The house of times past is halfway covered with vines
the other half is covered with ashes.
— Carlos Drummond de Andrade
We had been there a few weeks — it’s probably best not to disclose precisely where.
It was February, the Brazilian summer, and oppressively humid. Gunther had left to buy distilled water. We were awaiting instructions. I started to read — an anthology of Brazilian poets — but fell asleep. When I woke, I suddenly felt restless. Despite the heat, I decided to go for a walk. Life is illogical.
Our furnished flat was a comfortable, otherwise nondescript two-bedroom affair in a leafy suburb, a short flight up from ground level. Gunther and I, German businessmen, were seeking trading opportunities in art and ceramics, a flourishing industry in towns up and down the Brazilian coast.
We spent part of every day visiting artisans and their studios, examining pottery, sculpture, original canvases, lithographs and the like. Sometimes we went together, but usually separately, so that one of us would be free to monitor Dr. C, the actual focus of our visit.
C lived quietly in an adjacent district, in a small bungalow with his ailing wife. An advance team, posing as electricians, had managed to install a powerful listening device in C’s kitchen. Tiny cameras on two hydro poles provided a perspective on the front and side doors. We monitored these on our laptops.
By all appearances, C seldom strayed far beyond the neighbourhood. He had planted a lovely flower garden — freesia, gloxinia, bauhinia — in front of the house, and a modest vegetable garden in the back. These endeavours occupied many of his daytime hours. Indoors, in the evening, he watched documentary films about Mother Nature....
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