Southwesterly Wind

by Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza

  Every once in a while he took his right hand out of his pocket. He imagined pulling out a gun and firing at someone walking toward him. He didn’t go so far as to make the gesture; he just pulled his hand out and raised it to his head. In his imagination, the attacker would be hit by both the first bullet and the second even before he began to fall. Both shots would hit his throat. Naturally, for this plan to work, the assailant would have to give clear signs that he was about to attack Gabriel. Since there wasn’t much room between them, he couldn’t wait to see how the other guy was going to attack him. He’d have to fire as soon as the other man took his hand out of his pocket. He had a man in mind, but it could just as well be a woman. Why not? If he had no idea what motive someone would have to attack him, then it might very well be a Woman. He started imagining that all the women coming toward him were also possible murderers. Even normal, everyday gestures—opening a purse, switching a bag from one hand to the other—looked suspicious. He took to crossing the street in what he imagined were moments of imminent danger. But why would the murderer approach from the front? It’d be more logical for him to attack from behind, taking him completely unawares. He tried to find quieter streets, where he could maintain a prudent distance between himself and the people walking behind him. Once he turned around and retraced his steps, to see if he could surprise his stalker. It didn’t matter how much time he wasted with these pirouettes. His main object wasn’t getting home—he’d get there eventually. He was trying to think about his situation, and it was best to do it on the street, away from his mother’s eyes and ears.

  As he was crossing the Túnel Novo, which connected Copacabana and Botafogo, the narrow pedestrian walkway was deserted. He saw a few people at the exit, at the far end of the tunnel. He thought about going back and taking a bus, but decided to forge ahead. Nothing happened. It was still quite a ways to his house. Enough time to do a lot of thinking. Especially if he didn’t take the most direct route.

  Ever since the night before, the station had been tense. The officers had their guns out, and everyone was on edge. The reason for the tension was an anonymous phone call announcing that drug traffickers were planning to force their way into the station to free their imprisoned comrades. In his meeting with his team, Espinosa tried to defuse the atmosphere, arguing that if anybody really was going to invade the station they wouldn’t call in advance; besides, it wasn’t the first time they’d gotten a call like that. Nobody would try anything against the station.

  Just then, another call came in from the head of the detectives of the Fifth Precinct, on the Rua Mem de Sá. With the officers focused on the impending invasion, it didn’t attract a lot of attention. An employee of the Cancer Hospital had called to complain about a guy who, passing himself off as a psychic, was promising the parents of young patients “pedagogical cures by correcting trajectories.” Since they knew that Espinosa was looking for information about a psychic with a foreign accent, they thought the news might interest him. The man had a Spanish accent.

  Espinosa learned that the psychic and his partner had a little puppet theater which they used to entertain the children in the hospital. In truth it was a way to get to the parents. With veiled insinuations, he informed them that he could provide a “powerful complement” to the children’s medical treatment. Welber was dispatched to talk to people in every hospital that treated children with terminal illnesses and find out if they ever had a puppet theater perform for the children. A preliminary, superficial investigation conducted over the phone revealed that the “Argentine” lent his “assistance” to several hospitals. He used the puppets to entertain the children and ease their pain, and he also used his performances to peddle his “trajectory corrections.” If he was the same psychic who had seen Gabriel—and everything seemed to indicate he was—his audience was not only children but also naive adults. Gabriel hadn’t been asked for money, but other people had. Nobody could be arrested for passing themselves off as a psychic, but when the situation involved soliciting payment in exchange for promises of a cure, it became fraud, and in that instance they could investigate him based on the telephone call. Espinosa just wanted to give the guy a little scare, let him know that the police were on to him; you rarely got a conviction when you took a case like that to court. A canny lawyer could flip the situation around, making the accused look like the victim.

  Equipped with the name of the hospital Espinosa had cited and the help of the detectives from the Fifth Precinct, Welber went into the field to try to gather information that might lead them to the Argentine’s address. He felt like he was doing real work this time, unlike when he was working only with Gabriel’s fantasies. Trying to stop someone from extorting money from the desperate parents of sick children justified a trip downtown. If he was lucky, he might manage to find the guy over the weekend. Once he’d located him, all he would have to do was hint that he’d like to take him back to the station to clarify a few things. With a little squeezing, people like that always broke down, especially foreigners.

  None of the hospital receptionists knew who had placed the complaint with the police, nor did they know the couple who gave puppet shows to children. He decided to take another tack and asked to see the hospital’s director. The reaction was something less than he might have hoped. The man was very busy, seeming to have more problems than all the Rio police put together, and he was indignant when he learned that a charlatan was interfering with the children’s treatment. In a moment of goodwill, he took Welber to the doctor who was the chief of the section where the puppet shows would have taken place. The doctor’s contribution shed little light on Welber’s problem.

  “I’m sorry, Detective. I don’t have anything to do with the recreation department. They’re the ones who schedule activities for the kids. Find the head of activities. She works in the Office of Social Assistance. It’s the next-to-last door on the right, at the end of the hall.”

  It wasn’t the next-to-last door, or the last door, and it wasn’t even in that hallway, but someone who could track down escaped criminals could find a hospital employee during her working hours.

  The small office could barely contain the figure of a youngish woman who must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds.

  “This is her office.”

  “And can I talk to her?”

  “Not today.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Because this isn’t her shift.”

  “Her shift?”

  “We work in shifts. Nobody could stand to do this all day long.”

  “Right. And how can I find Dona Sônia?”

  “Is she the only one who can help you?”

  “I’m not sure. Actually, I’ve never met her. I just want information about the magician.”

  “Magician? I think you’ve got the wrong hospital, honey.”

  “Sorry. I need information about the guy who does puppet shows for the kids.”

  “Oh. That’s something else. You’re looking for the Hunk?”

  “What?”

  “The Hunk. He looks like a movie star. Every once in a while one of the mothers asks for him. The kids and the moms are all crazy about him.”

  “The Hunk is his name?”

  “Of course not. That’s just what we call him.”

  “And what’s his real name?”

  “Nobody knows. We only know his stage name: Hidalgo.”

  “Hidalgo?”

  “Yeah. But that’s not his real name.”

  “And how does he get paid? He doesn’t have to sign a receipt?”

  “He doesn’t charge.”

  “He works for free?”

  “Here in the hospital. Other places he charges.”

  “And do you know where else he works?”

  “No. I think he does birthday parties. Is that what you’re interested in?”

  “Yeah, and I’d appreciate it if you’d ask him to call me. Here’s my home number.”

  “All right. I’ll talk t
o Sônia. She’s the one who sets things up with him.”

  “Ask her to call me. And thanks for your help.”

  Welber left the hospital convinced of one thing: Hidalgo was clever. He probably used the same technique in other hospitals. That’s how he’d built his gentlemanly reputation.

  The one-room apartment facing the air shaft was located in a building on the block facing São João Batista cemetery. It was the cheapest one they’d managed to find when they’d decided to move in together in order to work more efficiently. “It’ll make it easier to rehearse and perform,” Stella had said. Now that a year had gone by, she was sure that she’d made the right choice. The alliance with Hidalgo was her only real option, since she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life loitering in the background of dubious theatrical productions. Hidalgo was intelligent, refined, polite, and good-looking. What more could she ask for? He didn’t have any money, that was true, but surely soon—in the not-too-distant future, a future so close she could smell it—they would be rich, or at least have enough money to move somewhere less depressing. She dreamed of the Avenida Atlântica, facing the sea, but she would be content with a two-bedroom apartment (she was already thinking about having a baby) anywhere that didn’t look onto the cemetery. Even though it was winter, she knew what it was like to spend the summer in that apartment, with its one window facing a wall six feet away. On hot days, the only thing to do was get in the shower and let the cold water run—when the water was working. Everything around the cemetery was better suited to the dead. And she felt completely alive.

  “Honey?”

  “Huh.”

  “I forgot to tell you. There was a message from that woman at the hospital. Somebody came by looking for you.”

  “Did they leave a phone number?”

  “Yeah. Somebody named Welber.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “It’s in my purse.”

  “What’s in your purse?”

  “The number.”

  Stella, seated on the bed wearing only her panties, had cotton balls between her toes and was touching up her red nail polish. Hidalgo, holding a calculator, was taking notes and reading the business pages of the newspaper. After almost five minutes, Stella spoke again.

  “How can anyone call a little baby that?”

  “Which little baby?”

  “That Welber.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Of course not, honey. I’m just wondering how a mother or father can look at a baby and call him Welber, Serafim, Bonifácio …”

  “Huh. Is that his name?”

  “Hidalgo, you’re not paying any attention to what I’m saying. Once you start in with your calculator, you don’t notice anything else.”

  “Sorry, baby. As soon as I finish I’m going to pay attention not only to what you say but to what you are.”

  “Not so fast—the nail polish isn’t dry yet.”

  Stella went back to the pay phone to reply to the message she’d gotten from her answering service. Welber was an ambiguous name. It could be foreign, or it could simply be low class. She was hoping he’d turn out to be foreign. They were desperate for money. Hidalgo was eking out a little from his investments in the stock market, but sometimes prices went down so much that they were left in a state of real anxiety. She worked as a government clerk, but her salary was far from enough to cover their expenses. One big children’s party could see them through the week. They’d paid their rent, but their expenses went beyond their rent and the little they ate. Hidalgo made a point of dressing nicely: an attractive appearance was essential to the good first impression needed to win a client’s trust. Stella thought that Hidalgo’s looks, elegance, and manners were more than enough to make such an impression.

  She dialed the number and an answering machine picked up. The voice didn’t seem foreign. The recorded message was too short to allow any further conclusions, but her feminine instincts told her that he was someone more interested in hiding than in communicating.

  She didn’t leave a message; she’d call back later. Then she’d see, from the way Welber answered, whether to take the conversation any further.

  “So, babe, who was he?”

  “He wasn’t home. His answering machine picked up. Something about the way he sounded rubbed me the wrong way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. It was a bullying voice, but trying to sound nice and polite. I’ll find out when I talk to him.”

  “You’re very perceptive.”

  “Sweetheart, that’s my talent. Yours is charming people. Don’t forget about that guy who’s looking for us on the weekend. I bet it turns out to be this Welber.”

  “And if it is? What difference does it make?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Stella didn’t consider herself to be on the same level as Hidalgo (he was, without question, favored by the gods), but she knew that she had her strong points too. She was pretty and reasonably intelligent, but her real talent lay in her extraordinary intuition. The gift had already gotten them out of several potentially awkward situations. She described it as a kind of internal light that blinked on whenever danger loomed. It wasn’t infallible, but she was right far more often than she was wrong. Hidalgo, she knew, believed only in reason, even though he passed himself off as a psychic. But he respected her intuitions, which he described as extremely accurate perceptions of aspects of reality. In the same way, his “psychic” observations amounted to nothing more than playing on weaknesses he noticed in people.

  They still had until Saturday, two days, to figure out if their weekend stalker and the guy named Welber were one and the same, and if so what he wanted. Hidalgo’s latest forays into clairvoyance worried her, even though they’d occasionally been financially beneficial.

  Daring and prudence, in the right measure and at the right moment, had guaranteed that Hidalgo had the bare minimum income to survive, especially considering the little money he had to invest in the market. They hadn’t withdrawn a cent for over a year, having resolved to reinvest everything they earned until they had enough to permit themselves regular withdrawals. He’d suffered enough reverses that he’d almost abandoned the activity, but he didn’t think he could live without a little risk. He’d never overdosed. He had a degree in economics from the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro, but had never worked as an economist. Just after graduation, he’d given some classes in statistics in two private colleges not renowned for the high quality of their faculties. His job as a college professor hadn’t lasted even two years, and afterward he’d dabbled in the stock market and started performing marionette and puppet shows, an art he’d learned as a child from his parents, from whom he’d inherited the dolls.

  Nobody had their address. All communications came through the answering service. The theatrical performances were the only activity he’d continued after meeting Stella. They provided a small but regular income. Stella was the result of his need for a feminine voice and a partner for his children’s shows. At the same time she had become his business partner, she’d also become his personal companion.

  For the first time in memory, his mother wasn’t home when he arrived. On the kitchen table, there was a note in round, careful handwriting: “I went to visit a girlfriend. Your dinner is in the microwave. Just warm it up for one minute. I won’t be long.”

  She arrived almost an hour later. Her flushed cheeks and a general physical agitation perceptible a good half hour after she returned were clear signs that she hadn’t been visiting a friend. He wasn’t worried about where she’d been; he considered himself lucky that she was busy with something, leaving him to continue his investigations in peace. He’d have to act alone. He couldn’t count on anybody else. Even the policeman, who had seemed so cooperative at first, had not only transferred the case to a freshman detective but had focused all his attention on Irene, whom Olga had presented gift-wrapped.

  “Did you get my note, s
on?”

  “I did, Mom.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “I did.”

  For the last several days, they’d exchanged only short remarks about banal household matters. It had taken a while for them to realize that they were no longer really speaking; by the time they noticed, the change had become permanent. He didn’t want to worry about what might or might not be going on with his mother; she didn’t seem ill, and she was more active than ever. If she needed anything, she’d tell him, as she always had. Now he had to focus on more urgent tasks.

  With regards to the Argentine, he would simply carry on with his plan. He’d almost found him, had missed him by a matter of seconds. He’d try to get to the restaurants earlier. As for the gun, he didn’t know how to get one. Obviously, he couldn’t ask Officer Espinosa—he’d risk ruining whatever was left of their relationship. He’d found out, from conversations with coworkers, that there were gun stores downtown that sold legal hunting equipment. There was a department at the back of such stores, out of sight of regular customers, where you could get your hands on any gun you wanted. The price, obviously, included the risk the sellers took selling illegal weapons. He could use the money he had been saving to buy a new car.

  He didn’t know anything about guns, but he figured it would have to be a revolver, because a revolver was easier to handle than a pistol and, from what he’d heard, safer. As for the brand and the caliber, the salesman could tell him what was best. The next day, at lunchtime, he would get the money from his savings account. On Saturday morning, he would go downtown. He couldn’t let his mother know under any circumstances. She would keel over from the shock. The problem was that she arranged his clothes and all his belongings. He would have to hide the gun somewhere she didn’t look: behind his books; beneath his mattress; in the shoe he had on, stashed inside his sock.