They rode down in silence, his hand touching her elbow lightly, trying to demonstrate protectiveness without assuming any degree of possessiveness. The doorman sprang to attention.
“Taxi, sir?”
“No,” Isabela said before Da Silva could speak. She turned to him. “I want to walk for a while.”
Da Silva nodded, slipped a bill into the doorman’s hand, and took her arm. They turned down the wide sidewalk of the Avenida Paulista, under the few spreading trees that had managed to survive the inroads of civilization. Their footsteps were the only sounds in the night, other than the occasional whine of a taxi rushing past, its headlights dimmed, or the quieter whisper of the traffic on the busier streets of the city down below. Street lights angled down, lighting each face a brief moment and then leaving them in shadow as they walked beyond the scope of each lamp; they walked on, arm in arm, each busy with his own thoughts. Above them, stars came out as the rain clouds moved farther away. So intent was Da Silva on his own thoughts that for a moment he did not realize that Isabela had spoken.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was thinking.”
“That’s all right. I just said that you’re nothing like what I had imagined you’d be.”
“Oh? And what did you think I’d be like?”
“You know. Rough. Tough. Dressed in loud clothes. Uneducated. You know,” she said, quite out of nowhere, “you’re a very good dancer?”
Da Silva laughed; it was a welcome relief from the dour thoughts he had been thinking. “Is being able to dance the sign of the well-educated man?”
“I didn’t mean to say that,” Isabela said quietly.
“What did you mean to say?”
There was a long silence; then Isabela took a deep breath. “Nothing.”
They walked in silence for several more long moments, then Da Silva said quietly, “You said I’m nothing like what you imagined I’d be like. Well, you’re not what I imagined you’d be like, either. But you’re exactly what I hoped you’d be like.”
“You never knew I existed.”
“I knew somebody like you had to exist. But I never thought I’d be lucky enough to meet her.”
Isabela tightened her grip on his arm and drew him toward the curb.
“Let’s take the taxi now, please?”
Isabela stared at the wall, unable to distinguish it clearly in the darkness. At her side Da Silva was also awake, lying on his back, looking at the distant ceiling, thinking. Was it possible that there really was a branch office of this whatever-it-was-called insurance company in a place like Paraíso? Was it just a weird coincidence? That, of course, was as stupid a thought as one could possibly come up with. In any event, it would only take a simple phone call to verify or deny it. On the other hand, would a girl like Isabela be involved in murder? But it wasn’t would she be involved; the damnable fact was that she was involved! Well, possibly Wilson could dig something out in Rio that would shed some light on Isabela and her connection with the entire affair. Unless, of course, she had nothing to do with murder and there was a silly insurance company up there — and here we go back on the merry-go-round again! He became aware that Isabela had rolled over and was looking at him. He turned his head to face her. In the sliver of moonlight that edged between the drape and the sill, her face had the tinge of alabaster, smooth and lovely. She put her hand on his cheek tenderly. He took it and pressed it.
“You’re not sleeping,” she said softly.
“No.”
“I want to talk to you.”
He smiled at her without speaking, his silence inviting her to continue.
“Don’t go to Paraíso,” she said, raising her voice a trifle. She instantly lowered it. “Don’t go!”
Da Silva felt a strange dichotomy. The girl did not want harm to come to him. Still, she had led another man to his death; she was part of a murder ring. And his job was to break up that ring, see them punished. All of them... The masquerade had to continue.
“Why?” he said, sounding bewildered. “I don’t understand. You said your company was interested in a deal. I’m ready to deal. Why shouldn’t I go?”
She took her hand from his cheek and turned, staring at the ceiling, blinding herself to the consequences of what she was saying, knowing she had to say it anyway. “There isn’t any insurance company,” she said in a dull voice. “Or, rather, the company exists but they don’t have any office in Paraíso, and anyway, I don’t work for them.”
“But—” He raised himself on an elbow, looking down at her shadowed face. “I don’t understand. What was it — some sort of practical joke? Did some of the boys down at the Parque Balneário in Santos think it would be funny to send me off on a wild-goose chase?”
“No — yes! That’s it. It was just a joke. Now you don’t have to go.”
“That’s not it and you know it,” Da Silva said evenly. The time to play games had ended, even though the masquerade had to go on. This was the time to get the information he needed. “Tell the truth, for once. Why don’t you want me to go to Paraíso?”
“Because—” She flung an arm across her face, covering her eyes from his gaze, muffling her words. Da Silva drew the arm gently from her face, hating himself for pressing her, knowing that in the end the information she gave could convict her as well as the others.
“Tell me the truth. Why?”
She refused to meet his eye, turning to face the wall instead.
“Isabela. Tell me. It’s important.”
“Because they’re going to kill you,” she said, and tears began to well in her eyes. Her voice was drained of emotion.
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Honestly.”
De Silva pressed on. “Why?”
“I don’t know...”
“You must know! Is it because they think with me out of the way, my set-up at the docks would be an easy target for them to take over?”
“I don’t know. Honestly...”
“Why do they want to kill me, Isabela?” His voice was quiet but there was an insistence in it that was not to be denied. He put his hand on her chin, turning her head to face him. She looked at him with a look that asked for his pity even as it bestowed her pity on him. His steadiness seemed to reassure her; she touched the corner of the sheet to her eyes, drying the tears. Da Silva went on. “Or is it because they say I’m a criminal and they don’t like criminals?”
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.” Her voice was more controlled now. “Maybe it is. He said you were a criminal. The other one was a criminal. I know that.”
“Which other one?”
“I... I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Who wants to kill me? Who killed the other one?”
“I don’t know, I tell you. Honestly.” She saw the frown of doubt cross his forehead and gripped his hand again, squeezing it fiercely. “It’s the truth. I wouldn’t lie about that. He calls me on the telephone...” Her voice trailed away.
Da Silva freed his hand, twisted in the bed, but only to reach to the night stand on his side of the bed. He took two cigarettes from the packet there, lit them both, and tucked one between her lips.
“Tell me about it,” he said, and waited.
The silence in the darkened room grew. Isabela smoked silently; the smoke rose in wavering trails, drifting idly across the angled shaft of moonlight. At last she reached out and brushed ash into the ashtray on her night stand, inhaled deeply, and crushed the cigarette out. She lay back on the bed.
“I wrote some letters,” she said, and stopped abruptly, as if she had already revealed too much.
Da Silva waited a moment and then asked quietly, “Love letters?”