“Contacts.” The tall, saturnine man smiled at him quickly, as if sharing a secret. He leaned forward again, patting the trembling leg. “Talk about it. What’s happened this past week? Tell me. You’ll feel better.”
Ari looked at the tanned face before him, pulling his thoughts together. In a daze he began to describe his activities during the past four days. As he talked, he found to his surprise that the tension seemed to ease; he actually found himself considering their problem rather than the cold horror he had felt at the possibility of facing death at the hands of his own people. “In São Paulo,” he heard himself say. “They want me to meet somebody in São Paulo. I was planning on going there in a few days.”
“They were probably waiting until you became less of a celebrity,” Da Silva said shrewdly. “Or possibly waiting until somebody returned who was away traveling.” He thought a while and then turned to the driver. “Better drop me off at my car,” he said. “Well try to speed things up.” He turned to Ari. “Do you feel all right for more action tonight?”
Ari nodded dumbly. “I feel better.”
“Good. We’ll speed things up, then. I’ll take you to your hotel personally. When we get there, let me do the talking.” He turned back to their driver. “Jardim de Allah, then.”
For the first time, Ari noticed that their driver was the nondescript man he had met at the American Embassy.
“Mr. Wilson,” he said in surprise. “I can’t thank you enough—”
“Thank Zé,” Wilson said, but there was a compassion in his voice that surprised the old man. Wilson turned past the Jockey Club and headed for the Jardim de Allah, his eyes smiling kindly at Ari in the rear-view mirror.
Chapter 11
It was after midnight when they finally came into the Mirabelle Hotel. Da Silva was holding Ari’s arm almost as if the old man were under arrest. The lobby was deserted; Mr. Mathais, the manager, was standing at the porter’s desk, speaking on the telephone. As soon as he saw them he dropped the phone on the hook and hurried forward.
“Herr Busch!” he cried with relief, his eyebrows twisting ferociously. “You are all right?” He looked up at Da Silva and his manner changed; stiffened. “What is the matter?” he asked coldly.
Da Silva smiled negligently, dropping Ari’s arm in the manner of one releasing something contaminated. He looked at the two of them with faint contempt. “When Mr. Busch first arrived in Rio,” he said quietly, “I explained to him that at times this could be a naughty city. Apparently he forgot my advice.” He turned to Ari, a look of disgust on his face. “You may not always be so lucky, Mr. Busch.
Someday I may not be around to save your neck. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to leave Brazil?” He paused and added significantly, “After paying your taxes, of course?”
“But what happened?” Mathais cried frantically.
“I was kidnapped,” Ari said dully. “Captain Da Silva rescued me.”
“Kidnapped?” Mathais was almost jumping. “Who? Why?”
“Some of Mr. Busch’s Jewish friends apparently decided to become irritated with him,” Da Silva said sarcastically.
“They do not seem to share everyone’s enthusiasm for his politics.”
“Jews?”
“They were Jews,” Ari said, his face white as he recalled the terrifying ride, the brutal hand on his arm, the glitter of the knife in the moonlight. “They were going to kill me.”
“I doubt that,” Da Silva said to the two of them with the tone one takes with a child awakening in the night with tales of dragons. “They were probably only going to reason with you.” He looked at Ari and Mathais with scarcely-concealed loathing. “I’m not sure that I shouldn’t have let them go ahead! For your own good, Mr. Busch, I suggest that you seriously consider my first proposition. Why don’t you leave Brazil? There seem to be people here who don’t want you around.” He glanced at his wrist watch, frowning at the late hour. “On our terms, of course. Telling us where the money is. Think it over.” He waved a hand at them almost flippantly and sauntered toward the door.
A sudden flame seemed to burn through the little man standing nervously at the porter’s desk. “You can’t frighten me!” Ari called after him in a burst of temper. “I’m not afraid of you! And I’m not afraid of Jews!” Da Silva stopped and looked back at the little man almost curiously. “I’m not!” Ari cried hysterically. “I’m not afraid of you!”
Da Silva watched this exhibition with a half-smile. “The story of my life,” he said with a shake of his head. “Nobody is afraid of me!” He started to chuckle, and let it grow into a loud laugh. The porter stood at his desk watching everything with open mouth. Mathais grasped Ari’s arm and tried to draw him away, but the little man seemed wound up, shaking; his voice trembled. “Ill leave Brazil when I want! Leave me alone! I’m not afraid of you!”
Da Silva started forward, worried by this sign of hysteria; then, shrugging his shoulders, he pushed through the heavy glass doors of the hotel and disappeared into the night. Mathais led the still-muttering Ari to a chair in one corner of the lounge and called hastily for brandy.
“What happened, for God’s sake!”
Ari sighed, and told him everything, starting with their conversation at dinner. For the effect he wished to create, the exact truth was perfect; in his nervous state it was impossible to doubt the truth of his story. “Jews!” he ended viciously. “They were going to kill me!”
Mathais nodded sympathetically, shaking his head. “You must leave Rio,” he said decisively. “You must go to São Paulo. You will be safe there.” He drank his glass of brandy in one gulp. “And something must be done about this Da Silva. He is too curious.”
Ari looked at him apathetically. “At least he saved my life.”
“Not because he wanted to,” Mathais pointed out. “Only because he wanted to know where.” He changed the subject. There was no need to bother Herr Busch with the problem of Captain Da Silva; the poor man had enough on his mind. Da Silva would be taken care of without the necessity of Herr Busch even knowing.
“Tomorrow,” Mathais suggested, “or better yet, the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow you must rest. I shall arrange plane passage and hotel space for you tonight, yet. And write you a letter of presentation to my friend.” He glanced at the wall clock; there were telephone calls to make. The suave consideration of mine host returned. “You had better go to bed. You have had a terrible time. But in São Paulo there will be nothing to worry about.” His eyebrows assumed terrible proportions. “I guarantee it!” Even in all of his weariness Ari could not help but look at the manager curiously. How Deutschland can you get? Ari thought. He arose slowly.
“I agree it would be best.” He sighed deeply, and also looked at the clock. “You have been most kind. The plane you arrange — not too early in the morning, yes?”
They shook hands before departing, again the tight saw-like motion, and Ari walked slowly to the elevator, his head beginning to pound. Behind him he left a very pleased hotel manager hurriedly dialing a telephone.
Caprice Paulista
Chapter 1
The long low car swung into the gasoline station, radio blaring stridently. The man curled comfortably in the corner of the front seat seemed to sleep blissfully despite the blast of music issuing from the dashboard. The driver, a tall, deeply tanned, smooth-shaven Brazilian, slid from behind the wheel, ordered the attendant to fill the tank and check the oil, and then went about the car gently kicking the tires. His brilliantly flowered shirt excited no attention; what had once been the distinctive badge of the American tourist had become, through the persistent medium of Hollywood and Technicolor, the standard uniform of mediocre informality throughout the world. The same, unfortunately, was true of his aviation-type dark sunglasses.