Carioca Fletch

Twelve

“Tricked,” Fletch said. “A little place we know in the mountains. You guys have brought me to a brothel.”

Towels wrapped around their waists, he and Toninho were sitting in long chairs in the shade near the swimming pool. The back of the plantation house was even more dilapidated than the front. Paint was thin and chipped. The back door was lopsided on its hinges. The flower borders had gone years untended. Lilies grew in the swimming pool.

“Very relaxing,” Toninho said. “I did say it was very relaxing.”

“So why do the well-loved Tap Dancers need a brothel?”

“Everyone needs a few uncomplicated relationships, no? To relax.”

They had entered the plantation house, each being fondled by the massive Dona Jurema as he passed her, her laugh volcanic, her fat layered like lava. The younger woman, Eva, smiling happily, stood aside, looking even more Amazonian inside the house. They had crossed the scarred foyer, gone through a large, vomit-smelling dark ballroom turned into a tavern, and out the back door.

Coming again into the sunlight, each of the Tap Dancers dropped his shorts and plunged into the swimming pool. With the encouragement of Dona Jurema and the smiles of Eva, Fletch had followed suit.

There were five white towels waiting for them when they came out of the pool. Their shorts had been piled neatly on a table near the back door.

The skinny young teenage girl brought them a tray with five glasses of cachaça and a sugar bowl.

Norival downed his cachaça in a gulp, asked for another, and collapsed on a long chair on the long side of the pool.

Tito was doing disciplined laps in the pool, stroking through the lily pads.

Orlando went into the house.

“What is that new North American verb?” Toninho asked. “Interact. It is tiresome having always to interact, especially with women. The women here do not expect anything so profound as interaction.”

Dona Jurema came through the back door and let herself down the steps like a big bag of glass.

“So good of you to come, Toninho,” she said. “Not many of the girls are up. Ah, it’s a hot day. We had a busy night. We will have lunch for you in a while.”

“This man.” Toninho put his hands on Fletch’s forearm. “This man has special needs.”

Jurema beamed at Fletch. “It would be a sin if he is having difficulties.”

“He is not having difficulties, I think,” Toninho said. “Are you, Fletch?”

“Only with the cachaça.” He put his glass down on the burned-out grass.

“A special need I’m sure you can satisfy, Jurema.”

Arms akimbo, the woman shrugged her shoulders. It was a seismic upheaval. “We can satisfy any need. Why, an Air Force General we had here—”

“Toninho,” Fletch said. “I have no special needs.”

“But you do,” Toninho said. “A very special need. I am your friend. It is important to me that your special need be fulfilled.”

“I need sleep,” Fletch said, leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes.

“I know what you need.” Solemnly, Toninho said, “My friend needs a corpse.”

Fletch’s eyes popped open. His head snapped up. “What?”

“I said you need a corpse. For the purpose of copulation.” To Jurema, he said, “My friend has the great need to make love to a corpse.”

Jurema was not laughing. She was answering Toninho in rapid Portuguese. Her eyes, her face, her voice bespoke someone doing business.

“Because,” Toninho said, “my friend is a corpse. Partly a corpse. Part of him has not had a woman in forty-seven years. Clearly, if we are to get the truth from him, his peri-spirit must be awakened.”

“Toninho!” Fletch said.

“It is true,” Toninho said to Jurema.

Behind Fletch’s long chair. Jurema bent over. She put her hands on his breasts and put at least part of her weight on them. Pressing hard, she ran her hands all the way down his stomach, under his towel to his pelvis, then raised her hands.

She erupted in laughter. “He seems alive. If the other part of him is as healthy …”

A cool breeze blew over Fletch. He resettled his towel.

“You see the problem,” Toninho said with dignity. “Now. How can you help my friend?”

“Toninho. Stop it. You’re gross.”

“A corpse for my friend? Someone young, dead, and pretty.”

“Toninho, this isn’t funny.”

“Probably by Tuesday,” Jurema said. “There are always such corpses available during Carnival.”

“Find a good one,” Toninho said.

Jurema waddled a short distance. Speaking to Toninho in Portuguese, incredibly enough she stooped over and picked a weed out of the burned grass. Her face flushed. She then lifted herself up the back stairs and into the house.

“Tuesday,” Toninho said. “She’ll have one for you Tuesday.”

“Toninho, I hope this is another of your jokes.”

Abruptly, in the same tone of voice, Toninho said, “Your friend, Teodomiro da Costa, is to be respected.”

“I met with him this morning.” Fletch watched the sunlight flashing on Tito’s shoulders as he swam. “He had advice for me, which I respect. Especially at the moment.”

“In this country, seventy percent of the business is run by the government, you see. To do well on your own, as Teo has, is to do very well indeed. Now tell me. In North America, there is a car which has what is called a slant-six engine. Can you describe it to me, please?”

Fletch told Toninho what he understood of the slant-six engine, and that it had an especially long life. Sitting on Saturday morning in the mountains above Rio de Janeiro looking out into the sunlight, he felt his eyes crossing. He had not had that much of the cachaça. One moment Toninho was talking seriously of necrophilia and the next just as seriously about a slant-six car engine.

The young girl brought Norival his third cachaça.

“Ah,” Toninho said. “Norival is an arigó. A simpleton, a boor, but a good fellow. If he were not from a rich, important family, he would be an arigó. His brother, Adroaldo Passarinho, is the same, exactly like him in every way. Look the same, act the same. His father has sent Adroaldo to school in Switzerland, in hopes there will be someone in the family this generation less than simple. Arigó.”

Tito climbed out of the pool and, not drying himself, dropped naked belly down on the grass.

In high seriousness and in great detail, Toninho then wanted to know about this new robot he had read about in Time magazine supposedly capable of understanding and obeying one hundred thousand different orders. Designed in Milan, manufactured in Phoenix with Japanese parts. What was the nature of the computer which ran it? How were the joints designed, and how many were there? What would the robot say when given conflicting orders? Would the robot know, better than a person, when it is breaking down?

In his towel, holding a fresh glass of cachaça, Orlando stood on the back steps of the plantation house. He sang. Of the four Tap Dancers, Orlando’s muscles were the heaviest. His voice was deep, and he sang well.

O canto de minha gente

Assediando meu coração

Semente que a arte germinou

E o tempo temperou

Amor, o amor

Como é gostoso amar.

Norival raised his head from his long chair and hissed. Even from a distance, it could be seen Norival was not focusing. His head dropped back.

“Ah, the arigó never sobered from last night,” Toninho said.

“What’s the song?” Fletch asked.

“An old Carnival song. Let’s see.” Toninho closed his eyes to translate. Fletch had been slow to see how long Toninho’s lashes were. They rested on his cheeks. “‘My people’s song makes my heart leap. The seed is sown by art and tempered by time. Love, love, how good it is to love.’”

“That’s a good song.”

“Oh, yes.”

With his glass of cachaça, Orlando wandered down to where they were sitting.

“Orlando,” Toninho said. “Give Fletch a demonstration of capoeira, of kick-dancing. You and Tito. Make it good. Kill each other.”

Raising his head beside the pool, Tito said, “You, Toninho.”

“Perform for the gods,” Toninho said.

Orlando looked into his glass. “I’ve had a drink.”

“You won’t hurt each other,” Toninho said.

“You and Orlando,” Tito said from the grass.

“It is important Janio sees capoeira from close up,” Toninho said. “So he will remember.”

Glass still in hand, Orlando went to Tito and with his bare feet stood on Tito’s ass. Standing thus, he drained his glass, leaned over, and put it on the grass. Then he began to walk slowly up Tito’s back.

“I can’t breathe!” Tito said.

“And you can’t talk?” Toninho asked.

“I can’t talk, either.”

Then he wriggled free, spilling Orlando to the side, and jumped to his feet.

In a wide arc, he swung his right foot, aiming for Orlando’s head.

Orlando ducked successfully, turned sideways and slammed his instep into Tito’s side, against his rib cage. Orlando’s towel dropped.

“Wake up,” Orlando said.

In a short moment, Tito and Orlando had the rhythm of it, had each other’s rhythm. Gracefully, viciously, rhythmically, as if to the beating of drums, with fantastic speed they were aiming kicks at each other’s heads, shoulders, stomachs, crotches, knees, each kick coming within a hair’s breadth of connecting, narrowly ducking, sidestepping each other, turning and swirling, their legs straight and their legs bent, their muscles tight and their muscles loose, their fronts and their backs flashing in the sunlight, the hair on their heads seeming to have to hurry to keep up with this frantic movement. With this fast, graceful dance, easily they could have killed each other.

Eva had come onto the porch to watch. Her eyes flashed. A few faces of other women appeared in the upper windows of the plantation house. Everyone loves the Tap Dancers…. They’re sleek.

“Remember …” Toninho was saying. “A skill developed by the young male slaves, in defense against their masters. They would practice at night, to drums, so if their masters came down from the big house, to look for a woman, they could pretend to be dancing. Thanks to—what is the word in English?—miscegenation, such skills ultimately were not needed….”

There was a loud Thwack! and Tito began to fall sideways. He had taken a hard blow to the head from the instep of Orlando’s foot. The blow could have been much, much harder. Tito did not fall completely.

“I told you to wake up,” Orlando said regretfully.

Recovering, Tito charged Orlando like a bull, right into his midriff. Orlando fell backwards, Tito on top of him. Laughing, sweating, panting, they wrestled on the grass. At one point their bodies, their arms and legs, were in such a tight ball perhaps even they could not tell which was whose.

Eva, moving like Time, went down to them.

Finally, Orlando was sitting on Tito and giving him pink-belly, pounding Tito’s belly hard repeatedly with his fists. Tito was laughing so hard his stomach muscles were fully flexed and no harm was being done.

Standing over them, behind Orlando, Eva laced her fingers across Orlando’s forehead and pulled him backward, and down.

Kneeling over Tito as he was, sitting on him, bent backward now so that his own back was on the ground, or on Tito’s legs, Orlando looked up Eva’s thighs. He rolled his eyes.

He jumped up and grabbed Eva by the hand.

Together Orlando and Eva ran down the grassy slope from the swimming pool and disappeared.

“You see?” Toninho said. “Uncomplicated.”

After resting a moment on the ground, breathing hard, Tito rolled over and over and on into the pool of water.

“Your Moby Dick” Toninho said abruptly. “By Herman Melville?”

Fletch looked at Toninho, wondering what new surpise was coming. “Yes,” Fletch said. “I read it while waiting for a bus.”

“‘Call me Ishmael,’” Toninho quoted.

“Not a bad beginning,” Fletch said. “Simple.”

“Is it?” Toninho finished his cachaça. At the long side of the pool, Norival was finishing his fourth. “Is that Ishmael meant to be some spirit of the United States? Some guardian?”

“Almost anything can be said,” Fletch said. “And has been.”

“In a way, Ismael is the guiding spirit of Brazil.”

Fletch said nothing. Necrophilia, slant-six car engines, the nature of arigó, robotics, capoeira, now a discussion regarding American literature.

“I’m quite certain Melville stopped in Brazil on his voyages. Have you even thought of that interpretation of Moby Dick?”

“Melville meant Brazil is the guiding spirit of the United States?”

“Maybe of the hemisphere.”

“Toninho …” Tito’s forearms were flat on the edge of the swimming pool, holding his head up. Water streamed down his face from his hair. His right ear was red from Orlando’s kick. “I think we should do Norival a favor.”

Toninho looked over at Norival stretched out in the sunlight. Norival bubble-belched. “Yes.”

Toninho stood up.

Together Toninho and Tito tipped the slow-reacting Norival out of the long chair.

Fletch went to watch what new trick they would play.

Each taking an arm, they dragged Norival, belly down, to the bushes. The towel dragged off him in the dirt. Then, methodically, standing behind him, Toninho and Tito each picked up one of Norival’s feet. They raised him so that his shins were on their shoulders.

Not all that gently, somewhat from the sides, they kicked Norival’s soft, upside-down belly with the insteps of their feet, once, twice, some more.

“Arigó” Toninho said, kicking Norival’s upside-down stomach.

“Empty out the sack,” Tito said. “Very practical.”

It didn’t take too many kicks for Norival to begin vomiting his four cachaças, his numerous chopinhos, whatever was still in him from the night before.

Once he began vomiting, they dropped his legs on the ground.

Tito grinned at Fletch. “Very efficient, yes?”

“It seems to be working.”

The other side of the swimming pool, Orlando and Eva were climbing back up the slope.

“Ah,” Toninho said, watching them. “Five minutes is a long time in the life of such a mulata.”

Norival now was on his hands and knees, emptying himself into the bushes.

Bleary, drooling vomit, he looked up at them.

“Obrigado.” In Portuguese, he said to them, “Thanks, guys.”