In the week before his world fell apart, he'd spent his days setting up a law practice. Nights were reserved for courting Irene Camargo, a petite brunette he'd met in law school.
The twelfth of October, Irene's twenty-second birthday, was an event her parents had insisted she celebrate at home. The young couple reserved the night of the thirteenth for themselves. Friday the thirteenth. Silva didn't give the portentousness of that a second thought until much later.
The evening began well. They dined at the Ca d'Oro, one of Sao Paulo's finest restaurants, and one that Mario Silva avoided forever after. Next, they drove out onto the Rapouso Tavares, a highway lined with high-rotation motels. Silva and Irene had to wait in a long line before they could pass through one of the dimly lit kiosks. They put the car into the enclosed garage, ordered a bottle of champagne, and frolicked in the whirlpool bath while the tiny sauna came up to temperature. Afterward, they lingered in bed to talk.
It was almost 4:00 by the time Silva dropped her off, approaching 4:20, when he arrived at the house he shared with his parents. In the driveway, where his father's big Ford Galaxy should have been, was a black and white sedan. Leaning against it, puffing on cigarettes, were two men in uniform. They squinted in the glare from Silva's headlamps and then stood upright. In the seconds before he cut the lights, Silva noticed the seal of the city of Sao Paulo and the words POLICIA MUNICIPAL painted on the car. The lamp over his front door was dim, but it cast enough light to read their expressions. Those expressions were grim.
"You Mario Silva?" the older cop asked, not unkindly. He had a protuberant blue vein on his forehead, just below the hairline.
"Yes."
"You got a sister named Carla?"
"What is it? What happened to her?"
The cop pursed his lips. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing's happened to her. Not as far as I know. Do you know where she is?"
"Probably at home, asleep."
"She doesn't live here?"
"No. She's married. She lives with her husband. What's this all about?"
The cop threw his cigarette to the macadam and ground out the glowing butt with his heel. "Sergeant Mancuso," he said, extending a hand, "Sao Paulo PD." His palm was moist. "This is Officer Branco," he continued. The younger cop nodded, but didn't offer to shake hands.
"Is it about my parents?"
Mancuso gave a little nod.
"Your mother's in the hospital," he said, then added quickly, "She's fine. She's going to be okay, but your father…"
He made a little grunting noise in his throat.
"What? What about my father?"
Mancuso reached out his hand, gripped Silva's upper arm and gave him a squeeze of sympathy. The younger cop, fat and with a baby face that made him look like a cherub, answered Silva's question.
"They shot him."
"Shot him? Is he-"
"Dead," the cherub said, bluntly.
Mancuso, the older cop, bit his lower lip. Even in the pale light, Silva could see the lip turning white.
"Dead?" Silva blinked, trying to get his head around the idea. After a moment, he said, "Who did it?"
Mancuso gave his arm a final squeeze and let go. "How about we go inside?"
In a daze, Silva unlocked the front door and led the way into the living room. Without being invited, the cherub sat down on the couch. Mancuso remained standing. Silva walked over to the piano, picked up the wedding picture of his parents and stared at it. "How did it happen?" he asked, trying to get his head around what they were telling him.
"Your dad screwed up, Senhor Silva," the cherub said. "He stopped for a red light."
Silva felt a sudden flash of anger. He looked up. "I'm sorry, Officer. What was your name again?"
"Branco."
"My father always stopped for red lights, Officer Branco."
"Yeah? Tell me something, Senhor Silva. How long did he live in this town?"
"All his life. He was born here."
"A native-born Paulista, huh? Then he should have known better. You can't stop for a red light. Not after midnight. The best thing is to slow down and keep rolling. That's what most people do."
"I know what most people do, Officer, but my father isn't…" Silva swallowed "… wasn't like that. As far as I know, he never broke a law in his life, never even got a speeding ticket."
"Too bad everybody's not like him," Mancuso said.
Silva searched the older cop's face for a sign of irony. There wasn't one. He put the photo back on the piano. "Where's my mother?"
"At the Hospital das Clinicas. They got her under sedation," the cherub said, "so it's not going to make any difference to her whether you get there in twenty minutes or two hours. Why don't you sit down a little? I'll tell you the rest."
"I'll stand."
"Suit yourself, but when I finish you're going to wish you were sitting."
Mancuso narrowed his eyes at his partner. "That's enough, Paulo," he said. "Let me tell it."
"Well, excuse me," the cherub said petulantly, and crossed his arms in front of his chest.
Mancuso turned his back on him and addressed Silva. "Your mother was pretty hysterical before they put her under," he said, "so we still don't have all the details. Basically, the story is this: Your parents were coming home from some kind of a party-"
"A charity affair," Silva said. "A dinner to raise funds for a new wing at Nossa Senhora de Misericordia. My father is… was a doctor there."
"Right. So they were coming home, and your old man stopped for a red light, and two elements came up on your mother's side, tapped on the window and pointed a handgun at her head. Your father did the right thing. He didn't resist. I mean, it's only money, right? No matter how much they take, it isn't worth losing your life for. We always tell people-"
"Please finish the story, Sergeant."
"Okay. So your father unlocked the door. The two perps hopped into the back seat. Your mom said the guy holding the gun put the muzzle up against your father's neck, like this."
Mancuso walked around behind his partner and demonstrated, putting the tip of his extended index finger up to the back of the cherub's neck. The cherub didn't move, kept his cold eyes fixed on Silva.
Silva shook his head in disbelief. "And shot him? Shot him just like that? With no warning? For no reason? For nothing?
"No," the cherub said, apparently finding it impossible to keep his mouth shut. "Not then. The punk told him to drive up to the Serra de Cantareira."
The Serra, a mountain range that looked down on the city from the north, was a place of unpaved roads, few houses, and thick vegetation. There were monkeys up there and brightly colored tropical birds.
"Why? Why the Serra de Cantareira?"
"Yeah, well, I was getting to that," Mancuso resumed. He looked pained. "It's isolated. There wouldn't be anybody around at that time of night. They weren't likely to get interrupted."
"What do you mean `interrupted'?"
"They… well; first they took everything of any value, money, watches, jewelry. Then they told both of your folks to get out of the car."
The cop paused to light a cigarette. He didn't bother to ask Silva if he minded. It was the 1970s. Nobody asked back then. He took a deep drag, expelled the smoke and looked around for an ashtray. There was one on the coffee table. He leaned over and dropped the extinguished match into it.
Silva was about to snap at him to finish the goddamned story when he realized that the cop was stalling for time, trying to find a gentle, less painful way to say what he had to say.
Mancuso couldn't find one. In the end, he just blurted it out, "They raped her."
"They what?"
"Raped her."