looked to be in her midfifties.
When Silva gave his name she looked pointedly at her watch.
“Didn’t that Nunes person inform you that your appointment was for ten?”
Silva admitted that the Nunes person had told him exactly that. He didn’t try to explain that he’d been trapped in traffic for almost an hour. The first city in the world designed for the automobile, the city that had once boasted the complete absence of traffic lights, had become a vehicular chaos just like all the other major cities in the country. Knowing that, Silva had allowed a full hour to cover eight kilometers. But that morning a demonstration in front of the Ministry of Agriculture, one that included about a hundred and fifty farmers on tractors, had introduced a further complication into the gridlock.
The woman pursed her thin lips, stared at him over a pair of steel-rimmed reading glasses, and waited for him to apologize.
Silva didn’t. He figured she was going to make him wait anyway.
She did. For nearly an hour.
D EPUTADO M ALAN’S inner office was decorated partly in nineteenth-century French colonial and partly in twenty-first-century Brazilian egomaniac. There were photos of the deputado with every recent President of the Republic, there were trophies for raising prize livestock, there were honorary degrees and diplomas, there was a glass-topped case full of medallions. The office reminded Silva of the one his boss had boasted before turning to the One True Religion for spiritual sustenance and votes.
The deputado motioned Silva to a chair, one of normal height this time, but the deputado’s head was still higher than his guest’s. Malan’s desk stood on a little platform.
The deputado shuffled through the clutter on his desk, found the photos he was looking for, and handed one to Silva.
“Marta,” he said.
A brown-haired girl in pigtails—not ugly, but sullen— stared at the camera as if it was an enemy. She appeared to be about twelve.
“You said she was fifteen,” Silva said. “She doesn’t look it.”
Malan scowled.
“Take this one then,” he said, handing Silva another. “It’s more recent.”
The second photograph showed the same girl, now looking her age. She was no longer in pigtails and had her arm around another girl, who appeared to be two or three years older. Both were smiling. When Silva saw the face of the girl next to Marta, he took in a sharp breath.
“What’s the matter?” the deputado said.
“Nothing. Who’s her friend?” he said.
“I’m only interested in Marta. If you need to show that photo around, have it cropped.”
Silva repeated the question, keeping his inflection exactly the same, acting as if Malan might not have heard him the first time.
“Who’s her friend?”
The deputado fidgeted and finally spit it out. “Her name is Andrea de Castro. She’s a fucking bull dyke.”
“A lesbian?”
“What did I just say?”
“They were lovers, Marta and Andrea?”
“My son caught them at it, rolling around in Marta’s bed, right there in his own house. He threw the dike out and gave Marta the beating of her life.”
“And then?”
“And then he locked her in her room.” The deputado snorted. “She had some tools in there, screwdrivers and chisels. She was always fucking around with stuff like that, doing boy things instead of playing with dolls. She managed to get the hinges off the door. When her parents got up the next day, she was gone.”
“I see.”
“I doubt that you do. Let me spell it out for you: I’m a Northeasterner. Where I come from, men are men, and women are supposed to be women. If my political enemies found out about this, they’d have a field day.”
“I know how to be discreet, Deputado.”
“See that you are. No need to bother my son or daughter-in-law with this. You got any questions, you come back to me. That’s all I have to say. Go to it. On your way out, tell Maria to send in the next visitor.”
Silva stood.
“Just one
When Silva gave his name she looked pointedly at her watch.
“Didn’t that Nunes person inform you that your appointment was for ten?”
Silva admitted that the Nunes person had told him exactly that. He didn’t try to explain that he’d been trapped in traffic for almost an hour. The first city in the world designed for the automobile, the city that had once boasted the complete absence of traffic lights, had become a vehicular chaos just like all the other major cities in the country. Knowing that, Silva had allowed a full hour to cover eight kilometers. But that morning a demonstration in front of the Ministry of Agriculture, one that included about a hundred and fifty farmers on tractors, had introduced a further complication into the gridlock.
The woman pursed her thin lips, stared at him over a pair of steel-rimmed reading glasses, and waited for him to apologize.
Silva didn’t. He figured she was going to make him wait anyway.
She did. For nearly an hour.
D EPUTADO M ALAN’S inner office was decorated partly in nineteenth-century French colonial and partly in twenty-first-century Brazilian egomaniac. There were photos of the deputado with every recent President of the Republic, there were trophies for raising prize livestock, there were honorary degrees and diplomas, there was a glass-topped case full of medallions. The office reminded Silva of the one his boss had boasted before turning to the One True Religion for spiritual sustenance and votes.
The deputado motioned Silva to a chair, one of normal height this time, but the deputado’s head was still higher than his guest’s. Malan’s desk stood on a little platform.
The deputado shuffled through the clutter on his desk, found the photos he was looking for, and handed one to Silva.
“Marta,” he said.
A brown-haired girl in pigtails—not ugly, but sullen— stared at the camera as if it was an enemy. She appeared to be about twelve.
“You said she was fifteen,” Silva said. “She doesn’t look it.”
Malan scowled.
“Take this one then,” he said, handing Silva another. “It’s more recent.”
The second photograph showed the same girl, now looking her age. She was no longer in pigtails and had her arm around another girl, who appeared to be two or three years older. Both were smiling. When Silva saw the face of the girl next to Marta, he took in a sharp breath.
“What’s the matter?” the deputado said.
“Nothing. Who’s her friend?” he said.
“I’m only interested in Marta. If you need to show that photo around, have it cropped.”
Silva repeated the question, keeping his inflection exactly the same, acting as if Malan might not have heard him the first time.
“Who’s her friend?”
The deputado fidgeted and finally spit it out. “Her name is Andrea de Castro. She’s a fucking bull dyke.”
“A lesbian?”
“What did I just say?”
“They were lovers, Marta and Andrea?”
“My son caught them at it, rolling around in Marta’s bed, right there in his own house. He threw the dike out and gave Marta the beating of her life.”
“And then?”
“And then he locked her in her room.” The deputado snorted. “She had some tools in there, screwdrivers and chisels. She was always fucking around with stuff like that, doing boy things instead of playing with dolls. She managed to get the hinges off the door. When her parents got up the next day, she was gone.”
“I see.”
“I doubt that you do. Let me spell it out for you: I’m a Northeasterner. Where I come from, men are men, and women are supposed to be women. If my political enemies found out about this, they’d have a field day.”
“I know how to be discreet, Deputado.”
“See that you are. No need to bother my son or daughter-in-law with this. You got any questions, you come back to me. That’s all I have to say. Go to it. On your way out, tell Maria to send in the next visitor.”
Silva stood.
“Just one
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