Alexandre Vidal Porto - Sergio Y.

I began my second conversation with Cecilia Coutts inspired by the courage Sergio needed on his journey toward becoming Sandra. Coutts wore a T-shirt identical to the one on the previous day, but of a different color. Her nipples were still there, leaving their imprint on the red fabric.

Just as I had not allowed my anxiety to spoil my meeting with Mariana, I did not allow my desire to interfere with my conversation with Cecilia.

“I don’t know if it’s a question of ethics or humanity, or mere professionalism. In São Paulo, when I decided to write to you, when I sought you the first time, what drove me was curiosity about the case of my patient, Sergio. I was motivated by something in between egotism and altruism. I wanted to know more so as to become a better doctor and, thus, be able to better help others. That was my original intent.

“You know that I enjoy a good reputation. This has always been a source of pride for me. Sergio’s therapy was inconclusive as far as I am concerned. I would not include it among my success stories as a psychiatrist. Quite the opposite. I only managed to make peace with the results of my work with Sergio when I heard from his mother that he was in New York, with the prospect of a promising career ahead of him.

“His death caught me totally by surprise. But an even greater surprise was his transexuality, and that there existed a Sandra in our midst. At no moment did I diagnose that. I suspected nothing. I committed a medical blunder. Technically, I had the responsibility to know.

“You say I helped him greatly, that I helped him find the necessary stability to allow him to transition. But I had no idea that this is what I was doing. If I guided Sergio toward Sandra, I did it blindly. I might just as easily have taken him in another direction, off a cliff. I didn’t know what I was doing. You say I recommended a book to Sergio that led him to Sandra, and I have no idea what book you’re referring to.

“I thought I knew, and I knew nothing. When I learned of Sergio’s tragic fate, it made me afraid of all of the other things I didn’t know. It made me afraid that I might take my other patients to places I didn’t understand, that without meaning to, I would lead them to failure or to tragic deaths. That is not why I became a doctor. I do not want to recklessly drive my patients to death, as I might have done in Sergio’s case.”

Cecilia stared at me in silence and then said: “I’m not going to judge whatever inner conflict you may be going through. I can only speak of Sandra. I just know what you did for Sandra. I can only attest to the effect your work had on her. You showed her that happiness was possible. That her life was possible.

“It was while she was in your hands that she became aware that she could be more happy than when she was in São Paulo. You didn’t lead her to her death. On the contrary, Armando, you led her to life.

“Sandra wouldn’t have lived — she never would have been born — if not for the advice you gave her. Sandra’s first friend was Armando. You allowed her to reveal who she really was. She had understanding parents, but she needed a friend to show her new possibilities. She was lucky enough to find one in you.

“Sandra was happy. She died because everything that is alive will die one day. We don’t choose the day we die. It comes when it wants to. There are people for whom death seems to come prematurely. That was the case with Sandra. You had nothing to do with her death. Quite the contrary. You gave her life. Her death was an accident.

“From my upstairs window I can see her backyard, where they found her body. But even then, when I stare at her house, understanding I’ll never see her again, I still never think of her with sadness. Sandra died early because she crossed paths with a crazy woman who decided to kill her, just like that.”

Turning to the bookshelf, she said: “You said you’d never read Angelus. Well, you can have my copy. Sandra bought it for me during one of her visits to Ellis Island. But I think this copy belongs to you. I just ask that you buy me another one online and have it delivered here to my office, so as to keep my library intact, O.K.? It’s a beautiful story. It’s what inspired Sergio to follow in his great-grandfather’s footsteps. In the same way Areg crossed an ocean to find happiness in Brazil, Sergio crossed an ocean to find happiness in Sandra.

“We don’t have much time, but I’m going to ask my secretary to make a copy of Sandra’s file. I’m not sure whether its right or wrong. It raises some ethical concerns for me, but I think it’ll help you work through questions that ultimately have to do with compassion.”

She called her secretary on the intercom and then walked to the shelf and removed a book, which she presented to me with both hands. On the cover was a sepia portrait of a man in a suit and tie, black hair parted down the middle, set in gel, eyebrows nearly touching, reminiscent of Monteiro Lobato. At chest level was the title of the book that had changed Sergio Y.’s life: Angelus in America: The Story of Our Father.

Within minutes, the secretary, who I never did see, called her on the intercom. Cecilia walked out and returned a few minutes later holding a manila envelope.

It was almost half past eleven and I knew that our meeting had come to an end. She handed me the envelope and said: “It’s not just evil that we do without realizing it, sometimes we do good things too.”

As I left her office, I wanted to thank her for her generosity. The word “compassion” came to mind, but I never uttered it. I muttered a timid thank you instead, but I’m sure I failed to translate the extent of the gratitude I felt.

I left the Barrow Street townhouse without looking back. I entered a taxi and headed to the hotel. In the backseat, I tried to read Sandra’s file, but I started getting carsick and had to stop. At the hotel, I only had time to get my luggage. It took longer than usual to get a taxi to the airport, and I was nervous about being late and missing my flight. In the end, everything worked out, and I even arrived a little early at the airport.

At the gate, I again tried reading Sandra’s file, but soon realized the documents and notes it contained would do little to satisfy my curiosity. I had no interest in Sandra’s hormone counts, or the best surgical technique for her penectomy. That type of information was of no interest to a psychiatrist.

What remained was Angelus’s story, which I began reading as soon as I boarded the plane.

The first thing I noticed when I held the hardback book in my hands was the $29.95 price on the back cover. The book that had changed her life was bought at the Ellis Island Museum, whose existence I had revealed to Sergio.

Maybe my alleged importance to Sergio lay in this fact. Before I mentioned it to him, he did not know of the museum’s existence. I suggested the visit. As a matter of fact, I gave him directions how to get there: “Take the subway. The Number 4, the green line, and stay on it until the last station before Brooklyn. The station name is Bowling Green. When you come out of the station, you’ll be in a square, at the tip of Manhattan; go toward the sea and look for a booth that sells tickets for the ferry. Take the ferry to the Statue of Liberty, on Liberty Island. Get off at Ellis Island, which is where the Immigration Museum is. It’s really worth the trip. Especially for you who like stories like your great-grandfather’s. The ferry runs all day, and you can get on and off whenever you wish.”

I finally began understanding my objective role in Sergio Y.’s so-called revelation.

That night, on a darkened airplane I read Angelus Zebrowskas’s biography until I could not resist any longer and fell asleep. Back in São Paulo, after taking a shower and taking care of some urgent matters, I prepared myself a tuna fish sandwich, and I resumed reading in the middle of the afternoon until I finished at around 7 P.M.