Buying Brazil (Buying Brazil Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  There were some questions for Carlos and I didn’t want to ask them in either the car or office where there were probably too many ears. “… not the usual place because we’ll have to go around to the Augusta end of the street. There’s a café I saw just after Rua Bela Cintra that looked alright and there’s a car park next to it.”

  “I will wait with the car.”

  “No, park it. I may want to go to the Club Havana cigar shop across the street. You can help if the clerk doesn’t speak English.”

  We parked and I saw a grey Renault settle into a parking space near us in the lot. The driver remained inside, the passenger got out and paralleled our path as we walked toward the café. Were they my babysitters or potentially something else. After what happened the other night I should have felt thankful for their presence but I didn’t. Babysitters or jailers … to me it felt the same and I resented being stalked like a hunted animal. I had to fight the urge to walk over to the small bar where the driver had taken a stool and invite him to join us. No, it wasn’t time and it wasn’t smart … yet.

  When José Carlos finished stirring five spoons of sugar into his small espresso I asked, “If I remember correctly Robin said your brother was in the States studying computers.”

  “He studied in Miami but is finished. Two years ago I went to Miami for two weeks to see him matriculate. He is a doctor in the science of computers.”

  “Is he still in Miami?”

  “No, he was asked to stay but he wanted to come home.”

  “You must be proud of him.”

  “We are very proud. The whole family helped him with his fees so we are happy he came back to us.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “Work … no, he is a professor at the University of Campinas. He teaches and runs the research laboratory.”

  “Well done. I’d love to meet him. Does he get to São Paulo?”

  “Yes, he comes almost every weekend. He is the oldest and since our father died three years ago he comes to visit our mother. He will come tonight … I am sure of it.”

  “Don’t call. Wait until you see him. Tell him I’d love to have lunch or coffee before he goes back. If you’ve finished your coffee, I’ll go get some cigars.”

  With a knowing look, “I am almost done Senhor.” José who missed little checked to confirm my escort was still sitting too far away to hear us, “There is a farmers’ market every Sunday morning on Alameda Lorena between Rua Augusta and Rua Haddock Lobo.”

  “Yes, I was there once. It was so crowded I almost couldn’t walk.”

  “My mother likes to have a special olive we can get only from one farmer. The farmer cures them the way it was done in my mother’s town in Sicily. No stores, he sells the olives only himself. He comes to a few markets where people with a lot of money go. Every Sunday he sets up near Rua Augusta. He sells olives, capers, preserved fruits and pickled vegetables. He is easy to find. My brother and I will shop for my mother at about 8:30. If we meet by chance there is always time for a coffee.”

  Saturday night it rained harder than I had seen anywhere except Delhi where I once spent an endless weekend staring into monsoon torrents. By Sunday morning the rain moved off leaving a heavy grey sky and streets washed clean. At eight I walked the block and a half downhill to Al. Lorena and joined the market’s crowd. Two hastily set up fruit seller stalls in from Haddock Lobo I stopped to buy small amounts of several aromatics, cinnamon, nutmeg and the like. I planned to leave them in a bowl on the hall table. I also confirmed my escort had chosen to watch me from the uphill corner of Haddock Lobo from where he could look down on the crowded block without having to cope with it. It was probable his partner had driven to the Rua Augusta end of the block just in case I came out.

  At mid-block a perfumed sweetness drew me to a cart piled high with Amazon fruits. Most I recognized but there were those that were a mystery and my Portuguese kept me from asking questions so they would remain that way. I walked on after buying a small hand of tiny yellow bananas that was enthusiastically described as muito doce, very sweet, by an overly animated vendor whose teeth were a far distant memory.

  Three or four stalls further a cart piled with burlap sacks of individually wrapped candies, balas, of every imaginable description and color.

  “Cinhentos grammas misturar favor”, just over a pound for the office to keep Robin’s sweet tooth happy.

  The old women weighed out the candy on an old spring scale that belonged in an antique store. “Cinhentos grammas”, and then with a conspiratorial grin added a small handful more. “Sete reis Senhor”.

  I counted out the seven reals, “… brigado Senhora”

  Behind me, across the street, was a large butcher’s stall with hunks of beef and pork carefully laid out on a bed of ice accompanied by a display of pig and goat heads which I was sure found their way into the national dish, feijoado, a long-simmered bean stew made by the Amazonia’s poor into which snouts, ears or anything else left on the butcher’s table that couldn’t be sold was thrown. Above the display hung a row of feathered chickens waiting to be cleaned and prepared according to a customer’s direction. At the back were stacked cages of live chickens awaiting the inevitable. Next to the butcher was a stall filled with barrels of pickles and olives. I pulled the watch out of my pocket, eight-thirty.

  Walking toward the pickles I was attacked by an almost overwhelming mix of vinegar, spices and garlic reminiscent of a freshly opened bottle of dills.

  “Sr. Carl …”

  José Carlos and an older bearded man with the same eyes and nose as his pushed through the crowd, “Good morning José”.

  “Bom dia. This is my brother Enrico. Come, we have to buy my mother’s olives. Then we will have a coffee in the café behind the stand.”

  “Hello Enrico, it’s good to meet you. I …”

  José Carlos looped his arm through mine, “Come, we’ll talk later.” The dry cured olives appeared almost as soon as we arrived under the canvas stretched over the stand to protect the products and patrons from sun, rain and prying eyes. The proprietor held out a wrapped package he had taken out from under the cash register and with a slight bow handed it to Enrico, “Senhor professor”.

  “Obrigado mi amigo”, while sliding several folded notes into the outstretched hand.

  “… nada Senhor. Brigado … ate logo.”

  José Carlos steered me out the back of the stall, through stacked crates blocking the view in either direction and into a small café. Enrico followed seconds later. We took a rear table hidden behind the crowded bar filled with locals, workers from the market and farmers escaping the crowd for the breakfast they missed many hours earlier when they started for São Paulo.

  José Carlos leaned forward. In a low voice, “No one will see us Sr. Carl. When we finish you go first and Enrico and I will have another coffee. Our car is across Rua Augusta so we will go the other way.” Without waiting for a reply, “I will order. The breakfast is very good here. We come most Sunday mornings while our wives are in church.”

  When our food arrived and Enrico and I had talked about enough unimportant things to develop a sense of each other, “Sr. Carl, José says you are interested in my work.”

  “Yes, there are some things I am not sure about. I’d like to ask for your guidance if possible so I am able to more completely understand certain things. I’m sure José Carlos has told you I am new in Brazil and let me say I am not very technical. These things taken together have raised questions about how I should go forward with some rather sensitive business communications.”

  “If I can be of some help … you have been very kind to my brother. Good paying work is hard to find. Before this work for you, José did not have steady work for over two years. A day here, a day there … I tried but … We all appreciate how you have helped our family.”

  “I am sorry it will be only for months and not years. Still, there are people I know who may have use of José’s services in the future. I will cer
tainly speak for him.”

  “It is very good of you to make such an offer.”

  “Enrico, I would like to ask about some things which may be a little indiscreet to talk about. I do not want you to say anything that might make you uncomfortable.”

  Nodding his head, “… entendo, I understand.”

  “I have recently learned from someone I trust that our telephone conversations may not be secure. His comment has made me wonder about the internet. We connect to the internet over the office telephone lines. José Carlos said you might know something about the telephone and internet systems in Brazil.”

  “My brother is correct and you are right to worry. I do not know for a fact but,” looking quickly at those near us, “… many reasonable people believe during the military years talking openly on the telephone became a problem, a dangerous problem. If this were somehow true then and if by some chance still true today, anyone or anything using the telephone lines should not be thought of as secure or confidential.”

  “I was afraid that would be your answer. After my friend warned me about the telephones I brought in satellite telephones to provide secure links between us and New York. Is there some way to hook computers to the satellite phones?”

  “In theory it could work. In reality, the satellite telephone system does not have enough bandwidth to support the internet or even direct data transmissions. Voices on the satellite telephone sound hollow and thin, yes. Tone harmonics within the voice are filtered out because of the narrow call bandwidth. The filtering is built into the system to maximize satellite throughput and increase billable capacity.”

  “Is there a secure alternative? One I can use without creating problems for myself.”

  “In general, the answer is no. Our communications law grants operating control of internet hubs to BrasTel. Naturally, the hubs themselves belong to the government by international treaty. If BrasTel is not secure, then it follows traffic through the hubs will not be secure.”

  A picture of the darkened warehouse filled with electronic equipment filled my head.

  Enrico scratched his chin, “Now that I think about it, there is one very limited exception. It was the first project I worked on when I returned to Brasil. It was just before the amendments to the communication law dealing with the internet were put into effect.” Enrico silently sat now rubbing his chin while seemingly lost in thought and I fought an uncharacteristic attack of impatience. “… José told me your office is in the new edificio on Av. Paulist at Rua Campinas. A block behind you is a big hotel named the Maksoud Plaza. It has been among the very best in São Paulo since the sixties. The man who built and owns it is a visionary and his hotel remains modern in almost every respect even by today’s standards.”

  “I know it. My colleague lives there and I’ve walked to it for lunch several times. I never would have guessed it was that old. Its atrium design is just now becoming popular in the States.”

  “The owner is always two or three decades ahead of his time. When I came home he hired me to update the hotel’s business center. Clients were complaining about no internet in the rooms and that the business center’s connections were unstable. After analysis, I proved the instability was because of the old telephone trunk lines in the neighborhood. Our only choice was to avoid them. Fortunately, the owner had enough ‘influence’ to get approval for him to try an alternative solution.”

  “What kind of solution?”

  “One that I think may help you. I spent a lot of his money on design and experiments. The result is he has his own server which is not unusual today. What was very unusual both then and now here in Brasil is the server has a broadband fiber optic uplink. What is most important to you, the uplink goes only one block to a bank on Av. Paulista where I placed the Hotel’s private satellite transmission station on the bank’s roof. The system connects directly through commercial data links not voice links as with your satellite phone. It is fast, reliable and has enough bandwidth to support internet in every room without any loss in throughput speed. It is also fully independent of any utility companies, even electricity, because the hotel has its own backup generators. When I designed the system, it was beyond state of the art. Today it is state of the art outside of Brazil.”

  “You’re sure the system is still working?”

  “Certainly, I have a contract to keep it working.”

  Almost afraid to ask the obvious question, “Can you get access for me?”

  “Momenchinho …” He pulled a cellphone from his pocket, dialed and spoke rapidly to whoever answered. In less than a minute the phone was back in his pocket. “I called the technology manager and told him I wanted an update on the system’s operation. I will meet him Monday in the hotel lobby at four o’clock for a late lunch. Naturally you will ‘accidently’ join us five minutes later.”

  “Naturally … thank you. Thank you very much.”

  José leaned over putting his hand on my arm, “You have been in the market too long Senhor. I will see you tomorrow in front of your apartment at eight-thirty in the morning.”

  “I understand … thank you both. I hope your mother enjoys the olives.”

  Approaching Haddock Lobo, I looked for Batista’s man on the upslope of the hill. He wasn’t there. Fully aware of whom Batista reported to I started scanning the crowd in front of me hoping to find his man. Fifteen feet in front of me, cellular phone at his ear, my minder was questioning the woman I bought bananas from. He started to turn towards me and I instinctively turned into a flower vendor’s stall careful to remain visible so he could find me. When I continued on, flowers in hand, he tried to blend into the crowd gathered around a fish monger in a vain attempt to fill his quite obvious instructions, remain unobserved unless needed.

  Monday afternoon when I entered the cool, flower scented half football field sized lobby of the Maksoud, I had a new appreciation. I looked up at the 30 stories surrounding the open atrium with new eyes. The four bronze trimmed glass elevators seemed a mix of ‘Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea’ and the space age. Hanging plants floated gracefully at ten to twenty stories below the atrium’s glass roof softening the late afternoon glare. The building was an amalgam of poured concrete and free flowing imagination. It was far ahead of its time but in many ways fit what I had been told of the great leap forward that hallmarked the Military’s golden age.

  Enrico wasn’t hard to find. Standing in the center of the lobby, he was in a fully animated conversation with a short stout man perhaps ten years his junior. Watching him there was no doubt about his Italian heritage.

  Coming up behind him I put my hand on his shoulder, “Enrico, small world.”

  The victim of his attentions breathed a sigh of relief as Enrico turned to me, “Sr. Carl, what a coincidence.”

  “Yes, I was in the office and suddenly needed some fuel. What better place than here and that magnificent buffet.”

  “Sr. Carl, this is a colleague Fredrico Garcia. He is in charge of all technology at this Grand Hotel. Fredrico, this is Carl Matthews my brother’s employer. He is your neighbor. His office is at the corner of Paulista.”

  “Prazer, my pleasure Sr. Carl.”

  “It’s my pleasure Fredrico. Your wonderful hotel has saved me from starvation many times. Thank you.”

  “I will let Fredrico save you again. We were just going to have lunch. You will join us.”

  “Thank you. I hope I won’t disrupt your business. You seemed to be rather involved.”

  Fredrico was quick to reply, “No, not at all. Enrico gets carried away when he talks technology. I am sure your presence will be a positive influence.”

  “I hope so.”

  Enrico with his professorial flare took control and led us to an isolated booth in the lobby’s open-sided restaurant. It seemed obvious his choice reflected a desire to use the bubbling water in the nearby fountain to keep our conversation visually open but private.

  “We have the best buffet in São Paulo or there is the
menu.”

  I didn’t know whether it was the best buffet. Every good Brazilian restaurant prided itself on its buffet. I did know that the hotel’s three thirty foot buffets tables piled high with platters and pots of fresh and cooked food, fruit and sweets would have something to meet anyone’s preferences no matter how fussy they were. “The buffet, its tempted me to eat too much a number of times and I’m sure I will again today.”

  Fredrico opened the conversation in the direction I wanted to go, “Do you work with technology Sr. Carl?”

  “No, it’s all a mystery to me. As long as things work the way they’re intended to I’m fine. If anything goes wrong I need help.”

  “I think we all feel that way at times … all but Professor Enrico. He always knows what to do.”

  “Maybe I should get him to my office. The damned internet connection makes me crazy. One minute it works the next it doesn’t.”

  “The hotel had those problems. It was the old telephone lines under the street. The Professor fixed it for us.”

  Enrico joined us with two plates expertly balanced in one of his huge hands, “Carl will think it was easy Fredrico. It was not. The old lines are unusable.”

  Playing my part in the charade, “It’s fixed now?”

  “Oh yes. For the last six years the internet has been stable. Every year or two the hotel has Professor Enrico upgrade the system for speed or bandwidth as equipment has become available.”

  Turning to Enrico, “Can you do something for my office?”

  “No, it is not possible. The amount of time and money required will be more than your few months here will support.”

  For Frederico’s benefit I put on my most disappointed face. It must have been effective because Fredrico and Enrico exchanged a look after which Enrico nodded.

  “The hotel’s business center is just off the lobby beyond the cashier’s desk. When you have a problem, you can come here.”