Alexandre Vidal Porto - Sergio Y.

“For someone like me, who’d just arrived from Kentucky, Sandra was the epitome of the true New Yorker. She was six-two. Super elegant in her manners and the way she dressed. She never wore prints, just solids. She had style, charisma, great taste. It was the whole androgynous thing. I’d never met a Brazilian before. She seemed exotic to me. Sandra was very chic. In a way, she was who I wanted to be. The day she died, we were celebrating the fact that the New York Times had confirmed they’d be doing a story about her restaurant. I was proud to be friends with her, to be seen with her. I thought having a transgender friend was the coolest thing.

“I never meant to kill her. I never even thought of killing anyone. I interrupted her life and mine in a moment of madness. Because of one irresponsible act, I forever changed our destinies.

“At the time, everyone in my class was experimenting with ‘magic mushrooms.’ A friend of mine, who grew mushrooms at home, gave me a paper bag with twelve small red mushrooms with white spots on them. They looked like little strawberries. ‘The active ingredient is psilocybin,’ he said.

“I was curious. The day I got the mushrooms it was cold. On the way home, I ate the two smallest ones. I ran into Sandra in front of the house. We arrived at the same time. We went upstairs together. She was beaming. She invited me in for a glass of champagne to celebrate the New York Times article. I wasn’t going to drink champagne. I’m really not into champagne. But, since the mushrooms hadn’t really taken effect, I thought maybe it wouldn’t be a problem if I just took one sip to toast with my friend.

“We were facing each other. She sat by the window in a high-back chair. I remember her profile against the darkness outside the window. I didn’t offer her mushrooms because I knew pot was the only drug she liked. She smoked it sometimes at home to relax.

“Sandra was all excited about the article. She kept flailing her arms about. I sat there, right in front of her, just listening. I think that’s the last sober memory I have of that day.

“After that, all I remember was my hallucination. I started hearing voices in my head. I was certain I heard the voice of God. He ordered me to push Sandra through the window with all my might.

“The voice grew stronger. He repeated the order. Suddenly, Sandra sounded aggressive, threatening. She was an evil being. I became convinced God had entrusted me with the task of ridding the world of that rotten fruit, and I wanted all the glory that came with that.

“I wanted to push her. It was simply a matter of having a desire to do something and then satisfying that desire. Like buying a pair of shoes or a bracelet and seeing no reason not to.

“I pushed Sandra with all my might. I remember her losing her balance, tumbling, with her arms open, falling back in her chair. If I close my eyes now, I can still hear the curtain tearing.

“I can still hear the dry, muffled thud of the body hitting the courtyard below.

“The next morning, I woke up alone, in my apartment. I woke up to police sirens. They’d found her body. No one came for me that morning. I took the two o’clock flight to Louisville.

“At home, I told my parents what had happened. They went crazy. We talked to lawyers, but there wasn’t much they could do. I surrendered to the police on Monday.

“I’m going to spend a long time here. My life is here now. Life goes on. It doesn’t stop just because I’m behind bars. But it’s very limited.

“I read a lot, I’m learning to meditate. I exercise, I write. I have my parents’ support, but I think I’ll never have children of my own. Prison doesn’t kill you, but it steals important things from you.

“I killed someone.

“I don’t like knowing I have this power. Knowing this makes me aware of the immense responsibility I have. It hurts to know that I stupidly killed a happy person, who would have gone on to do good. I stole her happiness. I subtracted happiness from the world. I have to make up for that.

“My dad didn’t like me being friends with Sandra because she was trans. When he visited me, he couldn’t even bring himself to say hi to her. He said transsexuals were ‘the devil’s work.’

“That must have stayed in my subconscious. We really don’t understand how our minds work, do we? You’re a psychiatrist, do you think it was my dad who planted the seed that made me murder my friend Sandra? I don’t know. It makes no difference now. I’m here now.”

Dr. Armando? Salomão told me you wanted to know whether Sergio was happy. I appreciate your interest. I really do.

“I had a very hard time accepting that my life could go on without my son. But it will. Roberto, my other son, who also passed away, had already taught me this lesson. I think I’d forgotten. Now I remember.

“I’m ready to talk. Would you like to get together? Can I invite you for a cup of tea?”

We met in the tea room at the Maria Luisa and Oscar Americano Foundation. I parked far away and walked through the gardens. It was 4 p.m. and it was sunny.

Tereza was there waiting for me when I arrived. We greeted one another with a kiss on the cheek. I think that from the outset there was a mutual feeling of relief that we were finally meeting. Tereza ordered black tea and so did I.

The only witnesses to what Tereza had to say that afternoon, at that table, were two teapots, two cups, two tablespoons, two slices of lemon and me.

“The first thing I need to tell you is that I’m only here because Sergio was happy. Otherwise I don’t think I would have made it. Knowing he was happy when he died really consoles me. I don’t know what I would’ve done otherwise.

“I know you’re a doctor and you’ve seen many complicated cases, but my two sons, let’s face it, had especially difficult lives. In my darkest moments, I confess I wished for their deaths, I didn’t care how it happened.

“One was born without a skull and the other one with the wrong sex. That’s what I produced. That’s my contribution to the world. A shallow person might not understand, but I learned to be proud of my children. I’d generate the same fetuses all over again.

“Roberto was an angel. He was in this world for eight days and left nothing, absolutely nothing, negative behind. A pure soul, without a blemish. I wanted to be with him from the moment he was born. I knew he would die ‘in a matter of days.’ That’s what the doctor said.

“It’s hard not to love a son madly when you know he’s going to die ‘in a matter of days.’ My only concern was for my sick son. My agony didn’t last long. Roberto left us and never looked back. He left more emotions behind than memories. I did the best I could. I was given an anencephalic baby, but I gave an angel back.

“Sergio’s death was worse because it caught me by surprise. It took me a while to comprehend it. I couldn’t accept that, after struggling so hard to be happy, precisely when he was beginning to thrive, he should die in such a stupid, senseless way.

“After his death, I stopped calling him Sandra. So did Salomão. For us, Sandra was Sergio. The child I gave birth to was named Sergio. While he was alive, however, we referred to him as Sandra, because he asked us to and Dr. Coutts recommended we did.

“When I heard of his transsexuality, my first thought was that I’d failed. I was a woman who gave birth to imperfect things, incomplete things. My womb was not fruitful. It was malformed, subhuman, I thought.

“I didn’t want any of this. I wish it had all been a dream. But we don’t get to do what we want, do we? What could I have done? There are a lot of things we do for love. I carried Sergio — Sandra, whatever — inside my body. I never gave up on my son because I couldn’t stop loving him.