hold. The screws groaned and snapped, threads tearing through the jamb’s ancient wood. I pulled again, mustering all my strength, throwing my weight behind the bar, and the screws popped free.
With the hasp gone, the door opened easily. The cat rushed past me as I tightened my fist around the iron rail and made my way forward, taking in the makeshift apartment and its spartan furnishings.
Along the far wall was a narrow cot, the mattress dressed in mussed sheets and a blanket. Next to the cot, a doorway opened onto a rudimentary bathroom. Closer to the front door was the kitchen, with a refrigerator, a grimy sink and hot plate, and two rows of open cabinets that held a coffee canister and an assortment of chipped dishes.
In the middle of the room was a crude desk, a long, thick piece of plywood propped on four hefty crates with a powerful swing-arm lamp attached to either end. Clues to the apartment’s real purpose, I thought. Bulbs bright enough to see the tiniest mistake by. And on the floor to the right of the desk, a combination digital printer, copier, and scanner.
In my day we’d had the one-hour rule, the time it took to clear a space of anything incriminating. And by now? I wondered. Twenty minutes? Ten? The way things worked today, a laptop was enough computer for almost any job, and in the end you could just fold it up and walk away. No doubt that’s exactly what Rahim had done, for there was no computer to be seen, and nothing else of any interest, either.
Making my way to the copier, I lifted the lid and looked inside. It was an unlikely hunch, but I figured it was at least worth the effort, the last thing copied or scanned easily overlooked. But the glass plate was empty.
The cat snapped at me from the kitchen, a sharp meow this time, her hunger desperate.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I warned her, crossing to the refrigerator, kneeling to open the door. But she was right. On the wire rack was a half-full bottle of milk, and beside it, an opened tin of sardines. The milk had turned, but the fish was still good. I put the tin on the floor, and the cat set greedily at it.
“Good girl,” I told her, reaching down to run my fingers along her back as she ate. She licked the tin clean, then stopped suddenly and lifted her head, her whole body tensing, her eyes on the open door.
Outside, something snapped in the passageway, feet rustling the weeds, the stride quick and purposeful. I crossed to the front window and peered out through the grime-streaked pane. A figure moved in the shadows below. Not Rahim. A woman.
Gripping the bar, I ducked into the bathroom and flattened myself against the wall. The woman started up the stairs, her shoes reverberating on the iron treads. Then she stopped on the landing, and I could hear her lingering in the doorway.
“Rahim?” she called. And then, in Portuguese, “Are you there?”
The cat answered with a plaintive meow, and the woman tried again, her voice quieter, more tentative. “Rahim?”
She waited for a moment, as if debating whether or not to come in. Then I heard her footsteps on the stairs, going down this time.
I waited for her to finish her descent, then stepped out of the bathroom and made my way back to the window. A woman, I thought, watching her go. If she had known to come here, there must have been something beyond the casual between her and Rahim.
She turned out of the side passage and started down the street toward the bus station and the docks. Even from a distance, I could tell that she was not unattractive. She was tall, dressed in a long wool coat and boots, her black hair cascading over her shoulders and down her back. She walked to the end of the street, then turned to look back before disappearing around the corner, and I caught sight of her face for the first time.
Graça Morais.
T AZMAMART. WHAT WAS IT VALSAMIS had called it? Some hole in the desert for dissenters. The worst thing a man can do to another man, Rahim had
With the hasp gone, the door opened easily. The cat rushed past me as I tightened my fist around the iron rail and made my way forward, taking in the makeshift apartment and its spartan furnishings.
Along the far wall was a narrow cot, the mattress dressed in mussed sheets and a blanket. Next to the cot, a doorway opened onto a rudimentary bathroom. Closer to the front door was the kitchen, with a refrigerator, a grimy sink and hot plate, and two rows of open cabinets that held a coffee canister and an assortment of chipped dishes.
In the middle of the room was a crude desk, a long, thick piece of plywood propped on four hefty crates with a powerful swing-arm lamp attached to either end. Clues to the apartment’s real purpose, I thought. Bulbs bright enough to see the tiniest mistake by. And on the floor to the right of the desk, a combination digital printer, copier, and scanner.
In my day we’d had the one-hour rule, the time it took to clear a space of anything incriminating. And by now? I wondered. Twenty minutes? Ten? The way things worked today, a laptop was enough computer for almost any job, and in the end you could just fold it up and walk away. No doubt that’s exactly what Rahim had done, for there was no computer to be seen, and nothing else of any interest, either.
Making my way to the copier, I lifted the lid and looked inside. It was an unlikely hunch, but I figured it was at least worth the effort, the last thing copied or scanned easily overlooked. But the glass plate was empty.
The cat snapped at me from the kitchen, a sharp meow this time, her hunger desperate.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I warned her, crossing to the refrigerator, kneeling to open the door. But she was right. On the wire rack was a half-full bottle of milk, and beside it, an opened tin of sardines. The milk had turned, but the fish was still good. I put the tin on the floor, and the cat set greedily at it.
“Good girl,” I told her, reaching down to run my fingers along her back as she ate. She licked the tin clean, then stopped suddenly and lifted her head, her whole body tensing, her eyes on the open door.
Outside, something snapped in the passageway, feet rustling the weeds, the stride quick and purposeful. I crossed to the front window and peered out through the grime-streaked pane. A figure moved in the shadows below. Not Rahim. A woman.
Gripping the bar, I ducked into the bathroom and flattened myself against the wall. The woman started up the stairs, her shoes reverberating on the iron treads. Then she stopped on the landing, and I could hear her lingering in the doorway.
“Rahim?” she called. And then, in Portuguese, “Are you there?”
The cat answered with a plaintive meow, and the woman tried again, her voice quieter, more tentative. “Rahim?”
She waited for a moment, as if debating whether or not to come in. Then I heard her footsteps on the stairs, going down this time.
I waited for her to finish her descent, then stepped out of the bathroom and made my way back to the window. A woman, I thought, watching her go. If she had known to come here, there must have been something beyond the casual between her and Rahim.
She turned out of the side passage and started down the street toward the bus station and the docks. Even from a distance, I could tell that she was not unattractive. She was tall, dressed in a long wool coat and boots, her black hair cascading over her shoulders and down her back. She walked to the end of the street, then turned to look back before disappearing around the corner, and I caught sight of her face for the first time.
Graça Morais.
T AZMAMART. WHAT WAS IT VALSAMIS had called it? Some hole in the desert for dissenters. The worst thing a man can do to another man, Rahim had
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