Chapter 6
During the meal, a new Arthur revealed himself, more talkative and cheerful.
I guess good food does that to people. He was delighted by the lunch and Umberto’s kindness.
To my dismay, he kept repeating how it was the best meal he’d had in a long time.
As I chewed on the pork, my hatred morphed into something else, an unprecedented coldness that freed me to think, Two can play at this game.
We were just polishing off the main course when the old man’s cell phone rang. He went into the foyer for privacy and came back a few minutes later.
“Sorry, I had to take that,” he said, leaving his phone on the table.
Before he could sit back down, Arthur asked, “Where is your bathroom?”
The old man led him down the hall to the powder room, leaving me alone at the table for about half a minute—just enough time.
I snatched Umberto’s phone before the screen locked, went to Settings, and changed the password.
The phone was so old it didn’t even ask me to enter the previous one.
Then I shut it off and slipped it into my pocket.
Half an hour later, around three in the afternoon, we left Umberto’s house. I could barely contain my vengeful rage. Arthur returned to his post at the café and I went home. Cora and Piglet were playing a loud video game in the living room and invited me to join them.
“I’m busy,” I said, heading to my room.
I lay down on my bed and turned on Umberto’s phone.
I searched for “Vladimir” in the address book—nothing.
On WhatsApp, there were several recent messages, especially in group chats like “Right-Wing Friends” and “Ipanema Sex Club,” which, as I gathered from the shared content, hosted orgies.
For the past few months, Umberto had been texting with Andrea, who according to her profile picture was a dark-haired woman with a (literal) surgical smile.
Their conversation sounded like two teenagers flirting, decorated with a bunch of heart emojis and lovey-dovey faces.
It was strange invading the old man’s privacy like this and realizing how, at least in some respects, he lived like a normal guy.
I combed through his photos. Most of them were from trips or meetings, or pictures with idiotic quotes, the kind from group chats that WhatsApp downloads straight to the camera roll without even opening.
I also encountered unpleasant intimate photos—Umberto’s stocky naked body standing in front of the mirror, his scaly skin burnt to a crisp by decades in the sun, his flaccid member slightly erect, a mischievous smile on his face.
I didn’t want to think about who he’d sent those nudes to.
I turned on my computer and started downloading the photos. Then Cora came in.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not in here doing drugs, are you?”
She glanced around my desk suspiciously.
“I’m fine. I just need to finish up something.”
Cora shrugged and went back to the living room.
I continued working, well aware that as soon as he noticed his phone was missing, Umberto would suspect me.
I finished downloading the files and decided to look at his text messages.
It didn’t take me long to hit the jackpot: his texts with Virgínia, Vladimir’s secretary.
I quickly skimmed the thread, trying to glean as much information as possible.
Most of the texts were short and sent by her: L square, 8pm or Hotel Fasano, tomorrow or Vladimir’s not happy.
Umberto’s replies were simple, always submissive: ok, yes, or as he wishes.
Scrolling back farther, I came upon the date that photo had been posted on Instagram.
Virgínia’s messages weren’t very nice, to say the least; Vladimir had threatened the life of Umberto’s daughter.
I didn’t even know he had a daughter but now understood why he’d been so distressed that night.
There were also some instructions, sent the afternoon Miguel was murdered: He got proof.
Action. It was basically my friend’s death certificate. It really got to me.
I selected all the messages and forwarded them to my phone. Without thinking twice, I texted Virgínia: Meet in half an hour at the Fasano. URGENT. I put on nicer clothes, never letting my eyes leave the phone screen. It had to work … She replied in less than five minutes: Ok. She’d taken the bait.
I put the phone in my pocket, stuffed five hundred reals into my wallet, and, in a pathetic attempt at protection, grabbed my Swiss Army knife.
I took a taxi to the Fasano hotel, which was very fancy and right across from the Ipanema beach.
I’d been there once before for a party, where I felt completely out of place.
Though two years had passed, my feeling remained the same—at least I now had enough money to have lunch at their restaurant, and even order dessert and a nice bottle of wine.
I chose one of the sofas in the busy lobby and picked up that day’s newspaper, to shield my face.
I kept an eye on the cars pulling up at the entrance: lots of foreign families and a few executives arriving for business meetings.
I looked at my watch. Five minutes past our agreed time.
I tried to reassure myself; the secretary to someone like Vladimir probably always ran late.
The minutes crawled by. When she was half an hour past due, I started to become impatient.
I typed a text asking where she was, but before I could hit Send, I got a text from Virgínia: Where are you?
I looked around the lobby. A tall Black woman with long hair and a muscular build had just walked in.
She wore a black pantsuit and gripped her phone as she went from table to table, obviously looking for someone.
She looked down at her phone again and left the hotel.
It had to be Virgínia. I followed her. A black Audi with tinted windows was waiting for her on the corner by the beach, outside a restaurant with a terrace.
She got into the back seat, and I could see that there was someone else besides the driver inside the car.
He looked like a bald man. Could it be Vladimir?
The car sped off down Avenida Vieira Souto.
Without wasting any time, I ran to the taxi stand in front of the hotel and asked the driver to take the waterfront.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
I avoided the cliché Follow that car and told him I would dictate the route as we went.
The Audi was just a car length ahead of us, heading toward Leblon, when it made a sudden U-turn.
I took a picture of the car and zoomed in to see the license plate.
We turned onto Avenida Atlantica and the beauty of Copacabana, stretching out from the corner of lifeguard station 6, unfolded before us.
The Audi turned left on Rua Figueiredo Magalh?es, heading away from the beach.
It switched on its hazard lights and stopped on the right side of the street, in front of the Shopping dos Antiquários: a run-down antique mall full of secondhand bookstores, vintage clothing stores, and, of course, antique shops.
The woman got out of the car and hurried inside.
I gave the cabbie two twenties and ran off, not caring if the driver of the Audi noticed me.
I climbed the ramp to the second floor, passing in front of the Tereza Rachel Theater.
Most of the shops were already closed, and as night fell the place began to take on a sort of ghostly vibe.
I was sure that Virgínia was going to meet Vladimir.
She turned down a deserted corridor with display cases full of old paintings, chandeliers, mannequins, and statues.
At the end of the hallway was a single light.
The woman waited at the door like she needed permission to enter. A man’s hand reached out to shake hers.
I whipped out my pocketknife and followed her down the corridor, fearless.
I was less than ten feet away when the man came out, as if the two of them were going to head back the way they’d come.
On reflex, I managed to hide behind a column.
My heart jumped into my throat. Even with a brief glance, I could see it was Umberto.
I listened to their footsteps on the tile floor, calculating how many seconds I had before they passed me.
Holding my breath, I prayed they wouldn’t notice me.
When they were a few feet ahead, Umberto suddenly stopped and turned, looking in my direction like he’d known I was there all along.
I wanted to run, but his expression made it clear that any attempt to escape would be futile. I gripped the knife, ready for a fight.
“I believe you have my phone,” he said, holding out his hand.
Hatred blazed in his eyes. I was sure that if it were up to him, I’d be murdered on the spot. I handed over the phone, flashing him a wide, derisive smile, similar to the one he’d given me at lunch with Arthur.
“If you try another prank like that, I’ll kill you,” he said and walked away, limping slightly. Virgínia was gone. I ran to the main entrance in the desperate hope of catching the Audi stopped at a traffic light, but it was gone.