When he’d first clapped eyes on the famous coiffeur, Goncalves hadn’t been quite sure whether Jardin was using eyeliner, or whether he was permanently tattooed. Curiosity about what he was actually seeing had caused him to stare long and hard at Jardin’s eyes. Perhaps too long, and too hard. The stylist licked his thin lips, almost as if he could taste Goncalves on his chops, and smoothed back his immaculately styled hair. The word preening came to mind.
In the initial stages of their conversation Goncalves learned little that the Federal Police didn’t already know. Revelations, however, began to surface when he touched on the subject of the Artist’s girlfriend, Cintia Tadesco.
“I can well understand that you have an interest in her.” Jardin managed to insert another oval cigarette into his ivory holder without taking his eyes off Goncalves. “The woman is a total bitch.”
“A total bitch, eh?”
Goncalves had already learned that Jardin required only a minimum of prompting.
“I don’t mean she’s just a gold-digger,” Jardin said. “God knows, I’ve known my share of gold-diggers. I don’t dismiss them as a category. Some of them actually give quite good value for money.”
“Value for money?” Goncalves echoed.
Jardin’s lighter was a Dupont, in black lacquer and gold. It made a musical ding when he lit up.
“Suppose,” he said, “that you’re old, and rich, and single. Divorced, maybe, or a widower. You’re lonely. You haven’t seen what a twenty- to thirty-year-old body looks like”-he took another puff, expelled the smoke and looked Haraldo up and down before going on-“for maybe the last quartercentury. Then along comes this nubile young thing who sells you on the idea that May-December relationships are all the rage. She tells you she loves you for yourself, not your money, or your status, or your fame. You believe it because you want to believe it. You say to yourself, hey, it’s not as impossible as I thought. It’s happened once or twice before. And now it’s happening to me.”
“Uh huh. And then?”
“And then you start bonking her, and she makes you feel like you’re the most virile man she’s ever met. You may have to swallow a handful of pills to get a hard-on, but when it’s up, it’s up, and it’s glorious. She admires it, kisses it, strokes it, runs her hand up and down the shaft, tells you you’re the first man who’s ever made her feel truly like a woman. So you start buying her expensive jewelry, and you set her up in a nice place of her own. Why not? You can afford it.” Jardin took another drag on his cigarette. Goncalves made no attempt to interrupt. “Then, if you’re really besotted, you might even marry her, marry her no matter what your family might be saying about her. If a friend opens his mouth, you’d sooner lose the friend than lose the girl.”
“And you call that value for money? Estranging people from their friends and family?”
“Estrangement occurs only if the friends and family are stupid enough to question the lady’s motives and start telling you things you don’t want to hear. And yes, it is value for money if the woman has a sweet nature, is grateful for what she’s being given and is willing to keep up her side of the bargain by hanging in there until you’re so senile you don’t recognize her anymore or dead, whichever comes first.”
“You’re talking about an old man. That’s not the Artist’s case. He’s a young guy. It’s different.”
“Different, is it? Have you ever met the Artist?”
“No.”
“Seen a photo then?”
“Well, yes, but-”
“But nothing. He’s ugly as sin and, stating it kindly, intellectually challenged. What he’s got going for him is the same thing that lots of old millionaires have going for them: fame and money. The only difference between him and them is they need their pills to get an erection.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit cynical about this?”
“Cynical? My Young Innocent, you have no idea how society works, or what real money can buy, do you?”
“Let’s get back to Cintia, okay?”
“Of course, dear boy, of course.”
“Why do you think she’s a bitch?”
“Two reasons. First, because I have personal knowledge of the woman. She used to be one of my clients. People say I struck her from my roster because she was late for an appointment. Not true. Between you and me, dear boy, that’s one of the excuses I use when I tire of someone’s company. Would you like a glass of sherry?”
“Thank you, no.”
“But you won’t mind if I have one, will you?”
Without waiting for a reply, Jardin balanced his cigarette holder across a large, jade ashtray and stood up. He went to a cherry wood cabinet and took out a bottle. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Jardin selected a single glass, delicately cut and looking like it cost a bundle, and resumed his seat.
“Where were we?” he said, pouring the amber liquid.
“You tired of her company.”
“Ah yes.” He took a sip. “I did.”
“Why?”
Jardin thought for a moment. “Gossip is one thing,” he said. “I’m not averse to a little of it myself, but spewing venom is another. I never heard her say a good word about anyone. So I drew the obvious conclusion: she wasn’t saying good words about me either.”
“How about her future mother-in-law?”
“Juraci? I don’t recall Cintia saying anything at all about Juraci. It would have been naive to do so, and naive is one thing Cintia is not. Everyone is well aware that the relationship between the Artist and his mother is a close one. If Cintia had expressed a negative opinion about her, there are scads of people who would have rushed off to make sure the Artist heard about it.”
“How about the Artist’s father? I don’t recall hearing anything about him. Ever.”
“You never will. Although I’ve been told there’s a claimant every now and then.”
“A claimant?”
“Juraci was… how shall I put this? Let’s just say that, in her youth, she was quite profligate with her charms. She’s never been quite sure who the Artist’s father is. That’s not what she gives out, but I assure you it’s true. Now, however, now that her talented son has come to fame and fortune, many of the men who’ve passed through Juraci’s life earnestly desire to be admitted back into it.”
“How does she handle it?”
“Denies them, one and all; claims that the Artist’s real father was a stonemason killed in a construction accident when his son was very young.”
“And that’s what most people believe?”
“That’s what virtually everyone believes. Fofocas has investigated her story in some detail. They’ve been unable to disprove it.”
Goncalves’s familiarity with Fofocas stemmed from the fact that it kept turning up in the bathrooms, or next to the beds, of many of the women he slept with. None of them ever admitted to purchasing it. One of their girlfriends, they’d say, must have left it behind, by mistake.
“How come you don’t buy into the stonemason story?”
Jardin smiled. “Unlike you,” he said, “Juraci Santos is fond of sherry. We’ve had a few tipples together and have, how shall I put this? Shared confidences.”
“Tell me more.”
“No, dear boy, I won’t, not without a good deal more sherry. Do you like erotic sketches?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Erotic sketches. Do you like them? I have a rather impressive collection.”
“No. I can’t say I’m much of a fan. You said you had two reasons for thinking Cintia a bitch. One of them was personal experience. And the other?”
“The opinion of the Artist’s mother.”
“Well, that’s certainly relevant. Why don’t you tell me about that?”
“Hmm,” Jardin said. “There are limits even to my indiscretion, but I see no harm in telling you this much: Juraci Santos employed a private detective to check up on Cintia Tadesco’s background. Unlike her son, Juraci is actually quite a perceptive woman, all too aware of the Artist’s shortcomings. She never accepted that a bombshell like La Tadesco could possibly be interested in anything other than her son’s money and fame. At the very least, she thought, Cintia must be cheating on him. Mother’s instinct, she’d tell me.”