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 wh