Southwesterly Wind

by Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza

  “Espinosa, I’ve never heard of anyone going to the police to report an uncommitted murder of an unknown person, especially when the person reporting the murder is the nonmurderer himself.”

  “Neither have I, but that doesn’t mean we should ignore it.”

  “I think the real threat is to the guy’s mental health.”

  “It could be, but crazy people kill too.”

  “Let me suggest something. First, let’s call the numbers he left and make sure they really belong to him. Then we’ll have a friendly conversation with one of his coworkers, preferably the one who introduced the psychic at his birthday. Afterward, we’ll talk to his mother and find out what kind of son he is, who his friends are, if there’s anything unusual about him, stuff like that. What do you think?”

  “For someone who doesn’t think much of the story, you’re being pretty diligent.”

  “Like you said, crazy people kill too.”

  2

  Irene glided smoothly along, head held high, sure that people would get out of her way. That’s exactly what happened on Saturday night as she sashayed into the main dining room at Lamas. She was the same height as Olga, but willowier, with a much more attractive face. They had decided to meet at the restaurant in the Largo do Machado, halfway between their houses (even though Irene was driving and her friend had to take the subway). Olga was waiting for her at a table next to a big mirror and waved discreetly when she saw her come in.

  Their friendship, dating back to their college days, had endured, even though they’d taken different career paths, and despite the financial gulf between them. They lived in middle-class neighborhoods—Olga in her parents’ house, in the Zona Norte of the city, and Irene by herself in the Zona Sul, in Ipanema, one block from the beach. She was a graphic designer in one of the country’s largest advertising firms. They kissed each other on the cheek; Irene consulted the big mirror by the table to see if she had attracted any attention from the neighboring tables.

  “Sorry to make you come out here on a Saturday night,” said Olga.

  “I didn’t have any plans, and I was dying to see you. Is something the matter?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I want to hear what you think, after we have a drink.”

  After living together for a year—a year that had ended with a difficult separation—they were slowly, carefully trying to reconstruct their original friendship. Olga briefly explained what had happened at Gabriel’s birthday, sketched his personality, and described the events following the seer’s pronouncement. The story was told over two beers and several fried fish balls, a setting that diluted its drama.

  “I don’t get what you have to do with it.”

  “Nothing until now, except a couple of conversations on the subject. Yesterday Gabriel asked me a favor. He wanted to know if I would talk to the sergeant to convince him that he didn’t make up the story. Nothing official; it’s not a deposition. From what I understand, it’s just to say that my friend isn’t nuts.”

  “He might not be nuts, but he sure is weird. A thirty-year-old guy who lives with his mother and tells her everything he does isn’t exactly the kind of guy I’d like to be hanging out with next summer.”

  “He’s a good guy—a little shy, but attractive.”

  “And you want to take the boy from his mother’s lap.”

  “You’re making it sound like he’s a retard and I’m a child molester.”

  “That’s not important. Are you interested in him?”

  “It’s not just that. He’s really scared, and I want to help him.”

  “So where do I come in?”

  “I’d like you to come with me to meet the sergeant. It doesn’t have to be at the station; we can go to a restaurant, a park bench …”

  “It can be at the station. It’s fine with me.”

  “I knew I could count on you.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to a police station.”

  At regular intervals, they looked in the mirror to check out their hair, their collars, or the curve their hands made during an expressive gesture. Irene examined herself more often and more meticulously.

  “Are you in love with the guy?”

  “No, but I’m interested. He’s cute. It’s complicated, because I work with him. If something bad happened, we’d still have to look at each other every day.”

  “If everyone thought that way, there’d be more turnover in companies than in cheap motels. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. You don’t have to go into it expecting it to fail. It’d be more worrying if it did work out: how could you look at him at work, on the street, at home, in bed, in the living room, on the bus? If you’re interested and if he’s cute but shy, you just have to start slowly.”

  “He’s depressed. He really thinks he’s going to kill someone.”

  “And that psychic? Is he real or is he just a fraud?”

  “He didn’t look like a real astrologer. He seemed to me like someone who likes to prey on naive people.”

  “How did he end up at the party?”

  “He was sitting at the next table. I don’t know how he worked his way into the conversation. He had a Spanish accent. What I didn’t understand was what good it did him to make predictions like that.”

  “Maybe later he was going to promise to intercede with the gods.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that. If that happens, Gabriel will definitely fall for it again. It’s taken him over completely; he’s lost his critical distance.”

  “This sounds like a case for a psychoanalyst, not for a policeman. Maybe your friend consulted the wrong specialist.”

  Once Irene had reassured her friend that she would meet with the policeman, the conversation turned to the girls’ love lives (especially Irene’s). Chats like that happened less frequently than they would have liked. The night ended with the lightheartedness provoked by half a dozen beers.

  “You’re not ever going to get married again?”

  “If the right person comes along, who knows?”

  “And who’s the right person?”

  “That’s the problem. We only know when we see them.”

  “I know exactly what the man I’m going to marry looks like.”

  “What?”

  “He’s got to be like you. The way you act, you know? Younger, of course. Not a lot younger. Just a little.”

  “Let’s say … twenty years younger?”

  “Oh, Espinosa, it doesn’t have to be that much. Are you going to like him?”

  “Of course.”

  “He’ll have to be good-looking and smart. Like you.”

  “Much better looking, I should hope.”

  “He wouldn’t have to be. I’d like him to be your height. I’d like him to be the type that doesn’t talk a lot, like you. Men who talk a lot aren’t very mysterious.”

  “You know a lot about men for your age.”

  “I’m thirteen. I’m not a kid anymore. Besides, I go to the movies, I watch TV, and I talk to adults from all over the world on the Internet. I know about more things than you think.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Why don’t you get a dog, if you’re not going to get married? That way you won’t be lonely.”

  “And who’s going to take care of him, if I’m all by myself?”

  “Me.”

  “You already have Petita.”

  “I can walk them both together. Maybe they’ll end up getting married.”

  “I think you think about marriage a lot.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “The dog?”

  “What dog?”

  “What I was talking about. Until you get married. You don’t have to worry. I’ll get him at your apartment, walk him, and even give him a bath once a week.”

  “Thanks. I’ll think about it. Actually, I’ll think about both things.”

  “Both what?”

  “The dog and getting married.”

  “Oh
, Espinosa.”

  At least twice a week Alice and Espinosa left at the same time in the morning and walked to the station in animated conversation. Then she continued on to school by herself. They lived on the same floor and they had become friends because their schedules coincided. They had moved quickly from a shy greeting to lively morning conversations; there wasn’t much shy about Alice. She was a pretty girl, blond as a Scandinavian and with unmistakably happy blue eyes. Walking beside Espinosa, she felt protected against everything bad in the universe; he felt that her mere existence justified the universe’s.

  Friday morning. The cases being investigated at the station were moving along. Nothing had happened in the last few days to merit TV or newspaper coverage, which meant that the major crimes were being committed somewhere in the Third World—unthreatening to the small, thin First World of Rio de Janeiro and Copacabana, the area under his jurisdiction. The only news was that Gabriel had asked to come to talk to Espinosa.

  “He came here again?” asked Welber.

  “No, he called.”

  “What does he want?”

  “I guess he wants to convince us that he’s not crazy. That’s why he’s bringing a colleague who was with him on the night of his birthday party. She’ll be a witness to his mental health.”

  “Maybe that will calm him down.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Do you think he’s crazy?”

  “Let’s just say he’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

  “And?”

  “And our conversation is not going to be enough to calm him down.”

  “What do you think will?”

  “From the way things are going, he’s only going to calm down when he kills someone.”

  “Damn, Espinosa, I think you’re going overboard.”

  “Maybe, but I’m starting to think the guy’s possessed.”

  “You think …”

  “His lifestyle makes it clear that he’s not just a regular guy. How crazy he is I’m not sure—I’m not a psychiatrist—but he’s got a screw loose; I’m increasingly sure of that. He’s always lived within the bounds of normality. But the psychic unleashed the craziness he’d repressed. Now he’s sure that he has a destiny he has to fulfill. He’s coming to the police not for protection but for an alibi.”

  “So he’s made us characters in his own crazy drama, and we’re going along with him toward a murder? And we don’t know when or where it’s going to be committed.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you really believe all of that?”

  “For me, it’s either that or this guy is just messing with us. And only crazy people screw with the police like that. Either way, he’s crazy. All we can do is hope that he’s just a nutcase playing with us. If not, he’s a nutcase who’s about to kill someone.”

  Dona Alzira had decided to consult Father Crisóstomo about the evil that was clearly infecting Gabriel. Never, not even when her son had been called up for military service—he got out of it because he was the family’s breadwinner—had he been caught up in such an intense and obvious crisis. If he was bewitched—and she had no doubt he was—it could only be because of a woman. Not a woman like her, who had retained her virtue since her husband’s death, but the devil, disguised as a woman. Infidels had no idea how many forms Lucifer can take. But she knew: she had fought him even when her husband was still alive. She knew all the devil’s disguises. And she had no doubt that he was behind Gabriel’s sufferings. Maybe Father Crisóstomo could suggest a penance she could fulfill for him, or as a last resort, maybe he could exorcise Gabriel directly. She didn’t think it was time for extreme measures: even if he was bewitched, it wasn’t quite the same thing as being possessed. Besides, other people couldn’t tell what was wrong with him. She was the only one who knew, because nobody knew her son’s soul like she did.

  She went to mass at the usual time. She knew that she couldn’t talk to Father Crisóstomo until after he’d finished the morning service, so she went home to make Gabriel’s breakfast—on weekends he slept late—and returned to church after lunch. She brought with her a confection of pumpkin and shredded coconut, one of her specialties and a favorite of Father Crisóstomo’s.

  “Demonic possession is a very serious thing, my daughter. And very rare. What makes you think that our dear Gabriel is possessed?”

  “He seems like a different person, Father Crisóstomo.”

  “Dona Alzira, young people change a lot when they become adults. I’ve known Gabriel since the day of his first communion. He was always a nice boy. He’s responsible and God-fearing. I’ve never seen the least sign that he’s acting abnormally.”

  “But he is, Father. I know. I know my son.”

  “Nobody knows anybody else completely, my daughter. Even those closest to us can surprise us.”

  “But it’s not a surprise, Father. When I say that he’s different, I don’t mean that something in him changed. I mean he seems like a different person. His body is his, but his soul is somebody else’s. God forbid, but it seems like they’ve changed his soul.”

  “That’s nonsense, Dona Alzira. That can’t happen.”

  “So then what did?”

  “He’s probably having trouble at work, problems with his girlfriend…. It’s already high time he started a family…. He’d be a good husband and father.”

  “He’s still a boy, Father. He needs to learn more about his work, make some money, and then he can start a family. Anyway, he already has a family. His father died, but he’s got me. We’re a family.”

  “Of course you are, Dona Alzira. But I’m talking about the family he’s going to start when he gets married and has children. You’ll still be a member of the family.”

  Dona Alzira didn’t like one bit the turn the conversation was taking. And she didn’t like that Father Crisóstomo wasn’t paying enough attention to the fact that Gabriel had been conquered by Satan. What was he talking about, Gabriel getting married? What did that have to do with the way he had changed? If the Church no longer believed in the devil, who did?

  “Father, there’s nothing I can do? A penance?”

  “My child, nobody can do penance for somebody else. You can do penance for your own sins and errors, but not those of anybody else, especially when the other person doesn’t even recognize his own sins.”

  “You don’t think anything’s happening to him?”

  “I didn’t say that. It could be that a lot of things are happening to him, and we might even be glad for that. It’s part of life. But what I don’t think is that he’s possessed by the devil. I suggest that you go home and find a moment to talk to your son. You’ll see that his demons are a lot less threatening than what you’re imagining.”

  Dona Alzira left visibly annoyed and disappointed. When he’d been younger, Father Crisóstomo hadn’t been scared of taking on the devil. He’d even seemed eager to confront the Prince of Darkness in the fight against evil. What she’d just witnessed was a Father Crisóstomo who had given in to age and fear, who was trying to avoid confrontation, who considered ideas of good and evil out-of-date. That was why the Church of Christ was losing ground to drugs and rock music. But she wouldn’t go under without a fight. She would struggle for her son’s life. She went home thinking over different strategies.

  Gabriel wasn’t reading or listening to music. He’d simply left, without even writing her a note—another of the countless signs that something had changed radically. There was that girl he worked with, Olga was her name, but it wouldn’t do to take the chance of calling someone she’d never met and who might not even know who she was, even though she doubted that Gabriel would have failed to mention his mother to anyone he considered a friend. The way a man treated his mother was the way he showed a woman what kind of man he was. It was unthinkable that her Gabriel wouldn’t have mentioned her.

  She went to the window, stepped up the little wooden stool, and looked carefully at the people on both sides of the street.
She came back down via the stepstool and went into her son’s room. She knew all his clothes by heart—she was the one who washed and pressed and sewed them, when necessary—and by process of elimination figured out what pants and shirt he was wearing that day, which scarf and which shoes. She decided that he had dressed as if he were going to work. But he didn’t work on Saturdays. The company never asked its employees for overtime, at least not as long as Gabriel had been working there. There was no doubt. Gabriel had gone out to meet someone.

  The dismissive way Father Crisóstomo had treated her story left her feeling more helpless than she had felt at any point since her husband’s death. And her sense of helplessness deepened when she realized that not even her husband, when he was alive, would have been the right person to handle this kind of problem. That was when the phone rang. She immediately assumed it was Gabriel, excusing himself for not leaving a note.

  “Hello?” inquired a somewhat timid female voice at the other end of the line.

  “Hello, yes.”

  “Yes, I’d like to speak to Gabriel, please.”

  “He’s not here. Who’s calling?”

  “It’s a friend of his…. I’ll call later…. Thank you.”

  “You don’t want to leave your name?”

  “Thanks … I’m not sure he’ll remember…. Thanks. Goodbye.”

  Dona Alzira took the phone call as yet another small sign that something out of the ordinary was going on with her son. Even worse: if that little woman was calling, that meant that he wasn’t going out with her. It meant he was meeting another woman. She was sure she’d never heard that voice before. She knew all the people who called Gabriel. Not them, necessarily, but their voices. And yet she was sure of one thing. If the person didn’t want to leave a message, not even her name, it was because she wanted to remain anonymous, and nobody made a point of hiding their name unless they had something else to hide. She left her son’s room and went back to the little steps that made up her observation post. Two things bothered her intensely: the evil that was attacking her son and the loss of Father Crisóstomo’s support. Ever since Serafim’s death, Father Crisóstomo had been her counselor in everything that had to do with Gabriel. And just when she most needed his help, he’d hesitated, played coy. She hoped that it was just a passing phase: a symptom of age rather than a weakness of faith.