CHOCOLATE MADE a grubby circle about José Carlos’s lips. He held a shrimp in one fist, and he was beaming. Speakers piped Villa—Lobos through the tent. Against a blast of “Bachianas Brasileiras,” Edson hummed an off—tune, offbeat “Chão de Estrelas,” held the boy, and danced.
“Where’s papai?”
Edson didn’t answer. He shuffled close to the table and bent him over a tray of stuffed crabs. His balance lost, José Carlos shrieked and clutched Edson’s lapel.
“You don’t like the crabs? Let’s see what you do like, neh?” Edson dangled him over a platter of quail eggs. He was drunk, and it took him far too long to realize the boy was squealing with terror, not delight. He pulled him up.
“Where’s papai?”
“Our fun—loving channeler extraordinaire? He’s kissing foreign—dignitary ass in the other tent. He’ll charm us with his presence in a few minutes.” Edson closed his eyes. Drunken vertigo sent him crashing into the table. A papaya and coconut cake fell, whipped cream down.
“Puta que pariu,” he mumbled, then caught the boy’s self—righteous expression, one he must have learned from his father, when his father was still whole. “Don’t look at me with those eyes. You’re too little to be pious. And too young to know what puta means. Come on. Laugh for me.” He tickled the child’s ribs.
José Carlos twisted away, frowning. “What’s this?” he asked and stuck his hand inside Edson’s jacket.
“Don’t play with that. I shoot people with that.”
“Why?”
“For Ana Maria, Our Lady of Economic Development.”
Edson shouldn’t have closed his eyes a minute ago. Now he seemed to have lost all notion of center. He took a step left, and his foot nearly pulled his body with it. Only a fierce act of will kept him upright. Afraid he would drop the boy, he backed up until his buttocks hit the bar, and waited for the room to stop spinning.
“You shoot lots of people?”
“I’m a puto. Another word for ‘patriot.’ You can understand that, neh? I’m paid to fuck others for my country.”
“You shoot lots of people with your gun?”
“Oh.” Edson took a deep breath. The room made a giddy half—turn and halted. “Thousands.”
Hot sticky hands plucked at his collar. “Listen. Listen.”
“What?”
Soft, frightened voice. Breath like moth wings on his cheek. The smells of chocolate and shrimp. “Can you kill it?”
“What?” Edson shook his head, a mistake that nearly sent him to his knees, retching. “Um ... let you down.”
But before he could, tiny fingers seized his jacket, put a stranglehold on his tie. “Please. Can’t you kill it?”
Crying. That’s what was happening. The boy was crying. And José Carlos’s sobs made the room reel until there was nothing, not even dignity, to hold on to. Edson’s grip loosened. The child slid to the floor, and the director of Operações Sigilosas dropped to the Astroturf.
A tug on the hem of Edson’s jacket. “I want my pai back.”
When Edson understood what it really was that the boy wanted, he muttered, “God have mercy,” and the room went round and round.
* * *
“This disappoints me,” Hiroshi said.
Kinch’s eyes, the color of pond scum, were magnified by his Coke—bottle glasses. He wore heavy black frames when gold rims or contacts would do. The tall, egg—shaped, hunch—shouldered vice president of Raytheon Brazil even slicked his dark hair back like Superman’s alter ego.
“Yeah, well ...” His eyes focused on something beyond Hiroshi’s shoulder—Dr. Clark Christopher Kinch in search of a phone booth. “We shouldn’t be talking here. You’re blowing the hell out of my cover.”
“We are friends. This is what everyone thinks. Smile, Dr. Kinch. Smile and nod as if we are having a good time. I relied on your information, and you assured me the rocket could not fly.”
Don’t worry. No problem, Kinch had promised. And Hiroshi had promised Kasahara. And Kasahara had promised the ambassador, who in turn promised the prime minister.
“Shit happens. When I find out more, I’ll tell you, okay?”
Industrial secrets were Hiroshi’s stock—in—trade, political espionage mere hobby. Still, he knew Kinch was in over his head. The CIA had betrayed Hiroshi’s trust. Now Kinch treated him like an agent of the Third World country Japan was fast becoming.
Hiroshi took a deep breath. By the green—and—white striped pavilion, a receiving line had formed. Through the open wall of the blue—and—white buffet tent, he saw Edson Carvalho on his hands and knees, vomiting. A maid was throwing towels on the mess. Caterers scurried in with buckets. Typical Brazilian confusion.
He looked away. “Was the announcement true? Has it actually reached orbit?”
“Don’t be a pain in the ass, Hirohito. I told you. When I get word, I’ll pass it on.”
Kinch started to leave. Hiroshi, expression still impassive, grabbed his arm. Like most Americans, Kinch was all potato—fed muscle. But Hiroshi knew how to squeeze. The American sucked in a breath. His shoulders straightened. His pond—scum eyes grew wide.
Hiroshi drove his thumb into the nerve at Kinch’s elbow. He dug until he sensed the taller man’s knees going weak. Then he smiled politely. “That would please me very much, Dr. Kinch.”
* * *
If Dolores hadn’t been standing beside Roger, she would never have seen it happen. The American military attaché walked smartly down the outside of the receiving line. His eyes cut neither left nor right. His toffee—brown face never changed expression. His regulation Marine jaw did not slacken. “Can the goddamned color commentary,” he muttered. Then he smiled and, as if that had been his sole objective, he stopped to exchange pleasantries with the Latvians.
Roger leaned over her shoulder. “I think I fucked up.”
Too late for replies. Three steps. She smiled and put out her hand to the German cultural attaché, who mouthed compliments on her retrospective at the Whitney. Another step brought her to the pale and trembling CEO of Siemens. Next in line was the German ambassador, who had been trained to mask surprise.
“Congratulations,” she told him.
A perfunctory bow. The hand shot forward. “We are pleased to be working with our new Brazilian partners.” But he had not been trained well enough. Cool in the tent, yet his forehead and palm were damp.
Two more steps. Edson Carvalho should have been beside his president. The mysterious farmer was there, instead. Had Ana found a lover at this late and middle—aged date? A shame. Dolores had fought so hard to win her her freedom.
He was older than she had thought. Anyone’s poor country uncle in a borrowed suit. His gaze floated to the tent’s ceiling. His grip was awkward, as if he had never quite learned how to shake hands.
Dolores told him, “I don’t think I caught your name.”
His middle finger traced a clandestine line down her palm. At the unexpected intimacy, electricity arced through her. Her thigh muscles turned to water. She realized, to her chagrin, that she was blushing.
“Dolores Sims,” he said. He aimed dark eyes at her. “You are a painter.”
He drew her close, loomed over, and engulfed her. His body heat was suffocating; his breath tickled her cheek. “You must tell me about painting sometime.” His whisper probed her ear like a tongue. “We can talk together. I would like to—”
“We must not hold up the receiving line.”
At Ana’s voice, his grip loosened. Dolores jerked free. God. Why hadn’t she shoved him away? Damn it, she just stood there and—
“Dolores?” Ana said. “So good to see you again.”
Stood there and let him.
She saw the man pull Roger close, and heard him whisper intimately, “Roger Lintenberg?”
“Dolores?” Ana. Puzzled now.
Dolores tore her attention free. “Yes, Ana. Good to see you, too. It’s been too long. Why don’t we get together? Just the two of us.”
Could Ana sense her desperation? Did they pass loneliness, palm to palm? “We can watch a movie and eat popcorn and then call Jaje. How is the university treating her?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t have time for her mother.” Bitterness flirted with Ana’s mouth. “Strange she hasn’t called you, though. Oh, by the way, I heard you suffered a loss.” She leaned forward and hissed, “You’ll miss him.”
Dolores shook her head.
A grip so tight it bruised. “You will. No matter how you hated him. Like me, you now have no one.”
Ana coolly moved her attentions to Roger.
The line, inevitable as the tide, pushed Dolores onward. She floated amid a vast sea of guests. The current swept her into the food pavilion, among the whirl pooled cliques and the gossipy eddies. There she drifted, drowning.
A tug on her sleeve brought her head around. Roger asked, “Hey. Couldn’t help but overhear. Who died?”
You’ll miss him.
“Just my husband,” she said.