two. Several quite beautiful pieces of what I took to be Amazonian Indian pottery. Outside, the low putt-putt of the generator that drove the fans and supplied the dim light from a couple of lamps.
Without having asked what I wanted, Hawk handed me a drink.
“A Manaus Collins,” he explained. “Rum, sugar, juice of local fruits.”
My host was dressed in a double-breasted blue blazer with a crest on the breast pocket and white pants and sandals, no socks. He was neither tall nor short, neither slim nor paunchy. He borehimself as if still in the uniform he had last worn more than half a century before. He was swarthy for a German, especially so for a former SS man, but perhaps that had something to do with long exposure to the equatorial sun. He had a full head of springy steelgray hair, worn long on top and combed straight back but cut short at the sides in the bygone military fashion of the Third Reich. Behind the small round lenses of his Himmlerian steelframe spectacles, his eyes were brown, intelligent, and on full alert. The sandals were a mistake. The rest of him might be remarkably well-preserved, but he had an old man’s feet, veined and splotched, with horny, broken toenails.
We sipped our sour drinks. He said, “Have you seen the opera house?”
“I’m afraid not. Jet lag.”
The Manaus opera house, built a century ago by immensely rich rubber barons who imported Europe’s most famous singers, was the city’s great historical landmark.
“Don’t miss it,” Hawk said. “It’s very nicely restored. There’s a certain comic pathos to it. Imagine the greatest voices of the time traveling across the sea and then fifteen hundred kilometers by riverboat to sing for tone-deaf ruffians.”
The driver appeared in a different coat and announced dinner. He served a tasty Amazonian fish with many unusual flat ribs, accompanied by pulpy vegetables I had never before encountered. Hawk ate his bony fish with two forks.
“Tambaqui,” he said, naming it.
He rendered a full account of the natural history of this creature, which apparently grew to enormous size, had a gaping circular mouth, and was believed by the natives to have a taste for human infants, which it swallowed whole when they were carelessly dropped into the river.
“You do understand,” said Hawk, “that Manaus is on the Rio Negro, not the Amazon. There are no fish in the Rio Negro— something about the black silt that gives the river its name—so this tambaqui and all fish eaten in Manaus come from the Amazon.”
“Howinteresting.”
“But not what you came to learn,” Hawk said with a charming smile; yellow teeth. He rang a bell. “Coffee in the drawing room, please, Joaõ.”
When we were settled in our chairs and had drained our tiny cups of coffee, Hawk came to the point. “So what is it, exactly, that brings you here, Mister Dyer?”
“You mentioned another American who visited recently. I said. “Do you photograph all your visitors?”
“Only the ones I’ve never met before. I have a bad memory for faces.”
“Do you have the picture you took of him?”
“Yes. In my pocket, actually.”
He handed over a snapshot of Paul Christopher, face bleached and pasted onto the black night by the flash. The date of his visit, less than a week after his disappearance, was written in neat Germanic script in the white space at the bottom of the picture.
Hawk said, “You know him?”
I handed back the picture. “Yes.”
“You are in pursuit of him?”
“In a sense. He’s my cousin. The family is concerned about him.”
“So the first person whom you asked for assistance was Kalash al Khatar.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He also sent my cousin here.”
“And your name is actually Horace Hubbard, not Dyer?”
“Kalash has been in touch, I see.”
“No, I watch CNN. I remember your hour in the sun. The spy who stole an election in his own country. Fascinating drama, so American.”
“Indeed. You have the
Without having asked what I wanted, Hawk handed me a drink.
“A Manaus Collins,” he explained. “Rum, sugar, juice of local fruits.”
My host was dressed in a double-breasted blue blazer with a crest on the breast pocket and white pants and sandals, no socks. He was neither tall nor short, neither slim nor paunchy. He borehimself as if still in the uniform he had last worn more than half a century before. He was swarthy for a German, especially so for a former SS man, but perhaps that had something to do with long exposure to the equatorial sun. He had a full head of springy steelgray hair, worn long on top and combed straight back but cut short at the sides in the bygone military fashion of the Third Reich. Behind the small round lenses of his Himmlerian steelframe spectacles, his eyes were brown, intelligent, and on full alert. The sandals were a mistake. The rest of him might be remarkably well-preserved, but he had an old man’s feet, veined and splotched, with horny, broken toenails.
We sipped our sour drinks. He said, “Have you seen the opera house?”
“I’m afraid not. Jet lag.”
The Manaus opera house, built a century ago by immensely rich rubber barons who imported Europe’s most famous singers, was the city’s great historical landmark.
“Don’t miss it,” Hawk said. “It’s very nicely restored. There’s a certain comic pathos to it. Imagine the greatest voices of the time traveling across the sea and then fifteen hundred kilometers by riverboat to sing for tone-deaf ruffians.”
The driver appeared in a different coat and announced dinner. He served a tasty Amazonian fish with many unusual flat ribs, accompanied by pulpy vegetables I had never before encountered. Hawk ate his bony fish with two forks.
“Tambaqui,” he said, naming it.
He rendered a full account of the natural history of this creature, which apparently grew to enormous size, had a gaping circular mouth, and was believed by the natives to have a taste for human infants, which it swallowed whole when they were carelessly dropped into the river.
“You do understand,” said Hawk, “that Manaus is on the Rio Negro, not the Amazon. There are no fish in the Rio Negro— something about the black silt that gives the river its name—so this tambaqui and all fish eaten in Manaus come from the Amazon.”
“Howinteresting.”
“But not what you came to learn,” Hawk said with a charming smile; yellow teeth. He rang a bell. “Coffee in the drawing room, please, Joaõ.”
When we were settled in our chairs and had drained our tiny cups of coffee, Hawk came to the point. “So what is it, exactly, that brings you here, Mister Dyer?”
“You mentioned another American who visited recently. I said. “Do you photograph all your visitors?”
“Only the ones I’ve never met before. I have a bad memory for faces.”
“Do you have the picture you took of him?”
“Yes. In my pocket, actually.”
He handed over a snapshot of Paul Christopher, face bleached and pasted onto the black night by the flash. The date of his visit, less than a week after his disappearance, was written in neat Germanic script in the white space at the bottom of the picture.
Hawk said, “You know him?”
I handed back the picture. “Yes.”
“You are in pursuit of him?”
“In a sense. He’s my cousin. The family is concerned about him.”
“So the first person whom you asked for assistance was Kalash al Khatar.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He also sent my cousin here.”
“And your name is actually Horace Hubbard, not Dyer?”
“Kalash has been in touch, I see.”
“No, I watch CNN. I remember your hour in the sun. The spy who stole an election in his own country. Fascinating drama, so American.”
“Indeed. You have the
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