“I don’t think so. We went through the hospital for that district. Teo says I just must wait.”
“Waiting is hard.”
“That’s not why I came to see you. As I said on the phone, I have not slept since Thursday.”
“No one sleeps during Carnival.” Then Marilia said, “So I guess you don’t want any coffee.”
“No, thanks. Do you know about this old woman who says I am her murdered husband come-back-to-life?”
“Someone mentioned something about it, the other night at Teo’s.” Marilia glanced at her word processor. “You tell me about it.”
“Okay.” On the divan, Fletch put his hands under his thighs. “When you, Laura, and I were having that drink at the café on Avenida Atlantica, Friday afternoon, an old woman in a long white dress came along the sidewalk and apparently saw me. She stopped near the curb. She stared at me until we left. Did you happen to notice her?”
“I’m ashamed to say I didn’t.”
“She was behind you.”
“Is the old woman the reason you disappeared under the table?”
“No. That was because of this other woman, from California, who walked down the street just then. I was surprised to see her.”
“The woman who has since disappeared?”
“Yes.”
Marilia got up and checked her word processor, scanned the processed manuscript.
“When Laura and I entered the forecourt of The Yellow Parrot, this old hag jumped out of the bushes at us. She was screaming and pointing her finger at me. Laura talked to her calmly.” Marilia sat down again and listened to Fletch expressionlessly. “The old woman said that she recognized me. In an earlier life, I had been her husband, Janio Barreto. That forty-seven years ago, at about my present age, I had been murdered. And now I must tell her who it was who had murdered me.”
Marilia said nothing.
Fletch said, “Laura said, ‘Clearly you will not rest until you do.’”
“And you have not rested.”
“I have not slept.”
“You think the old woman has put a curse on you?”
“Marilia, she hangs around outside my hotel, accosts me every time I go in or go out. She brought her great-grandchildren to the hotel to meet me. This morning she was there on the sidewalk, yelling at me and shaking some kind of a voodoo doll at me.”
“A calunga doll.”
“Whatever.”
The word processor finished its work and turned itself off.
Marilia said, “An interesting story.”
“No one will help me to understand,” Fletch said. “Otavio Cavalcanti will answer none of my questions, about anything. He just nods and says Yes. Teo says he doesn’t understand, doesn’t know what to do. I can’t understand whether Toninho Braga is making a joke out of it or whether there is some part of him that is serious. Worst of all, I can’t understand Laura at all. She’s an intelligent woman, a concert pianist. She seems to have no curiosity about my background, but she seems to give this Janio Barreto matter some credence.”
Marilia sighed. “Ah, Brazil.”
“I can’t tell if everyone here is playing some kind of an elaborate joke, a trick on me.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. Laura says I won’t rest until I reveal this murderer, and I haven’t. Teo seems to say he is not surprised I am not sleeping. The Tap Dancers just don’t expect me to sleep. How can I figure out what happened in Rio de Janeiro a generation before I was born? Am I to die of sleeplessness?”
“Did the old woman say you wouldn’t sleep until you answered her?”
“I don’t know. Laura talked to her. In Portuguese that was way above my head. I believe the old woman did say so. Why else would Laura have said so?”
“And you believe all this?”
“Of course not. But I’m nearly going crazy with sleeplessness.”
Marilia’s eyes traveled around the stacks of books in her study. “What’s the question?”
“First, could this all be an immense practical joke Laura and the Tap Dancers are playing on me? The Tap Dancers seemed to know all about it before they ever met me.”
“Could be,” Marilia said.
“They’re all friends. I’m the foreigner. Surely it is easy enough to hire an old woman, some children, a ten-year-old boy on a wooden leg?”
Marilia frowned. “A small boy on a wooden leg?”
“Yes. Supposedly the great-grandson. Named Janio Barreto, of course.”
Marilia said, softly: “Or it could be that you are Janio Barreto, and you were murdered decades ago, and you have come back to Rio to reveal who murdered you.”
Fletch stared at her. “Are you in on this, too?”
“Fletcher, my new friend from North America, you must understand that most of the people in this world believe in reincarnation, in one form or another.” Marilia stood up and went to her word processor.
She began to tear and stack the pages of her manuscript.
“Marilia, may I point out to you that while you and I have been sitting in this room talking about ghosts and curses and calunga dolls, a magnificent, modern piece of technology quietly has been typing your manuscript in the corner?”
“This will not be read in your country.” She placed the stack of new pages under a manuscript on her desk. “I am not translated and published in the United States of the North. The publishers, the people there have a different idea of reality, of what’s important, what affects people, what happens, of life and death.” She sat in her soft chair. “Have you at least had breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“Then what shall we do?”
“Tell me straight out if I should take this matter seriously.”
“It is serious, if you’re not sleeping. You can become quite ill from not sleeping. You can drive your car into a lamp post.”
“Marilia, nothing in my background prepares me for this. I was employed as an investigative reporter for a newspaper, dealing with real issues, police corruption—”
“This is not real?”
“Can it be real that I was murdered forty-seven years ago? That I have come back from the grave?”
Marilia chuckled. “It’s real that you’ve come back to Rio de Janeiro. It’s real that some old woman thinks so. It’s real that you’re not sleeping. Ah, Carnival!” Marilia said. “People go crazy during Carnival!”
“I don’t intend to be one of them.”
“Reconciling differing realities,” Marilia apparently quoted from somewhere. “What does your education and training, as an investigative journalist, tell you to do in a situation which perplexes you?”
Fletch thought a short moment. “Find out the story.”
“My training says that, too. So let’s go find out the story. Where do the Barreto family live?”
“Someone mentioned … Toninho mentioned … Santos Lima. Toninho said I had lived in the favela Santos Lima.”
“Let’s go there, then.” Marilia stood up and took a bunch of keys from her desk. “Let’s go find out the story.”
Twenty-two
“Have you ever been in a favela before?” Marilia asked.
“I have been in slums before. In Los Angeles, New York, Chicago.”
They had driven slowly past The Hotel Yellow Parrot. None of the Barreto family was at that time waiting in front of the hotel.
Fletch had parked the MP where Marilia told him to, on a city street a few blocks from the base of the favela.
“Last week, our industrial city of Sao Paulo produced ten thousand Volkswagen cars,” Marilia said. “And twelve thousand, eight hundred and fifty babies. That is the reality of Brazil.”
The favela of Santos Lima rose straight up a mountainside not all that far from the center of Rio de Janeiro. For the most part it was made of hovels stuck together by various materials, bits of lumber from here and there, packing crates, tar paper. A single roof might be made of over a hundred pieces of wood, tin, aluminum. A favorite patch was a flattened tin can nailed over a hole. A few were old, solid houses, all very small, and most of these had been painted at one time or another, purple, green, chartreuse. Some of the little stores, which mostly sold rice and beans and chope, looked somewhat permanent. As with most residential districts, the houses looked more solid, slightly more prosperous, the higher they were in the favela. The sewage from the higher houses flowed down muddy streets to settle under the lower houses.