Carioca Fletch

Thirty-one

At the funeral home of Job Pereira, Fletch tried to find a doorbell to ring, a door on which to knock. There was neither.

It was a large stucco and stone house sitting in the deep shade of its own trees.

“Hello?” he called. “Anyone?”

The quiet from inside the building was tomb-like.

He stepped into the coolness of the foyer. There was no reception desk, still no bell to ring. There were short, dark potted palms in each corner.

“Hello?” Fletch called.

The only response was a faint echo of his own voice.

It had taken him longer than the promised half hour to get from The Hotel Yellow Parrot to the funeral home of Job Pereira.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he had ordered food from Room Service.

While still at the telephone, he called The Hotel Jangada and asked for Room 912.

No answer.

No, Mrs Joan Collins Stanwyk had not yet picked up the envelope Mr Fletcher had left in her box.

Every step, every movement, however small, caused him pain. He opened the drapes to the balcony. Across the utility area, the man was painting the room. Perhaps the man’s permanent job in life was to paint that room. Fletch opened the door to the balcony. The air was warm and dry and felt good. The televisions were still blaring the news of Carnival Parade.

Life goes on.

Shaving was like walking barefoot through a field of glass. Finished, he had to affix one more bandage to his face.

Alone, with stinging lips and sore jaws, he ate breakfast.

Every minute, he thought Laura might return.

Finally dressed in a pair of clean shorts and a T-shirt, sneakers and socks, he went down in the elevator. The desk clerk and the few other people in the lobby glanced at him and immediately looked away. Despite the glue stuck to various parts of his face and body, he gathered he no longer looked like a Christmas package.

The avenida in front of the hotel was emptier than he had ever seen it. Citizens either were still watching Carnival Parade or were worn out by it and sleeping.

Finally a taxi picked him up. All the streets were empty. All the way to the funeral home, the taxi radio kept up an excited description of the last escola to parade.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

The funeral home was lifeless. There was not even the sound of a radio or television reporting the parade.

Fletch limped into a big room to the left of the foyer. Heavy, waisted velvet drapes on the windows cut down the light in the room.

Several open coffins were on display in the room. Each was on its own fancy trestle. He looked in one. It was empty. A coffin sales room. He moved from coffin to coffin, looking in each. The coffins ranged from polished pine to brass-studded mahogany.

He heard a sound behind him.

A seemingly tired, lazy voice said, “Hello?”

Fletch turned around.

In the door to the room, white as sea foam, the brighter light from the foyer behind him softening his outline, clearly stood Norival.

Norival Passarinho.

Dressed in white shoes, white slacks, white shirt. His belly hung over his belt. Damp hair fell onto his forehead. His face was puffy.

Norival Passarinho!

Fletch blinked.

Norival blinked.

Fletch sucked in cool air from the coffin display room.

“Ah, Janio Barreto.” Norival shambled toward Fletch. Norival even put out his arm to take Fletch’s hand. “At last I get to meet you properly!”

The room rose.

Fletch fell.