by Tim Wirkus
“He’d be so pleased to see you,” she said.
Elder Toronto said they’d be happy to stop by—there were a couple of questions they’d like to ask him. Beatrice smiled and said that this must be a serendipitous meeting then. Elder Toronto nodded in agreement. The two elders picked up the bags of groceries that Beatrice had set down on the sidewalk and the three of them started walking.
THE ARGENTINE
They say that as the above-ground deputies and the subterranean minions gathered in the dimly lit interior of the Argentine’s general store, both groups regarded one another with no small degree of mistrust. By this point in the neighborhood’s history, those six above-ground deputies had grown old and grizzled, each one now commanding dozens of deputies of their own. Their knees creaked and popped as they sat down on their overturned grocery crates.
For their part, the subterranean minions—their skin ghostly and smooth from being deprived of sunlight for so many years—opted to remain standing, and lurked in the shadowy corners of the store. As was their custom, the minions spoke to one another in whispers, causing the above-ground deputies to glance back at them with growing unease.
Tensions rising, the door behind the counter opened and the Argentine stepped out. In the time since that last decisive meeting with the deputies, the Argentine had aged considerably. His skin had wrinkled, his hair had grayed, his posture had stooped, but, as he revealed with a pained grimace, his square teeth remained as white as ever. He stepped out in front of the counter and greeted the men and women in attendance. Then he cleared his throat and began to speak.
“I’ve made a mistake,” he said, his voice grown scratchy with time, “Without realizing it, I’ve spent the past several decades constructing an elaborate prison for myself. Just this morning, I recognized what I’ve done. Vila Barbosa has become a physical extension of my own mind.”
He paused, allowing this to sink in. The mouths of the deputies pursed in consternation, the heads of the minions tilted to the side, perplexed. None of them spoke. The Argentine continued. He said he realized that this affliction was a unique one, that it must be difficult for them to understand. He explained it like this: that it felt like he was asleep, aware that he was dreaming and he wanted badly to wake up. Because everything around him was an extension of his own imagination, he could comprehend it all. He could discern the motives behind even the most eccentric actions, anticipate the punch line of every joke, avert any disaster. Nothing could surprise him, nothing could challenge him. He paused again.
Breaking the silence, the tattooed deputy said, “So you’d like us to help you come up with a solution?”
The Argentine smiled sadly. He said that he had already anticipated the ideas that they would come up with, and they were all completely inadequate. Both the deputies and the minions shifted uncomfortably.
“The reason I’ve called you here,” said the Argentine, “is because I’ve already come up with a solution, and I need you to spread a message to the people of the neighborhood. I’m holding a contest of sorts, open to anyone who would like to enter.”
This sent a murmur of surprise through the deputies, a flurry of whispers through the minions. The Argentine silenced them all with a dangerous tilt of his head. Duly chastened, they turned and faced forward in their seats and offered up their rapt attention. After allowing the silent anticipation to build, the Argentine unfolded the details of his sinister challenge. When he finished his explanation, the terrible possibilities now abundantly clear, a shudder ran through the room.
“Now go,” said the Argentine, and the group dispersed into the night.
CHAPTER 20
In spite of Beatrice’s best efforts, the little nook of a house where she and Abelardo lived had the atmosphere of a tomb, the light bulbs somehow never bright enough to fill all the dark corners, the walls perpetually grimy despite diligent scrubbing, the air always laced with the smells of mildew, illness, and decay. Beatrice and the two missionaries entered the house to find Abelardo seated at the kitchen table with a guest, the two of them hunched over a chessboard. The guest sat with his back to the door, with Abelardo sitting across from him wrapped in a thick, crocheted blanket.
While Abelardo usually suffered through his ailments with a certain amount of gusto, giving the impression that on some level he relished his battles with the myriad sicknesses that ravaged, but failed to destroy, his body, tonight Abelardo looked exactly like the dying old man that he was. His skin, a cadaverous gray, resembled cheap newsprint in the dim light. His head trembled perceptibly and his lips twitched with movements that didn’t quite form words. A white glob of spit had collected at the corner of his mouth. He looked up from his game and nodded weakly at Beatrice and the missionaries.
Following Abelardo’s gaze, the guest turned in his chair. When he saw who had entered, he stood, revealing himself to be a similarly ancient, but much more robust, old man. He was neatly dressed in the uniform favored by the old men of the city—sandals, chinos, and a short-sleeved button-down shirt undone nearly to his navel. The top of his head was completely bald and the remaining hair on the sides was trimmed close to his scalp, giving an impression of tidiness and control. In contrast, his eyelids, lips, and chin sagged dramatically, conveying the sense that over the course of his life, gravity had affected the guest’s face more severely than it had the rest of his body.
“Good evening,” said the guest, his voice marked with a faint accent.
The missionaries returned his greeting and immediately set to work putting away the groceries. For her part, Beatrice remained in the doorway, her posture stiff and formal, her hands folded in front of her.
“Luis,” she said, “what a nice surprise. If I had known that you and Abelardo were meeting tonight, I would have baked something for the two of you.”
“Please,” said Luis, “I would hate to have inconvenienced you. And besides, I came here strictly for the company—I wanted to talk about the old days in Vila Barbosa, and Abelardo is just about the only other one left who remembers them.”
He smiled and Abelardo nodded gravely, his eyes staring vacantly at the chipped and faded chess set before him.
“We always enjoy your visits,” said Beatrice. She gestured at the elders, still unloading the grocery bags. “Luis, have you met the missionaries?”
“Not these two, no. I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Abelardo shuddered beneath his thick blanket.
“This is Elder Toronto,” said Beatrice.
Elder Toronto set down the tin of olive oil he had pulled from the grocery bag and shook hands with Luis.
“And this is Elder Schwartz.”
Somehow, Elder Schwartz had knocked the lid off the container of honey that Beatrice had bought, and his fingers were covered with the sticky, viscous result. He held his hands up in mute apology and Luis nodded in understanding.
“It’s nice to meet you,” said Elder Toronto, returning to his task of putting away the groceries.
“Likewise,” said Luis.
Elder Schwartz, having rinsed his hands clean under the kitchen faucet, dried them on the towel and rejoined Elder Toronto in unloading the grocery bags. Luis watched the two elders for a moment, while Beatrice and Abelardo watched him watching.
After a moment, Luis said, “I understand you’ve been looking for me today.”
“Excuse me?” said Elder Toronto, setting down a bag of cevada on one of Beatrice’s makeshift shelves.
“I said, I understand you’ve been looking for me.”
“No, I heard,” said Elder Toronto, “it’s just—”
He looked carefully at the old man.
“Oh,” said Elder Toronto.
A slight smile crossed Luis’s face.
“I hear you’ve been asking after the Argentine,” he said, “and that’s what people call me. I’ve lived in this country, this neighborhood, for longer than most people in Vila Barbosa have been alive,” he shrugged his shoulders and
pursed his droopy lips, “but still I’m a foreigner to them.”
The man had both missionaries’ full attention.
Luis said, “I’m assuming this is about your friend Marco Aurélio?”
Goosebumps prickled Elder Schwartz’s arms.
“That’s right,” said Elder Toronto.
“I met him a couple of weeks ago,” said Luis, “and we spoke at length. Abelardo tells me he’s gone missing since them.”
“Yes, he has.”
“Well,” said Luis, “I’d be happy to talk to you about it, although I’m not sure if I’ll be of much help.”
“Yes,” said Elder Toronto. “Please.”
Beatrice said, “You’re welcome to stay for dinner—you and the elders could talk it over here.”
Luis shook his head.
“Thank you, but I’m afraid I’ve tired out your husband,” he said.
Abelardo didn’t disagree. Instead, the frail old man pulled the crocheted afghan tighter against his thin body.
“Some other time then,” said Beatrice.
“Yes, of course,” said Luis. “You’re always so hospitable.”
Elder Toronto stepped forward.
“We’re still available to meet with you tonight, though,” he said.
Luis shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not tonight. I need my sleep.”
“First thing in the morning, then?” said Elder Toronto.
Another faint smile flickered across the old man’s face.
“Do you know the street Alto das Almas?” said Luis.
Elder Toronto said that he did.
“I live at the top of that street. Come by around seven tomorrow and we’ll talk over breakfast.”
“No,” said Abelardo, speaking for the first time since the missionaries had arrived, his voice a wavering croak. “I don’t think they’ll be able to make it, Luis.”
Elder Toronto looked from Abelardo to Luis.
“We’ll be there,” he said.
Luis said he would look forward to it, and the muscles of his face hoisted the edges of his drooping mouth into a smile.
“Abelardo, we’ll finish our game another time,” he said, gesturing at the chessboard.
Abelardo didn’t respond and Beatrice wished Luis a good evening as he stepped out from the dim, musty house into the clear night. He shut the door and the room was silent. Abelardo leaned his trembling head back against the wall and sighed.
CHAPTER 21
When the elders got home to their downstairs apartment that evening, nobody was waiting in the darkness with a gun. Nobody threatened their lives. Nobody demanded to know what they knew about Marco Aurélio. They turned on the lights and found each room to be decidedly empty. The sensible reaction to this state of affairs, Elder Schwartz believed, was to go straight to bed and sleep for as long as circumstances allowed. He was on his way to the bedroom to do just that, when Elder Toronto stopped him.
“Hang on.”
He stood, hands on his hips, in front of the extensive grid of index cards he had created and taped to the wall the night before. Finding the card he was searching for, the one labeled “Junior Cabral,” Elder Toronto pulled the pen from his shirt pocket and added several lines of text to the front of the card.
“What do you need?” said Elder Schwartz.
“What?” said Elder Toronto, still writing intently.
“You told me to hang on. What do you need?”
“Right,” said Elder Toronto. “I could use your help. For starters, could you hand me one of these blank cards from your desk?”
“I’m really tired,” said Elder Schwartz. “I think it would be better if I just went to bed.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Elder Toronto. He finished what he was writing on the Junior Cabral card and turned around. “Come on. Hand me a blank card, would you? You’re closer to the desk anyway.”
He held his hand out expectantly. Elder Schwartz picked up a blank card, crossed the room, and slapped it into Elder Toronto’s hand.
“Thank you,” said Elder Toronto.
He taped the card to the wall and wrote “Luis (the Argentine?)” across the top of it.
“Now, what do we know about this guy?”
“Nothing,” said Elder Schwartz. “We know nothing about him.”
“Come on—you’re being lazy,” said Elder Toronto. “We know a few things. He was at Beatrice and Abelardo’s house. What does that tell us?”
“That he’s a friend of Beatrice and Abelardo.”
“I would say acquaintance—‘friend’ assumes too much—but that’s good work.”
Elder Toronto wrote “Acquaintance of Abelardo and Beatrice” on the card.
“What else?”
“We know he lives on Alto das Almas,” said Elder Schwartz, “and we know he talked to Marco Aurélio just before he disappeared.”
“He told us both of those things, but we have no way of verifying them yet. I’m inclined to believe the first statement; I’m not sure about the second one.”
He wrote them both on the card anyway.
“Hand me those highlighters, would you?” he said, pointing at the cup of pens on Elder Schwartz’s desk. Elder Schwartz crossed the room, retrieved the highlighters, and handed them to Elder Toronto.
“Thanks,” said Elder Toronto. “Now give me just a minute.”
He hovered over the cards, highlighters uncapped, marking the occasional line of text in pink or yellow. He paused over each card, deliberating silently before marking a line here, a line there. The process dragged on. Elder Schwartz tried to leave a few times, but each time he did, Elder Toronto stopped him, saying that he’d just be another minute or two, that he could really use Elder Schwartz’s input once he finished.
At one point, Elder Schwartz asked what they were going to do when President Madvig arrived the next morning.
“I can’t think about that right now,” said Elder Toronto.
“No, seriously,” said Elder Schwartz. “What if he gets here while we’re meeting with Luis?”
“He won’t,” said Elder Toronto, still hovering over his cards. “When he does an area visit, he usually gets there around the end of companion study. He won’t be here until ten.”
“Fine,” said Elder Schwartz, “but what do we do once he’s here? Put everything on hold?”
Elder Toronto made a mark on one of the cards.
“No,” he said. “We’ll need to bluff him. We’ll say there’s so much to show him in our area that we need to split up. So you’ll take President Madvig to visit some fake investigators, and I’ll take whichever of the assistants he brings to visit Junior Cabral.”
“And they’ll just be totally okay with that?”
“We’ll see which assistant he brings,” said Elder Toronto. “It’ll be easier if it’s Elder Silvestre, but even Elder Saramago I can handle.”
“But how?” said Elder Schwartz.
“Too many questions,” said Elder Toronto. “Let me concentrate,” and he returned his full attention to the cards.
Finally, many minutes later, Elder Toronto capped the highlighters and took a step back from the wall. The entire process of evaluating each card had taken a full hour.
“What do you think?” said Elder Toronto.
“I don’t know what I’m looking at,” said Elder Schwartz.
Elder Toronto stepped up to the wall and pulled his pen from his shirt pocket to use as a pointer.
“I’ve highlighted in yellow everything we know to be true—the verifiable facts.”
He moved his pen to a line of pink.
“In pink, I’ve highlighted what is probably true, but that we can’t know for sure. Everything that’s left blank is information that’s probably not true or is completely unverifiable.”
“Okay,” said Elder Schwartz.
“So,” said Elder Toronto, moving his pen, “take, for example, the card I made for Sílvia. We know for sure that she works in that lanchonete, an
d we know that when we went there with Marco Aurélio, he said something that upset her. We don’t know what he said, but we know he said it. Those are the things we know for sure, so that’s in yellow. Here’s what I think is probably true about Sílvia—you see that’s highlighted in pink. She was probably romantically involved with Marco Aurélio, and she was probably a con artist. What I don’t think is true is that both of them lived in Vila Barbosa for so many years and never ran into each other until that day when you were transferred here. A lot of people live in Vila Barbosa, so it’s possible, but I just don’t buy it. I suspect they were in contact before that day. Anyway, I’ve done the same thing with all the other cards as well.”
Elder Schwartz looked over the cards and saw a lot of unhighlighted text, with an occasional line of pink and an even more occasional line of yellow.
Elder Toronto put his pen back in his shirt pocket.
“I realize there’s not much up there that we know for sure,” he said, “but part of the problem is that the bulk of our information comes from three sources—Grillo, Sílvia, and Junior Cabral. The man we thought was Grillo wasn’t Grillo. He’s probably, in fact, the man who killed Grillo, so everything he told us is suspect at best. All we know for sure is that a guy named Grillo lived next door to Marco Aurélio, and that Grillo and his wife were murdered. We don’t even know for sure that Grillo was Marco Aurélio’s brother. I think it’s possible, maybe even probable, but we don’t know. Next we have Sílvia and Cabral. Both of them were or are con artists, which once again renders the information we have from them very suspect.”
“I think Cabral did it,” said Elder Schwartz.
“Did what?” said Elder Toronto.
“All this. I think he’s the one we should be going after.”
“He’s definitely a major player,” said Elder Toronto, “but we’ve got one disappearance and three murders to account for. I think it’s unlikely that he’d kill Galvão, the man he himself hired to find Marco Aurélio, so that means he couldn’t be responsible for everything.”
