“Now you must help us think,” said Tito.
“I don’t think I can,” said Fletch. “Someone I know who is alive has disappeared. Other people tell me I died forty-seven years ago and must name my murderer. I haven’t slept. I am drunk with the sound of the drums. Norival has died and disappeared. Everything is becoming less real. How can I answer if I don’t understand?”
They had walked half the length of the parade route.
Fletch stopped. “I must go back.”
“Yes,” said Tito. “He must see Santos Lima parade.”
“You will tell us if you think of anything?” Toninho asked.
“Sure.”
“Now we cannot fish the whole ocean hoping to catch the corpse of Norival,” Orlando said.
“We’ll telephone you,” Toninho said. “Tomorrow, after the parade is over.”
If it were not for his wounds, Fletch would have been willing to believe that finally he fell asleep and dreamed the most horrible dream.
As it was, later he was unsure of when he had been conscious and when he had been unconscious.
Dizzy with sleeplessness, having somewhat the sensation of intoxication from the constant sound of Carnival drums, perhaps staggering a little, alone he began to walk back along the parade route to Teodomiro da Costa’s box. His eyelids were heavy, his vision diminished in that glaring light. The Abra-Alas of Escola Santos Lima passed by, the first alegoria reminding the spectators to expect a literary theme. The walk back to da Costa’s box seemed as big a chore as crossing all Brazil on foot. He was aware of the passing of the Commisão de Frente. He stopped, swaying, trying to focus in the glare on the dancing of the Porta Bandeira and the Mestre Sala. Their dance steps were too quick, too intricate for him to follow with his eyes. At the first ala, he staggered forward again, only dimly aware of the passing of the thousands of dancing, singing people, the swirling costumes and flesh to his right.
Once back in Teo’s box he would curl into a corner and sleep. For only an hour. People might be amazed or insulted at his sleeping during Carnival Parade, but he could not help it. He would arrange with Laura to wake him after an hour so people would not be too insulted. Even in that noise, he could, he had to sleep.
Just as he was comforting himself with this decision, using it to strengthen him to make it all the way back to Teo’s box, strong hands pushed suddenly and hard against his left shoulder.
Instead of looking at who had pushed him, Fletch tried to save himself from falling. The edge of the parade route’s pavement shot out from under him.
Someone pushed him again.
He fell to his right, into the parade.
A foot came up from the pavement and kicked him in the face.
Staggering from the blow, arms raised to protect his head, he looked around him. He was just inside the edge of perhaps a hundred young men doing their murderous, practiced kick-dancing. A foot landed flat against his stomach. Immediately, the air was gone from Fletch’s lungs. Gasping, he tried to duck sideways, back to the edge of the parade.
Again he was pushed, hard.
Spinning, he fell more deeply into the group of capoeiristas. He was surrounded by fast-moving, swinging legs striking at crotch height, stomach height, shoulder height, head height. A blow landed against the back of his right knee. He fell against someone. All around him flashed intense eyes. Aw, shit, was in Fletch’s head, I’m messing up their presentation. A damned North American, a tourist. He was being kicked from all sides. The eyes of the capoeiristas were seeing him, popping in amazement at his being there, but usually only after they had pirouretted, when it was too late for them to stop their momentum, avoid kicking him.
I don’t belong here.
Someone had pushed him into the capoeira troupe, not just once but three times. Whoever pushed him doubtlessly was still between him and the edge of the parade. Arms over his head, Fletch ducked. Keeping as low as possible, he began to scurry across the parade route to the far side, toward the stands.
A hard kick in the stomach lifted him off his feet. He came down hard on his left foot. He kept moving forward, through the muscular bare backs shining with sweat, the wildly flailing legs, balancing arms. Without air or the ability to breathe, he felt he was drowning in an ocean of churning arms and legs. The sound of the drums, the sound of the men singing in short, practiced phrases, rushed in his ears. He was being kicked and kicked. Even the gray pavement of the parade route was heaving beneath his feet.
He didn’t see the foot that came up from the pavement and kicked him in his face. A cracking noise blasted his ears as his head snapped up and back.
A firm hand against his waist ejected him from the parade.
There was hard-packed earth beneath his feet. The capoeiristas were now a meter behind him.
Blood was on his hands. From his nose and ears and mouth blood was pouring down inside and outside his white shirt. It disappeared into his red sash.
He turned, half-conscious, to see if he could spot whoever had pushed him into the capoeira troupe.
The Ala das Baianas was passing by. A few of the tall black women in long white robes saw him, grimaced at his bloody appearance as they sambaed to the edge of the pavement and turned back.
His eyes wanted to close. He knew he had to go to ground somewhere.
Clutching his ribs, he turned toward the stands. A few people were pointing to him. Most were moving their heads, their shoulders to look beyond him, at the parade.
He staggered, fell toward the stands.
People he approached on the bottom tiers of seats stood up in horror at his appearance, to get away from him. Maybe one or two women were screaming. A few men were shouting at him, angrily, pointing at him. He could not hear the women screaming or the men shouting. He could only see their mouths move.
He knelt down and put his head and shoulders between the second and third tiers of seats. Whoever had pushed him into the capoeiristas had intended murder. Perhaps he had succeeded. Chances were good he would follow his quarry until he was sure he had killed him. His head under the seats, Fletch reached out, grabbed a couple of metal uprights and pulled himself through.
Fletch crawled beneath the stands.
He lay on his back on the dirt, the bottoms of the seats, the bottoms of the spectators just above him. He had been kicked in the stomach so many times he could not breathe.
Vomiting turned him over, got him up on his knees, got him gagging, breathing again. Blood from his nose and lips joined the more forceful stream of vomit.
On his knees, he backed away from his mess.
Stomach muscles quivering from the blows, arms and legs shaking, he remained on hands and knees coughing, trying to clear his throat of vomit and blood.
A meter ahead of him, the people who had risen from their seats, allowing him to crawl under the stands, were sitting in their seats again, pounding their feet like pistons again in rhythm to the drums, cheering on the biggest and most amazing human spectacle in the world except war. Fletch knew they could not hear him retching and choking. He could not hear himself. He was sure his appearance to them was as unreal as the rest of the spectacle they were watching.
After a while he crawled backward farther to give himself more headroom, more air.
Sitting cross-legged then, he put his head back to try to stop the bleeding from his nose. He remembered the crack he had heard when he got that final kick in the face. He did not think his neck was broken, nor his back, nor his head.