by Tim Wirkus
Elder Toronto said that he did and that he was sorry for the inconvenience. His voice remained steady and calm. The officer with the moustache lowered his gun.
“Let’s go,” he said to his bald partner.
“Shouldn’t we ride back with you?” said Elder Toronto.
“Do we look like a taxi service?” said the officer with the moustache, pointing his gun in the elder’s face one last time.
“No,” said Elder Toronto, still unruffled. “I guess not.”
“Idiots,” said the officer with the moustache. “Wasting my time.”
Then he and his partner, guns and flashlights in hand, walked backward out of the shack, leaving Elder Toronto and Elder Schwartz alone in the darkness.
THE ARGENTINE
They say that as Vila Barbosa grew and the Argentine’s power increased, his personal interactions with the people of the community diminished. He no longer attended their weddings, their funerals, or their christenings. Instead, he confined himself to the little general store, or rather, its front steps, where he held court with his growing number of deputies.
This wasn’t to say that the Argentine’s presence was no longer felt throughout the neighborhood. If anything, the hold he maintained over the general consciousness of Vila Barbosa had only strengthened. His commercial interests had expanded from the general store to include a broad assortment of ventures—clothing sales, prostitution, small loans, cafés, gambling, commercial construction, produce stands, landscaping. It was understood that competing businesses were not to be established, and when they were, usually by newcomers who disbelieved the stories they heard about the Argentine, the unfortunate entrepreneurs were made to serve as examples for the community at large.
For instance, a man from the North who opened a general store offering lower prices than the Argentine’s ended up lying in a pool of blood on the floor of his little shop with his eyes gouged out and a garden spade between his ribs. In another case, an old woman started an independent flower stand in the heart of the neighborhood, choosing to forego the patronage of the Argentine. After several warnings, the stand was smashed to bits and the woman ended up falling down a flight of stairs at the bus station, sustaining fatal injuries. One memorable spring, a big shot from another neighborhood tried to horn in on the gambling scene in Vila Barbosa and take a little control from the Argentine. On his way home one night, he was grabbed from behind, a pungent cloth held to his face until he passed out. He regained consciousness handcuffed to a street sign and drenched in motor oil. In the darkness, someone lit a match and held it to his shirt, setting him on fire. Any time the flames threatened to die down, more oil was added, until there was nothing left of the man but a charred, kneeling corpse. You could hear him screaming that night from everywhere in the neighborhood.
The Argentine reigned supreme.
They say that around this time, the Argentine grew bored with his power. He controlled Vila Barbosa so completely that his day-to-day life posed no new challenges, no surprises. Every day, sitting on the steps of his general store, he had the same conversations with the same group of people about the same tired subjects—torch this or that competing business, pay off such-and-such police officer, cut out so-and-so’s heart. None of it excited him anymore.
To address this issue, he called a meeting of his most trusted deputies. After he had closed up shop one evening, they gathered inside his store, the half-dozen men sitting in a circle on overturned crates that had once held rice, beans, and laundry soap. The Argentine stood before them, dressed in the same three-piece suit he had worn on the day of his arrival in Vila Barbosa. Pacing in front of the counter, he laid out his problem to the deputies—he was bored with his power and wanted their advice on how he might remedy the situation.
For several minutes, the men contemplated the problem in silence. Finally, a heavily tattooed deputy spoke up.
“What if we leave Vila Barbosa,” he said, “and start out someplace else?”
A few of the other deputies nodded cautiously. The Argentine shook his head.
“That would be fine for a while,” he said, “but ten, twenty years down the line, we’ll be in exactly the same position we are now. It’s a dead end.”
The tattooed deputy nodded, head lowered.
“What other ideas do you have?” said the Argentine.
The deputies studied their feet and their hands, mulling it over.
“What if we expand?” said the deputy with glasses. “We could spread out over more neighborhoods.”
The Argentine’s face remained noncommittal.
“What do the rest of you think of this idea?” he said.
The deputies shrugged, mumbled, avoided eye contact. The Argentine waited.
The bearded deputy said, “It would be a challenge, if that’s what we’re looking for.”
The sickly looking deputy said, “I think it’s a good idea.”
The tall deputy said, “I do, too.”
The Argentine grimaced, flashing his square, white teeth.
“No,” he said. “It’s the same problem as moving someplace else. Once I take over, say, three neighborhoods, I’ll grow tired of that. So I’ll take over four, five, six neighborhoods, then the entire city. Then the state, then the country, then the hemisphere, then the world. And would I be satisfied with that?”
The deputies looked at their hands.
“Somehow I doubt it,” said the Argentine.
He looked at his deputies, who avoided his gaze. Shaking his head, he kicked the crate out from under the bearded deputy and told them all to get out, he needed to think.
Over the next several months, the Argentine consecrated himself to the task at hand. He studied the writings of ancient kings and emperors. He pored over dense philosophical tracts on the nature of power. He read the sacred texts of world religions. He wandered the neighborhood, observing the quotidian activities of Vila Barbosa’s residents. He stopped strangers on the street and demanded they explain to him what, if anything, they found fulfilling in their own particular lives. He sat alone on the steps of his store in quiet meditation. He thought and thought and thought.
Nearly a year after their previous meeting, the Argentine gathered his deputies once again in the dimly lit interior of his little general store. Standing before them, he said that he had good news to report. He said that based on careful study and contemplation, he had decided to forego his career as a criminal administrator to become a taxonomist of sorts. From this day forward, he would devote himself to the compilation of a universal catalog of human cruelty.
On making this announcement, he grinned at his deputies, a sinister smile that bared each of his square, white teeth. The deputies looked at each other, unsure of how to react. The bald deputy nudged the tattooed deputy who nudged the bearded deputy, who spoke up for the group.
“What exactly does that mean?” he said.
The Argentine smiled at the bearded deputy.
“That’s a good question,” he said. “First—I will be ceding control of my business interests to the six of you. Ultimately, you’ll still answer to me, of course, but on a day-to-day basis, you will be running things. Second—I myself will be observing and recording every instance of cruelty I can find in Vila Barbosa. I will compile my findings, catalog them, classify them, and study them.”
The deputies looked at him blankly. They nudged the bearded deputy.
“Speaking on behalf of all of us,” said the bearded deputy. “I’d like to say that we support you completely. What still isn’t clear to me, though, is what you hope to accomplish with this catalog.”
The Argentine smiled. He said he wasn’t sure what he might learn from this catalog, or where it all might lead. That’s what he found so compelling about the project—its potential to surprise him.
The deputies shifted in their seats.
“But enough chit-chat. We all have so much to do,” said the Argentine, and with that he dismissed his deputies and
set to work.
CHAPTER 6
By the time they made it back to their apartment, the sun had risen and it was light out. Elder Toronto sat down at his desk, loosening his tie. Elder Schwartz sat down in his own chair and closed his eyes. The next thing he knew, Elder Toronto was shaking him by the shoulder.
“Come on,” he said. “I almost forgot. We’re going to be late to district meeting.”
In a bleary haze, Elder Schwartz got up from his chair, grabbed his bag, and followed Elder Toronto out the door. They had to run the whole way, but they caught their bus. Sweaty and out of breath, they walked down the length of the aisle until they found two seats with no one nearby. They sat down.
As Elder Schwartz caught his breath, Elder Toronto pulled a graying handkerchief from his bag and wiped at his sweaty face.
“So when are we going to call President Madvig?” said Elder Schwartz.
“About what?” said Elder Toronto, slipping the handkerchief back into his bag.
“What do you mean, about what? About finding a dead body last night.”
Elder Toronto shook his head.
“We’re not bringing President Madvig in on this one. And we won’t be mentioning it to anyone at district meeting either.”
Elder Schwartz shouldn’t have been surprised. Still, the reaction upset him.
“Elder Toronto, we can’t just not tell people about it. This is a huge deal—Marco Aurélio is missing and somebody got murdered because of it.”
“Right,” said Elder Toronto. “This is a big deal, and we’re going to do everything we can to help. Which is why we can’t tell President Madvig what’s going on.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” said Elder Schwartz.
“Yes it does,” said Elder Toronto. “Look—Marco Aurélio is clearly in some serious trouble. If we don’t go looking for him, who will?”
His round forehead creased. He avoided Elder Toronto’s expectant gaze, scrambling to form a coherent counterargument.
“But what I’m saying is,” said Elder Schwartz, “this is none of our business. We’re not allowed to do this kind of stuff, and we don’t know how to do it.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” said Elder Toronto.
“Missionaries don’t handle missing persons cases.”
A few rows up, a baby started to cry.
“Okay,” said Elder Toronto, nodding patiently, “so who should handle this? And don’t say the police.”
“I think it’s wrong not to tell President Madvig,” said Elder Schwartz. “He needs to know.”
“So let’s say we tell President Madvig. What’s he going to do about it?”
“Well,” said Elder Schwartz. He paused. “We could tell him what happened and he could talk to—” He stopped himself.
“The police?” said Elder Toronto. He raised an eyebrow. “He could talk to the police? Like those two nice officers we met last night?”
The mother of the crying baby had started walking it up and down the aisle of the bus. As she passed the elders, she smiled at them. The missionaries paused their conversation to smile in return. The baby kept crying. When the woman turned and headed back the other way, they resumed their discussion.
“Not them,” said Elder Schwartz. “Obviously. But maybe he could talk to a different department or something. And he’s an important person. The police would listen to him, and they’ll take care of it.”
“Is that what you think?” said Elder Toronto.
“Yeah.”
Elder Toronto rested a hand on Elder Schwartz’s shoulder. “I want you to look me in the eye,” he said, “and tell me that you honestly think the police will conduct a substantive investigation into the disappearance of Marco Aurélio and the murder of the man in the brown suit.”
The mother with the baby—still crying—passed by them again, smiling apologetically. The missionaries smiled back, waiting again for her to leave.
“Fine,” said Elder Schwartz after she had left. He brushed Elder Toronto’s hand off his shoulder. “Maybe they wouldn’t. But we still need to tell President Madvig. He’ll have a better idea of what to do than we will.”
The bus stopped and the woman with the baby sat back down. With a hiss of hydraulics, the doors opened.
“Do you know what President Madvig will do?” said Elder Toronto. “I’ll tell you what President Madvig will do. First thing, he’ll tell us to pack our bags and come down to the mission office because Vila Barbosa may not be safe for us anymore. Then he’ll sit us down and tell us he’s sorry to hear about what’s happened to the man we baptized. He’ll tell us that the world’s a complicated place, and understanding that is part of growing up, and we don’t always understand why bad things happen to good people, blah blah blah blah blah. And then he’ll call the police, and—since he’s an incredibly well-intentioned person, and I mean that sincerely—he’ll even follow up with them, possibly multiple times. But as we know, nothing will come of working with the police. Then President Madvig will reassign us both to new areas, and if he ever sends new missionaries to Vila Barbosa, all of this will be old, forgotten news. It will be like Marco Aurélio never existed. That’s why telling President Madvig—at least at this point—is not an option. So try again.”
“What?”
“I asked you who will go looking for Marco Aurélio if we don’t. Clearly, the answer is not President Madvig. So try again.”
The turnstile at the front of the bus cranked loudly with each paying passenger. Elder Toronto folded his arms, awaiting his companion’s reply.
“We could talk to Bishop Claudemir,” said Elder Schwartz.
“Bishop Claudemir?” said Elder Toronto. “The same Bishop Claudemir who works a zillion hours a week? The same Bishop Claudemir who, on the rare occasions when he’s not at work, can barely stay awake on his feet? The man couldn’t help us if he wanted to. Try again.”
“Maybe Fátima—”
“Fátima has four kids to deal with and a husband who’s never home,” said Elder Toronto. “Try again.”
An elderly bearded man wearing a slouchy fedora sat down in the row across from the missionaries. He nodded to the elders and glared up at the baby a few rows in front of them, who was only whimpering at this point.
“Fine,” said Elder Schwartz after a minute. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe if we don’t go looking for Marco Aurélio, no one else will. But I still think it’s a bad idea.”
Elder Toronto sighed. The bearded old man in the slouchy fedora looked over at them but said nothing.
“Good morning, sir,” said Elder Toronto, catching the old man’s eye, his voice raised to be heard from across the bus. “How are you today?”
“I’m fine, son, how are you?” said the old man.
“I’m doing well, thank you, sir,” said Elder Toronto. “Are you off to work this morning? Or visiting friends?”
“I’m minding my own business,” said the old man.
“Of course,” said Elder Toronto. “I didn’t mean to be too forward.”
The old man grunted and turned away.
“Just one more thing, sir, if I may,” said Elder Toronto. “My name is Elder Toronto and my partner and I are representatives of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It’s also known as the Mormon church. Have you heard of us?”
“I’m not interested,” said the old man.
“All right,” said Elder Toronto. He gave the man a wide smile. “Have a nice day, sir.”
“I’m not interested,” repeated the man.
“That’s fine,” said Elder Toronto and turned back around.
As the bus bumped its way along, he picked at a flaking bit of plastic on the seat in front of him. Elder Schwartz watched him, waiting with his muscles tensed, bracing for the next volley.
Finally, Elder Toronto said, “Can I ask you a question, Elder Schwartz?”
“I think you will whether I want you to or not.”
“That’s probab
ly true,” said Elder Toronto, and paused.
The bus jostled its way down the street.
“So?” said Elder Toronto.
“So what?” said Elder Schwartz.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Elder Schwartz braced himself.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” said Elder Toronto.
The question seemed innocuous enough, but Elder Schwartz could sense his senior companion laying the groundwork for a larger, more cunning argument.
“I’m on a bus to district meeting.”
“No, I mean on the mission.”
Elder Schwartz adjusted the knot of his tie, thinking.
“I’m here to preach the gospel,” he said.
“No, seriously,” said Elder Toronto.
“I am being serious.”
“Okay, fine,” said Elder Toronto, “you’re here to preach the gospel. But why?”
“Why does it matter?” said Elder Schwartz.
Maybe this would force Elder Toronto’s argument out into the open. Unless that was what he wanted. Either way, Elder Schwartz could tell he was being cornered.
“It’s just, I can’t figure you out,” said Elder Toronto. “Can I speak freely here?”
“Fine,” said Elder Schwartz, wanting to get it over with.
“Okay,” said Elder Toronto. “From my perspective as an older missionary—”
“We’re the same age,” said Elder Schwartz.
“I’ve been a missionary a full year longer than you have,” said Elder Toronto. “And I’m nearly a year older than you.”
“That’s nothing,” said Elder Schwartz.
“Actually in terms of cognitive development, especially at this point in our lives, a year in age can make a significant difference,” said Elder Toronto.
“Please,” said Elder Schwartz.
“Fine,” said Elder Toronto. “I’ll come to the point. This is kind of a delicate topic, but I’m going to jump right in. You probably don’t realize this, but I can hear you crying every morning before your alarm goes off.”
