City of Brick and Shadow

by Tim Wirkus

  According to another camp, the Argentine followed a more traditional layout for the library—a single oak desk stationed in the middle of the chamber, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling, ladder-accessible bookshelves.

  Others envisioned the chamber as a labyrinth within a labyrinth, a microcosm of the larger system of tunnels. Towering bookshelves formed narrow, winding passages that only the Argentine and his minions could navigate with ease.

  Still others imagine that there was no chamber below the general store, and instead, shelves of notebooks lined the walls of the entire system of hidden tunnels that ran throughout Vila Barbosa.

  Regardless of its layout, the creation of the library illuminated a larger challenge than finding storage space for all the notebooks. The existence of a formal archival space forced the Argentine to organize the notebooks that he and his minions filled with specimens.

  First, the Argentine opted for a chronological approach, simply placing a notebook in the next available space on the next available shelf once it was filled. However, the Argentine found this system too haphazard, and so he reorganized the library geographically—a bookcase here devoted to the neighborhood’s business district, one there devoted to the train station, another there devoted to a certain cul-de-sac.

  This didn’t work either, and so he reorganized by person, the cruel actions of each resident of Vila Barbosa occupying their very own shelf or shelves. Still, the Argentine was unsatisfied.

  After careful consideration he decided to attempt a truly taxonomic approach—phyla, classes, orders, etc. But this approach raised more vexing questions than any other system: Could he truly justify even his most basic divisions? Didn’t, for example, physical cruelty and emotional cruelty overlap in significant, unavoidable ways? And how certain could he be of his specimens’ qualities? Didn’t some actions require insight into the motivations of those performing them to determine if they were truly cruel? Couldn’t the act of classification itself obscure fundamental characteristics necessary to understanding human cruelty?

  • • •

  And thus the third key challenge revealed itself to the Argentine. As he pored over the thousands of notebooks, he discovered redundancy after redundancy. He had intended this catalog to be universal, to chart the outer limits of the phenomenon of cruelty by recording a staggering breadth of specimens, but here he had instance after instance of the exact same species of cruelty, of actions so similar that at times, the only variations were the names of the participants. How could he have missed this? How could he not have noticed the fundamental similarities among the specimens he collected?

  This discovery devastated the Argentine—he wept and wailed and gnashed his teeth. Years of work, and what did he have to show for it? This third challenge threatened to destroy everything he had worked for. He could feel the project closing in around him, that same sense of claustrophobic limitation that had prompted him decades earlier to abandon his criminal empire in favor of this dark, subterranean existence.

  CHAPTER 10

  After their impasse with the owner of the lanchonete, the two elders headed across the neighborhood toward Marco Aurélio’s house. As they walked the winding streets that twisted their way through mountains of dusty brick houses, Elder Toronto presented his new strategy.

  “I played that all wrong,” he said, “back in the lanchonete. We’ve got to be craftier about asking questions.”

  “Okay,” said Elder Schwartz.

  “Seriously,” said Elder Toronto. “I came in there like some kind of police officer. That was exactly the wrong approach. We need people to trust us, or at least not to suspect what we’re up to.”

  A motorcycle shot out of an alleyway in front of them and the missionaries stopped to avoid being run over. It sped up the street and the missionaries kept walking.

  “Here’s how we’ll do it instead, next time,” said Elder Toronto.

  “Where are we going, by the way?” said Elder Schwartz.

  They stepped around an impressive pile of feces on the sidewalk, and then another one, and then they opted to walk in the street.

  “We’re going to talk to Marco Aurélio’s neighbors. Someone on his street has to know something that can help us.”

  “Okay,” said Elder Schwartz. In the light of day, he was, if not content, then at least willing to go along with Elder Toronto’s plans. Searching for Marco Aurélio was, after all, more interesting than what they did on a typical day. And maybe Elder Toronto was right—maybe they actually were in a position to help Marco Aurélio.

  “Here’s how we’re going to do it,” said Elder Toronto. “Like I said, we need to be crafty. We can’t let people know what we’re up to, or they won’t tell us anything. And do you know how we’re going to do that?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Elder Schwartz.

  “The answer’s so obvious, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it back at the lanchonete,” said Elder Toronto. “Just think about what we do every day. We knock on doors and we ask intrusive questions. On top of that, no one thinks we’ve got much going on upstairs. I mean, to a lot of people we’re practically cartoon characters. It’s the perfect cover.”

  “Our cover is that we’re missionaries?” said Elder Schwartz.

  “Right. That’s how we’re going to play it,” said Elder Toronto. “We’re just a couple of dopey missionaries trying to figure out why our friend hasn’t been at church.”

  “But isn’t that true?” said Elder Schwartz.

  “Just follow my lead,” said Elder Toronto. “Okay?”

  They turned a corner onto Marco Aurélio’s street. It was a short, uncluttered stretch of houses, one of the oldest streets in the neighborhood. The road had been paved at one time and the houses were mostly cinderblock, a sign of relative permanence.

  “Remember,” said Elder Toronto. “We’re going to act like these are normal door contacts. We’ll give our normal pitch about the church, and then ease into questions about Marco Aurélio.”

  The first house they tried was a bust. A young woman in a garish polyester fast-food uniform came to the door and told them she was leaving right now and didn’t have time to talk. As she closed the door behind her and stepped out of the house, she explained that she wasn’t interested in their religious message and that she didn’t know Marco Aurélio, that she didn’t know any of her neighbors, in fact, because she worked two full-time jobs, plus a part-time job in the summer, and was hardly ever at home. When the elders thanked her for her time, she didn’t pause, but barreled past them with a forced smile in the direction of the train station.

  The next house had once been painted a cheery shade of yellow, but years of neglect had left it flaking and stained. A man with a parrot perched on his shoulder came to the door when the missionaries clapped. It was Elder Schwartz’s turn to do the talking, so he introduced himself and asked the man’s name.

  “What did you say, kid?” said the man with the parrot.

  “What’s your name?” said Elder Schwartz.

  “Leandro,” said the man, after a brief pause.

  The parrot on his shoulder squawked, ruffling its feathers. Elder Schwartz told him that it was a handsome bird. Leandro nodded.

  “Is it just you and the parrot who live here?” said Elder Schwartz.

  “What?” said Leandro.

  “Do you live alone?” said Elder Schwartz, gesturing at the house.

  Leandro squinted at him and pointed back into the house at a woman inside on her hands and knees, scrubbing at something on the floor.

  “My wife,” he said.

  “That’s great,” said Elder Schwartz. “It’s good to live as a family.”

  “Hello,” said the parrot. “Hello.”

  “How long have you and your wife been married?” said Elder Schwartz.

  “What?” said Leandro.

  “How long have you been married?”

  Leandro shook his head.

  “That’s great,” said Elder
Schwartz.

  Leandro grunted. The parrot screamed in a sharp, feminine voice and both missionaries jumped back.

  “Sorry,” said Elder Schwartz. “Your parrot surprised me.”

  “What do you want?” said Leandro.

  “As I was saying,” said Elder Schwartz. “It’s great that you live here with your wife, as a family.”

  “Help me,” screamed the parrot, in a voice uncannily similar to a woman’s. “Help me.”

  “And we actually have an important message to share about families, and how they can be together forever.”

  “Stop it,” continued the parrot. “That hurts. That hurts, Leandro. Stop. Please. Stop, stop, stop, it hurts. Leandro. Stop. Please. You’re hurting me. I’m sorry. Please. Stop. Please, please. I’m sorry.”

  The parrot ruffled its feathers.

  “Hello,” it said. “Hello.”

  Elder Schwartz looked from the bird to Leandro. He started talking again.

  “And so we would like to share this important message with you and your wife.”

  “I didn’t understand a word you just said,” said Leandro.

  “Okay,” said Elder Schwartz.

  Leandro turned to walk back inside.

  “One last question, sir, if it’s all right,” said Elder Toronto, jumping in. “Do you know Marco Aurélio, who lives across the street?”

  Leandro looked at the house Elder Toronto was pointing to.

  “No,” he said. “That guy doesn’t talk to anybody.”

  “He’s a friend of ours from church and we’re just wondering if you’ve seen him in the past couple of weeks.”

  “I mind my own business,” said Leandro, and shut the door.

  The elders walked back to the curb. Elder Schwartz glanced back to the closed door of Leandro’s house.

  “Should we talk to someone about—” he began, pointing back at the house, but Elder Toronto was already striding quickly across the street. Elder Schwartz jogged to catch up.

  Several yards away, a group of boys tussled over a fallen kite. At the payphone on the corner, a young man shouted into the receiver, sobbing. At the house in front of them, an elderly woman swept at the dirt of her quintal.

  “Let’s talk to her,” said Elder Toronto, nodding in the direction of the old woman.

  As they crossed the street, Elder Schwartz looked back again at Leandro’s front door.

  The two missionaries approached the old woman’s gate.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” said Elder Toronto.

  The woman didn’t look up from her sweeping. She wore cracked rubber sandals, a faded cotton skirt, and a sagging T-shirt that may have been blue once. Her gray hair was pulled back in a tight bun.

  “Excuse me?” said Elder Toronto, louder this time. “Ma’am?”

  The old woman didn’t look up.

  “My name is Meire,” said the old woman, “I talked to you two once before.”

  “Terrific,” said Elder Toronto. “I actually don’t think we’ve met, so you must have talked to some colleagues of ours. Did you get a chance to talk with them about our church?”

  “I’m very content with my religion,” said Meire.

  She overturned a rock with the bristles of her broom and a pair of cockroaches ran out from beneath it, bronze wings glinting in the sun. She swept them toward the missionaries. Elder Schwartz jumped back, but the cockroaches scurried past him to the safety of a rubbish pile at the side of the street.

  “That’s fine,” said Elder Toronto. “In fact, your neighbor, Marco Aurélio—he just lives two doors down from here—he’s a member of our church.”

  “I know that,” said the old woman.

  She flipped the broom bristle-side up and leaned on it like a staff. Shading her eyes with her free hand, she glared at Elder Toronto.

  “You know him, then?” said Elder Toronto.

  “I know who he is,” said Meire.

  “Has he talked to you about our church?” said Elder Toronto. “Maybe in the past couple of weeks?”

  The old woman shook her head.

  “What Marco Aurélio does is none of my business,” she said.

  “So have you known him for a long time?” said Elder Toronto.

  The old woman pursed her lips and looked up the street in the direction of Marco Aurélio’s house. She looked back at the missionaries.

  “If you want to talk about Marco Aurélio, then you should talk to his brother,” said Meire.

  “His brother?” said Elder Toronto.

  “That’s what I said.”

  Elder Toronto looked at Elder Schwartz. Marco Aurélio had never mentioned a brother before.

  “Do you know where we could find him?” said Elder Toronto.

  Meire pointed her wrinkled thumb at the house next door to hers.

  “Grillo lives right there with his wife, Lucinda,” she said.

  “Do you know if he’s home?” said Elder Toronto.

  The old woman nodded.

  “Hey,” she yelled, startling both elders, “Grillo!”

  There was no answer from the house next door.

  “Hey,” she yelled again, “Grillo!”

  No answer.

  “Try clapping,” she said to Elder Toronto. “I know they’re both home right now. I talked to Grillo not more than an hour ago.”

  So the elders walked the few feet up the sidewalk and clapped at Grillo’s front door. They heard the sound of furniture shifting inside. They waited. No one came to the door. The old woman had crossed her quintal and was leaning on her broom, watching them. Elder Toronto clapped again. They heard a sound like a chair falling over, and then a gasp.

  “Something’s happening in there,” said Elder Toronto. “Did you hear that?”

  Meire nodded.

  “Well, should we do something about it?” said Elder Toronto. “What do you think is going on?”

  Meire said, “I think I know exactly what’s going on.”

  “What?” said Elder Toronto.

  Meire gave an exasperated sigh.

  “Grillo and Lucinda both work long hours and are hardly ever home together. Right now, they’re home together, husband and wife. You tell me what’s going on.”

  The elders didn’t respond.

  “They’re having sex,” said Meire.

  “Right,” said Elder Toronto. “I got it.”

  He and Elder Schwartz stepped back to the curb. Meire slung her broom over her shoulder and walked back toward her house.

  “Thanks for your help, ma’am,” said Elder Toronto, but the old woman didn’t turn around.

  “What now?” said Elder Schwartz, looking nervously at Grillo’s front door. “Should we go someplace else?”

  “No,” said Elder Toronto, “this is our best lead right now. We should talk to Grillo as soon as possible.”

  “Okay,” said Elder Schwartz. “So do we just wait here?”

  Elder Toronto looked up and down the street. The little mob of boys had dispersed with their kite. The young man at the payphone was gone. Late afternoon, and the street was momentarily empty.

  “Come on,” said Elder Toronto. “No one’s watching. I think we have a golden opportunity right here.”

  They walked down the sidewalk to Marco Aurélio’s narrow, cinderblock house. They found the gate ajar and, Elder Toronto leading the way, they approached the front door. Elder Toronto tried the door handle.

  “It’s unlocked,” he said.

  He looked up and down the street, and then opened the door.

  CHAPTER 11

  If, on breaking and entering, the missionaries had hoped to find some revelatory key to Marco Aurélio’s inner life—a hidden journal, maybe, or a bundle of letters from a secret lover, or even a photo album—they were foiled by the almost absurd austerity of the house and its contents. A cursory examination of its three rooms suggested a lifestyle that could most generously be described as Spartan. It wasn’t the poverty of the house that was striking; in fact
, the furnishings, and even the house itself, were nicer than many that the elders encountered in Vila Barbosa. What struck the missionaries was the complete lack of personal effects, of anything beyond what was absolutely necessary for day-to-day living. The front room, which they had visited many times, contained a couch and an armchair. The kitchen had a small table with three chairs, a half-sized refrigerator with a pitcher of water and a moldy pot of cooked rice inside, and a makeshift shelf that held two bags containing, respectively, dry rice and dry beans. The bedroom had a twin bed with a single pillow and a single sheet, and a guarda-roupa, inside of which were a few worn shirts and slacks on hangers, and several pairs of socks and briefs folded on the shelf. The bathroom, aside from the toilet, sink, and shower, contained a roll of toilet paper, a bar of soap, a bottle of shampoo, a stick of deodorant, a razor, and a comb.

  And that was everything in the house.

  Nowhere did the elders find anything that might further illuminate Marco Aurélio’s personal interests, his past life, or his current whereabouts—no framed photographs, no books, no sporting equipment, no magazines, no posters on the walls, no music, no letters or postcards, no magnets on the refrigerator, no memorabilia from local soccer teams, no used day planners, no drawers filled with receipts, no medications, no souvenir mugs or T-shirts, no lists of phone numbers, no carefully recorded family recipes, no card games, no board games, no sentimental heirlooms.

  “Did someone clean this place out?” said Elder Schwartz.

  Elder Toronto stood in the middle of the living room, hands on his hips.