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traffic to the Bay Bridge and for a moment decided that it was best
to forget about the Brazilian and head for home, when unexpectedly a
billboard loomed up before them, a glaring six-color solido advertising,
of all things, the Imperial Hotel. They were right around the corner from
it, apparently.
The Imperial was all gla.s.s and concrete, with what looked like giant
mirrors at its summit, high overhead. It must have been two or three
hundred years old. They hadn't built buildings like that in San
Francisco for a long time. Carlotta got Uncle James out of the car,
told the driver to wait across the street, and signaled to a doorman
to help them go inside.
"I'm here to see this man," she announced, producing Magalhaes's card.
"We have an appointment. Tell him that General James Crawford is
waiting for him in the lobby,"
The doorman seemed unimpressed. "Wait here," he said. Carlotta waited a
long time. Uncle James muttered restlessly.
Some hotel official appeared, studied the Brazilian's card, studied her,
murmured something under his breath, went back inside. What did they
think she was, a prost.i.tute? Showing up for a job with an old man in a
life-support chair to keep her company? Another long time went by. A
different hotel person came out.
"May I have your name," he said, not amiably.
"My name doesn't matter. This is General James Crawford, the famous war
hero. Can you see the imperial medal around his neck? We've just been at
the Armistice celebration, and now we're here to see the delegate from
Brazil, Mr. Humberto Maria-"
"Yes, but I need to know your name." "My name doesn't matter. Just
tell him that General James Crawford-"
"But your name-"
"Carlotta," she said. "Oh, go to h.e.l.l, all of you," She pressed the palm
control and started to turn Uncle James around. There was no sense
enduring all this grief. Just then, though, an enormous black limousine
glided up to the curb and Humberto Maria de Magalhaes himself emerged.
He sized up the situation at once.
