by Tim Wirkus
He looked expectantly at Elder Schwartz.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Elder Toronto waited, seeming hopeful that his junior companion was winding up to something bigger.
“I really don’t know,” said Elder Schwartz, disconcerted that, for once, his companion seemed to be asking a genuine question of him, a question he couldn’t answer for himself.
Elder Toronto waited a moment longer, mouth slightly open, before his face sagged with disappointment.
“Well, forget it then,” said Elder Toronto, and turned back around.
The three of them sat in discontented silence until the cab came to a stop between Grillo’s house and Marco Aurélio’s. The missionaries got out of the car. Elder Toronto pulled a roll of cash from his pants pocket and held it out to Wanderley. The cab driver looked at the roll of money for a moment before he took it.
“Don’t call me again,” he said.
Wanderley pulled the passenger door shut and drove away.
CHAPTER 18
Before they went looking for the Argentine—which, Elder Toronto said, was the next vital step—they needed to talk to Grillo again. Unfortunately, Grillo was dead.
After Wanderley dropped them off, the two elders clapped at Grillo’s gate and waited for a response. Next door, the old woman—Meire—stood sweeping her quintal as usual. They clapped again and Meire looked up at them. Elder Toronto smiled and lifted his hand in greeting. The woman went back to her sweeping. Grillo didn’t come to answer the door. Elder Toronto clapped again. They waited. Nothing.
“Maybe he’s at work,” said Elder Schwartz.
Elder Toronto called Grillo’s name and waited. Still nothing.
They walked down the cracked, upheaving sidewalk to the gate next door.
“Excuse me,” said Elder Toronto to the old woman.
“Yes?” said Meire, still sweeping, head down.
“Have you seen Grillo today?” he said.
She stopped sweeping and looked up.
“You’re looking for Grillo again?” she said.
The missionaries nodded. She leaned her broom against the cinderblock wall that separated her house from Grillo’s and approached the gate. She squinted at them from between the metal bars.
“I should have told the police that you boys were here yesterday,” she said, “but I didn’t.”
“Police?” said Elder Toronto.
The old woman pulled a flowery handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and dabbed at the sweat that was beading on her wrinkled face.
“Grillo got killed yesterday,” she said.
She folded the handkerchief and returned it to her pocket. Elder Toronto asked her what happened. She told the missionaries that the previous afternoon somebody had called the police to report a murder. The caller had given Grillo’s address but had refused to identify himself. The police had found Grillo and Lucinda tied together in the kitchen, beaten to death.
“This was yesterday afternoon?” said Elder Toronto.
The old woman nodded.
“And did anyone on the street see anything unusual?”
Meire shrugged her shoulders beneath her thin, cotton dress.
“Just the two of you,” she said.
“And he was beaten to death?” said Elder Toronto.
“That’s right,” she said.
Elder Toronto shook his head.
“I’m not sure how that happened with no one seeing it,” he said. “One person wouldn’t be able to beat Grillo to death.”
“Grillo?” she said. “Why not?”
“The guy was enormous,” said Elder Toronto.
The old woman squinted at him. She jerked her thumb at the house next door.
“The Grillo I knew was a little guy,” she said. “Short and mousy. Maybe you’re thinking of someone else.”
Elder Toronto described the man they had met the day before, the man they had assumed was Grillo. Meire shook her head. She said it certainly wasn’t Grillo, and that as far as she knew, nobody matching that description lived in any of the nearby houses. Elder Toronto thanked Meire for her help and she went back to her sweeping. The two missionaries started walking toward the neighborhood’s business center.
“What’s going on?” said Elder Schwartz.
“It’s just what I suspected,” said Elder Toronto.
“What?” said Elder Schwartz.
“The man we met was Grillo’s killer. He either got all that information about Marco Aurélio from the real Grillo before he killed him, or he made it all up.”
They sidestepped a bloated dead dog on the sidewalk and turned left onto a cross street.
“Just as you suspected?” said Elder Schwartz, his voice rising. “But if you suspected all that, then why didn’t we do anything about it? And why were we coming back to talk to Grillo if you knew he was dead?”
“What could we have done about it yesterday?” said Elder Toronto. “The only reason we came back today was because I wanted to confirm my hunch.”
“No,” said Elder Schwartz. “You had no idea that man wasn’t Grillo.”
“I’m sorry you think that,” said Elder Toronto.
“You had no idea,” said Elder Schwartz again. “You just can’t stand to be wrong about something.”
“Look,” said Elder Toronto, “I told you yesterday I’d be playing the naïve missionary. It was a tactical performance, and I think it defused a potentially volatile situation. I pretended that I thought that man was Grillo so he wouldn’t kill us. I think it’s just a testament to my skill that you’re so convinced I didn’t know what was going on.”
“Shut up,” said Elder Schwartz.
It took Elder Schwartz several paces to notice that his companion was no longer keeping up. He stopped and turned around. Elder Toronto stood several paces behind him, hands in his pockets, shaking his head. Elder Schwartz walked back to where his senior companion stood.
“What?” he said.
Elder Toronto pulled a hand from his pocket and wagged his finger at Elder Schwartz.
“We can’t afford to fall apart at this point,” he said.
“Come on,” said Elder Schwartz, “just cut it out.”
“No,” said Elder Toronto. “Listen to me. I know I can be a little condescending at times and I know that I like to be right. But now is not the time for you to quibble about the flaws in my personality. This is important, and I need you to be bigger than that. Marco Aurélio needs you to be bigger than that. Are you on board with this or not?”
Elder Schwartz had so many problems with this speech that he didn’t know where to start. So instead, he did what he was best at and let the matter drop.
“Fine,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re on board, then?” said Elder Toronto.
“I’m on board,” said Elder Schwartz. “Lead the way.”
“Trust me on this,” said Elder Toronto, and they set out to find the Argentine.
CHAPTER 19
The two elders often asked impertinent questions—Are you religious? Can we come visit you at your house? Are you willing to obey the law of chastity and not have sexual relations outside of marriage?—and were used to the frequently dismayed reactions of the strangers or near-strangers to whom they posed these questions. However, as Elder Toronto and Elder Schwartz walked up the main street of Vila Barbosa, stopping people at random to ask them where they could find the Argentine, it quickly became evident that this question was exponentially more audacious than any of the other ones they often asked.
Although specific reactions varied, almost every one involved a gut-punched look of surprise before the questionee recovered and could respond more deliberately. An evangelical woman in a long skirt furrowed her brow and told them they obviously weren’t from around here or otherwise they wouldn’t be asking that question. A vendor of caldo de cana fed a long stalk of sugarcane into the turning metal press of his many-geared machine and said that he hadn’t hea
rd the question they’d just asked, and they’d better not ask it again. A small group of teenagers, still dressed in their school uniforms, looked nervously at one another and studiously ignored the two missionaries until they walked away. A mustachioed old man in a leather apron handing out business cards in front of a shoe repair shop told them there was no such person and then hurried back inside his shop.
The elders then tried their luck at a series of bars, bartenders being, in Elder Toronto’s experience, a class of people rich in cartographical knowledge of the neighborhood and generally willing to share it. Today, however, the bartenders, one after the other, told the missionaries they couldn’t help them, that the elders needed to leave unless they planned on buying something. One of the bartenders, an avuncular, one-armed northerner who, on especially hot days, was known to offer chilly glasses of free guaraná to tired missionaries, told the two elders that they didn’t know what they were asking. He said that if they knew what was good for them, they’d drop it immediately. Elder Toronto explained that this was important and they were trying to help a friend.
“Listen,” said the one-armed bartender, “I don’t know if you think you’re exempt because you’re young or religious or from the States, or whatever, but the two of you can be killed—or worse—just as easily as anyone else in Vila Barbosa.”
Elder Toronto thanked the man for his concern and they left the bar, continuing their search.
They clapped at an assortment of houses where they were received no more warmly. The residents peered out of their doors and windows as Elder Toronto asked as innocently as possible where they might find the Argentine. At most of the homes, the only response the elders received was a slammed door. The more communicative people said that they couldn’t help, or that there was no such person, or that they couldn’t understand what Elder Toronto was saying.
“Do you think this is a good idea?” said Elder Schwartz as they walked to the next row of houses.
“It’s the next move,” said Elder Toronto. “You heard Cabral.”
“Yeah,” said Elder Schwartz, “but was he telling the truth?”
“It’s a good question,” said Elder Toronto, “and I’m glad you’re asking it. It shows you’re thinking. Here’s my take on the situation. If everything Junior Cabral told us about Marco Aurélio and the Argentine is true—which I doubt—then it’s important for us to find out what they talked about. Then we can take what we know, find out what Cabral knows, and hopefully be that much closer to finding Marco Aurélio. If what Cabral told us is partly true and partly a lie—which I think is the more likely case—I’m guessing it’s still important for us to find out if Marco Aurélio met with the Argentine. If I were a betting man, I’d bet Cabral is truly interested in some connection with the Argentine, even if the rest is lies.
“And then there’s the possibility that this is a red herring, and Cabral wants us distracted from more important questions. It’s possible, I suppose, but like I said, Cabral seemed like he really wanted us to talk to the Argentine. If that was an act, though, I figure the Argentine is an influential enough person in the neighborhood that he’s bound to know something about what happened to Marco Aurélio.”
Elder Schwartz said, “But what I meant was, is it safe to go looking for the Argentine? I’m not sure it’s a very good idea.”
“Don’t worry,” said Elder Toronto. “We’ll find him.”
“That’s not what I’m asking,” said Elder Schwartz.
Elder Toronto ignored this, stepping up to the gate of a house and clapping to get the attention of the occupants inside.
The day wore on with increasingly unpromising results. Elder Toronto attempted a wide range of approaches with the strangers they questioned—flattery, affected naïveté, mild belligerence, wheedling, bribery—all to no avail. He grew more and more despondent with each claim of ignorance as to the Argentine’s whereabouts.
“Who’s talked to us about the Argentine in the past?” said Elder Toronto. “There has to be somebody.”
Elder Schwartz knew he had heard stories of the Argentine, and as he thought about it, he could recall dozens of anecdotes involving the man’s memorable acts of violence, his arrival in Vila Barbosa and subsequent rise to power, his shaping of the neighborhood, his secret libraries, his hidden labyrinths of tunnels, his deputies and minions, his inscrutable machinations. What Elder Schwartz couldn’t recall, however, was where exactly he had heard these stories. They had come from multiple sources, certainly, and Elder Schwartz could conjure up vague recollections of hushed voices, confidential tones, furtive glances. But, try as he might, he couldn’t pinpoint a single specific location, a single recognizable speaker. It would seem that the stories had simply accumulated in his consciousness during the time he had spent in Vila Barbosa, reflexively absorbed into his system like the neighborhood’s polluted air.
If Elder Schwartz found it difficult to recall where exactly he had heard the stories of the Argentine, he had an even harder time articulating to himself how the stories made him feel. Where he had experienced—and continued to experience—strong feelings of dread while working in Vila Barbosa, he experienced even stronger feelings when he thought of the Argentine, feelings both more dreadful and more obscure. Months earlier, the thought of being transferred to Vila Barbosa had left him dry-mouthed and sweaty with fear. The prospect of meeting the Argentine, however, was too massive a thing for either his brain or his body to comprehend. It left him feeling oddly weightless, a bit lightheaded.
As Elder Toronto grew more and more desperate to find the Argentine, Elder Schwartz grew more and more resigned. Unlike his companion, he knew that they would find the legendary figure sooner or later, knew that their search for Marco Aurélio had probably been leading them in this direction all along. They would meet the Argentine, pulled in by the man’s planetary gravity, and then—and then, what? Again, that woozy dread.
The sun, sinking toward the horizon, cast a rust-colored light over the hazy neighborhood. The two missionaries sat down at the edge of a crumbling sidewalk. Elder Toronto pulled the map of the neighborhood from his bag and spread it out on his knees.
“Should we call it a day?” said Elder Schwartz.
Elder Toronto smoothed out a section of the map, peering closely at the tiny, printed words.
“No,” he said, “we’ll keep looking.”
With his index finger, he traced a path on the map, looked up at the street sign a few yards away, and then back down at the map.
“What are you planning to do when we find the Argentine?” said Elder Schwartz.
“We’ll talk to him,” said Elder Toronto, “ask him some questions.”
“And he’ll just answer them?” said Elder Schwartz.
“Whether or not he answers our questions,” said Elder Toronto, “I think we’ll learn something valuable from speaking with him.”
“I don’t know,” said Elder Schwartz.
“Look,” said Elder Toronto, setting aside the map. “I’m so close to figuring this out. Last night, everything felt like a total dead end, like there weren’t any cracks I could wedge my fingers into, you know? But today we’re making progress. Think of everything we’ve found out between yesterday evening and today. Seriously—think about it. We’ve talked to Sílvia, we’ve talked to Cabral—we have a completely different picture of Marco Aurélio now than we did twenty-four hours ago. There’s so much more to work with, and I can solve this, Elder Schwartz. Yesterday evening I worried I wouldn’t be able to, but I can. I don’t know the answer yet, but I’m getting closer.”
Elder Schwartz kicked at a pebble and watched it skip across the dirt road.
“But what are we even trying to accomplish here?” said Elder Schwartz. “Marco Aurélio is probably already dead anyway.”
“So what if he were?” said Elder Toronto. “What would that change?”
“Well,” said Elder Schwartz. “If he’s dead, then what are we looking for?”
Elder Toronto squinted at him, as if the question were incomprehensible.
“Look,” said Elder Toronto. “It’s like a samurai—samurai have all sorts of duties and obligations to other people, and the whole point of being a samurai is that they won’t rest until they fulfill those duties.”
“What kinds of duties?” said Elder Schwartz.
“You want to know what kinds of duties?” said Elder Toronto. “Think about it this way, Elder Schwartz. If a samurai’s friend disappeared, do you think the samurai would just throw up his hands and say, oh well, what can you do, I’m kind of sleepy anyway, let’s just forget about it? No, he wouldn’t. Because a samurai honors the obligations of friendship.”
“But we’re not samurais,” said Elder Schwartz.
“Samurai,” said Elder Toronto.
“What?” said Elder Schwartz.
“Samurai,” said Elder Toronto. “The plural of samurai is samurai.”
“I don’t care,” said Elder Schwartz.
“Clearly,” said Elder Toronto. “Now quiet down and let me think.”
Elder Schwartz was about to respond to this when they were interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Elders,” said the voice. “How good to see you.”
The two of them looked up and saw Sister Beatrice walking down the sidewalk toward them, loaded down with grocery bags. The missionaries jumped up to help her with her load, but she shook her head and set the bags down. The elders shook her hand.
“It’s nice to see you, Sister,” said Elder Toronto. “How are you this evening?”
She smiled. She said she was just on her way back from the store. She was making a special meal for Abelardo tomorrow because tomorrow was the anniversary of their marriage. The elders congratulated her and asked how Brother Abelardo was doing today.
“He’s been a little down for the past few days,” Beatrice said. “His gout is acting up and he’s feeling pretty discouraged about it. If you two were to stop by, I’m sure it would cheer him up a bit.”
“Abelardo,” said Elder Toronto. “Of course.”
