“Traveling?” The manager’s voice was almost alarmed.
He continued to look out over the water, hesitating, dangling the bait. “You mentioned São Paulo. Do you think...?”
“São Paulo? You would love it!” the manager said in positive relief. “And there I am definitely in a position to help you! I have a very good friend there; he is not without influence.” He smiled elastically. “Definitely not without influence. When are you thinking of going?”
“Soon,” Ari said, overwhelmed by the effusive response to his simple statement, but also extremely satisfied. They seemed anxious for him to meet this person in São Paulo; he was equally anxious. With the reporters leaving him alone, it seemed that the time was ripe to move on to the next step.
Mathais leaned forward confidentially; they had become good friends in the past few days. “You know,” he said, lowering his voice, “you are not unknown here.” Ari’s raised eyebrows brought an immediate definition of this statement. “No, no!” the manager said in a whisper that was almost vehement. “I was not referring to... I was referring to your feelings about—” he looked around him — “about, ah... Jews!” He surveyed the room again, his rubber face running a gamut of secretive expressions. “Nor,” he added explosively, “does everyone disagree with you!” He apparently reconsidered this statement and found it weak, or at least indecisive. “I mean,” he said, quiet once again, looking Ari in the eye, “there are many who agree with you.”
“Of course many people agree with me,” Ari said disdainfully.
“I mean,” said the manager, attempting to put significance into his tone, “here in Brazil!”
Ari looked at him searchingly. “Just what are you trying to say?”
The manager once again looked about him before leaning closer. “There is an organization here that I think you should meet,” he said. “I think it would be to your mutual benefit to talk with them. In São Paulo. This friend I told you about...” His voice trailed off; his eyes quickly darted over his shoulder.
I wish he wouldn’t steal glances over his shoulder in an empty restaurant, Ari thought with some irritation; he’s like a little child. However, I come not to judge Caesar, but to bury him. He nodded his head, indicating unabated interest.
“When are you thinking of going?” Mathais asked, straightening up in his chair, and sounding more normal.
“In a few days,” Ari said in an offhand manner. “I have a few things to arrange yet, but nothing that should take more than a day or so. When I go I shall be very happy to meet your friend.”
“Fine!” the manager cried, and immediately dropped his voice as if he had breached the rules of secrecy. “I will give you a letter of presentation, and also his telephone number. You must call him as soon as you arrive.” He arose, glancing at his wrist watch. “It is much later than I thought. You go now to sleep?”
“A short walk along the beach first, I think,” Ari said, also arising. “It is a very hot night, and a walk in the breeze from the beach should be good.”
“Fine!” Mathais said. “If you would care for a brandy before retiring, please drop into my apartment when you get back.”
“I may do that,” Ari said with a smile. “In any event, I shan’t be long.” They parted at the steps, and Ari walked down the steps and out into the night. He crossed the Avenida Atlantica to the ocean side, dodging the heavy automobile traffic, and fell into step with the other strollers taking the air. It was a warm muggy evening, and the walk was crowded. Couples filled the stone benches that lined the shallow sea wall, others plodded below through the rough sand. The tide was out; the whisper of the small breakers was lost in the noise of the traffic sounds, the happy talk, the laughter. He was aware that the shadow Da Silva had set upon him had crossed behind him and was trailing along. What he was not aware of was that he was heading a procession.
About two blocks from the hotel, facing the city, the curve of the beach brought into sharp silhouette the tip of Pão de Açúcar, glittering in the distant dark of night with a myriad glow of tiny lights. Before I leave, Ari thought idly, I shall have to visit that rock. I remember it the day I came, and after four days here, I really have no excuse for not having visited it. He strolled along easily, the top of Sugar Loaf lifting itself from behind the nearer hills as he walked. They say that the view from Sugar Loaf is even better than from Corcovado, he thought. And they say that it is at its best at night, on a clear night, with no clouds. He paused in sudden thought. Why not go right now? I’m not sleepy; it is a beautifully clear night; it should be wonderful. His decision so quickly made, he edged to the curb, raising his hand for a taxi.
“Luck,” said the driver of the cab that had been trailing him slowly in the heavy traffic since he had left the hotel.
“About time,” said his passenger.
“But still luck,” the driver insisted.
“Bad luck,” said his passenger grimly. “For him.”
The taxi swung to the curb, cutting sharply in front of an open roadster loaded with young children. Ari opened the door and was halfway in before he noticed that the cab was occupied. He started to back out, apologizing, when a hard hand grasped his arm and he found himself dragged brutally into the back seat. The door was viciously slammed; they shot out into traffic.
“What—” Ari began, too startled at first to be frightened.
“Shut up!” said his fellow passenger in grim determination in English. “Just shut up, Mr. Busch!” He tightened his grip on Ari’s arm, suddenly squeezing with tremendous force. The pain was excruciating; Ari felt faint and nauseated. The grip relaxed a bit. “One sound,” said the other threateningly, “one sound and you can have it here and now!” He leaned toward the driver, retaining his fierce grip on Art’s arm. “Davi will be waiting on the corner of Rainha Elizabeth. Turn around as soon as you can and head back.”
The driver nodded his head in casual agreement and pulled to the left, cutting directly across traffic, his hand out, waiting for a break in the long line of cars to enable him to enter a side street and double back. Horns blared raucously behind him; he fluttered the fingers of his outstretched hand negligently, and then gracefully shot through an opening into a cross street. The pressure was renewed on Ari’s arm, enough to constitute an unspoken warning. “Just sit still, Mr. Busch,” the hard-faced man said quietly. They pulled around the block and once again eased into the stream of traffic on Avenida Atlantica, this time heading south.
At the corner of Rainha Elizabeth the cab pulled abruptly to the right, slowing down until it was almost stopped. A waiting figure tore open the rear door and shoved his way into the back seat, crowding Ari and his captor to one side. The driver swung around a cab that had started to slow down ahead of them, and picking up speed, headed down Rainha Elizabeth in the direction of Arpoador and the wide beach road leading south out of the city.
“Well, well,” said the newcomer, twisting around in his seat to get a good look at Ari. “So you finally got him, eh?” He was a husky, deeply tanned young man in his late twenties; an open sport shirt with sleeves rolled up to the shoulders revealed massive arms.
“Finally is right,” said the other grimly. “Four days we waited!”
Ari squirmed in his seat, feeling it was time to assert himself, to discover what was going on. “Now see here...” he began, attempting to sound more assured than he felt; but a sudden increase in the pressure made him swallow his words in a gulp of pain.
“When we want you to talk, you’ll talk,” said the hard-faced man beside him viciously. He leaned forward to the driver again, never relinquishing Ari’s arm. “Out toward Gavea, Avram,” he said. “The beach road to Leblon, and then the Avenida Niemeyer. When we get to Gavea I’ll tell you where to turn off. I know just the place.” He turned back to Ari. They were rolling along the broad palm-lined highway, well within the speed limit. The driver, Avram, was humming a little tune; to any passing car they must have presented a picture of three friends out to take the air on a hot night, or on their way to a beach bar for a late drink.