Additional Praise for The Silence of the Rain
“Garcia-Roza’s writing effortlessly conveys ideas and characters …. The Silence of the Rain displays the mystery novel as a richly expressive medium for ideas…. Garcia-Roza will certainly find an eager audience in English. The ideas that interest him are universal.”
—Washington Post Book World
“Readers who like their thrillers to possess something beyond a fast-paced, tricky plot will find much to marvel over in Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza’s The Silence of the Rain…. Espinosa’s capacity for introspection and self-criticism breathes fresh air into the crime novel genre.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Espinosa is an unusual sort of crime solver…. All these twists and turns play out in a delicately evoked Rio de Janeiro; Garcia-Roza writes well about the streets and beaches and houses of his hometown. But the moral atmosphere could well come from Raymond Chandler’s Los Angeles, or any of a hundred 1940s crime pictures. Indeed, it’s not hard to picture Espinosa himself coming soon to a theater near you. In the meantime, readers will have to look for him in the skillful pages of The Silence of the Rain.”
—Newsday
“Garcia-Roza has a sociologist’s eye for the telling detail, and as Inspector Espinosa observes the plush offices and trendy nightspots of upper-class Rio he cuts through Brazil’s upper crust with a disdain worthy of Mike Hammer…. Garcia-Roza gives each suspect just enough motivation to make the suspense trickle like a drop of sweat down the side of your neck. Inspector Espinosa knows that venality knows no class, and Garcia-Roza makes his Rio as vivid as Chandler’s L.A., and meaner by half.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“The book gains a poetic gleam…. People aren’t just figures in a crime plot: They’re given soul.”
—Contra Costa Times
“Engrossing … Espinosa is fine company.”
—The Seattle Times
“Offbeat … A sticky and suspenseful situation sure to delight readers.”
—The Oregonian (Portland)
“Garcia-Roza’s Hitchcockian trick of knowing exactly how much to reveal to keep his audience off-balance keeps this melancholic debut simmering. First of a most-welcome trilogy.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“An intriguing, circuitous plot and mysterious, expertly shaped characters … The sultry Rio setting, whose exotic neighborhoods add definition to the action, and a most unorthodox detective should appeal to police procedural fans with a taste for the offbeat.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The crime itself is a puzzle but the complex people and events are what stand out so sharply in the novel.”
—Houston Chronicle
“Displays the mystery novel as a richly expressive medium for ideas … Garcia-Roza will certainly find an eager audience in English. The ideas that interest him are universal.”
—The Star-Ledger (Newark)
“Beautifully atmospheric … Readers will be grateful to know that the other two books in this luscious crime trilogy are forthcoming from Henry Holt.”
—Booklist
“The Silence of the Rain is the kind of mystery that lingers in the mind long after you’ve finished reading. It’s atmospheric, erotic, and intelligent. I’ll be haunted by it for some time to come.”
—T. Jefferson Parker, author of Silent Joe
Also by Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza
December Heat
The
Silence
of the Rain
Luiz Alfredo
GARCIA-ROZA
Translated by Benjamin Moser
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THE SILENCE OF THE RAIN. Copyright © 2002 by Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza. Translation copyright © 2002 by Benjamin Moser. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Picador, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
García-Roza, L. A. (Luiz Alfredo)
[Silêncio da chuva. English]
The silence of the rain / Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza; translated by Benjamin Moser.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-42118-4
1. Moser, Benjamin. II. Title.
PQ9698.17.A745 S513 2002
869.3’42—dc21 2001051523
First published in Brazil under the title O silêncio da chuva
by Companhia Das Letras, São Paulo.
P1
Contents
Additional Praise for The Silence of the Rain
Also by Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Copyright
PART I
The Two Arts
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
Max
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
PART II
October
1
2
3
4
5
6
The Purloined Letter
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
PART III
He Would Prefer Not To
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
PART I
The
Two Arts
He examined the gun delicately, as if it were a rare object. He felt its weight—ran his finger along the barrel—opened the drum—spun it around—flipped it shut and tested the trigger. Eyes shut, guided only by touch, he put his fingers around the grip, not pointing at anything. The words inscribed on the barrel—DETECTIVE SPECIAL—made him think of old crime movies. He took six bullets out of a box and slid them into the drum one by one. He shut it, placed the box of bullets and a cloth in the drawer, and put the gun in his briefcase. The money and the envelope were on the table. He placed them in a different compartment of the briefcase. He glanced around the office, picked up the briefcase, unlocked the door, and went out.
In the next office, he said good-bye to Rose, his secretary. He bumped into Cláudio Lucena by the elevators. He wished he hadn’t quarreled with him, but now it didn’t really matter; they’d often fought and it had never affected their friendship. By the time the elevator rea
ched the bottom, all bad feelings had disappeared. They chatted outside for a minute and went their separate ways.
He walked down Rua São José toward the parking garage. He wasn’t in a hurry; he had no doubts. His parking place was on the second floor—he reached it by the escalator in the shopping arcade. He’d parked close to the door. The darkness in the garage contrasted sharply with the brightness outside. The garage was still pretty full.
He got in, put the briefcase down on the passenger seat, and sat thinking about what had been going on. He felt peaceful. He opened the glove compartment and took out the cigarettes that had been sitting there since he quit smoking, about two months earlier. He lit one and took long drags; after such a long abstinence, each puff gave him a little buzz—not enough, though, to cloud his mind. He finished the cigarette, rolled up the windows, opened the briefcase, took out the gun, pressed the barrel to his head—and pulled the trigger.
1
Espinosa crossed the street slowly, eyes downcast, hands in his pockets, and headed for the plaza. The sun still burned hot in the spring afternoon. He found a bench facing the port; behind him was the old building occupied by the newspaper A Noite. Under a big ficus, he let his ideas weave their own web.
Not many people—besides Espinosa and some beggars—would consider the Praça Mauá a good place to sit and think. The beggars had eyed him warily at first, but gradually got used to him. He never went at night, respectful of its metamorphosis when the clientele of the Scandinavia Night Club or Disco Florida showed up.
He focused on the cranes in the port, allowing his thoughts to take shape. While he had long believed such moments of solitude essential to reflection, now, on the bench, he realized this simply didn’t apply to him. His mental process was mainly a dreamy flow of pictures alongside entirely imaginary dialogues. It seemed he was incapable of sustained rational thought—a failing that, for a policeman, was embarrassing, to say the least.
The square was small and located in one of the busiest parts of Rio, but it allowed him to escape the claustrophobia of the station house. Tuesday wasn’t such a bad day, especially compared to weekends, when the station was packed full of hookers and pickpockets from the port. That was his clientele: hookers, pickpockets, drunks, and junkies, the small fry of the port’s underworld. The real crimes, committed in the offices downtown, never reached the First Precinct—even the high-class prostitution in the buildings right next to the station were safe from police action. And murders were rare downtown.
2
Even though it was a Tuesday afternoon, almost every seat in the auditorium was filled when the moderator introduced Bia Vasconcelos. They had first met a year ago, when she was on a panel where Júlio had given a talk; since then they’d bumped into each other on three occasions, two openings and an art event in the Parque Lage.
Tonight, as always, she was dressed simply but elegantly. Her thick black hair came just below her ears, showing off her face and neck. She was thirty-four, as graceful as a dancer. When the debate was over, Júlio invited her for a beer downtown. On the way out, they were hit by the glare of the September evening and the roar of a jet taking off from Galeão, In the car, a feeling of intimacy quieted them both. They didn’t speak until they were leaving the campus; during the trip there was more silence than talk.
They parked on Avenida Chile, near the cathedral, and walked to Rua da Carioca. On the packed sidewalk, people were hurrying another chaotic day to its close. Outside the Cinema Iris was a handwritten announcement of “Two Films and Two Shows with specially selected Girls”; another heavily illustrated poster advertised a film called The Orgasm Exterminatrix. The crowds and the music pumping from the record stores made conversation impossible. They got to the Bar Luiz at five minutes to five. They chose a table for two by the wall. Next to them, a tourist was scrutinizing a city map; at another table, farther off, a group of people were talking; behind Bia, a tall, light-skinned black man in a sleeveless silk T-shirt—wearing a necklace, a bunch of rings, and two silver bracelets on each wrist—was arguing in a low voice with a blonde.
A six-foot screen of wood and fluted glass protected the art deco interior of Bar Luiz from the street. The upper part was open, allowing customers a view of the old colonial houses across the street, with their stone facades and small wrought-iron balconies. Júlio had eyes only for Bia. For the first time, they were face-to-face, a few inches apart. They ordered beer and sausages; Bia could hardly open the plastic wrapping around the silverware. Júlio helped her; their hands touched. They talked, learning little things about each other; under the cramped table their knees occasionally brushed.
Bia’s beauty wasn’t—not all of it—immediately obvious; its new and unrevealed facets were constantly coming to light. For Júlio, each new aspect was like an epiphany. They kept to small talk: the graphic arts course she’d taken in Italy, his two jobs (teacher at the architecture school and professional architect). The encounter lasted about an hour. At six-fifteen, Bia said she had to go and refused Júlio’s offer to drive her home. They said good-bye; their lips touched lightly.
3
At eight, when most of the cars on the second floor had been driven away, the fat man breathlessly informed the attendant in charge of that floor that there was a dead body in the car next to his.
“You sure he’s dead, sir?” asked the attendant, feigning indifference.
“A guy with a hole in his head and bloodstained clothes didn’t just fall asleep at the wheel!”
The word “blood” can be more shocking than “death.” The attendant came out of his booth and looked toward where the man was pointing.
“I can’t abandon my post.”
“Is this a fucking boat? Get someone else and call the police! I’ll take care of the car.”
“ ‘Take care of the car’? Didn’t you just say the guy’s dead?”
“So nobody messes with it. Don’t you get it? The guy’s dead. Maybe murdered.”
The word “murdered” was more effective; the attendant abandoned his booth and yelled up to someone upstairs.
The parking attendants were soon joined by some curious onlookers who had come out of nowhere. The group quickly shrank when, lights flashing, a military police car arrived. The area was cordoned off and the remaining onlookers were sent away, leaving only the attendants and the man who’d discovered the body. The police station in the Praça Mauá was informed of the incident and learned that the victim was an important executive in a large downtown company.
When Espinosa got there half an hour later, the patrolman reported what he had discovered and handed him some business cards found in one of the man’s jacket pockets; the other pocket was empty. The dead man had no money on him. The cards had enabled them to identify him: Ricardo Fonseca de Carvalho, forty-two, executive director of Planalto Minerações. His address and phone number were on the cards.
The fat man, sitting inside his own car, was no longer breathless but looked tired. He jumped when Espinosa’s face appeared at the window.
“Good evening, sir. I’m Inspector Espinosa from the First Precinct. I understand that you found the body?”
“Yes, sir.”
The fat man got out of the car.
“Could you give me your name, address, and phone number?”
He spoke calmly, somewhat wearily, not in the least intimidating. Despite all his years as a cop, Espinosa had never adopted their lingo. His colleagues found his reports, with their almost literary style, somewhat opaque. His clothes weren’t standard-issue either; he never wore the uniform adopted by younger detectives—sneakers and leather vests.
“My name is Osmar … Osmar Ferreira Bueno. I already gave all that to the other policeman.”
“Mr. Osmar, I know that you’ve had a very unpleasant experience and that you should be home, but your testimony is very important. I’d like you to tell me exactly what happened, from the moment you saw the car.”
“Well, there’s not a lo
t to tell. I went to open my car door and saw the guy in the next car slumped over the steering wheel. He didn’t look asleep, so I thought he’d had a heart attack. I banged on the window a few times, but since he didn’t budge I opened the door. The inside light went on and I saw the blood on his clothes; I walked around and saw the wound to his head from the other side. I shut the door and ran over to tell the attendant.”
“Did you touch the body or pick anything up?”
“No. He was obviously dead, so I didn’t touch anything.”
“While you were talking to the attendant, did anyone else get near the car?”
“No. I ran off and got back fast. The parking lot was practically empty, so I could have seen anybody getting close.”
“Thank you, Mr. Osmar. We’ll be in touch.”
The executive obviously had been robbed. No one goes around with absolutely no money, especially not a man dressed like that in a car like that. The size of the wound indicated that the gun must have been a .38. The bullet had remained lodged in the brain. There were no signs of a struggle, and the key was still in the ignition. In the ashtray was a single recently extinguished cigarette. There was no ash. The back seat and the trunk were empty.
Leaning on the wall of the exit ramp, gazing over at the Convent of Santo Antônio, Espinosa tried to reconstruct the scene. He imagined a few possibilities, all based on one fact that seemed clear enough: the murderer was sitting next to the driver when he or she fired.
First scenario: the murderer is hiding in the back seat, waiting. It’s almost completely dark. The victim opens the driver’s door—the light goes on—the murderer surprises the executive and forces him at gunpoint into the car. He hands over his money and a few other things, then tries to fight back and is shot. The murderer leaves through the passenger door and goes downstairs without being seen.
Second scenario: the murderer is lurking outside the car. The executive approaches; the murderer points the gun at him and forces him into the car through the passenger door. The murderer gets in immediately and orders him to start the engine; when the executive leans forward, puts the key in the ignition, and turns it, he gets shot in the head.
The Silence of the Rain Page 1
