A Window in Copacabana

by Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza

  “I’m not being ironic, I’m just asking you.”

  “It could have been another question.”

  “Not when my wife’s sitting in the dark staring across the street for hours on end.” He turned the light on.

  “Who told you I’ve been here for hours?”

  “Nobody needed to; it’s obvious you’ve been here a long time.”

  “Someone must have said something or you wouldn’t know. It’s Zuleide. You’ve been paying the maid to spy on me.”

  “I am paying her—she’s our maid—but not to spy on you.”

  “You feel really safe, don’t you?”

  “Not always. Sometimes I feel deeply insecure, especially about you.”

  “Because you don’t trust me.”

  “I don’t mistrust you. I just don’t know you, which is something else.”

  “That’s not how you acted about the policeman. The way you were talking, it sounded like I’d had sex with him in the middle of the Avenida Atlântica.”

  “I just thought it was odd that he would leave work in the middle of the day to come chat and have a juice on the beach with my wife.”

  “Jesus, Guilherme, I witnessed a murder!”

  “You saw a death, probably a suicide, and all the rest is just a possibility.”

  “So why did the officer listen to me?”

  “Because you said you saw a murder. Or something like that. Of course he had to see if your recollection was credible.”

  “And it seems that he thought it was.”

  “Everything depends on what you told him. And how.”

  “What are you insinuating?”

  “I’m not insinuating anything, but you can be persuasive when you set your mind to it.”

  “One more time: what are you insinuating?”

  “Damn it, Serena, I’m speaking very clearly, I’m not hinting at anything. I am saying that you can be very imaginative and very persuasive.”

  “You think I’ve gone crazy.”

  “No, but you’re talking about this quite a lot.”

  “Of course I am! Jesus, neither you nor Espinosa believe me.”

  “Who’s Espinosa?”

  “The policeman!”

  “I didn’t know you two were so close.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know; you’re the only one who can answer that.”

  “No matter what I say, neither of you believe me.”

  “What don’t we believe?”

  Serena got up from the chair. The expression in her eyes had changed, and her mouth, usually so lovely and sensual, was pursed.

  “You think I’m a useless and deluded woman.”

  “The policeman said that?”

  “No, but that’s what he thinks.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Jesus, what the fuck, are you going to interrogate me too?”

  Serena turned out the light, left her dressing room, went into the bedroom, came back out, and went to the living room. The table was set, and the maid was ready to serve dinner. Guilherme waited for his wife to decide where she wanted to sit. He sat beside her, close enough to be able to reach out and touch her hand. Serena jerked back her arm as if shocked.

  “What’s gong on?” he asked.

  “What’s going on is that I feel like I’m going crazy.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I don’t even know what to believe anymore. From you two asking me so many questions I really don’t know what actually happened.”

  “Sweetheart, whatever happened has nothing to do with you. You didn’t cause anyone’s death; you didn’t even know the person who died. You’re not responsible for anything that went on in that apartment.”

  “For what went on in that apartment, no—”

  “So why—”

  “—but the officer said that thanks to my story they’ve changed the direction of the investigation and are looking for whoever might be responsible for the woman’s death.”

  “Fine, let them look. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “You don’t know what to think about what?”

  “All I’m sure of is the horror of that woman falling onto the sidewalk.”

  “Didn’t you say you saw her fighting with someone?”

  “When I opened the window, I saw the woman in the living room across the street; she was pacing back and forth, talking, and she couldn’t have been talking to herself.”

  “And the purse?”

  “A long time ago, I heard a story about a woman who, before she threw herself off a building, threw her purse first. I’ve remembered that for years. When the woman here fell, I thought I saw a purse falling first. Now I’m not sure if what I saw fall was the purse or the woman.”

  “Did you tell the officer that?”

  “What? The story I heard? I don’t even know if it was true.”

  “So …”

  “So … I don’t know anymore…. I’m so confused…. I don’t know if the things I remember happening really happened.”

  “I’m sorry, dear, but we need to tell the officer that.”

  “Tell him what? That I’m confused? You think he’s not confused? The only one who’s not confused is you.”

  “You …”

  “You don’t need to say anything. I’ll take care of the officer. It’s my business.”

  7

  He didn’t turn on the lights or take off his jacket. He sat down in the rocking chair and stayed there in the dark. He heard sounds that were perfectly distinct from the noise of the street; sometimes he heard a kind of death rattle followed by a profound silence: the refrigerator. He sat so long that his legs went to sleep. It was after midnight when he looked at his watch. He must have been sitting there for almost three hours.

  Why would someone wear a cap at night? It was just a fashion. A lot of people did that. It could also be a disguise. And what do you hide with a cap? Baldness: bald people are easy to recognize. If you wanted to hide baldness, though, it would be better to wear a wig. So if someone is wearing a cap at night, it’s because they like the look. Serena also said that the killer was wearing a jacket. A cap and jacket: lots of younger people dressed like that. He could imagine the killer in tennis shoes, jeans, a jacket, and a cap, like hundreds of other people walking down the street at any given moment. The jacket worked with the look, but in the heat it was an odd choice. Serena herself had said she was in her dressing room picking out a low-cut dress because it was so hot out. So it was a hot night. Why would someone wear a hat and a jacket, things used to keep warm, on such a hot night? It couldn’t be just for the look. The disguise hypothesis worked better. What do you hide with a jacket and a hat?

  Over the next four days, which included Saturday and Sunday, Espinosa visited the widows of the murdered policemen. Sunday afternoon also included an unofficial and unauthorized visit to Celeste’s apartment. She’d hurried out of the apartment both times, as if fleeing; and people in a hurry always leave something important behind.

  Which she had.

  The two other days were also dedicated to inquiries at telephone and insurance companies.

  8

  The new elements he’d obtained from the phone and insurance companies led Espinosa’s mind in a direction he hesitated to pursue, but that mounting evidence made it impossible to ignore. The confirmation depended on his having one more chat with Serena, which he could do that evening, as soon as he got out of the shower. He was still drying off when the telephone rang.

  “Officer Espinosa?”

  “Yes?”

  “Detective Everaldo, from the station. Sorry to call at this hour, sir.”

  “What happened?”

  “Another death. I thought I should tell you because it’s just like the one in Leme.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Another girl threw herself off the bu
ilding.”

  “Who told you? What building?”

  “The sergeant on patrol who went to the scene. It seems like it’s the same building.”

  “Did he get the woman’s name?”

  “Yes, sir. Serena Rodes.”

  One of Espinosa’s hands gripped the phone, while the other was still rubbing his hair with the towel.

  “Call Ramiro, Welber, and Artur. Tell them to meet me at the scene.”

  On his way to Leme, he tried to gather his wits. It could have been a mistake. Just as they’d confused Rosita with Celeste, they could have mixed up Serena with someone else. He was on the scene in ten minutes. The area had been cordoned off. Two patrol cars and an ambulance from the fire department were parked in front of the building.

  It was Serena. The body was less than six feet from where Rosita had landed.

  Espinosa spoke to the policemen and sought out the doorman.

  “It was before nine, sir. Just like the other one.”

  “Was she by herself in the apartment?”

  “I think she was, sir, but I can’t guarantee it. All I can say is that I didn’t see anyone go up to the tenth floor.”

  “Did she cry out?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Is anyone in the apartment?”

  “There’s a guard at the door.”

  Espinosa went back to talk to the policemen outside. The only thing they’d managed to learn was that the dead woman’s name was Serena Rodes and that she lived across the street.

  Two deaths, exactly the same. Except this time Serena wasn’t on the other side of the street watching.

  Welber and Artur got there at almost exactly the same time.

  “Let’s go up,” he said to them.

  The cop guarding the door said that the door was unlocked and that nobody had entered since he’d arrived.

  “Before you got here, did anyone go in?”

  “I don’t know, Chief.”

  The apartment had not been disturbed. Only one lamp was on. On the living room table sat the packaging of a whiskey bottle: the thin paper that surrounds the bottle and the pieces of plastic that protect it from breaking. The empty bottle lay on the sofa. A little bit of liquid had dripped onto a pillow. No cups in sight.

  “I don’t think she could have drunk so much whiskey straight out of the bottle,” said Espinosa, “unless she was forced to.”

  “You think someone made her drink?”

  “Nothing about Serena suggested that she would get drunk or kill herself. At least, nothing recent.”

  Espinosa examined the wall and the floor next to the windowsill. There were no lights on in Serena’s apartment across the street.

  “Sir, there are two cups on the drying rack, along with a teacup, a saucer, and a dessert plate. All dry.”

  “Why would a person alone need two cups?” asked Artur.

  “Because they’re lazy,” Espinosa answered, thinking of himself. “Or because they were used for two different drinks. Which wouldn’t explain why the cups were washed. Or she could have been drinking with someone else. But nobody does the dishes before throwing themselves out of a window.”

  “They could have been washed by someone else,” Artur said.

  “I asked them to call in Freire. Try to find out if he’s on his way. Try to find her maid. Talk to the doorman across the street.”

  Ramiro arrived as the boss was trying to track down Guilherme Rodes.

  While he was waiting for the forensic examiner to arrive, Espinosa talked with the on-duty registrar at the Forensic Institute, explaining that the dead woman was married to an important member of the federal government: that would light a fire under them. He wanted an autopsy that very night.

  Freire arrived in party clothes.

  “Did we take you away from some event?”

  “A birthday.”

  “Yours?”

  “My father-in-law’s.”

  Espinosa filled him in.

  “I saw the body before I came up here. I got her fingerprints,” Freire said, displaying two strips of adhesive tape.

  The next hour was consumed by forensic matters. Espinosa went down to be present when the body was removed and to notify the Forensic Institute that he would be heading down to supervise the autopsy. Welber and Artur had turned up Serena’s maid, who was in a state of shock and couldn’t speak rationally. But she did manage to give them a piece of paper with her boss’s number in Brasília. When Freire finished up, Espinosa was getting off the phone with Guilherme Rodes.

  “No prints on the cups,” Freire said. “On the bottle, I only found hers.”

  “The bottle was unwrapped right here,” Espinosa answered. “If she was alone, we wouldn’t find any other prints.”

  “I thought they were a little farther apart than normal.”

  “Farther apart?”

  “As if someone had pressed her fingers to the bottle, like when you’re taking someone’s prints. It can happen. What I thought was interesting was that there aren’t many prints. A person who drinks a whole bottle of whiskey picks it up several times, leaving lots of prints. I only found two thumbprints and two each of her index, middle, and ring fingers. None of her pinkies, which would be hard to avoid if you’re picking up a full bottle. I’ll check out the rest of the material and talk to you tomorrow.”

  Before leaving for the Forensic Institute, Espinosa summoned Ramiro, Welber, and Artur.

  “Find Celeste as quickly as possible. I want all three of you to work on this full-time.”

  The autopsy was to be carried out by the researcher on duty, with whom Espinosa spoke for a few minutes before he began his work. They’d known each other for a few years, so they dispensed with formalities.

  “Evening, Doctor. Can I sit with you?”

  “Sure. Who’s the woman?”

  “The wife of a big shot in the federal government.”

  “What happened? Someone mentioned suicide.”

  “I think her death is suspicious.”

  “Let’s see what we find.”

  The body had just arrived and had been placed directly on the autopsy table. The doctor put on his apron and gloves before removing the sheet covering the dead woman. Upon seeing the dead, wounded body, Espinosa closed his eyes and sat remembering Serena dropping her dress to the ground, alive and beautiful in her nudity. He opened his eyes and focused on the examination. Before using the surgical instruments, the doctor performed a meticulous visual examination of the body, paying special attention to her nails and searching for any possible wounds that would have predated the fall.

  Less than an hour later, Espinosa left without having shed his suspicions. Besides the fact that Serena had ingested a large quantity of alcohol, Espinosa had also learned that she hadn’t had dinner. The doctor had no way of knowing if she had been forced to drink the whiskey or if she had done so voluntarily. He had discovered that she’d been alive when she’d fallen. Probably drunk.

  “Do you think someone who was that drunk could climb up onto a windowsill and jump?”

  “I think so. It depends on the person’s resistance to alcohol. Drunkenness can also produce nausea, and she may have leaned out the window to vomit.”

  “The windowsill is a little lower than normal,” Espinosa added.

  “She might have gotten dizzy and lost her balance. She might have even fainted as she was leaning out … if you don’t buy the idea that she killed herself.”

  “Thanks, Doctor.”

  The Rua Mem de Sá was deserted. He could see the Lapa Aqueduct in the distance. Espinosa stood for a while in front of his car, trying to reconcile his two Serenas: the one he’d known alive and the one he’d just seen lying cold on the autopsy table.

  9

  Two days later, arriving home in the evening, Espinosa found a postcard. An aerial shot of Rio, postmarked from the airport. The message confirmed the conclusion he’d reached over the last few days.

  Espinosa dear,

>   I’d love for you to be here with me. Too bad we’re not on the same side. Don’t worry about protecting me anymore … or trying to find me.

  Love,

  Celeste

  10

  The four o’clock shuttle to São Paulo was only two-thirds full, which gave the passengers a little more room. Espinosa preferred the aisle; he didn’t like to be scrunched up next to the window, and he didn’t think there was much to see at thirty thousand feet. Irene had seemed genuinely surprised when he’d woken her with a call inviting her to dinner that night.

  “Is it anything serious?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about.”

  “Honey, you call me from Rio de Janeiro at this hour inviting me to dinner tonight in São Paulo: that’s something to worry about.”

  “But really, there’s no need. I just want to be with you…. I want to see what you think about a few of my ideas.”

  “Are these ideas about the girl I gave the dresses to?”

  “They are.”

  “I know a nice quiet place where we can start the conversation. I’ll wait for you at the hotel.”

  At the station, Espinosa had said he needed to go to São Paulo to check out some leads he’d gotten from the insurance companies and the car dealerships. Nobody had thought it was particularly strange, because the chief had been acting strangely for the last few days. Now, with his seat pushed back and his eyes closed, he thought about Irene.

  The trip from the airport to the hotel, in a taxi, took twice as long as the plane ride; the traffic was a sure sign he was in São Paulo. At the hotel desk, there was a note from Irene telling him that she’d be back before six-thirty.

  At six-thirty, she entered the lobby looking as if she’d spent the whole afternoon getting ready.

  “It’s still early for dinner,” he said. “Why don’t we take our things up to the room and kill some time?”

  “Instead of killing time, I have another idea.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. What do you want to do: talk, eat, and make love, or the other way around?”

  “Hmm …”

  “We could also make love, talk, eat, and then make love again. That way we cover all our bases.”