The Street Angel

by Robert Gollagher

  The Street Angel

  by

  Robert Gollagher

  Copyright © Robert D. Gollagher 1999

  www.robertgollagher.com

  Draft Z

  General Fernando del Campo ran his hand slowly along the naked thigh of the woman he loved. He gazed at the beautiful curves of her body, her small breasts and wide hips, her youthful waist, her dark hair still wet with beads of sweat after their lovemaking, and her long legs that stretched all the way to the end of the satin sheets. More hair fell around her brown eyes and cascaded in a dark waterfall to her shoulders. Here her smooth skin was bronzed by a life lived in the tropical sun. She was on her side, her head propped up on one hand, and she was smiling.

  “You seem distracted,” she said to him.

  “No, no. Just lost in looking at you. Ah, you must forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  She spoke her Portuguese with a smooth, cultured São Paulo accent. This only made her even more intriguing. Juliet Catherina Formosa was the most perfect woman the general had ever known, the most beautiful, the most forgiving of his own faults and tempers, and the most willing to wait for him. Secretly, he worried that she must find his aging body repulsive. He was sixty-eight, more than twice her age. His straight hair was completely grey, his skin furrowed, his hands thickened with age, and his sagging belly betrayed decades of overindulgence. But Juliet was pure youth.

  There was a goodness about her that the general could not help but love. When he was tired, she would massage his neck, she would bring him cheerful conversation, strong coffee, cheese and fresh fruit. She would bring a newspaper, or play samba or jazz on the stereo. They would watch movies together. Sometimes they would even dance. But always alone.

  The penthouse apartment was large. It was comfortable and luxurious. Always there was the quiet hum of the ducted air conditioning, keeping the air cool and dry. And there were views of the white beach stretching out for miles, nineteen storeys below. Tonight the beach was quiet and dark. It was late and the city was sleeping, preparing for the working day to come.

  “You are too good to me,” said the general.

  Juliet Formosa kissed him.

  “You know, I must go soon.”

  “I know.”

  The general felt almost guilty to leave her. She was different to the others. Since Juliet, he had left all his other women behind, had never seen them again. For two years there had been only Juliet Formosa. Sometimes he even fantasised about leaving his wife for her, but he knew it was not possible. What would his sons say? And his daughter, he could never look her in the eye again if she knew. All of them happily married, and given him so many grandchildren. It was unthinkable to incur their disapproval. And quite apart from that, what would his business associates say? His wife and their wives were fast friends, inseparable at every social occasion. He could not suddenly appear with a woman young enough to be his daughter and announce he had left his wife. Not if he expected to do business in Recife.

  “You look sad, Juliet.”

  “You are already gone. Lost in your thoughts. Not here with me.”

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could be with you. I wish I could stay.”

  “One day, you will stay. You know the day will come.”

  “I know,” the general lied.

  “Come, I will make you something to eat before you go.”

  “Yes. I am hungry.”

  Juliet Formosa got up and wriggled into a pink satin robe. The general watched her as she left the bedroom. How lucky I am, he thought.

  The general was not a kind man. He was difficult, moody, hard to predict. When public matters did not go his way, his wrath was immediate and merciless. Juliet Formosa had learned how to keep him happy, in and out of bed. She was even naive enough to believe that one day the infamous Chief of Military Police would actually leave his wife for a young model such as she. Nevertheless, she worried constantly. When would it happen? How much longer would she have to wait? She knew that as soon as the general had left her apartment she would begin worrying again. And it broke her heart to see pictures of that old hag, Maria Anna del Campo, the general’s sour wife, plastered all over the social pages of the newspapers, with her Fernando. She imagined she could see the secret unhappiness in his eyes in every picture, the unhappiness he always told her about. But she knew that he was waiting, waiting for the right time to break the news to his sons and daughter that he would be leaving Maria. Until then, she would just have to be patient. This was what she told herself as she stood in the kitchen, slicing mango, adding it to two bowls of ice cream.

  “Fernando, come and eat.”

  “All right. I’m coming.”

  The general hauled himself out of bed. It wasn’t easy. He liked to kid himself that he was still young, still virile, and indeed Juliet had never complained about his skills as a lover, but it was getting harder. He pulled on some boxer shorts and shuffled out to the dining room.

  “Sit down at the table, darling.”

  The general obeyed. He was well used to obeying his wife, in any case. Women, he found, always gave the orders at home. Four decades of marriage had taught him it was best to play along. Even adultery had its price.

  Juliet Formosa placed the dessert in front of him. She knew it was his favourite. And she wanted him in the best possible mood. “Do you want a drink? I’ve chilled some wine. It’s Chilean. You know, the one you like.”

  “Juliet, you know I can’t drink tonight. If Maria smells wine on my breath how will she believe I have been at the barracks?”

  “Tell her you drank with the duty sergeant, or Captain Sollo. Tell her you were playing poker. Can’t you even have a glass of wine, Fernando?”

  “The duty sergeant drinks only American whiskey, it’s very unpatriotic. Captain Sollo drinks mostly blood. And if I were playing poker, I’d be at the club taking money from that limp-dicked old judge and his lawyer cronies. No, Juliet. You know Maria is already suspicious.”

  Despite her gentle nature, Juliet Formosa felt a sudden fury. “Then let her suspect. It’s just one glass of wine.”

  “Coffee, Juliet. It’s late. Just coffee.”

  Juliet Formosa poured a glass of wine for herself, then returned to the kitchen for the coffee pot. Something inside her stirred at that moment, after two years of clandestine meetings, two years of subsidised living in the luxury apartment like a prized pony in its stables. She decided she would say even more than she was planning to.

  “Thank you, my love,” said the general as he sipped his coffee.

  “You don’t love me any more.”

  “Oh, no,” said the general. “Not this again.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Little Cat, you know that’s not true. You know I love you. You are the woman I think about always. You know how unhappy I am when we cannot be together. When I have to endure that dragon they call my wife.”

  “Then tell her you are leaving her.”

  “You know I will. It’s just not time. I have to think of the family.”

  “They will understand.”

  The general was beginning to worry. Juliet’s requests were becoming more frequent. He didn’t want to lose her. She was a rare oasis of beauty in his ugly life, a breath of fresh air in a world of murder and corruption, a world in which he had lost count of the number of secret executions he had ordered. But he would never see any harm come to her. She was like a work of art, a thing to be treasured, to be protected. She was a naive angel in a world of devils. And he could not bear the thought of losing her. He delivered his impeccable reply as believably as only a professional liar can. “One day, they will understand, Juliet. But this is not that day.”

 
“If you loved me, you would tell her it is over between you.”

  “I will, Juliet. I will. Just not today. All right?”

  “Then do something to show you love me. Show me.”

  “But Little Cat, you know you may have anything you desire. The penthouse is in your name. It is yours. Not mine. Do you need money? Let me get you tickets to Florida. For you and your mother. Take a holiday.” The general ate his mango and ice cream as he spoke. It was good.

  “I don’t want your money, Fernando. A million dollars is nothing to you, I know. What does it mean if you throw me a few thousand dollars, even a million dollars? I miss you, Fernando. I want to take a holiday with you.”

  “Ah, Juliet. You know I can’t get away. Not this year.”

  “Then what can you do? Show me.”

  With a heavy sigh, the general pushed his half-finished dessert aside, stood up, and took Juliet to the sofa. He put a comforting hand on her cheek. “You tell me, my angel. Tell me what I can do for you.”

  “I’m tired of sneaking around like a mouse. I want people to know of our love. I want to appear with you in public.” Juliet Formosa picked up the newspaper from the huge mahogany coffee table and opened it to the social pages. For once, the general was not in it. “I look in this newspaper and I see you and her. For once, I want to look and see you and me. I want people to know us.”

  “I do too, my love,” the general lied. “But think of how my children would feel, my grandchildren, if they hear of us first in a newspaper?”

  “Then I want a token of your love. Something everyone can see.”

  “And you shall have it, Little Cat.”

  For a moment, Juliet Formosa felt a surge of joyous relief. Could he really mean it? Would he publicly declare his love, if only by a token? Then suspicion took over. He had broken many promises before. “Are you playing with me, Fernando? Because if you are playing with me, I shall not forgive you. You know my heart breaks just waiting to see you. You know how much I am filled with missing you, how hard it is to wait for you. Two years, Fernando. Two years. You must swear you are not playing. Do you mean it?”

  “Yes, Little Cat, I swear it. You shall have a public token of my love, and whenever you wear it, it will declare our bond. I promise you. You know how much I love you. I swear it. You shall have a token of my love.”

  Juliet Formosa threw herself at him. She hugged him tight, half with excitement and half with tears of relieved frustration. “Thank you, Fernando. I was afraid to ask. I was so afraid to ask, because if you said no, I had told myself that I must be strong and leave you. And I don’t want to lose you.”

  “My Little Cat, my Juliet, you must not be afraid. I can see how important it is to you. You didn’t really think I would let you down?”

  “No, no. Of course. I just worry. I just worry so much.”

  “Now, tell me what token you shall have.”

  Juliet Formosa nodded her head excitedly. “Yes, I have chosen one. Something that only you could get for me. Something that people will see and know that secretly you must love me, that I am yours.”

  “Of course, my dear.”

  “I saw it today, in this very newspaper.” She flipped the pages. “Here.”

  The general looked at the large headline. It read, ‘Angels in Rio.’ The accompanying photograph was of an exquisite diamond necklace, its dozens of small jewels strung in three delicately tiered arcs.

  “It’s from Paris,” said Juliet Formosa. “An antique, made in 1955. Do you see how beautiful it is, my love? Have you ever seen anything like it? You see these two central stones? The large ones? They are rubies. Every other stone is a diamond. I have seen no woman wear such a beautiful necklace in Recife. And who else but you could procure such a thing for his love?”

  This pleased the general. Juliet’s ignorance aside, there was in fact no shortage of new money in Recife. Any one of several local multi-millionaires, whether they made their money through graft or legitimate business, could afford to buy such a thing for their mistresses. It would not particularly incriminate him as an adulterer, that Juliet Formosa should suddenly appear in public wearing a few diamonds. “No one but I, my dear.”

  “And do you see what it is called? Les larmes des anges. Isn’t that beautiful? Isn’t it the perfect way to show our love?”

  “I’m sorry, Little Cat. The army had me learn English. It comes in handy dealing with the Americans. A lot of money to be made, you know. But I don’t speak French. You’re a smart girl. What is this name, then?”

  “Les larmes des anges. It means, The Tears of the Angels. You see these beautiful little diamonds, they shine like tears, and the rubies are the hearts of two angels. It’s all about love, Fernando. A divine reference to love.”

  “Well, my love. An angel like you deserves such a thing.”

  “You mean it, Fernando? You promise me I can wear it in public?”

  “Of course. It will be yours. I give you my word.”

  “And it will signify our love? It will be our secret message?”

  “It will declare our love to the world, Little Cat.”

  “Oh, Fernando, I knew I could ask this of you. I knew I shouldn’t have worried. I am so silly, sometimes. I am so silly to worry.”

  Seeing Juliet so happy and excited warmed the general’s heart, and rekindled his desire. Her tiny silk robe barely left anything to the imagination. Perhaps he could spare another few minutes, he thought, before he would have to return to his wife. He reached out and kissed her, roughly.

  Juliet Formosa pushed him back on the sofa, so firmly that it took him completely by surprise. Then she laughed, and kissed his chest.

  General Fernando del Campo knew he was a lucky man.

  Chapter 2

  Bob Richards sauntered lazily down the sidewalk. Walking fast was not a good idea. Tourists walked fast. Americans. Germans. Fat targets for the local muggers. Tourists who stopped curiously to look at everything, who spoke loudly in foreign languages, who wore wristwatches and hung expensive cameras around their stupid necks. Somewhere, behind a tree or down an alley, a thief would be watching, waiting for somebody stupid. Somebody who didn’t know the rules. Maybe somebody in a pair of Reeboks and a souvenir T-shirt, with a fat wallet full of US dollars. So Richards wore a short-sleeved, brown cotton shirt, with the shirt tails hanging out over his dark slacks. On his feet were a pair of leather moccasins, without socks. He wore no watch and carried only a spare wallet stuffed with worthless cruzeiros. Bob Richards knew he looked Brazilian. Hell, after four years in Recife he damn near was Brazilian. Still, he missed the States.

  Walking fast was also not a good idea on account of the weather. It was May, which meant fall, but Recife was only eight degrees south of the equator. It was always around thirty degrees Celsius and so humid you were constantly damp. Sweating had no effect. It was like living in a sauna. You walked slow, you talked slow, you thought slow. Richards had lived most of his life in New York City, where it was cold and fast. Nobody walked slow in Manhattan, not during business hours. Lately, Richards had come up with the idea that the hotter it got, the slower people lived. They just kind of slowed up and got more and more relaxed. Especially in the tropics.

  The Brazilians were so laid back you almost had to take their pulse to check they were still alive. Except when they were dancing. Richards often marvelled at the fact that although the country was in total chaos, he had never seen so many happy people in his life. Admittedly, they had gotten rid of the military government and were enjoying some kind of democracy at last, so maybe they were still celebrating over that. But it was already 1992 and the economy was still so bad that if it were a horse you would have to put it out of its misery. President Colorr was probably going to get impeached, state politicians were getting assassinated, inflation was running up to twenty percent a month, unemployment was raging like a fiery inferno, and crime was almost the national sport – after soccer. None of this stopped the locals from partying. Ric
hards sometimes thought the sky could fall down and no one in Brazil would notice. The samba music would go right on playing, the beer would go right on flowing, and nothing, but nothing, would stop Carnival. He had never seen such joie de vivre in his life.

  Richards stopped at an intersection and waited while a small Fiat raced by at sixty miles an hour, then he crossed the otherwise quiet street. He was heading towards the beach, walking through a fashionable suburb known as Good Voyage, Boa Viagem. Sensible people lived in the many towering apartment blocks, away from the dangers of the street, but some hardy souls had their houses surrounded by seven-foot concrete walls topped with broken glass, barred their windows, and tried their best to ignore the risk. These walls were everywhere. Still, crime here was different to New York. Mostly, the Recife muggers were just hungry. They needed money for food, not drugs. You gave them your money and they left you alone. They weren’t going to kill you just for the hell of it. Unless you tried to resist; then, of course, you were dead. Lately there had also been a disturbing number of kidnappings. Richards thought, on the whole, that things were probably getting worse.

  When friends back in the States asked him if he liked Brazil, he had to say that he did. More than like it, he loved it. And he hated it at the same time. He loved it for the people, the wonderful, friendly ordinary people, who partied while the proverbial boat was sinking because they couldn’t swim anyway. They were good people and he loved them. He hated it for the chaos, the pollution, the crime, and for the corruption at the top. But, as he often told himself, Brazil was no different to anywhere else. Every country had the same set of problems, only some had it better and some had it a whole lot worse. No matter where you lived, you did the best you could to make a living and to stay out of trouble. Bob Richards was a man very concerned with staying out of trouble.

  He reached the beach and turned north. It was another few blocks to the Golden Beach Hotel. Sometimes Richards couldn’t help wondering how the hell he had ended up in Brazil, and not just in Brazil but out here in the boondocks of Pernambuco, where the locals spoke with their nasal, hillbilly accents and were the laughing stock of the snobs down in São Paulo. But when the bottom fell out of the Dow Jones back in 1987, and Richards needed a place to run, it was no good going to Rio or São Paulo. He had clients there. Clients who had lost a whole lot of money because of his advice. And he doubted that even five years would have dulled their memories. Not that it was really his fault they lost their fortunes. But when four or five million dollars were involved, Richards found that people tended to prosecute first and ask questions later. Nowadays, memories of his glory days in Manhattan seemed like an improbable newspaper headline: ‘Minnesota Insurance Salesman Turns Stockbroker and Makes Fortune.’ The Financial Times actually did run a feature article about the meteoric rise of his small firm, how it catered successfully to the needs of foreign investors.