We took a cab back, in silence, Greg with a smile trapped on his lips, squirming as he did on the earlier trip. His yawns didn’t convince me. I left them at the door of the Windsor Barra, Ellie and I reviewed the itinerary for the next morning, and Greg went through the automatic door without waiting for her. It was the last time I saw him.
I found out that he had disappeared the next morning when I answered the third or fourth call on my phone. It was ten thirty and I had ridiculously lost track of time. To be expected, since I had gotten to my hotel, the Mengo Palace, at almost three a.m. after crossing the city in a ride that cost over a hundred reais, which I had to pay out of my own pocket. I entered the mirrored lobby, with its slight smell of must, and realized I had left my backpack at the home of the platinum-blonde. I got under the poor electric shower, lay down on the bed with my underwear inside out. The air conditioner rattled like a jalopy, someone laughed loudly all night, and the sound of buses cutting across the Aterro seemed to materialize itself directly over my bed.
It was Ellie on the phone, and from what little I understood she was saying that Greg hadn’t come down for breakfast, wasn’t answering calls, hadn’t gone to the gym or left for a run on the beach. The manager had just opened the door to his room, and Greg’s bed hadn’t been slept in.
On the way to Barra I called Natsume.
“Greg has disappeared.”
“Did he sell a lot of books at the talk?”
“You don’t understand. Greg has disappeared.”
“Rose asked for five autographed copies, for us to promote on radio.”
“You don’t understand.”
I was escorted into the Windsor Barra, through the lobby to a sliding door in the rear that opened onto the Emerald Room. They had pushed back the chairs and she was in the middle, among unfriendly types. She was blowing her nose into a tissue and her eyes were puffy. One of the guys, tall and paunchy, with gray hair forming small greasy waves on his shirt collar, came up to me. He wanted to know my name and what I did, and the way he asked the questions made me want to confess to anything. My hands were shaking.
I needed to sit down; I pulled up a chair beside Ellie. She had already tried to explain what she knew. Greg’s real name was Gregor Nikolaidis. “Did you know that?” the policeman asked me with a sarcastic smile. No, I didn’t. My head hurt. Greg, or Gregor, was in Belize because he was being investigated by the IRS in the US. Greg, or Gregor, could no longer live in Europe, wanted on a series of charges. The cop turned to his colleague, who was eating cupcakes from the hotel buffet.
“Macedo, can you remind us what he is accused of?”
Macedo swallowed quickly, wiped his mouth, and took a small notebook from his pocket. He read before speaking: “A bit of everything. Use of false identity, larceny. He swindled a rich widow, the family found out, and he can’t set foot in Italy anymore.”
“A rich widow, huh?” said the other, feigning interest.
“That’s what it says,” replied Macedo.
“How do you say estelionato in English?” asked the gray cop.
“I used to know, but I forget.”
The gray cop turned to me. “Right. Swindling, tax evasion, extortion, and a lot more, my friend. Heavy stuff. So it’s better for you to tell us.”
I described our trip to the green-and-red house; the cop said he already knew that part. “This woman here can’t stop talking about the house and the people there, but I want to know what happened afterward.”
“Maybe she doesn’t know,” I said.
“You think I’m a fool?”
Macedo answered his cell phone, whispered something out of the corner of his mouth, and hung up. “A representative from the American consulate is on his way.”
“Shit,” said Gray. “Bucetinha said he’s going to take over the case. What he wants is to get on TV. This time he’s not going to.” They exited the Emerald Room hurriedly, leaving us in the custody of Rejane, a dyed-blonde, her huge ass stuffed into white jeans under which I could see the outline of her thong. She sat across from us, leaning against the back of her chair, her legs apart, and said she still needed to clarify a few things.
Ellie’s chilly fingers found my hand. An electric shock ran through my body. Those fingers, those gnawed nails.
Rejane wanted to know: “Does this visualization really work? I mean, do people lose weight by the power of thought?”
My boss to me: “The Internet is saying our author disappeared.”
“Can’t talk now.”
“Our book orders are doubling. Keep him disappeared awhile longer.”
“Look, I don’t think you understand—”
“We’re going to hit number one. It’s you who doesn’t understand.”
Lindsay Lohan, from house arrest, had just sent word that she didn’t know Greg Nicholas, had never been treated by him, was unfamiliar with his method, and had never been in Belize. A similar statement from Mimi Lesseos was expected at any moment.
Rejane spoke for a long time on a pink phone, pacing around the Emerald Room. Then she took a black automatic from her purse and checked to make sure it was loaded. We proceeded down dark corridors, crossed through the kitchen, and found ourselves before a side door. “Why are we leaving out the back?” I asked, but she didn’t answer. Belatedly I understood that we were throwing the representative from the consulate and that Bucetinha guy off the scent, while Gray and Macedo tried to solve the case.
We took the same busy avenue as the night before, in the opposite direction, and got stuck in traffic. The air-conditioning wasn’t working, and Ellie began saying she wasn’t feeling well. She asked Rejane where we were going, and the woman, in mirrored sunglasses, simply looked at her in the rearview mirror. We inched our way through a collection of shopping centers that ended in epic fashion with the Statue of Liberty pressed between bluish glass and beige mortar. Ellie stared like a blind person who has recovered her sight. Rejane spoke again on her pink cell phone. No, no one had seen her leaving the hotel; yes, she had turned off the radio and the vehicle’s GPS. Yes, she would keep moving, but they didn’t have much time. “Macedo, where are you guys?” she said. “No, I think the victim was only supposed to go to Rocinha this afternoon or tomorrow. You shot at who? How? What’re you doing there?”
We slowly made our way through an endless traffic circle where a huge concrete box, at least five stories high, was being constructed, a mixture of Trojan horse and smokehouse. We passed by neoclassical-style buildings, like those I saw in São Paulo, in the middle of empty lots that in a matter of months would be occupied by new neoclassical buildings. “I need to get out of here,” said Ellie, turning the door handle. Rejane looked at us again and said she would stop. She drummed on the steering wheel. She picked up her phone but wasn’t able to complete the call. She sighed, thought. We crossed under red pennants at the entrance to Makro and pulled into its parking lot, almost empty at that time of day. Rejane hesitated about which space to choose and stopped between two of them. She left the windows half rolled down and took the car key. She told us to stay there and abandoned us like children.
That was when Ellie began to cough and clutch her neck — “Air, air, air” — and tumbled out the door.