"Good-bye, Senora Lavalle." He did not sound happy. After a moment he called after her, but she did not stop or tum.
The doorman blew his whistle for a taxi. When it pulled up, she tipped him too many australes.
The driver moved out into traffic before he asked, "Where to?"
"I want to go to another hotel, not too near this one."
"Senora, there are no other hotels. Everything is full." The young man, who had a narrow mustache and liquid brown eyes, looked at her seriously in the rearview mirror. He said in English, "I'm sorry, but, you know-it is Carnival, and besides everybody is here to get on the slow boats and go to China."
"Isn't there any place to stay at all?"
"Not in B.A. They are sleeping in the streets here."
"Where, then?"
"Maybe in Rosario or Santa Fe."
"Rosario is about two hundred fifty kilometers, is that right?"
"Yes, about that."
"All right, take me there."
"That will be very costly."
"It doesn't matter. Let's go."
The driver, whose name on the little card was Federigo Oliveras, turned off the avenue and drove north through residential streets. Even here, the streets were filling up with pedestrians in bright clothes, carrying flags, holding balloons, blowing on toy trumpets. A few were clearly drunk, although it was not yet ten o'clock. Tapping his horn at intervals, Oliveras edged patiently through the crowds until they thinned out. The flatscreen on the dashboard to his right was shimmering with images of people and horses.
"There is something wrong with your shoe?" he asked.
"No, my leg. It's broken. I can't get the shoe on because of the cast."
"Oh, I see. Well, would you like to watch the parade?"
"I suppose so." She touched the controls of the holo mounted on the seat in front of her. There was the plaza, lined with banners and pennants. Two breathless commentators were naming the celebrities as they entered the grandstand. "There is the President of the Trade Commission . . . that is Marie-Claude, the tres chic French actress ....And that's the Chilean Ambassador. . . . Everyone is here today!"
"And gone tomorrow, correct?" The commentators laughed together.
"Yes, and I can't imagine not wanting to be part of this great event, can you?"
"Well, some people have to stay to report the news. And others, well, they just don't want to go."
"But I think that's unpatriotic, don't you? Oh, there is Carlo Menendez!"
There was a beeping sound inside her purse. She ignored it. In the halo she could hear martial music, and see mounted figures approaching: two people, a man and a woman on white horses, the horses curvetting, the people waving their hats.
"These are our two most favorite halo stars," said Oliveras over his shoulder. "They lead the first parade, always, for the last seven years. They are not so young now, but we think they are still beautiful."
In the halo she saw the aging faces of the two stars, tanned, smiling. The man was white-haired, the woman blond. They were dressed in elaborate gaucho costumes, with flat-brimmed hats trimmed in silver and gemstones.
Now the floats were coming, like a line of ships drifting gently down the avenue. The first one bore a sim or holo, it was hard to tell which, of a ten-foot nearly naked woman with a kerchief on her head and a basket of fruit spilling from the kerchief. There was laughter in the background.
"This is to make fun of the Brazilians," said Oliveras, smiling. The next float had a gigantic hook-nosed Uncle Sam, who was being bitten on the leg by a little bulldog. Oliveras shrugged. "It's Carnival," he said, "we make fun of everyone."
"Of course."
The cab swung onto the highway. Nearly all the traffic was in the other direction: a long line of old cars, trucks, a few buses, bicycles, motorcycles and mopeds. A few gauchos on horseback. On the shoulder a line of pedestrians was marching along, many carrying bundles.
"What are they going to do with their horses?" she asked.
"I don't know. Maybe they think they can take the horses with them."
"But they can't."
"No. So maybe I could buy some horses cheaply."
Her phone was ringing again. She opened her purse, got it out and said, "What do you want?"
"Linda, it's me. Where are you?"
"In a bar."
"Oh. Are you watching the parade?"
"Yes."
"Well, in a minute you'll probably see Medium Bob on one of the floats."
"Okay."
"Listen, Linda-the desk said you took your bags?"
"Yes."
"Well, uh, how come?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Well, I mean, are you coming back?"
"No." She broke the connection and put the phone away.
"Pardon me," said Oliveras, "but is there some trouble with your husband?"
"Yes."
"I quarreled with my wife this morning." He shrugged. "Things like this happen during Carnival."
"What was the quarrel about?"
"She didn't want me to work today. She doesn't believe money will be any good on the new planet, or gold either."
"And you?"
"I don't know. I don't think I am going there."
"What will you do instead?"
"I'll drive this taxi until I see there is going to be no more gasoline, and then I'll buy a horse and wagon. Several horses, and several wagons. That's a better way to live. The horse does all the work. "
"Do you have enough gas to get to Rosario?"
"Oh, yes. Plenty of gas. My taxi has an extra tank; I put it in two months ago. Because there are not many filling stations open now. Everybody wants to go to the new planet."
"But you don't believe the Earth is going to be destroyed?"
"No, because how could it be destroyed? The whole Earth? Such a thing has never happened. You see, most people believe what they are told, but I am a man who thinks for himself."
He lifted something to his mouth, took a long swallow. Then he saw her looking in the rearview mirror. "Would you like a drink?"
"What is it?"
Oliveras turned, handed her a thermos and a plastic cup.
"Batidas," he said. "I make them myself with cachaca, because I like it better than aguardiente. We don't usually drink so early in the day, but Carnival is different, and of course this Carnival is more different than all."
Lavalle poured a cup and sipped at it. The chilled drink was astringent and sweet at the same time, with a faint alcoholic bite. "You like it?" Oliveras asked, smiling in the mirror.
"Yes, it's very good." She tried to hand the thermos back, but Oliveras said, "No, keep it, I have more."
She sat back, took another sip, and pressed the button to roll down the window beside her. The air that flowed in was cool and almost fresh.
When she looked up, she saw that he had put a phone window in the flatscreen and was running some kind of search program. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"Trying to make a reservation in Rosario." He glanced at the screen from time to time as he drove. After a while he said, "They are not answering their phones. That could be because it is Carnival and they don't care, but it could also be that they are closed, or they have no rooms. All we can do is go and see."
"All right."
In the halo another float was coming into view now, and there, indeed, atop a giant white cube with black spots on it, was Stone's double in a brown suit, waving his fedora and kissing his hand to the crowd. He seemed to be having a good time.
The next float came into view; it was a mound of lemons, with three women in lemon costumes on top, waving yellow flags. Then the next, which bore a giant steer. Then there was some kind of commotion; in the halo, the commentators were standing up to look.
Oliveras bent forward, turning up the sound in his flatscreen. ". . . sort of accident, apparently . . . " The holo flickered and changed to a view from another camera. Now she could see the Cube float; it was halted, and the double was nowhere to be seen. " ...Ed Stone has been shot ....We are waiting for a report ...."