forward, Norival gave Fletch a lopsided look. “But why should I?”
“You used to live there. That was your place. That is where Janio Barreto lived. And was murdered.”
For a moment, there was silence in the car.
Then Orlando began humming the song offered this year by Imperio da Tijuca.
“Orlando! Toninho!”
In the mountains, they had driven down a deeply shaded drive and pulled into the sunlight-filled parking area in front of an old run-down plantation house.
Immediately there appeared on the front porch of the house an enormous woman, a good three hundred pounds, her arms out in either greeting or sufferance, in the identical posture of Christ the Redeemer.
“Good Lord,” Fletch said when he saw her through the car window.
Orlando and Toninho had gotten out of the front seat and opened the back doors.
The other side of the car, clearly Norival did not care whether he moved.
Fletch got out his side of the car. The mountain air was cooler on his skin; but, still, the sun was biting.
Around the corner of the house appeared a skinny young teenage girl dressed only in shorts. Her eyes seemed as sunken as in a skeleton’s skull.
“Tito?” the woman shouted.
Tito got out of the car, grinning.
The other side of the car, Norival lumbered out, went quickly to the bushes not far away, and relieved himself.
Then behind the enormous woman imitating a statue there appeared a real statue, a mulata, a girl six foot four easily, perfectly proportioned, an amazing example of humanity. Her shoulders were broad, her waist narrow, her legs long. Each of her breasts was as large and as full as an interior Brazilian mountain seen from the air. Each of her eyes was bigger than a fist and darker than a moonless night. Her black hair was long and flowing. Her skin was the color and texture of flowing copper. Dressed only in slit shorts and high-heeled shoes, she moved like a goddess in no great hurry to go out and sow the seeds of humanity upon a field. This amazing creature, this animate statue, smiled at them.
Fletch gulped.
“You brought me someone new!” the fat older woman yelled in English. “Is he North American? He is so beautiful!”
“He has special problems, Dona Jurema,” Toninho laughed. “He has special needs!”
“My God,” Fletch said. “Where am I?”
Tito punched Fletch’s bicep. “At a different height in heaven.”
Twelve
“Tricked,” Fletch said. “A little place we know in the mountains. You guys have brought me to a brothel.”
Towels wrapped around their waists, he and Toninho were sitting in long chairs in the shade near the swimming pool. The back of the plantation house was even more dilapidated than the front. Paint was thin and chipped. The back door was lopsided on its hinges. The flower borders had gone years untended. Lilies grew in the swimming pool.
“Very relaxing,” Toninho said. “I did say it was very relaxing.”
“So why do the well-loved Tap Dancers need a brothel?”
“Everyone needs a few uncomplicated relationships, no? To relax.”
They had entered the plantation house, each being fondled by the massive Dona Jurema as he passed her, her laugh volcanic, her fat layered like lava. The younger woman, Eva, smiling happily, stood aside, looking even more Amazonian inside the house. They had crossed the scarred foyer, gone through a large, vomit-smelling dark ballroom turned into a tavern, and out the back door.
Coming again into the sunlight, each of the Tap Dancers dropped his shorts and plunged into the swimming pool. With the encouragement of Dona Jurema and the smiles of Eva, Fletch had followed suit.
There were five white towels waiting for them when they came out of the pool. Their shorts had been piled neatly on a table near the back door.
The skinny young teenage girl brought them a tray with five glasses of cachaça and a sugar bowl.
Norival downed his cachaça in a gulp, asked for another, and collapsed on a long chair on the long side of the pool.
Tito was doing disciplined laps in the pool, stroking through the lily pads.
Orlando went into the house.
“What is that new North American verb?” Toninho asked. “Interact. It is tiresome having always to interact, especially with women. The women here do not expect anything so profound as interaction.”
Dona Jurema came through the back door and let herself down the steps like a big bag of glass.
“So good of you to come, Toninho,” she said. “Not many of the girls are up. Ah, it’s a hot day. We had a busy night. We will have lunch for you in a while.”
“This man.” Toninho put his hands on Fletch’s forearm. “This man has special needs.”
Jurema beamed at Fletch. “It would be a sin if he is having difficulties.”
“He is not having difficulties, I think,” Toninho said. “Are you, Fletch?”
“Only with the cachaça.” He put his glass down on the burned-out grass.
“A special need I’m sure you can satisfy, Jurema.”
Arms akimbo, the woman shrugged her shoulders. It was a seismic upheaval. “We can satisfy any need. Why, an Air Force General we had here—”
“Toninho,” Fletch said. “I have no special needs.”
“But you do,” Toninho said. “A very special need. I am your friend. It is important to me that your special need be fulfilled.”
“I need sleep,” Fletch said, leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes.
“I know what you need.” Solemnly, Toninho said, “My friend needs a corpse.”
Fletch’s eyes popped open. His head snapped up. “What?”
“I said you need a corpse. For the purpose of copulation.” To Jurema, he said, “My friend has the great need to make love to a corpse.”
Jurema was not laughing. She was answering Toninho in rapid Portuguese. Her eyes, her face, her voice bespoke someone doing business.