“What I understand is that everything’s very good — cold beer, tasty dishes — but where’s the guy?”
“He just came in.”
It was him. Medium height — Marina had said five-eleven or a little less — short black hair, dark skin. Jeans, white short-sleeve shirt, the newspaper under his arm. Even the leather pouch was there, on a strap. It could only be him.
“I don’t believe it, Fats!”
“Now you see. I told you to trust me, it was just a matter of time.”
The guy came in, took a look around, said something to the waiter, and chose a table near ours. He placed the pouch on a chair and sat down in the other. From where we were, we could see him in profile.
I called Marina.
“We found your friend, he’s just come into Bar Brasil, on Mem de Sá. Do you know it?”
“Yes. I’m on my way. Don’t let him leave.”
“Hurry up. I don’t know if he’s going to stay here for long.”
I hung up.
“Look, André. He’s pretending to read the menu.”
“He is reading the menu.”
“No he isn’t. I saw when he opened the menu without looking at it. He merely opened it for show. And he’s not turning the pages; he merely opened it and left it open, to fake it. See? He’s looking in our direction. At the table with the women.”
At a table across from us, three women were taking loudly and laughing.
“What can they be laughing so hard about?” I asked.
“They’re beautiful, young, and judging by their clothes they have money. Do you need any other reasons to laugh about nothing?”
“And which of them will he choose to follow?”
“He’s not thinking about that yet. He just got here, he’s analyzing the terrain. And it won’t depend solely on his choice. It’ll depend on how they leave the bar. They may leave together and get into a car nearby. That would be it for the loony. Or it may be that one of them leaves before the others, walking toward the subway, for example. That would be ideal for him.”
“I just saw him give the waiter his order.”
“Excellent, it means he’s going to stay for a while. At least until Marina gets here. Where was she — at home?”
“I don’t know.”
“With her husband?”
“I have no idea, Fats!”
“I was thinking: it would be funny if her husband followed her when she left.”
“The husband following his wife who’s following a stranger who was following her.”
“Yes, like those Russian dolls, one coming out of the other.”
“Look what the guy ordered: kassler with potatoes. What else do you two have in common?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out very soon.”
“Find out how?”
“I’m going to talk to him. Or rather, we’re both going to,” Fats said, standing up and taking his glass of beer.
“What? You’re going to spook the guy!”
“Come with me.”
I grabbed my beer and we went to the other table.
“Everything okay, boss? All right if we sit here?” Fats asked.
He raised his head and looked at Fats, then at me, without a word. “No,” he finally answered, returning to his food.
“Why do you follow women?” Fats demanded, sitting down at the table. I sat too.
He gestured to the waiter, asking for the check.
“Take it easy, we’re good people, we just want to talk.”
“Who are you two?”
“A female friend of yours hired us. We’re detectives.”
“From the police? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“We know that. And we’re not cops.”
“I don’t have a female friend. You’re crazy.”
“We’re crazy? You go around following women in the street and run away when one of them wants to speak to you, and we’re the crazy ones?”
The waiter brought the check. Fats grabbed it.
“Leave this to me, I’m treating. And bring three more beers, please.”
I thought the guy was going to split, but he surprised me; he stared at Fats for an instant, then nodded and said: “This city is like an insane asylum.”
“May I?” I asked, pointing to the newspaper.
“Of course.”
I looked at the date on the front page: it was from last week. He understood.
“I don’t like reading newspapers.”
“Then why do you always have one under your arm?”
“To give the impression that I’m normal.”
I found that humorous. I got the impression that this nut was pretty cool. In different circumstances we might even have become friends.
The waiter brought the beers. We drank in silence for a bit.
“Who hired you?”
“Her name is Marina. The woman from Avenida Calógeras who you followed for a bunch of nights.”
“Marina. A beautiful name.”
“And a beautiful woman as well.”
“Without a doubt. A pity she’s so unhappy with her husband. She deserves something better.”
“How do you know she’s unhappy with her husband?”
“It’s just a hypothesis.”
Fats laughed. “Why do you follow women if you don’t want to be with them?” he asked.
“What makes you think that’s any of your business?”
“I know it’s none of my business, but you could tell me, couldn’t you?”
“No.”
“How do you choose them? What are your criteria?”
The guy finished his beer. He drank rapidly, and I took that as a sign he might bolt at any moment. Sitting down at his table had been a terrible idea. Curiosity is Fats’s weakness, and it would be to our detriment.
“I follow women who want to be followed. I can see it in their eyes, the clothes they wear, the way they walk — I know when they want a little adventure. Those three over at that table, for instance. None of them are any good.”
“Why not? Because they seem happily married?”
“No. They have lovers. They’re too happy to just have good marriages. They probably love their husbands, fine, but they have lovers. They don’t need another adventure.”
I was still thinking about what he had just said when the guy left. There was no way to stop him, it was all very sudden. He took the pouch and the newspaper and left.
Seconds later, Marina entered the bar.
“Where is he?”
“He just left.”
We went out onto the sidewalk. We could still see the guy, walking along Mem de Sá toward the Lapa Arches. Marina could catch up to him if she so desired.
“Now it’s up to you, angel.”
She kissed me on the cheek. And went after the crazy man.
“I don’t like happy endings,” Fats said, standing beside me.
“We don’t know what the ending will be.”
“Want me to tell you?”
“No.”
The Story of Georges Fullar
by Raphael Montes
Copacabana
I didn’t know he lived in Copacabana. What I mean is that it wasn’t premeditated, you know? We moved in September of the year before last; my parents chose the apartment, I just went along. I don’t have much say there at home. If it were up to me we would’ve stayed in Méier, my friends are all from there. I studied for nineteen years in the Venceslau district, and I never liked the beach — I didn’t find the slightest attraction in living in Copacabana.
Our apartment is at the corner of Ministro Viveiros de Castro and Duvivier. My mother loves living in the South Zone, she talks about it all the time, how she’s come up in the world, how she struggled to get where she is, and how what she wants now more than anything is to be happy. The corner is near the Arcoverde subway station and she almost never uses the car — she hates to drive.