Lucena tried a more personal tack, but Bia was unreceptive. Alírio Vasconcelos kept his distance, wary of any contact with these men. Like theirs, his life had always revolved around money; but unlike them Alírio didn’t regard money as all-important.
As she listened to people drone on about “irreparable loss” and “irreplaceable people,” she suddenly noticed the man standing by the wall opposite her, carefully observing the scene: the policeman who had come to her house. She didn’t see him again during the ceremony.
When it was time to close the coffin, Bia approached it, studied her husband’s face for a while, then removed her wedding ring and placed it on his body. She did not cry or embrace or kiss the dead man. When the funeral was over, and the directors of the company came to pay their respects, she only said:
“Thank you. You’ve been so kind … and so efficient.”
In all her words and gestures there was a disconcerting ambiguity.
The only person who seemed genuinely sad was Rose, Ricardo’s secretary. Several times, she tried to approach Bia and twice even began to speak, but was interrupted by people anxious to give their condolences to the widow. By half past eleven, everything was over. Or so they thought.
7
Bia stayed home all afternoon, haphazardly putting away some of her husband’s things, more to get used to the idea of his death than to try to impose a new order. She had given the maid the day off; she didn’t want anyone around, especially someone who had seen so much of her married life. Right before noon, her father had called to check on her and ask if she wanted to have lunch with him. No, she didn’t. She’d rather stay home. Later, Rose called.
“Dona Bia?”
“Yes,” she said, recognizing the secretary’s voice. “How are you, Rose? Thanks for coming to the funeral.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Dona Bia … I mean, I wish I hadn’t had to … I mean, that he hadn’t died …”
“I know how fond of Ricardo you were,” said Bia, extricating Rose from her embarrassment.
“Dona Bia, I’ve got to talk to you. There are some things you should know.”
“Rose, Ricardo is dead. I don’t care what he did.”
“No, it’s not that,” Rose said quickly. “It’s about his death.”
“Yes?”
“I can’t talk from the office, not right now. I’d prefer it if we could meet,” Rose said.
“The police are investigating, Rose. There’s nothing we can do.”
“I think I might be able to help. That policeman was in the office yesterday afternoon and wanted to talk to me and said he’d come back tomorrow. But I’d like to talk to you first.”
Then, in a very low voice:
“Please, Dona Bia. I need to talk to you personally.”
“All right,” said Bia. “When?”
“Today. I can leave in a few minutes, catch a bus, and come right over.”
“Fine,” said Bia.
She put the phone down. It was a quarter to six. Rose had been to the apartment a few times with documents for Ricardo’s signature. She was young, pretty, cheerful—and extremely discreet about anything to do with the company or Ricardo Carvalho. It must be really important.
On the living room table, she spread out the illustrations she had brought from the studio for her new book. The final illustration was still only halfway done. She toyed around with it for a bit but couldn’t concentrate and kept checking the time. At eight, the doorbell rang. It was the doorman.
“Dona Bia, a gentleman asked me to give you this envelope.”
“Who was it?”
“He didn’t say, ma’am, but he insisted I give it to you right away.”
“Thank you, Waldir.”
As the doorman was leaving, she said, “I’m expecting a young woman named Rose. When she gets here, tell her to come straight up, please.”
She didn’t open the envelope; she knew who it was from. She was exhausted. Every muscle in her body was tense. Her neck and shoulders ached. It was a cool night, and she decided to relax with a hot shower. She told the doorman she’d be in the bathroom if anyone needed her. She turned on the shower and let the water fall on her back. She was still tense, but she felt a lot better. She put on a baggy T-shirt, got a beer from the fridge, and sat down on the living room sofa to read Júlio’s note.
This might have been a really nice moment, if it weren’t for what had just happened. When her husband was traveling or out at a business dinner, she often spent the evening alone in that comfortable room, reading, listening to music, thinking about her work, or just thinking. She lived in the penthouse of a modern building, the back of which looked out onto the Parque Lage. At night, the muffled roar of the traffic down below on Rua Jardim Botânico was overpowered by the croaking of the toads and frogs in the park. The apartment was comfortable and furnished impeccably. She had chosen everything: her husband knew what was expensive, but not what was good. She opened the note.
Bia,
I heard about your husband’s death a few hours ago. I’m so terribly sorry. I can’t bear to think of you suffering. Please call me if you need anything. I hope to see you soon.
With love,
Júlio
She was confused. She was definitely attracted to Júlio; she hadn’t felt so comfortable with a man in ages, and life with her husband had become difficult. She knew about Ricardo’s affairs, but she also knew how superficial he was. He didn’t have real friends, just a network; women were nothing more than a constant reminder of his power to seduce. She really doubted if, even once, he had ever genuinely liked anyone, including her. Júlio was a different story. He belonged to a different world, closer to her own. But Ricardo was barely in the grave, and his life was still as present as his death.
She reread the note. With every reading, the meaning grew fuzzier. Júlio’s words got mixed up with memories of Ricardo; images of both men merged. She woke up the next day on the sofa, with the lights still on and the note on the floor next to the beer can. Her body ached even more than the night before. Rose had never shown up.
Two days without working: why sit home waiting to calm down? She sipped her coffee, flipped through the newspaper, got ready, and left. It was Friday. A hesitant, silent rain was falling.
8
The Torres Vasconcelos Gallery’s solid reputation in the art world was mainly due to Elisio Sclar’s intelligence and sensitivity. It had an equally solid reputation with the banks, but that was because of the support of Alírio Vasconcelos’s company, Gráfica Vasconcelos, one of the largest manufacturers of diaries, calendars, and printed labels in the country.
The old two-story house in Leblon had been completely renovated to house the gallery. The walls on the first floor had been knocked down and the side windows blocked up to create one big exhibition room. Everything was white, except a row of black leather benches. At the back of the room, an open staircase with broad steps of peroba wood led to the second floor, where works of art not on display or waiting for auction were stored.
A driveway led to the building behind the house. The three-car garage was on the first floor and Bia’s studio was on the second. It had a picture window that looked out onto a huge mango tree in the garden behind the main house.
The studio was big enough for a drawing board and a large worktable cluttered with jars (brushes, spatulas, felt-tip pens, colored pencils). The only wall without windows or doors had bookshelves crammed with magazines and art books. Beneath the window that looked out onto the drive was a chest of drawers for storing paper. A three-seat sofa, comfortable enough to sleep on, completed the furnishings. In the back were two doors that opened onto a bathroom and small kitchen. The studio had its own phone, answering machine, and fax. You accessed the studio by stairs on the side of the building.
At the studio, Bia found only the night watchman and the caretaker. Her father stopped by every morning on his way to work, but neither he nor Elisio had arrived
yet. The red light on the answering machine was blinking. A message from Júlio, one from her publisher. Júlio had left the message before he heard about Ricardo’s death and made a discreet reference to her talk at the school.
Elísio and Alírio usually arrived around nine. Bia put the coffeepot on and tried to organize the papers and books she had used to get ready for her talk. The computer, containing two versions of the presentation, was gathering dust on the table. She wouldn’t let anyone clean the studio; the caretaker was allowed to deal with only the bathroom and the kitchen.
Elisio was the first to come in.
“It’s great to have you back,” he said happily, trying to assess Bia’s emotional state.
He was one of the few people who could tell how she was really feeling.
“Elisio! I guess you’re the first friendly face I’ve seen in the last forty-eight hours.”
As she said this, her father, who took longer to climb the stairs, came in, still out of breath.
“And what about me?”
Bia kissed her dad and then her almost-brother warmly.
“Coffee? I just made it.”
Outside, a tentative rain continued to drip; the mango tree was blooming, and the smell of coffee filled the studio. The atmosphere was perfect for a personal conversation, but they drank their coffee and talked about Bia’s work and the next auction. No one mentioned Ricardo.
When they had left, Bia called her publisher and then Teresa. Both calls took longer than she would have liked. She didn’t try to call Júlio; he’d probably be at the university. She dealt with a few more things and then called Planalto Minerações. Cláudio Lucena’s secretary answered.
“Dona Bia? How are you?”
“Fine, thanks, Carmem.”
“Did you want to speak to Mr. Lucena?”
“No, I wanted to speak to Rose; she was going to bring me some of Ricardo’s things.”
“Rose hasn’t come in today,” Carmem said. “When she left yesterday, she said something about going to see you. Maybe she thought she’d stop by today instead.”
“Thank you, Carmem.”
When Bia hung up, she felt a slight throb in her forehead and a little tremor in her hands. The tremor stopped at once, but the throbbing grew gradually worse. She took an aspirin with some more coffee and sat on the sofa for a few minutes. The rain was heavier now. She decided to try to work, but the next two hours were totally unproductive. She couldn’t stop thinking about Rose.
For lunch, she ordered a salad and some orange juice from an organic restaurant down the street. Maybe the headache was from not eating anything the night before and having had only coffee that morning. While she waited on the swivel chair at her drawing board she looked around, studying each object as if for the first time. She felt at ease in the studio; it was hers alone. Ricardo had been there only once, to see what it looked like, and had stayed only about fifteen minutes. He’d left no mark; there were no souvenirs, not even a photograph.
When her lunch arrived, she ate the salad mechanically, barely tasting it, although there might not have been much to taste. She brewed some more coffee and walked around the room with the cup in her hand, skirting the drawing board and the table, nudging a few objects, opening an art magazine that had come in the mail. Just when she was entirely absorbed by the mango tree’s green leaves—the phone rang. She wasn’t sure if she should let the machine get it or answer herself. She picked it up.
“Dona Bia?”
“Speaking.”
“Inspector Espinosa. How are you?”
“Fine, Inspector. What can I do for you?”
“I was hoping I could speak to you alone this afternoon. It won’t take long; I can be there in about forty minutes. Okay?”
“S … sure. I was about to leave, but I’ll wait.”
“Thank you. See you soon.”
The pulsing in her head, which had stopped, started again. She had never had anything to do with cops before and didn’t really like them. She took another aspirin with some more coffee and told the caretaker to bring the inspector to the studio as soon as he got there. There was no point in trying to work, so she lay down on the sofa, closed her eyes, and waited.
A few minutes later, the phone rang again, but she let the machine get it. It was Júlio, saying he couldn’t find her anywhere and would try calling her at home later. The call made her slightly more nervous; she went over to the window a few times. The rain had stopped.
Espinosa got there a little sooner than he’d said, a sign that he was in a hurry. A bad sign, she thought. From the window, she saw him walk slowly over to the studio. He didn’t seem to be in a rush now. He stood for a while at the top of the staircase, admiring the mango tree. Bia was waiting for him at the door.
“Do you like mangoes, Inspector? These are really delicious.”
“And from the amount of flowers, it looks like you’ll have a good crop.”
“I’ll send you some.”
“Thanks, but not to the station—policemen can’t always be trusted.”
The brief dialogue at the top of the stairs helped relieve the anxiety of waiting.
“Come on in, Inspector. Can I get you some coffee?”
“Sure, thanks. Not too much sugar, please. What a lovely studio.”
While he was drinking his coffee, Espinosa wandered around the room, studying everything in it: the make of the brushes, the boxes of pencils, every shelf. He wasn’t so much investigating as appreciating. Finally, he said, “The brushes and paints are magnificent, but I really love the colored pencils. Brings back childhood memories—not that my pencils were Caran d’Ache.”
“Do you know much about art, Inspector?”
“Not really … unless, like Thomas De Quincey, you consider murder one of the fine arts.” He added: “Have you read Thomas De Quincey?”
“I’m afraid not, Inspector. What did he write about?”
“About crime and his experiments with opium. He had a real passion for murder, though he himself was a very mild mannered Englishman who wouldn’t have hurt a fly. He wrote about murder; he didn’t practice it himself.”
“Is he your favorite author, Inspector?” she asked with a slightly ironic smile.
“He’s a fine writer,” Espinosa replied, “but not my favorite.”
“Any writers who don’t just write about opium and murder?”
“Oh, yes. I love American literature: Hemingway, Steinbeck, Faulkner, and especially Melville. ‘Bartleby the Scrivener’ is a masterpiece, and not a word about opium or murder,” he added with a smile.
Bia was disconcerted. She hadn’t decided if he was a dunce or uncharacteristically sharp. Just to be on the safe side, she decided to assume he was that rare bird, a cultivated policeman.
“But you didn’t come here to discuss literature and art, did you?”
“Unfortunately not,” he answered. “I’d much rather talk about your art than mine.”
While he spoke, his gaze kept skipping around the room.
“Have a seat, Inspector,” said Bia, indicating the sofa.
“Thanks.” He sat down. “What do you think of Lucena?” he asked suddenly.
“He’s a clone of my husband … my late husband. You just have to talk to him to know exactly how Ricardo was. Same gestures, same way of speaking, same clothes, same values—maybe even the same lovers. After a while, you couldn’t tell who was copying who.”
“I’ve already spoken to him, and to be honest, when he was talking about your ex-husband I thought he was actually describing himself. Can you imagine that he’d want to see his friend dead?”
“Certainly not, Inspector. Lucena wouldn’t shoot my husband for some psychological motive. Anyway, I thought it was a case of theft.”
“Maybe,” said Espinosa, examining some brushes bunched together in a wooden jar. “Your husband dealt with gold and diamonds, both highly explosive substances.”
“But not reason enough for Lucena to k
ill his best friend, Inspector.”
“How much does Rose know about his business?”
“A lot, I guess, but not everything. Even I don’t know everything.”
“Have you talked to her since your husband’s death?” The question sounded like a statement.
“I saw her for a second at the funeral.”
“But not since?”
“No. She called yesterday afternoon, wanting to come see me. She sounded upset and said she had something important to tell me. I thought she wanted to gossip about Ricardo’s affairs, but she said it wasn’t about that. She insisted on seeing me rather than talking on the phone.”
“When did she call?” asked Espinosa.
“Right before six. She said she’d come by my house after work.”
“Did she mention any document?”
“No. But why are you asking me this? I’m sure she’ll be glad to cooperate. She was very fond of Ricardo.”
Espinosa paused for a few seconds and then said in the same tone:
“Rose has disappeared. She didn’t go home last night and she didn’t show up for work this morning. No one has seen or heard from her since she left the office yesterday. Did anyone else know she was coming to your apartment?”
“No, I didn’t tell anyone about it, but she might have said something to someone at work. Maybe to Carmem, Mr. Lucena’s secretary: they’re friends and share an office. Rose lives with her mother. Did she go home or leave a note?”
“We just know that she never got to your apartment. I spoke to the doorman and he assured me that you had no female visitors yesterday evening.”
Rose had been gone for less than twenty-four hours. In normal circumstances, this would not be very worrisome. In the present situation, though, Espinosa was worried.
“If Ricardo was killed for his money, what connection can there be between that and Rose’s disappearance? You don’t think she’s been killed, too?” asked Bia, almost in a whisper.
“I don’t know. I hope not. Call me immediately if she gets in touch with you again.”
9
The Silence of the Rain Page 3