Chappie Four
Alex's next port-of-call was Brazil, as Smithers (and Blunt) had suggested back at the start of this whole mess. He wondered again why he'd chosen to go to Greenland first. It hadn't really been a choice, however – Alex had simply lined up in the closest line, eager to get away. But this time, he made a conscious decision to head to Brazil. After all, what better place to relax after freezing his arse off in Greenland than somewhere renowned for its brilliant blue skies, warm weather and girls? However, Alex was a professional, of course. The girls weren't part of the appeal at all.
Besides, Alex had vaguely remembered Blunt mentioning Smithers' presence in this land of happiness. Why a man of his size would want to go there – where it was so sunny and probably very uncomfortable with the 'extra padding' – Alex didn't know and had a feeling he didn't want to.
Exiting the cool airport, he was greeted with a blast of hot, humid air, immediately sticking his shirt to his back and painting his cheeks red. As he walked over to the long line of taxis, he felt the beginnings of two sweat patches forming under each arm, and a trickle of sweat rolling down his temple. Already, his eyes were drooping, his steps lagging.
Not bothering to check for danger, the blond ex-spy hauled himself and his luggage into a waiting taxi and slumped as he realised that, despite his fervent yet sluggish prayers, the air-conditioner wasn't working. Just his luck.
As if things couldn't get any worse, an annoying whining sound filled his ears, as he realised he'd accidently entered an already-taken taxi. The elderly woman in the seat next to him was haranguing her husband in the front, who in turn was ranting at Alex through the rear-view mirror.
"Now see here, young man: we hailed this cab, fair and square. I don't know who you think you are, but –"
"Let me introduce myself, then. I am the son of Sir David Friend," interjected Alex with a charming smile that failed to reach his crud-filled eyes. "I think you'll find that my business here holds a higher priority than your holiday. I have an important meeting to attend and I mustn't be late, so I'm afraid I'll be securing this taxi for the time being. You can guarantee my father will thank you personally upon my return. You can expect some compensation. He will find you."
The couple stared at him. Alex moved his right hand to the back of his jeans, which held a hard sunglasses case somewhat similar in size and shape to a gun, and increased the intensity of his stare.
"Y-yes…" the husband stammered, "quite… quite right. Come on love, let's leave Mr… Friend… to his, er, business…" Pulling his gobsmacked wife by her quivering jelly-like arm, he left Alex free to commandeer the cab as he so desired.
"Pousada Favelinha, por favor," was the command to the nonplussed driver, and they were off.
xxx
Back in freezing Greenland, Alex had found a note on the laptop detailing the locations of various preferred places of accommodation for agents in various countries. Alex had a list specific to Brazil, and would check each residence for Smithers. Luckily, the list wasn't long, so he would hopefully have enough time before sundown. If he'd taken a different bag from his flat, he could have used a list of contacts to phone Smithers, but that was in the past, now.
The first place on the list was the Pousada Favelinha, a guesthouse, located on the side of a mountain. It was a little way up this mountain that the taxi stopped and let Alex out. Leaving some money and his thanks, Alex surveyed the area, noting the various laneways that ran between each rundown house. Good escape routes, should any issues arise.
He hoisted his manbag onto his shoulder, grabbed the Samsonite, and headed up the stairs winding steeply between the tall trees.
A good double-century of stairs later, Alex was thinking that his football coach would love to come to Brazil with his football team. He'd make them go up ten steps, then down ten, up twenty, then down twenty. Up thirty, then down thirty, and so on and so forth, until they reached the top. No one could say he lacked dedication for his sport: dedication which would likely be expressed in the form of vitriolic words and violent gestures when Alex eventually turned up.
Mindful of his most recent injury to his stomach, Alex was content to take the stairs at a leisurely pace, pausing every now and then to stretch his muscles and survey the many hundreds of stairs still to go. Before he'd left the hospital, the doctor had warned him to 'take it easy and rest often'. Somehow, Alex didn't think the man would be very happy seeing him now. Ah well, never mind him. He had once read somewhere that exercise was good even when sick, and even if it wasn't true (especially for bullet wounds), it was a good excuse and made him feel slightly less guilty.
Finally, after another two hundred steps or so, Alex reached the top on wobbly legs, thankful for once for his relative lack of bags. He looked backwards at the thousands of stairs behind him, feeling as if a dozen males clad in white running shorts and T-shirts should appear around him, running in slow motion to the dramatic notes of a certain fiery chariot. In his heat-addled mind, the runners continued on their triumphant journey to… Was that—?
Alex's heart sank.
There, nestled in the bushes next to the staircase was a little tramcar attached to a wire leading… he traced the line back… back to the city. With joyful notes still ringing in the ears of his imagination, the white-wearing males jogged over to the tramcar and, their movements still slowed by dramatics, got in. They waved to him as they disappeared into the back of his mind.
Yep, the taxi driver, evil man that he was, had led him to the painful route. Stairway to Heaven? Hah! Was it revenge for hijacking the car at the airport? Plain sadism? Alex didn't know. He wished he hadn't left his thanks or the tip.
Magnanimously deciding to forgive and forget about the taxi driver, Alex approached reception, a simple wooden counter raised on the customer's side to hide staff computer screens. The lady who greeted him would once have been quite pretty, in an exotic way. The grin she gave him over the desk reminded him of a predatory cat.
Alex cleared his throat. "Is there anyone here by the name of Smithers? I missed an appointment with him, and..." He paused significantly.
The lady frowned, emphasising the wrinkles she had tried to cover up with foundation and strong, dark eye-shadow giving her eye sockets a bruised look. "Do you hold identification, Sir?"
Alex smiled winningly, presenting the passport he'd used to fly to Brazil.
Tilting her head slightly, the woman scrutinised his passport closely, before handing it back and typing something on the keyboard before her. Eyes roved back and forth while her brow furrowed further. Eventually, she looked up with an apologetic smile. "No one is here, many sorries."
Alex frowned. "How about a man, very overweight, white skin?"
This time the lady sat up and gave a short nod, setting her large, gaudy earrings – and therefore the lobes they were attached to – in motion. "Mr Smith!" But Alex's hopes were dashed almost immediately as she continued, "I am sorry, but he leaves yesterday."
"Did he give any indication as to where he was going?" Alex felt like a detective trying to catch a suspect. However, he didn't expect Smithers would have been so stupid as to leave an obvious trail.
As expected, the woman's answer was negative.
With a shrug, Alex left. Perhaps Smithers, taking a tip from the agents he worked with, was changing accommodation regularly and the Pousada Favelinha wasn't his only place of choice. It couldn't hurt to ask around.
xxx
The second place Alex chose to check for Smithers was Augusto's Paysandu Hotel, which held the temptation of complimentary breakfasts. Surely Smithers would not have wanted to miss that. The leather seats in the lobby gave the place an old-money sort of charm, marred only by the traffic noises from outside.
When Alex had made his way through the narrow, cramped streets, he had been met with the chaotic yet strangely organised Rio paradigm of driving, a game with winners and many, many losers. The cars alternatively accelerated and decelerated with screeching tires and almost constantly wailing horns.
In a sort of ecosystem, each inhabitant of Rio's streets had adapted to their environment in order to survive. Whatever car Alex saw was always either a Fiat or a Chevrolet. Doubtless the Fiat was useful for nipping in and out of tight spots like a rabbit, using its horn most profusely in an indignant squeal while dodging away from its larger counterpart.
The Chevrolet also made good use of its horn in a deep roar to announce its presence as it bullied its way through the hordes. Its drivers enjoyed creeping up and revving its engines suddenly, watching with triumphant smiles as its victims scuttled out of the way.
With these vehicles so accurately balancing each other out, it seemed quite reasonable that despite the congested, wild nature of the streets, there was remarkably little in the way of crashes or injured pedestrians, who had acquired skills similar to the Fiat yet decidedly more mouse-like. They meekly avoided the swerving cars and the drivers yelling furiously out their windows at victims only feet away.
But no one got out of their car. The hierarchy of the streets, with the pedestrians last, ensured that although the inhabitants often suffered road rage, in the next second their anger was forgotten, or aimed at another. Every incident was strictly business; no grudges were carried from one moment to the next. Even if the inhabitants of the streets had wanted to, it would have been virtually impossible and quite, quite pointless to remember the antagonist before they were swept away, never to be seen again.
Travelling to Augusto's Paysandu Hotel had taken almost double the time he'd estimated earlier and by the time he arrived, he was exhausted. Being a pedestrian in Rio meant negotiating the streets with catlike agility and seemingly nine lives – both of which Alex smugly told himself that he possessed… on a normal day. But this was Brazil. It was 27˚C, he'd been shot in the stomach days earlier and he'd just climbed what seemed like a million steps.
Alex shut out the sounds and approached the desk. The receptionist, in clear contrast to the previous one, was young and rather good looking, though she seemed rather angry at Alex for no particular reason.
"I'd like to make an enquiry, please," he began, ignoring her glare. He rushed on without waiting for a response. "Is there a Mr Smithers staying here?"
The girl, still glaring, smiled, making her look slightly constipated. She looked at her screen, clicked a few times with her manicured hands, and returned her gaze to Alex.
"No, Sir."
"What about a man, very overweight, white skin?"
"No, Sir. Not that I remember."
As he turned away, Alex considered that she hadn't protected the privacy of Smithers at all. He could have been anyone – an assassin, tracking a target, a member of the mafia, looking for money...
After a small headshake and tut, Alex's search continued. And all that fuss on the streets for nothing. He looked at his watch. Perhaps searching through all the hotels on the list he'd found would be rather pointless considering the time and effort spent getting to each one. Ah, well.
xxx
The first thing that greeted Alex upon entry in the Golden Tulip Continental was the smell of urine. Now, Alex was not weak of stomach, so a measly thing like that would certainly not put him off his quest. Already, he had braved the odours of raw sewage tempered by salt wafting from the bay, the acrid fumes from the traffic, the saccharine humidity and the overwhelming scent of green. He had suffered through the streets of Rio. This was nothing compared to the trauma outside.
This time, when Alex approached reception, the first thing he was told, without preamble, was: "No rooms!"
Alex smiled politely. "Thanks, but I would like to ask you a question."
The lady frowned up at him as if were a tax man. "No rooms!" she repeated slowly.
Alex widened his smile, resisting the urge to bite her head off literally and figuratively. Perhaps figuratively first. "Yes, I realise that, but is there a Mr Smithers here?"
The lady typed slowly, using only her index fingers. She frowned again at the result on the computer screen. "No." She looked up and her eyes narrowed. "No! Rooms!"
It didn't look as though he'd get any further, so Alex left.
xxx
The man typed on his computer rapidly, spoke into his headset, and continued to type. Alex waited patiently at the desk for one, two minutes. At least this place was clean and a welcome respite from Outside. It was even air-conditioned! Alex decided he could afford to spend a lot of time interrogating this receptionist. "Excuse me."
The man continued typing.
"Sir?"
Still nothing.
"Er, excuse me, I'd like to speak with you."
The man paused for a second, staring at the screen, only to begin tapping away at the keyboard again with renewed vigour.
Alex sighed. Perhaps another tactic would be more effective. In a commanding voice he shouted at the man as if he were the Sergeant. "Sir, may I have your attention, please!"
Like a deer in headlights, the man froze and looked up at Alex slowly. Seeing the unthreatening figure before him, the man forced a perfunctory smile and went straight back to the computer, pointing at the headset meaningfully before resuming pouring out words onto the keyboard.
Honestly, the man was infuriating. In the same commanding voice, Alex shouted, "Sir, I'm here to arrest someone on suspicion of… Well," he leaned in, lowering his voice, "can we talk somewhere else? I'd really appreciate your cooperation… if you know what I mean."
The man looked up with the same guilty expression. "You want… You wish… to talk?" he asked. "Somewhere... in private?"
Finally! Alex nodded solemnly. "In private," he confirmed.
The man swallowed, but looked pointedly at Alex. "Is there any particular reason I should come?"
"What?"
"Sir, you are annoying and stupid. Please stop wasting my time."
"What?" He'd been so eager to help before. What was the problem?
"Please go away, Sir," said the man, flapping a hand at him.
"There's a sign that says you're a receptionist," Alex scowled, indignant. "But you're not receptive at all."
The man looked at Alex with raised eyebrows. "There are many taxis outside, but with an empty wallet there are no taxis at all."
"…Oh." Alex coughed and slid over a Brazilian Real note, which the male receptionist accepted smugly, leading him to a small room with a desk and two chairs.
With another forced smile, he offered Alex one of the chairs and plonked himself down on the other. "What is it you wished to talk to me about, Sir? You are polícia, yes?"
"Well," Alex heaved a sigh as if to acknowledge the man's assumption, "I just want to ask you some questions."
"Of course, Sir."
"I assume you know everyone who is in this hotel, and who has ever stayed in this hotel?" Alex drawled, smiling conspiratorially at the man. A little flattery never hurt anyone. Plus, it was better than giving away more cash.
The man took a deep breath and looked slightly perturbed. "I see you already know I have a photographic memory. I remember all our customers. In fact, one time, Mr John Cleese Sir stayed in this very hotel," he boasted.
"Hmm," said Alex noncommittally. "So you would remember, for instance, if a man by the name of Smithers was ever in your hotel?"
"Oh, yes, but no. Such a man was never here. May I ask why it is you need him?"
Alex glared at the man, who cowered into his chair. "I shouldn't be telling you this, really. He's wanted in a major case we're working on," he lied. "So he may have gone under an alias."
The man perked up in excitement. "A major case? I am glad the Savoy Othon can be of help, senhor! You know, we have a complimentary buffet every morning if you wish to stay to work on this amazing case."
"Yes," muttered Alex. "Quite. He's quite a large man, you would remember a man his size."
The man thought for what seemed an age, but was only probably a minute. "No," he said eventually, "no man with big size."
Alex's disappointed look must have alarmed the man, for he piped up again.
"But you may stay here while you look for this man! We will serve you to the best of our abilities!"
The man continued to ejaculate praise for the hotel as Alex left the room.
xxx
Sofitel, despite all its glory, was no help either. Apparently, Smithers had left two days ago, presumably to go to Pousada Favelinha. Thus ended the trail of Smithers. He really would make a decent field agent. Or perhaps everyone who worked at MI6 was like that, no matter their role.
However, before he travelled back to the Pousada Favelinha, it was time for Alex to listen to his stomach. The street vendors beckoned with such welcoming grins that Alex felt as if he should join them and spend the rest of his life following them like some sort of parasite.
Gastronomy was not to be taken lightly, especially considering Alex's limited funds. Ignoring all else, he wandered up and down the street, contemplating each food and comparing them for both price and quality, though he was no expert considering this was his first time in Brazil.
A bikini-clad girl smiled at him, but he ignored her in favour of watching a prawn stew boil. Watching the bubbles push past the prawns to the surface was like watching baby turtles crawling on the sand and into the big wide ocean. He surreptitiously wiped away a small tear.
Eventually, after much bad poetry, Alex approached a bakery emitting tantalising scents, which promised eternal happiness upon entering and savouring the delights within.
A few minutes later, he held a bun filled with seasoned meat and vegetables. It was a metaphor for the Big Bang, he decided, and if he were to drop this specimen, no doubt there would be a small vegetable representing the Earth. Perhaps little bacteria would form on the surface. He really was quite the expert when it came to poetic metaphors.
When he had finished, the dough had dried Alex's mouth slightly, and he decided that he must buy a drink immediately.
Caldo de cana, sugar cane juice, satisfied his need perfectly, with its light herbal taste and immense sweetness tempered by a squeeze of limejuice like the juice of sugar cane and lime. Maybe he should bring some to Tom one day.
And then dessert. A woman had sprinkled flour onto a pan, and right before his eyes, with no additions, the powder had turned into a crepe! It was as if she had created an island by pouring sand onto the ocean surface, though the metaphor did the phenomenon no justice. Alex had to try one. Coconut and condensed milk was his choice of filling, and he thanked the woman profusely in what limited Portuguese he'd picked up.
With sticky fingers and a full stomach, Alex found his way to a tram station to return to Pousada Favelinha. Never again would he take the stairs.
xxx
Disclaimer: I have not been to Brazil, so there may be mistakes in geography, and any comments on hotels or other places are fictional.
*Just a quick note: koalas aren't bears.
Also, have you spotted any references yet? There were some very obvious ones last chapter :D