Chapter 5

The costume was delivered at eight o’clock that night; Ari had almost given up hope of its arrival. He stood in the bedroom with the door locked and undressed slowly. The long tight sleeves of the costume covered his scarred tattoo mark adequately, but the cuffs were a trifle short and for some reason suddenly worried him. He stripped off the blouse and put on a long-sleeved undershirt with tight cuffs beneath the gaudily striped prison jacket; it was warm, and the ends of the undershirt sleeves extended a bit beyond the uniform, but he felt safer. The rest of the costume followed rapidly; when he was all dressed with the little striped beanie on his head, he stepped before the mirror and reviewed himself critically. He slipped on the small domino mask and studied himself again, suddenly doubling over with laughter. For one night at least, he thought, I shall forget this terrible business and have myself a good time. This time, he said to his image in mock severity, I really don’t know who you are. He tapped the striped beanie, firming it at an outrageous angle on his head with comic authority.

He made sure that his pallet was in the rear trouser pocket of the uniform, and then stepped outside into the corridor, locking the door behind himself carefully. He was sure that he would excite no comment in the elevator; going up to his room from the bar he had found himself in the company of a bosomy Pierrot, a chorus girl complete with cigar and mustache, a squat Indian whose accouterments included tennis shoes as well as bow and arrow, and a heavily made-up Chinese. Even the elevator operator had bowed to the spirit of the occasion by wearing a little organ-grinder-monkey’s cap, held beneath his chin by a wispy elastic which he snapped back and forth at each floor.

The elevator door slid open and he stepped within. The little operator smiled happily and snapped his cap quickly up and down. He grinned under his domino and leaned comfortably back against the car wall. Tonight was going to be fun; tonight was a vacation, a welcome respite from the terrible necessity of his assignment. Tonight was Carnival! Carnival in Brazil! He clenched his hands in tense enjoyment, eager to be out of the moving car, eager to get to the party.

They came to a slithering halt somewhere below the first floor; the operator inexpertly jockeyed his car into an approximation of the level and shoved down on the lever that opened the door. Ari started to hurry across the crowded and colorful lobby toward the taxi rank, when he found his way barred by three outlandish figures of varying size.

They were dressed as Keystone cops; under their high bucket helmets, tight rubber masks grimaced in distorted expressions. The smallest had an idiot look, with rubber tongue lolling insanely from one corner of the mouth, the bulging eyes hanging out of their pouched sockets at odd angles; the middle-sized one had a mask that frowned in deep perpetual anger, with thick curving eyebrows that framed the glaring eyes; the tallest looked brightly alert, with a happy smile, rosy cheeks, and full lips. Their dark blue uniforms were all much too large, hanging on them like tents; the badges that announced their authority were located somewhere in the vicinity of their stomachs and were the size of soup plates. On their feet they wore huge shoes in a particularly clashing shade of grayish green, and their hands were covered with oversized white work gloves that splayed out spastically.

At the sight of the prisoner-striped figure hurrying across the lobby, they drew themselves up in a burlesque attitude of cops-and-robbers. Every move they made, each motion they undertook, was in outrageous pantomime, but the interpretation of their antics was obvious to all of the people who had suddenly paused in the lobby to watch this comedy.

What have we here? the smallest could be seen to cry in shocked surprise, his idiot face drooling at the lobby crowd, his rubber tongue bobbing elastically.

The rubber face of the middle-sized policeman was fixed in an expression of righteous anger, but the attitude of the expressive body was one of mock horror. An escaped prisoner! But this will never do! He threw his gloved hands over his ears and doubled over in pretended shock. He peeked at Ari from beneath his legs. Everyone in the lobby had stopped to watch; they were all laughing delightedly.

And then the hand of the largest flew up, resolving the problem. I will handle it! was clear in his attitude. He stepped forward in a strutting imitation of police authority the world over. His head turned drolly, the rubber mask grimacing happily at the crowd that had formed to watch the horseplay. The people in the lobby roared; Ari tried to push past, irritated at the thought of being late for the party.

A long arm detained him while a gloved band suddenly curved and descended in an indescribably comical gesture to scratch in bewilderment on a solid helmet. But do we have a warrant? could be clearly understood from the puzzled hesitation of the blue-uniformed figure. He paused anxiously, rolling his eyes as his strong hand continued to grip Ari, halting him.

The others flung their hands in the air in gestures of dismay, their gloves flaying the bright atmosphere of the lobby with motions of tragic failure. No warrant? There was an ineffable sadness in their manner, but then the tallest brightened. His figure even seemed to enlarge with a happy solution he had discovered. He dragged a pair of handcuffs from his voluminous pocket and swung Ari toward him, appearing to advance on him with little dancing steps. He rolled his eyes; it was plain that he had discovered something even better than a warrant. His companions clasped their gloved hands to their hearts in the profoundest admiration; their masked faces bobbed madly. The sobbing laughter of one spectator overcome by the performance haw-hawed loudly through the giggles, causing even more laughter from the people watching this playful insanity.

The handcuffs were firmly snapped. The tallest of the policemen rose to full height, coming up onto the tips of his slapstick shoes, and flung his white-gloved hand dramatically toward the door. His fellow Keystone cops obeyed him instantly, slinking in a bent-kneed walk to the door and holding it open. The largest of the policemen turned at the door, his happy face rubbery, pleased with their reception, his gloved hand still tightly gripping his striped prisoner. He paused and bowed deeply to the watching crowd in the lobby.

The people inside doubled over with hilarity; a few beat their hands together in frantic applause. A pistoled and bearded pirate, accompanied by a rather husky harem girl, pushed past the three comic police as they stood with their captive taking bows in the doorway; the three all stood alertly to one side and then, as a team, gave deep drowntype curtsies to the exiting couple, dragging their unwilling prisoner through the routine. Then, with a final bow to the applauding audience in the hotel lobby, they pulled their comic prisoner to the street.

Once outside, they led him quickly but firmly to a waiting roadster with the top down, and thrust him into the back seat. “No tricks, Mr. Busch,” said the tall policeman into his ear in a deep voice that carried no tone of burlesque. “You can scream or yell all you want, but nobody will pay the slightest attention.” He unlocked the handcuffs and slid into the back seat of the car beside Ari while the two lesser-sized Keystone cops got into the front, the idioticallymasked junior member driving. With a final wave to the remnants of their audience who had come out under the hotel marquee to bid them adieu, they pulled away from the hotel and out into the slow-moving traffic.

Behind them another open car pulled away from the curb, a fiercely frowning pirate at the wheel. At his side a rather bulky harem girl slid a hand into a well-concealed pocket of her voluminous trousers, managed, with much maneuvering, to extract a package of cigarettes, and lit one with an air of relief. The pirate drove casually, seemingly watching with interest the shuffling crowd that marched on the sidewalk or chanted in the middle of the streetcar tracks alongside of their car.

“Cute?” Da Silva asked out of the side of his bearded mouth.

The harem girl at his side lifted aside his veil and neatly spat a shred of tobacco between two groups of dancing Carnival celebrants, and then eyed the frayed end of the cigarette critically. He dropped the veil back in place and turned to the pirate. “Extremely neat,” he said equably. “A masterful piece of artistry. The gangsters in your country are endowed with many talents.”

“Gangsters?” Da Silva laughed abruptly. Traffic had slowed in their front, and his bumper was almost touching the back of the car ahead. He could even see Ari turning his head frantically, and the firm grip on the little man’s arm still maintained by the tall Keystone cop with the happy face. “That, my dear Wilson, is none other than the famous Andreas Moraes and Company. I’ve seen their pantomime before.”

“Andreas Moraes?”

Da Silva scratched at his heavy beard in irritation before answering. “Andreas Moraes. He could have been a top star of the Companhia Nacional de Comédia if he didn’t always have such a lot of larceny in his soul.”

Wilson turned to him, puzzled, shifting his ample bosom to accompany the movement. “You mean it is really only a gag?”

Da Silva shook his head. “No. I don’t believe it is only a gag. Not when they picked on Ari. I don’t believe that much in coincidence.” He looked at Wilson seriously. “I’ve heard a lot of odd stories about this Moraes and his morals and his politics; and a lot more about his constant need for money.” He shrugged. “I give him the benefit of the doubt; I think he’s only doing a job. What I want to know is, who is he doing the job for?” He put the car into gear again and edged forward, once more coming to rest a bit behind the car ahead. A group of snake-dancing Indians representing one of the clubs had swept through traffic, hips rolling in all directions, stopping all movement of cars.

Wilson smiled behind his veil. “This is, without the faintest doubt, the screwiest tailing job I’ve ever seen,” he said, smiling at Da Silva. “Not much chance of their getting away. Our only problem is to avoid running over them.” He looked ahead at the car in front, saw Ari suddenly rise and a strong hand slam him back into his seat. The raucous noise of a three-piece band composed of drum, cymbal and trumpet made it impossible to hear the hot words he could see being exchanged in the car ahead. “We can even practically hear every word they say.”

“I can imagine what they are saying,” Da Silva said, also smiling. He sat at the wheel of the idling car, staring across the five or six feet that separated him from his quarry. “I imagine that our friend Ari is getting a bit weary of being snatched every time he goes out of doors.”

Wilson suddenly puffed forcefully, and his veil wafted up over his face. He scratched his nose contentedly. “I can’t understand how these harem girls stand their life,” he said reflectively. “Everything else I can understand, but not this veil thing.” He tugged the flimsy piece of cloth back into place as the car edged forward a few more feet. “You know,” he said idly, “this fellow Schoenberg is really kidnap-prone. Somebody ought to hang a bell on him.”

“Somebody ought to hang a bell on the people who keep trying to kidnap him,” Da Silva said reasonably. “It it would make it easier for us.” He scratched at his beard again. The car ahead inched forward a few feet and then stopped. He grasped Wilson’s arm. “Well, well, well,” he said with a chuckle. Look at that! Maybe we won’t have to make like heroic Marines dashing to the rescue after all!”

Wilson sat erect and pushed his veil aside, peering ahead. A dancing group from one of the Carnival clubs, all attired in brightly striped prison uniforms, had been winding their way down the street when they noticed one of their fellow in the car ahead. He seemed to be arguing with his fellow passengers, all of whom were attired as police. The dancing group immediately stopped their jingling rhythm and swarmed about the parked car enthusiastically.

The first mistake the driver of the roadster made was to attempt to press through the crowded street, for this was manifestly impossible. His second mistake was even worse; he began to beat at the surrounding crowd with his whitegloved hands. Ari immediately stood up and tried to step over the side of the car, but his companion jerked him down again. A roar came from the striped crowd, a roar composed equally of pleasure at the thought of tumbling even pseudo-policemen into the gutter, and the satisfying thought of rescuing one of their members from a spot where he obviously didn’t wish to remain. The tall Keystone cop in the back seat with Ari suddenly realized the seriousness of the situation and, rising to his feet, began his pantomime performance, but he was too late. The striped mob about the car were displeased by the slapping hands and in no mood to be placated by histrionics.

“My, my,” Da Silva murmured, slipping the car into neutral and setting the hand brake. “This is a change!” He grinned at his unveiled companion. “This is one of the times when I’m proud to be a Brazilian,” he said. “Brazil! Carnival! I love you!”

Wilson, who had intelligently left his package of cigarettes on the seat beside him instead of reburying it in the multiple pleats of his harem pants, now lit one and leaned forward, watching the activity in their front with glee. “There should be a charge for this,” he said happily, “Best show I’ve seen since the old Mack Sennett days!”

The crowd of prison-uniformed Carnival dancers now surrounded the car in front, and were beginning to get out of hand. Anger, that delicate emotion that always lies so close to the surface of jangled nerves, even though those nerves be jangled with joy, now swept the crowd. Enraged by the pushing and slapping hands, the mob suddenly decided to overturn the car and see what came out. But their loyalty required that their fellow prisoner be freed first; one of the larger dancers swung himself into the back seat and calmly lifted Ari, depositing him in the forest of arms that were raised to receive him. This done, he jumped back to the street and joined with his fellow in destroying this car that had insulted them.

The little potbellied figure in the prisoner suit did not wait to see the final act of his rescue; as soon as the helping hands dropped from his arms, he darted off through the crowd and was soon lost to sight.

Da Silva turned to Wilson, smiling happily. “And so,” he said with a wicked gleam in his eye, “as the sun sinks slowly in the west, and our Jaguar pulls silently, more or less, away from the curb, we say, ‘Farewell to the entertaining Keystone Cops.’ And their open roadster!” He put the car into reverse, looking back over his shoulder. “This seems to be no place for a peace-loving man,” he added. “Shall we go?”