General Fernando del Campo ran his hand slowly along the naked thigh of the woman he loved. He gazed at the beautiful curves of her body, her small breasts and wide hips, her youthful waist, her dark hair still wet with beads of sweat after their lovemaking, and her long legs that stretched all the way to the end of the satin sheets. More hair fell around her brown eyes and cascaded in a dark waterfall to her shoulders. Here her smooth skin was bronzed by a life lived in the tropical sun. She was on her side, her head propped up on one hand, and she was smiling.

“You seem distracted,” she said to him.

“No, no. Just lost in looking at you. Ah, you must forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

She spoke her Portuguese with a smooth, cultured São Paulo accent. This only made her even more intriguing. Juliet Catherina Formosa was the most perfect woman the general had ever known, the most beautiful, the most forgiving of his own faults and tempers, and the most willing to wait for him. Secretly, he worried that she must find his aging body repulsive. He was sixty-eight, more than twice her age. His straight hair was completely grey, his skin furrowed, his hands thickened with age, and his sagging belly betrayed decades of overindulgence. But Juliet was pure youth.

There was a goodness about her that the general could not help but love. When he was tired, she would massage his neck, she would bring him cheerful conversation, strong coffee, cheese and fresh fruit. She would bring a newspaper, or play samba or jazz on the stereo. They would watch movies together. Sometimes they would even dance. But always alone.

The penthouse apartment was large. It was comfortable and luxurious. Always there was the quiet hum of the ducted air conditioning, keeping the air cool and dry. And there were views of the white beach stretching out for miles, nineteen storeys below. Tonight the beach was quiet and dark. It was late and the city was sleeping, preparing for the working day to come.

“You are too good to me,” said the general.

Juliet Formosa kissed him.

“You know, I must go soon.”

“I know.”

The general felt almost guilty to leave her. She was different to the others. Since Juliet, he had left all his other women behind, had never seen them again. For two years there had been only Juliet Formosa. Sometimes he even fantasised about leaving his wife for her, but he knew it was not possible. What would his sons say? And his daughter, he could never look her in the eye again if she knew. All of them happily married, and given him so many grandchildren. It was unthinkable to incur their disapproval. And quite apart from that, what would his business associates say? His wife and their wives were fast friends, inseparable at every social occasion. He could not suddenly appear with a woman young enough to be his daughter and announce he had left his wife. Not if he expected to do business in Recife.

“You look sad, Juliet.”

“You are already gone. Lost in your thoughts. Not here with me.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could be with you. I wish I could stay.”

“One day, you will stay. You know the day will come.”

“I know,” the general lied.

“Come, I will make you something to eat before you go.”

“Yes. I am hungry.”

Juliet Formosa got up and wriggled into a pink satin robe. The general watched her as she left the bedroom. How lucky I am, he thought.

The general was not a kind man. He was difficult, moody, hard to predict. When public matters did not go his way, his wrath was immediate and merciless. Juliet Formosa had learned how to keep him happy, in and out of bed. She was even naive enough to believe that one day the infamous Chief of Military Police would actually leave his wife for a young model such as she. Nevertheless, she worried constantly. When would it happen? How much longer would she have to wait? She knew that as soon as the general had left her apartment she would begin worrying again. And it broke her heart to see pictures of that old hag, Maria Anna del Campo, the general’s sour wife, plastered all over the social pages of the newspapers, with her Fernando. She imagined she could see the secret unhappiness in his eyes in every picture, the unhappiness he always told her about. But she knew that he was waiting, waiting for the right time to break the news to his sons and daughter that he would be leaving Maria. Until then, she would just have to be patient. This was what she told herself as she stood in the kitchen, slicing mango, adding it to two bowls of ice cream.

“Fernando, come and eat.”

“All right. I’m coming.”

The general hauled himself out of bed. It wasn’t easy. He liked to kid himself that he was still young, still virile, and indeed Juliet had never complained about his skills as a lover, but it was getting harder. He pulled on some boxer shorts and shuffled out to the dining room.

“Sit down at the table, darling.”

The general obeyed. He was well used to obeying his wife, in any case. Women, he found, always gave the orders at home. Four decades of marriage had taught him it was best to play along. Even adultery had its price.

Juliet Formosa placed the dessert in front of him. She knew it was his favourite. And she wanted him in the best possible mood. “Do you want a drink? I’ve chilled some wine. It’s Chilean. You know, the one you like.”

“Juliet, you know I can’t drink tonight. If Maria smells wine on my breath how will she believe I have been at the barracks?”

“Tell her you drank with the duty sergeant, or Captain Sollo. Tell her you were playing poker. Can’t you even have a glass of wine, Fernando?”

“The duty sergeant drinks only American whiskey, it’s very unpatriotic. Captain Sollo drinks mostly blood. And if I were playing poker, I’d be at the club taking money from that limp-dicked old judge and his lawyer cronies. No, Juliet. You know Maria is already suspicious.”

Despite her gentle nature, Juliet Formosa felt a sudden fury. “Then let her suspect. It’s just one glass of wine.”

“Coffee, Juliet. It’s late. Just coffee.”

Juliet Formosa poured a glass of wine for herself, then returned to the kitchen for the coffee pot. Something inside her stirred at that moment, after two years of clandestine meetings, two years of subsidised living in the luxury apartment like a prized pony in its stables. She decided she would say even more than she was planning to.

“Thank you, my love,” said the general as he sipped his coffee.

“You don’t love me any more.”

“Oh, no,” said the general. “Not this again.”

“You don’t.”

“Little Cat, you know that’s not true. You know I love you. You are the woman I think about always. You know how unhappy I am when we cannot be together. When I have to endure that dragon they call my wife.”

“Then tell her you are leaving her.”

“You know I will. It’s just not time. I have to think of the family.”

“They will understand.”

The general was beginning to worry. Juliet’s requests were becoming more frequent. He didn’t want to lose her. She was a rare oasis of beauty in his ugly life, a breath of fresh air in a world of murder and corruption, a world in which he had lost count of the number of secret executions he had ordered. But he would never see any harm come to her. She was like a work of art, a thing to be treasured, to be protected. She was a naive angel in a world of devils. And he could not bear the thought of losing her. He delivered his impeccable reply as believably as only a professional liar can. “One day, they will understand, Juliet. But this is not that day.”

“If you loved me, you would tell her it is over between you.”

“I will, Juliet. I will. Just not today. All right?”

“Then do something to show you love me. Show me.”

“But Little Cat, you know you may have anything you desire. The penthouse is in your name. It is yours. Not mine. Do you need money? Let me get you tickets to Florida. For you and your mother. Take a holiday.” The general ate his mango and ice cream as he spoke. It was good.

“I don’t want your money, Fernando. A million dollars is nothing to you, I know. What does it mean if you throw me a few thousand dollars, even a million dollars? I miss you, Fernando. I want to take a holiday with you.”

“Ah, Juliet. You know I can’t get away. Not this year.”

“Then what can you do? Show me.”

With a heavy sigh, the general pushed his half-finished dessert aside, stood up, and took Juliet to the sofa. He put a comforting hand on her cheek. “You tell me, my angel. Tell me what I can do for you.”

“I’m tired of sneaking around like a mouse. I want people to know of our love. I want to appear with you in public.” Juliet Formosa picked up the newspaper from the huge mahogany coffee table and opened it to the social pages. For once, the general was not in it. “I look in this newspaper and I see you and her. For once, I want to look and see you and me. I want people to know us.”

“I do too, my love,” the general lied. “But think of how my children would feel, my grandchildren, if they hear of us first in a newspaper?”

“Then I want a token of your love. Something everyone can see.”

“And you shall have it, Little Cat.”

For a moment, Juliet Formosa felt a surge of joyous relief. Could he really mean it? Would he publicly declare his love, if only by a token? Then suspicion took over. He had broken many promises before. “Are you playing with me, Fernando? Because if you are playing with me, I shall not forgive you. You know my heart breaks just waiting to see you. You know how much I am filled with missing you, how hard it is to wait for you. Two years, Fernando. Two years. You must swear you are not playing. Do you mean it?”

“Yes, Little Cat, I swear it. You shall have a public token of my love, and whenever you wear it, it will declare our bond. I promise you. You know how much I love you. I swear it. You shall have a token of my love.”

Juliet Formosa threw herself at him. She hugged him tight, half with excitement and half with tears of relieved frustration. “Thank you, Fernando. I was afraid to ask. I was so afraid to ask, because if you said no, I had told myself that I must be strong and leave you. And I don’t want to lose you.”

“My Little Cat, my Juliet, you must not be afraid. I can see how important it is to you. You didn’t really think I would let you down?”

“No, no. Of course. I just worry. I just worry so much.”

“Now, tell me what token you shall have.”

Juliet Formosa nodded her head excitedly. “Yes, I have chosen one. Something that only you could get for me. Something that people will see and know that secretly you must love me, that I am yours.”

“Of course, my dear.”

“I saw it today, in this very newspaper.” She flipped the pages. “Here.”

The general looked at the large headline. It read, ‘Angels in Rio.’ The accompanying photograph was of an exquisite diamond necklace, its dozens of small jewels strung in three delicately tiered arcs.

“It’s from Paris,” said Juliet Formosa. “An antique, made in 1955. Do you see how beautiful it is, my love? Have you ever seen anything like it? You see these two central stones? The large ones? They are rubies. Every other stone is a diamond. I have seen no woman wear such a beautiful necklace in Recife. And who else but you could procure such a thing for his love?”

This pleased the general. Juliet’s ignorance aside, there was in fact no shortage of new money in Recife. Any one of several local multi-millionaires, whether they made their money through graft or legitimate business, could afford to buy such a thing for their mistresses. It would not particularly incriminate him as an adulterer, that Juliet Formosa should suddenly appear in public wearing a few diamonds. “No one but I, my dear.”

“And do you see what it is called? Les larmes des anges. Isn’t that beautiful? Isn’t it the perfect way to show our love?”

“I’m sorry, Little Cat. The army had me learn English. It comes in handy dealing with the Americans. A lot of money to be made, you know. But I don’t speak French. You’re a smart girl. What is this name, then?”

“Les larmes des anges. It means, The Tears of the Angels. You see these beautiful little diamonds, they shine like tears, and the rubies are the hearts of two angels. It’s all about love, Fernando. A divine reference to love.”

“Well, my love. An angel like you deserves such a thing.”

“You mean it, Fernando? You promise me I can wear it in public?”

“Of course. It will be yours. I give you my word.”

“And it will signify our love? It will be our secret message?”

“It will declare our love to the world, Little Cat.”

“Oh, Fernando, I knew I could ask this of you. I knew I shouldn’t have worried. I am so silly, sometimes. I am so silly to worry.”

Seeing Juliet so happy and excited warmed the general’s heart, and rekindled his desire. Her tiny silk robe barely left anything to the imagination. Perhaps he could spare another few minutes, he thought, before he would have to return to his wife. He reached out and kissed her, roughly.

Juliet Formosa pushed him back on the sofa, so firmly that it took him completely by surprise. Then she laughed, and kissed his chest.

General Fernando del Campo knew he was a lucky man.

Chapter  2

 

 

Bob Richards sauntered lazily down the sidewalk. Walking fast was not a good idea. Tourists walked fast. Americans. Germans. Fat targets for the local muggers. Tourists who stopped curiously to look at everything, who spoke loudly in foreign languages, who wore wristwatches and hung expensive cameras around their stupid necks. Somewhere, behind a tree or down an alley, a thief would be watching, waiting for somebody stupid. Somebody who didn’t know the rules. Maybe somebody in a pair of Reeboks and a souvenir T-shirt, with a fat wallet full of US dollars. So Richards wore a short-sleeved, brown cotton shirt, with the shirt tails hanging out over his dark slacks. On his feet were a pair of leather moccasins, without socks. He wore no watch and carried only a spare wallet stuffed with worthless cruzeiros. Bob Richards knew he looked Brazilian. Hell, after four years in Recife he damn near was Brazilian. Still, he missed the States.

Walking fast was also not a good idea on account of the weather. It was May, which meant fall, but Recife was only eight degrees south of the equator. It was always around thirty degrees Celsius and so humid you were constantly damp. Sweating had no effect. It was like living in a sauna. You walked slow, you talked slow, you thought slow. Richards had lived most of his life in New York City, where it was cold and fast. Nobody walked slow in Manhattan, not during business hours. Lately, Richards had come up with the idea that the hotter it got, the slower people lived. They just kind of slowed up and got more and more relaxed. Especially in the tropics.

The Brazilians were so laid back you almost had to take their pulse to check they were still alive. Except when they were dancing. Richards often marvelled at the fact that although the country was in total chaos, he had never seen so many happy people in his life. Admittedly, they had gotten rid of the military government and were enjoying some kind of democracy at last, so maybe they were still celebrating over that. But it was already 1992 and the economy was still so bad that if it were a horse you would have to put it out of its misery. President Colorr was probably going to get impeached, state politicians were getting assassinated, inflation was running up to twenty percent a month, unemployment was raging like a fiery inferno, and crime was almost the national sport – after soccer. None of this stopped the locals from partying. Richards sometimes thought the sky could fall down and no one in Brazil would notice. The samba music would go right on playing, the beer would go right on flowing, and nothing, but nothing, would stop Carnival. He had never seen such joie de vivre in his life.

Richards stopped at an intersection and waited while a small Fiat raced by at sixty miles an hour, then he crossed the otherwise quiet street. He was heading towards the beach, walking through a fashionable suburb known as Good Voyage, Boa Viagem. Sensible people lived in the many towering apartment blocks, away from the dangers of the street, but some hardy souls had their houses surrounded by seven-foot concrete walls topped with broken glass, barred their windows, and tried their best to ignore the risk. These walls were everywhere. Still, crime here was different to New York. Mostly, the Recife muggers were just hungry. They needed money for food, not drugs. You gave them your money and they left you alone. They weren’t going to kill you just for the hell of it. Unless you tried to resist; then, of course, you were dead. Lately there had also been a disturbing number of kidnappings. Richards thought, on the whole, that things were probably getting worse.

When friends back in the States asked him if he liked Brazil, he had to say that he did. More than like it, he loved it. And he hated it at the same time. He loved it for the people, the wonderful, friendly ordinary people, who partied while the proverbial boat was sinking because they couldn’t swim anyway. They were good people and he loved them. He hated it for the chaos, the pollution, the crime, and for the corruption at the top. But, as he often told himself, Brazil was no different to anywhere else. Every country had the same set of problems, only some had it better and some had it a whole lot worse. No matter where you lived, you did the best you could to make a living and to stay out of trouble. Bob Richards was a man very concerned with staying out of trouble.

He reached the beach and turned north. It was another few blocks to the Golden Beach Hotel. Sometimes Richards couldn’t help wondering how the hell he had ended up in Brazil, and not just in Brazil but out here in the boondocks of Pernambuco, where the locals spoke with their nasal, hillbilly accents and were the laughing stock of the snobs down in São Paulo. But when the bottom fell out of the Dow Jones back in 1987, and Richards needed a place to run, it was no good going to Rio or São Paulo. He had clients there. Clients who had lost a whole lot of money because of his advice. And he doubted that even five years would have dulled their memories. Not that it was really his fault they lost their fortunes. But when four or five million dollars were involved, Richards found that people tended to prosecute first and ask questions later. Nowadays, memories of his glory days in Manhattan seemed like an improbable newspaper headline: ‘Minnesota Insurance Salesman Turns Stockbroker and Makes Fortune.’ The Financial Times actually did run a feature article about the meteoric rise of his small firm, how it catered successfully to the needs of foreign investors.

Richards remembered how much the article had pleased his ex-wife, Emily. She told him she loved him with all her heart. Until the firm went under. Then she promptly left him. Emily had expensive tastes, expensive friends, and expensive lawyers who screwed him for every penny they could lay their grubby little paws on. That was strike one. Then the IRS all of a sudden wanted a million dollars in back-taxes. Strike two. When an angry creditor from the wrong side of town started knocking on the door of Richards’ upmarket, fifteenth-floor Manhattan apartment and making unpalatable threats, it was the last straw. Strike three. Richards figured he had two choices. He could open the window and jump out, or he could get on the telephone and use his Platinum Visa card one last time before it got cancelled, buy a one-way ticket to Brazil, whistle down a cab and tell the driver to take him to JFK, and get the hell out while the going was good.

Richards sighed. It was such a cliche. Escape to Brazil. When did my life turn into a cliche? he wondered. But he had reached the hotel.

“Good day,” he said in Portuguese to the doorman.

“Good day, Senhor.”

Richards strolled into the lobby and took a seat. Here he waited impatiently to see the Chief of Military Police. Richards had arrived twenty minutes early. He wanted to be very, very sure he was not late.

Richards spoke Portuguese without effort, as if he were merely speaking English. He even spoke it in the comical Pernambuco accent. The worst thing about it was that nobody pronounced the letter R. Instead, they made a sort of guttural H sound. As if that wasn’t bad enough, they were incapable of finishing a word in a hard consonant without putting an E on the end of it. This meant that Bob Richards had to endure the indignity of being called ‘Bobby Hichards.’ It drove him constantly mad, but no matter how many times he would coach the locals, all they would do was laugh at him apologetically and call him ‘Bobby Hichards.’ To be fair, even Rio was not Rio, but ‘Hio.’ Recife was not Recife but ‘Hecife,’ pronounced, ‘Heh-see-fee.’ So he could hardly expect them to manage ‘Richards.’ Still, it made his life seem even more absurd to him, like some kind of very bad joke that he was trapped inescapably in the middle of.

Richards didn’t feel like laughing. He was about to see one of the most dangerous officially sanctioned killers in Recife. Still, business was business and the general was a legitimate customer. Richards would simply set up the deal and not worry about it. He had long since learned to keep his nose out of other people’s dangerous concerns and just be a broker. After all, it was only a jewellery sale. How much trouble could it be? At that moment, a clerk walked into the lobby and started calling out his name.

“Senhor Bobby Hichards! Paging Senhor Hichards.”

Richards stood up. “I’m Bob Richards.”

“Oh what, Senhor?”

Richards let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m Senhor Hichards.”

“Oh yes, Senhor. Come this way. The general will see you now.”

At last, Richards thought, his chance to make some real easy money had arrived. He followed the clerk to the elevator.

“The general is on the eleventh floor, Senhor. Report to the guards there and they will take you to him.”

Richards nodded as the elevator doors closed. When they opened again, he was confronted by two huge soldiers in grey military police uniforms. They each carried a sub-machine gun but Richards thought they didn’t need to. Either of them could easily have killed him with their bare hands.

“You are Senhor Hichards?”

“Yes, I am.”

One of the soldiers frisked Richards briefly. “Very well.”

“Thanks,” said Richards. He left the soldiers standing in the lobby of the luxurious suite and proceeded into the enormous living area. Huge windows revealed a panoramic view of the crowded beach and the endless Atlantic Ocean. The city was named for its reefs. Richards looked out over the shining sea and saw a few tiny fishing boats working their trade in the distance, beyond the submerged hazards. It was an impressive view.

“Mister Richards. Mister Bob Richards, isn’t it?”

Richards swung around. “General del Campo.” He held out his hand.

“A pleasure, Mister Richards. Glad you could make it.”

“I didn’t know you spoke English, General.”

“Not very well, I am afraid. But I manage. My wife and I are fond of vacationing in Florida. Disney World, you know. My grandchildren like it.”

“You speak it very well, General.” In truth, the general had a heavy accent, but Richards wasn’t about to point that out. He had gotten his name right, after all. And regardless of the general’s casual attitude, the man had a legendary temper. He seemed deceptively ordinary, dressed in a red silk shirt which hung out over his black pants. His thick fingers were stained with tobacco. He was smoking a fat cigar.

“Oh, how rude of me. Would you like a ... smoke, Mister Richards?”

“Thank you, General.”

“They are Cuban. Unpatriotic of me, I know, but they are the best.”

Richards lit his cigar. “Outstanding.”

“Well, you must excuse me but perhaps we should get down to business. Have a seat, let’s talk about diamonds.”

“Of course.” Richards sat down on a huge chesterfield sofa. The dark, leather-upholstered furniture seemed somehow out of place in the tropics, but it was comfortable and luxurious, unlike the cheap sofa he had at home.

The general threw a newspaper onto the glass coffee table between them. “Unfortunately I have a – How do you say it? – a niece with expensive tastes. If you understand what I mean.”

Richards was interested only in the five percent spotter’s fee he was about to pocket. But if the old general wanted to confide in him about his sordid love affairs, so be it. He forced a laugh. “Ha ha ha. Your niece.”

“Exactly. Women. They are an expensive addiction, don’t you agree?”

“I’ll agree with that, General. I’ll agree with that.”

“But where would we be without them, uh?”

“A whole lot richer.”

“Perhaps. But a whole lot poorer as well, don’t you think?”

The old bastard was a romantic. Richards hadn’t suspected this. He assumed the necklace must have been to get sex. Now it sounded like del Campo might actually care for this woman, whoever she was. In that moment, Richards decided to add another fifty grand to the asking price. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Hmmm,” said the general, considering his cigar. “I know I am. Now, this necklace I see here in the newspaper. They call it, The Tears of the Angels. My sources tell me you know the dealer, a Senhor Fontaine?”

“Your sources are good, General. I do know him.”

“Can you set up a meeting for me? My niece wants this particular necklace, you see, for her ... um ... birthday in July. I’d like to close a deal.”

“No problem, General. Your aide already spoke to me about it. Pierre Fontaine’s coming to Recife next month, the twenty-third. He’s got some other business here and he’d be able to see you in person.”

“Excellent. Now, what of the price?”

“Well, I understand the necklace is an antique. One of a kind. Pierre tells me it’s valued at two hundred and sixty-five thousand. US dollars, of course. There’s been a lot of interest in it from buyers in Colombia, but I’ve assured Pierre he should talk to you first.”

“Hmmm. I see. Well, Mister Richards, I don’t think we need to waste time. I’ll give you quarter of a million for it. I think that’s fair.”

Richards said nothing for a few long seconds. He was trying to look cool but all he could think about was the twelve thousand dollars he had just made from five minutes’ work. It was good to have an old friend who was a jewellery dealer, an old friend who was desperately looking for new customers. “All right, General, two hundred and fifty it is. Consider it yours.”

The general stood up. Richards followed suit. They shook hands.

“A very wise sale, Mister Richards. You understand, my niece must have this necklace. Be sure your Senhor Fontaine is here on time.”

Something about the general’s voice frightened the hell out of Richards, but he told himself it was just a transaction, just another customer. “He’ll be here, General. You can be sure of that.”

“Excellent. I regret I’m due at the barracks.” The general smiled, then called out in Portuguese to his men. “Show Senhor Richards out.”

“Thank you, General.”

“Thank you, Mister Richards.”

Richards bought a coconut at the beach afterwards, to celebrate. As the vendor hacked off the top of the nut with a huge machete, Richards reflected that life in Brazil wasn’t so bad after all. He drank down the warm milk and looked out at the ocean. Bob Richards was in the money.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter  3

 

 

Bob Richards liked women. He respected them. He had even once tried to love one of them – and he had the lawyers’ bills to prove it. When his money had run dry and his wife had left him, she kept his name. Emily Richards. He knew a woman could steal your heart. He never really realised they could steal your name as well. That was nearly five years ago.

“Forget sex,” Pierre Fontaine had once told him. “What you want is a woman who can talk. Good conversation, my friend. That’s the key.”

Richards had a better idea. Forget conversation. Go for the sex. So much simpler. No emotional involvement. Just fun. And no lawyers at the end of it, providing you were suitably careful. And Richards was. You just had to find the right kind of woman, one who was looking for exactly the same thing you were. Just find a suitable woman. Or three.

Carina Arantes was exactly Richards’ kind of woman. At thirty-five, she was old enough not to be an idiotic kid. He didn’t want someone who was going to go and fall in love with him over a little casual sex. He had met her in the travel agency on the corner, a comely brunette in a short blue skirt. She had a boyfriend, a pilot with Varig. Theirs was an open relationship, she had told him over an illicit cup of coffee. Oh, how Richards loved a liberated woman. When Ayrton was away in Buenos Aires, or Sydney, or Singapore, Carina would give Richards a call. This was a most agreeable arrangement. And when Carina wasn’t available, there was Maria, the office manager at the club, who would occasionally take pity on his loneliness and hers and invite him back to her apartment. Last but not least was Patricia, from the language school. That little affair had been going for years. Richards was not a religious man, but he had to admit he had a tremendous admiration for Brazilian Catholicism. For a Catholic people, Brazilians had the most liberated attitude to sex you could possibly imagine. If you were going to escape to some foreign country, you might as well go somewhere the women were gorgeous and willing. In this regard, Richards had made a good choice. He was eternally grateful to those bright sparks who had invented the thong bikini and the lambada dance, both of which he profoundly admired.

Carina Arantes looked stunning in a thong bikini. But then Carina Arantes looked stunning in just about anything. She had even taught him the lambada, which he had made a complete fool of himself trying to do. “You Americans have no rhythm,” she used to complain. And she would laugh at him. Then she would take him to a bedroom and have her evil way with him. Richards was a handsome man, which was fortunate since his financial affairs were pretty shaky. His money was not going to attract women. Carina Arantes was interested in more basic things.

A few days after he had seen the general, Carina had called Richards and informed him that Ayrton had just left for London. She suggested dinner. Richards had gladly obliged. They ate Italian food and got drunk.

Richards had left his car in the underground security lot back at the apartment. He knew if they went in the car he would have to find somewhere safe to park it, then be forced to pay some grubby street kid fifty cents to protect it from thieves while they ate. Actually, it was more like paying some kid fifty cents to agree not to take a knife to the tyres. And Richards would have to leave the handbrake off, so the car could be pushed if someone else wanted to park nearby, or else he would return and find the windows smashed in. Naturally, he would not have stopped at any red lights, either. Too dangerous. It was all just too much trouble for a quick trip down the road. He knew the rules. It was safe enough. So, they would walk.

After the meal at the Little Napoli, a cheap but tasty cafe on a quiet road two blocks behind the impressive Golden Beach Hotel, Richards was eagerly walking Carina Arantes back to his apartment. Their steps were heavy, echoing off the high concrete walls of the quiet houses. Carina’s ample cleavage kept peeking out of the top of her blouse, and she was complaining loudly about her new jeans being uncomfortable, which Richards could only take as a very encouraging sign. It was already nearly midnight, and his apartment was only a ten-minute walk away. It was a hot night. Carina’s drunken laughter was warm in his ear. She leaned on him constantly as they walked. Richards was enjoying the anticipation.

He was also getting impatient. He knew he could get home faster if he took the shortcut, and the sooner he could casually suggest that Carina might like to get out of those uncomfortable jeans, the better. So he steered her left, down a dirt alley behind several well-fortified houses.

They were about fifty yards down the long alley when Richards realised he had made a mistake. There were children sitting in the shadows, peeking out from gaps between the houses, waiting for passers-by. There was just enough light to make out their crouched figures.

“Oops,” Richards said under his breath, as he turned Carina around and decided they had better take the long way home, after all.

As he did so, five kids stepped out into the alley in front of him. The youngest was probably about nine, the eldest perhaps fourteen. Now that they were close, he could smell them. They were street kids. Dirty, violent, dangerous street kids. He saw the flash of a knife in the hand of a skinny, blonde-haired kid in the middle of the group. Richards was an average-sized man, even a little bulky. These were skinny little kids. They were no match for him physically. They were just children. But Richards knew there was always more to these situations than met the eye.

Carina had stopped laughing. “Street kids,” she said soberly.

“Just leave it to me,” Richards replied. “And don’t do anything silly.”

“Okay, Bobby. Okay.”

The blonde-haired kid looked about twelve years old. He was wearing a white T-shirt that was so grubby it had nearly turned black, but Richards could still make out the writing on it as the kid stepped nearer. It said, ‘Mercy of God Orphanage.’ Obviously the kid wasn’t too bright.

“Your wallet, Senhor,” the kid said in a nervous voice. “Your wallet.”

“Okay, I will give you my wallet.” Richards moved very, very slowly. He put his right hand in his trouser pocket, just finger and thumb, no sudden movements, and drew out the spare wallet he always carried when walking. He wore no watch, no jewellery, and his real wallet was at home. He bent down and put it slowly on the ground.

“The lady’s also,” said the child. He pointed the knife pathetically. Richards wondered how the hell this little skinny-armed kid thought he was going to do any damage with the tiny blade, but he played along anyway.

“Give him your wallet, Carina. Put it on the ground.”

Carina gingerly took out her wallet and dropped it in the dirt.

Two of the other children ran in and grabbed the wallets off the ground, then began flipping through all the money excitedly. The thick wads of cruzeiros were the equivalent of about forty dollars. It was nothing to Richards, but to the kids it was a fortune. The kids were laughing.

“Okay, okay. We go now,” said Richards. He led Carina backwards.

All of a sudden an older boy stepped out of the shadows and called out to Richards, just to let him know he had been watching. The boy was tall and thin, with pale skin and a couple of missing teeth from some previous encounter. He held up a dirty, rusty revolver so Richards could see it. “Yes. Senhor, you go now. You are a very smart man. Goodnight.”

Richards nodded, to let the boy with the gun know he understood that it was his decision to let them live, and to thank him.

Richards led Carina quickly out of the alley.

Five minutes later, more at a jog than a walk, they had reached his apartment. He sat Carina down on his cheap sofa and got her some water.

“Are you all right, Carina?”

“Oh, Bobby, you’re so sweet. Yes, I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry. It was my fault. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s all right, Bobby Hichards. It’s just a few cruzeiros.”

“I wanted to get you back here quickly. It’s my fault.”

“You wanted to undress me, didn’t you? Huh? I know you, Bobby.”

Richards was glad she was so drunk. It had made her only half-aware of the whole robbery. Probably she never even saw the kid with the gun, never even realised they nearly got killed. “No, I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

Carina put a hand on his cheek. “You are really worried.” She kissed him and ran her hands through his hair. “Let me make it better. Okay?”

“Carina, I’m sorry. I don’t think I can, tonight.”

“Oh, Bobby,” Carina said softly. “You are a strange man, sometimes.”

Richards smiled, but he felt awful. He might have gotten her killed.

“Drive me home then, Bobby?”

Richards nodded philosophically. “Sure.”

 

Chapter  4

 

 

Bob Richards had been robbed before. It was just part of life and normally when it happened he just let it go. There was no point in calling the police – the civil police, that is. By the time you had finished bribing them you would be twice as poor as from the robbery itself, and they never caught the thief anyway. Without a bribe they wouldn’t even try. The only police you ever saw on the streets were military police, and as far as Richards was concerned the less contact you had with them, the better.

It was best not to ask questions about the military police. Usually you saw them cruising the streets slowly in their grey-and-white vans, or walking their beat along the beach. Richards always thought it was odd, whenever he was relaxing at the crowded beach, watching a beach volleyball game or admiring the young beauties in their thong bikinis, to see a gun-toting soldier march seriously along the sand as if he were expecting an armed coup to arise at any moment, starting right there on the beach at Boa Viagem. But as incongruous as the beach soldiers were, they made Richards feel safe. There were too many armed robberies in Recife.

Other times the military police made him feel anything but secure. Once or twice, when he was driving, he had looked a little too closely at military police cars that were overtaking him and seen four or five uniformed men with their faces covered by black ski masks and large sub-machine guns in their hands, speeding on their way to some anonymous mission. Death squads. You did not want to see stuff like this. What you wanted to do was keep your head down like a good citizen, get on with your life, and try not to think about it. And hope like hell you never met one of those guys up close.

Anyway, he wouldn’t want to get the military police involved in investigating a robbery perpetrated by street kids. You never knew which politician or general might just give the order to quietly slaughter the children and be done with it. No one would even know they were gone. Richards had little sympathy for the street kids, they were thieving little bastards, but they certainly didn’t deserve to die. They were just children.

It annoyed Richards intensely, however, that he had been robbed by a bunch of skinny children. A grown man should know better. It had made a fool of him in front of the lovely Carina, as well, and ruined a perfectly good evening. Maybe it was just transferred frustration at the pathetic state of his life in general, but Richards had been stewing over the robbery for a couple of days now. He just couldn’t get it out of his mind.

He honked the horn of his little Ford Escort. Weren’t they ever going to open the damn gates? he thought. The sun was beating down mercilessly and he had already been sitting out here with the engine running for nearly five minutes. What kind of an orphanage was this? Was nobody home?

At last, a teenage boy in shorts and a white T-shirt came wandering slowly up the dirt driveway and reached the gates. He started fidgeting clumsily with the chain and padlock until he had it undone, then he swung the big gates open, one at a time, until there was room for Richards to drive through. The boy seemed to do everything tediously slowly, which annoyed Richards even more. Nevertheless, Richards stuck his head out of the car and thanked the kid for letting him in.

“You are welcome, Senhor,” the kid replied, but not looking directly at Richards. His head slanted in the wrong direction. His eyes were cloudy.

Richards realised, to his horror, that the kid was blind. He had been sitting there, honking his horn impatiently, while this blind kid had come as fast as he could to let him in. “Thanks again, kid. Sorry about the horn.”

“It is nothing, Senhor.”

Richards drove slowly up the winding driveway, past ramshackle houses and towards the central building, a large, white, stone structure which looked almost like a converted church, without the spire. He parked the car and got out, wondering why he had bothered coming.

By the doorway was a colour portrait of the Virgin Mary, covered by glass to protect it from the sudden tropical downpours which drenched Recife from time to time. Richards paused to look at the painting.

A young woman came to the open door. “Good day.”

“Good day, Senhorita,” said Richards, as he handed her a business card.

“My name is Fabriola, Senhor ... Hichards. How can I help you today?” The woman spoke Portuguese with the accent of a well-educated university student. Richards imagined she must have donated her time.

“A pleasure to meet you, Fabriola. Look, it’s nothing, really. I’m just looking for a particular boy.”

“I see, Senhor. What is his name?”

“Well, I don’t know. You see, I was robbed three days ago. There was a boy with a knife. He was about twelve. Blonde hair. He was wearing one of your orphanage T-shirts. I thought you might know who he is.”

“Oh, no, Senhor! I am sorry to hear this.”

“It’s all right. No one was hurt.”

“Thanks be to God.”

Richards was never comfortable with religion. He was an atheist in a country full of believers, and it was sometimes a struggle to adapt. He tried his best. “Yes. Uh, right. Thanks be to God. But do you know this boy?”

“Well, I am not sure, Senhor. There are forty-seven boys here.”

“You understand, I am not here to make trouble. I don’t want to see the kid end up with the police. But you understand, Senhorita, you cannot have boys from the orphanage out on the street, with knives.”

“Oh, of course, Senhor. Of course, you are right. And thank you for not calling the police. I thank you for that kindness. The children are having lunch. Why don’t you come and see? Is that all right?”

“Sure.” Richards decided he would find the kid, frighten the hell out of him, and leave it at that. He just wanted to get it out of his system.

Fabriola led him down a long, cool corridor until they reached an enormous hall. About sixty people were seated around long wooden tables, eating lunch. Most of them were young boys. The rest were the volunteers who ran the orphanage, most of them older women. The scene was remarkably quiet. Richards had never seen so many well-behaved kids in his life. It was a simple place, and it could have done with a fresh coat of paint, but it was clean and welcoming. Nevertheless, Richards felt uncomfortable. He had never had any children himself, and he didn’t like kids. All he wanted to do was get it over with and go home. The sooner it was over, the better.

“We will walk around the tables, Senhor. You tell me if you see the boy.”

Richards followed her around the room, but the blonde-haired boy was not there. “He’s not here. Are there any others?”

“No, these are all the boys. I am sorry.”

“Okay. You know, if this boy stays out on the street, he will end up getting himself killed. It’s an ugly world.”

“I know you are right, Senhor. One moment, I will get Susinha to speak to you. She may know of this boy you seek. Why don’t you wait in the office?”

“Thanks.” Richards made his way back to the little office they had passed on the way to the hall. He took a seat on a rickety wooden chair.

After a couple of minutes, an attractive woman with light-brown hair and pale, delicate features appeared in the doorway to the office. She looked about forty-five, nearly his own age. Richards would later remember he felt immediately attracted to her, at least until she opened her mouth. She wore an expensive wristwatch, blue linen trousers, and an orphanage T-shirt. She walked into the office and, somewhat self-importantly, sat down behind the wobbly old desk. “Good day, Senhor,” she said in Portuguese.

“Good day, Senhora.” Richards had seen her gold wedding ring.

“With what can I for to help you, today, if possible?”

“Oh what?” said Richards, bemused. Her Portuguese was terrible.

“The lady tells me you are come to ask the questions, yes? Um ... she says you look for the boy of the street.” The woman looked exasperated.

“I don’t understand,” said Richards, rather cruelly.

“One moment,” said the woman. She pulled out a pocket dictionary and began flipping through it. “You are here to ... investigate a boy?”

Richards spoke in English now. “I’m an American.”

“Oh,” said the woman, embarrassed and relieved. “Oh, right. Well, that makes it easier then, doesn’t it?” She spoke in an absurdly posh English accent, which Richards disliked immediately. “Portuguese isn’t the easiest language in the world. All those irregular verbs.”

Richards had a look on his face halfway between pain and a smile.

“Look, um, sorry,” she said. “Can we start again?”

“Sure.”

The woman stood up and offered her hand. “Susan Harris-Smythe.”

Richards thought even her name was ridiculous. “Bob Richards.”

Susan sat down again. “Right, Mr Richards. I understand you’re looking for one of our boys, blonde-haired, about twelve years old?”

“He robbed me at knifepoint. One of his buddies had a revolver.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Richards. That’s awful.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like to find him and talk him out of doing it again.”

“What makes you think he was one of our boys?”

“He was wearing one of your T-shirts.”

“Ah. Look, I’m only a volunteer supervisor here. I’ve been over from London for six weeks. I’m on an ecumenical exchange program, from the Church of England. But the Sister is away at the moment, so I’m in charge.”

“You’re a vicar?” For courtesy, Richards quickly added, “Ma’am?”

“Oh, no. Me? No, I’m just on the Ecumenical Committee. The chance came up to help our friends in Brazil, so I volunteered. I’ve got a lot of experience working with children. I’m a teacher.”

“Well, as long as you’re not teaching them Portuguese.”

Susan laughed. “No, fortunately for them, I’m not.”

“Look, Susan. May I call you Susan?”

“If you like.”

“Susan, this skinny little kid was out there in the middle of the night with a knife, a little tiny knife, holding people up. One of these days he’s going to hold up the wrong guy and get himself killed. Not to mention he ruined a perfectly good date and nearly got me shot.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was with a gang of street kids. The leader had a revolver. I knew what to do, so I just handed over my wallet and walked away. But some dumb tourist or somebody is gonna panic, and they’ll shoot him. Then your kid’s going to be an accessory to murder.”

“What would you like me to do, Mr Richards? Have him flogged?”

“Excuse me?”

“We had a boy here who matches your description. His name is Junio. Apparently his mother was murdered two years ago, in Maceió. Then he was brought to Recife, to the orphanage, but he ran away. The Sister told me he took to hanging around with the street gang because he was bored. The people in the slum used to give him food. Eventually they got him to come back to the orphanage. But he ran away again a month ago. He was suffering from malnutrition at the time. He’s our only missing boy.”

“I never said anything about wanting him punished.”

“Then why are you here, Mr Richards? What did he take from you?”

“A few cruzeiros. That’s not the point.”

“Well, what do you want with him, then?”

Richards wondered why she had suddenly become so damn defensive. “Look, I’ve been robbed ... at gunpoint. I might have been killed. I’m just ... annoyed. All I want to do is give the kid a piece of my mind and maybe, just maybe, he’ll think twice before he does it again. I could go to the police, you know, but I haven’t.”

“Well, why haven’t you? Or do you want to administer your own justice, Mr Richards? Beat up a defenceless child? Would that solve anything?”

“Hey, that’s enough! I don’t know why I came. Maybe it’s just because I’m embarrassed about the whole thing. I’m sure as hell not here to beat up any children. Lady, you’ve got a hell of a nerve!”

Susan said nothing for a moment. “You’re right, Mr Richards. I’m sorry. It’s just ... read the newspapers. Everyone hates the street kids. Everyone blames everything on the street kids. Clean up the streets, they say. The little devils deserve everything they get, they say. I’ve seen enough abuse of children for one lifetime. I saw enough of it in London, and I don’t need to see more of it here. I thought you were one of them.”

“One of who?”

“The abusers.”

“Look, I’m not an abuser. I’m just an ordinary guy who got robbed by a bunch of armed kids and who counts his lucky stars he’s still alive. And I came here looking for, I don’t know, justice. I just came to see the kid get a slap on the wrist, get the shit scared out of him, and be told to write a hundred times, ‘I will not mug my fellow man,’ on the blackboard.”

“And would that help you feel better, Mr Richards?”

“Maybe. It sure as hell might help the kid, Ms Smythe.”

“Harris-Smythe.”

“Pardon me,” Richards said sarcastically.

“We have no idea where Junio is. He might already be dead. I’ve just walked through the slum this morning, looking for him. No one has seen him. So if you really want to help him, Mr Richards, then pray for him.”

“God and I aren’t on speaking terms.”

“God listens to atheists and believers alike, Mr Richards.”

Richards had had enough. “I’m sure he does. Let’s just forget it.”

“Fine. Anyway ... I’m sorry you were robbed.”

Richards stood up. “You be careful. Those street kids are no angels.”

“They’re children, Mr Richards, closer to God than you or I.”

Richards held up his palms in surrender. Without another word he stood up, walked out, got into his car, and drove away. He should have known better than to go seeking justice. There was no such thing.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter  5

 

 

Susan picked up the old telephone by her bed and nervously dialled the number. It was hot in her small bedroom at the orphanage. All kinds of insects were chirping and clicking in the foliage outside her window. Her room seemed almost eerie, the weak yellow light of the grubby electric bulb bouncing off the bare stone walls. It was like being in a prison cell, except for the elegantly carved crucifix over her bed.

There was no answer. Her heart beat quickly. Later, when she would think back to this moment again and again in her mind, she could only classify it as a moment of temporary insanity. What had come over her, she would never quite know. It was probably the telephone call from Adrian.

Adrian Harris-Smythe, Tory MP and hero of the business community, wealthy landowner from the right kind of family, with his own country estate and a townhouse in Mayfair, was simply the perfect husband. Susan remembered all the praise her mother had lavished upon her for having found such an eligible bachelor and actually married him. Actually married him. They had been married for fifteen long years.

Adrian was sixty-six years old, twenty-one years older than Susan. He tolerated her penchant for charity work, though why on earth she wanted to spend six months in Brazil, of all places, was completely beyond him. But he knew it was good publicity – a conservative politician’s wife working for the underprivileged orphans of the Third World. Made him seem less Thatcheresque, which was not easy. Adrian was so busy with his work that he would hardly miss her, but it still annoyed him that she had gone. Even when she was in London, she spent half the time volunteering for church work and the other half teaching English at an abominable little college for recent immigrants. He had let his frustration at this kind of irritating behaviour get the better of him, unfortunately, and had an argument with her on the telephone. A long-distance argument, at one pound fifty a minute, over a scratchy satellite link from London to bloody Recife. “Why can’t you just come home?” he had complained. “I miss you.”

Susan didn’t miss Adrian. Her life had grown slowly but surely more stale since she had married him. He was a boring old man, a man who loved her at best as if she were a favourite pair of slippers, and at worst as if she were a fashionable accessory to have on his arm at party political rallies, without which people might secretly ask if he were gay. In fact, Adrian wasn’t gay. He just wasn’t much interested in sex. Susan doubted he ever had a passionate thought. Sex with Adrian was like going to the dentist. It wasn’t actually uncomfortable, it didn’t last too long, it didn’t happen all that often, and it served some kind of necessary purpose known only to the dentist himself. Adrian actually used to say to her, “Thank you, my dear,” at the end of it, just to let her know he appreciated her providing him with his marital rights. She was beginning to hate him.

They had never had any children, although Susan had always wanted a family. The thought of having children with this grey old man was unthinkable. Could she raise a son and have him turn out as lifeless and dour as Adrian? Could she face that kind of family? She could not. Everyone congratulated her on how happy she must be, how comfortable her life was, how lucky she was to have a marriage that had lasted fifteen years. Married to a millionaire. Married to Adrian Harris-Smythe.

She had told him she had only just arrived in Brazil and she would come home when she was ready and not before. He had hung up on her.

What had really brought her halfway around the world? she thought. Not just charity. She did plenty of that at home in England. She had come to Brazil to get away from her husband, to get away from the nightmare of the ‘perfect life’ which she lived with him, and to feel alive again. To feel alive.

Come on, answer the phone! she thought anxiously. Come on, come on! She knew she had to do this tonight or she would never do it. What did people do in this situation? she wondered. How did they go about it? She had no idea. But Adrian was thousands of miles away, for the one and only time in fifteen long, miserable years, and she was angry. Answer the phone!

Bob Richards stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and walked out to his living room, leaving wet footprints on the wooden floor. He shook water out of his ear and picked up the phone. At that moment a huge truck roared by, four storeys below. Goddamned noise, he thought. The noise never stopped, twenty-four hours a day. Car engines, trucks, music from the local pub, people talking, the television upstairs, and most of all, automobile horns. The damn Brazilians couldn’t drive fifty yards without tooting their horns. “Bob Richards,” he said at last.

“Mr Richards. Um, it’s Susan Harris-Smythe.”

Richards shook some more water out of his ear. “Who?”

“Susan Harris-Smythe, from the orphanage.”

“Oh. Hello.”

“Look, Mr Richards, I’m calling because ...”

“Don’t tell me you found the kid.”

“Pardon me?”

“The kid who stole my wallet. Junio.”

“Oh, of course. No. We still haven’t seen him.”

“Right.” Richards thought that would have been too good to be true.

“No, you see, I’m calling because it’s Friday, and ...”

“Yes?”

“And I thought you probably wouldn’t be working tomorrow.”

“I pretty much work when I like, Susan. Depends on the client.”

“Right. So I thought perhaps I could ask you if you wanted to come to the orphanage tomorrow and, um ...”

“Do some charity work? Look, Susan, you people at the orphanage do great work, and all that, but, uh, the IRS still want a million dollars out of me. Now is not the time for charity. You know what I mean?”

“No, no. I was going to ask you to lunch.”

“Lunch? At the orphanage?”

“I know,” Susan replied nervously. “It’s not the best place. Do you know somewhere better? It’s just you’re the only person I know in Recife who speaks English, and I’m going crazy speaking Portuguese all the time.”

“You’re asking me out to lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s a seafood cafe I know, on the beach at Boa Viagem.”

“That sounds fine.”

Richards couldn’t help feeling deeply suspicious. “You like seafood?”

“I love it, Mr Richards.”

“Look, Susan, could you do me a favour?”

“What is it?”

“If we’re gonna have lunch, could you call me Bob?”

“Bob. Right, of course.”

“Okay, Susan, I’ll come to the orphanage at twelve. That okay?”

“Great. See you then.”

Richards put down the phone. That was a goddamn weird phone call, he thought. For a long moment he looked out of his large, open windows at the apartment building opposite his own. It was stained with tropical mould, a black haze spreading over every concrete surface. He could see families huddled around their TV sets in every window. Then he looked down. On the narrow street below, some stupid guy was bending the aerials of parked cars, just for the hell of it.

Richards leaned out of his window and yelled.

“Hey, you! What do you think you’re doing? Get lost!”

The man pulled a revolver out of his shorts and waved it defiantly.

Richards stepped quickly back from the window and let the man get on with it. No point confronting a nutcase, he thought. It usually ended in someone getting killed. He switched off the light, just to be safe.

Why the hell had Susan called him, anyway? he wondered. As far as he could tell at the orphanage, she hated him on sight. It was typical of his whole life since coming to Brazil. There was always something weird happening. Nothing really surprised him any more. Nothing.

Fifteen hours later, Richards was looking at Susan’s pale blue eyes. Her face was delicate, almost innocent, with the milky complexion that came from a life under the cloudy skies of England. But there were lines of worry around her eyes. Her brown hair was cut in an attractive bob, the kind of sensible hairstyle you would expect from someone working with children. Bob Richards wished like hell he didn’t find her so attractive. Even in a cotton shirt and slacks, she looked great. This bothered Richards greatly, because she was so damned annoying.

She ate her fish as if she were sitting in some fancy hotel in Paris, slicing away delicately at the succulent flesh, chewing it appreciatively, then taking little sips of her wine. Richards had to slow down just so he didn’t end up sitting there with an empty plate for a half-hour while she finished. She had actually closed her eyes for a few seconds before they ate, to thank God for the meal. He saw her muttering a prayer under her breath. Worst of all, she had removed her wedding ring before he had picked her up from the orphanage. Richards was a well-practised observer of women, ever since his ex-wife had ripped his heart out and chewed it into a million pieces. He had a way of separating women into those who were no trouble, and those who were trouble. Susan Harris-Smythe, with her snooty name, ridiculous accent, and quaint habits, was definitely trouble. She was married, for a start. Richards had never gotten involved with a married woman, and he wasn’t about to start now. That would definitely be trouble.

“I often go walking around the slums,” she said, as if she were saying that she often played a nice game of croquet on Sunday afternoons.

“You what?”

“I take my video camera. It’s so different to anything I’ve seen before. And the people are so interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“They’re good people. They have so little, but they help each other.”

“Susan, most people wouldn’t walk around downtown with a camera. Doing it in the slums is crazy.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Do you wear a watch?”

Susan thrust her milky wrist forward so Richards could see the tiny, elegant gold wristwatch she wore. “Of course.”

“Do you take it off when you go walking?”

“No. Should I?”

“What about your wallet? Do you carry it with you, with all your credit cards, your English pounds, photographs of your husband?”

“I don’t carry photographs of Adrian,” Susan said seriously.

“Right. But do you take your wallet with you, to the slums?”

“Of course. I might need to buy something.”

Richards couldn’t believe it. He shook his head. “Susan, you’re going to get yourself killed. You can’t carry that kind of stuff around on the streets. You may as well wear a sign saying, ‘Hooray! I’m rich and you’re poor!’ ”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s an insult. It’s telling everyone that you’re a gringo, too dumb to know not to carry valuables in public, you’re just begging to get robbed. You’ll be telling me you wear jewellery next.”

“Sometimes.”

“Oh, my God.”

“I’ve never had any trouble yet, Bob.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Six weeks.”

“I rest my case.”

“The locals know me, they even call me Susinha. I’m safe.”

“They call you Little Susan? That’s great, you’re probably safe from them ... but not from the people you don’t see, the people watching you quietly from a distance,  just figuring when to strike.”

“I’m not going to be forced off the street by hoodlums.”

Richards shook his head again. “At least promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“You won’t speak English in the slums. Always Portuguese, okay?”

“Why?”

“They don’t like dumb tourists, especially not Americans.”

“But I’m English.”

“They don’t know that, Susan.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“The guy on the street corner with the gun in his pants. The kids with knives. The mafia. The ordinary crims. Even the military police.”

“Oh, come on. You’re exaggerating.”

“Think whatever you like. Just don’t wear a watch, don’t take the camera, use a spare wallet, don’t speak English, and preferably don’t go alone. Then you’ll live to a ripe old age and I won’t have to come rescue you.”

Susan stopped chewing on her fish. She swallowed it. “Rescue me?”

Richards ignored the question. “Susan, what are you doing in Brazil?”

Susan looked down for a moment. “Running, I suppose.”

“From what? From your husband?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, it’s a nice place to run to.” Richards looked out of the open front of the cafe to the beach. It was a stunning sunny day. Hundreds of people were swimming and enjoying the everyday good weather.

“A bit too hot, sometimes.”

“Sometimes.”

“What about you, Bob? What are you doing in Brazil?”

“Running, I suppose.” Richards was mocking her accent.

“No, really. I mean it. What are you doing here?”

Richards slowly drank his beer, then looked at her. “I’m running.”

For his honesty, Susan suddenly liked him very much.

The following Wednesday afternoon, they met for tea at the orphanage. Richards immediately suggested they go for a walk on the beach instead. “I don’t really like kids,” he said. “Can’t we get away from this racket?”

“You don’t like kids?”

“Don’t get me wrong. Kids are okay. They’re okay for other people. But they’re not ...” Richards struggled to find the words, then lifted up the ridiculously dainty teacup Susan had given him, “... my cup of tea.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve seen a lot of bad parents, back home, people busy with their careers, people who are great on the courtroom floor or on the exchange or on the road, but lousy with kids. And I’ve seen the kind of kids they raise.”

“You mightn’t be like that if you had kids, Bob.”

“I don’t relate to kids. Maybe I’m just too screwed up. It’s a full-time job just taking care of myself. I wouldn’t wish me on a child. Anyway, I’m not sure I’d want to bring a child into this crazy world. What about you, Susan?”

“I love kids. I always have.”

“Then why didn’t you ... and your husband ... have any?”

“I didn’t want to bring a child into that kind of family.”

Richards decided to let this alone. “Let’s go to the beach.”

After they parked the car, they gave a bored-looking teenager a few cruzeiros to watch it for them and set off on a long walk. Beach vendors with carts were selling pineapples, coconuts, beer, and ice creams. An endless column of high-rise apartments bordered the ocean. The sand on their feet was almost white, a faint light brown. The sun was fierce, but the azure sea was calm and beautiful.

“Have you noticed,” said Richards, “that the beach here is like the national religion? And the female form, in the thong bikini, it’s almost worshipped. Have you ever noticed that?”

“I suppose I have, to be honest. Is that what brought you to Brazil?”

“I told you, I was running. But it is a sexy country.”

“For the men, maybe.”

“Maybe. But don’t believe anything you’ve read about machismo.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who’s in charge at home, you or your husband?”

“I don’t know,” Susan lied.

“Come on, Susan. I’ll bet old Adrian tells you what to do. I’ll bet you’re the dutiful wife, smiling for the photographers at press conferences and cooking his supper for him every night.”

Susan was annoyed. At the same time she was amazed he knew her so easily he read her like an open book. “All right. Maybe you’re right.”

“Well, that’s more machismo than Brazil.”

Susan laughed. “Adrian is no macho man, believe me.”

“Well, more chauvinistic, then.”

“I expect so.”

“Not in Brazil. It’s the opposite of whatever you might have heard. Down here, it’s the women who run everything. Oh sure, the men run the politics and the business world and the army, but that’s not where the real power is, not the power that really counts.”

“Tell that to a women’s liberationist.”

“No. Really, I mean it. The most important thing in Brazil is the extended family. The family is everything, it’s the whole box and dice. Without family connections, you’re nobody. And who runs the families? The women. Behind closed doors the women call the shots, the wives, the mothers. I’ve seen powerful men in public, real tigers, but you meet them at home and they’re well-trained, harmless pussycats. They have to be. It’s the power structure. Women here know their power. They use it.”

“Does this explain why you haven’t married one of the locals, Bob?”

“Marriage? Me? No. When it comes to marriage, no matter who’s in charge, somebody’s always screwing up the other person’s life. It’s too much like a bad business deal. Take my ex-wife. She ran out the door as soon as my money dried up. Transaction over. No, me and marriage don’t mix.”

“Not everyone sees marriage that way. You might find someone who loved you. Don’t you think that’s possible?”

“Love and marriage are two different things.”

Susan nodded. She stopped walking and stared out over the sea. “Perhaps that’s true.”

Richards took a long look at her. “We’d better start back.” 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter  6

 

 

Bob Richards’ face was deeply tanned. He loved the beach and the sun. His thick hair was dark, with a slight wave to it. His eyes were something between blue and grey, and his build was tallish but stocky. He was naturally a fairly strong man, yet he had beautiful hands, Susan thought, as if he should have played a musical instrument. She guessed it was because he had worked all his life at a desk, or making deals with clients. They were not the hands of a farmer or a labourer. His hands fascinated her.

Richards had taken her to the steakhouse. It was a prestigious venue. The Brazilians liked their red meat, and their cattle ranches were among the best in the world. The wealthy would dress up and come to the high-class steakhouse more like they were going to the theatre than chowing down on beefsteaks and potatoes. It was different to the States. Richards wore a dark suit and Susan had put on a white summer dress. He had never seen her in a dress before. She looked even more attractive to him.

“Why do you do so much charity work?” Richards asked.

“To help people. And guilt, I suppose.”

“What could you possibly have to be guilty about? You’re a good churchgoing citizen, married to an upstanding parliamentarian, you drink tea, hardly touch alcohol, and say grace before you eat. Come on, Susan.”

“It’s not enough. I don’t know. I just feel I should be doing more to help those less privileged than myself.”

Richards chewed his steak. “This is good.”

“What, charity?”

“No, the sirloin.”

“What’s wrong with doing charity work?”

“Nothing. But you do so much, why is it never enough?”

“I don’t know. Maybe ... maybe I’m looking for something.”

“Maybe you’re trying not to think about your life too much.”

Susan looked away. “Probably. Maybe I’m just living a lie. That’s what I think, sometimes. The politician’s wife, you know. Squeaky clean.”

Richards shook his head. “No, you are squeaky clean. I’ve never met anyone more squeaky clean than you. Your husband chose well.”

“A politician can’t afford to be married to a woman who might do anything scandalous, is that what you’re saying, Bob?” Susan was annoyed.

“You said it, Sue. Not me.”

Susan reached across the table and patted him on the hand. “Sorry.”

“Why do you stay with him?”

“I don’t know. Duty, I suppose. Good old-fashioned English duty. We English like to be proper, you know. Adrian’s got an important job. I support him in it, even if I don’t always agree with his politics.”

“A Democrat married to a Republican husband, huh?”

“You might say that, but you forget we still have a Queen. A prime minister. The House of Lords. Tradition. We do the right thing.”

“The right thing?”

“We don’t do anything too improper. I try to stand by Adrian and the days go by. We go to all the right parties and the opera and for weekends at the estate. It’s all very civilised.”

“Cucumber sandwiches and tea on the lawn?”

“Hmmm.”

“But you’re unhappy, aren’t you?”

“Unhappy? How could I be unhappy married to multi-millionaire Adrian Harris-Smythe? He’s the perfect catch,” Susan said sarcastically.

“Like I said, you’re unhappy.”

“Yes.”

“Well, why don’t you leave him? You don’t have any kids. It’s just you and him. It’s not the 1940s, Susan. It’s the nineties. Just leave him.”

“It’s not that simple, Bob.”

“Oh,” said Richards dryly, “I get it. It’s the money. That’s why he was the perfect catch, isn’t it? Never have to worry about money again. Marry the landed gentry and live the good life.”

“You just say the first thing that comes into your head, Bob, don’t you?”

“Well, is it true?”

Susan let her annoyance subside. “Yes.”

“That’s why my ex-wife married me. But the money can run out.”

“I’m not staying with him because of the money.”

“For the sex? Then he’s an Adonis in the bedroom, right?”

At this, Susan laughed out loud. “Adrian? You must be joking.”

“So what’s the point?”

“You wouldn’t understand. You’d think I was stupid.”

“Try me.”

“Because I gave a vow. Because I got up in church, before God and my family and friends, and I gave a vow to stay with him in sickness and in health till death do us part. Because that matters.”

“But you’re miserable. Do you love him?”

“Love? What does that really mean?”

“Do you like him? Is he a nice guy? Do you want to be with him?”

“No. Not for years.”

“Then you’re crazy. Leave him.”

“I don’t know if I can. I made a vow in the sight of God. I promised.”

“Religion. I might have known.”

“Not everyone has the luxury of being an atheist like you, Bob. Not all of us enter lightly into marriage and then just skip out of it when it suits us. Some of us have our faith to deal with.”

“Hey! Emily left me! She treated me like dirt for years, then took every penny I had. If I had any sense I would have left her years before, but I hung on till the bitter end and got the shit kicked out of me. I didn’t skip out, Susan. Just because I don’t believe in God doesn’t mean I don’t believe in commitment.”

“You’re right, Bob, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Look, you can’t stay with this guy if you’re unhappy. All this charity work and all this noble concern for your husband is great, but when it comes down to it, twenty years from now, you’re going to look back on your life and realise you threw it all away. You’re going to kick yourself for not leaving him while you were still young. God isn’t going to strike you down for leaving your husband. God helps those who help themselves, isn’t that what they say?”

“I know, but I still can’t bring myself to do it. I even feel guilty just being here with you. I know that sounds terrible.”

“We’re not having an affair. I haven’t even shaken your hand.”

“But, that’s why I called you. That’s why I called you in the first place.”

Richards sighed. He was unaccustomed to being chivalrous. “Look, Susan. You don’t want to do this. You’re a pretty lady, I like you. I like spending time with you. But we’re just friends. You don’t want to complicate your life. You don’t want to have an affair. What you want to do is leave Adrian. I don’t care what the church says, that’s what you need to do.”

Susan disliked the way he could see right to the heart of her problems. It scared her. “I know you’re right, Bob. I know it. But there’s still a part of me that doesn’t respect myself enough to do that. I still think it’s wrong to leave one’s husband. It’s just wrong.”

“Is it wrong to care about yourself?”

“Maybe it is.”

“Who the hell taught you that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just the way I feel.”

“No wonder you walk around the slums with a video camera. You are trying to get yourself killed. You hate yourself.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Lady, you’re completely nuts.”

“Thanks for the compliment, Bob. It really helps.”

Richards laughed. “You’re welcome.”

The following Thursday, Richards agreed to meet Susan after the orphanage kids had been put to bed for the night. He drove her to the beach and they ate hamburgers in the dark, listening to the waves and smelling the salty, warm ocean. Then Susan uncharacteristically said she wanted a drink, so Richards pointed at one of the tall buildings a few blocks further along the beach. He led her there.

“Here it is. The Golden Beach Hotel. They’ve got tables on the deck upstairs, see? Want to go for a drink up there?”

Susan looked up at the five-star hotel. There was a large, open balcony for dining on the second storey. The view would be magnificent and Susan fancied the idea of sitting out in the warm night air. “I’d love to.”

By the time they were seated and enjoying their drinks, Richards was already wondering what the hell he was doing seeing her again.

“What are you thinking, Bob?”

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking about a jewellery deal I set up. I met the buyer in this hotel, early last month.”

“I didn’t know you dealt in jewels.”

“I don’t. I’m just the broker. The dealer’s an old French friend of mine, Pierre Fontaine. He’s in Rio this year. So he’s flying up next week to meet the buyer and make the transaction.”

“What kind of jewels are they?”

“Oh, it’s just an old diamond necklace. A French antique. But Pierre’s got a few deals to make with his regular clients here. He’ll bring a mother lode of rocks with him.”

“Very exotic, isn’t it? Trading diamonds in Brazil.”

Richards shrugged. “It’s just business to me. No big deal. But it is a big commission, about twelve grand. That kind of money goes a long way down here. It’s one of the advantages of leaving the States.”

“That’s about seven thousand pounds, isn’t it?”

“Something like that.”

“Adrian spends that much like it’s small change.”

“I’ll bet he does. There was a day when I did, too.”

“But not now?”

“Have you seen the rust on my car? No, not now.”

“Do you miss it? The money, I mean.”

“Oh, yeah. I miss it.”

Susan was sorry she asked.

“But there are other things you can’t put a price on. The beach. The good people here. Freedom. Not having the IRS banging on your door. Having time to think. Friends I’ve made. It’s not all bad, being broke in exile.”

“And the women?”

“Sure, the women. This is Brazil.”

“And the thong bikini, I suppose?”

“The thong bikini,” Richards agreed.

“It’s all a bit juvenile, isn’t it, Bob? Chasing after girls in bikinis?”

“You live life your way, I’ll live it my way. You don’t always have to take life seriously down here. People like to enjoy life. So do I.”

“Are you saying I don’t enjoy life?”

“Whoa! Stop right there. I’m not getting into that argument, Susan.”

“But what do you see in these women of yours? Do they mean anything to you? I mean, at the end of the day, are they just a convenience or do you actually have ... feelings for them?” Susan took a large sip of her Bacardi cocktail. She seemed much less inhibited than Richards had ever seen her.

“Why do you want to know? What difference does it make?”

“I don’t know. It’s just ... conversation.”

“Well, I don’t know. They’re my friends. Sometimes we sleep together. They use me as much as I use them. We just have fun together.”

“Sounds awful.”

“Well if you don’t want to know, don’t ask.”

“Maybe I do want to know,” Susan said provocatively.

Richards tried to ignore it. He drank his Scotch.

Half an hour later he had driven her back to the orphanage and was waiting impatiently for her to get out of his car. He wanted to go home and forget about her. That would have been sensible. Susan didn’t give him the chance. She learned across and kissed him, suddenly and awkwardly.

“Look, this isn’t a good ...”

She kissed him again.

“... idea.”

Susan ignored him. She kissed him again, longer this time.

Against his better judgement, Richards kissed her back. After a few long moments, he spoke again. “What are you doing, Susan?”

Susan spoke her words with conviction. She had decided. There was no turning back. “There’s a party at a farm, next Tuesday. Fabriola’s invited me to stay. There’ll be dancing, fireworks, a barbecue. Come with me.”

“Come on, Sue, you know this isn’t what you want.”

Susan kissed him again. “Come with me.”

Richards put a hand on her cheek. “Are you sure?”

“Come with me.”

Richards couldn’t help admiring her courage. No one ever did anything uncharacteristic of themselves, he had always thought. “Okay. I’ll come.”

“Pick me up at three, on Tuesday? We could drive out together.”

“All right.”

As Richards reversed the car between the orphanage gates and saw Susan standing in the beam of the headlights watching him, he wondered how the hell he had let himself get talked into this. A married woman. What the hell was he doing? And why did he have to like her so damn much?

He drove away.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter  7

 

 

It was a slow night at the club. Apart from the poker game going on quietly in the West Room, to which waiters occasionally took drinks and cigarettes, respectfully closing the big doors behind them as they left, there was hardly anyone around. The West Room was for senior members of the club. Lowly plebeians like Richards frequented the bar and the lesser rooms.

Membership to the exclusive Southern Cross Club was expensive and limited to successful male pillars of the local business community, with the occasional exception of a few hangers-on like Richards who had managed to talk their way in. Occasionally there would be family days on weekends, and the place would be overrun with children and wives, but on weeknights the club was a male domain. Bringing girlfriends was strictly forbidden. Richards shelled out the annual subscription mainly to make business contacts, but he also enjoyed the club as a place to unwind.

Sitting at the bar, Richards watched a waiter walk over the plush blue carpet on his way back from the West Room with a tray of empty glasses.

“What’s the matter, my friend?” said Ricardo Fuentes, in English.

Richards looked gloomily into his Scotch. “You don’t want to know.”

“Bobby, Bobby,” Ricardo said expansively, “you Americans hide your feelings too much. You must speak of them. You will feel better.”

“You think I should have more Latin passion?”

“Of course! Life is too short.”

“A little less passion might do me more good.”

“Ah. I knew it. It had to be a woman. What else could be bothering Bobby Hichards? You have lost one of your harem? Don’t worry, Bobby, there are – How do they say? – plenty of new fish in the ocean.”

“No. The harem is fine.”

“Then what, Bobby?” Ricardo swivelled on his bar stool and put a hand on Richards’ shoulder. “You have business problems? You want me to loan you some money? No problem, my friend. How much do you need?”

“You know I won’t take money from you, Ricardo.”

“Bobby, the price of sugar is good this year. I built a new mansion on the farm. My son is going to move in, with his wife. Everything is wonderful. If you need a little money, it is easy for me.”

“Thanks, but I don’t borrow money from friends. Anyway, business is okay. I’ve got a jewellery sale going down with General del Campo, as soon as the dealer gets to town.”

Ricardo lowered his voice to a whisper. “Bobby, you are doing business with the general? This is not wise, my friend. This is a bad man. People he don’t like sometimes just ... disappear.” He drew a finger slowly across his own throat. “They just disappear.”

“Oh, come on. It’s just one deal.”

“You should be more careful how you make your money.”

“Ricardo, you know me. I’m always careful.”

“Yes, this is true. And it is good for you that you are.”

“I always am, Ricardo. I always am.”

“Then it is a woman?”

Richards sighed. “Yeah, it’s a woman.”

“Don’t tell me, Bobby, you are in love?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Do I look that stupid? No, I’m not in love. Americans don’t fall in love overnight.”

“But you have feelings for her, this woman?”

“I don’t know, Ricardo. I don’t know what I’m doing. I had my life so well worked out. One week I’d see Carina, another week Patricia, then Maria. No problem. It’s all very ... sensible.”

“Yes, Bobby. Here is to sensible women.” He raised his glass.

“Right, exactly.”

“But one day you will marry, Bobby. I know you will. You say you are not interested, but I can see you settled down here. Brazilian life suits you.”

“I still have fantasies of going back to the States. All I have to do is come up with a million dollars in back-taxes.”

“You’re a dreamer, Bobby. That’s what I like about you.”

“I’m an idiot, is what I am. I’ve got this crazy Englishwoman, she’s kind of a schoolteacher ... we’re going for a night in the country.”

“She is attractive?”

“Gorgeous.”

“Well, go. Enjoy. What’s the problem?”

“She’s married, for a start.”

“Ah,” Ricardo said flatly.

“Her husband’s some high-flying politician in London. A powerful man.”

“Don’t sleep with the wives of powerful men, Bobby. That is the first rule. And the second rule, don’t get caught.”

“It’s not just that.”

“There is more?” Ricardo raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve got the damn woman on my mind all the time. I don’t know what it is about her. It’s not just physical. I don’t know. I can talk to her.”

“You have slept with her already?”

“No.”

“And she wants you?”

Richards raised his drink to say yes.

“You are talking to a woman and you have not slept with her? This is something I have not heard before. And, a married woman? Ai, ai, ai.”

“Tell me about it.”

At that moment the doors of the West Room swung violently open and a man stormed out. He stomped angrily through the bar, past the security guard, and straight out the exit to the car park. He looked about seventy years old, but large and strong in stature, and he had untidy white hair and wore an expensive grey linen suit.

Ricardo whistled. “Hey, look at that. They beat him again.”

“Who is he?”

“Judge Marcus. Looks like he lose a lot of money. You know your friend the general is playing him tonight, don’t you?”

“Del Campo? He’s in the West Room?”

“Absolutely.”

“I didn’t know he was here tonight.”

“Sure. He must have taken big money from the judge again. The judge comes with his lawyers and the general comes with a couple of his men. Usually the general wins, or they let him win.”

“They let him win?”

“Sure, sometimes. Who wants to make an enemy of such a man?”

Richards nodded.

“But the judge, he is different. He plays to win.”

“Isn’t he afraid?”

“Judge Marcus is a powerful man. Many connections. The general cannot touch him. But the general, he plays better poker. The judge always lose his money. They say it is because he is only half a man.”

“What do you mean?”

“They call him Spaghetti Marcus. He is a limp-dick.”

“He’s impotent? So what? The guy must be seventy years old. It happens to the best of us in the end, Ricardo.”

“Speak for yourself, my friend.”

Richards laughed loudly. “I apologise.”

Ricardo laughed back. “But with Marcus, it was different. His wife left him twenty years ago, and never since then, not one woman. You must have heard about this.”

“I try and stay away from the courts, Ricardo.”

“Of course. Well, the general loves to taunt him. They are like two bulls in the same arena. Each knows they cannot win, if they should charge at each other, so they snort and scratch the dirt, make a lot of noise, but nothing ever happens. But I feel sorry for Marcus the judge.”

“Why?”

“It’s not right for one man to disgrace another man’s reputation the way this general does. As soon as Marcus has his back turned, the general is making his little jokes about the spaghetti-dick. Sometimes even in front of him, little comments. I hate to be in the room when he says this.”

“And the judge has never tried to, I don’t know, have him killed?”

“The army is too powerful. Marcus tried a few times to bring a case against the general in court, for this murder or that missing person, you know the kind of thing. But nothing ever sticks.”

“Yeah. The military police cover their tracks. No evidence makes it to court. You know, Ricardo, we don’t need this kind of feud going on in town. It’s bound to be trouble.”

“Ah, Bobby, these men are idiots. They are dangerous idiots. That is why I am telling you, you should not be doing business with del Campo. Make this your last deal with that man, if you want to live a long life.”

“Living a long life is my motto. Don’t worry.”

Ricardo looked at him, concerned. “Be careful, my friend.”

Richards nodded soberly. “I always am, Ricardo. I always am.”

“This time, make sure you are.” Ricardo Fuentes was still worried.

 

 

Firecrackers exploded like gunshots at the feet of the children – little girls in pretty party dresses, boys in their best shirts and jeans. Crackling, sizzling, dangerous fireworks detonated right by their feet.

“Don’t get too close, Guillerme. You’ll get burned,” said one of the mothers. Her boy obediently stood back from the exploding firesticks.

Richards stood with Susan, watching the spectacle. The adults had lit a huge bonfire. It was burning brilliantly against the dark country landscape. Nearly everyone was dancing on the concrete floor of the outdoor entertainment area. It had its own tiled roof, supported on concrete pillars, just in case a tropical downpour should dampen the celebrations.

A small band took up one corner of the floor, playing loud forro, samba, and lambada music in their shirtsleeves, getting sweaty in the evening heat. The drummer pounded out driving rhythms on big snare drums, the singer crooned his lyrics with unsophisticated joy, and the veteran musician with the piano accordion pumped out racing melodies. There must have been thirty people there, plus a handful of their children, and everyone was dancing and laughing as if they had all just won the lottery.

Richards examined the two blocks of cheese he was holding over the coals of the barbecue on long sticks. “They’re nearly ready.”

“Are you sure this is good?” said Susan nervously. “Barbecued cheese?”

“Cheese on the Coals. It’s great. You gotta try some.”

Susan looked at the dancers and wished she could dance like them. Brazilians seemed to be born with rhythm. Even the children were good. “They certainly know how to have a good time, don’t they?”

“You better believe it. This is Brazil. These people are the best in the world at having a good time. They really know how to party.”

“But isn’t this supposed to be a religious festival?”

“Sure. It’s the festival of St John. Have some cheese.”

Susan took one of the sticks from Richards and sniffed cautiously at the white block of hot cheese on the end of it. “Well, it smells all right.”

“Take a bite.”

“Oh, it’s really good!”

“I told you so.”

“Why are all the men dressed like that?”

“Oh, there’s a kinda tradition of dressing up like hillbillies. Straw hats and neckerchiefs. And the girls in pretty peasant dresses.”

Susan smiled. “Perhaps we should have dressed up.”

“No, nobody cares. It’s just about having fun.”

Susan looked at the three or four couples who were dancing very close and fast to the latest song. It was very sexy. “What’s this dance called?”

“It’s a lambada.”

“Do you dance, Bob?”

“Sure, a little. You want to try it?”

“Oh, no. Heaven forbid. I’m not a dancer.”

“Okay. Suit yourself. I’m kind of tired, anyway.”

Susan watched the dancers, their legs interlaced, their bodies pressed against each other, as they smoothly flowed back and forward through the beat of the music. The dancers were graceful and sensual. The music was like nothing else she had heard before, it was earthy and joyous, the sound of a little three-piece band on a tropical night in Brazil. The rhythm of the music had an almost hypnotic effect on her. She felt happy and aroused.

“They’re great, aren’t they?” said Richards, admiring the dancers.

Susan smiled at him.

They watched the dancers for a long time. By ten o’clock the party was in full swing, but Susan wanted to find some privacy with Richards. She said her goodbyes to her friends, fellow workers from the orphanage, especially to Fabriola, who had invited her, and then led Richards around to the front of the simple but very large farmhouse. They sat down alone on the front steps of the porch. The brown concrete was refreshingly cool to touch.

“It is beautiful out here, isn’t it?” Susan said.

Richards looked into the night. The nearest house was a quarter-mile away in the darkness, past fields filled with overgrown fruit trees. But there was no livestock. “Is this really a working farm?”

“No, not really. Fabriola’s parents keep it as a kind of holiday home. They come up here to get away from the city and relax.”

“It’s nice.”

Susan didn’t know quite how to broach the next subject, so she just said the first thing she thought of. “We have our own room at the end of the house. It’s very private.” She had shown no affection towards him in public.

“Our own room? Hey, I know the Brazilians are pretty relaxed, but Fabriola must know you’re married. To someone else, I mean.”

“She was going to share a room with me herself, but I told her you were an old friend and that you often came to stay with me in England. There are separate beds. She didn’t think it was strange.”

Richards looked at her. “You really had this all planned.”

Susan felt a twinge of guilt, then pushed it out of her mind. “Hmmm.”

“Is it that important to you? To be lovers, not just friends?”

“Aren’t I as attractive as your other women?”

“That’s not the point, Sue. And yes, you’re beautiful.”

“I like talking with you,” Susan said, simply and unexpectedly.

“You what?”

“I like talking to you. Listening to you. Spending time with you. Just talking. All of the things I hate doing with Adrian.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t you think that’s what really counts, Bob? In a marriage, or any relationship? Isn’t it the talking the matters, and the just being together? Feeling like you’re on the same wavelength as the other person?”

Richards sighed. He was beginning to like her more and more. “Yeah.”

“I feel like I’m alive again when I’m with you, Bob. I feel like so many things from the past are healed over and gone. I feel like laughing.”

Richards said nothing.

“Do you know what I mean, Bob? Do you feel that way too?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“Are you afraid to answer it?”

“Where’s this going, Sue? You want me to say I feel alive again when I’m with you? That I feel things I haven’t felt for years, things I told myself I’d probably never feel again? Where would it leave us if I said that?”

“Say it if you want to.”

“What if I said I felt different about you? What if I said you weren’t like all the other women? What if I ... uh, didn’t want to wreck our friendship?”

“I’d believe you. I can tell you’re an honest man.”

“Are you an honest woman?”

“What do you mean?”

“I like you, Susan. Goddamn it, I didn’t want this kind of complication in my life, but I like you. And you’re married. You’re from England. You’ll be going back there in a few months, back to your husband. Isn’t that it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No,” Susan said softly. “I’m not sure about anything any more.”

Richards sighed. “That’s Brazil. It does that to you.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen, Bob. That’s the truth.”

“Look, Sue, I should go home. Fabriola can drive you back in the morning. You’re great, too great, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Susan put a hand on his knee. “Bob, I’m asking you not to go. Stay with me, just stay with me. I don’t want to talk about it, analyse it to death until there’s nothing left of it. I just want to be ... with you.”

“You know we’re going to get hurt if you go back to him?”

“I know. Just stay.” Susan kissed him.

After a moment’s silence, Richards said quietly, “Okay.” He wondered how the word had come out of him, but he had said it now and there was no turning back. It was different to Carina, to Patricia, to Maria. Somehow Susan was different. It was complicated. Risky. He cared about her.

When Susan kissed Richards, on the single bed in the dark room, she could see his face only in the faint light of a tiny candle. She had carefully moved a table behind the door, and this was where the candle burned.

 It was adultery, she knew, but it was so unlike anything anyone had ever told her about being unfaithful. It was something beautiful.

Time seemed to lose its meaning. All her memories of that night blended into a seamless collage in her mind, a tapestry of new experiences, of touch, of closeness, of affection, of beauty, and of sin. Could this be a sin, to be alive again after all these years? Surely not. The sin was in the empty sex that Adrian subjected her to, as if she were some kind of servant. And what was she feeling now, as she and Bob Richards made love, each very much surprised by the other, with the strange rhythms of loud samba music still coming from behind the house, drowning out their noises, giving them privacy? It was honesty. That was what she felt. It was terrible, wonderful honesty, all at once, overwhelming. It was honesty.

Later, in the quiet of the night, once the party had died down, the rightness of her decision was undeniable to her. She knew she had done the right thing. She knew it. “I’m glad you stayed, Bob. I’m so glad you did.”

They fell asleep, happy together, in the tiny single bed.

Fifty miles away, in Recife, a man was murdered.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter  8

 

 

It was the night of the festival of St John. If Pierre Fontaine had bothered to look out of the window of the Varig 737 as it made its approach to Recife, he might have seen hundreds of tiny bonfires burning in dirt roads throughout the poorer suburbs of the city. In the slums, people had made fires around which to dance and celebrate. In the wealthier suburbs, the pubs were packed with revellers. Music was playing everywhere. The noise of children setting off fireworks on street corners all over town sounded almost like the gunshots of a civil war. But there were no parades, no thousands of people marching down the main streets. It was not Carnival.

Fontaine did not look out the window. He fastened his seat belt and felt the gentle shudder of the aircraft landing. The only thing which concerned him, as he walked down the boarding stairs onto the asphalt taxiway, was getting some sleep. It was late.

The air was hot and thick. Fontaine was still not used to the strange aromas that one took in with every breath in Recife. There was the ocean, you could smell the salt of it. There was the stench of human excrement from the open sewer that flowed through the city. There was jet fuel and gasoline. There was the sweet smell of tropical vegetation, and then the sour aftertaste of rotting fruit. There was the perfume of the women walking next to him to the airport terminal. It was everything at once.

Fontaine wished his jacket were cooler. He was sweating in a white linen suit and tie, weighed down by a large collection of jewels stuffed into various money belts and inside-pockets. It was his own decision to travel without bodyguards. He had good insurance, so if anything were stolen it would not be the end of the world. He only had to make it to the hotel. Then he could get some sleep. The hotel guards would take care of security.

A teenage boy was handing out pamphlets to every passenger as they passed him on the way to the terminal building. The stars shone overhead.

“Senhor. Welcome to Recife,” the boy said in Portuguese.

“Thanks,” Fontaine replied. The pamphlet was a health warning against the current cholera epidemic. There was a skull and crossbones, just to drive home the point to anyone who didn’t read Portuguese, and a warning to drink only bottled water. Fontaine spoke Portuguese fluently.

Ten minutes later he was standing in a small queue outside the little airport, waiting for a taxi. When his turn came, he threw his hand luggage onto the back seat of a tiny taxi and squeezed into the front. It was not easy. Fontaine was a lanky six feet, four inches tall.

The taxi driver also seemed out of place in the little car. He was a fat man with a greasy moustache and thinning black hair. His belly seemed almost wedged under the little steering wheel. “Good evening, Senhor.”

“Good evening.”

“To where am I taking you?”

“The Golden Beach Hotel, Boa Viagem.”

“Of course.”

The engine of the little taxi whined in protest as the driver raced through the streets of Recife at sixty miles an hour.

“You have an accent, Senhor, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Yes. I’m French.”

“Ah. You speak Portuguese very well. Have you been in Brazil long?”

“A year. I’ve been staying in Rio.”

“What brings you to Recife? Business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure,” Fontaine lied. “I’m visiting a cousin.”

“Ah. Well, you should have come a day earlier. You have missed the festival of St John. All the parties are closing down for the night.”

Fontaine grunted in reply. He wished the driver would shut up.

At the hotel, the driver took a long, careful look at Fontaine’s face as he handed Fontaine the change. “Have a pleasant stay in Recife, Senhor.”

Fontaine checked into the hotel with the intention of going directly to his room. It was nearly midnight. Unfortunately the manager happened to be in the lobby and he recognised Fontaine immediately.

“Pierre!” The manager walked over and held out his hand.

Fontaine shook it. “Rafael, how are you?”

“I am well, I am well. And your trip was good, I hope?”

“The plane was delayed. I’m a little tired.”

“Well, we must get you to your room. Now, you have merchandise with you, as usual, I suppose. Do you want me to put it in the hotel safe?”

Fontaine looked around the immaculate lobby of the hotel. Two armed security men stood guard on the marble floor. “No, that’s okay.”

The manager summoned a porter. “Take Senhor Fontaine’s bags to 902. Well, Pierre, it is good to see you again. Until the morning.”

“Until the morning.”

When Fontaine got to his small but luxurious room, he put his jewels, including the antique necklace he had brought for General del Campo, in the small combination safe in the wardrobe. His meeting with the general was scheduled for ten o’clock in the morning. Fontaine stripped down to his boxer shorts, got into the king-sized bed and turned out the light. He knew that sleep would come to him in only a few minutes. It was a relief.

Five hundred metres down the beach road, the taxi driver had pulled up by a public telephone. He dialled the number he had been given.

The voice that answered the call said only one word. “Yes?”

“I think I have seen the man you are waiting for,” said the driver.

“Who is this?” The voice was deep. It was male.

“Miguel Dereito, taxi driver.”

“Yes, Miguel, who have you seen?”

“The jewel dealer, Senhor Pierre Fontaine. I have just taken him to the Golden Beach Hotel. I am certain it is him. I recognise his face.”

“And he is staying at the hotel tonight?”

“Yes, Senhor. I swear it.”

“Then my information was correct. There must be a sale going down.”

“I am sure there must be, Senhor. He looked nervous.”

“Then we are in luck, Miguel. This is good information. You will be rewarded. Do not go back to the hotel, do you understand? Stay away.”

“Whatever you say, Senhor.”

The line went dead.

 

 

It was two in the morning when three men walked slowly up to the entrance of the Golden Beach Hotel. They seemed relaxed, as if they were returning from a night out at one of the beach pubs. The last of the men carried a green and blue beach towel, rolled up and covered in sand. It was dyed in the colours of the Brazilian flag. The security guard at the door greeted them as they pushed open the heavy glass doors at the lobby entrance.

“Good evening, Senhors.”

“Good evening,” said the first of the men.

Inside the lobby, there was only one other guard. He was having a smoke at the reception desk with the night clerk. His revolver, like that of the guard at the door, was carelessly holstered at his hip.

The first of the men went to the reception desk, while the others stood in the centre of the lobby. At the desk, the first man spoke to the clerk. “Good evening. I’d like our keys, please.”

“Oh, Senhor? Which numbers are you staying in?”

“Ah, do you know what, I can’t remember which floor it was.”

The clerk looked at his guest list. “What is the name?”

In an instant, the man withdrew a nine-millimetre automatic pistol from his pocket and pointed it at the head of the surprised security guard, who let his cigarette fall from his lips. “I forget the name.”

At the same moment his two accomplices brought out their own guns. The one with the towel revealed a small sub-machine gun, the other had a nine-millimetre of his own. They whistled at the guard by the door, who looked across the room to see their barrels pointed right at him.

The leader spoke loudly. “Now, Senhor Security Guard, Senhor Desk Clerk, I am going to bet that this man here, this guard at whose head I have pointed my pretty little pistol, is your friend. I am going to bet that you would rather not see him killed immediately. Perhaps you would all like to keep living and not have any trouble. Would that be correct?”

No one said anything. The two accomplices moved apart. It would be impossible for the guard at the door to draw his holstered revolver fast enough to hit more than one of them.

The leader spoke to him. “Lie down on the floor, Senhor Guard, with your hands behind your back, and your friend here gets to live. Let’s not be stupid. Do you both want to die for the pittance they pay you here?”

The security guard at the door decided he did not want to die. He lay down. One of the accomplices walked over and handcuffed his wrists.

“And now you,” the leader said to the guard he held at gunpoint, who wisely decided to follow suit.

The leader spoke to the clerk. “You will give me the key to the luggage room, please. Very slowly, that’s right.”

The clerk gingerly drew out his hotel master-keys from his pocket and put them on the reception desk, then replaced his hands on the desk.

“Thank you.” The leader threw the keys to an accomplice.

“Lock the doors. Lock these guards in the luggage room. And tape their mouths. Then secure the area. Okay?”

The first accomplice locked the glass lobby doors, then joined his partner in herding the two guards into the luggage room near reception.

Once the guards had gone, the leader led the night clerk into the deserted office behind the reception desk. The clerk was a frail man in his fifties, and he hadn’t survived so long without gaining some common sense. “Don’t kill me, Senhor. I will help you. What do you want?”

“Ah, a smart man! Well, that is refreshing. I am in a hurry, if you don’t mind. I would advise you to tell me the truth, or I will kill you at once.”

“Yes, Senhor. Don’t kill me. I have a family. I will help you.”

“First, are there any more guards upstairs?”

“No, Senhor, I swear by my children there are not.”

“Very well. Second, in what room is Senhor Pierre Fontaine?”

“Room 902, Senhor. He came in tonight.”

“And did he put anything in the hotel safe?”

“No, Senhor. I swear it. I swear it, there is very little in the safe tonight.”

“Yes, I know. The armoured car came this morning.”

“Yes, yes. That is right.”

“Well then, you may live. I will not take you from your children.”

“Thank you, Senhor.”

“I regret I will have to handcuff you, also. Turn around.”

The leader took him into the luggage room. With all three prisoners bound hand and foot, their mouths taped, he was ready. “Okay, let’s do it.”

The accomplices had donned black balaclavas. It was regrettable that they had to enter the hotel with their faces exposed, but with the hit ordered at only an hour’s notice they had little choice. It was a professional risk they had taken for a few minutes – unfortunate, but unavoidable.

The leader left one of the accomplices to watch the prisoners and the other to watch the lobby. He left his own balaclava in his pocket for now, and replaced the nine-millimetre in its pocket also, in case of the unlikely event that he should meet a guest in the elevator. Time was of the essence. At the ninth floor, he went straight to room 902, pulled on some gloves and his balaclava, took the spare key which the clerk had given him, and opened the door.

The room was in darkness. He flipped on the light at about the same time that Pierre Fontaine turned over in bed, woken by the noise, and pointed his pistol at the bleary-eyed Frenchman.

Fontaine was so sleepy it took him a long moment to register what was happening to him. The figure of a masked man with a pistol pointed directly at him came into focus at the same time as he heard the words.

“Senhor Fontaine. This is a robbery. Put your hands out where I can seem them. Hands out where I can see them, right now, or I shoot.”

“All right, all right,” Fontaine managed to say in Portuguese. He slowly brought his hands out from under the covers and held them up.

“Get out of bed. Stand against the wall. Hands on your head.”

Fontaine did as he was told. He felt the cold steel of handcuffs snapping on around his wrists.

“Now then, the merchandise is in the safe, correct?”

“Correct,” said Fontaine.

“You will tell me the combination, please.”

“99 to the right, 56 to the left, 25 to the right.”

“Good. Now lie down. Face down.”

Fontaine lay on the floor. Quickly, the thief dialled up the combination and the tiny wardrobe safe popped open. In it were a number of loose diamonds, some impressive rings, some US dollars, and one large diamond-and-ruby necklace originally destined for sale to General del Campo. The thief pulled up his shirt, revealing a money belt into which he stuffed the cash and all of the jewels except the necklace, which he put in his pocket. “Thank you, Senhor Fontaine. Roll over, please.”

The thief taped up Fontaine’s mouth, then taped his ankles together.

“I apologise, but you understand it is necessary.”

Fontaine nodded his agreement. He was mostly glad that the thief was a professional. It was obvious he was not a common murderer.

“Goodbye, Senhor Fontaine.”

The light went out again. Fontaine waited in the darkness.

Back at the lobby, the leader collected his men and prepared to leave. One of the accomplices asked, “All well?”

“All well. But it’s a small haul.”

“How much?”

“Not more than half a million, tops. Maybe only a quarter.”

“Shit,” said the other accomplice. “We risked our lives for that?”

“It’s not our choice, boys. The boss wanted it done.”

“Fuck the boss.”

“Let’s get out of here. Unlock the staff entrance, we’ll go out the side.”

The three men removed their balaclavas as they stepped out into the alley at the side of the hotel. Without another word they each walked off in different directions, all relieved that the risky operation had gone well.

There would be no problem with escaping on foot. There was no need to run. No one would look twice at someone walking casually down the beach or through the streets of Boa Viagem. And soon they would reach their cars and quietly drive off into the night. Everything had gone smoothly.

The leader’s car was parked a few blocks away. He walked casually past the Little Napoli restaurant, which was now closed, and along the deserted streets with all their quiet houses hidden from view by high concrete walls. There would be a lot of drunks in those houses, he knew, sleeping off their St John celebrations. Then he came to a long alley, behind a row of houses, which led to the street on which his car was parked. He walked quickly into the dirt alleyway, silently thinking what a waste of time the job had been. Even the necklace couldn’t have been worth more than a measly quarter-million US dollars. He was hoping for at least a million.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by the scurrying noise of several grubby street kids running out of the shadows and appearing menacingly in front of him. One of the little bastards actually had a tiny knife.

“Your wallet, Senhor,” said the blonde-haired kid with the knife.

The jewel thief felt only one emotion, annoyance. He pulled out his nine-millimetre without a moment’s hesitation, walked straight up to the kid with the knife and pointed the barrel at his forehead.

Junio didn’t know what to do. His skinny arm trembled. The knife shook uncontrollably. This had never happened before. The rest of the kids started backing away, leaving Junio alone.

The jewel thief was already angry about risking his neck for a pissy little heist that would barely pay his bills. He certainly didn’t need any other distractions. “Listen, you little shit, I should kill you for what you just did, kill you right here and now ...”

At that millisecond the gut-wrenching sound of a pistol shot exploded like fire in Junio’s ears. Junio’s heart seemed to stop. He thought he must be dying. Urine ran down his leg and stained the dirt.

But then the man with the gun fell to the ground. Junio was confused. He didn’t know what was happening. He dropped his knife and just stood there, paralysed with fear, unable to move, in a pool of his own urine.

The man had dropped his gun. He was lying in the dirt gasping desperately for air and coughing up blood. The blood was bright red, and there was so much of it. It was so ugly. Junio could see it in the light from the street lamp at the end of the alley. The man was gargling on his own blood, spluttering like he was drowning, desperately fighting for every breath, fighting to get oxygen. Junio stepped back. It was a sight he would never forget as long as he lived. It was like something from hell.

Paulo, the leader of the street kids, stepped out from his hiding place and walked over to the dying man. He kicked him in the back – viciously – at the point where the shot had entered his chest and punctured his lung. The man twisted in agony but he could feel oxygen getting into his lungs at last. He might survive. He might live.

“Junio,” said Paulo, laughing. “You have pissed your pants!”

“No, Paulo. I didn’t.”

“You did! Look, you crybaby, you pissed your pants. Look, see here on the ground, here it is. Pissed your pants! Pissed your pants!”

The injured man managed to gulp down some more air, but he couldn’t move. He was dying after all, he decided. More blood dripped out of his mouth, there were clots in it. He wanted to scream – for the pain – but he could not. It was all he could do to spit up the blood and try to breathe.

“I didn’t, Paulo. I didn’t piss my pants.”

“Never mind, Junio. What shall we do with this man, here? You know he was going to shoot you? You want I should kill this stupid man, Junio? You want I should kill him?”

The injured man turned his grey, pale face up from the dirt and saw a skinny fifteen-year-old boy with a rusty revolver pointed at his chest. “No,” the man managed to say. “Don’t shoot.”

Paulo repeated the question. “You want me to pull the trigger, Junio? This man is a mess. Look at all this blood on his face, on his teeth. Phew! You are a mess, Senhor. I think you are better off dead.”

Junio ran over to Paulo. There were tears on Junio’s face, dirty tears flowing down onto his neck. “No, Paulo! Please, no! Don’t kill him. Don’t kill the man. Please, Paulo. No.” Junio didn’t want to see a man die. He had never seen a man die. He thought that God would send him to hell if he should see a man die with his own two eyes. “No, Paulo.”

“You are no fun, Junio. What a sissy-boy.” Paulo whistled loudly. The other children came out of the shadows again and looked curiously at the dying man on the ground. “Get his wallet, take his things.”

One of the young boys hesitantly put his hand in the dying man’s pocket and pulled out the diamond necklace. “What is this, Paulo?”

Paulo took the necklace. “I’ll take that. Give it to me.”

The dying man gasped louder for breath. The children didn’t want to touch him. There was too much blood. Paulo had killed before but there had never been so much blood. It was too ugly.

“All right,” Paulo declared. “Come on, let’s go. The police will come.”

Junio took one last look at the dying man. “I’m sorry, Senhor,” he said pathetically, looking at the man’s blooded face. It was as pale as a ghost. The man looked up at him, his face twisted in the dirt, still gasping, unable to speak. Junio turned and ran as fast as he could.

The man tried to move, once the street kids were gone, but a shooting agony raced up his neck to his skull each time he tried it. His limbs would not obey him. He could not rise. He knew he was destined to die here, lying in a clotted pool of his own blood and the foul urine of the bastard street kid. He would never last more than an hour, he knew that for sure. He closed his eyes, spat some dirt and saliva out of his mouth, and realised death was upon him. Death tasted bad, like blood. Then he was unconscious.

 When he came to again, he saw dirt and dried blood. He remembered where he was, still lying in the alley, but now there was a voice calling out and someone was shaking him.

“Captain! Captain, over here! I found a victim.”

The thief tried to turn over, to see who was speaking. Then he felt strong hands on his shoulders pulling him around until he was lying on his back. He let out a cry of pain as his broken rib grated along his spine. When he was able open his eyes again, the sight of a young military police corporal bending over him came into focus. The military police! He was lost.

“Senhor, are you all right, Senhor?” said the corporal.

“I’ve been shot. I need a hospital,” the thief managed to whisper.

“All right, Senhor, all right. Don’t worry, we will get you to a doctor.”

Behind the corporal, two privates looked on.

The corporal shouted at them. “Don’t just stand there! Help this man sit up.” Then he spoke quietly. “Hold still, Senhor. I will check your wounds.” He unbuttoned the man’s shirt and saw the small, ragged hole where the .38 calibre bullet had exited his chest. There was blood everywhere.

“I’m bleeding to death. Please, get me to a doctor. Get me a doctor.”

“We will take you to the hospital. But I must check your wounds.” The corporal opened the man’s shirt further, and saw the black money belt wrapped around his waist. “Were you robbed, Senhor?”

“No, no.” He was beginning to lose consciousness again.

The corporal removed the money belt and opened it. He was confused by the sight of two dozen diamond rings, countless loose jewels, and a thick wad of US dollars. “What the hell? What’s all this? This man ... this man is one of the thieves, from the hotel. Here are the jewels, they are here.” He shouted again. “Captain! Captain, I have the thief!”

The injured man let his head slump forward. Now he knew he was dead. He wished he could have just died in the alley, without recovering consciousness. That would have been much better.

A hulking military police captain got out of the parked police van, slammed the door in annoyance and stomped down the alley to his corporal.

“What the hell are you shouting about, Corporal? I have General del Campo on the radio and he’s in a mood like the devil. What’s the problem?”

“This man, Captain Sollo. He’s not a victim. He’s one of the thieves. Look!” The corporal stood up and handed over the money belt.

A flash of anger came across the captain’s face. He had thick features, a nose broken years before in a drunken brawl, and what little hair he had was clipped back to a military fuzz. He took his heavy black truncheon in his hands and swung it silently in thought for a moment. “Stand aside.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hold this man still!” the captain barked. The two privates lifted the injured man a little higher. “Hold up his head so he can see me.”

The thief looked up weakly at the towering figure of Captain Sollo.

“You are the thief who has robbed Senhor Fontaine, yes?”

“What does it matter?” the thief whispered, dribbling bloody saliva.

Sollo brought his truncheon down in a vicious, sweeping arc, smashing it into the thief’s right cheek, splintering the bone in an instant.

The man’s blood-choked cry of pain rang out in the dark alleyway. He wished again that he were already dead.

“Now, we will try again. You are the thief who robbed Senhor Fontaine?”

It was difficult to speak at all with a fractured face. “Yes ... yes.”

“That’s better. Well then, we shall have a little talk in private. Corporal, have this man put in the back of the van. I will interrogate him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sollo returned to the front of the van and leaned in for the radio. He grabbed the microphone. “I’m sorry, General, for the delay.”

The sound of General del Campo’s voice hissed from the dashboard speaker. “What’s going on, Sollo? Have you recovered the jewels?”

“Some of them, General. We have caught one of the thieves. Over.”

“Does he have the necklace, the diamond necklace?”

“No, sir. What do you want me to do with him?”

“Find out where the necklace is. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. And the man?”

“Kill him. And get me that necklace, Sollo. This is a nightmare.”

“I understand, General. Leave it with me, sir. Out.”

Sollo replaced the microphone and went around to the back of the large van. He closed the doors behind him and kneeled down on the hard floor by the thief, who was propped up in the front corner as helpless as a baby.

“Now, my friend. You have stolen something which is very important to a friend of mine. A diamond necklace with two large rubies. Where is it?”

“I don’t have it. For God’s sake, get me to a doctor. I’ll find it for you.”

“I might consider bringing you a doctor, Senhor, if you tell me what happened to the necklace. Perhaps your accomplices have it?”

The thief coughed. His shirt was soaked with blood. “No, I had it myself. Listen to me. I was shot by some fucking street kid. He took it.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Do you think I would shoot myself, Captain? Look at me.”

“Then tell me about the street kid.”

“He was tall, about fifteen. Skinny ... light skin, dark hair. He had an old revolver. The others called him Paulo. I remember the name.”

“How many were there, altogether?”

“I don’t know. Five. Maybe seven.”

“And the necklace?”

“I told you, the tall kid took it. He took it, I tell you.”

Sollo touched the thief’s face. “You have a nasty injury there. I’d say it’s broken. And this gunshot wound, not good. Not good at all. You could die soon. Probably without a doctor you will die very soon. And if you are lying to me, Senhor, then I assure you, you will die. So, is this the truth?”

“It’s the truth. The kid has the necklace.”

Sollo fingered the familiar handle of his army knife and grasped it firmly in his right hand, slowly drawing it out of its sheath. “I am glad you have decided to tell me the truth, Senhor. It will go much better for you now. Because I will find this child, Paulo, and I will recover the necklace. The general will be very happy with me for this, you understand? Very happy.”

“All right. Just get me to a doctor, I’m begging you.”

“Of course, Senhor. Of course. You have cooperated.”

Without warning, Sollo thrust his knife deep into the thief’s exposed abdomen. With an expert movement, like that of an abattoir slaughterman, he cut away the man’s life. It took two seconds.

The thief’s eyes widened in horror and in a wave of unbearable pain, then the knife came out of him. He looked down at his own belly, fresh blood seeping out like some vile acid, mixing with the dried blood from the gunshot wound. Then he took one crackling breath and fell forward into blackness.

Sollo shook his head over the dead man’s body. “You should not have stolen from General del Campo, my friend. That was your mistake.”

He kicked open the rear doors of the van and called out to his men. “Corporal, take this man to the morgue. He has died of his injuries.”

The corporal saluted and asked no questions. “Yes, sir. At once.”

Fifty miles away, in a quiet farmhouse, Bob Richards slept peacefully. Susan was curled up by his side. The candle in their room had burned out.

It was completely dark.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter  9

 

 

They were careful at breakfast. Several of the guests had stayed overnight at the farm. Fabriola had set up a table outside with juice and fruits, fresh bread and cured meats. There were even leftover cakes. People were crowded around the table, jostling for their breakfast of choice, carrying their plates away to chairs and tables set around what had been the dance floor a few hours previously. Everyone was a little subdued from the heavy drinking the night before. Susan and Richards talked to different people, queued in different lines, sat at different tables. After breakfast, Susan thanked Fabriola again and explained that Richards had to get back to Recife and since she was sharing a car with him she would have to go.

As the car bumped slowly over the winding dirt road that led back to the highway, Susan began to laugh. Richards took his eyes off the road for a moment and glanced across at her, before swerving the car a little to avoid a goat that had wandered out from one of the neighbouring properties.

“Sorry,” said Susan. “I’m just nervous, I expect.”

“You laugh when you’re nervous?”

“Well, it is funny. I felt like everyone was watching me, watching you, as if everyone knew. It’s a bit like being a naughty schoolgirl again.”

Richards laughed at this. “You? A naughty schoolgirl? I don’t think so.”

“How do you know I wasn’t one?”

“You were straight. You probably brought the teacher an apple.”

“Well, I still felt like a naughty schoolgirl this morning.”

Richards pulled up at the junction with the highway, looked left and right, then turned onto the blacktop and accelerated. It would be a long drive back to Recife. “Is that what we were doing last night? Misbehaving?”

Susan ran the fingers of her left hand through his hair. “No.”

Richards looked lazily at the fields of sugar cane that drifted by, at the brick red, wet soil by the sides of the highway, at the horse-drawn carts they occasionally passed. He was happy.

Susan looked often at Richards, at his tanned face, his wavy black hair, his strong neck. He was so different to Adrian, so much more alive. She was attracted to him physically, very much, but it was more than that. He fascinated her. He was in many ways the kind of free spirit that she herself would have loved to be, free from everything which chained her down.

“Have you ever had an affair before, Sue?”

“Am I having one now?”

“You tell me.”

“No. Never before.”

“In fifteen years, not once?”

“No.”

Richards nodded. “Me neither. When I was with Emily, I mean.”

“Hmmm.”

Richards pointed at a small, green, stone building by the side of the highway. It was just sitting there by itself, surrounded by farmland, isolated at the side of the road. “See that? Assembly of God.”

Susan looked at the building as they sped past it. It was a flat building, not much to look at, but there was a white cross at its front which stood out against the lime green of the building itself. “A church?”

“Yeah. A little different to your Catholic variety.”

“How do you mean?”

“Hocus pocus. Black magic. You walk past one of those places some nights and you hear people yelling in joy, possessed by spirits. You find the whole congregation standing up and shouting. You should see it.”

“I don’t think my vicar would approve.”

“I don’t know, I kinda like it. They just let it all hang out.”

“It sounds crazy to me.”

“Doesn’t this world sometimes make you want to shout, Sue? It’s such a goddamned crazy planet. A little shouting’s gotta be good for the soul.”

“Have you tried it?”

“Who, me? I do my shouting in silence. There’s a little voice in the back of my head that spends most of the day yelling his lungs out.”

“What does he say?” said Susan, bemused.

“He just yells, ‘Get back to Kansas!’ Over and over. All he says.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. One day I’ll figure out what it means.”

Susan laughed. “You think it’s a message, then?”

“I tried clicking my heels together, but I’m still right here in Brazil.”

Susan ran her hand through his hair again. “I’m glad you’re here, Bob.”

“That makes one of us,” said Richards, deadpan. Then he laughed.

“You know, Bob, I really care about you. This isn’t just ‘an affair.’ ”

Richards shook his head and spoke softly. “Oh, no. Don’t say that.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with saying it?”

“People find something good. Maybe they have it for a little while. Maybe they have it forever. But they go and put words on it. They have to give it a fancy name. Only maybe it doesn’t live up to the name they give it, or maybe it does. Either way, it’s better without a name.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Bob.”

“You know how you told me you felt alive again?”

“Yes.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Of course. You know I did, Bob.”

Richards smiled at her, then looked back at the road. “So did I.”

Susan felt a wave of affection for him, when he said that.

“Well, Sue, don’t try and give that a name. Okay?”

“Okay,” Susan said softly. “Okay, I won’t.”

When they stopped at a little town for some gas, Susan kissed him. She hadn’t felt this way about a man for twenty years. It was strange and new, and she loved the feeling. She could hardly believe it was happening.

An hour later, Richards had dropped her off at the orphanage. He was genuinely happy, a feeling of which he was at once both appreciative and deeply suspicious. But even with all of his world-weary paranoia, he could not have guessed how very soon the bubble would burst. Two uniformed military policemen were waiting for him at his apartment building.

As he drove through the gates into the underground parking lot, the two soldiers waved him to a stop. Richards wound down the car window.

“Senhor Hichards?” said the closest of the men.

“Yes.”

“You will park your car and come with us.”

“All right. No problem. Just give me a minute.”

“Very well, Senhor.”

Richards wondered what the hell was going on. He had never had soldiers waiting for him at his apartment before. Something had to be up, probably something very bad. He had no idea what it might be. He parked the car and walked slowly towards the soldiers. They each had a sub-machine gun hanging from their shoulders. Richards wasn’t going to make any fast moves that might upset them. The military police had a bad habit of shooting first and asking questions later.

“All right, Senhor Hichards, you will come with us.”

“What’s this all about?” said Richards, as they frisked him.

“General del Campo wishes to see you urgently.”

“He could have just called,” Richards said sarcastically.

“Let’s go. Move it,” the second soldier barked.

The soldiers drove him to the general’s mansion. It was separated from adjacent houses by an eight-foot concrete wall topped with razor wire, and there were two small guard towers, one at the front and one at the rear of the property, each of which contained two soldiers at all times. Richards knew that a man like the general might find himself the target of assassination attempts by powerful rivals. Kidnapping, however, was less likely. The military police would slowly crucify any lowly kidnappers.

The house itself was a rambling mansion, built in a Spanish style. The garden at the back was lush and large, leading up marble steps to an open entertainment room filled with cane furniture and huge potted plants. There was an enormous swimming pool, more of a lake than a mere pool, but on this particular morning it was devoid of swimmers. None of the general’s large family were visiting. He was in full uniform, rows of ribbons and medals on his chest, and he was not in the mood for company.

Richards was escorted through the rear boundary gates and marched into the large garden, past the pool, and up the steps to the seating area where the general waited.

“Leave us,” the general grunted to the two military policemen. Then he spoke in English. He seemed to be trying to contain his volcanic temper, and was only just managing to do so. “Richards, have a seat.”

Richards sat down.

The general remained standing. “Do you have any idea what this is about? Hmmm? Any guesses, Mister Richards?”

Richards shook his head. “I’m sorry, General. I don’t. No.”

“You don’t? Where were you last night?”

“I was out of town, for the festival.”

“I see. Well, while you were out having a good time, your friend Pierre Fontaine arrived in Recife. You know this, yes?”

“Of course, General. He was due to meet with you this morning.”

“There will be no meeting.”

“What?”

“My men found Senhor Fontaine gagged and bound in his room last night. He had been robbed, Mister Richards. Do you understand?”

“What are you talking about? Is he all right?”

“That is not my concern. My concern is the necklace he was to bring for me. The necklace that my ... niece wanted so much. The necklace I told you I had to have. Do you know where that necklace is?”

“With Fontaine.”

“No, Mister Richards. I ask again, do you know where it is?”

Richards dared not stand up. The general was leaning over him, barking his questions out like he was in some dark interrogation room, not in his luxurious home. “What are you saying, General? How should I know?”

“The necklace is stolen. Don’t you think it is a coincidence that this happens only hours after Senhor Fontaine arrives at the hotel? Don’t you think it would be rather difficult for a thief to know exactly when he was due to arrive? And that he should have such a valuable necklace in his room?”

“Look, General, I told you I was out of town. What happened?”

“What happened? For your information, three armed bandits raided the hotel after two this morning. They tied up the guards, went to Fontaine’s room, and stole the necklace, along with a number of lesser jewels which are of no concern to me.”

“Jesus,” Richards hissed. “It sounds like a mafia job.”

“Yes, that is what it sounds like. And how did they know?”

“Maybe a crooked hotel clerk. Or a spotter at the airport. Could have been anything. Fontaine’s a well-known jeweller. Goddamn it.”

The general turned his back on Richards and walked a few paces. Then he turned around and spoke again. “Or perhaps it was an inside job. Hmmm? Perhaps someone wanted to make a quick buck, Mister Richards? I believe your sales commission is five percent. Twelve thousand dollars. How much more profitable it would be to get, say, twenty-five percent? I believe that is the common reward for a valuable informant to the mafia. Sixty thousand dollars, all for one little piece of information, the date and time that Fontaine would be in that hotel with the necklace. Hmmm?”

Richards stood up now, ignoring the risk. He was a dead man if the general thought he was in on it. “Just wait a minute. Pierre Fontaine is my friend. He might have been killed. I’m just as pissed as you are, General, believe me. I’m not going to sabotage my own deal. You ask anyone in Recife who’s done business with me. I deliver. I’m straight. And I don’t have anything to do with the mob. I’m a broker, and that’s all I am.”

“Really? Then where is the necklace? You have not delivered.”

Richards tried again. “Look, General, I’m a washed-up stockbroker. My sofa’s got holes in it. I drive a rust-bucket car. I’ve never fired a gun in my life. My idea of excitement is taking a girlfriend out to the Little Napoli for spaghetti marinara and a couple of beers. Do I look like somebody who’s on the take for the mob? Come on, General. I know you’re pissed about this, but give me a break. I’m just the little guy caught in the middle.”

“What you are lucky not to be, Mister Richards, is a dead man.”

Richards stood there looking at the general, thinking fast.

“No one steals from General del Campo and lives to tell the tale. The thief learned as much, when we found him near the hotel. Now he is in the morgue. And that is where you would be, if it were not for Senhor Fontaine.”

“Pierre?”

“Yes. It seems he has vouched for you. He said he would trust you with his life. And perhaps that is exactly what he has done.”

Good old Pierre, Richards thought.

“But, Mister Richards, although I am prepared to believe him, if I find one shred of evidence that you are involved in this theft, I will have you executed. And I will be looking. Do you understand?”

“I wasn’t involved, General. Believe me.”

“Perhaps.”

“Forgive me, General, but if the thief is dead ...”

“Where are the jewels? Good question. He had most of them with him, but not the necklace. We only found him because he had been shot.”

“Shot? Who shot him?”

“Street kids. At least that is what he told Captain Sollo. He claimed to have been shot by some little bastard with an old revolver who then took the necklace from him. I find the story ridiculous.”

“There are a lot of street kids in that area,” Richards replied.

“Granted. That is true. And they sometimes are armed.”

“Maybe it’s the truth. Maybe the kids did shoot him.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps his accomplices have the necklace. There were two other thieves we did not catch.”

“Hmmm.” Richards was pleased the focus of the general’s anger had shifted away from him. “So what now?”

“Sollo believes this story about the children. He says he was convinced the man was telling the truth, before he executed him. And Sollo has much experience in these matters. So, we find the little bastards.”

“And then?”

“We kill them, Mister Richards. And you had better hope one of the little runts has that necklace, or it will be your head next.”

Richards didn’t want to see any kids getting murdered, but this was no time to try and argue the finer points of morality with a homicidal maniac like the general. “You’ll find it, General. I’m sure you’ll find it.”

“You had better hope we do, for your sake, my friend.”

The first thing Richards did after leaving the general was go to a public telephone and call the Golden Beach Hotel. Fontaine agreed to see him immediately. Sitting in the taxi on the way to the hotel, Richards could not believe his predicament. The whole thing was supposed to be a simple jewellery sale – a simple sale – and now all hell had broken lose.

Fontaine met him on the second-storey terrace of the hotel. The beach was filled with happy people enjoying the brilliant weather, as usual, but Richards didn’t look.

“Jesus Christ, Pierre, you might have been killed.”

“Tell me about it, my friend,” said Fontaine.

“What the hell happened?”

“They were professionals. They came into the lobby with concealed weapons, tied up the guards, and forced the clerk to reveal my room number. The whole thing took less than fifteen minutes.”

“Did you have a gun?”

“No. It is too much the easy way to get me killed. I am a jeweller, not a gunman. These thieves would shoot me dead before I would even take aim.”

Richards noticed Fontaine’s hand shaking as the Frenchman drank his vodka on the rocks. He reached across the table and patted his old friend on the shoulder. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t get hurt, Pierre.”

“So am I, Bob. So am I. When the light in my room went on, I turned over in bed and what do I see? A man in a black balaclava with gloves. He had a Luger pistol trained on my head. I thought it was a bad dream.”

“What did you do?”

“What could I do? I got out of bed, like he told me, let him handcuff me and told him the safe combination. Then I listened as he took all my merchandise. But it is just money. I have insurance.”

“Did you think he would kill you?”

“At first, yes. But then it became clear he was a professional, a thief, not a murderer. So then I knew I would be safe.”

“Any idea who he was?”

“No. Mafia, probably. They must have had me followed.”

“Did you hear what happened to him?”

“No. Del Campo didn’t say.”

“The general had him executed. But even when they found him, he was already injured. He gave them some cock and bull story about being robbed by street kids while he was getting away from the hotel.”

“This is ridiculous. A professional, robbed by children? No.”

“That’s what I thought. But one of the general’s henchmen interrogated him before they had him executed. Just like the old days of the military regime. Most people don’t lie under that kind of torture.”

“No, he must have lied. His accomplices must have the necklace. He would lie to protect them, lie until the end. A brave man.”

“Maybe, Pierre. But the general is going to round up the children and have them killed. I think he’s serious about it.”

“Ah, he is a pig, this man, the general. You know, Bob, this thief did not touch one hair on my head. He took only the jewels and did me not one piece of harm. I am sorry for his death. There is too much killing. Too much.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean. And I might be next.”

“You?”

“The general thinks I was an informer.”

“Bah! This is even more ridiculous. I told him you were clean.”

Richards said soberly, “Thanks, Pierre. That saved my life, you know.”

“It is nothing, my friend.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“The general says he does not want me to leave town until the necklace is found. So I am a prisoner in this hotel. But at least I am safe.”

“Shit. This is a goddamned nightmare, isn’t it?”

“Yes. And you must take care, Bob. This general is angry. He wants blood. Be careful that blood is not yours.”

“I’ll be careful, Pierre. I always am.”

“I hope it is enough, to be careful,” Fontaine said cryptically.

Richards smiled weakly. “So do I.”

 

 

 

Chapter  10

 

 

Bob Richards was used to dealing with his problems alone. So at first he didn’t say anything to Susan about the theft of the necklace, despite the fact that someone had leaked the news to the press. Maybe the hotel manager had confided in a reporter, but whatever the reason there it was on page three of the morning newspaper, three days after the heist. ‘Tears of Angels Stolen.’ This was just the kind of publicity that Richards didn’t need. Looking at the large photograph of the necklace only depressed him further. In disgust, he had thrown the newspaper in the trash on the walk back from the corner newsstand. He didn’t even want the story in his apartment.

Richards hoped fervently that the whole thing didn’t turn into a media circus. The Brazilian tabloid media was a sensational affair. During live feeds, television reporters actually screamed their lines, jumping around and waving madly at events happening on camera. The serious media hardly rated at all by comparison. Millions of illiterate viewers sat every night in front of their TVs and laughed, clapped, shouted and gasped at the exciting, largely fictitious news. Richards dreaded the thought.

He had spent most of the day stewing over how to find the necklace, but had come to the sad conclusion there was nothing he could do but hope the military police came across it – and hope they did so without bloodshed. Richards hated violence. Other than a few schoolyard brawls as a kid, he had never physically hurt another person in his life and he never wanted to, either. He had always refused to have any part in shady business deals which were going to involve intimidation, violence, or even murder. He was appalled that a simple jewellery sale had suddenly turned into a catalogue of brutality. Ricardo Fuentes was right. Richards should have listened to him that night at the club. He should have had more sense than to try and do business with General Fernando del Campo. And now it might cost him his own life. It was a simple mistake.

Richards tried to stop thinking about it. Susan would be arriving any minute. She was driving from the orphanage to spend the evening with him. The minutes passed slowly until she arrived. He actually missed her.

“Hello,” she said brightly, when he opened the door.

“Hi. Come in.”

Susan kissed him, then walked into his living room. “So this is your swinging bachelor pad? Am I safe in here, unchaperoned?”

“Depends on whether you want to be safe.”

Susan stopped looking around and hugged Richards. “Definitely not.”

Eventually, Richards pulled himself away from her kiss. “I wouldn’t want to subject you to my cooking, but I bought a cake. Want some coffee?”

“Love some.”

“Have a seat. It’s a chocolate cake, with ... strawberry liqueur icing.”

“Sounds wonderfully decadent. I won’t say no.”

Susan looked closely at the old sofa she was sitting on. The blue fabric was threadbare and there were a few small holes. She could actually see the stuffing. But the apartment was clean and neat. A multicoloured rug covered much of the wooden floor. There was an American flag on one wall, and a leather mural on another, which was a simple map of Brazil. The view from the large windows at the front of the long apartment was of the next apartment building – another of the countless ugly concrete towers that made up this part of the city. She could hear car horns and engines from the street below, and also the televisions of neighbours. It was all so different from her home with Adrian. Bob Richards had so little money and yet she felt so happy and safe to be with him, so far away from England.

Richards brought the coffee and cake and sat next to her.

“You seem quiet,” said Susan.

“No, it’s nothing. I’ve just had a long day. Have some cake.”

“I mean it, you look worried.”

“It’s better we don’t talk about it.”

Susan put a hand on his knee. “Why is it better?”

“It just is. Believe me. It’s safer you don’t ask.” Richards felt uneasy. He was well used to picking up on the moods of his lady friends, but he wasn’t used to one of them knowing him just as easily.

“Safer? What are you talking about, Bob? Are you in trouble?”

“No more than usual.”

“Bob, come on. Tell me. You’ve got me worried, now.”

Richards put his face in his hands for a moment. “Okay. I’ll tell you. You remember I told you I was the broker for a jewellery deal at the Golden Beach Hotel? Well, something went wrong. There was an armed robbery the night before the deal was supposed to happen. The dealer lost everything.”

“Oh, God. I see.”

“It gets worse. The customer is a very influential man, a military man. His name is General Fernando del Campo.”

“Del Campo? The head of the military police?”

“Right. Well, he’s pretty pissed about not getting the necklace he ordered. And he’s blaming me for the robbery. He thinks I’m an informant, that I tipped off the thieves the dealer would be in the hotel.”

“Well, tell him you didn’t. Get a lawyer. If you need money, I can ...”

“No, Sue. This isn’t about the law. Del Campo is judge and jury around here. And the sentence for crossing him is death.”

“Death? You can’t be serious.”

“Does it look like I’m joking?”

“But you’re not an informant, Bob.”

“Of course not.”

“Then he can’t prove it.”

“He doesn’t have to. He’s so pissed about not getting the diamond necklace he wanted for his mistress, he just wants somebody’s head. Mine.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Hope like hell his goons find that necklace. If it turns up, maybe the general will forget about me and things will get back to normal. If it doesn’t turn up ... I’d rather not think about it.”

“Bob, I’m so sorry.” Susan hugged him tightly.

Richards wasn’t used to a woman caring about him. “Uh, thanks,” he said stupidly. After a few seconds, he continued, “But don’t worry. It’ll turn out all right. I shouldn’t have told you.”

Susan looked at him seriously. “Yes, you should.”

I really like this woman, Richards thought. “Okay,” he said at last.

“I’ll pray for you, Bob. I’ll pray for that necklace to be found.”

“Well, thanks. But I think it might take a little more than a prayer.”

“I’ll pray for you, anyway.”

“Okay,” Richards said softly. Maybe a prayer couldn’t hurt.

An hour later, they were in bed. There were no military police. There were no jewellery deals. There were no murders, no beatings. There was no IRS. There was no Adrian, no perfect boring life in London. There was no loneliness. There was just the gentle lovemaking, the two of them riding on the endless waves of sensation their bodies generated, the waves of passion and beauty, the waves celebrating the happy discovery that they had each other, that they were not entirely alone any more in their separate lives. They realised, that long night, they were in love.

Neither of them dared say it.

 

 

 

 

Chapter  11

 

 

It was a large slum, but it had no particular name. The people who lived there took good care of their makeshift homes, they spoke to each other of their endless problems, helped each other in times of trouble, lit bonfires and danced to celebrate the festival of St John, and always, always kept an eye out for trouble. The rusty dirt roads ran in a crazy pattern, a town planner’s nightmare. It was a community which had exploded in every direction like a monstrous chain reaction, devouring every piece of open space in its path. The roofs of the houses were made of corrugated iron, or tin, or even tiles, for the lucky ones. The walls were wooden, painted in dirty colours, or roughly fashioned out of large bricks. Some of the smaller huts had only blankets of canvas where a wall should be. There were holes in the wood, or in the brick walls, for windows, often without glass. Sometimes wooden shutters plugged these holes to keep out the rain. There were dogs and children in the streets, there was a highway on the edge of the slum which constantly filled the air with smog and noise, and, a few blocks away, there was an open sewerage channel that reeked of decomposing human excrement. The rank stench drifted equally through the slum and the middle-class suburbs nearby. Sometimes mothers would take their children to the sewerage channel to wash tools and rags, or just to play. Most of the people here would never read or write. Hundreds of ordinary people survived in this place, they came home to these ramshackle huts every night after long days at honest work that paid the equivalent of a few dollars a day. Here was survival at its most basic. The slum.

Strangely enough, while sometimes there might not be enough food on the table or clean clothes to wear, there were still televisions in many of the houses in the better part of the slum, the part which was closer to the highway and which had electricity. People here would buy the biggest television that they could find the cash for, no matter how hard times were. Television was bright, it was loud, it was exciting, and it connected the people to the rest of the country, to worlds they could hardly even imagine. Sometimes children from families who had no television were allowed to visit the houses of those who had. Even some of the street kids, the ones who were not violent, were occasionally permitted to stand by an open window and gaze in wonder at the magical television inside, laugh at cartoons or soap operas, and maybe, if times were good, be given a little food. There was a basic kindness in the people here. Kindness in a place of survival.

There were many good people in the slum, honest people trying to make a living and feed their children. But there was also the crime that came from desperation, the muggers, the burglars, the small-time pushers and pimps, the thugs-for-hire, and even a few truly crazy people, the rapists and the killers. The slum was like anywhere else, there was much good and there was bad, but the poverty magnified the bad. It was an extreme place. And so the good people stuck together. They watched out for their streets, for their meagre possessions, for their children. They talked sadly of the women who had been forced to turn to prostitution to survive. And they were wary of outsiders, wary of strangers, and wary, above all, of the military police.

This particular slum was also home to a group of street kids led by a tall boy known to the locals only as Paulo. At the end of the slum furthest from the highway the shacks were the worst of all. Paulo’s group stayed here, not in the shacks but in a derelict warehouse bordering the slum. Part of the roof had collapsed, but beneath where the roof was still intact there were the rags, blankets and miscellaneous effects of a dozen children that squatted here when they were not out sleeping in alleyways. The security guards had stopped throwing them out ever since the building had been condemned as unsafe, but the rest of the warehouses, which were still in use, remained off-limits to the children. There was a chain-link fence and several Doberman guard dogs to discourage anyone from stealing from these buildings, as if the threat of being caught and shot were not enough. Paulo was not stupid enough to try it. The street kids merely slept in the decrepit warehouse and never went beyond the fence.

It was in a corner of this warehouse that one of the newest boys, Junio, liked to sleep. Paulo was his leader, his hero, the strongest, oldest boy, and the only one with a gun – two guns, now that he had taken the fancy pistol from the man he shot in the alley. Junio wanted to be as strong and confident as Paulo, as unafraid of life, as bold. But Paulo also shocked him, revolted him with his violence, violence which Junio himself had never perpetrated. Junio was in the warehouse alone, this particular afternoon. It was very hot. He was sitting on his filthy blanket, listening to the gunshots from Paulo’s target practise outside. They sounded like the firecrackers Junio’s mother had bought for him at the festival of St John three years before, when he was nine. Junio loved firecrackers, but he hated guns. It was a gun that had taken his mother from him.

Junio had seen guns on the television shows many times. Senhora Vientes, a kind lady in one of the slum houses, often let him watch her television. She said he was too dirty to come inside with her own children, who were always scrubbed clean, but she let him watch through the window. Senhora Vientes would open the shutters and let him lean on the bricks that framed the glassless window. He would lean all the way in and laugh with delight at cartoons, whoop with terror and amazement at the action shows. She even gave him food. He liked Senhora Vientes. And he had never let Paulo know that he went to visit her. It was his special secret, not for the others. It reminded him of when he lived with his mother, in her little shack in another slum in another city. It was so much the same.

Junio rarely thought of his mother, other than when he was outside Senhora Vientes’ house. Somehow he knew it was better not to think of her. The priest had told him that she had gone to God, and that one day he would see her again by the side of God, where good people go when they die. Junio had no father, that was what his mother had always told him. It was just the two of them, she used to say. That was three years ago, when he was just a little boy of nine. And now he was a big boy, that was what Senhora Vientes always called him, “My big boy.” Junio was proud to be twelve. He wanted to be fifteen, like Paulo. Then all the other boys would look up to him. He would be just as brave as Paulo, just as strong, and never cry. Paulo said he was a crybaby. Junio wanted never to cry, but sometimes he still did. He had hated it when the people at the orphanage saw him cry.

When his mother was alive, she used to call him her little angel. “You’re my little angel, Junio. That’s what you are, an angel that God has given to me. And never forget that, no matter what anyone says, Junio. You’re my little angel.” No one else ever called him that, except his mother. He remembered the way she used to tell him about the future. “All I do is clean houses and wash clothes, Junio. But you are my little angel, and one day you are going to have a better life than me. You are going to go to school. They will teach you everything. And I think you will grow up to be a teacher too, my little angel, because you have such a good heart.” He loved the way she smelled. She was always clean, and she wore a simple rose perfume which he would never forget. It was her smell.

Junio never saw his mother get shot. He only knew what the priest had told him, that there had been some kind of accident, that a bad man had shot her and when the police had found her she was already dead. Junio never understood what death was, before that time. Now he knew what it was. It was when someone went away and never came back. It was when they went to be with God.

Junio hated the orphanage. He wasn’t interested in the lessons, in them trying to teach him to read and write. His mother promised she would send him to a special school. But now she was gone. The people at the orphanage pretended to be like his mother, they told him what to do, they made him pray every night before he slept, they told him that he was lucky to be here and not in the slum he had come from. But Junio was not from Recife. He was from Maceió. They had only sent him to Recife after his mother was shot. They said he would be safer there. But they had taken him away from all his friends, away from the slum he had grown up in.

Junio didn’t know exactly why he had run away, why he had ended up in this new slum, sleeping on streets and in the warehouse. He only knew that he missed the place where he had grown up. But getting back to that place seemed impossible. He didn’t even know how far away it was. A long, long way, that is what the Sister at the orphanage had told him. A long, long way away. His favourite place in the world now was outside the window of Senhora Vientes, where he could watch the television. It was the closest place to home. And one day he would learn from Paulo how to be strong, how to be tough, and then he wouldn’t have to be afraid any more. He wanted to be like Paulo more than anything else in the world. Except for the guns.

The noise outside had stopped. Paulo must be reloading the pistol, Junio thought. Paulo had asked Junio to go with him ten minutes earlier, asked him to come to the side of the warehouse and shoot cans, but Junio had told him that he didn’t like guns. His mother had been killed by guns. He would not play with guns. Paulo had called him a crybaby. The noise started again. Paulo must have reloaded the gun.

All the other boys were outside, watching Paulo show off with his new  pistol. Junio felt stupid to be sitting inside like a crybaby, so he got up and walked into the slum, away from the noise. He would watch television instead, he thought, while the other boys were busy. As he walked between the worst of the shacks, he hoped he would be lucky and find Senhora Vientes at home. She lived on the far side of the slum, near the highway. It would take him a few minutes to get there. Maybe there would be a cartoon. Maybe she would give him food. As Junio walked, he ran a stick along the walls of the shacks he passed, just to make walking more fun. It rattled in his hand.

By the time he was approaching the far side of the slum, he knew something was wrong. People were taking their children off the streets. Worried faces were looking out from the houses. There was hardly anyone around, hardly anyone standing on street corners talking. Things had gone quiet. This seemed strange to Junio, but he wanted to see the television, so he kept walking, humming to himself and scraping his stick on the ground.

Then he saw the trucks. There were three military police vans in convoy, turning slowly onto the narrow road and driving towards him, kicking up clouds of red dust with their tyres.  Sitting in the front of the first van was a huge soldier in a captain’s uniform and peaked cap. Junio thought it would look worse if he ran, so he stood still as the vans drew close to him. The big soldier looked straight at him. Junio could see the man’s nose was bent, as if it had been broken in a fight. For a horrible moment, Junio thought the vans were going to stop, that the soldier was going to interrogate him, but then the vans drove slowly past. Junio began to run, once he thought they were no longer looking at him. He was afraid. He found a quiet street, ran into it, and sat down beside one of the shacks, breathing heavily after his sprint away from the trucks. It would be more than fifteen minutes before he would find the courage to return to the warehouse. Junio was scared of the police, and of their guns. They had big guns, machine guns and shotguns, like he had seen in movies. He hated that they had seen him.

Captain Sollo, in the lead van, scanned the streets carefully as they drove. His plan was to stop the trucks a hundred yards short of the warehouses and spread out his men, to be sure none of the street kids would escape. His sources in the slum had told him there was a group of children squatting in the warehouse, and that their leader was a tall boy named Paulo. This was the boy the captain wanted to find, the boy that his sources had said was buying ammunition for a nine-millimetre pistol. He wasn’t interested in the others. When he had heard the faint sound of pistol shots coming from the warehouse end of the slum, Sollo knew he was in luck. He knew he would find the boy he wanted. He told the driver to stop the van, checked his own sidearm, and stepped out onto the road.

“Let’s go,” Sollo ordered.

Twenty soldiers quietly dismounted from the vehicles.

“You and you, come with me,” said Sollo. “The rest of you, spread out and secure the area. The kid we’re looking for is tall, with dark hair. But don’t let any of the little bastards escape from the area.”

The soldiers dispersed efficiently into the slum. Sollo and only two of his men walked directly up the road to the warehouse. Sollo knew that the fewer witnesses there were, the better things would go for him. The military police was a powerful force but it was not totally immune to prosecution for its actions. It was best that no one saw what they did not have to see.

 

 

Susan was annoyed to be sitting inside the little shack listening to the sound of gunfire. The family had insisted she come inside, where it was safe, and that she leave her car. Only a few minutes earlier she had been handing out fruit and clean T-shirts to the local children. There had been a crowd of two dozen kids following her little car down the twisting dirt roads of the slum, shouting happily, “It’s Susinha! It’s Susinha!” The nickname had been given to her by some of the parents when Susan had first started showing up at the slum with bundles of fresh food and clothing donated by the church. Susan had found the people to be reluctant to accept charity but always ready to welcome her and to assist her in filming life in the slum with her portable video camera. They respected the fact that she worked for the church and that she cared for the orphans she came across.

Pedro da Sousa was an assistant in a hardware store. His wife Silvia was a maid, but nowadays she mostly stayed at home to take care of her three young children. Silvia could read a little, and she was eager for her kids to go to a church school. Susan had met Silvia one day at the orphanage when she had come to make enquires. Now Silvia was repaying the favour to Susan. The young mother looked worried.

“Susinha, they are shooting. You must stay inside.”

“I didn’t come here to stay inside the houses,” Susan struggled to say in her broken Portuguese. “I came to do my work, to give the food.”

“No, no, Susinha,” Silvia repeated. “These street kids are bad. They are shooting again. You must not go near them.”

“Silvia is right,” said Pedro da Sousa. “It is dangerous, Senhora.”

“Why the children are shooting?” said Susan.

Silvia corrected her. “Why are the children shooting? Because they are crazy in the head. Because they are just mad about nothing. They put cans next to the warehouse and shoot them. To practise their killing.”

“I don’t believe that,” Susan replied. “Really, Silvia, I don’t.”

“What else are guns for, Senhora, but killing?” said Pedro.

“It is true, Susinha,” said Silvia. “They are killers. That is why the military police have come today. Have you not seen the trucks?”

“Yes, I saw the trucks.”

“The police have come for the street kids, Senhora,” said Pedro. “They have heard the shooting and come to take these boys away.”

Susan looked at Pedro’s calm face. “What will happen with them?”

“It is best you do not ask,” said Pedro.

“It is best I do not ask? Will they kill them?”

“You must not ask these questions, Senhora,” Pedro repeated. “The military police are bad. But these street kids are worse. They are all killers.”

Susan was horrified. She struggled to find the words in Portuguese. “But I cannot do nothing ... as the police kill them.”

“There is nothing you can do, Susinha,” said Silvia. “Look, come here to the window and I will open the shutter. You can see the old warehouse where the street kids stay. I worry one of their bullets will come here.”

Susan followed Silvia to the far wall of the little brick-and-iron shack. There was a tiny window, about one foot square, with a wooden panel jammed in it as a shutter. Silvia dislodged the panel and put it aside. The little window was set low into the wall, about waist high. Silvia stood back. Susan kneeled on the floor and peered out.

“Oh yes, Silvia, I see them. I can see them.” Susan could make out several children standing around at the side of the warehouse, about forty yards away, beyond the last row of shanty houses. She saw that the tallest boy had a pistol. It was his shooting she must have heard. “What are they doing? What for do they stand there?”

“I told you, Susinha,” said Silvia. “They shoot at cans. They practise their killing. You must not go there.”

Susan watched carefully as the tall boy raised his pistol and took careful aim, then fired. A tin can flew crazily off a low wall. He was a good shot. “All right, Silvia. I believe you. I can see the boy. He fires his gun.”

“Then you will stay inside with us, Senhora?” said Pedro.

Susan answered him without looking away from the window. “Yes. Yes, you are right, Pedro. I will stay.”

“Thanks be to God,” Silvia exclaimed. “Thanks be to God, Susinha.”

“I will stay. I will use my ... my moving camera.”

“What, Senhora?” said Pedro, confused.

“My camera, my camcorder. It’s on the table.”

Pedro went to the table and retrieved the little video camera. “You mean this, Senhora? You want to take pictures?”

Susan took the camera. “Yes, thank you, Pedro. I will take pictures. This is a ... video camera. It takes pictures ... that move. It is a gift to me from the church. They want me to take pictures of the children.”

“I do not think this is good,” said Silvia. “What if they see you?”

“The window is very small. No one can see me. Here it is dark inside.”

“Ai, Susinha,” Silvia replied. “Always something strange.”

Susan did not answer. She looked at the video camera. It was fitted with a zoom lens which she focussed all the way out. Then she looked through the viewfinder. It was much easier to see the boys now. She could even tell that the boy held an automatic pistol, not a revolver. She panned the camera around and checked all of the boys but none of them was Junio. She had heard nothing of Junio for nearly three months.

“If anyone comes close to the house, Senhora, you must stop and close the window. We must not take any chances,” said Pedro.

“All right, I will stop if anyone is near,” said Susan, speaking as quickly as her rudimentary Portuguese would allow. “But they will not come near here. They are far. We are here. It is dark inside the house. The window is very small. They will not see us.”

“Ai, Senhora. All right, then. Use your camera. But there is nothing to see. All you will have is a lot of boring film. Boys shooting cans.”

Susan turned around for a moment. “Thank you, Pedro. Thank you, Silvia, for letting me into your house and helping me.”

“That’s all right,” said Silvia. “That’s all right, for sure, Susinha.”

“Thank you,” said Susan. She turned back to the window and began to experiment with recording some footage. The camera made almost no sound at all, and it was quite dark inside the shack. There was no electric light. Anyone looking at the shack from the warehouse would not see her. Susan felt completely safe, although she hated to see children playing with guns. She didn’t believe for a moment that they could really be killers. They were just children and the gun was just a toy to them, she was sure of that.

 

 

Junio was running again. He had regained his nerve, got up, and started running back to the warehouse. If the military police were here, he thought, they might be here to look for them, to look for Paulo and the others. Paulo had told him stories that the military police had sometimes shot at them, had tried to kill them, and that they had been forced to hide. Junio was scared, but he didn’t want to be a crybaby and do nothing. He wanted to be tough and warn Paulo that the police were coming. So he had decided to get up and run back to the warehouse. He had dropped his stick. There was nothing in his hands. He was running barefoot through the dirt roads of the slum, turning quickly down the familiar maze of alleys, taking the back way to the warehouse, so that he would not be following the trucks. His throat was dry and his heart beat fast, but at least he was not being a crybaby.

Junio stopped running suddenly, when he saw two soldiers talking to each other across the next road. He stepped back behind a large, brick house and peered carefully around the corner at the soldiers. He could hear them talking, although he was still panting from his run. They had shotguns.

“I don’t know why the captain’s so mad about these street kids.”

“Me neither. They’re worthless little bastards. We’ve got better things to do.”

“What are we supposed to do with them, anyway?”

“Don’t ask, my friend. That’s up to the captain. Just ... do your job.”

“Hmmm. Well, we won’t be seeing any of them. None of the little fuckers are going to come running out here. They’ll hide. You can’t catch them. They’re like animals.”

“Yeah.”

“What a waste of time this is, huh?”

“Yeah. Come on, let’s move. We’re supposed to be looking.”

“All right, all right.”

The two soldiers started walking away. When Junio was sure they had their backs turned, he scurried across the road and continued on his way to the warehouse. His bare feet made little sound on the dirt as he ran.

When he came at last to the little clearing by the warehouse, and the chain-link fence, he slowed to a walk, then dropped to the ground behind a tree and did not move. A few feet away, from behind a shack, the big soldier with the broken nose had suddenly walked out, with his back to Junio. There were two other soldiers with him, each carrying little machine guns.

Junio waited until they had moved away, then he got up off the ground and knelt by the tree, waiting to see what they would do next.

Captain Sollo was very pleased to see his quarry only thirty yards away. The tall boy with the pistol, and several other smaller boys with him, were in a dead end formed by the side of the warehouse on one side and the chain-link fence on the other. If Sollo blocked the entrance to the warehouse with gunfire, there would be no escape from the trap. It was all going to be far too easy, and this pleased Sollo immensely.

“You, block the entrance to the warehouse. You, get those little bastards’ attention, but nobody shoots them. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said the two soldiers, almost in unison. One of them set off running for the warehouse at high speed, while the other jogged forward and began firing his sub-machine gun in the air in one long continuous burst as he approached the children.

The moment the first bullet came from the soldier’s gun, all of the children looked around from the cans on the wall and sprinted in different directions. Some of them were screaming. Most of them tried pathetically to scale the chain-link fence, but it was too high and topped with barbed wire. Paulo, the leader, thought more quickly. He made for the entrance to the warehouse, the only real route of escape. But he was too slow.

“Stop or I shoot!” said the first soldier, who had arrived at the entrance of the warehouse. “Stop right now or I shoot!”

Paulo stopped short of the warehouse but didn’t drop his pistol.

The soldier yelled at him frantically, afraid that he was going to fire. The pistol wasn’t much compared to a sub-machine gun, but it was still enough to kill. “Drop the gun, you bastard, or I shoot you. Now!”

Paulo was standing very still, frozen with terror and adrenalin. He was looking down the barrel of the soldier’s sub-machine gun, standing only ten feet or so from the muzzle. He pointed the pistol pathetically at the soldier, as if daring him to fire. “No. Drop yours.”

The soldier screamed angrily. “Get on the ground! Now!”

The second soldier was looking around anxiously at the other children, who were scattered around the perimeter of the chain-link fence, to see if any of them had guns. He couldn’t tell. It was not a good situation.

Captain Sollo walked calmly over to Paulo and pointed his .44 calibre revolver at the boy’s head, stopping when he came about six feet away. He was standing to Paulo’s right. “Drop the gun, boy, or I kill you right now.”

“If I drop the gun, you will kill me anyway,” Paulo replied, scared.

“No. We just want to ask some questions. Now, put the gun down and we will talk. All right? Just put the gun down.” Sollo sounded sincere.

Paulo knew he was beaten. With a last defiant look, he lowered the pistol and put it slowly on the ground. Then he stood up again and held up his hands. The soldier walked over quickly and frisked him, removing a revolver from the small of Paulo’s back, where it had been tucked in his belt.

“He is disarmed, Captain,” said the soldier, stepping back but keeping his sub-machine gun trained carefully on Paulo.

“Excellent, Corporal,” said Sollo. “In a moment, I will talk to this boy. So get the rest of these scum out of here, and leave us.”

In a shack forty yards away, Susan’s hands trembled as she held the camera. Under her breath, quickly, over and over, she was saying a prayer. “Please God, let them live. Let the children live.” She ignored Silvia’s pleas to come away from the window, and kept filming. It took all her courage.

Behind a tree, near the corner of the chain-link fence, Junio watched. He wanted to help Paulo but there was nothing he could do. He was scared.

The two soldiers rounded up the rest of the children and marched them through the warehouse, then let them then run away into the slum.

When they were gone, Sollo began his interrogation. It was unusually sloppy of him to interrogate a prisoner in the open, but the boy looked so scared that Sollo knew the interrogation would not take long. He kept his revolver trained on Paulo while he turned the nine-millilitre pistol over in his free hand, examining it quickly.

“Where did scum like you get an expensive gun like this, huh?”

Paulo said nothing. He looked defiantly into Sollo’s dark eyes.

Sollo kicked at the street kid’s revolver, which was still lying in the dirt where the soldier had emptied it. “This rusty old revolver, I can understand. You probably paid some dealer for it, like a fool. I’m surprised it hasn’t blown up in your face. But this other gun is a different story. An expensive automatic, well oiled, in pristine condition. This is not the kind of gun that you little bastards could lay your hands on. Isn’t that right, boy?”

“The gun is mine, Senhor,” said Paulo angrily.

“It’s Captain, boy, not Senhor.”

“The gun is mine, Captain,” Paulo repeated. “I bought it.”

Sollo was walking in a small circle around Paulo, disappearing behind him and then reappearing, all the while keeping his .44 trained on him. “No, boy. You did not buy this gun. You stole it, didn’t you?”

“No, Captain.”

“I think you did. I think you stole it from a man you murdered behind the Golden Beach Hotel, the man you shot in the back. Isn’t that true?”

“I bought it. I bought it at the Shopping.”

Sollo laughed at this. “You? At the new shopping mall? They wouldn’t even let a grubby little bastard like you through the doors.”

“I bought it at the gun shop at the Shopping, Captain. It is true.”

Sollo dropped the nine-millimetre into the dirt. Then he reached out with his free hand and grabbed Paulo suddenly by the hair. He wrenched the boy’s head back until he was looking at the sky. “Open your mouth, boy. Open your mouth or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

“All right, Captain. All right.”

Sollo put the steel barrel of his revolver into the boy’s mouth. Paulo drew his lips back in a desperate grimace, an expression one would find on a corpse, a grotesque grin which exposed his dark, broken teeth. He gasped down what he thought would be his last breath. Sollo drew back the hammer of the revolver with his thumb, making ready to fire. Then he spoke softly. “I am going to take this gun out of your mouth now, and you will tell me where you got the pistol. If you lie to me again, I will splatter your brains all over this warehouse wall. Don’t test me on this, boy, because I will kill you if you lie. Understand?”

Paulo nodded his head very slightly.

Sollo withdrew the gun.

When he was able to speak again, Paulo said, “I stole it from the man I shot in the alley, Captain. That is the truth, I swear it by God. I swear it.”

Sollo let go of the boy’s hair and stood back. “That is better. Now, this man you stole from, he was carrying jewels, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And you took these jewels?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, I see you are learning the benefits of telling the truth. Good. Now, one of these jewels was a diamond necklace, with two large red stones.”

“Yes, Captain. I took it.”

“Excellent. Now, you will give it to me. It belongs to a friend of mine.”

“I do not have it, Captain. I swear by God, I do not have it.”

“You just said you stole it, boy. Where is it?”

“I swear by God, Captain, I gave it to the boy named Junio.”

“Why would you do that?”

“He keeps it for me, until we can take it to the dealer.”

Sollo raised the gun to Paulo’s throat and pressed it against his windpipe. “Are you sure you are not lying, boy? Hmmm?”

“No, it is the truth. I will help you find him, Captain. He is here, in this slum. He is the one with the white hair, like the sand of the beach.”

“He has blonde hair?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I see. Turn around, boy. Turn around and face the wall.”

Paulo did as he was told.

“You swear you have told me the truth? This Junio has the necklace?”

“Yes, I swear. I will help you find him. I will take you to him.”

Sollo pointed his revolver close behind the boy’s head, without letting it touch the skin. “Of course you will, boy.”

“Yes, Captain. I will find him for you. I promise.”

“Good,” Sollo whispered. But Paulo did not hear the word. He did not hear the gunshot, either, the explosive sound of the hollow-point bullet being hurled by a fireball of hot gas and gunpowder out of the barrel and into the base of his skull. There was only silence, only silence, and there was death.

Paulo’s legs buckled under his dead body and his smashed head slammed into the dirt. Sollo leaned over the body to make sure it was dead. Where the bullet had entered there was a small hole, but where it had exited in multiple molten fragments, there was a huge cavity. One side of the face was missing, replaced by a grotesque pulp of red and grey, a hollow cup like the shell of a rotten melon. Sollo was satisfied. The boy was dead.

On the warehouse wall was an obscene, spattered patch of blood and brains and tiny splinters of bone from the dead boy’s skull. Some of this had been blown back by the force of the impact and had spattered onto the sleeve of the captain’s arm. This annoyed him. He wiped at his sleeve.

In the little shack forty yards away, Susan was hyperventilating. She was crying. She could hardly see down the viewfinder of the video camera. It was all she could do just to keep it blindly pointed in the right direction. She was so sickened, so scared, she thought she would pass out, but she told herself she could not. She must film this, or there would never be any justice. She was the only hope for these children, the only hope. She wished she had never come to the slum that day. But she had come.

Behind the tree, Junio was crying too. He moved all the way behind it, so he was completely out of view to the warehouse, and gripped his arms so tightly that his fingers dug into his own flesh, bruising himself. Paulo was dead. The soldier had killed Paulo. Junio prayed for his own life.

Captain Sollo called the two soldiers out from inside the warehouse.

“Get this carcass out of here. We have another boy to find.”

“Yes, sir,” said the first of the soldiers. “Right away.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter  12

 

 

Susan kept the camera rolling while the military police van trundled slowly up to the side of the warehouse, and as the soldiers threw Paulo’s body in the back of the van. She stopped only when they and the captain had gotten into the van and driven away. Then she waited a few minutes to be sure all the military police had gone, bade Silvia and Pedro goodbye, and despite their protestations she went to the warehouse.

She walked over slowly, as if she were being forced to do so against her will. It was her intention to go to the wall of the warehouse, where the boy had been murdered, and photograph the site up close, but as she walked over she saw a blonde-haired boy nervously walk out from behind a tree near one corner of the chain-link fence. The boy approached her until he was close enough to be recognised. She could see he was crying.

“Junio?” Susan said, unsure if it was really him. He was very dirty.

“Yes, Senhora.”

Susan felt tears welling up in her eyes again. She ran over to him and whisked him off the ground, hugging him. She was so distraught that she forgot to speak Portuguese. “Oh, thank God. Thank God. You’re alive. Oh, God, Junio, we were so worried. Where have you been?”

For once, Junio did not mind being hugged. He pressed his face into Susan’s shirt and cried, not understanding a single word of the English.

At last, Susan remembered what language she was speaking, and switched to her shaky Portuguese. “Thanks be to God, Junio. Thanks be to God. We must go. We must go now. The soldiers can come back. Quickly.”

Susan took Junio’s hand and led him back to where her car was parked, past the shack of Silvia and Pedro. She put him in the back, then got in and started the engine. Soon they were bumping slowly across the dirt roads of the slum. In only a few hundred yards, she came to a military police checkpoint. There was a parked van and several soldiers asking the locals questions. Susan wondered if she should turn back, but they had seen her.

“Junio, listen,” said Susan. “There is a blanket. Get into the blanket and sit on the floor of the car. Do you understand?” Then she said in English, “Oh God, let me get it right.” She tried again. “Junio, get under the blanket! Get under the blanket and lie down on the floor! There are soldiers!”

Junio understood at last, and did as he was told.

Susan drove slowly up to the checkpoint and stopped.

A soldier walked over to the car. “Good day, Senhora.”

“Good day,” said Susan, still in Portuguese.

“What is your business here today?”

Susan stumbled nervously on her words. “I bring food for ... the poor families. I am from the church. I bring food for the poor families. Now I am finished. I go home now.”

The soldier peered in the window of the car. There was still a parcel of food on the back seat, and a blanket covered what looked like more parcels on the floor in front of the seat. “Okay, Senhora. You can go.”

“Thank you. Thank you, officer,” said Susan. The man was a private, but she only knew the word for ‘officer,’ something the locals had told her would come in handy if she were ever pulled up by a traffic cop.

The soldier waved her on.

Susan put the car in gear and drove slowly down the dirt road, heading for the highway. When she finally reached the sealed road, she pulled onto it and accelerated rapidly away from the slum. It was only then that she finally said, “Okay, Junio. Let’s go. Sit up now.”

Junio came out of under the blanket and got up on the back seat. He said not one more word until they reached the orphanage. All he did was look through the box of food and open some biscuits. He began to eat them slowly, one by one, as Susan navigated the busy roads of Recife and raced back to the orphanage. She had already decided what she would do. She would call Bob. He would know what to do, she was sure of that, and she herself was so wound up she could hardly think straight.

But first she must talk to Junio. Once she had parked the car, she took the boy to her private bedroom at the orphanage and sat him on the bed. She closed the door so no one would hear her questions, then she pulled the chair away from her little desk and put it next to the bed. She sat down and looked at Junio, thinking of the Portuguese words she needed to say.

“Junio, are you all right? Did the soldiers do anything to you?”

“No, Senhora. They did not see me. I was hidden from them.”

“Okay. Junio, did you see ... did you see what happened to Paulo?”

Junio nodded his head slowly, to say that he had seen it but more than anything else in the world he did not want to remember it.

“Oh, no. I am sorry, Junio. I am sorry that you saw.”

Junio looked down at the floor.

“Junio, my little Junio, you must tell me about Paulo.”

“Tell you what, Senhora?”

“Why did the soldiers come for Paulo? Why did they shoot him?”

Junio looked straight at her, his eyes wide with terror. “The soldiers came for him, Senhora, because Paulo stole from God. He stole from God, Senhora, and God was angry. God made the soldiers come ...” Junio was crying again. Susan reached out and hugged him.

“It’s all right, Junio. It’s all right. It will be okay.”

“But he stole from God, Senhora, and I was with him when he stole. God will send the soldiers for me, too, and I will never see my mother in heaven, Senhora. God will never let me go to heaven and see my mother...”

“No, no, Junio. How could you think such a thing? God loves you. It will be all right. God did not send the soldiers, Junio. It was not God.”

“But Senhora, I saw it on the television of Senhora Vientes. They say that those whose steal from God are little devils. They say the children on the streets are from the devil, they say God will punish us.” Junio was crying almost hysterically now, a child’s tears, almost unable to breathe.

Susan hugged him tightly and stroked his filthy hair as he wept. “No, no, Junio. You are not a devil. You are my little angel, Junio. You are just a little boy. Don’t cry. Everything will be all right. You are my little angel.”

Junio looked up at her seriously. “You mean it, Senhora? I am?”

“Yes, of course, Junio, dear Junio. You are my little angel of the street.”

Junio gradually stopped crying. The sense of panic had left him.

Susan smiled at him. “Everything is going to be all right, I promise.”

“But we stole from God, Senhora. The soldiers will come for me, too.”

“What is this you are saying, Junio? What is this, ‘We stole from God’?”

“Paulo stole it from the man. I saw it on television, Senhora. They say it is a gift from the angels, the angels of God. And Paulo, he took it.”

“What are you taking about? Took what?”

Junio reached into the pocket of his grimy shorts. “This, Senhora.”

Susan found herself unable to reply in Portuguese. Junio had handed her a marvellous diamond necklace with three long strings of diamonds and two large rubies. It must have been worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. She spoke in English. “Oh, my God, Junio. Where did you get this? Where on earth did you get this?”

“Oh what, Senora?” said Junio, puzzled by the strange language.

Susan spoke Portuguese again. “Sorry. Sorry, um, from where is this?”

“From the man, Senhora. Paulo took it from the man.”

“What man?”

“The man he shot with his gun.”

“Paulo shot someone? Junio, did Paulo shoot someone?”

“Yes, Senhora. He shot the man.”

Suddenly Susan remembered that Bob had told her about an armed robbery at the Golden Beach Hotel, about a diamond necklace being stolen. “Junio, wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“Yes, Senhora.”

Susan hurried to the orphanage office, went to the desk, and hunted around for the newspaper she had saved a few days ago, the one with the article about the robbery. When she found it, she turned to the page that had the photograph of the stolen necklace, held up Junio’s necklace to the newspaper, and realised they were one and the same. She whispered the caption out loud, translating it to English. “The Tears of the Angels.”

“Oh, God,” she said, as she dialled Bob’s number on the office phone. She was glad that the orphanage was quiet that afternoon. Fabriola and the others had taken the children on a church excursion. Even the blind boys had gone. There was no one to hear what she was saying.

When Richards answered his home phone, he didn’t even get the chance to say hello before the torrent of words began.

“Bob. Thank God you’re home. It’s Susan. Look, I’ve ... I’ve got the necklace. The Tears of the Angels. I’ve got it, and Junio’s here, too. There’s been a boy killed, Bob, they shot him, the military police shot him ...”

“Susan? Susan, what are you talking about?”

Susan tried again, speaking more slowly this time. “Listen, Bob, I’m not joking. I’ve got the necklace, the necklace that was stolen. They’re killing the children, Bob, they’re killing them.”

“Susan, are you sure?”

“Yes, of course I’m sure! Didn’t you hear me, Bob, they’re killing them!”

“All right, all right. I heard you.”

“Well, what are we going to do about it?”

“Susan, stop talking. It’s not safe. I’m coming over.”

The phone went dead. Susan put it down and went back to her bedroom. To her amazement, Junio was asleep on her bed. She looked at him lying there, hoping that his sleep was bringing him some peace from the nightmare he had just been through. Then she locked the door behind her as she left, to be sure no one could get to him. She was sure she had not been followed, but she would not be able to forgive herself if anything happened to the boy. She went back to the office and sat anxiously with the necklace in her hands for ten minutes, waiting for Richards to arrive. Ten minutes seemed like a whole hour to her.

When Richards finally knocked on the lobby door, Susan would not open it without climbing onto a chair first and looking down through the louvred windows above the door so that she could see for sure it was him. Then she unlocked the door and locked it again behind him.

“Bob, thank God. Come to the office. I’ve got to show it to you.”

“All right, okay. I’m coming.”

In the office, Susan got the necklace out of the desk drawer and handed it to Richards. He snatched it from her and shook his head incredulously.

“Jesus Christ! Where in the hell did you get this, Susan? Jesus Christ! You weren’t kidding, were you?”

“Junio had it, Bob. Junio had the necklace.”

“Junio? The kid who stole my wallet?”

“Yes! I found him in the slum today, and he had this.”

Richards tried to think. “But that means that b.s. story about the street kids taking it must have been true. I thought it was a crock of shit. The little bastards must have taken it from the jewel thief, after all.”

“They’re not bastards, Bob. They’re children. They’re just children.”

“Well, those children killed a man, or at least they would have, if the military police hadn’t finished the job they started.”

“What do you mean?”

“Has Junio told you that, Susan? Did he tell you how they shot a guy in an alley in Boa Viagem and took the jewels he was carrying?”

“He ... he said that Paulo shot a man.”

“Who the hell is Paulo?”

“He’s another boy. He’s dead.”

“Dead how? When?”

“Today! Just now, in the slum. The military police came for the children. I thought they were going to kill them all, but they just took one boy, Paulo, and let the other children go.”

“What happened to Paulo? Did they interrogate him?”

“Yes, I saw it.”

“You saw it?”

“I was in Silvia da Sousa’s house when the police came. I could see everything that happened, from the window. I saw them kill him, Bob.”

“Oh, Jesus, Susan. What the hell were you thinking?”

“What do you mean?”

“What the hell were you doing watching? Don’t you know if they saw you they might have just decided to go and kill you, too?”

“Bob, you’re not listening to me. I saw them shoot a child. They ... shot him in the back of the head. They ... just murdered him.” Susan could feel herself beginning to cry, but she held back the tears. “There was an officer, a captain I think. He interrogated Paulo outside the warehouse. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Then he made the boy turn around and he shot him. He killed him, Bob. I can still see the blood, all over the wall ...”

Richards grabbed Susan by the shoulders, to steady her. “Shit, Susan, I’m sorry about the kid, I really am, but you don’t watch that kind of thing. You walk away. You might have gotten yourself killed.”

Susan pushed him away. “Walk away? How could I walk away? A child has been murdered. Could you walk away from that?”

Richards sighed. “This isn’t England, Susan. It’s Brazil.”

“Does that make murder all right, Bob?”

“Susan, come on. I’m on your side, remember. It’s just, I just couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you. Okay? Can you understand that?”

Susan calmed down. “I’m sorry. I’ve never seen anyone shot before. It was so horrible. I’ll never forget it. It was so horrible.”

“Okay,” said Richards. “We’ll work it out. It’ll be okay.”

Susan hugged him, at last. “Oh God, Bob, I’m glad you’re here.”

“Well, we’ve gotta work out what to do next.”

“What do you mean? We have to go to the civil police.”

“The police? And tell them what? That you have a quarter-million dollars worth of stolen necklace in your pocket?”

“No. I’ll show them the tape.”

“Tape?”

“Videotape. I had a camera. Everything I saw ... I’ve got it on camera. The interrogation. The shooting. It’s all on tape.”

Richards turned his back to her and leant against the wall for a moment. Then he faced her again. “Susan, you’re not telling me you stuck a goddamn video camera out the window and taped an execution? Please tell me that’s not what you’re saying.”

“I had to. It was the only thing I could do, to help those children.”

“Oh, Christ. We’re dead.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if anyone – anyone – knows you have that tape, and that necklace, it’ll get you killed, me killed, Junio killed, and anyone else who has seen the tape killed as well. Del Campo already told me if he finds any connection between me and the robbery, I’m a dead man. Do you think he’s going to let a tape like this exist? Jesus, Sue.”

Susan said nothing.

“Have you shown it to anyone?”

“No.”

“Well, all right. We know Silvia won’t talk. She can be trusted. The question is, How do we dispose of that tape safely?”

“We’re not going to dispose of it, Bob. We’re going to take it to the police and we’re going to help save the rest of the children.”

“Take it to the police? Which police?”

“The civil police.”

“Sue, don’t be a fool. This isn’t Wimbledon! They don’t fight by Marquess Queensberry Rules out here, pip pip hurrah and three fucking cheers to the victor. You can’t go to the police with this.”

“Do you have to swear about everything, Bob?”

“I’m trying to get through to you. Don’t you get it? If they find us with that videotape, we’re all dead. And that goes for the necklace as well. The best thing you could do with that tape is take it out and burn it, believe me.”

“And I’m trying to get through to you, Bob. I’ve just seen a child murdered, and as God is my witness there has to be justice.”

“Justice? Look, this is northern Brazil. You have to bribe the civil police just to get ’em to cross the road. Witnesses disappear, up here. You go to the police and we’re all dead. I’m not making this stuff up.”

“But we have to return this necklace.”

“Don’t be a fool. That necklace is the only thing which might – just might – keep us alive.”

“So what are we going to do, Bob? You tell me. What?”

“Nothing. Just let me think about it for a couple of days. Don’t do anything, okay? Will you promise me that, Susan? Please?”

“All right,” Susan said at last.

“Okay. Where’s the kid?”

“He’s in my bedroom.”

“All right. Keep him here at the orphanage and don’t let him out of your sight. If he runs away again it could be the end for him.”

“Okay.”

Richards hugged Susan one more time. “How the hell did we get in this mess? How the hell? Just lie low, okay? Just lie low and stay safe.”

“Okay. But we can’t let them kill any more children, Bob. We can’t.”

“All right. I’ll think of something. I’ll think of something.”

They hugged each other for a long time.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter  13

 

 

That night it started to rain. Heavy rain, a sudden downpour from angry tropical clouds, the kind of rain that flooded the streets all over town and turned the dirt roads of the slums into an impassable sludge.

Outside a small army barracks in the suburbs of Recife, a lone guard stood miserably on the dark street. There was a heavy rifle over his shoulder and swollen raindrops dripped constantly off his helmet onto his camouflaged poncho. His boredom was momentarily relieved by the approach of a military police van. It came up the street and turned into the barracks, stopping at the checkpoint which he manned. He walked over to the van and briefly checked the identity of its passenger. Then he saluted.

In a moment the red-and-white barber-pole boom of the checkpoint swung upwards and the van drove through. The guard resumed his bored stance as the boom came down again. He wished the time would pass more quickly. It was a godforsaken night to be on sentry duty.

Once the van was parked, Captain Sollo dismissed his driver. He would see General del Campo alone. Sollo jumped down onto the wet ground, slammed the van door heavily, and jogged through the rain to the building which housed the office of the Chief of Military Police. Soon he was knocking on del Campo’s door and pushing it open. He walked into the general’s private office and saluted. “Forgive the intrusion, General.”

Del Campo looked up from his desk. “Captain. What is it?”

“My report, sir. I have found the boy you were seeking.”

“Found him? Where?”

“In the slum, just as our informant said, by an old warehouse.”

“And the necklace?”

“That is a small problem, sir. The boy didn’t have it.”

This was not what the general wanted to hear. “Excuse me?”

“I interrogated the boy myself and I assure you, General, he was telling the truth. He did not have the necklace.”

“Well, Sollo, if he doesn’t have it, who does?”

“I am sure we will find it, sir. The boy admitted shooting the jewel thief. He gave the necklace to one of the other boys.”

The general looked down at his desk. “This is a nightmare, Sollo. You have no idea how important that necklace is to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course, General.”

“Tell me about this other boy, the one he gave the necklace to.”

“He has blonde hair. His name is Junio. But he was not in the slum.”

“Are you sure this boy has the necklace?”

“Yes, absolutely. There is no doubt of it. I can tell the difference between truth and a lie, in the eyes of a man about to die.”

“You killed the boy, then.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And were there any witnesses?”

“No one who matters, sir.”

“Good, Sollo. Good.”

“I promise you, General. We shall find this boy, Junio, in no time, and I will bring you the necklace, and his head if you want it.”

“The necklace will be sufficient, Captain. The head you can bury.”

“Do not worry, sir. I will have retrieved the necklace in a day or two.”

The general stood up. “Very well, Sollo. You are a loyal man, and I will not forget that loyalty. I look after my own.”

“Thank you, General.”

The general nodded. “That will be all, Captain.”

It was only twenty minutes later that General del Campo was driving an unmarked police car, leaving the barracks and travelling towards the penthouse apartment of Juliet Formosa. He parked in the underground lot and took the elevator to the twentieth floor. He was nervous about seeing Juliet at a time she was so disappointed with him, but he knew he had to try to make peace with her, and at least he had some little good news.

 When Juliet Formosa saw him at her door, she kissed him only on the cheek, more out of formality than affection. “Fernando,” she said simply.

“Ah, Juliet. Thank you for seeing me, my love.”

Juliet Formosa ran her hand idly through her long, almost black hair. She was wearing a long cotton dress. It was white, with a pattern of red roses splashed across the front. The dress played around her ankles as she walked. She looked immaculate and beautiful as always, as if she had nothing better to do in her ivory tower than make herself pretty. “I am not your kept woman, Fernando. I see you only if I please to see you.”

“Of course, Little Cat. That is why I thank you. I know you are upset with me, and I wish I could have prevented it.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Then I will cook. Come and sit in the kitchen.”

“You don’t have to cook, Little Cat. I came only to see you.”

“No, I will cook. You must be hungry, Fernando.”

“You are too kind to me, Juliet. I do not deserve you.”

Juliet Formosa led him to the kitchen. She looked in the refrigerator. “Hmmm. I have some fish from the market. I will cook it with some mango and some rice. Do you want that, Fernando?”

“It sounds good, my love.”

“I have been drinking wine. Will you drink with me? Or can you not drink again this night, in case your beloved wife smells it on your breath?”

“Maria is away visiting her sister. I can drink.” The general walked up behind her and put his arms around her waist. “I can stay, Juliet. The family is gone for tonight. I can stay with you.”

Juliet turned around. She smiled excitedly, despite herself. “You mean it, Fernando? You can stay with me tonight? It has been so long since we woke up together. So many months.”

“Yes, my love, of course I do.”

Juliet Formosa kissed him. “Then sit at the table, Fernando, and I shall cook us a meal fit for a king and queen. Sit down, Fernando.”

When the meal was over, they made love. The general was pleased that Juliet had not mentioned the stolen necklace once that night. Perhaps in time she might even forget it altogether. He fell asleep with a full belly and a relieved heart, grateful to be by her side.