Carioca Fletch

Thirty-two

Fletch knew he was in a small, dark place.

Becoming conscious, he could hear no natural sounds except the sound of his own breathing. The air was stale.

He was lying on his back. His head was on some kind of pillow.

Only when he moved his right hand and immediately came to the edge of the space, a soft wall, did he realize how small the space was. The same was true when he moved his left hand.

The space he was in clearly was no wider than a long, narrow bed. He ran his hands up the satiny walls. The ceiling of the space was immediately on top of him, only a few centimeters above his chest, his chin, his nose.

A very small space indeed.

His fingers brushed against something else. Paper, fairly stiff paper. Both hands felt over the object lying beside him in the small space. His fingers told him it was a paper bag, with papers in it.

Fletch tried to think where he had last been, what had happened to him, at what he had been looking when … Coffins!

“Aaaaaaaaarrrgh!” Fletch’s roar surprised and deafened himself. “I’m not dead?”

In that terrible enclosure, he tried to get his hands up, to press up, raise the lid of the coffin. His heart was pounding in a lively manner. His face poured sweat.

“Hey, out there!”

Horrified, he realized he might be trying to yell through six feet of sod.

“Hey, up there! I’m not dead yet! I swear to it!”

He could not get his arms, hands at the right angle to lift. The coffin lid was heavy. His beaten muscles quivered and ached but accomplished little.

“Aaaaaaaaarrrgh! Somebody! Anybody! Listen! I’m not dead yet!” The air in the coffin had become exceedingly warm. “Socorro! damnit!”

By itself, it seemed, the coffin lid rose.

Instantly, the air became fresh and sweet.

He blinked stupidly at the light of day.

Laura’s head was over the coffin, looking in. “Ah, there you are,” she said.

Lying flat, sucking in the good air, Fletch said nothing.

“What are you doing in a coffin?”

Fletch panted.

“You do look like you belong in a coffin.”

“I saw Norival,” he said. “Norival Passarinho.”

“Norival’s dead,” she said.

“I know!”

“Apparently he went sailing alone at night. His boat hit a rock or something. He drowned.”

“I know!”

“His body washed up this morning. Very sad. Poor Norival.”

“I know all that, Laura. But, listen! I came here to the funeral home. Toninho asked me to. I was alone, in this room.” Fletch peered over the edge of his coffin and established that he was still in the coffin display room. “And I turned around, and there, in the door, stood Norival! Norival Passarinho! Blinking!”

“Norival?”

“He spoke to me! He said, ‘Janio Barreto.’ He came forward. He walked across the room at me. He tried to shake my hand!”

Laura wrinkled up her nose. “Norival Passarinho?”

“Yes! Definitely!”

“After he was dead?”

“Yes! I know he was dead!”

“It couldn’t have been Norival Passarinho.”

“It was Norival Passarinho. Dressed in white. All in white.”

“You saw Norival Passarinho walking around after he was dead?”

“He said, Norival said, ‘Ah, Janio Barreto.’” Fletch lowered his voice to the sepulchral. “‘At last I get to meet you properly.’”

“You saw Adroaldo Passarinho.”

“What? Who?”

“Adroaldo. Norival’s brother. They’re just alike.”

Fletch thought a moment. “Adroaldo?”

“Yes. Adroaldo was very surprised when he put out his arm to shake hands with you, and you fainted.”

“I fainted?”

“Well, you fell on the floor without apparent what-do-you-call-it? premeditation.”

“Adroaldo Passarinho?”

“You didn’t know Norival had a brother?”

“Yes. Of course. But he was so white!”

“He’s been in school in Switzerland all winter.”

“Laura…”

“Fletch, I think you’re not surviving Carnival. It’s beginning to affect your mind.”

“What am I doing in a coffin?”

Laura shrugged. “I suspect the Tap Dancers put you in there. After you fainted.”

“Why?”

“One of their little tricks.” She giggled.

“Very funny!” Stiffly, he began to pull himself up, to sit up in his coffin. “God! I thought…”

“It is funny.”

He picked up the paper bag and looked into it.

“What’s that?” she asked. “Your lunch? Enough to tide you over to the other world?”

“My poker winnings.”

“Ah, they buried you with all your worldly wealth. All your ill-gotten gains. So you can tip Charon after he rows you across the River Styx.”

His time in the coffin had stiffened his muscles again. “How come you’re here?”

“Toninho called me at the hotel. Said you had fainted. I should come in the car and pick you up. Adroaldo and the others had to go with Norival in his coffin to the Passarinho home.”

Fletch’s heart had slowed, but he was still sweating. “What if you hadn’t come? I could have run out of air—”

“Why wouldn’t I have come?”

“Supposing the car had broken down, or—”

“You could have gotten yourself out of there.”

“I could have died of cardiac arrest.”

“Were you that frightened?”

“Waking up in a closed coffin is not something one expects to do—under any circumstances.”

She was studying his face. “You’re a mess.”

“I got nearly kicked to death.”

“They told me. Your whole body like that?”

“At the moment, I am not very sleek.”

“Was there any reason for it you know of? I mean, getting attacked?”

“I think so, yes. Help me out of this damned coffin, if you don’t mind.”

“Also, there was another message for you at the hotel.” She balanced him by holding onto his hand. “A Sergeant Paulo Barbosa of Rio de Janeiro police would like you to call him.”

“What did he say?”

“Just left a message. How much trouble are you in?”

“Oh, my God.” A body wounded in every part is painful to lift out of a raised coffin and set on two feet on the floor.

“You really are a mess,” Laura said. “The car is just outside.”

“You’d better drive.”

“Seeing the last vehicle you tried to drive is a coffin …”

“Not by choice, thank you.”

“We’ll go back to the hotel. The Parade is over. It was really wonderful. You missed most of it.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Fletch, you always seem to be someplace you’re not supposed to be, doing something you’re not supposed to be doing.”

“Got any other news for me?”

“Yes.” They were crossing the wide, cool foyer of the funeral home of Job Pereira, heading for the dazzling sunlight beyond the front door. “Paul Bocuse is the chef at Le Saint Honoré. I’ve made reservations for tonight, in your name. Have you forgotten the ball at Regine’s? That’s tonight. Tomorrow, I thought we’d drive up and have a quiet lunch at Floresta.”

“You mean Carnival still isn’t over?”

“Tomorrow night it’s over. I’m not at all sure you’ll make it. I’ll have to start preparing for my concert tour soon enough. Not a worry. We’ll go back to the hotel and rest now.”

“No.”

“No? You want to go play soccer now?”

“I want to go to favela Santos Lima now.” Over the top of the small yellow convertible, she gave him a long look. “I’ll never rest until I do. You said so yourself.”

“I don’t think I know the way.”

“I do.” He lowered himself gently onto the hot passenger seat. “Just follow my directions.”