City of Brick and Shadow

by Tim Wirkus

“But we don’t absolutely know for sure that he’s the one who hired Galvão.”

  “True,” said Elder Toronto, “but I still don’t think Cabral is behind everything.”

  “Who do you think did it, then?” said Elder Schwartz. “The Argentine—this guy Luis?”

  “First of all, I’m not sure Luis is actually the Argentine. Second of all, Cabral seemed pretty intent on shifting our focus to the Argentine. As we already discussed, I’m not sure what to make of that.”

  “Okay, fine,” said Elder Schwartz. “So we figure that one person is responsible for kidnapping Marco Aurélio, or whatever it is that happened to him, and a second person is responsible for hiring Galvão to investigate the disappearance. Then we can figure that the first person is also responsible for the murders, right? Because they didn’t want whoever hired Galvão to find Marco Aurélio? We just have to decide for sure which of the two people is Cabral and which is the Argentine. Right?”

  “Maybe,” said Elder Toronto.

  “What do you mean, maybe?” said Elder Schwartz. “What do you think is going on instead?”

  “I have a few different theories.”

  He looked at the cards on the wall.

  “Are you going to tell them to me?” said Elder Schwartz.

  “Not yet,” said Elder Toronto. “I need to think through them some more. And I want to get your impressions on a couple of things without biasing you with my ideas. We also need to figure out how to approach this meeting with Luis tomorrow morning.”

  “I think it’s time for you to just tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Like I said,” said Elder Toronto, “I think it would be better if I didn’t bias—”

  “No,” said Elder Schwartz, “I’d like to know what you think is going on.”

  “Look,” said Elder Toronto, “If you’re going to be difficult about this, you might as well just go to bed.”

  “Great,” said Elder Schwartz, and went to bed.

  CHAPTER 22

  As he fell asleep, memories of Marco Aurélio’s baptism two months earlier bobbed to the surface of Elder Schwartz’s mind:

  A hot day—a steaming pressure cooker of a day. The members of the Vila Barbosa ward, seated in warm metal folding chairs, immobilized by the heat. Even the children of Claudemir and Fátima overheated into red-faced stillness.

  They had trekked via bus from Vila Barbosa to Parque Laranjeira, where the Mormon congregation had a building of their own, and, more important, a baptismal font. The heat-exhausted members of the Vila Barbosa ward room filed into the building’s vast Relief Society room, whose front wall contained wide double doors, now propped open to reveal the font—a sunken, tiled pool about the size of a walk-in closet. The members of the Vila Barbosa ward sat down in the metal folding chairs that were already set up for their use.

  Marco Aurélio and Elder Schwartz, both dressed in ill-fitting white jumpsuits, sat in the front row of folding chairs.

  “You’ve never done this before, have you?” whispered Marco Aurélio.

  Elder Schwartz shook his head.

  “Seems straightforward enough, though,” said Marco Aurélio.

  “Yeah,” said Elder Schwartz.

  Marco Aurélio nodded. He folded his arms, his fingers worrying at the bunched fabric of the jumpsuit.

  “Pretty straightforward,” he repeated.

  The service began with Abelardo giving an opening prayer, which quickly metamorphosed from a simple invocation to a rambling jeremiad, lasting one minute, then two, then three. In all likelihood, it would have kept going indefinitely if Beatrice hadn’t leaned forward and whispered loudly to her husband that that was probably enough. Abelardo paused at his wife’s advice, and then closed the prayer and sat down. The rest of the group opened their eyes, except for Bishop Claudemir who had fallen asleep, his head still bowed as if in contemplation. Beatrice led them in singing a hymn, their voices weaker than usual in the overwhelming heat. Then Fátima, in her gravelly voice, gave a brief talk reminding the tiny congregation of the key principles of baptism—that baptism meant a rebirth and a washing away of our sins, that it meant we promised to obey God’s commandments and He promised to bless us with His Spirit. She closed her talk by saying how glad she was that Marco Aurélio had chosen to take this very important step.

  As she returned to her seat, Marco Aurélio stood up.

  “Listen,” he said, “I know this isn’t on the program and I’m not sure if it’s allowed or not, but I’d like to say something before I do this. It means a lot to me how kind you’ve all been—the elders and the rest of you—and I want you to know that this baptism isn’t something I’m taking lightly. I’m honored to join this company of saints.” He turned to Elder Schwartz. “I’m ready when you are.”

  While Elder Schwartz and Marco Aurélio stepped out of the room, Claudemir and Abelardo stationed themselves at the edge of the font to act as witnesses. In the hallway, Elder Schwartz opened the narrow door that revealed the tiled stairs leading down into the water.

  “Go ahead,” said Elder Schwartz, and Marco Aurélio stepped down into the font. Elder Schwartz followed, the water bracingly cold in contrast to the oppressive heat of the day. He descended the stairs until he was in up to his waist, cold water creeping up the fabric of his jumpsuit.

  “Ready?” said Elder Schwartz.

  Marco Aurélio nodded. Elder Schwartz raised his right arm and said that he baptized Marco Aurélio in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. Then, with his hand behind Marco Aurélio’s back, he lowered him into the chilly water. Elder Schwartz watched him go all the way under, tiny bubbles escaping from his nose, his dark hair wreathing around his head. He pulled him back up above the surface. Marco Aurélio coughed and sputtered and wiped the water away from his eyes.

  “Okay,” he said, and the two of them left the cool water for the stifling air above.

  CHAPTER 23

  Luis sat on the curb in front of the little general store, his arms resting on his knees. A frayed straw fedora shaded his eyes from the morning sun. When he saw the missionaries approaching his store, his sagging face lifted into a polite smile. He stood up.

  “Elders,” he said, “good morning.”

  He shook their hands and invited them inside his store. The space was small—not much bigger than a newsstand—but appeared both amply and tidily stocked. The wooden shelves lining the walls, their surfaces smooth with a dozen layers of paint, held the kind of basic food and home goods that were ubiquitous throughout the neighborhood’s households—rice, beans, farofa, soap, sugar, coffee, goiabada, canned palmito, string, olive oil.

  “This way,” said Luis, opening a door behind the front counter. They stepped through the doorway into a tiny kitchen, its table—which took up most of the space in the room—set for breakfast with fresh rolls, warm milk, coffee, and a bowl of fresh fruit. Luis removed his hat and hung it on a hook next to the door. The corners of the kitchen were piled high with books.

  “Please,” he said, gesturing at his table, “have a seat.”

  Elder Toronto and Elder Schwartz sat down. Luis picked up the small pitcher of warm milk.

  “Milk?” he said, and both elders said yes. He filled their cups and told them there was chocolate powder if they wanted it. He filled his own glass with coffee.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” said Luis. “I know you’re not allowed.”

  “Go right ahead,” said Elder Toronto.

  Luis added two spoonfuls of sugar to his cup and stirred it in.

  “You know a little about the church, then,” said Elder Toronto.

  “I’ve met several of your colleagues over the years,” said Luis.

  He took a sip of his coffee and added another spoonful of sugar.

  “The older I get, the more of a sweet tooth I have,” he said, stirring the coffee.

  “So have you ever received the missionary lessons?” said Elder Toronto.

  “Oh yes,” said Luis
. “Many times.”

  He pushed the bread and the bowl of fruit across the table toward the missionaries.

  “Don’t be shy about the food,” he said. “If you don’t eat it, I’ll probably end up feeding it to the dogs. I eat so little these days.”

  The elders obliged him, each taking a roll and a piece of fruit—a slightly green banana for Elder Schwartz and a red persimmon for Elder Toronto. They pushed the rolls and the bowl of fruit back across the table to Luis, but he shook his head.

  “Just coffee for me this morning.”

  Elder Schwartz peeled his banana and took a bite. Elder Toronto mixed a spoonful of chocolate powder into his milk. He licked the spoon and set it on the table.

  “This breakfast is very nice, but I’d like to get to the point,” said Elder Toronto. “What can you tell us about Marco Aurélio?”

  Luis took a sip of coffee.

  “I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,” he said. “I can’t tell you much.”

  “Well, anything you can tell us will be extremely helpful,” said Elder Toronto.

  Luis picked up a roll and tore it in half. Lips pursed in concentration, he spread a thin layer of margarine on one half and took a bite as the two missionaries watched expectantly. He set the roll down on his breakfast saucer and brushed the crumbs from his fingers.

  “Early last week,” he said, “I took a meeting here in the store with your friend Marco Aurélio. He had, shall we say, a business proposition for me. I found him to be articulate and professional. His proposition intrigued me, so I told him to go ahead with his plans. Then we shook hands, and that was that.”

  “And what was his proposition?” said Elder Toronto.

  “I’m sorry,” said Luis, “but Marco Aurélio made the presentation in confidence. It would be unprofessional of me to tell you.”

  Elder Toronto raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

  “I’m afraid I’ve disappointed you,” said Luis. “I wish I could be more helpful.”

  Elder Toronto leaned forward.

  “I think you can tell us more than that,” he said. “I think you’re holding out on us.”

  Luis took a sip of his coffee.

  “I really didn’t want to get your hopes up,” he said. “I’ve told you all I can.”

  “All you can or all you will?” said Elder Toronto.

  Luis smiled.

  “I forget sometimes how young you elders are,” he said. “Just boys, really.”

  “You need to tell us what the two of you talked about,” said Elder Toronto, undeterred. “Junior Cabral seemed to think that Marco Aurélio was in some kind of trouble.”

  “Junior Cabral,” said Luis with a shake of his head. “He’s as clever as he is cruel, you know.” He took a bite of his roll and chewed it thoughtfully, eyes downcast in contemplation. He swallowed and looked back up at the elders. “Although not quite so clever, perhaps, as your friend Marco Aurélio?” His wrinkled mouth turned up in a faint smile.

  “Don’t turn this into a joke,” said Elder Toronto.

  “Who said I was joking?” said Luis.

  His red-rimmed gaze fixed on the old man, Elder Toronto rolled the persimmon, which he had eaten none of, in impatient circles on the tabletop.

  Elder Schwartz, for his part, had woken up that morning hopeful that this whole mess might soon be drawing to a close. It was quickly becoming clear, however, that their visit with Luis would resolve nothing. He folded his arms and sighed.

  “Tell me,” said the old man after a minute. “Why do you think I would know anything more about your friend’s disappearance?”

  Elder Toronto rolled the persimmon under his hand.

  “Because I’ve heard the stories people tell about you,” he said.

  “So have I,” said Luis. “They amuse me.”

  “Do they?” said Elder Toronto.

  Luis took a sip of his coffee.

  “You like those stories, don’t you?” he said to Elder Toronto, smiling. “And why not? It’s the kind of thing you’re looking for right now, isn’t it? What you think you want is a tidy narrative.”

  “What if I do?” said Elder Toronto.

  “You’re a smart boy,” said Luis. “You should know that a story like that isn’t going to satisfy you. It might satisfy someone like your friend here,” he nodded at Elder Schwartz, “but not you. Not in the long run. Take a moment and think about how you’ve felt during the past few days.”

  “We’re getting off track,” said Elder Toronto, fingers tightening around the persimmon.

  “I’ll confess now,” continued Luis, “that I’ve been following your little investigation very closely. And as I said, I’d like you to think about how you’ve felt during the past few days.”

  Elder Toronto tossed the now-bruised persimmon from hand to hand, his face a blank.

  “You’ve felt good, haven’t you?” continued Luis. “Energized. Engaged in the world around you. Untroubled by thoughts of what awaits you after your mission. You may have even felt flashes of joy.” Luis smiled. “It’s the thrill of the chase.”

  Elder Toronto set the persimmon back on the table.

  “Am I wrong?” said Luis.

  Elder Toronto looked down at his hands.

  “In the swirl of these invigorating emotions, you might believe that what you’re yearning for is a solution to this mystery, but I can tell you from sad experience that for people like you and me, these so-called solutions can only disappoint. What you’re truly longing for right now, my friend, is more mystery—a continuation of this thrill that comes from an active mind being challenged.”

  “No,” said Elder Toronto. “What I want is a solution that explains Marco Aurélio’s disappearance, and I want it to be true. I’m just trying to help my friend. This isn’t about me.”

  Luis nodded gravely, his gaze coming to rest on the bowl of fruit in the middle of the table. After a moment, he looked up at Elder Toronto.

  “They say I’ve built a labyrinth beneath this neighborhood,” he said. “It’s preposterous, of course, but there’s a kernel of truth somewhere in there. Mazes fascinate me. It’s an interest I inherited from my maternal grandfather. He designed them for wealthy aristocrats in the old country. He would make up the plans and then oversee their construction on the grounds of the estates. Usually they were built of shrubs or even just flagstones laid out on the lawn. Occasionally his patrons requested something more substantial—wooden fencing or brick walls—but that was very rare.

  “The mazes were always well designed, but never too difficult to navigate, as per his patrons’ requests. The mazes he built for me, his young grandson, however, were a different story; drawn on the backs of rejected plans, they filled the great expanse of the draft paper, minutely designed and astonishingly intricate. I spent hours attempting to solve each puzzle, wandering through the passageways with my finger, or, if I was feeling bold, a pencil. Finishing quickly meant disappointment for both me and my grandfather. I relished my time spent inside the mazes searching for a route through the complex arrangements of walls and doors. My grandfather, for his part, prided himself on the intricacy of his designs, his ability to keep me occupied and wandering. He talked, on occasion, of a never-ending maze that would somehow go on forever, with paths that never re-crossed themselves, and walls that offered up infinite possibilities to the intrepid solver. I often tried to imagine what that might look like. After the aristocracy fell, my grandfather’s occupation vanished, and he drank himself to death in a matter of years. He’s long dead now, but my affinity for mazes has continued.

  “I envy this situation of yours, this investigation into your friend’s disappearance. What you have is an incredibly complex labyrinth of possibilities. Yes, you must continue to collect evidence—the puzzle remains incomplete—but you must also meticulously evaluate your evidence, because in this mystery, nothing is straightforward. Three of the major players, for instance, are con artists by trade. As you have probably al
ready recognized, behind each statement they’ve made and each action they’ve taken, shadowy passageways branch off in every direction. What ball of twine will you use to navigate them? What minotaur lies in wait? Even this conversation you’re having with me—I look into your eyes and I can tell that you haven’t decided whether I am a senile, old crackpot or a criminal mastermind, and as you explore either—”

  “This isn’t some game,” Elder Toronto interrupted. “I want you to tell me what happened to Marco Aurélio.”

  At this, Luis’s wrinkled face sagged. His posture drooped and even the light in the room seemed to dim slightly. Luis looked nearly as tired as Abelardo had the night before.

  “Elder Toronto,” said Luis, sounding as old as he looked. “If you ever get to be as old as I am, you might find that there’s something infinite in a mystery like this, something divine.”

  Elder Toronto shook his head. He threw the persimmon that he held in his hand onto the tabletop. Rolling away, it fell off the table’s edge and hit the floor with a soft thud.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said to Elder Schwartz.

  The two missionaries stood up to go.

  “Before you leave—” said Luis. “You may not give much weight to anything I’ve told you, but I do have one request.”

  “What?” said Elder Toronto.

  “That you be more cautious,” said Luis. “The people you’re dealing with—regardless of their possible roles—are far more cunning and far more ruthless than you seem to imagine.”

  Without acknowledging the old man’s request, Elder Toronto turned and stormed out of the little store, Elder Schwartz following close behind him.

  THE ARGENTINE

  They say that in the years following its announcement, a handful of brave souls took up the Argentine’s challenge. None of them passed the test. As each of them failed, one after the other, the Argentine’s patience grew thin. He had each unsuccessful challenger kidnapped, tortured, killed. Not surprisingly, this cut back on the already feeble allure of the challenge. Fewer and fewer made the attempt.