Robert Fish - The Fugitive

The customs benches were being filled; porters were slinging luggage haphazardly from the carts to the low barriers; passengers were beginning to awaken from the narcosis of the flight and were frantically attempting to attract the attention of a customs guard. A conference was in progress at the official desk; declarations were being examined and separated; the heat bore down relentlessly on everything.

He saw the flight crew come through, their squat leather bags bulging with papers, maps, dirty clothing, and possibly a contraband bottle of whiskey hidden somewhere in the depths. The stewardess whispered something to the others, inclining her head in his direction, and they all eyed him curiously, but only for a moment. He was a passing phenomenon who had lightened a dull flight with a few minutes of excited radio chatter, but that was last night and years ago. They could always read about it in the newspapers; their minds were already on a three-day holiday, and the smooth hot beach, and the noisy night clubs. He saw the small eyes of the stewardess linger hesitatingly on the briefcase cradled in his arms, and he suddenly knew very well that his panic in the plane had not been based upon imagination. Quite without knowing why, he forced his fears behind him and winked at her in a broad, friendly manner. She turned away flushing, and a few moments later stumped out after her companions. Ingratitude, he thought with a bitter smile; think of the hours of conversation I have provided you with.

“Senhor Hans?” A customs official was glancing up from a declaration, impatiently glaring about the group of passengers. His face, although young in years, was set in the bitter lines of ingrained officialdom; his flat eyes peered about in barely stifled animosity; the heavy features were shimmering with sweat. Nobody paid any attention; the struggle with baggage went on uninterruptedly. “Senhor Hans?” The voice was accusing now, and the official referred once again to the declaration in his hand. A sudden thought seemed to come to him. “Senhor Hans Busch?” He pronounced it “Pushy,” but the tone of accusation had completely disappeared, replaced by respect. My God! he thought with a start, that’s me! A fine beginning!

“I’m sorry,” he said, touching the official on the arm. “I’m afraid I didn’t...”

“Senhor Hans Busch?”

“Why, yes,” he said, beginning to reach for his documents, attempting to portray to the best of his ability Everytourist faced with Everycustoms.

“O senhor têm bagagem?”

“I beg your pardon? I don’t speak...”

“Lockage? Package?” The voice dropped suddenly to a hoarse whisper, accompanied by a barely perceptible nudge. “Haben Sie Koffer?”

The official indicated the suitcases being opened on the benches. He saw his new leather case standing alone to one side and reached for it, but the official politely picked it up and headed for a door at one side. “Please?” he said over his shoulder, “Please!” It was quite as if he were answering his own question. The other passengers eyed them sourly, certain that either influence or a well concealed bribe had smoothed the way to faster service.

He trailed along, his heart pounding. Well, he thought forlornly, here we go. Please, God, don’t let it fail before it even begins!

The room, windowless — an obvious afterthought in the airport construction — was formed by two roughly finished walls of cinder-block set in a corner of the customs shed. A halfhearted coat of whitewash attempted to disguise the provisional character of the construction, but only served to emphasize it. A badly vibrating fan rattled on a shelf, pushing the hot air about listlessly. A tall, saturnine man with a lean tanned face and an aggressive mustache arose from a desk and came forward. He took the declaration form from the customs official, who proceeded to seat himself unobtrusively on one corner of the desk, reaching over to shut the door almost apologetically. With the door closed the heat became unbearable, but the mustached man seemed almost cool as he turned about.

“Mr. Busch?” he asked gently.

“Yes.”

“I am Captain Jose Da Silva. May I see your passport, please?”

He fumbled in the side pocket of his jacket where he was certain he had placed his documents after Immigration, but his fingers closed only on a crumpled handkerchief. But I put that in the briefcase, he thought idiotically; I must have had two. He began to tremble, angry for the weakness, and for having misplaced his passport.

“Rather odd seeing a captain in civilian clothes,” he said, smiling foolishly, his hands patting his various breast pockets in desperation, hampered in his search by the awkward briefcase. He suddenly seemed to realize that this encumbrance was no longer a physical part of his person; he set it against the desk leg as unobtrusively as possible, continuing his search.

“Yes,” said the captain dryly. “Your passport, please?”

His hand closed in last resort on a heavily laden trouser pocket, and he drew out the missing passport, furious with himself for having placed it in so unusual a place. Stupid! he thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid! And even more stupid to allow it to upset you this much; relax and get yourself under control! But really, a trouser pocket — my God!

The tall man examined the document minutely, riffling through the pages and noting the various visas and stamped dates. He studied the personal data in the front and looked up impartially to compare the face before him with the photograph in his hand, after which he quietly closed the booklet and casually slipped it into his jacket pocket as if in a moment of forgetfulness.

“Would you care to open your bag, please?”

Da Silva’s thin fingers skimmed the contents, carefully judging the inside dimensions against the outside shape, barely disturbing the shirts and socks, but passing with great efficiency through the neatly arranged clothing.

Through the concrete block walls the smaller man heard the sudden acceleration of an airplane engine, and then the coughing start of another. In his mind’s eye he could see the puff of gray smoke, hear the snap of the cabin door being latched into place, feel the reassuring rough strength of the seat belt under his hand. Maybe I should have stayed aboard and gone on to Buenos Aires, and then back home, he thought wearily. Maybe I’m not the one for this. The suitcase was closed with a sigh, the latches snapped.

“Your briefcase?” The tone was a little sharper, a bit more thoughtful.

He hesitated one second, and the other stepped around the desk and lifted the case to the desk top. His skin was chafed where the chain had galled him, and he unconsciously rubbed his wrist as the other man snapped open the lock and peered within. The moment of truth, he thought, and tried to freeze the scene in time as a tableau: the heat, the wide-eyed, sweating customs official with the flat eyes, the gaunt figure bent over the tattered briefcase, the bare floor, the lumpy walls, the battered desk. Maybe it is a dream, he thought, and I can escape by awakening.

But he could not erase his own trembling figure from the picture he had created, and the sudden muffled roar of an airplane shattered the spell, leaving him tired and hot, a small, miserable man standing uncertainly in a crude room, his luggage being efficiently searched. With a sharp, quizzical sidelong glance, Captain Da Silva laid the pitiful camouflage of wrinkled clothing to one side and began withdrawing blocks of neatly tied newsprint from the depths of the briefcase. They looked foolish piled on the desk, like the accessories of some child’s game, leaning idiotically against the underwear and dirty socks. The clattering fan only served to emphasize the silence.