Blinking, he looked at Norival laid out on the bed, holding the wilted flowers.
It was not yet dark, but the rain made the candles bright in the small room.
“Orlando, we must think of something.”
“Queima de arquivo,” Fletch said. “I am learning Portuguese.”
“Truly,” Orlando said. “We must do something. We must move him.”
“His boat,” Toninho said.
“Yes.” Orlando shook his head solemnly. “His boat. Who now will want his boat?”
“Exactly,” Toninho said.
“Exactly what?” Tito asked.
Fletch took his drink from the bottle and handed it back across Norival to Orlando.
“Clearly.” Toninho spoke slowly, carefully. “Norival died on his boat.”
“Clearly.” Tito looked at Norival as if for agreement. “Norival would have liked that.”
Orlando said, “I think Norival was satisfied enough with the way he died.”
“But we can say he died on his boat, Orlando,” Tito said.
“Off his boat,” Toninho corrected him. “He died off his boat. He drowned. That should prevent an autopsy.”
“Yes,” Tito said. “Poor Norival drowned. That should make his mother happy.”
“You’re all crazy,” Fletch said.
“But Toninho,” Tito asked, “how do we get Norival to his boat? It is way down in the harbor. There is a gate to the docks. Guards. There are always guards at the gate.”
Again there was silence, as they considered the gate and guards leading to the dock where Norival’s boat was.
Toninho took the bottle of whiskey from Orlando and finished it. “We walk him.”
He placed the empty whiskey bottle on the bed, within Norival’s reach.
Tito said something in Portuguese.
“We walk him right by the guards.”
Orlando said, “This is a night the dead walk.”
“Broomsticks.” Toninho’s eyes were now fully open. He was
speaking perfectly clearly. “Jurema must have brooms.”
Tito looked at the floor. “I sincerely doubt that, Toninho.”
“Everyone has brooms. Tito, you get rope and rig a harness around Norival’s chest. Under his arms. Orlando, you get brooms from Dona Jurema and saw them down to size. You know? So they will fit from the harness under his arms to his waist, so we can hold him up. We need some thick thread for his legs.” Orlando and Tito were studying Toninho carefully with their eyes, putting all this together. Toninho jumped up. “There is a book of tide tables in the glove compartment of the car. I shall figure out exactly where Norival must drown to come ashore and be found in the morning.”
“His wallet is in the car, too, Toninho,” Tito said. “In the glove compartment. Norival must wear his wallet when he drowns, so when they find him in the morning, they will know who he is.”
“Otherwise they will not report the body,” Orlando said.
“They will report the body fast enough, if it’s a Passarinho,” Tito said. “Norival Passarinho.”
“You help too, Fletch. You get Norival’s clothes, including his shirt.”
“You’re all crazy,” Fletch said. “What if we get caught with a corpse?”
Standing over Norival, Tito rubbed his own hands together. “Not a worry, Norival,” he said. “We’ll see that you died decently.”
Sixteen
“Drive carefully, Toninho,” Tito said. “We don’t want an accident.”
Although he was not going fast, Toninho was not being all that successful at keeping the black four-door Galaxie to the right. They were swerving down the wet, twisting mountainside road. It was now fully dark. A Volkswagen, climbing the road, had just blared its horn at them.
“We don’t want to be stopped by the police,” Orlando said.
“Drive as if you are driving a hearse,” Tito advised.
“I am driving a hearse,” Toninho said, swinging the wheel too much.
At Dona Jurema’s, Orlando had sawed two broomsticks down to size. Tito bound Norival’s chest with a rope harness. Toninho studied the tide tables and decided exactly where Norival was to drown in the South Atlantic Ocean. Together they fit the broomsticks into the harness and then dressed Norival.
While watching them carry Norival out of the old plantation house, Dona Jurema said to Fletch, “Come Tuesday. I’ll have a corpse for you.”
“Cancel the order,” Fletch said. “We have a corpse.”
Toninho sniffed. “Norival is not that sort of corpse.”
As they swerved down the mountainside, Norival sat propped up in the backseat between Tito and Orlando. The broomsticks were not visible beneath his shirt.
When they came to the first flat, wide road on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro, Tito reminded Toninho again to drive slowly, to stay to the right. Toninho drove very slowly. Even two children on roller skates passed them.
Toninho looked through the rearview mirror. “Norival never looked better. He holds his head up nicely.”
The car swerved a little.
“Careful, Toninho,” Tito clucked.
“The way he died, he should,” Orlando said. “Not everybody—”
From behind them came the sound of a police siren.
“Oh, oh,” Toninho said.
“Go fast, Toninho!” Tito said. “We have a corpse in the car!”
“No, no,” Orlando said. “Stop.”
The result of following these conflicting orders was that the car shot forward a few meters and then bucked to a stop.
On the backseat, Norival rolled forward. His head struck against the back of the front seat.
“Oh, Norival!” Tito said in exasperation.
“It’s all right,” Orlando said, pulling Norival back into a sitting position. “He won’t bleed.”
“Quick!” Toninho said. “Open his eyes! He looks more real that way!”
Orlando reached over with his fingers and opened Norival’s eyes.
The police car drew alongside.
Apparently staring straight ahead through the windshield, Norival’s eyes gleamed with a wicked joy.
“What did I do wrong?” Toninho asked. “These people have no respect for the dead!”
The conversation with the policeman of course was in Portuguese.
While it was going on, Fletch sat perfectly still in the front seat, trying not to look interested or concerned.
After they drove away from the policeman, Toninho, Orlando and Tito, choking with laughter, repeated the conversation in English for Fletch.
Policeman: Why are you driving so slowly?
Toninho: It’s Carnival, sir. I don’t want to hit any revelers.
Policeman: No one else is driving so slowly.
Toninho: Perhaps no one else is as good a citizen as I, sir.
Policeman: Back there, you swerved. You almost hit a parked car.
Toninho: I sneezed.
Policeman: God bless you, my son.
Toninho: Thank you, sir.
Policeman, shining his flashlight around the inside of the car, finally leaving it for a moment on Norival’s joyfully beaming, unblinking face: Why does that guy look so happy?
Toninho: He always looks that way during Carnival, sir.
Policeman: Is he stoned?
Toninho, whispering: He’s not all there, sir.
Policeman: Oh. Well, drive faster.
Toninho: Yes, sir.
“Tito, you stay with the car. Drive to where I showed you on the map. The beach. We’ll be there in a few hours.”
Correct. They had driven by the gates to the dock where Norival’s boat was. The gates were closed and locked. Not one but three guards stood at the gate chatting, two outside and one inside.
They drove up the street and parked the car against the curb.
It had stopped raining. The moon was threatening to come out.