Why Do Birds

CHAPTER 34

She slept, knowing that she was in a cylinder of metal that was droning through the blue darkness. The cylinder contracted like a colon, squeezed her out steaming into the sky, and she fell forever until the earth below turned into Stone's face, and as his mouth opened she saw the darkness inside, and the cardboard breathing out and breathing in.

And she was sitting up in the cold blue-white light of the window. Her heart was hammering and her mouth was dry. Stone said, "You okay?"

He was standing by the bed, dressed and shaved. "I was just going to wake you up," he said. "We're landing in about twenty minutes, okay? I'll be in the lounge." He yawned, and she saw the cardboard in his throat; then he left.

She staggered into the bathroom. The dream was real, and she couldn't wake up. She put her clothes on and ran a brush through her hair, wondering what she was going to do.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Chesterton's voice from the loudspeaker, "we are now making our final approach to Evita Peron. The weather's good, pollution index moderate, sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit on the ground now, and the high today will be seventy-eight. Fasten seat belts please. We'll be on the ground in five minutes, thank you."

She found her shoe and put it on, then sat down and fastened the belt, gripped the armrests while the plane tilted and slid down the air with a whistling sound, like a falling artillery shell. She had a violent headache; she knew she was about to die, either before or after she threw up, and it bothered her that she had to do it with only one shoe on.

Then a hideous bump, and they were rolling. The plane swiveled, then the sound of the engines turned into a loud silence.

Stone opened the door and came in. "You okay?" he said.

"No. Open your mouth, will you?"

"What for?"

"I thought I saw something. "

"Yeah?" He looked perplexed, but opened wide. Something at the back of his throat fluttered out of sight.

"So what was it?" he asked.

She forced herself to say, "I don't know. Nothing."

"You had a rough time, huh? Come on. You'll feel better when you're on the ground."

When they left the plane there were five of them besides the crew; the fourth one was one of Stone's doubles, and the fifth was a serious man in a gray suit who did not introduce himself. Wellafield took her wrist as they walked across the tarmac. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Rotten."

Inside the customs shed they were met by a porter, who handed Lavalle a diplomatic passport.

"Thank you very much," she said.

"No problem." The porter smiled and went away.

After customs they got into a limousine, all five. Stone said, "Uh, Linda, you know Medium Bob, and this is Dan DeQuincy, he's my bodyguard."

"I'm glad to meet you," Lavalle said. "That's funny, I'm the one who needs a bodyguard."

DeQuincy nodded. "That could be arranged, certainly," he said to Stone. "You want me to call State?"

"Yeah, would you?"

DeQuincy got out his phone and spoke into it so quietly that she could not hear. He put the phone away. "They'll get back to us. They may have to fly somebody down."

The morning streets were almost deserted; there were few cars, and almost no pedestrians, but she could hear a faint squawking of music in the distance. She remembered other trips to South America, always like this: the empty morning light was so sad.

The limousine delivered them to a large hotel. A gorgeous bellhop showed them to their suite on the fifteenth floor. There were crossed swords on the upholstery, the drapes, and the bedspreads.

"Listen," Stone said, "I've got to go and meet the President, and I think you'd better stay here, don't you? At least until we get you a bodyguard."

"Yes."

"Doc can stay with you, if you want. "

"No, that's okay. "

He moved as if to kiss her, but she managed to cough into her hand at the wrong moment. He looked a little puzzled. "Well, we'll be back tonight. Sure you're okay?"

"Yes."

When they were gone, she went into the bedroom and looked at Stone's suitcases; they were all locked. She touched the call button on the console and said in Spanish, "Please send up a hammer and some small nails."

The clerk's voice responded, "Pardon me, but for what purpose do you want them, Senora?"

"I want to repair the heel of my shoe."

"We will be glad to do that for you, Senora."

"No, I'm in a hurry. Do as I ask, please."

"Very well, Senora."

After a few minutes a bellboy knocked on the door and handed her a hammer and a box of nails. "Are these the right kind?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you."

"Will there be anything else, Senora?"

"No, thank you."

"At your orders." He bowed and went away.

She set a nail against the locks and broke them with reckless swings of the hammer. In one of the suitcases she found a carton of cigarettes, a half-liter of rye, a bundle of australes-the equivalent of several hundred thousand dollars-and a smaller bundle of U.S. currency. She wondered why he wanted so much; for bribes, perhaps. She put the money in her purse and laid the other things on the bed. Next she went into the adjoining room and broke the locks of DeQuincy's luggage as well. In his suitcase she found a high-powered rifle with a scope, broken down in its own little case, several boxes of shells, and three banana clips. Her hands were trembling. She packed everything she had taken into the only one of Stone's suitcases that would still close. Then she went into Wellafield's room, found his medical bag, and took that too, although it looked very old.

She swallowed two aspirins and a tranquilizer; used the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and turned out the lights before she left, carrying the suitcase in one hand, the medical bag and her spare shoe in the other.

The desk clerk saw her crossing the lobby and called, "Senora Lavalle, you are leaving us?"

"Yes."

"Yourself only, or will the others leave too?"

"Only myself. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Senora Lavalle." He did not sound happy. After a moment he called after her, but she did not stop or tum.

The doorman blew his whistle for a taxi. When it pulled up, she tipped him too many australes.

The driver moved out into traffic before he asked, "Where to?"

"I want to go to another hotel, not too near this one."

"Senora, there are no other hotels. Everything is full." The young man, who had a narrow mustache and liquid brown eyes, looked at her seriously in the rearview mirror. He said in English, "I'm sorry, but, you know-it is Carnival, and besides everybody is here to get on the slow boats and go to China."

"Isn't there any place to stay at all?"

"Not in B.A. They are sleeping in the streets here."

"Where, then?"

"Maybe in Rosario or Santa Fe."

"Rosario is about two hundred fifty kilometers, is that right?"

"Yes, about that."

"All right, take me there."

"That will be very costly."

"It doesn't matter. Let's go."

The driver, whose name on the little card was Federigo Oliveras, turned off the avenue and drove north through residential streets. Even here, the streets were filling up with pedestrians in bright clothes, carrying flags, holding balloons, blowing on toy trumpets. A few were clearly drunk, although it was not yet ten o'clock. Tapping his horn at intervals, Oliveras edged patiently through the crowds until they thinned out. The flatscreen on the dashboard to his right was shimmering with images of people and horses.

"There is something wrong with your shoe?" he asked.

"No, my leg. It's broken. I can't get the shoe on because of the cast."

"Oh, I see. Well, would you like to watch the parade?"

"I suppose so." She touched the controls of the holo mounted on the seat in front of her. There was the plaza, lined with banners and pennants. Two breathless commentators were naming the celebrities as they entered the grandstand. "There is the President of the Trade Commission . . . that is Marie-Claude, the tres chic French actress ....And that's the Chilean Ambassador. . . . Everyone is here today!"

"And gone tomorrow, correct?" The commentators laughed together.

"Yes, and I can't imagine not wanting to be part of this great event, can you?"

"Well, some people have to stay to report the news. And others, well, they just don't want to go."

"But I think that's unpatriotic, don't you? Oh, there is Carlo Menendez!"

There was a beeping sound inside her purse. She ignored it. In the halo she could hear martial music, and see mounted figures approaching: two people, a man and a woman on white horses, the horses curvetting, the people waving their hats.

"These are our two most favorite halo stars," said Oliveras over his shoulder. "They lead the first parade, always, for the last seven years. They are not so young now, but we think they are still beautiful."

In the halo she saw the aging faces of the two stars, tanned, smiling. The man was white-haired, the woman blond. They were dressed in elaborate gaucho costumes, with flat-brimmed hats trimmed in silver and gemstones.

Now the floats were coming, like a line of ships drifting gently down the avenue. The first one bore a sim or holo, it was hard to tell which, of a ten-foot nearly naked woman with a kerchief on her head and a basket of fruit spilling from the kerchief. There was laughter in the background.

"This is to make fun of the Brazilians," said Oliveras, smiling. The next float had a gigantic hook-nosed Uncle Sam, who was being bitten on the leg by a little bulldog. Oliveras shrugged. "It's Carnival," he said, "we make fun of everyone."

"Of course."

The cab swung onto the highway. Nearly all the traffic was in the other direction: a long line of old cars, trucks, a few buses, bicycles, motorcycles and mopeds. A few gauchos on horseback. On the shoulder a line of pedestrians was marching along, many carrying bundles.

"What are they going to do with their horses?" she asked.

"I don't know. Maybe they think they can take the horses with them."

"But they can't."

"No. So maybe I could buy some horses cheaply."

Her phone was ringing again. She opened her purse, got it out and said, "What do you want?"

"Linda, it's me. Where are you?"

"In a bar."

"Oh. Are you watching the parade?"

"Yes."

"Well, in a minute you'll probably see Medium Bob on one of the floats."

"Okay."

"Listen, Linda-the desk said you took your bags?"

"Yes."

"Well, uh, how come?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, I mean, are you coming back?"

"No." She broke the connection and put the phone away.

"Pardon me," said Oliveras, "but is there some trouble with your husband?"

"Yes."

"I quarreled with my wife this morning." He shrugged. "Things like this happen during Carnival."

"What was the quarrel about?"

"She didn't want me to work today. She doesn't believe money will be any good on the new planet, or gold either."

"And you?"

"I don't know. I don't think I am going there."

"What will you do instead?"

"I'll drive this taxi until I see there is going to be no more gasoline, and then I'll buy a horse and wagon. Several horses, and several wagons. That's a better way to live. The horse does all the work. "

"Do you have enough gas to get to Rosario?"

"Oh, yes. Plenty of gas. My taxi has an extra tank; I put it in two months ago. Because there are not many filling stations open now. Everybody wants to go to the new planet."

"But you don't believe the Earth is going to be destroyed?"

"No, because how could it be destroyed? The whole Earth? Such a thing has never happened. You see, most people believe what they are told, but I am a man who thinks for himself."

He lifted something to his mouth, took a long swallow. Then he saw her looking in the rearview mirror. "Would you like a drink?"

"What is it?"

Oliveras turned, handed her a thermos and a plastic cup.

"Batidas," he said. "I make them myself with cachaca, because I like it better than aguardiente. We don't usually drink so early in the day, but Carnival is different, and of course this Carnival is more different than all."

Lavalle poured a cup and sipped at it. The chilled drink was astringent and sweet at the same time, with a faint alcoholic bite. "You like it?" Oliveras asked, smiling in the mirror.

"Yes, it's very good." She tried to hand the thermos back, but Oliveras said, "No, keep it, I have more."

She sat back, took another sip, and pressed the button to roll down the window beside her. The air that flowed in was cool and almost fresh.

When she looked up, she saw that he had put a phone window in the flatscreen and was running some kind of search program. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Trying to make a reservation in Rosario." He glanced at the screen from time to time as he drove. After a while he said, "They are not answering their phones. That could be because it is Carnival and they don't care, but it could also be that they are closed, or they have no rooms. All we can do is go and see."

"All right."

In the halo another float was coming into view now, and there, indeed, atop a giant white cube with black spots on it, was Stone's double in a brown suit, waving his fedora and kissing his hand to the crowd. He seemed to be having a good time.

The next float came into view; it was a mound of lemons, with three women in lemon costumes on top, waving yellow flags. Then the next, which bore a giant steer. Then there was some kind of commotion; in the halo, the commentators were standing up to look.

Oliveras bent forward, turning up the sound in his flatscreen. ". . . sort of accident, apparently . . . " The holo flickered and changed to a view from another camera. Now she could see the Cube float; it was halted, and the double was nowhere to be seen. " ...Ed Stone has been shot ....We are waiting for a report ...."

A red-and-white ambulance, with its flashers spinning in the sunlight, edged its way into the crowd. Police were beginning to herd people back. She caught a glimpse of a litter with a body on it, covered with a blanket except for the pale face.

Oliveras said, "Is that your husband, Ed Stone? Maybe you should call and see if he is all right."

"He's not my husband, and he's all right," she said. She was trembling again.

He gestured with one hand. "Okay."

She looked at her wrist. It was a little after nine-thirty, and that was Eastern Standard, because she hadn't thought to change it. Sylvia might be up by now, even though it was Saturday. She got the phone out of her bag. It rang four times; then Sylvia's sleepy voice answered.

"Syl, it's Linda. Did I wake you up?"

"No, I was going to get up in three hours anyway. Where are you?"

"In Argentina."

"Right."

"Listen, will you call my office Monday and tell them I'm not going to be in?"

"Let me try the other ear. You really want me to tell them you're in Argentina?"

"I am in Argentina. Wait a minute." She passed the phone to the driver. "Will you tell my friend where we are?"

"Where we are? Of course." He spoke into the phone. "We are on the highway between Buenos Aires and Rosario, about thirty kilometers north of Buenos Aires. Thank you." He handed the phone back.

"Who was that?" Sylvia asked.

"My driver. I'm looking for a hotel."

"Other ear again. You're looking for a hotel on the highway?"

"They're all full, in B.A. Listen, Sylvia, I'll come back if I can, after things settle down, but I can't fly again, and I don't think there are any boats."

"You flew to Buenos Aires? How did you do that?"

"Listen, I'll write you a letter, okay?" She hung up and put the phone back in her bag. Her headache was getting worse. She looked in her bag for aspirins, found them, and washed a couple down with a drink from the thermos.

The phone was buzzing again. She took it out of the bag. "Hello?"

"Linda, dear, where are you? We've been terribly worried.''

"Never mind, Geoffrey."

"Honey, tell me where you are. Are you in Buenos Aires? I'll send a plane for you, or if you don't want that, I'll charter a ship and bring you home."

"No, you won't. "

"Are you thinking of that little demonstration, Linda? You know the reason for that. Is your leg feeling all right, by the way?"

"Yes, it is, no thanks to you. What about the parade in Buenos Aires?"

"You mean the double who was shot? Linda, you know my associates had nothing to do with that. Nobody wanted him dead, then he'd be a martyr. "

"Okay, but who knows what you might want next week? I think I'm better off where I am."

Her mother's voice came on suddenly. "But Linda, where are you?"

She punched off.

Oliveras was phoning again. "Ah!" he said. He turned. "I have a room for you in Mercedes. That's the one in Uruguay. You have your passport?"

"Yes- Oh, no!" She stopped. "I gave it to them at the hotel, and I never thought to get it back. Oh, damn!"

Oliveras was silent.

"Can we get across the border without it?" she asked.

"I don't think so. From Uruguay to here, yes, because everybody is coming this way. But from Argentina to Uruguay, no, because they want to know why you are going the wrong direction."

"Oh, dear. Well, keep trying, will you?"

"Surely."

She looked at the controls of the holo, called up a menu. The holo had full phone capability. She tapped in her number, added caller ID, and then a window.

A queue appeared on the screen:

709 354-1919 Geoffrey Nero

211 854-0718 Sylvia Englander

000 595 Ed Stone

She touched the second number. After a moment Sylvia's face appeared in the tube. "Hello, Linda?"

"Yes. What's up?"

"Linda, Ed's been calling, and so has Geoffrey. I told Ed you're on the highway somewhere. I didn't tell Geoffrey anything. Was that right?"

"Oh, hell, I told Ed I was in a bar. Well, never mind."

"Well, what was I supposed to do? This phone has been driving me crazy, Linda."

"No, it's okay. You were right about Geoffrey. He broke my leg."

"He did what?"

"Broke my leg. Well, he didn't do it, his butler did it. He wanted to prove to Ed that something would happen to me if he didn't do what he wants."

"If who didn't do what who wants? Never mind. Linda, are you taking anything?"

"I had a pill before I got on the plane. I'm drinking batidas now."

"What are batidas?"

"They're made with aguardiente and lime juice, except that these are made with cachaca. They're very, very good."

"Is that right? Linda, I think it would be a good idea if you came home."

"I can't do that. You don't know. You don't know, Syl. It was horrible. Listen, can you pack up my clothes?"

"Pack them up and send them where?"

"I don't know where yet. Maybe Buenos Aires, but don't tell Geoffrey."

"Uh, okay."

"Don't tell Ed either, okay? You can have my cocktail dresses and my high heels. And my purses. And all that junk in the bathroom."

A pause. "Linda, you're really not coming back?"

"I don't think so. Talk to you later, Syl."