Read Online Carioca Fletch by Gregory McDonald - Free Book Online Page B

his third
cachaça
.
    “Ah,” Toninho said. “Norival is an
arigó
. A simpleton, a boor, but a good fellow. If he were not from a rich, important family, he would be an
arigó
. His brother, Adroaldo Passarinho, is the same, exactly like him in every way. Look the same, act the same. His father has sent Adroaldo to school in Switzerland, in hopes there will be someone in the family this generation less than simple.
Arigó
.”
    Tito climbed out of the pool and, not drying himself, dropped naked belly down on the grass.
    In high seriousness and in great detail, Toninho then wanted to know about this new robot he had read about in
Time
magazine supposedly capable of understanding and obeying one hundred thousand different orders. Designed in Milan, manufactured in Phoenix with Japanese parts. What was the nature of the computer which ran it? How were the joints designed, and how many were there? What would the robot say when given conflicting orders? Would the robot know, better than a person, when it is breaking down?
    In his towel, holding a fresh glass of
cachaça
, Orlando stood on the back steps of the plantation house. He sang. Of the four Tap Dancers, Orlando’s muscles were the heaviest. His voice was deep, and he sang well.
    O canto de minha gente

Assediando meu coração

Semente que a arte germinou

E o tempo temperou

Amor, o amor

Como é gostoso amar
.
    Norival raised his head from his long chair and hissed. Even from a distance, it could be seen Norival was not focusing. His head dropped back.
    “Ah, the
arigó
never sobered from last night,” Toninho said.
    “What’s the song?” Fletch asked.
    “An old Carnival song. Let’s see.” Toninho closed his eyes to translate. Fletch had been slow to see how long Toninho’s lashes were. They rested on his cheeks. “‘My people’s song makes my heart leap. The seed is sown by art and tempered by time. Love, love, how good it is to love.’”
    “That’s a good song.”
    “Oh, yes.”
    With his glass of
cachaça
, Orlando wandered down to where they were sitting.
    “Orlando,” Toninho said. “Give Fletch a demonstration of
capoeira
, of kick-dancing. You and Tito. Make it good. Kill each other.”
    Raising his head beside the pool, Tito said, “You, Toninho.”
    “Perform for the gods,” Toninho said.
    Orlando looked into his glass. “I’ve had a drink.”
    “You won’t hurt each other,” Toninho said.
    “You and Orlando,” Tito said from the grass.
    “It is important Janio sees
capoeira
from close up,” Toninho said. “So he will remember.”
    Glass still in hand, Orlando went to Tito and with his bare feet stood on Tito’s ass. Standing thus, he drained his glass, leaned over, and put it on the grass. Then he began to walk slowly up Tito’s back.
    “I can’t breathe!” Tito said.
    “And you can’t talk?” Toninho asked.
    “I can’t talk, either.”
    Then he wriggled free, spilling Orlando to the side, and jumped to his feet.
    In a wide arc, he swung his right foot, aiming for Orlando’s head.
    Orlando ducked successfully, turned sideways and slammed his instep into Tito’s side, against his rib cage. Orlando’s towel dropped.
    “Wake up,” Orlando said.
    In a short moment, Tito and Orlando had the rhythm of it, had each other’s rhythm. Gracefully, viciously, rhythmically, as if to the beating of drums, with fantastic speed they were aiming kicks at each other’s heads, shoulders, stomachs, crotches, knees, each kick coming within a hair’s breadth of connecting, narrowly ducking, sidestepping each other, turning and swirling, their legs straight and their legs bent, their muscles tight and their muscles loose, their fronts and their backs flashing in the sunlight, the hair on their heads seeming to have to hurry to keep up with this frantic movement. With this fast, graceful dance, easily they could have killed each other.
    Eva had come onto the porch to watch. Her eyes flashed. A few faces of other women appeared in