by Kahn, Denise
“How do you mean?”
“Let’s just say that his business wasn’t very common.”
“You mean he was a criminal?”
“Let me explain. Let us call him Mario. Mario and I grew up together in the slums of Rio. We had nothing. No money, no house, no parents. All we had was a big steel overturned dumpster of a box we called home. In the summer it was hotter than hell and we slept outside. It provided a roof when it rained, and thankfully the winters were not too bad. We were always hungry, but also cunning and intelligent, even as children.”
“Where did you meet this Mario?”
“I found him on the side of a dirt road, half dead, or so I thought at the time. I didn’t want to bother with him, having my own problems and all. But I couldn’t just leave him there, so I carried him to the box. I was about ten years old. He had been abandoned. His parents had too many children to feed. He was starving so I gave him some food and cared for him and in a few days, he came to. All the poor kid needed was some nourishment. After that we became brothers and looked out for each other.”
“Where did you get food?”
“Ah, that is where it all started!”
Carlos da Cunha, a millionaire many times over, a man who gave generously, even lavishly to charities, stole the food. There was no other way. He had to steal to survive. He had no money and no one wanted to hire a ten-year-old. Besides, children were supposed to be in school.
He and his new friend Mario were not the least interested in school, and why should they be? They were free. No one told them what to do. They were on a permanent vacation. They could do anything they wanted. They learned a lot in the streets as they lived their lives of leisure and misery. They learned all the dirty tricks, how to steal without being caught. They worked their trade of thievery at night, stealing from prominent people. The poor had nothing to offer anyway.
“We became very hardened,” Carlos said, glad of his son’s interest in learning about this part of his own father, a past that might have remained hidden forever. “One night we raided an Admiral’s house. We were older, much older now, but not so smart that night. The Admiral happened to be there. He caught us. But he gave us a choice. Turn us in to the police or draft us into his Navy. That was the best thing that ever happened to me. But Mario, poor Mario, he hated it from the start.”
In the Navy, the boys were given food, clothing, and an opportunity to get an education. Carlos came to respect the Admiral, who became like a father and taught Carlos a great deal, not only about the Navy, but also about life. Carlos studied fiercely, for two reasons. He wanted to succeed in the rich man’s world. He wanted to be very rich and very powerful. He swore that he would never go hungry again. He also wanted the Admiral to be proud of him. He felt the man deserved as much in return. Carlos believed that if he succeeded, he would have repaid him in some small way for setting him straight.
Mario had the same dreams Carlos had about money and power but he decided to do it another way, the easy way, or so he said. He hated taking orders from anyone. He hated his studies. He managed to learn to read. He decided that was all he needed and when the first opportunity came, he jumped overboard and every one thought that he had drowned.
Carlos was shattered. He had lost his friend and family, but he was wrong. Mario left him a note inside one of his books, saying that he would contact him when he finished school. It seemed that nothing could stop Mario. He was as lucky as he was stubborn and his ambition was even stronger.
“The day I graduated from the University in Rio, I noticed a man with a heavy beard in the audience. When the president handed me my diploma, I looked up and the man was smiling.”
“Mario?”
“Yes, even with his beard, I could not mistake him. He stood out in the crowd. He wore an expensive suit. He was already well off. I waited for the ceremony to end and looked for him, but he was gone. Then suddenly a small boy handed me a note. It was from Mario. He wanted to meet me. I went to the address he wrote on the note. It was one of the worst sections of town, very rough and dangerous, and as hardened and tough as I was through my younger years and in the Navy, I was frightened, let me tell you! I entered a filthy, smelly dark basement. A voice called my name and a man came out and searched me, for what I presumed were weapons. I had none. He told me to enter through a door he opened for me. To my amazement, I saw the most lavish and beautiful apartment I had ever seen in my life. Nothing was missing. Televisions, stereos, leather chairs, a huge carved wooden desk. Mario was sitting behind it. It had been seven years since we had seen each other, but not a moment forgotten."
Mario had succeeded, as he said he would. He was rich and powerful but he had chosen the other side of the law. He had to stay under cover most of the time. He had become Rio’s so-called Godfather. No one moved without his knowledge, not a deal, not a transaction. He controlled the city and had quite a few policemen in his back pocket.
Mario and Carlos stayed together for a few hours. When Carlos stood to leave, Mario handed him a large envelope. He told Carlos not to open it until he was safely out of the district. Once Carlos opened it, he found a smaller envelope inside with a message written on it. It said: “I’m proud of you. You are like a brother to me. You saved my life and I will never forget that. I know you want to continue your studies in America. I want you to accept this little gift, for that is what this is, a gift, nothing more. I suggest you use half of it for your studies, and save the other half to start your business when you are ready. Think of my gift as my contribution to what will be future good deeds, for that is in your character and you will be generous with your new skills. Brazil will one day be proud of you.”
In the smaller envelope was fifty thousand dollars. Carlos knew the money was dirty. But he decided that he would respect Mario’s wishes and use the money in the manner he had suggested.
“Did you see him again?” Zeferino asked.
“Once. After your mother died. Actually, he found me, in a gutter, drunk and lost, void of all lust for life. I hated everything and everyone, doctors especially. They couldn’t save your mother. Most of all, I hated myself. But Mario told me off, yelled at me for the first time and told me to pay more attention to my son.” The older man turned to Zeferino with tears in his eyes. “Forgive me, Filho, but since then, I have lived only for you. You have been my life and you have made me proud. You have done your father a great honor by the way you turned out. I regret that I was not as affectionate as I should have been, but deep in my heart, no father ever loved his son more than I.”
The two men embraced again and wept in each other’s arms.
“But what about you,” Carlos said. “I have the feeling that I know why you came here.”
“Am I that transparent, Pai?”
“No, but your pain is visible. I sincerely wish that I somehow could change the terrible thing that happened, but what I see in your eyes is something else. You really loved her, didn’t you?”
“Very much. She loved me for myself. She had no idea that I had money. And I know no one can bring her back but…”
“I would gladly give my life for hers, but I am not God.”
“But what I want is revenge.”
“Yes, I can see that, in your eyes. Revenge is never good, and it usually backfires.”
“I know you’re probably right, but this man is sick, he’s crazy. He’ll surely kill again. He’s got to be stopped.”
“Yes, of course, but not by you, by professionals.”
“The police have tried. They can’t catch him.”
Their conversation came to this end with the call to board their flight to Brasilia. Once home, Zeferino detailed for his father the sundry affairs of Simon Grady and the hopeful but ultimately futile attempts on the part of U.S. law enforcement to catch him.
Carlos thought carefully of all his son had shared, and after Zeferino had gone to sleep, he dialed a number that he had never dialed before, but one that he had kept with his mo
st cherished belongings for many years.
“Yes,” a voice answered.
“Carlos speaking…”
Zeferino awoke to the sounds of tropical birds singing by his window. He took a quick shower, dressed casually in jeans and joined his father in the living room. Another man was with him.
“Bom dia, Zeferino.”
“Bom dia, Pai.”
“Did you sleep well, my son?”
“Yes, actually I did.”
The older da Cunha spoke to the other man. “I would like you to meet my son Zeferino.”
They shook hands.
“I’m sorry but I did not catch your name,” Zeferino said.
“That is because I did not mention it,” his father said.
“Shall we just say that I am like an uncle,” the man said. “I have known you since you were born and have followed your progress through the years.”
“It is strange that I have never met you before because I seem to recall seeing you somewhere,” Zeferino said. “I never forget a face.”
The man had a high forehead and a thick moustache that fell to the corners of his mouth. When he smiled, it was with the slightest of facial movement.
“Your father has done well,” the stranger said. “He should be proud.”
“I am,” his father said.
“I do remember you from somewhere,” Zeferino said smiling. “It will come to me… My first communion. You were in the church.”
“I’m impressed,” the stranger said. A corner of his mouth edged slightly upward.
“My son, although you remember my friend, you never really met him, so you now have been introduced to this person I consider my only other relative. This is Mario.”
“The Mario?”
Carlos nodded.
“I am honored,” Zeferino said.
“I have wanted to meet you for a long time. It is unfortunate that it has to be under such circumstances.”
“Yes, Mario knows,” Carlos said, answering his son’s questioning look. “I told him. I believe Mario has the means to help you.”
“I’m very grateful, sir,” Zeferino said.
“Call me uncle but never sir. Agreed?”
“Alright, Uncle Mario.”
“Good,” Mario said, cracking a knuckle. “Good.”
♫
MIAMI
CHAPTER 41
On the third day of Alejandro’s stay at the Miami Burn Center, Melina and Eleni left for Athens. They would make a special pilgrimage to light a candle in Tinos, a church known for its miracles by all Greeks. Davina was still deeply depressed and hardly talking, which was most distressing, but she was eating more. In any case, she would not be alone. Jacques and Monique were still living at the villa, and of course the police continued to guard the house around the clock.
Miami detectives and the FBI were battling the twin challenges of trying to find Simon Grady and trying to satisfy the insatiable curiosity of the international press without giving too much away and without looking ineffectual. In fact, there wasn’t much information to give. Nobody knew where Grady was. B.A. went back to work the streets but it was quiet. Grady, wherever he was, was alone. Sergeant Ernesto Martinez was following up on a hunch. It required a great deal of patience and finesse. The Spanish consul to Cuba, Alejandro del Valle, had complicated things because Martinez had broken a confidence, which was a serious breach. It wasn’t that he did not trust Jacques Lafitte. He trusted him alright, but he knew about secrets. They were bought and sold and bargained for every day in the streets by the police and the keepers of secrets. He knew that the older a secret was, the less its chances of remaining a secret.
True to their word, Jacques and Monique kept the secret of Alejandro’s rescue. They had no intention of breaking their promise, at least not until they saw Alejandro. He was half his original weight. His arms, legs, feet, and buttocks were wrapped in thick bandages. He was lying on his stomach on a special bed with pulleys that held out his limbs. Intravenous needles carried mixtures of fluids and medicines into his body.
He had begun to undergo skin grafting, primarily for his legs and hands, where the most severe damage was. His burning wounds were caused not from any flames but from the time he spent at sea on the raft. His face, perhaps because of the beard, was not affected but it showed his pain.
Jacques and Monique felt almost guilty being there secretly with Alejandro. Damn the Spanish Embassy, damn the Ambassador, to hell with them all! They had no right, nobody did, to keep a man’s existence a secret, especially not this tortured man. It was criminal not to tell Davina. She had to be told. She must know.
Jacques and Monique, wearing white smocks over their street clothes, were accompanied by one of the physicians. The doctor pushed a foot lever and Alejandro’s bed rose hydraulically with only the slightest vibration. Any other movement would have made him scream with the pain, despite the medication given to him.
“Alejandro,” the doctor said gently, “how are you feeling today?”
There was no answer.
“I know you’re feeling pretty lousy. I know it hurts. Two of your friends are here with me.”
Jacques reached over and lightly touched his shoulder. “Alejandro, it’s so good to see you,” he said, his eyes welling up. “We’ve missed you so much. Please talk to me, if you can. We’ve been so worried about you.”
The room was eerily silent, but then ever so slowly, tears began to stream down Alejandro’s cheeks. Jacques thought his heart would explode. He reached for his friend’s face and put his cheek next to the other man’s.
Monique kissed his other cheek. She put her hand on the now shaven face and gave him a radiant smile. “Hello, handsome,” she said. “Come on, smile. If you don’t, Jacques will faint like a lily right on this floor.”
Alejandro managed a smile, and then he cried some more.
“We should let him rest,” the doctor said, standing to leave. But neither Jacques nor Monique wanted to leave. They had just arrived!
“Alejandro, the doctor wants us to leave,” Jacques said evenly. “We don’t want to. Do you want us to leave?”
Alejandro finally spoke, although with difficulty. “Nnnooo.”
“You see, doctor,” Jacques said, jubilant, “he wants us to stay. Right, Alejandro?”
“Yesss,” Alejandro answered.
“Very well,” the doctor said, excusing himself.
Alejandro kept talking. “Da…vi…na,” he said. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what, Alejandro?”
“Don’t…tell…her.”
“Don’t tell her? Don’t tell her what?”
“Don’t tell… her… I’m alive.”
“But why not?” Jacques asked.
“No, no… please.”
“Alejandro, Davina is going through hell,” Monique said. “The doctors have given her medication for her depression. What she really needs is you, Alejandro. Just knowing you’re alive would help her.”
“No. No, not… yet.”
The doctor came back into the room and forced Jacques and Monique to leave their best man. “He is very weak,” the doctor said. “He needs to sleep and get his strength back.”
They kissed their friend goodbye.
“We’ll be back,” Monique said, “please reconsider your decision, Alejandro. Please think about it.”
“I will.”
♫
CHAPTER 42
Davina could not walk anywhere in the villa without memories of Alejandro. Each trinket, every chair, every cushion reminded her of him. They had bought the house when Alejandro was transferred to Havana, and they had furnished it together. It was their home, their niche, their nest, where they had loved each other. Her favorite photograph on the baby grand in the living room was of Alejandro and her father in their gray tails at Jacques and Monique’s wedding. They stared back at her with their blue eyes, her father’s a shade gray, Alejandro’s more violet. She slid her fingers across the gla
ss and gently caressed the faces of the men she adored. And lost.
She opened the piano and stared at the black and white teeth smiling at her. Touch us! They pleaded. Make us sing! Davina caressed the keys. This was the first time she heard music since the Orange Bowl concert. She had refused to listen to the radio or play any music otherwise, but now she listened reflectively to the tone of a key and touched several other keys until she was playing a melody, one she had never before heard. It was a tender, melancholic music.
She went back over the same melody and added new tones. It was a song, she realized, and then she began to write down the notes. She had been at the piano for almost three hours when Monique and Jacques came in.
Seeing Davina at the piano made Monique remember the many times they had spent together composing, writing, and singing. She and Jacques were respectfully quiet, not wanting to disturb Davina. They watched her long graceful fingers masterfully dance on the keys. They did not break the silence until they left the living room.
“C’est magnifique,” Jacques whispered to Monique.
“I agree. One of her best pieces.”
It was superb. It could be, could very well be a hit single, Jacques thought. The melody was about Alejandro, about Davina’s pain for him. That was clear. How they longed to tell her! He’s alive! They both ached with the agony of having this secret, a secret that would not be bought or sold or bargained over. It took their appetites. Monique said she could not go back into the living room because if she did, she was not at all sure she could keep Alejandro’s secret.
Davina continued playing into the night, working on that single composition. She was lost in it, hypnotized by this tender music. It described the man she loved, slow and gentle at first, like the beginning of their relationship, then powerful and vibrant like their love, and finally explosive, and then melancholic. He was there with her, sitting next to her on the bench with his arm around her shoulders, as she played their song. Yes, it was their song. She returned his smile, and when she finished playing the melody, he picked her up in his arms and whirled her around the room. They were so happy!