Tony Bellotto - Rio Noir

“Like Marina.”

“Yes. Imagine the guy sitting here, right across from the library. At six in the afternoon he sees her descending the stairs, a beautiful young woman, tall, elegant, wonderful, a goddess. He follows her with his eyes, intently. And then he thinks: Tomorrow I’m going after that woman . The next day, at the same hour, he begins his game with Marina. And the rest, we already know how it was.”

“And why do you think he gave up?”

The waiter arrived with two more beers.

“Marina sent a message: she didn’t want him to act like the mandarin in the story. She was in love with him and hoped one day he’d speak to her. The waiting was proof of his passion. The guy understood that and chose to leave. He knew that if he continued the game, sooner or later he’d fall into the trap.”

“What trap?”

“The trap we all fall into, we romantics, those perpetually naïve about love. You, in fact, more than me.”

“What trap?” I asked, trying to sound bored.

“The same as ever, since Adam and Eve. The trap of commitment.”

“You think Marina acted hastily.”

“Of course. She didn’t know how to wait long enough. Marina scared the nutcase and he hit the road. When she copied the passage from the book and then purposely dropped it, she was telling him: Don’t be like the mandarin, don’t go away on the last night .”

“And he did.”

“Right. These things happen.”

From the Amarelinho we went to Marina’s building, following the route she said she took every day. We crossed Rio Branco, took Pedro Lessa to the end, turned onto Graça Aranha, which joins Calógeras, and after a ten-minute walk we were there. I remembered the Pan América well. The apartment of my former client faced Avenida Beira-Mar and had a dazzling view. Marina’s faced Calógeras.

“This is where he stood, contemplating Marina,” Fats said, leaning against the lamppost.

We stayed there for some minutes, looking for I don’t know what exactly. The doorman began regarding us suspiciously. I thought it best for us to leave.

We then began our rounds through the bars, as planned at the table at Amarelinho. That night and the following two nights we made our pilgrimage to the downtown bars in search of the man.

Rio is a city constantly inviting people into the street, and downtown is no different. I would meet Fats at the end of the day and we would hit the dozens of bars scattered along Rua do Lavradio, Lapa, the narrow streets leading to Cinelândia, the venerable Rua do Ouvidor and environs.

Those were long nights, I must say. And we didn’t find the guy.

“Patience, André, we have to be patient. I have the feeling we’ll find the man tonight.”

“You talk about method but don’t have one, you know that?”

“Trust me, little brother, today we’ll find that sly fox, trust me.”

It was eight at night when we entered Arco do Teles. I checked to see if our friend was in any of the bars.

“A change of plan, André,” Fats said, taking my arm. “Next stop: Bar Brasil.”

“You think he might be there?”

“No. But I urgently need to eat a kassler with potatoes.”

“You shouldn’t eat pork ribs. They’re fattening.”

“I’m already fat, have you forgotten?”

Deep down I knew my friend didn’t want to go to Bar Brasil just to devour his favorite dish. He had something in mind that he didn’t want to tell me just yet. Fats is like that; at times he thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes hiding some thought from Watson in order to enhance his brilliant deduction at the end. Watson in this case was me.

We walked to Rua Mem de Sá. I enjoyed walking at night in those streets. The infernal daytime bustle with people scurrying like ants gave way to a different lineage, the bohemians. And walking at night lets me see more calmly the old houses, the buildings from the time of the empire, the signs of another era written on the streets like a book open to whoever wants to read. I wanted to, I liked reading the city, especially downtown, where everything is written.

We got to Bar Brasil and chose a table at the rear. The waiter quickly brought our dishes. Fats went with kassler . I ordered meatballs.

“Okay, out with it. Why Bar Brasil?”

He pretended to be startled. Then he smiled. “Elementary, my dear boy. We’ve been roaming around for three days. We’ve been to practically every sidewalk bar in the area. If he’s not in any of them it’s because we’ve been looking in the wrong place, understand? It boils down to this: the creep doesn’t want to be found. He doesn’t know that Marina put a detective on his tail, but to be on the safe side he decided to change his strategy. No sidewalk bars now, no showing himself. I’m going to a quieter spot, where I can contemplate women without a lot of people around, my way . That’s what he thought.”

“Then why didn’t he change neighborhoods?”

Fats cut off a generous piece of rib and chewed on it.

“Get one thing through your head, André: the man is methodical. He likes this area and doesn’t want to leave it. It’s his territory, understand? The guy knows the streets, the alleys, and the bars downtown the way you and I know our own faces in a mirror. It’s his home. It’s not just the setting for his life story, it’s the story itself. And listen to what I’m about to say, listen carefully: it’s from the village that you see the universe. Learn from that, my friend, learn.”

“You read that somewhere.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“All right, it’s from Alberto Caeiro. I mean, I adapted it a little.”

We fell silent. The waiter brought two more beers.

“How is it you know so much about a guy you’ve never met?”

“They’re merely hypotheses. And don’t forget: What songs the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, though puzzling questions, are not beyond all conjecture. Sir Thomas Browne.”

“I think you chose the wrong profession. You should’ve been a literature professor.”

“If I’m going to starve to death, I prefer being the owner of a used-book store.”

“You’re not exactly starving. Not in the least.”

“A figure of speech, if you understand me.”

“What I understand is that everything’s very good — cold beer, tasty dishes — but where’s the guy?”

“He just came in.”

It was him. Medium height — Marina had said five-eleven or a little less — short black hair, dark skin. Jeans, white short-sleeve shirt, the newspaper under his arm. Even the leather pouch was there, on a strap. It could only be him.

“I don’t believe it, Fats!”

“Now you see. I told you to trust me, it was just a matter of time.”

The guy came in, took a look around, said something to the waiter, and chose a table near ours. He placed the pouch on a chair and sat down in the other. From where we were, we could see him in profile.

I called Marina.

“We found your friend, he’s just come into Bar Brasil, on Mem de Sá. Do you know it?”

“Yes. I’m on my way. Don’t let him leave.”

“Hurry up. I don’t know if he’s going to stay here for long.”

I hung up.

“Look, André. He’s pretending to read the menu.”

“He is reading the menu.”

“No he isn’t. I saw when he opened the menu without looking at it. He merely opened it for show. And he’s not turning the pages; he merely opened it and left it open, to fake it. See? He’s looking in our direction. At the table with the women.”

At a table across from us, three women were taking loudly and laughing.

“What can they be laughing so hard about?” I asked.