17 · The man from the Moon
DANTE’S TRANSPORTER was a Vixen-45, a model which Phaedro had stopped producing two years back. It had real problems with the hydrogen injection and the energy distribution; it was too much for those who could choose from the Ergos, with its trustworthy distribution and high performance, and the Zorkas, with popular prices and robust internal space. Phaedro had cancelled the 45’s and began to assemble the 52’s, free of the energy management problems, after having signed a billionaire contract with the administration of Andinos. They had mounted a plant in Arequipa specifically to provide flyers to the local police squadrons.
The Hermes OS was the strong point with the Vixen-45’s. Its protection keys were a headache for those who wanted to reprogram the controls to steal a machine in which it had been installed.
Unlocking Hermes security codes was a child’s play to Chico Manoel though. He was famous in Guararapes and its surroundings for his skills in liberating transporters for a night ride with his mates. Every time the groups of different districts had the intention of borrowing one transporter for an illegal race, they would invite Chico Manoel.
Reprogramming Dante’s Vixen was easier with the dead man’s IDCard. After having arrived at the garage and discovering two other transporters there—proof the octogenarian was not the only tenant in that vertical garbage dump—he was capable, even with his right arm hurt, of making the machine purr less than five minutes of light work. Being a left-handed made it quite simpler.
The batteries had charge enough to take him where he needed. His luck seemed to fail him when he faced the heavy traffic on the Expressway. He took unbelievable fifteen minutes to get at Suzano International Airport.
He left the Vixen with the garage attendant and walked up to the huge entrance hall where he disposed of the ticked throwing it into a trashcan—he had no intention of paying for the service and getting the transporter back.
There was a fancy post office at the hall and it was his goal.
At the safes section, he was nicely attended by an ugly young woman.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m leaving and need to fetch a pack I had left some while ago.”
“I’ll need your card, Mr…”
“Francisco.”
His hands were not shaking although he knew the moment she had his card read, the alert for the federals would be given. He had rehearsed that three times before. All the attendants—three different ones—spent no more than seven minutes to bring the pack back. He also had asked for police help and he was sure they would not arrive sooner than fifteen minutes after the alarm sounded. He knew the cracks were more predictable than post officers. He would have ten minutes ahead of them. His voice was also firm.
“Here it is.”
She immediately used the IDCard and the expenses were automatically charged. She checked the number of the safe and gave the card back to its owner, speaking mostly to herself.
“Safe 320.”
“If you say so...”
His ironic remark made her smile faintly. You’re less ugly without smiling, lass.
“It will take a minute or two, sir. Would you mind seating while you wait?”
“I’m ok, thanks.”
This time, his voice sounded uncertain. The ugly girl turned her back to him, going for the back part of the office while he turned to the front of the post office, checking the time displayed on the wall clock.
There were many people at the airport and he began to feel anxious. Although the post office was nearly empty, the real thing was completely different from his rehearsals. He was really risking everything now.
From the other side of the wide corridor, a security guard paid special attention to his movements. Chico Manoel tried to lean his right arm on the counter and the mild pain made him grimace a bit.
He walked up to the entrance and smiled to his reflection on the glassy doors. The guard smiled back. Chico Manoel waved hello. It wasn’t for you, you idiot!
He kept there for some time, paying no real attention to all the people who passed in front of the post office until he perceived a group of photographers surrounding a small crowd of law enforcers—two cracks from the space security, a paramedic, five special tactics troglodytes, and a couple of spies—following earthling politicians and a sole Moon citizen.
The selenite was driving an electric chair, and, even seated, his stature was impressive. Chico Manoel did not remember having seen him on the news, so he was not a Lunatic politician. It was logical to believe he was an important industry negotiator from Luna II on a business trip. What would the Luna I enterprisers think of that?
It was clear the selenite big gun was having problems in breathing Earth’s dense air but his expression was cool, impassive. He was a tall, lean man with long, thin arms and legs. As everyone born on the Moon, his skin was very pale, almost grey, almost blue, and almost transparent. His long hair, arranged in a ponytail, was plain ashen blond. His fancy, sober clothing had been tailored and revealed muscles of an ex-athlete. He had a pair of shades protecting his delicate eyes and a discrete auricular phone with the same matte aluminium hue. Even to earthling eyes—and all the gloomy inferences related to the selenites—he was someone with a solemn, admirable composure.
Chico Manoel thought he was too sombre. He had had few chances to be that close to selenites before. He touched the paperback in the pocket of his borrowed coat. What a weird sequence of coincidences.
Only when it was not anymore possible to see the passing crowd that followed the man from the Moon, Chico Manoel returned to his post at the counter. He tapped the counter top with his left fingers and once again verified the wall clock. Two and a half minutes had flown. Easy, boy… Easy, boy…
He heard the yelling and felt like his blood was curdling.
“Stop, Francisco!”
He faced the entrance of the post office, prepared for the worst. A two-year-old boy was being held by his father’s arms. The smiling kid insisted in being left alone, trying to run in the direction of the selenite and his procession.
“You wanna be on the floor; you give me your hand, ok?”
The boy called Francisco looked at Chico Manoel and his smile faded. He and his father kept their way, getting further from the young fugitive with a pale face and a heart going crazy. His reflection seemed now a shorter copy of the visiting selenite. With a less mild expression.
He turned to the counter to avoid looking at the guard outside the office. This time, he had a strong reason to be worried. His left hand bumped into some pamphlets that slided over the attendant’s communicator screen. He tried to arrange the pamphlets to read the silent alert on it. It blinked, guiding the attendant to make sure not to let the fugitive perceive he was being hunted. What a pack of dumbbell dogs!
Four and a half minutes.
Chico Manoel’s face became hot, reddened and his hurt elbow throbbed painfully.
He boldly walked up to the guard, leaving the post office, looking around in the direction of the benches near the entrance.
“I’m really worried. Could you take care of my luggage?”
The guard was taken by surprise.
“What, sir?”
Chico Manoel pointed to a bunch of bags and packs near a row of chairs left some hundred feet away.
“My luggage. I’d be calmer if I knew they were being watched while I’m in there.”
The guard smiled and patted Chico Manoel’s back.
“Of course, sir! Don’t worry.”
Chico Manoel looked through the door and he noticed the ugly attendant was getting back with his pack. He approached her with a serious expression. She can’t see the alert!
“Where’s the box?”
The attendant did not understand the question, keeping her eyes fixed on Chico Manoel’s severe face.
“There was no box...”
“What the hell! There was a carton box with this envelope!”
“Sir, I’ve verified. No box was...”
Chico Manoel snapped the envelope from her hands, making her coil, afraid of being physically injured. She stepped back and her voice was trembling.
He faked getting calmer. Another post worker came out of the back of the office and guessed his colleague did not need help.
“I’ve left under your care this envelope and a medium sized box. You brought me this thin package. The box is very important. It’s a question of life or death!”
Goddam, I’m repeating myself too soon!
“I can assure you there is no box, sir!”
Chico Manoel gnashed his teeth. The ugly girl widened the distance between them, getting away from the violent costumer and the police alert on her communicator screen.
“Call the manager. Now!”
She was frightened and Chico Manoel guessed she returned to the back offices more to get rid of him than to follow his impertinent request.
Not wasting a single second, he left the post office.
While passing by the guard, he smiled charmingly.
“Thank you very much. I think the girl at the post might need medical care. She seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown. Could you look for a doctor or a paramedic?”
“Immediately!”
While dashing away from the post, Chico Manoel emptied the coat pockets and took it off. He kept the things in his right hand and got rid of Dante’s ex-trenchcoat, leaving it on one of the benches on the way. He ripped the envelope open and took a cardkey from it. With the cardkey, he collected an orange knapsack from one of the lockers in a long row near the entrance of the airport.
He walked up to the nearest toilet, took a beige jacket and a gray cap from the knapsack and put them on. He threw the things he was carrying, including the book, into the the orange bag and left the toilet, trying to look calm.
On the access to the tube station he crossed a group of police officers from two different police forces and bumped into a handsome young man with mysterious eyes and almost white hair. The man looked at him, smiled and excused himself.
“Pardonne-moi!”
Chico Manoel did not answer.
From the front pocket of the jacket, Chico Manoel picked up an IDCard in which one could read the name of Andrea Chiunque. Into a nearby trash can he carelessly threw the IDCards of Belizarius Dante and Francisco Manoel Francisco.
Jemael Nascimento had arranged many IDCards with fake names for Chico Manoel to begin new lives.
That was the moment of Andrea Chiunque’s birth. He began his existence having already lived twenty two years without having had a past. Chico Manoel had just become the descendant of Italians that never existed.
He reached the tube platform at the same time a convoy opened its doors. He waited for no invitation: entered the almost empty wagon and chose a seat at the window. When the doors were closed and the train began to move, Chico Manoel could not stop the shaking.
The rain had stopped but the view was blurred by the tears Andrea Chiunque could not hold.
Some seats ahead, a woman with blond curly hair looked at him and might have thought of moving reasons for his sorrow. Her impatient toddler and his giggles brought her back to the real world. She peered at the magnificent glassy building of the airport, pointed to a ship that had just taken off and spoke to her son, without knowing Ibrahim Mousmée was inside it, flying away to see his mother for the last time.
“Look, Artie! Behold! A plane!”