Southwesterly Wind

by Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza

  “I’m sure people have told you before that you really don’t seem like a police sergeant.”

  “Occasionally, and I always ask them what a police sergeant really seems like.”

  “There’s a stereotype, which may well be an exaggeration, but it doesn’t apply to you.”

  “Assuming that’s a compliment, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  They sat at a table in a part of the restaurant that was safely sheltered from both noise and the famously bad-tempered waiters. They talked about their work, about a policeman’s daily routine, about the risks of the profession, until Espinosa felt that it was an appropriate time to introduce the question that both of them were waiting for him to ask.

  “Why are you so sure that Olga was pushed?”

  “We were friends. She had no secrets from me, and I know what she was like. She was strong and quick. She’d never fall off a platform, even during rush hour. Anyway, people only push and shove once the train has already stopped, not when it’s just come into the station. Olga was pushed when the train was still moving, before it got to the place on the platform where she was standing.”

  “Which is an argument in favor of suicide.”

  “Or of murder.”

  “All right. The accident possibility isn’t the strongest one, I’ll admit. She was close to the front of the platform, where the train is still moving fast. If someone shoved her with their shoulder, it would be enough to make her lose her balance and fall onto the tracks. Just because that’s possible, though, doesn’t mean it actually happened. But I don’t know why you think it was Gabriel. They were coworkers, friends, and practically dating. They liked each other, which is why he went to her when he needed help. Why would he kill her? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Insanity never makes sense.”

  “But he’s not insane.”

  “Really? A man who harasses a policeman to investigate a murder that hasn’t happened yet—and fingers the future murderer as none other than himself—isn’t insane?”

  “He might be eccentric, but he’s not crazy.”

  “Eccentric is a nice way of saying crazy. When an eccentric pushes people under a train, he becomes crazy and gets locked up in the psychiatric ward.”

  “We don’t know very much about the case. We don’t know where he was at the time of the accident. He could have been walking out of his house at the time, he could have been on another subway train, miles away from the place where Olga died—”

  “Or he could have left home a little earlier than usual, taken the train in the opposite direction, gotten off at Praça Saens Peña, where he knew she boarded, and, right when the train arrived, come up from behind and given her a little push. In the confusion, he could have easily slipped away, grabbed a cab back to Catete, walked into his usual station, and taken the train to work.”

  “It’s a nice story, but there are a few things that don’t quite work. The first is that in order for him to be able to kill her, Olga would have to be standing right on the edge of the platform; the second is that she knew him, which would make it hard for him to slip up without her noticing.”

  “He could have tried several times. He could have gone to meet her there in order to go to work together. It’d be romantic, and make it easier for him to get her where he wanted her, on the edge of the platform.”

  “Without anybody noticing?”

  “Have you ever been on a subway platform at rush hour?”

  “All right. If we assume he acted in cold blood, which I don’t, there’s still the question of motive.”

  “As I was saying: because he’s nuts.”

  “I can’t attribute every mysterious death to the presence of crazy people in the right place at the right time.”

  “You don’t have to use this reasoning for every death. Just this one.”

  “When did you see her for the last time?”

  “We had dinner together last week.”

  “Did you speak to her on the phone?”

  “Once.”

  “And how was she?”

  “Great. But even if she hadn’t been, it wouldn’t have made any difference. A person who’s always been normal, healthy, happy, and professionally successful doesn’t just decide on a whim to throw herself under a train.”

  “Not all suicides are noticeably disturbed. The majority are people who seem normal but who are secretly depressed.”

  “That wasn’t the case with her. Olga wasn’t depressed.”

  “I’ll grant that you knew your friend well enough to say that she didn’t kill herself, but you don’t know Gabriel well enough to justify the things you’re saying about him. You only saw him once, in unusual circumstances, in a tense meeting, and he was still fine, in control of the situation. You can’t just accuse him of murder, with no further ado.”

  “But that story he was—”

  “The story he told us doesn’t make him insane. There are a lot of people who are easily influenced by clairvoyants, readers, psychics. How many people do you know who go to astrologers, tarot readers, shell readers, or psychics? Are they all crazy?”

  “I hope you’re right. My best friend died; I promise you that it wasn’t an accident or a suicide. She was murdered. It would hurt less if it turned out that her murderer was an unknown maniac rather than someone she knew, liked, and trusted, but it wouldn’t bring her back. I just don’t want you to forget one thing: that prediction that Gabriel would kill somebody didn’t specify whether the victim would be a man or a woman.”

  “Have you had dinner?”

  “What?”

  “I was wondering if you’d eaten dinner.”

  “Sorry, I don’t think I’m going to eat. Maybe a sandwich to go with the beer.”

  He ordered two sandwiches and two beers.

  “Were you born in Rio?”

  “That’s a funny way to ask if I’m a Carioca.”

  “I’m sure you’re a Carioca, but there are Cariocas born in Rio de Janeiro, Cariocas born in other states, even Cariocas born in other countries.”

  “I was born in Brasilia, but I’ve lived in Rio since I was nine. How did you know I’m not from here?”

  “I didn’t. I just wanted to change the subject.”

  “All right. We’ll talk about it later.”

  Espinosa was encouraged by that “later.” It might refer to later that same evening, which awakened his fantasies, or it could be a few days later, which hinted at pleasures over the longer term. Both possibilities enchanted him.

  Traces of art deco were still visible six decades into the Bar Lagoa’s existence. Much of the history of Ipanema had unfolded within those walls. Among the people sitting there at that hour were some who were completely comfortable with the place’s ambience, who knew the waiters by their names (and whose names the waiters knew); other people were there to see what fashionable people were wearing, or in hopes of glimpsing a director, an artist, a writer, that summer’s it-girl, or simply to try to find that unique—yet multiple—figure, the Girl from Ipanema. Among all these people sat Espinosa and Irene, at ease in the café but not quite comfortable with each other.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Well, I usually imagine rather than think. I spend most of my time daydreaming.”

  “In that case, you’d be better off as a novelist than as a cop; or in advertising, where we get paid to imagine things.”

  “The difference is that you get to exercise your imagination, while I always get tripped up by mine.”

  Not counting the smile she’d greeted him with, that was the first time Irene spontaneously smiled, concentrating all the charm of the world in her face. But as enchanting as Espinosa found her, he couldn’t help noticing that there was another, invisible Irene, who scared him and seemed even more intense. What scared him most was his sense that she was hiding something. He was convinced that all women were enigmatic, but that only some of them were aware of it—and t
hat only a few of those knew how to use that power. These were exceptional women. He suspected he had one before him now.

  The meeting didn’t last more than an hour. Afterward, they walked to her building together, four blocks from the restaurant, but Irene didn’t invite Espinosa up for a coffee. Maybe she really hadn’t wanted to do anything more than offer her informed perspective on her friend’s death.

  He went back to the café to get his car. The clear night offered a perfect view of the mountains surrounding the bay: on one side, the Rock of Gávea and Dois Irmãos Mountain; on the other, Corcovado with its brightly lit statue of Christ the Redeemer. Despite the beauty of the evening, something was weighing on him.

  He returned home thinking about Irene, her relationship with Olga, the reasons she’d become involved in the story in the first place, and how, right after she’d come onto the scene, Olga had tragically and mysteriously died. Finally: what did she want from him?

  He sat down in the rocking chair in the living room, unaware of exactly where he’d parked the car or how he’d walked upstairs to his apartment. He hadn’t noticed if the lights were on or off (on bad days he didn’t even bother to switch them on). He let his arm droop to the side of the chair and was surprised not to feel the fur of the dog that wasn’t even his yet. He collected his arm, remembering that he hadn’t seen Alice for a few days. There was a dark curtain in front of him, and he realized he hadn’t opened the blinds yet. He didn’t get up to open them, and he didn’t stretch out his hand to turn on the lamp next to him. He thought about Irene’s beauty; about Alice’s happy youth; about Neighbor, who was still nursing; about Olga, dead beneath the subway train. He dozed off and awoke a few times, still in the rocking chair. He moved to his bed in the middle of the night, with his body aching, his leg asleep, and a vague understanding of what was meant by the term “middle-aged.”

  Once again he left home late, missing Alice’s company. At the station, the day’s first call was from Gabriel.

  “Sergeant, it’s horrible, we just heard yesterday in the office. I’m shocked. I don’t know what to think.”

  “I’m very sorry. Did she seem depressed lately?”

  “No. Actually … she was happy.”

  “Did she call you before leaving home?”

  “No. She didn’t. She never did.”

  “What time did you get to work?”

  “The same time as always, nine, more or less. Why are you asking me?”

  “Because she might have killed herself, and anything she might have told you on the phone before she left could help us.”

  “What’s going to happen now?”

  “The Nineteenth Precinct, in Tijuca, is investigating. Olga’s death happened outside our jurisdiction.”

  “Investigating?”

  “Whenever someone dies in circumstances such as those in which she died, an investigation is opened, to see if there was any foul play.”

  “What do you mean? Wasn’t it suicide?”

  “We’re not sure about that.”

  “Could it have been an accident?”

  “Among other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “When a person dies beneath an oncoming train, it could be the person’s own fault, it could be the fault of a third party, or it could be an accident, like slipping on a banana peel. Unlikely, but not impossible.”

  “You’re saying that it might not have been suicide? That someone might have pushed her?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “But who would do something like that?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question. You were a friend and colleague. Do you know anyone who might have wanted to see her dead? That is, if we consider the possibility that it was the work of a third party.”

  “Nobody. Absolutely nobody. Really, absolutely nobody.”

  “In that case, we’ll have to discard the possibility.”

  “Yes. Of course. It’s absurd. Absolutely nobody. Talk to you later.”

  Espinosa learned some details of the autopsy over the phone, before the full report was written up. Olga wasn’t drunk, hadn’t taken any drugs, had eaten a normal breakfast. The examiners would account for the wounds on her body—whether they all came from the collision with the train—later.

  Before an hour had gone by, Gabriel called again.

  “Officer, I’m sorry to bother you again. In our previous conversation, you mentioned an investigation.”

  “Yes, opened by the Nineteenth Precinct.”

  “You mean … it’s possible … it could be …”

  “That you could be called to testify?”

  “Right …”

  “Unlikely. There’s no reason for it. Or is there?”

  “No, of course, but since we were talking about …”

  “Our conversations weren’t official, as we agreed. What you told me won’t be repeated to the sergeant investigating the case, unless I think it’s important in shedding light on your friend’s death.”

  “Do you think it’s important?”

  “No, not for the time being. Do you?”

  “No. Of course not. But you know better than I do what the police are like. They’re suspicious of everything. They might want to connect our discussions with Olga’s death.”

  “And is there a connection?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “So then there’s no reason to worry about it.”

  “Thank you, sir. You’ve been very patient with me. Goodbye.”

  Gabriel wasn’t as concerned by his friend’s death as he was by the possibility of getting mixed up with the police, which didn’t surprise Espinosa. The impression most people had of the police was enough to transform grief into worry, especially when faced with a murder investigation.

  At the end of the afternoon, Welber arrived at the station.

  “I found the Argentine,” he said, rubbing his hands together in childlike glee. “I got his number from an employee at the Cancer Hospital. I called the answering service and left a message with my telephone number. Today I managed to speak to a woman who seems to be his business partner. She was really wary and kept asking me who had told me about them, who had given me their number, et cetera. I told her that I’d seen them perform at a birthday party for a son of a friend of mine, and said I’d like them to do the same for my own son’s birthday. I think she was still skeptical. She said she’d talk to Hidalgo—that’s the name he uses—and that she’d call me back. I’ve got to be careful—they might get scared off.”

  “Welber, the girl’s death might have been an accident, but it might not have been. We’d better keep an eye out, not just for the Argentine, but also for the other elements of the group that sat in this office a few days ago.”

  “You don’t think it was an accident?”

  “A person can fall in front of an oncoming train at the exact moment the train is arriving, but that’s just as rare, or rarer, than cases when they’re pushed by somebody else. And there’s nothing about Olga that makes her a plausible suicide, other than the fact that anyone alive could be described as such. It’s time to talk to this Argentine, and in the meantime we need to keep an eye on Gabriel. It’d also be interesting to talk to his mother. We don’t know what she knows about this whole thing. Think of a reason to interview her about her son—no need to scare her. Without him there, obviously. And try to find out when Gabriel got to work yesterday.”

  “Are we going to take over the case?”

  “No, it’s still with the Nineteenth Precinct. Let’s focus on Gabriel. And make a date with the Argentine for your son’s birthday.”

  Welber exited, leaving Espinosa alone in the room. For the umpteenth time, he looked at the old wooden furniture, dating to the installation of the precinct offices in the building, handed down from earlier administrations, and for the umpteenth time he wondered what any of it had to do with him. The furniture, the office supplies, the dated computer, the old typewri
ter (which he used more than the computer), the files, the pictures on the walls, and the traces, not always obvious, of the military regime. He thought about Irene, who lived in such a different universe.

  Before he left, he called Gabriel. He thought about how long it would take him to get home, allowing a margin for possible delays. He hadn’t arrived yet. On the other end of the line, an anxious female voice asked, Would you like to leave a message, sir? Yes, please, tell him that Espinosa called. You can make a note of my home number, ma’am. Ask him to call when he gets home. Thank you.

  Gabriel called at ten-thirty.

  “Officer, I’m sorry, I’m only now getting in. Did something happen?”

  “Besides Olga’s death? No, nothing.”

  “That’s what I meant to say.”

  “Of course. Stay late at the office?”

  “No. I’ve been walking home lately, and that’s why I get back so late.”

  “You walk from Copacabana to Flamengo every day?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I’ve been doing. It’s good for thinking.”

  “Would you like to meet up with me tomorrow, to talk about what you’ve been thinking about? It could be at lunchtime, like the first time we met. I don’t want to interfere with your work schedule. How about noon, in the same restaurant?”

  “Su … sure. Noon. That’s fine.”

  “Well, see you tomorrow. Good night.”

  “Good night, Officer.”

  The morning was productive. Welber managed to set a date with the Argentine’s partner for the following Sunday, in a restaurant located only a block from the station. There might even be a children’s party going on at that hour, so the pair wouldn’t be scared off, and that way he could get to them as soon as they came in. He didn’t see any risk for the other people there. From what he’d heard at the hospital, the Argentine was friendly and polite.

  It was twelve-fifteen when Gabriel reached the restaurant. The first customers were arriving for lunch, and the place would soon be packed. Espinosa was already seated at a two-person table in a corner of the dining room, with only two tables next to him. It took Gabriel a minute to get oriented and spot the officer. He walked uncertainly; it seemed that he might retrace his steps and flee at a moment’s notice. His clothes and hair were disheveled; he appeared to have come not from the office but from his house, and to have slept in the clothes he was wearing.