He looked pale as a ghost when he stepped out of the shade of the arcades, instinctively moving away from a policeman in a blue uniform who was walking toward him, gun in holster, folder in hand, more of a clerk than a policeman, with a large stomach protruding over the belt. He glanced at the pistol, though his eyes barely moved, and stepped aside. No one would have thought it was an abrupt motion, and in any case he was one of many moving under the arcades, people in and out of offices: posters on the large doors, windows with iron railings, the clicking sound of typewriters.
Typing nonstop, first names, last names, parents’ names, birth dates, addresses. They ask for information without looking up, typing on their forms, hitting the keys hard for crisp type on the carbon copies. They write things by hand on index cards with stapled or glued photos that end up in file cabinets. Identity card number, driver’s license, passport, social security number, inmate number, length of sentence. When they make a mistake, they stop the machine and fix the letter or number with a small brush and white-out, then blow so it dries as quickly as possible.
* * *
The sun beat down harshly on his white skin and sandy hair, making it look lighter and more sparse despite the parting to the side, which made his face look longer and younger. On the passport, he put 1932 as the year of his birth though he had been born in 1928. A man’s age depends largely on whether he visualizes himself young and strong or old and weak, said Dr. Maxwell Maltz. Others will see you the way you see yourself. They will step on you if your face begs to get stomped on. They will chase you if you look like a fugitive.
The streetcar tracks, crisscrossed on the cobbled pavement of the square, gleamed under the sun with a moist sheen. There was a light humidity in the air, all the more noticeable when you looked into the distance, beyond the square, at the sea, or maybe it was a very wide river, extending above a low silhouette of hills and houses. It was a humidity saturated with smells, reminiscent of New Orleans or Saint Louis or Memphis, but not as thick. The river or the sea did not have the mud color of the Mississippi. Montreal’s river was also so broad you could not see the other side. Vast rivers and iron bridges in the distance, docks, warehouses, hissing locomotives, the promising wailing sounds of the boat sirens. On the winding rails, the red and yellow streetcars advance and their old wood frames creak as they wobble from side to side. He stopped, as one of the streetcars passed, and put his sunglasses on. He had practiced the move many times in the mirror. Women thought he looked refined. He would take the sunglasses from his breast pocket and in one continuous motion unfold the frame and bring them to his eyes. But he still blinked too much when he performed the opposite motion and this ruined the desired effect. When he practiced he tried to control his blink reflex. It was hard to notice how light his blue eyes were because he seldom made eye contact. He considered buying contact lenses to change the color of his eyes.
The passing streetcar blocked him from view as he squinted at the light. Seconds later, the sunglasses were on. He was able to catch a glimpse of himself on the moving window, anonymous among the crowd waiting to cross the street, taller than the rest, five feet eleven inches. A dirty window vibrating like the rest of the vehicle, an old machine approaching its end, slow and worn-out, the yellow paint damaged by the heat and humidity, covered in signs and old ads faded by the sun. Some of the windows did not have glass and the passengers leaned out on their elbows as if they were in the windows of their house.
Everything in the city was old and dilapidated. The signs on the government buildings and the uniforms of the officers guarding the entrances, the tables on which functionaries wrote, the typewriters, the file cabinets where documents were stored. In the offices of the Ministry of the Overseas, there were old world maps hanging on the walls. He had asked with difficulty how long it would take to get a visa to Angola, and the functionary had stared at him from behind the typewriter and placed his cigarette on an edge of the table covered with burns. Angola was the name of a Portuguese colony in Africa and also a prison in the American South. The functionary asked for his nationality and suggested he come back later to speak with the person who dealt with those requests. The office was filled with stacks of files and wall maps and it had high ceilings covered in filth. The functionary’s desk was next to a balcony facing out to the river or sea. As he waited for the functionary to finish taking note of his case, he saw a large cargo ship moving on the water. Atop a pile of worn registry books, a small fan turned slowly, barely disturbing the heat in the office.
* * *
At the center of the square, there was a statue of a king on horseback, an immense plume of feathers adorning his helmet. The king and his royal horse stand on a marble pedestal in which an Asian elephant and another horse are carved. Asian elephants have smaller ears than their African counterparts and it is easier to tame them. On a cover of Man’s Life, in full color, an angry elephant wraps its trunk around a half-naked woman and lifts her up just as a white hunter shoots his rifle to save her. Through swamps and jungles, the Asian elephants splash the muddy waters as they move, obeying the orders of handlers who use bamboo sticks. The handlers are called mahouts. Mahout is an extraordinary word that most people don’t know.
The hooves of the royal horse trample over bronze snakes. On the sides of the pedestal, the horse and the elephant also trample over terrified people. A seagull settles on the feathered helmet of the bronze king. The spurred boots hang to the sides of the horse’s stomach, ready to thrust into the animal and crush whoever comes under its hooves. The king never looks down. In the prison farms of the South, the guards patrol on horses and support the butts of their rifles on the sides of their saddles; they wear wide-brimmed hats and sunglasses instead of helmets with feathers. The new trend is to humiliate white prisoners by forcing them to share their dormitories and tables with black people. As he advanced through the square in a straight line, he stopped for a moment under the long shadow of the statue, surrounded by white light, the sky, and the sea or river that looked amber behind the dark lenses. The shirt collar was tightly buttoned. There would be a red mark when he took the tie and shirt off and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He would fold his trousers, hang the jacket, then go through the pockets and empty them. The Laundromat receipts with his name and the drop-off and pickup dates, letters signed with a different name, his name before coming to Lisbon, before going to London, the one he used while hiding in Toronto before his first flight. In one of the pockets, he kept a newspaper clipping with an ad for cheap tickets to African capitals. The piece of paper is now laminated and on display inside a glass case in a museum in Memphis. In the television news, fires from riots glowed in the night skies of American cities and illuminated the dark faces of those breaking store windows with rocks and bats, looting and running down the sidewalks covered with broken glass and cars on fire. It was wise to rip the receipts into tiny pieces and flush them down the toilet. It was also important to rub the fingerprints off any surface you touched.
* * *
He felt the roar of the engine during takeoff, the hollow feeling of fear in the pit of his stomach, his face turning even whiter, his hands gripping the armrests. He took the BOAC flight from Toronto to London on May 6 at 10:30 p.m. “Easy, man, it’s all good,” said the fat man next to him with a mocking tone. The same man had already humiliated him by explaining how to fasten his seat belt even though he had not asked for help. He did not move for fear of unbalancing the plane. He felt the urge to slap a child who was running down the aisle. The plane picked up speed and he sank into his seat, half closing his eyes.
Shrink back, close your eyes, remain still, hold your breath—it does not matter, they can still find you. But not always. In prison, he hid inside a bread cart, under a tray of warm rolls. Legs tucked in, his forehead against his knees, breathing through his mouth, the musty smell of the two pairs of trousers he was wearing, one from the prison uniform, the other for outside.
A fakir can go without breathing for a long time using autosuggestion. He heard voices nearby, the sound of the wheels on the concrete floor, then a starting engine. The warm smell of the bread combined with the cool air of the outdoors. His heart felt like a beating drum pressing against his knees. His stomach hurt and he thought he would get diarrhea. Autohypnosis can give you complete control over bodily functions. He did not know when he would eat again so he had wolfed down twelve fried eggs in the kitchen when no one was looking. He had also stuffed twenty chocolate bars in his pant pockets, his shirt, and a small toiletry bag. The bread tray warmed his head. A guard lifted the metal lid of the cart when the truck stopped at the last checkpoint, but he had made himself even smaller and had focused all his energy on sending hypnotic waves to the guard so this one would not look under the bread tray.
* * *
But now, inside an airplane, seat belt already fastened, he could not run. The fat man extended his hand and introduced himself, first and last name, then a nickname. How calmly people pronounce a name when it’s the only one they’ve had. They never hesitate, not even for a second, never have to worry about misspelling it. He would draw even more attention if he ignored the man. He unclasped the armchair and extended his hand, avoiding eye contact despite the proximity. Your face will be forgotten faster if they never see your eyes. The large hand squeezed his, soft and sweaty, very pale. You are less likely to leave fingerprints if you use less force with your hands. Even better if you put small bits of tape, cut into oval shapes, on your fingertips.
He had not done this before picking up the rifle, leaning the barrel on the windowsill, and pulling the trigger. He repeated in a low voice the name he was still getting used to. Sneyd. He said it quietly, barely separating his lips, hoping that the man would mishear it and be less likely to recall it later. The noise of the engine drowned their voices. “Schneider?” said the man, cupping his ear, perhaps trying to be funny. The man’s large size made him feel even more cornered in his seat.
He said he owned a bakery chain in Toronto and was going to London to visit his daughter, who was studying economics. Amazing how people share details about their lives without being asked. But sometimes it is useful and you can incorporate them into your persona, add a profession or business, and practice your story. He said he was a publicity manager at a publishing house. He had read this title in a newspaper he found while waiting at the gate. For a second, he had considered saying that he was the head veterinarian at a zoo.
But his favorite occupation was merchant sailor, the pilot on one of those cargo ships that navigated through the Mississippi, from Saint Louis to Memphis and New Orleans, from New Orleans to Havana and those small islands of the Caribbean with white beaches and palm trees like in the travel magazines. Pilot, first officer, head chef, bartender. Long watch shifts on deck, hands on the wheel, sunglasses under the visor cap, a white captain’s shirt with his rank insignia displayed on the shoulders. Sailboats and luxury yachts appeared often in the color ads of magazines.
People will believe anything you say. But lying requires focus and this time he was nervous and fatigued, so he decided to stay quiet after the lights were dimmed. The first thing James Bond does, after taking his seat in an airplane, is light a Morland cigarette with his polished Ronson lighter and ask for a double martini, dry.
Suddenly, it seemed like the plane was not moving. The fat man had fallen asleep, and was now snoring with a newspaper covering his face. He removed it carefully and examined it from beginning to end. The photo wasn’t that big; they were not even highlighting it. It was an old mug shot, just from the front, the same they had used before. Blurry, badly printed, even harder to see in the dim light of the cabin. One ear larger than the other; a prison crew cut; and the old name, the first one, now as disconnected from him as the face in the photo, with the shade of a beard and the frightened yet defiant eyes of a prisoner. The newspaper said he was probably dead. His accomplices or instigators had executed him to prevent him from giving away their names and information.
* * *
Suddenly the light came on and the stewardesses started serving breakfast. Daylight filtered in through the oval window. He had barely closed his eyes. The hands of his watch marked one o’clock. The newspaper was now on the floor and the page with his photo was folded neatly in one of his pockets. The less the authorities knew, the more they had to make up. A Cessna had taken off from a clandestine airstrip in the Florida swamps, taking just one passenger to Cuba. Although it was dark when he removed the page from the newspaper, he was careful to look around him and make sure the stewardesses were not looking. The captain announced they would be landing at Heathrow Airport in thirty minutes and the temperature in London was sixty-four degrees Fahrenheit. Passengers should ready their passports and customs declarations. He looked at the form the stewardess had given him a few minutes before. It felt like an impossible task. Next to him, the fat man wrote quickly, filling the boxes with capital letters, name, date of birth, country of citizenship, home address, address in the UK, flight number and airline, departure airport, passport number.
He carried the revolver in his back pocket. James Bond kept his Beretta in a holster made of antelope skin. Why ask for all those details in a form if most are already in the passport? Ramon George Sneyd. Born in Toronto, Canada, on June 6, 1932. The name was misspelled in the passport. Sneya, not Sneyd. His own fault for having filled the application so hurriedly at the travel agency. His hand had been shaking. He could feel the sympathetic yet condescending look of the travel agent. The fat man sucked on the cap of his pen while copying the number from his passport. It was disgusting that just a few minutes before he had asked to borrow the pen.
For some reason, the fat man now seemed suspicious of him. Some people are born snitches. They have never been in prison. No one has pushed them against a chair with their hands tied behind their back. They have never been cornered in a prison shower, curled naked on the concrete floor, covering their testicles as they are beaten with a rubber baton. They have never been offered a reduced sentence, or a cell with no roaches or rats, in exchange for information or a memorized testimony for some judge. But they are snitches all the same, born that way, it is instinctive to them, it is amusing, they choose to do it. “I knew there was something odd about this guy from the first time I saw him. I greeted him and he did not reply. I asked him things and he would not answer, like he was trying to hide something. He said his name was Schneider, but I saw him write a different name on the form. Of course I recognize the face. I won’t forget it as long as I live. That stare.” They will take his photo and he will be smiling like a hero. A one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward. Plus all the money they will pay him to repeat his lies for a magazine, for television, covered in makeup, so full of himself, shaking hands with the TV host, calling him by first name as if they were old pals. They all tear their clothes and cry for the dead man, the hypocrites, indulging in their hatred for the assassin, but just give them an opportunity to benefit from the situation and they will happily take it.
* * *
The king’s marble head, with its feathered helmet, faced the sea, river, whatever it was. The proud face was turned slightly to the right. The air smelled of the ocean. A cargo ship with a high prow, and a hull that looked freshly painted black, was approaching the shore. There were tall yellow cranes on the deck. A name was painted on its side: Jakarta. Jakarta is the capital of Indonesia. Kuala Lumpur is the capital of Malaysia. The capital of Mongolia is Ulan Bator. His schoolteacher had been shocked to learn that he knew the names of countries and capitals, the altitude of mountains, and also many important dates in history. That teacher did not hide her repulsion for him and used to laugh at him in front of the others. He would go to school barefoot or wearing his father’s old boots, several sizes too big, and the old man’s coat with the sleeves rolled up. Before he could enter the schoolhouse, the teacher inspected his head for lice. If he had any, she would turn him away.
Twenty-nine thousand thirty-five feet is the height of Mount Everest. Ottawa is the capital of Canada. South Africa has the richest diamond and gold mines in the world and they pay very high salaries to white men who are experts in the use of weapons and can guard the black miners. In Biafra and Congo, a white mercenary is a hero.
In winter, his father would break the floorboards and feed them to the woodstove. He started using the roof shingles when there was no more floor. He had already cut all the branches from the few trees on the barren land where he had once hoped to start a farm. The plot ended up becoming a junkyard. At night, he urinated or vomited in one of the buckets that collected water from the roof. His father eventually used the planks from the bunk beds where he slept with his siblings. After that, they slept on the floor, covering their heads so they would not suffocate from the wood smoke.
The capital of Australia is Canberra. In prison, he earned a small income renting out old westerns and novels about aliens, also magazines with black-and-white photos of nude women and color covers where they were being attacked by wild animals. He also rented a deck of cards with photos of nude women. They would be wearing some colonial ornament: a salakot, a leopard skin, a spear.
He read Reader’s Digest, Time magazine, the medical encyclopedia, National Geographic, old and outdated issues that made it to the prison library. He had read every James Bond novel multiple times. He received True magazine every month, filled with stories about sailing voyages and safaris in Africa; tiger-hunting expeditions in India; places to get lost in the islands of the Caribbean or the Pacific, off the coast of Mexico; the sensual women of Tahiti wearing nothing but loincloths; falconry; sightings of alien spacecraft.
In Dr. No, James Bond wakes up on a Caribbean beach and sees a naked woman from behind; she is only wearing a leather holster. Falconry is the art of hunting with domesticated falcons. The technical term for an alien saucer is unidentified flying object. He read books about yoga and hypnosis, and memorized columns of words in alphabetical order to improve his vocabulary. According to the National Investigations Committee on Aerial Phenomena, NICAP, interplanetary vehicles have long observed the Earth. He learned the meaning of acronyms, no matter how long and difficult. He stared at the photos of glaciers and distant beaches and memorized their names so he could imagine himself there after his escape. Puerto Vallarta, Acapulco. Dream beaches on the Pacific.
The capital of Rhodesia is Salisbury. The capital of Angola is Luanda. There is also a war in Angola and they need mercenaries. Brazil has no extradition treaty with the United States. He came home from school one day and his mother had used half the pages from this geography textbook for the woodstove. The rest of the book ended up on wire next to the toilet. In Rhodesia, a white man is still a white man who is proud of his race and ready to take up arms and defend his country’s freedom at any cost.
* * *
Did the functionary at the Ministry of the Overseas look at him too closely? Now he remembers a folded newspaper on top of the stack of files. But he had no choice, he had to return to that office. Thankfully, the functionary spoke English. He seemed pleased with his control of the language, but his accent was strange. Understanding people in this city, making yourself understood, was a torment, a nuisance, like going in circles, misunderstanding after misunderstanding, gestures, words without meaning. These people spoke with obscure words and barely opened their mouths to pronounce things. He couldn’t even understand the name of the city when they pronounced it. Words were shortened to a whisper.
At first, he felt completely disoriented, not understanding what people said. How did he miss that detail. No matter how well you plan something, it always turns out differently. It was like living in a fog that did not disperse, a thick fog of sounds from this people, with their shifty eyes and sallow faces, their narrow foreheads, their short bodies, their mistrust. It was like finding yourself in the middle of a conspiracy as the only one who is not involved.
In the Ministry of the Overseas, the functionary was looking at his passport, not noticing that the cigarette he had put down was beginning to burn the edge of the table. Nothing puts them in a hurry. He remained standing behind the counter, getting more nervous, worried by how long the functionary was looking through his passport, a small pencil behind his ear, saying things in that indecipherable language, then in his strange English. Return tomorrow, he finally heard him say, pointing at the clock with his nicotine-stained finger. He turned around, already in a panic, as was often the case when he felt people were holding him up on purpose. But he had his escape route. He never went inside a building without observing all the possible exits. He left, cursing at the man in English. He was walking down a hallway lined with metal cabinets, when he heard someone calling him from behind. He stopped. The functionary wanted to give him something. It took him a while to realize what it was: Senhor, or seu passaporte.
* * *
The ship cruised slowly from right to left, from one corner of the square to the other. The vast square extended all the way to the water, where the bronze king was looking. He could see a few sailors on the deck. One of them was leaning on the railing, looking at the city he was leaving behind. The sailor held something in his hands: binoculars. He had left his pair inside the bundle of old clothes he used to wrap the rifle after the shot. And later he had dropped the bag with the clothes without thinking, feeling his hand unclench the handle, realizing his mistake as it was happening, but already too late to take it back.
With some effort, he discerned that the man on the deck was actually an officer. He had a flat black cap with golden embroidery, and was wearing a white shirt. Perhaps the look on his face was one of arrogance, pitying those who stayed in that dull, ruinous city. Perhaps he could see, through his binoculars, the pale man in the black suit, tie, and sunglasses, standing very close to the water, on the first step of the marble staircase where waves were splashing.
In the rush to escape, he had dropped the bag with the rifle and the clothes, after firing the one shot, after running down the hallway that smelled of urine and bleach, down the stairs, and out the door to the street where dusk was already setting. He remembered his right shoulder recoiling but he could not remember the sound of the explosion. It was as if it all had happened in silence, devoid of reality, that’s how he remembered it.
He did not remember much else about that moment, except that it was like looking at it from outside. From outside and far away, from the safe distance that the binoculars transformed into a secret proximity. The salesman had assured him that the rifle could bring down a deer from a distance of three hundred meters. A deer or even a charging rhinoceros.
Like watching a movie or squinting to look into one of those machines at the fair: he saw the man step out of his room onto the balcony, stroking his face as if he had just shaved, the same black face from the photographs and TV programs, the wide cheekbones and slanted eyes, the skin shining with sweat.
It was strange to see him in person for the first time, to study his every feature. A breeze blew the curtain behind him like the sail of a boat. The contrast with the white flapping curtain defined the figure of the man even better. He ran his hand over his face and leaned on the rail. He was saying something, smiling. His lips moved silently. He had an unlit cigarette. The white cuffs and the gold ring and watch were bright against the black skin.
Across the street and the parking lot, in that disgusting boardinghouse, in that bathroom covered in shit—him, balancing in the tub, trying to get steady. The footprints would get on the grimy surface. Grease, metal, the smell of the rifle pressed against his face, combined with the stench of the place, urine and vomit fermenting in the heat.
Someone was knocking on the door and shaking the handle. Probably one of the halfwits or alcoholics who resided in that place. In a nearby room, the sound of a television combined with the noise of a couple yelling, two drunks arguing about something. After her fourth or fifth kid was born, his mother began drinking so much she would often pass out on the floor after falling from her rocking chair. She breathed heavily against the dirt floor; the floorboards were long gone, burned in the woodstove. She had four more kids after that. Had she lived to see him now, she would not recognize him. Dark suit and tie, sunglasses, alligator shoes, good manners. This was the new him. She died of cirrhosis at the age of fifty-one. Being in prison was the perfect excuse to miss the funeral.
* * *
No one could possibly know where he is right now. They assure the public that they are on his tracks, that there is no way he could have left the country. They lie. Thousands of federal agents analyzing every clue, fingerprint, hair caught in a comb, a signed receipt for the hunting rifle, the binoculars, several boxes with bullets, even empty beer cans and tags from the dry cleaner. The bullets were not sharp enough to pierce through the tissue and bone and leave a clean wound. Whatever they say, any clue they have is no more useful than the old skin of a snake long gone into a muddy riverbank. The rifle, the bullets, the car, the transistor radio, the suit he left at the Laundromat under his old name. The transistor is the only thing he actually misses. He had kept it tight between his legs as he hugged his knees inside the bread cart. The smell of the fresh rolls reminded him that it would be long before he ate again.
If only he had the radio now, perhaps he could listen to a program in English. If they gave him the visa to Angola, he would leave in the boat that looked like the Jakarta and was still moored in the harbor.
Angola, what an exciting word, like Rhodesia or Mozambique. On the covers of Man’s Life magazine, men with tanned, athletic bodies saved beautiful women from danger: natives wearing feathers, leopards with huge fangs, snakes coiling around their thighs. In the dark backstreets by the harbor, the bars where you could find prostitutes and sailors were named after distant countries or states in America. There were daily lists with the names of all the arriving and departing ships, other ports and destinations, names that unleashed his imagination like the old maps in the schoolhouse, exotic names like Mozambique, India, Beira, Sofala, Angola, Luanda, Patria, Veracruz.
Some of the alleys never saw the light of day and their neon signs blinked at all times. The sign for the Texas Bar featured a cactus and a cowboy hat. There was also a bar called Alabama. How strange to find that name here. As soon as he was back in the hotel, he would look for the two Portuguese colonies in Africa. He kept buying maps and newspapers, even though he was running out of money. He had taken the steps down to the water, lost in a vision of the passing ship and the silhouette of the officer on the foredeck holding a pair of binoculars. Beyond the marble steps, there was a stone ramp covered in slippery algae. The tide had risen and the water now washed over his shoes. Two columns flanked the stairway. A seagull was perched on each one.
* * *
The receptionist at the Hotel Portugal tried to look him in the eyes as he gave him the room keys, but he looked away, mumbling what could have been a greeting. The eyes convey the unique identity of a face. The photo on the passport showed the Canadian traveler wearing glasses like those of a professor or a lawyer, the same glasses he wore the night he checked in at the hotel. Sometimes he wore the other pair, his sunglasses. When he returned and took them off, after many hours under the sun, his eyes were bloodshot.
There was something asymmetrical about his eyes, similar to the ears. One ear was larger and hung lower than the other. The receptionist tried to practice his English but the new guest could not understand or maybe he could not hear well. He nodded or shook his head, always looking down or to the side, biting the corners of his mouth as if he were in pain. What little he said was incomprehensible, except when he needed to know something, like how to get to the South African embassy and also the Canadian one and the port and where to buy newspapers in English.
The newspapers under the arm added to his dubious professorial look, especially the night he checked in, the one so evident in his passport photo but less so in person as the days went by. An impostor who falsified his diploma or was caught having an affair with a student. A funeral director whose breath reeked of alcohol. Those who saw him in Atlanta on April 5, early that morning, more than twelve hours after the shooting, said he looked like an insurance agent or a preacher.
He locked himself in the hotel room and read all the newspapers in bed. On the bedside table: a hypnosis manual, the spy novel Tangier Assignment; a study guide for the correspondence course on locksmithing; a book with a large title across the cover, Psycho-Cybernetics. On the floor: scattered British and American newspapers and a page from a Portuguese paper with the list of all the ships coming into and out of the port. In a drawer of the little table by the window: travel brochures for South Africa with the names of cities underlined and the margins filled with calculations for expenses, always small amounts, and currency conversions from dollars to escudos. On a sheet of hotel stationery, he had practiced several signatures: Ramon Sneyd, Ramon George Sneyd, R. Sneyd, R. G. Sneyd, Ramon G. Sneyd. Not a single call or visit in ten days, not one letter or postcard sent. He received a letter from the Rhodesian mission in Lisbon, his name and the hotel address neatly typed on the envelope. The next morning, the envelope and the letter, a brief, official notice, were in the trash can.
* * *
One night, one of the first, the receptionist was dozing off when a loud laugh came through the revolving door. A young woman walked in, wearing heavy makeup, a tight, low-cut dress, and high heels. She staggered, walking on the old carpet. The pale-faced guest followed her, with a serious expression, wearing professorial glasses, a dark suit, cigarette in hand. The woman, somewhat taller than him, took his arm and whispered something in his ear. He nodded. She took the cigarette from his hand. He had been holding it while she retouched her lipstick. He broke away from her and straightened his posture before approaching the reception desk to ask for his key. He briefly looked the receptionist in the eyes before looking down, as usual. His eyes seemed smaller, very blue, almost colorless, clouded with alcohol. He displayed the oscillating confidence of a drunk who is about to fall. A very pale drunk, one ear bigger than the other, a pointy nose with a reddened tip, the tie crooked but very tight, a prominent cleft chin. A professor who was caught coming out of a peep show or a sex shop, a perverted mortician.
The receptionist gulped and said in English that guests were not allowed to bring women to their rooms. For a moment the guest looked him straight in the eyes, with a gesture of surprise or maybe a slight smile, like someone who is not fully in control of his facial muscles. There he stood, baffled, as the woman cursed at the receptionist in Portuguese. She pulled him by the arm, telling him in English that she knew a much better place. Out they went, the guest glancing at the receptionist through the glass door, his face livid, his small eyes lacking any expression.