It was an ordinary day, a Monday like any other, even the hangover was the same. It was a little past noon and the sun seemed to flood its full intensity on my head as I entered the old building on Rua da Relação.
“It’s not working. I already called maintenance,” said the doorman without taking his eyes from his newspaper.
“That thing ought to be retired for good,” I replied, looking at the elevator, which was always out of order.
I climbed the stairs thinking that my life wasn’t going very well. An aching head, the heat, and that infernal din from the building, half commercial, half residential. I went from the first to the fifth floor hearing children crying, neighbors arguing, loud music, and the irritating sound of some idiot drilling into a wall.
My office door needed serious repainting. I stood there for an instant, the plaque in front of me reading, Detective André — Investigations.
I don’t really know if what I felt was what mystics call an epiphany, I don’t understand such things, but maybe it actually was that, an epiphany, a revelation. As I looked at the plaque it was as if a voice was telling me in an ironic, slightly diabolical tone: Wake up, brother, get out of this morass.
I solved problems for everyone, recorded adulterers in the act, uncovered insurance fraud, assisted cuckolds and lovers with equal competence, and was still down in the dumps, living in a matchbox in Copacabana and working in a horrific office in a horrible building in the center of a city that seemed more and more hostile.
“Excuse me, are you Detective André?”
I turned toward the voice. “Yes.”
“Can we talk?”
I opened the door and motioned the woman inside. I went in immediately after her, offered her an armchair, and opened the window.
Sunlight illuminated the spot where she was sitting. My desk was in shadow. I could turn on the light but I preferred it like that. I had read in a story by Machado de Assis that it was the way a certain card reader received her clients. The fortune teller in the shade, the client in a kind of spotlight like in a theater. The card reader could judge the customer’s face while shuffling the cards, without letting herself be seen clearly.
“How can I help you?”
She was a beautiful woman. I had noticed her perfect body when I saw her from behind, slowly entering the office. She was wearing a short knit dress, dark red, almost wine-colored, contrasting with her very white skin. Her small dark eyes took on a glow when she started to speak.
“Forgive me, I don’t know where to begin, I’ve never been in a detective’s office.”
“There’s always a first time.”
She smiled, with a somewhat forced shyness.
“You can begin by telling me your name.”
“Marina.”
The office door opened suddenly and she was startled by the noise.
“Am I intruding?”
A rhetorical question. Whatever my response, Fats was going to come in and remain in the room. An old friend, he knew all there was to know about crime fiction. He owned a used-book store on Rua do Lavradio and in his free time helped me with investigations. Though he didn’t call it helping. He called it advising.
I introduced the two. He greeted her with a smile. I knew that smile; Fats is a perv, and I believe he thinks the same about me.
He pulled up a chair, turned it around, and sat down, resting his arms. It was a studied move to impress the woman, as if he were one of those hard-boiled types in a gangster flick. All that was missing was to chew on a toothpick and spit on the floor. Marina ignored him.
“I came here because I’d like you to locate a person.”
“A person.”
“Yes. A man.”
I waited. She lowered her eyes and crossed her legs. She rested one hand on a knee. She had long, delicate fingers, a pianist’s fingers. I noticed the wedding ring.
“Your husband?” I let fly.
“No, it’s not my husband. My husband knows nothing about it. And he must not know.”
“I understand.”
She fell silent again.
“Want something to drink, dear? Water, soda, beer?” Fats asked.
“Water, please.”
Fats went to the minibar and opened a bottle of mineral water. He poured it into a glass and handed it to her.
Marina looked at the bookcase that occupied the back wall of the office. “You enjoy reading, I see.”
“Yes.”
She got up and went to the bookcase. She had long, straight black hair and was wearing high heels and walked as if she were barefoot, light as a feather.
She ran her eyes over the books’ spines. “There’s nothing but crime stories here!”
“Anything wrong with that?” I asked in a joking tone.
“No, of course not. It goes well with the office of a private detective.”
“Most real detectives don’t like to read. I think I’m an exception.”
Fats went up to her. “Let me show you something,” he said, picking up a book and handing it to Marina.
“The Maltese Falcon.”
“Have you read it?”
“I don’t like crime stories. And Hammett is far from my favorite writer.”
“You know there’s a character in this novel, a woman, who’s very much like you?”
“Is she?”
“Her name is Brigid. Her real name, I mean. She uses other names as well.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t you want to know why she resembles you?”
“No,” she replied in a dry tone, and sat down again.
“Who’s the man you want to find?” I asked, making no effort to conceal my impatience.
“Actually, I don’t know him. I don’t know his name or what he does in life. I’ve never spoken with him. He must be five-eleven or a little less, short black hair. Dark skin, I think.”
“You think?”
“I’ve never seen him up close, only some distance away, and at night without much light.”
Fats looked at me and raised his eyebrows.
“It all started two weeks ago. One night as I was leaving work, I sensed someone was following me.”
“Where do you work?”
“At the National Library, in the rare books section.”
“And where do you live?”
“Right here in downtown. On Avenida Calógeras, on top of the Villarino. Are you familiar with it?”
“The Pan América Building. I had a client who lived there.”
“Quite a coincidence.”
“Yes, it is.”
She paused, her gaze a bit distant. I would have liked to know what she was thinking at that moment. It was a brief pause, just a few seconds, then she looked at me again and resumed her account.
“I always walk home and nothing had ever happened to me. You know, it’s nearby, a ten-minute walk. But that night I felt something odd, I was certain I was being followed. And I admit I was afraid to stop and look back.”
“What did you think might happen if you looked back?”
“I don’t know. Obviously nothing was going to happen, the street was full of people, but I was scared. I walked a bit farther, and when I was near my house, I had to stop at a traffic light. Then I looked, and there he was.” She took another sip of water. “He had a newspaper under his arm. He was wearing jeans and a white short-sleeve shirt. He stared at me.”
“Was he a hunk?” asked Fats.
“What?”
“Was he good-looking?”
“He wasn’t ugly.”
“Was he good-looking or just not ugly? They’re two different things.”
She didn’t answer.
“And what happened after that?” I asked.