The Ambassador to Brazil. Peter Hornbostel
photograph of Ceauşescu, and a few pictures of smiling Romanian children reading small red books, apparently with great pleasure. All the usual suspects chattered with each other in small groups around the room, clutching glasses of Romanian champagne. Several were holding similar small, red leather-bound books. He spotted Jack Sprague, the medic at the Canadian embassy, and walked over. Jack was one of his few real friends in the Rio diplomatic corps.
“Well, Mr. Ambassador, what a pleasant surprise to see you here,” said Sprague. “Isn’t it a lovely party?” Dr. Sprague knew Washington’s instructions about attending National Day parties.
“Fuck you,” said Carter.
“Oh, come on. I know you love these things. And the food is so delicious.” He snared a nasty-looking pastry from a passing tray. “Have one or two of these,” he said. “After that you’ll need my medical services, and you won’t be so disrespectful.”
Carter laughed.
“I guess Villepringle is out of town,” said Sprague, “or I wouldn’t be having the pleasure of your company, right?”
“Right.”
“So, what’s new?” said Sprague. “You guys still trying to get the generals to kick this booby president out of office? Or are you gonna do it yourselves? Not that I blame you, you understand.”
Carter was appalled. How did Sprague know that the CIA was advising the Brazilian military on the best strategy for “kicking out” the Goulart government, and “saving democracy” in Brazil? Some of the spooks even believed that the United States should do the job itself, to make sure it was done right. He wasn’t sure what they meant by “right.” Nor that they could do the job better than the Brazilians, whatever “right” meant.
“Jack, you know better,” he said. “The United States would never support any kind of military uprising against a democratically elected government, or interfere in the domestic sovereignty of any other country.” Carter realized how stuffy he must sound, but this was what he was supposed to say.
“Oh sure,” said Sprague. “What about Santo Domingo? Or Haiti? Or Panama?”
But Carter didn’t hear him. He was staring across the room at a tall, slender, brown-skinned young woman with gray-green eyes wearing a demure black dress who was moving in their direction, passing out little red leather-covered books, which looked just like the books that held the rapt attention of the children in the pictures on the walls. “Look at that,” he breathed to Sprague.
“Wow,” said the doctor, “I’d like to examine her. I know Brazilian mulattas are gorgeous, but this one….” He paused. “You’re the United States ambassador, Tony, and you’re a married man. You can’t screw around like I can.”
“This is Rio de Janeiro,” said Carter, “anything goes here.”
“I know,” said Sprague softly. “But you’re not a Brazilian, you’re American and you’re still a married man. And you are Mr. Ambassador.”
The girl was, by now, standing in front of them. She smiled, “I’d like to offer you gentlemen copies of the new book written by our beloved President Ceauşescu. It contains a brilliant exposition on the Romanian peasant, and his role in the glorious socialist revolution in Romania.” She had obviously memorized her little speech.
“What is a gorgeous carioca like you doing passing out Communist propaganda for the Romanian embassy?” Carter asked in Portuguese.
The girl remained silent.
“You haven’t answered my question,” Carter said. He realized that he was again sounding like a stuffy striped-pants diplomat. “You are very beautiful,” he added.
Her face darkened into a blush; the smile remained in place. “You already have a copy?” she said. “I’m so glad.” And she moved gracefully on to repeat her pitch to the Moroccan chargé d’affaires, who was standing a few steps further on.
“Now, that was innocent enough, wasn’t it, Jack?”
“Yes, Mr. Ambassador,” said Sprague, a grin on his face.
“You know, Jack,” Carter said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a girl that beautiful before.”
CHAPTER 3
Actually, he had. Just before Carnaval, Gabriel Ferreira, General Counsel of AMFORP, the American-Foreign Power Company, had invited Carter and Priscilla to watch the Carnaval parade on Saturday night from AMFORP’s offices on the Avenida Presidente Vargas. “It’s better for you, Mr. Ambassador,” Ferreira said, “air-conditioned, safe, not so smelly.” The Carters quickly accepted.
The parade had already started when he and Priscilla arrived. “Don’t worry,” Ferreira said in his perfect English, “you haven’t missed much. And the parade goes on until tomorrow morning at four. Then it’ll pick up again at eight. Would you like a whiskey? A caipirinha, perhaps? Of course, we have soft drinks for the wives, too,” he said, looking at Priscilla.
Carter looked around the room. Several foreign businessmen were there. He nodded across the room to the vice president of First National City Bank. Hans Klaus, president of Volkswagen do Brasil, was chatting in the corner with another gringo Carter didn’t know. The president of General Electric had brought a beautiful Brazilian girl, clearly not his spouse. There were no other Brazilians. All but the girl were foreigners.
Carter grinned at his host. “Don’t you Brazilians do Carnaval?” he asked. “Only us gringos?”
“Well,” Ferreira answered, “it depends on which Brazilians. Carnaval is the people’s holiday, not ours. It’s only four and a half days, once a year. They deserve at least that. So we get out of their way. We go to our summer places in Petropolis or Terespolis, or Buzios … .”
“But I don’t get it,” Carter said. “Thousands of Americans come to Rio every year, just to see the Carnaval parade.”
“Are you sure that’s all they come for?”
Carter looked puzzled.
“Look,” Ferreira said, “have I ever told you my definition of Carnaval?”
Carter nodded no.
“Well,” Ferreira said, looking over to the window. “To me Carnaval is that time of year when thousands of fools try desperately, under impossible conditions, to do what it is so easy to do here the rest of the year under ideal conditions.” He smiled. “So I leave,” he added, “except when I must be here to host this little party. But that’s a pleasure, of course.”
“That’s very gracious of you,” Carter said.
The glass in the windows had begun to rattle, and Carter could hear the samba beat of a new group of drummers making their way down the avenue. “Come look,” Ferreira said, making his way to the window. “That’s what you are here for, after all, even if some of your countrymen are looking for something else.”
Nine black drummers dressed in shimmering green costumes had stopped in front of the building and were firmly hammering out a samba rhythm. A younger man, somewhat lighter in color, danced nearby playing a large tambourine. Another was passing a short stick over what seemed to be some kind of wooden tube. Another was playing a tambourine. There were no other musical instruments. The audience was enthusiastically singing a samba. Swirling around the drums were several hundred dancers, their skins of every shade of brown and black, dancing to the music of the drums. Many of them were dressed in glistening costumes apparently made of green and purple rayon, spotted with shiny golden stars. Several of the male dancers had giant golden wings attached to their shoulders. Everyone was beautifully costumed.
In the midst of the dancers, a float moved slowly down the avenue. It looked to Carter something like a wedding cake with a pier sticking out the front. On the first layer, a number of dancers, more skilled than those on the avenue, swirled gracefully in and out of each other’s arms to the