traffic lights on Avenida San Pedro he was relieved. He swore and thumped the steering wheel, of course; but he was relieved. Until he realized that he didn’t know how to get back to his hotel, that the lights had changed, and that the traffic backed up behind him was blaring a fanfare from hell.
B Y THE END of the week Paul Faustino had come to like the slow ritualistic breakfast that was a feature of his hotel and (for the more privileged) life in the Deep North generally. In his real world, there was no way he would have started the day with fresh fruit juice and then embarked on a five-course meal that involved both scrambled eggs and chocolate cake. But then in his real world there was no such thing as breakfast; when you worked up to the wire, the one in the morning deadline, and then hit the bars, lunch was the first meal that you took. Or refused. Up here, though, the rhythm was different. Stoke up with calories early in the day, then eke them out, moving slowly through the heat and the humidity. Watch your step on the harshly cobbled streets, the tilted pavements.
Northern lethargy had gripped him gently. There was no reason, really, to stay on in San Juan. He’d got most of what he’d wanted, been where he needed to go, taken several pictures with his (almost) idiot-proof camera. He’d dined with the Fabians, and Ana Fabian had turned out to be both a fine cook and a rich source of human interest stories about the young El Gato. He’d had a few very expensive drinks with Milton Acuna, former director of football at DSJ and now a TV presenter. He’d had an informative, if difficult, lunch – the man had cancer – with Pablo Laval, the DSJ keeper whom Gato had displaced. It was disappointing that he had not managed to swing an interview with Flora da Silva. Understandable, in the circumstances, but disappointing nonetheless. Some other time, perhaps, when she was not busy negotiating with kidnappers. If that was what she was doing.
According to the press and TV, there had been no further developments in the Brujito story. Faustino found this both intriguing and frustrating. And slightly offensive: journalists ought not to be satisfied with nothing.
He
wouldn’t be, if he was on the story. But he wasn’t. All the same, it struck him as lazy and pathetic that the best today’s edition of
El Norte
could manage was a smeary snapshot of the da Silvas in the back of a chauffeur-driven car under the headline FLORA AND GILBERTO: THE AGONY CONTINUES . And no story. He was half tempted to ring the editor and give him a piece of his mind. To disturb his peace of mind. There was nothing in
La Nación
either. Salez appeared to have gone quiet, or maybe he’d sent in chunks of empty verbiage that Vittorio on the news desk had spiked.
There was the DSJ–Espirito Santo game tomorrow, of course. Probably without the lovely Flora da Silva to gaze at during the slow moments, and almost certainly no way of talking to her even if she was there. So he ought to pack, check out, drop the hire car at the airport, fly home. Nevertheless, he went back to the buffet table, poured himself more coffee and put another slice of cake onto his plate. He was about to sit down again when his phone burbled. He flipped it open; the caller ID showed CROCODILE .
He pressed the green button. “Carmen. What a delightful surprise. How are you? Are you missing me?”
The voice in his ear said, “What are you doing at this moment?”
Faustino’s boss was not famous for her small talk. He carried her out of the dining room into the patio garden where improbable flowers rioted in the shade.
“I’m just finishing breakfast.”
“At nine thirty?”
Damn the woman. “Life runs to a different timetable up here, Carmen.”
“So it seems. Did you watch your local news this morning?”
“Nope. Should I have?”
“A body was fished out of the docks. The docks at San Juan.”
“I don’t suppose that’s an unusual
B Y THE END of the week Paul Faustino had come to like the slow ritualistic breakfast that was a feature of his hotel and (for the more privileged) life in the Deep North generally. In his real world, there was no way he would have started the day with fresh fruit juice and then embarked on a five-course meal that involved both scrambled eggs and chocolate cake. But then in his real world there was no such thing as breakfast; when you worked up to the wire, the one in the morning deadline, and then hit the bars, lunch was the first meal that you took. Or refused. Up here, though, the rhythm was different. Stoke up with calories early in the day, then eke them out, moving slowly through the heat and the humidity. Watch your step on the harshly cobbled streets, the tilted pavements.
Northern lethargy had gripped him gently. There was no reason, really, to stay on in San Juan. He’d got most of what he’d wanted, been where he needed to go, taken several pictures with his (almost) idiot-proof camera. He’d dined with the Fabians, and Ana Fabian had turned out to be both a fine cook and a rich source of human interest stories about the young El Gato. He’d had a few very expensive drinks with Milton Acuna, former director of football at DSJ and now a TV presenter. He’d had an informative, if difficult, lunch – the man had cancer – with Pablo Laval, the DSJ keeper whom Gato had displaced. It was disappointing that he had not managed to swing an interview with Flora da Silva. Understandable, in the circumstances, but disappointing nonetheless. Some other time, perhaps, when she was not busy negotiating with kidnappers. If that was what she was doing.
According to the press and TV, there had been no further developments in the Brujito story. Faustino found this both intriguing and frustrating. And slightly offensive: journalists ought not to be satisfied with nothing.
He
wouldn’t be, if he was on the story. But he wasn’t. All the same, it struck him as lazy and pathetic that the best today’s edition of
El Norte
could manage was a smeary snapshot of the da Silvas in the back of a chauffeur-driven car under the headline FLORA AND GILBERTO: THE AGONY CONTINUES . And no story. He was half tempted to ring the editor and give him a piece of his mind. To disturb his peace of mind. There was nothing in
La Nación
either. Salez appeared to have gone quiet, or maybe he’d sent in chunks of empty verbiage that Vittorio on the news desk had spiked.
There was the DSJ–Espirito Santo game tomorrow, of course. Probably without the lovely Flora da Silva to gaze at during the slow moments, and almost certainly no way of talking to her even if she was there. So he ought to pack, check out, drop the hire car at the airport, fly home. Nevertheless, he went back to the buffet table, poured himself more coffee and put another slice of cake onto his plate. He was about to sit down again when his phone burbled. He flipped it open; the caller ID showed CROCODILE .
He pressed the green button. “Carmen. What a delightful surprise. How are you? Are you missing me?”
The voice in his ear said, “What are you doing at this moment?”
Faustino’s boss was not famous for her small talk. He carried her out of the dining room into the patio garden where improbable flowers rioted in the shade.
“I’m just finishing breakfast.”
“At nine thirty?”
Damn the woman. “Life runs to a different timetable up here, Carmen.”
“So it seems. Did you watch your local news this morning?”
“Nope. Should I have?”
“A body was fished out of the docks. The docks at San Juan.”
“I don’t suppose that’s an unusual
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