“How’s Flor?”
“She’s terrified. She said she wouldn’t stay here for another minute and went back to her house. She left here completely humiliated. And that’s how I feel too. The son of a bitch is humiliating us, Espinosa.”
“Try to calm down. Go to Flor’s apartment and see how she’s doing. I’m just getting out of the shower and have to go replace Maldonado. Kika’s the only one he hasn’t touched yet. I’ll talk to you again later.”
On his way to Catete, Espinosa thought about what had happened. The episode with Flor could mean a qualitative change in the threats, or even an end to the attacks. The fact that they hadn’t killed Flor was only a demonstration of power, a last warning to Vieira.
Or perhaps they really were playing, like an animal plays with his prey before devouring it.
“Espinosa, Kika’s saying that today is the day before Christmas Eve and she’s going to the Avenida Atlantica to sell her paintings, that she’s not going to be stopped by a maniac, and a bunch of other things.”
“Don’t worry; I’ll talk to her. If she can’t be talked out of it, I’ll go with her.”
They were having the conversation at the door, outside the apartment, before buzzing Kika’s doorbell. When she answered, Kika looked at Espinosa quizzically, guessing at what the two had been talking about outside and awaiting a decision.
“All right. I’ll go with you.”
Kika jumped toward him and gave him two kisses.
“This is the problem with having no rank,” said Maldonado. “The prize always goes to the boss. But remember that at Christmas the little ones get the presents.”
Kika leaned over to make up the difference in height and gave him two kisses.
It was ten to seven when Espinosa and Kika sat at the table in the living room, the same table where he, Maldonado, and Vieira had sat earlier that afternoon to plot their hotel search. He hadn’t rested for a minute all day. He couldn’t remember if he’d had lunch. Parts of the day seemed to belong to the day before. They both sat with their bodies bent over, whether from fatigue or worry they couldn’t say, and their arms stretched out across the table.
The apartment’s layout was curious. Two of the bedrooms bordered the living room. The double doors leading to them were two and a half meters tall, topped by half-moon-shaped panels of stained glass. The yellowish late-afternoon light filtered through the oblique, multicolored glass, a play of light and shadow that underscored the irregularities in the floorboards. If it hadn’t been for the noise of the street, they might have imagined themselves transported to another era.
Their hands on the table were a hair’s breath from each other’s. They’d been sitting there for some time; neither of them knew exactly how long. In the reflected light, the minuscule grains of dust on top of the table and the tiny golden hairs on Kika’s arms acquired a microscopic and magical intensity. The only movement in the room was their breathing, though Kika’s was more noticeable because it lifted her breasts beneath her sleeveless T-shirt. As the minutes passed, it became slower and the noise of the street seemed to recede to a distant murmur; their gazes locked. Espinosa’s thumb touched Kika’s little finger, as if by accident, and in the same movement his thumb ran up the finger to her nail, slid over the top, slipped up to the place where it met the next finger, and then passed over each finger meticulously until his thumb was on top of hers. Then their palms clasped. Time slowed down—a minute might have passed, or an hour. With their elbows resting on the table, their forearms lifted, hands still interlocked; their faces were less than a hand’s width apart. Espinosa felt Kika’s soft warm breath on his eyes, his cheeks, his lips. A sound, at first undefined, began to insinuate itself into Espinosa’s conscience just as he was overcome by her scent. The sound began to take shape, though it was still unclear, mixing with her breath, the smell of her hair and her skin; sound and scent fighting for preeminence in his mind. Their lips were on the verge of touching when the heels on the stairs joined the noise of the key in the lock. The door opened. It was one of Kika’s roommates.
“Are you praying?”
“I can’t believe that your ex-wife or Magali were ever humiliated in the way I was. And to think you sent me to your apartment because I’d be safer there! Fuck it, I promise that I’d be safer walking the streets at night than in your apartment. Never since I’ve been on this earth has anybody done to me what that guy did, and inside the house of a police officer. Just think what would happen to me if I went to live there like you wanted—they’ll end up tearing my guts out.”
“You don’t need to talk like that. Don’t use dirty language: it’s ugly on a girl. And just to make sure you understand, that fucker also got into Espinosa’s house, left him tied up in the bathroom, and took his guns. So don’t think you’re the only victim or that he’s interested in ripping your guts out: if he wanted to do anything more than tie you up, he would have done it. Don’t start heaping blame on me, as if it were my fault.”
“It’s not? Weren’t you the one who lost your wallet? Weren’t you the one who decided to follow the drug dealer?”
“What the fuck, Magali, in my—”
“See? You’re already confusing my name.”
“Goddamn it, what the fuck is going on here? Are you taking this out on me? I need some time off. It happens to everyone.”
“Except with me. I’ve never gotten your name wrong. And I’m the one who needs some time off. Never in my life have I been tied up like that. I don’t want to experience it again, and from what I can understand, the guy can do anything he wants; nobody can get him.”
Vieira didn’t answer. He was pacing around Flor’s apartment with tired steps, even though he was confined to the short distance between the bed where they were sitting, the window, and the door. Ten paces were enough to cover the small triangle. Hands behind his back, head leaning on his chest, moving his lips as if reading to himself, Vieira paced back and forth.
“Cut it out, Vieira. You’re making me nervous.”
He walked around three more times without a word. On the fourth, as he was walking past the door, he left.
There were only two days until Christmas, and residents and tourists were out in force. Creeping traffic, jam-packed bars and restaurants, street vendors everywhere: even the most deeply buried urban fauna surfaced in the weeks of Christmas and New Year’s. When they came to the place where Kika usually displayed her work, the other vendors had to squeeze together to allow Kika her spot on the sidewalk.
Espinosa still hadn’t recovered entirely from the scene Kika’s friend had interrupted. He helped her set up her metal stand and hang the pictures. From the moment they’d left Catete and headed toward Copacabana, they hadn’t spoken more than they’d absolutely had to and had avoided each other’s eyes. He couldn’t ever remember seeing the sidewalks so busy. The attacker wouldn’t have the slightest trouble getting close to them, if that was what he wanted. Since all Espinosa’s attention was focused on Kika and her immediate surroundings, he himself was extremely vulnerable to attack. He didn’t want to think about the Magali case just then; he didn’t want to get distracted. He scanned the area, combing the crowds with his eyes, but he couldn’t shake the picture of Magali tied to the bed and of Clodoaldo in a drawer at the morgue. The same could happen to Kika. He moved so close to her that no one could come between them.
Under the circumstances, he was slightly reassured that the man hadn’t done more than tie Flor up. He’d already had his little fun that day; maybe he’d decide to take the weekend off. Espinosa feared that he was paying so much attention to the faces around him that he’d erase his mental image of the man’s face. He wanted to remember every detail of that face, the clipped way he spoke, the way he moved, the glint in his eye, even the way he clenched his jaw when he walked; he remembered it all as in a high-resolution photograph. But the night ended without any incidents. The only memorable event was the sale of one more painting, the smallest one Kika had
brought. The transaction left her bursting with happiness.
“After we store the rest of the stuff we’ll go celebrate,” Espinosa proposed. “This time nobody will interrupt us.”
Kika was glowing. The sale of two pictures this week would see her through not only Christmas but the following month as well. She didn’t look too concerned by the latest events, or at least didn’t seem to believe that she would be targeted as Espinosa and Flor had been. As for the people who had died, in her eyes it was as if they belonged to a different story.
After they’d stored the metal stand in the garage, they walked to the restaurant where they’d been sitting when Vieira was attacked. Even at that hour—it was after midnight—almost all of the tables were full, but they managed to get one right by the window, almost directly beside the one they’d had the last time. Seated facing each other, it seemed they’d taken up where the scene earlier that evening had left off. The most striking physical difference was that between the deep calm of the old house on the Rua do Catete and the chattering crowds of a beachside restaurant on a Friday night in December. There was no way to return to exactly where they’d been when Kika’s friend had walked in; the moment and the environment were too different.
“Are you still worried about me?”
“Yes, in both senses of the question.”
“What are those?”
“First, about your safety. I still think you’re running some risk, even if only because you’re the only one who hasn’t been attacked. This could mean two things: either our man’s decided not to bother you, or you’re the final card he has to play. And until I find out which one it is, I’m not going to leave you alone.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to run.”
The dinner passed peacefully; Vieira didn’t come running down the sidewalk, and the man didn’t put in any dramatic appearances. It was a quarter to two when Espinosa parked his car in front of the old house on the Rua do Catete. Since the next day was Saturday, he could leave the car parked right there.
“Do you really think you have to spend another night awake in the living room?”
“If I went home, I wouldn’t sleep anyway.”
They walked up the old staircase. Its countless creaks and groans provided a more than adequate warning against intruders—though it couldn’t tell the good from the bad.
The other two girls were already asleep in their rooms. Espinosa avoided the table. He turned on a little lamp on a side table in the corner, took off his coat, and sat on the sofa with his pistol at his side.
Espinosa awoke with the first light of day. Traffic was still light on the Rua do Catete. Only the little bars were open, serving buttered rolls to their regular clients. He waited another hour, hoping one of the girls would wake up, but they didn’t. He left, locking the door from the outside and sliding the key back under it. He was well aware that his night vigils were more to reassure them than to offer any real protection. The man surely wouldn’t try anything if he knew that Espinosa was inside the apartment. He was there for their peace of mind, not because the man couldn’t get in if he wanted to.
He reached home before eight, after a coffee in a bar in Catete. The first mothers and nannies were arriving in the square, pushing their strollers. Espinosa’s exhausted eyes couldn’t immediately identify the feminine figure walking in his direction.
“Good morning, Officer.”
“Flor, what are you doing here at this hour?”
“I waited for you yesterday until after midnight, and then I came back as soon as the sun came up.”
“What happened? Where’s Vieira?”
“I don’t know. He came to my apartment early yesterday evening, we got in a fight over the man who tied me up, Vieira left without saying anything, he didn’t go home, and he hasn’t shown up since then.”
Espinosa had just locked his car and was walking toward the lobby of his building. He’d slept three hours at most, often awakened by the noises of the old house. All he wanted to do now was take a shower and lie down for a couple of hours. Flor seemed to notice the fatigue behind Espinosa’s eyes.
“Can I come up? I’ve been waiting in this square for more than two hours, and I’m scared of being by myself in my apartment.”
“I need to rest. I haven’t slept all night.”
“I’ll be quiet, waiting. Don’t worry. I didn’t come hoping to seduce you, like the other day.”
“Flor, your power to seduce is independent of your intentions. But let’s go up. I can hardly get out a full sentence.”
“Just say the verb.”
“For now it’s sleep.”
They walked upstairs in silence. Flor went ahead of Espinosa, who, despite his exhaustion, still found the energy to admire the body moving in front of him. As she’d done the first time, she looked around the apartment as if inspecting a new conquest.
“You can stop being scared now. The man did what he wanted to do, which was to humiliate Vieira. He won’t try anything more on you.”
“Espinosa, even if there’s no reason to be scared, I’m still scared, and I’m the one who was humiliated. I was bound and gagged, with no idea what that guy was going to do to me. When he left, I didn’t know if he was going to come back to kill me. I sat there for hours with my mouth shut with duct tape, scared to death that I would cry or vomit and die of suffocation. Nothing you can say can convince me to stop being scared.”
“Sorry. Sit down and try to relax. If you want some coffee, the machine’s in the kitchen. I’m going to take a shower.”
Espinosa got into the shower and let the hot water run down his neck for a while; only when he felt his muscles relaxing a little did he turn the temperature down. He took longer than usual, not only to relax himself but to give Flor time to calm herself. On the way from the bathroom to the bedroom he found Flor buck naked, holding a condom in her hand.
“I found this on your bedside table, and since you’ve got to get dressed, I thought we’d start with this.”
There was no way back. He knew what would happen: she had worked to make it happen, and she couldn’t have chosen a better time. Espinosa, towel in hand, still drying off, was paralyzed by the vision of the willowy brown body: lush hair, narrow hips stretching in one line down to long legs and up to generous breasts. Flor removed the towel from his hands, then slid her body down Espinosa’s until she was on her knees, rubbing his dick across her cheeks, her mouth, her eyes, her hair, her nose, before putting on the condom. She stood back up, brushing her breasts along Espinosa’s chest, until they were once again face-to-face. They moved slowly, bodies pressed together, to the side of the bed. Sliding his hands along Flor’s thighs, he lifted her up and crossed her legs around his waist; the muscles in his legs trembled almost imperceptibly. Then he moved his body lightly until he found the spot he was looking for and slid into her smoothly. Only then, slowly, did they fall onto the bed.
He stared at his watch for a while, waiting for it to come into focus. It read ten-fifteen. He stretched his arm across to the other side, tapping the bed in search of Flor. It was empty. He called her name, but his voice came out hoarse and almost inaudible; he cleared his throat and tried again. The apartment was completely silent. He abruptly imagined that he was dreaming; he still felt the fatigue of the day before, the excess tension. The towel on the floor wasn’t enough evidence to make the scene completely believable. But it was difficult to deny the smell of Flor’s body on his own.
He’d slept for an hour, but deeply. Flor’s departure made him uneasy—it seemed at odds with the breathless exclamations of the morning—and he was uneasy about Vieira’s disappearance. He rose, legs and head still a little wobbly, and got back under the shower, which helped him sort out his thoughts. He drank his coffee and ate some toast; still in his underwear, he opened the living room blinds to see what the weather was like. That was when he noticed the answering machine. It had probably been blinking since the day before, as he hadn’t heard the phone
ring this morning. There were four messages, one from Flor and three from Vieira. Flor’s asked him to call her as soon as he got in. Vieira’s were charged with emotion. “Espinosa, I’m gonna get the son of a bitch. I feel awful; I’ve got to find the guy no matter what.” The two others were variations on the same theme. “I’m humiliated. I was kicked out, Flor attacked me because of what happened, and she’s right: the guy could have wiped his ass with my shirt.” The last one was the most worrisome: “I’ve got a way to find out who the guy is. I’ll give you news soon.”
Espinosa called Vieira’s apartment; no answer. He called Flor; no answer. He called the Thirteenth Precinct, where Vieira had gotten the name of the informant who’d indicated the hotels in Catete. Vieira had indeed stopped by there the night before, but they didn’t know if he’d left by himself or with someone, and they didn’t know where he’d been heading. At ten forty-five Maldonado called, wanting to know if Espinosa needed his help. Espinosa said he did and gave him some instructions. At noon on the dot Vieira called.
“Espinosa, thank God I’ve found you. Wait for me, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” His voice was nervous, and he sounded out of breath.
Espinosa sat speculating about what would have happened if Vieira had decided to stop by earlier that morning. He’d been spared that, but he couldn’t help wondering how the tryst would affect their future relationship. Flor would be sure to mention the episode to Vieira; he didn’t dismiss the possibility that she’d cooked up the whole thing just to be able to hold it against him later.
Vieira arrived visibly agitated and physically exhausted, unshaven, his clothes rumpled. The stairs had left him so winded that he couldn’t speak. Espinosa helped him to a chair, offering a glass of water and urging him to wait a minute before he started talking, but Vieira couldn’t contain himself. He gulped down the water his friend offered.
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