‘A remarkable story,’ I commented. ‘One can’t help wondering if we were right to leave this planet. I’m reminded of the question posed by the Chilean painter Matta — "Why must we fear a disaster in space in order to understand our own times?" It’s a pity you didn’t bring back any mementoes of your moon-walks.’
Scranton’s shoulders straightened. I could see him counting the coins on the table. ‘I do have certain materials…’
I nearly laughed. ‘What? A piece of lunar rock? Some moon dust?’
‘Various photographic materials.’
‘Photographs?’ Was it possible that Scranton had told the truth, and that he had indeed been an astronaut? If I could prove that the whole notion of his imposture was an error, an oversight by the journalist who had investigated the case, I would have the makings of a front-page scoop… ‘Could I see them? — perhaps I could use them in my book…?’
‘Well…’ Scranton felt for the coins in his pocket. He looked hungry, and obviously thought only of spending them on a loaf of bread.
‘Of course,’ I added, ‘I’ll provide an extra fee. As for my book, the publishers might well pay many hundreds of dollars.’
‘Hundreds…’ Scranton seemed impressed. He shook his head, as if amused by the ways of the world. I expected him to be shy of revealing where he lived, but he stood up and gestured me to finish my drink. ‘I’m staying a few minutes’ walk from here.’
He waited among the tables, staring across the street. Seeing the passers-by through his eyes, I was aware that they had begun to seem almost transparent, shadow players created by a frolic of the sun.
We soon arrived at Scranton’s modest room behind the Luxor Cinema, a small theatre off Copacabana Avenue that had seen better days. Two former storerooms and an office above the projection booth had been let as apartments, which we reached after climbing a dank emergency stairway.
Exhausted by the effort, Scranton swayed against the door. He wiped the spit from his mouth onto the lapel of his jacket, and ushered me into the room. ‘Make yourself comfortable..
A dusty light fell across the narrow bed, reflected in the cold-water tap of a greasy handbasin supported from the wall by its waste-pipe. Sheets of newspaper were wrapped around a pillow, stained with sweat and some unsavoury mucus, perhaps after an attack of malarial or tubercular fever.
Eager to leave this infectious den, I drew out my wallet. ‘The photographs…?’
Scranton sat on the bed, staring at the yellowing wall behind me as if he had forgotten that I was there. Once again I was aware of his ability to isolate himself from the surrounding world, a talent I envied him, if little else.
‘Sure… they’re over here.’ He stood up and went to the suitcase that lay on a card table behind the door. Taking the money from me, he opened the lid and lifted out a bundle of magazines. Among them were loose pages torn from Life and Newsweek, and special supplements of the Rio newspapers devoted to the Apollo space-flights and the moon landings. The familiar images of Armstrong and the lunar module, the space-walks and splashdowns had been endlessly thumbed. The captions were marked with coloured pencil, as if Scranton had spent hours memorising these photographs brought back from the tideways of space.
I moved the magazines to one side, hoping to find some documentary evidence of Scranton’s own involvement in the space-flights, perhaps a close-up photograph taken by a fellow astronaut.
‘Is this it? There’s nothing else?’
‘That’s it.’ Scranton gestured encouragingly. ‘They’re good pictures.
Pretty well what it was like.’
‘I suppose that’s true. I had hoped.
I peered at Scranton, expecting some small show of embarrassment. These faded pages, far from being the mementoes of a real astronaut, were obviously the prompt cards of an impostor. However, there was not the slightest doubt that Scranton was sincere.
I stood in the street below the portico of the Luxor Cinema, whose garish posters, advertising some science-fiction spectacular, seemed as inflamed as the mind of the American. Despite all that I had suspected, I felt an intense disappointment. I had deluded myself, thinking that Scranton would rescue my career. Now I was left with nothing but an empty notebook and the tram journey back to the crowded apartment in Ipanema. I dreaded the prospect of seeing my wife and my mother at the door, their eyes screwed to the same accusing focus.
