Lunatics

Lunatics · Chap 042 · Waste of Time

42 · Waste of time

SATINE WAS lightly snoring when Marcus opened his eyes. He had had a bad dream but only the remains of a disturbing sensation were left of it.

With care, he freed his arm from under Satine’s neck and left the bed, trying not to wake her up. He had a shower and ate what was left of their meal the night before. After brushing his teeth, he left his apartment ten minutes before four.

The doors of the lift were closing while he checked his new neighbour’s door. Satine’s words filled his mind and he smiled. “Don’t you dare look at that tramp with that charming smile of yours again!” The sincerest promise would not appease her anger while she had those jealousy fits! Marcus was not the faithful type, really, but he would never admit that to his fiancée.

There was a light traffic all the way to Suzano Airport. The thick fog made it hard to drive the transporter he seldom used.

The patio was filled with many different vehicles. He left his transporter with a sinking feeling.

It was easy buying a ticket to the Pampas. His flight would depart at twenty after five and he believed he would be at the Airport in Porto Alegre in time to stop Mousmée and get the disc back before the whole police department did it. Still calculating all the odds, he reached a café to properly complete his breakfast.

The food was quite decent, but the toasts reminded the ones Claire prepared; her toasts were covered with a perfect cream which recipe was buried along her charred body. The coffee was strong. He finished the beverage and gestured to one of the boys at the counter. They were laughing, probably after a joke one of them had told, pretending to be busy. Marcus gestured again and pleaded.

“Would you please?”

Still giggling, the one with freckles, hopped over Marcus who noticed the badge which read Marcel.

“What do you smear over those toasts?”

The young man seemed not to understand the question, and Marcus had to repeat it, word by word. The other boy, called Viriato, approached, curious. Marcus repeated the question one more time and the other boy spoke without gagging.

“Cream, salt, corn starch and ground toasted sesame.”

The boy with freckles flared at his colleague. Marcus smiled and blinked to the one who revealed the recipe.

“Don’t fret, mon gar! Your friend didn’t commit a big sin. Your secret will be safe with me. Je jure!”

Marcus finished his sentence and kissed his fingers as if they were holding a cross. He did not expect the boy with freckles to be that wary.

“The best secret is that thing everybody knows but thinks it’s a lie.”

Marcel pulled Viriato’s pinafore and both left Marcus with his thoughts. He thanked Viriato over the little crowd that was beginning to queue before the paying desk. The boys did not pay attention, and he walked up to the boarding gate.

Tem minutes after the boarding process had begun the ship slowly rolled to the head of the lane; it was ready to take flight at ten five. Two minutes later, the engines roared but the ship returned to the boarding ground. Marcus looked at his on feet, trying not to clench his teeth.

“Attention, passengers. We’re facing minor mechanical problems. Our technicians are working on them now.”

Merde, merde, merde!

Marcus was sure he did not belong to an incompetent and confused team; they suffered of a total lack of luck. He stood up, went to the back of the ship and locked himself in one of the toilets. He called the travel company and was answered by a sleepy, beautiful black woman.

“Prata booking service, good morning. How can I help you?”

“I need to cancel my ticket. I’m booked to the 323 from Porto Alegre to Suzano.”

“For what reason, sir?”

“I’ll be late to board.”

“With a five per cent add, I can book another flight for you, sir, one you might get in time to take.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll handle it when I arrive at the airport.”

“Your full name and IDCard number, sir?”

“Mousmée. Ibrahim…”

Marcus did not even blink. He gave the number and thanked the beautiful girl, finishing the call. That would give him an extra time to get to Mousmée before the other cracks.

The maintenance crew worked hard for forty two long minutes. The ship took off forty nine after five. The agreeable flight took fifty minutes but the passengers were only allowed to get off in Porto Alegre fifty two after six. Marcus ran like a lunatic and reached the counter of the Prata only to discover the boarding to flight 323 was finished and the ship would leave according to the schedule.

The girl seemed to pity his desperation. He looked at the crowd of reporters and paparazzi and spoke mostly to himself.

“What the use of all the fuss…?”

The girl smiled, trying to be nice.

“Elisangela Mussume’s heir is going back to Alphaville.”

Marcus breathed deeply. He had wasted time and credits on a fruitless mission.

“What’s the next flight to Alphaville?”

She checked her communicator.

“VAP 467, from Buenos Ayres; it’s full. Vipra 325 departs in thirty minutes; five seats available.”

“Thanks, anyway…”

He was about to walk away when the black attendant smiled behind a steaming cup of tea.

“We still have the 325, Monica.”

She addressed him directly then.

“Interested, Mr... Mousmée?”

He spoke almost automatically.

“Yes…”

“Your IDCard, please!”

She took it and read his name, smiling, before handling it to the girl at the communicator.

“Get Mr. Mondrian a seat on it, Monica.”

She took another sip and spoke seriously.

“A friend of his?”

Marcus stared at her and was laconic.

“No.”

Both girls smiled and it took some seconds for Monica to handle Marcus his card and the ticket.

“Gate two, room five. Have a good trip back home, sir. Thanks for flying Prata.”

Marcus reached the boarding room in a bad mood. He did not want to call Ibrahim and have his number recorded in his machine cache but it seemed the only chance he might have to do the right thing. He was able to connect with Ibrahim’s personal communicator only after being seated on the ship, but it was on automatic answer. Marcus thought it was helpless so he left no message. Ibrahim Mousmée might not believe everything he had to tell.

He knew Ibrahim was innocent, the perfect scape goat. He knew Chico Manoel would vanish for good and his friend would pay for crimes he did not commit. Now, he himself had given clues to be considered part of the criminal plan. He was not only unlucky. He had to agree with Director Feitosa: he played the clumsiest clown.

Merde!