During his two-hour wait at the bus station in Florianópolis, he has dinner at a coffee shop, explores the streets adjacent to the bus station on foot, and goes to a news-stand to get something to read. A man with a shocking appearance approaches the news-stand at the same time as he does. His whole head is enlarged due to some deformity or elephantiasis, especially his jaw, which is four or five times bigger than that of a normal man. He is fair-haired and is wearing a pair of jeans and a colorfully striped wool sweater. The man peruses the magazines on the stand, taking casual steps from side to side with his hands clasped behind his back in a restful position, seemingly unaware of his effect on the attendant and passersby, who glance away as soon as they set eyes on him. He takes a few good looks at the man’s deformed face, while pretending to choose a magazine. Then he picks up the triathlon magazine he intended to buy from the outset, pays, and returns to the bus station waiting area, trying to retain the man’s features in his memory for as long as possible, but they slip away as they always do.
Once he is settled in his bus seat, he takes a look at the map of downtown Pato Branco that he printed out from Google Maps at the Internet café in Garopaba. The addresses of Zenão Bonato and the hotel that was recommended by the former police chief are written in the margins with a few notes to himself. He got the man’s cell phone number from his security company. Zenão agreed to talk to him without asking many questions. I think I know what you’re talking about, he said in a hoarse voice on the telephone. If you really want to come here, come. I’ll tell you what I can remember.
The bus makes a lot of stops. He sleeps for much of the twelve-hour ride to Pato Branco, listening to music at a low volume on earphones connected to his phone. He wakes up every time the bus parks in a small town in western Santa Catarina to drop off and pick up passengers. He gets out to go to the bathroom and stretch his legs. He eats some of the worst highway diner food of his life and dreams about an icy-cold can of Coke until the next stop. It is dawn when he wakes instinctively at the entrance to the town, feeling the curves and bumpy terrain. It is much colder here, due to the distance from the coast and the altitude. It can’t be any more than fifty degrees. He opens his backpack with cold hands to pull out his jacket. Fields covered with veils of dew and tiny sleeping farmhouses give way to houses with verandas that increase in density until suddenly, to his surprise, the bus is in an urban center with wide avenues, shopping arcades, and malls. He takes a taxi from the bus station to the hotel. The car climbs steep streets paved with impeccable tarmac. When the young receptionist hands him the key to his room, she says ceremoniously that his password is ninety-eight.
What password?
For the sports channel, sir.
He calls Zenão Bonato from the hotel room. He says he’ll be busy all day and asks if he doesn’t mind postponing their meeting until quite late, perhaps around midnight. He finds it odd but says it isn’t a problem. Zenão asks him to meet him at a place called Deliryu’s. He jots down the address with the hotel pen and notepad on the bedside table. He thinks it must be the name of a brothel but doesn’t have time to ask because Zenão quickly says good-bye and ends the call.
He turns on the TV and types ninety-eight on the control. It’s a porn film with a story, and right now it’s in the story part. He waits for it to get to the interesting bit and jerks off quickly. Then he takes a twenty-minute shower.
