“My condolences.”
Sabrina reacted with a faint smile, as pasteurized and meaningless as my mechanical expression of sympathy.
“I would like to receive the inheritance he left.”
“That’s a matter for lawyers, isn’t it? Why do you need a detective?”
“We were not really married.” She sighed. “He made a point of keeping it a secret, because his mother depended on him, she had only him. Anyway, no one knew that we were married, and so the natural heiress is the mother, not me.”
“Do you need to prove that there was a stable union?” That would also be a more appropriate case for a lawyer…
“His mother is missing.”
It was my turn to take a deep breath and let it out in a long breath.
“Tell me everything.”
* * *
She told me. It was there that I learned of Raul’s death, the disappearance of Albertina, the movement of tectonic plates triggered by Sérvio in the forensic media. In addition to his mother’s savings, the son’s considerable fortune was also at stake, since Albertina was the natural heir of the engineer’s estate, who officially died single and childless.
“I have lawyers working to prove that Raul and I had a relationship of the kind that guarantees me inheritance rights. For me, we were married.”
She paused. I waited. Clearly she still had more to say.
“But the Church is sabotaging me. Some witnesses, co-workers who knew how Raul and I were…intimate, now refuse to speak in court. They’re getting threats.”
I let the expression on my face betray my disbelief. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you, right, but still…
Sabrina read correctly what was happening behind my eyes and gave me a smile both sad and sarcastic.
“Come on, Detective. You are familiar with ‘crying and gnashing teeth’ tactics, aren’t you?”
This was the name given to a purported network of intimidation created by the followers of the archpriest and dedicated to essentially pestering—or terrifying, depending on the case—the Church’s adversaries. Journalists who wrote articles ridiculing its puritanism had their blogs hacked, or found dead rats in their mailboxes; politicians who refused to approve laws of interest to the Church suddenly became the target of ludicrous accusations of sexual harassment, or watched helplessly as long forgotten misdemeanors—bribes received decades ago, illegal campaign donations early in their careers—were brought ruthlessly to light.
A physician who had written a book denouncing the evils of the doctrine of the “inviolable temple” to public health was simultaneously prosecuted in twenty states. The work was seized the day after it left the presses. The digital edition, made available by a major international bookstore, had been contaminated by a virus.
“I know that urban legend,” I said. “But it has never been proven.”
Sabrina started to get up.
“If that’s what you think, being a detective…”
Alarmed by the sudden movement of her knees and by the appalling prospect of them being taken away from me so soon, I gestured for her to stop.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Find his mother.”
I made a face, as if I didn’t understand. After all, if his mother was alive, the inheritance would continue to be open for dispute and Sabrina would still risk being left with nothing.
“Dona Albertina’s body was not found,” my client explained. “The case of the Puritans depends on two things: one, that she is dead, and second, that she died after her son. I want you to prove that she’s alive.
“Really?”
My cynicism was rewarded with yet another sad-sarcastic smile. Apparently, her stock of those was inexhaustible.
“Or at least set a reasonable doubt that my lawyers can use.”
I understood.
“To raise hell with the Church. To distract it. To create confusion in the enemy field while you move forward towards the recognition of the stable union.”
She pursed her lips.
“Right.”
Then we started to discuss the details.
* * *
The first thing I did after Sabrina left was search for Albertina Gonçalves on FaceSpace. Puritans can be radically against cybernetic implants and recombinant DNA, but there is nothing in their credo that forbids interaction in social networks. From what my client had said, I knew that her mother-in-law was practically blind, but…
And the lady had a presence on the social network all right. Modest, as it were: she quoted her deceased husband, the executive son, posted a few sober and chaste pictures, Bible verses, and a calendar of religious activities that hadn’t been updated in six months.
Even in the conservative pictures, I could see that Albertina had been beautiful, perhaps almost to the end. At 87, she still showed a vigorous face, where her (few) wrinkles looked more like marks of character than of age.
Curiously enough, the page was still active. It hadn’t been converted into a memorial one. Maybe, I thought, only her son had the access level necessary to make the fateful update. That would be ironic, in a sort of paradoxical way.
Out of curiosity, I visited Raul’s page. He had not yet taken the colors of mourning. He was “in a relationship”, but Sabrina wasn’t in the followers list and his “partner” link was inactive.
Among very lonely people, religious fervor is often linked to the need for companionship and social interaction: submission to doctrine is the “price” of having friends, support, and companionship. So, I wasn’t surprised to see that, with the exception of Raul, all of Albertina’s other followers were members of Sérvio’s flock. I wrote down the three or four of the names and addresses that seemed most promising to my good old intuition and went out into the street.
Many people imagine that, in this world of networks, e-mails, and telepresence, all the detective work can be done from a desk. I’m not denying that much can be done like this. It’s possible to learn and deduce a lot from virtual presence alone. But when it comes to interviewing reluctant witnesses, nothing beats the moral weight of physical presence.
And I had the impression that my Church-related sources would all be, at best, highly reluctant. If not hostile.
That said, I must say my conversation with the first person on my list was a pleasant surprise. I had decided to start with Olavo Pereira because he was the man who most often appeared in photos alongside Albertina in FaceSpace, was very close to her age (93, to be precise) and, incidentally, very similar in appearance to the late Raul.
Following the recommendation of my lawyer, I hasten to add that I’m not implying that Olavo was the true father of the alleged suicide. But if the son is like the father (which is a reasonable inference, actually), and after becoming a widow, the mother approaches a man like her son, this may indicate that, in fact, she is looking for a substitute for her dead husband.
Olavo was a tall man—more than a foot taller than me—and thin, but with an Olympic swimmer’s chest. His skin had the exact leather texture and color of the boots I use when mountain trekking on the weekends. Under a pair of thick white eyebrows, intense blue eyes watched me as he opened the door to his apartment, a property that was comfortable without being luxurious, located near downtown.
It was in an old building that, I supposed, must have chronic problems with pipes and waste recycling, having been built before the era of urban biodigesters.
Before I appeared, I had sent an SMS explaining the reason for my visit—an investigation into Albertina’s fate—and he had responded by making himself available. After a strong handshake, Olavo invited me in, and I made a generic comment about his healthy appearance.
He laughed, shaking his head.
“People tend to think that we Puritans are a lot of human carcasses, living ruins, because we refuse to allow technology to interfere with the physical abode that God has thought fit to grant our spirits, but the
truth is just the opposite. We take care of the temple. Food and exercise, an active life. If people really cared about the health God gave them, prostheses and genetic implants wouldn’t be necessary.”
I thought about mentioning cases of hereditary cancer, type I diabetes, amputations, and, in general, the innumerable neonatal diagnoses of low life expectancy and other problems that could only be healed or circumvented through gene therapy or prostheses, but I stopped myself short of it. I had nothing to gain by harassing a source who was willing to speak.
“Did Albertina have a life as active as yours? You seem to spend a lot of time outdoors.”
“I look like tanned leather, don’t I?” He laughed again. “There’s no denying it. As far as I’m concerned, this apartment is just a place where I spend the breaks between my outings and outdoor activities. My life is really in the mountains.”
I nodded in acknowledgment that I understood him perfectly. The city lay in what could be described as the bottom of a bowl. The rim, encircling us on all sides, was the mountain range, a complex of gently sloping mountains covered by (almost) virgin forest, interspersed by streams and waterfalls, marked here and there by riverine pebble beaches and cut by parks and trails for trekkers.
“Answering your question,” Olavo continued, “Albertina was as active as I was, even more, until about six months ago.”
“But she was practically blind from the cataracts, and the wheelchair…”
“It’s true that her legs no longer worked, but that ‘wheelchair’ levitated on rocks, rivers, grass, whatever there was! As for blindness, she was never alone and you have no idea what radar and sonar systems are capable of today. Albertina loved the countryside, the open space, the wind in her hair…”
“‘Loved’? What happened?”
He shrugged.
“Suddenly, nothing else seemed to interest her. Things she considered easy to do became challenges that weren’t worth facing. She was afraid to leave the house with her chair, as if the sonar in the machine was no more precise than the eyes of a guide dog. She…she…”
His eyes were wet. He brought the glass of orange juice in his hands with full force onto the tabletop. The noise was loud, disconcerting, but the glass top stood strong.
“I shouldn’t tell you that,” he spoke at last, his bombastic voice suddenly assuming an almost confidential tone. “But it’s not exactly a secret. We almost had a fight about it in the Church. Before she quit going.”
“Yes?”
“It was as if Albertina had decided to be an invalid. Just like that.”
After an interval of silence, I asked, “She never talked about running away? Going dark? Going away?”
He shook his head.
“And leave her son? No way. The boy was her life.”
“But what if she was to run away? If she suddenly got tired of her son, or if her son died? Who would she run away with?”
“With me. And I’m still here.”
I thanked him and left.
* * *
Putting the car on autopilot, I called my client.
“Did your husband have friends at the firm?”
“Friends?”
“Friends. People whom he could confidently go out with at night to get drunk…”
“He had me. And in any case, in recent months his mother consumed most of his spare time.”
Women. I took a deep breath before going on.
“There are things a man tells a bar mate he wouldn’t tell his wife. Bride. Girlfriend. Mother. Whatever.”
The line was quiet for a moment. I wondered if the call had dropped. Then Sabrina’s voice came back, a little cooler than at first.
“We did not work together. Our areas were different; he was an engineer and I was working on pure research. But he was talking about this guy… Antonio something. From his department. Applications of Biofuel. They had beer sometimes. At least, that’s what Raul told me.”
“Did you mention him as a witness?”
“No. My witnesses are basically my friends and the HR and security people who record all the relationships in the company and…”
“Thank you. Can you give me the contact of one of these friends?”
She hesitated a bit—thinking that the Puritans had already made the “girls”s lives sheer hell, so on and so forth—but not much, and ended up giving me the data. In the end I thanked her and hung up.
* * *
It wasn’t too difficult to use the net to gather some basic facts about a certain “Antônio somethingsomething” (Kobaiashi de Toledo, actually), biofuel engineer for DNArt & Tech. We exchanged a few instant messages and he agreed to meet me for drinks and olives early in the evening.
It was almost noon, which left me with the lunch issue open. I called my police contact. It would be interesting to know what direction the official inquiry into the fate of Albertina was taking. But we were only able to arrange a meeting for the next day.
Then, unwilling to face other sources from within the Church before listening to the “other side” and, purely for lack of choice, I called Sabrina’s friend. She answered right at the first ring. Her name was Cláudia, and she also had her half dozen PhDs.
After some reluctance and having me explain my reasons and goals in five different ways, she accepted my invitation to lunch, but made a point of choosing the restaurant and the time: Piccolo Cuoco at one-thirty. Stifling a grunt, I agreed.
The city had been developing quite a lot in recent years—hey, it was big enough for half a dozen private detectives already!—but among the pains of growth there were the inevitable fruits of the clash between ingrained provincialism and the desire for sophistication.
The Piccolo Cuoco was one of those fruits. Supposedly a traditional Italian family restaurant, it was actually owned by a Spanish man with an obscure past. The place had, on the outside, all the trappings of an upscale cantina—from the imported mortadella chunks hanging from the ceiling to the checkered tablecloth and the mezzo cheeky wait staff with a heavy accent—but the food was awful.
The last time I had been there for supper I had asked for a penne with cod slivers that had forced me to stay up until dawn, plucking fish bones from the gums and the roof of my mouth with pincers.
Despite her surname, Cláudia Abdala was blond and blue-eyed. Nothing that looked artificial, but so what? Nowadays, a good doctor can reprogram virtually any gene, including those responsible for pigmentation. There is an endless debate about the “futile” use ethics of retroviral therapy, but whoever has the money to pay does not usually pay attention to these things.
She was also a tall, beautiful, and elegant woman. Nowadays, however, they are all, except for some Puritans and others who choose to use their bodies as the basis for some kind of statement—though, even in those cases, the situation is ambiguous: I once met a poet who had a single eye, red, right in the middle of her forehead, and yet, or even because of it, she was sexy as hell.
But I was sure Cláudia would never do anything so unconventional. Her lips were full and her nose well-rounded, exactly what fashion dictated. In a crowd, surrounded by other women of the same age, income range, and social position, it would be impossible to tell her from the others. They would all be accidental clones.
I could see that, in a restaurant whose clientele consisted of dozens of other birds of a feather, the anonymity that her aesthetic options guaranteed didn’t seem enough. My client’s friend walked into the restaurant wearing a wide-brimmed hat and mirrorshades. She looked from time to time over her shoulder, like a bad actress in a bad spy flick. Her body language was confused and erratic.
I could only see her eyes, bloodshot and a bit yellow-tinged, when she finally sat down across me and took off her glasses with a dramatic gesture. She was late: I was already enjoying my second glass of fernet.
I wrote that she sat down, but the most correct word would have been “collapsed.” Her weight fell on the chair like an intolerable burden.
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br /> “You have no idea what they did to me.” She emphasized the words “idea” and “me.” “You really don’t.”
And she launched into a long soliloquy about indignities, real or imagined, suffered at the hands of the conspiracy of the Puritans. Her transgenic intestinal microbiota refill, essential for weight control, had been sabotaged, hence the swollen eyes and impaired motor coordination; her car had been stopped by a police officer exactly one day after the license expired, but before she had time to pay it, and the officer had been particularly insensitive as well as surprisingly honest. Finally, the only credit card in her bag to pay the cab fare, after her vehicle was towed away, was exactly the one maxed out.
“All this,” she finished, pulling a handkerchief from her bag to wipe a tear trapped in a dimple strategically placed over the left corner of her mouth, “in the morning of the day I went to the notary office to file my testimony, you know, about Sabrina’s relationship with that engineer.”
I raised my left hand and counted off the events:
“Microbiota, police officer, card.” I paused to thank the waiter who put a jug of sangria on the table and continued. “It would have to be a job for someone with access to your medicine cabinet, your documents, to find out the license expired and to tell the police, and your wallet, to make sure that only the maxed out card was inside.
“And to my electronic correspondence, to see, on the invoice, which card has maxed out,” she finished with a look of contempt on her face. “What a great detective you are. Do you really think I hadn’t thought of all this?”
“Oh well. So who was it?”
“My personal secretary.” Pause. “I keep a human secretary,” she added, incapable of resisting the opportunity to flaunt her status. “She’s a Puritan. I hired her because of that: these religious fanatics usually work hard and…”
“…settle for little?”
Could the brief pause that followed be read as a symptom of guilt?
“More or less,” Cláudia conceded at last.
“And the guard, was he a Puritan too?”
“I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure I do. She must have called him directly. Just imagine, collecting my car because of…”
Solarpunk: Ecological and Fantastical Stories in a Sustainable World Page 2