6
As we were leaving the Forensic Institute, I told Welber I suspected it was Max’s body. Size, sex, color, and body type. As for the severed hands, someone who could cut off an old lady’s fingers with meat shears was perfectly capable of feeding Max’s hands through a meat grinder and giving them to the first stray dog they came across. We decided not to discuss our suspicions with anyone else. We walked to the car in silence.
“Welber, we have to find the secretary. Something tells me she’s the missing link in this whole scheme. Although ‘scheme’ is maybe a strong word; what we’ve got is nothing more than confusion. We have to find Rose to see if we can make the leap from confusion to a scheme. Even if for no other reason than that there are enough corpses to stand in a little line in our conscience.”
“Inspector, we don’t even know if she knows about her mother’s death. The only report of it was published on a page deep inside a paper she probably doesn’t read. Besides, we don’t know whether she’s still in Rio or went to another state. All we know is that if she went anywhere she didn’t fly, unless she used a fake ID, which wouldn’t say much except that she didn’t want to be found. Trying to find someone in the bus station who might have seen her is practically impossible. A hundred thousand people come through there every day, and it’s already been two weeks since she vanished. All we can guess is that if she left Rio, she certainly didn’t know about her mother’s death.”
“So we’ll make sure she finds out.”
“How?”
“Even though it’s been five days, I think if we provide the ingredients for a sensationalist story, there’s a chance Dona Maura’s murder could make it onto the national news.”
Welber was driving. He slowed down.
“It’s pretty damn cruel … finding out about your mother’s death like that…. They’ll talk about the torture …”
“I know it’s cruel, but there’s no other way. If she’s alive, chances are she’ll be the next victim. We have to find her before the murderer does, or make her come find us.”
The rest of the afternoon and the next morning were used to plant the story. The fingers were the passport to the national networks and newspapers in other states, eager for juicy stories about violence in Rio de Janeiro. We hadn’t expected that the news would acquire such exaggerated dimensions, though. Before the end of the week, one network had brought together a round table of psychologists, psychoanalysts, and psychiatrists to talk about perversion, psychopathy, and psychosis, trying to formulate a psychological portrait of the mutilating monster. But if the message was practically guaranteed to get to the addressee, it didn’t win us any friends at the station. The chief almost cut off our fingers.
The weekend would be dedicated to waiting. At the end of Friday, I called Bia and Alba to see if anyone had bothered them. There was a clear difference in the way they responded. Bia, without saying anything explicitly, made it clear that I was a policeman. She was nice, but even in her friendliest moments she insisted on calling me “Officer.” I decided it was almost impossible for us to get closer one day, not because she was rich but because I was a cop. For some people, any barrier can be ignored—racial, religious, economic—but a cop is a cop. And I think they’re right.
Alba’s reaction was much different. From the outset she had abandoned the ceremonial phrases, while also eliminating the physical distance. When we were walking down the street the night we were shot at, she had taken my arm with both hands—this even before we were attacked. Bia and I had never touched, except for the handshake when we’d met. Bia made me feel like a foreigner. Alba made me feel like a friend.
The first call had been to Bia. She wasn’t home, so I called her studio. The phone rang before the machine answered. I said my name, and before I could finish the message, she picked up.
“Inspector Espinosa, so good to hear your voice.”
I wasn’t convinced of the truthfulness behind those words.
“How are you, Dona Bia? Have they left you alone for the last three days?”
“Fortunately, Officer. I think the stalker’s given up.”
“In any case, keep doing what we talked about. Try not to go out alone. If you have to, avoid deserted places, never go out without your phone, and, if you suspect anything, call me.”
“Don’t worry, Inspector, I understand. Thank you for your concern.”
I don’t know why, when she hung up, I found myself thinking about the movie sex, lies and videotape.
Next I called Júlio. Same thing. Polite, formal, nice: “No, Inspector, no one’s bothered me. Thanks for your concern.”
Damn, they were meant for each other.
I called Alba at the gym. I got transferred a few times before she picked up.
“Hey, Espinosa, you must have thought I’m really dangerous. After all, the first time we went out together they shot at you!”
Surely a different kind of reception.
“How’s it going, Alba? I’m just calling to see if they’re leaving you alone.”
“Espinosa, do you think I work out all day so they’ll leave me alone? The day that happens it’ll be ‘cause I’m dead.”
“I’m not talking about that kind of stalking,” I said, trying not to smile.
“Oh, no. I think you sent him running. Speaking of running, you don’t want to run a little here at the gym? Not that you need to—you’re real trim—but the other day when you walked up the stairs you were out of breath. That’s from not exercising.”
Was she slightly mocking me or was that just my impression?
“Alba, just looking at those guys took my breath away.”
“Espinosa, the girls took your breath away. Our receptionist is still waiting for someone else to look at her the way you did.”
“Touché.”
“Huh?”
“You’re absolutely right. Can I see you home again today? If I leave here now, I can be there by seven-thirty,”
“Okay, I need to leave around eight. But there’s just one thing …”
Perhaps Júlio was going to be there too.
“What is it?” I asked.
“At seven-thirty, Adriane will already be gone.”
“Adriane? Who’s Adriane?”
“The receptionist!” she said laughing.
“But you’ll still be there, that’s the important thing.”
I hung up, surprised at myself. Friday night had begun.
We weren’t meeting professionally; that was clear, but it also wasn’t clearly a date. It was hampered by the previous dates, which had been strictly professional, although the last one had ended with an unambiguously affectionate tone. My juvenile fantasies had always included finding myself with a woman in a dangerous situation: I heroically protect her with my own body, and from that closeness bursts forth a devastating passion. The danger was quickly and efficiently mastered, and we had a green light to love. The scene with Alba reproduced the fantasy perfectly—except for the devastating passion. Perhaps, given my congenital incompetence for romance, I’d let the moment pass. I wasn’t sure, but as far as I could tell, all signs seemed to point to a second chance.
The truth was that at a certain time in my life I realized I no longer spoke the language of dating. When I was a kid, at parties, just dancing with a girl or squeezing her hand when taking it were unmistakable signs of flirtation. If a woman stared at me a millisecond longer than normal, it was obvious that I could try more; if an introductory handshake lasted that same extra fraction of a second, it meant there was a possibility; a wink of the eye could mean the start of a love affair. We were minimalists without realizing it. Now when a woman like Alba grabbed my arm with both hands as we walked; when, on the sofa, she asked if I was going to leave her all by herself but in the same breath referred to Júlio as her boyfriend, I didn’t have any idea what was going on. I had lost my old dictionary and hadn’t yet found a new one. The effects of marriage.
I got there at a quarte
r to eight. I went right to the staircase behind the weight room. Alba saw me arrive, came down, and we met halfway, on the second floor. She was happy, smiling, and fragrant. The last item especially perturbed me. We kissed on the cheek and went down, she one step behind me, both hands on my shoulders. She was dressed all in black: her shoes, socks, shorts, and long-sleeved shirt; on her back she wore a leather mini-backpack. The color in her face compensated for the lack of color in her clothes. When we were already on the sidewalk, she asked if I’d brought my car.
“I did, but if you want we can walk.” She looked at me curiously, so I added, “Don’t worry, there won’t be another shootout.”
And we started to walk along the path we’d taken the first time. Once again, she held on to my arm with both hands. Impossible to avoid rubbing bodies.
More out of habit than necessity, as if I were lost, I looked around. A quick glance seemed to indicate we were safe. Nevertheless, at the first corner, instead of going down the same street, we turned right and went to Rua Visconde de Pirajá. The pedestrian and automotive traffic was intense. The temperature was pleasant, most of the shops were still open, and the sky was partly cloudy without threatening rain. We talked like lovers who, for whatever reason, had gone different ways and were just now running into each other. We celebrated the reunion back at the apartment, ordering a gigantic pizza and opening a bottle of wine.
We realized how intense and extensive the reunion had been the next day, our bodies wrapped up together, sheets knotted; light entered through the blinds we hadn’t found time to close. My mouth, parched from all the wine, woke me begging for water. The kitchen clock read seven-fifteen. I turned on the coffeemaker. Alba, completely nude, came up behind me and kissed my back. She got a carton of orange juice out of the fridge. We took the coffee and the orange juice to bed. When we got up again it was past noon. Body and soul were smiling.
The Purloined Letter
1
Saturday, one in the afternoon. After calling Welber from Alba’s apartment, I retraced my steps from last night back to my car. I was still parked in front of the gym. On the way home, I tried to piece together some of the facts I’d gleaned from Welber. The preliminary examination of the cadaver seemed to confirm my suspicions: the body found in the Baixada Fluminense conformed with the description we’d provided, from memory, of Max. Before being burned, he’d been shot in the head, between the eyes. Professional. I had the feeling we were getting further and further from Ricardo Carvalho, the starting point of the investigation. His murder was losing focus in a foggy succession of events, every one of which, in its turn, seemed to give way to another. Not that the deaths we already knew about didn’t seem real: far from it. I was nervous; the center, which had been Ricardo Carvalho’s death, no longer held. I felt as if we didn’t have a center—rather, we didn’t have a set of facts with Ricardo Carvalho’s death at the center. I was more inclined to think in terms of several different universes, not a single course of events with a moving center. But these considerations were only truly helpful in disguising the one thing I knew for sure: I was lost; my compass was broken.
Some people, when they get home, are welcomed by their wife, their kids, or by a happy dog wagging his tail. I’m greeted by the answering machine. I’m almost positive that it senses my arrival, hears my footsteps on the stairs, recognizes the noise of the keys, and, since it doesn’t have a tail to wag, starts blinking frenetically. And judging by how it was blinking that Saturday afternoon, it seemed like the world had finally discovered me.
Of all the calls, one stood out: a woman’s voice I did not recognize who cut off the message before she finished the first sentence or identified herself. There was also a message from Max’s sister. After I took a shower, shaved, and made some coffee, I called her. “Some woman called here really early this morning and asked for Max. She got scared when I started to ask if she knew anything about him. She said she had some information about Max. I explained to her that he’d disappeared and that the police were working on it. She asked who was dealing with the case and I gave her your number.” Max’s sister hadn’t recognized the woman’s voice. Since the woman had my number and I didn’t have hers, all I could do was wait.
Yet another Saturday afternoon: books to arrange, little things to deal with in the apartment, promises to organize the unorganizable. There was a difference now, though: the night before. My awkwardness beside Alba’s spontaneity was almost scandalous. While I was always looking for guidelines, Alba simply let herself be. Pure and simple: she let herself be. In bed, she didn’t try to be the best lover in the world; in conversation, she didn’t try to be smarter or more persuasive; walking around the apartment naked, she didn’t try to show off her (beautiful) body, just as she didn’t breathe to show that she was alive. Alba was, spontaneously. I was, artificially. Bia was, affectedly. I didn’t know if that cleared anything up, but at the very least it underscored the differences. And differences made a difference. If Bia came to my apartment, I was sure I’d waste part of the time trying to explain myself. I kept the furniture because it belonged to my parents; the books were piled up because I hadn’t had time to have someone build shelves; I hadn’t changed the carpet because I hadn’t decided if I would get new furniture. If Alba was there, I’d feel the same embarrassment, but wouldn’t feel the need to justify myself.
Seated in the living room, with the door to the balcony wide open, I found my gaze wandering from my foot, which was stretched out on the coffee table, to the building across the way, to a distant hill. Neither my foot nor the hill held any special interest.
I pored over the details of the night before: phrases, stray words, her body, parts of her body, smells, textures, movements, breaths, sweat, gazes, sounds, forms, intensities. What made Alba so accessible while Bia was still out of reach? Was Alba a member of an inferior female subspecies for whom cops weren’t considered a problem? Perhaps it could be put this way: cops could be romantically involved only with low-class women. They were an inferior race of males, and the lower classes associated with one another. It wasn’t so much a class struggle as a class agreement.
I couldn’t deny a certain curiosity about Júlio Azevedo. What made him superior? Granted, he was good-looking, had a nice voice, was an architect and a professor and had an answering machine that responded in three languages. Curiosity was a kind of attraction. And yet I didn’t like him. Frightened, hesitant, romantically ambivalent, professionally ambiguous, a careless seducer … the picture was strangely familiar … but curiosity gave way to indignation, even though I wasn’t sure what I was indignant about. It could have been Júlio or it could have been me. I was getting confused. Unbelievable how much I could manage to confuse myself.
Whenever I was by myself at home on weekends—which was almost always—I would set into motion my plan for total organization. The apartment should be as nice as if I were expecting some important guest. The plan didn’t entail just surface cleanliness but also my books, CDs, and everything else. Secretly, I believed that once my stuff was arranged, romance would automatically fall into place as well. Because of the scale of the project, however, I needed to decide where to begin. I could start with the books (as I’d already tried) or with personal stuff, clothes, or furniture, with the appliances awaiting repair or with the furniture awaiting the upholsterer. Such tough choices, particularly because of the lack of a clear domestic hierarchy. I would wander from the living room to the bedroom, from the bedroom to the kitchen to the bathroom, and back to the living room. Almost always, time would get away from me and I would surprise myself by plopping down on the couch to read a book I’d come across in the course of my meandering. That’s exactly what I realized had happened that afternoon, when I was awakened by the phone.
“Inspector Espinosa?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Rose—”
2
Júlio called on Sunday around noon. Bia called in the middle of the afternoon. Both wan
ted to meet, but preferred to do it somewhere besides the station. When I suggested arranging it that night, rather than waiting for Monday, both seemed relieved. We agreed to meet at one of those bars on Avenida Atlântica with sidewalk tables that seem to attract more tourists than locals. Except for the siege of shoeshine boys, puppet sellers, artists offering to draw a portrait of the lovely lady, flower vendors, and lottery-ticket salesmen, it was an ideal place for a private conversation.
I got there first, just before Bia and Júlio arrived in separate cars. They’d obviously coordinated the calls and the meeting, which didn’t affect the meeting but did suggest they were still seeing each other. Bia was dressed in the most discreet way possible and looked lovely. The more she tried to hide herself, the more she shone. Júlio merely confirmed my impression that he physically resembled me; I hoped that was all we had in common. I’d chosen a central table to put some distance between us and the street vendors. It was enchanting to watch Bia sinuously weaving herself through the other tables to get to me. The conversation was a little all over the place until the waiter brought the beers and. French fries. As soon as he left, Júlio and Bia simultaneously brought up the reason for the meeting.
“We’re being threatened,” they said, and, because I didn’t look surprised, added, “by the police.”
The Silence of the Rain Page 15