The Night Watchman (33 page)

She turned her hand over to show me her Om in wine-coloured lettering.

‘It looks good,’ I said. ‘But why did you choose your hand?’

‘To be
mindful,’
she said.

In Portuguese, she used the word
consciente.

‘
Consciente de quê?’
I asked.

‘Of myself – the functioning of my body and my mind. And of my effort to lead the life I wish to lead.’

‘Which is?’

‘Centred and calm, Inspector. And alone. On my own.’

‘Attachments lead to suffering,’ I said – a paraphrase of one of the Buddha’s Four Noble Truths, at least as Ernie had told them to me during his Eastern Philosophy stage.

‘I’m impressed!’ she said. Her eyes twinkled with humour. She probably assumed – like most of the Portuguese – that all cops were ignorant and interested mainly in soccer.

‘I’m the kind of person who knows a little bit about a lot of things,’ I told her.

‘A fact collector.’ She nodded as if she knew all about them and didn’t much appreciate their ways. ‘What I meant, Inspector, was that I don’t believe in a God who watches over us. Buddhists don’t believe that sort of crap.’ She used the word
tretas
for crap. It sounded harsh and out of place coming from her.

‘We’re born alone and we die alone,’ she added, and she looked at me as if daring me to defy her. ‘Once you accept that, the real work begins.’

She seemed to believe that human existence was one long, purposeless winter.

‘So what’s the real work?’ I asked.

‘Perfecting yourself. The Buddha is a perfect soul. He’s our model.’

‘Like Jesus,’ I said, thinking of Aunt Olivia.

She pounced on that. ‘No, not at all! There is no God like the one in the Bible. And no son of God! We don’t pray to the Buddha, Inspector. That would be laughable. It’s not at all like Christianity!’

Her superior manner irritated me – and seemed provincial in a typically Portuguese way; all my acquaintances in Portugal who’d discovered Eastern beliefs tended to act as though they were the first Westerners ever to do so. I found I had nothing to say. I clasped my hands behind my back and gazed around the room, thinking now that it was very possible that we’d quarrel during my interrogation. And dreading it.

She didn’t seem to notice my discomfort. After lifting a black ceramic teapot out of a cabinet, she set it on her counter and added three heaped teaspoons of tea leaves. ‘I suppose you’re a believing Christian,’ she said. Disapproval continued to be woven into the tone of her voice.

‘Lapsed,’ I replied as she took a lemon out of her refrigerator. ‘My parents and aunt were. Maybe my brother still is.’

‘And your wife?’ She cut a slice of lemon and placed in a tiny, blue-glass cup.

‘Jewish. I think our kids are too, but I’m not entirely sure.’

‘Not sure?

‘My wife thinks God was invented to keep women in their place, but my mother-in-law has made a point of telling me that Judaism passes through the mother. Which, in my case, makes our kids Jewish.’

When the water came to a boil, she poured it atop the tea leaves in a diminishing spiral, enjoying her own precision. I asked, ‘So how long had you and Coutinho been involved – amorously, I mean? Did you just meet recently?’

She started, then smiled ironically and gave a bursting laugh. She put down the kettle.

‘What’s the joke?’ I asked, suspecting it was my Portuguese again; I’d used the word
envolvidos
for
involved,
and maybe it was an awkward translation.

She looked off as though she hadn’t heard me. ‘The world is nearly always at its most beautiful when we least expect it to be,’ she said, clearly addressing only herself. Then, to me, she added, ‘It gives us gifts, too, if we make ourselves ready to receive them.’ She smiled gratefully.

‘Right,’ I said, but without feeling; at that moment, my receptivity to her poetic observations was close to zero.

Still smiling to herself, she placed the teapot, along with our mugs, onto a black lacquer tray. I had the feeling that daily life was a series of small meaningful rituals for her – an attempt to maintain order in a world that seemed too focused on superficial matters.

‘Let’s talk in the living room,’ she told me, and she carried the tray to her dining table, which was an old wagon wheel covered by a circle of thick, green-tinted glass. I ran my hand over the age-darkened wood around the side and, on a hunch, asked if Pedro Coutinho had given it to her, but she told me it had been her grandmother’s.

Dias excused herself to go to the bathroom while the tea was steeping. Once she was out of the room, I tiptoed across the tatami and pressed down on the Buddha’s shoulders to feel his solidity of purpose, thinking that in another life Ernie would have decorated his place like this. It pleased me – this possibility of taking a peek at what might have been.

After Dias returned and we took our seats, I asked, ‘Was Coutinho a Buddhist, too?’

‘No, but he’d studied Zen when he lived in Japan. He still chanted and meditated on occasion.’

It began to seem that she and Coutinho had been an excellent match.

‘And how did you two first meet?’ I asked.

‘Pedro spotted me at a gathering of teachers and parents about nine months ago. His wife had been unable to come. After the presentations, he asked for my number. He called a few days later. I knew I shouldn’t see him, since he was married, but I was curious. And he was bright, funny, affectionate . . . I ended up falling in love with him, though I made it clear that I couldn’t see him as often as he liked. As I told you, I need a lot of time to myself.’

She filled my mug and her own, sitting rigidly, as though remembering that good posture was part of mindfulness. As she was blowing on her tea, she fixed me with an inquisitive look, and I thought she might ask me about how close we were to finding her lover’s killer. Instead, she said, ‘This moment is very different from how I’d expected it to be.’

I couldn’t tell whether she regarded that as good or bad, which made me realize I was unable to read her expressions very well – perhaps because we were both talking in our second languages. It was even possible – I granted reluctantly – that she hadn’t meant to be condescending to me a few minutes earlier.

‘How is this moment different?’ I asked, squeezing lemon into my tea.

‘I figured that when you found me, I’d panic. And I almost did, but I didn’t.’

‘For selfish reasons, I’m glad you didn’t,’ I said.

‘Selfish?’

‘It makes talking to you easier. Can we get started now?’

‘I thought we had,’ she replied, and she showed me a devilish, childlike smile. She seemed at ease all of a sudden, as though a gear had shifted inside her.

I took my notebook out of my coat pocket. ‘Were you in Pedro Coutinho’s house when he was murdered?’ I asked.

‘No. I left early that morning. The killer hadn’t come yet.’

I tried to hide my disappointment, but she said, ‘Sorry. I wish I’d seen him. What he did to Pedro was awful.’

‘How did you know what he did to Pedro?’

‘I read about it in the newspaper.’

‘It must have been a shock.’

‘It was horrible – my heart seemed to stop. I was just about to give a class, which was lucky, because my students helped me.’

‘A class? I thought you’d be off for July and August.’

‘Over the summer, I teach yoga at the Chiado Health Club. It’s only twice a week – on Tuesdays and Fridays. I was about to give my first class of the morning and there it was in the paper.’

‘You must have realized we’d want to talk with you, but you didn’t come forward.’

‘I almost did, but an affair with a married man . . . And I knew I couldn’t help. My coming forward would have only created problems for me at school. And also for Pedro’s family.’

Once again she eyed me as though defying me to disagree. I had the feeling that she didn’t much like me or trust me. ‘Cutting your hair makes me conclude you were determined that we wouldn’t find you,’ I said.

I spoke more judgementally than I’d intended. She brushed a tense hand back through her hair, as though to check that it was still as short as she remembered. ‘If you think it was the police I was afraid of, then you’re wrong,’ she told me resentfully.

‘Who then?’

Her eyes targeted me. ‘Inspector, hasn’t it occurred to you that the murderer might want to find me? He may think that I was there when he killed Pedro – which means he’ll want to make sure I can never identify him.’

‘I didn’t consider that because I was under the impression that no one knew about you and—’

‘Of course, you didn’t consider it!’ she cut in acidly. ‘But I’ve been a nervous wreck! And yes, I cut my hair. If you were in my position, wouldn’t you try to change your appearance?’

‘Yes, but what I was trying to say was that I didn’t realize that anyone knew about you and Pedro Coutinho. Senhora Coutinho certainly didn’t.’

‘I can’t be sure what Pedro told his buddies. You know how men can be.’

‘So do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt him?’

She shook her head. ‘Pedro didn’t ever talk about business with me.’

‘You’re assuming that he made an enemy in the business world,’ I observed.

‘That’s the only thing that makes sense to me.’

‘Does anyone in particular come to mind?’

‘I told you, he didn’t discuss that side of his life with me.’

‘On your last evening together, did he mention an old French friend named Jean Morel?’

‘No.’

‘Did he ever mention the names Bernard Mercier or François Savarin to you?’

‘Not that I recall.’

‘Did he ever talk about his daughter Sandi in the context of anything – let’s say
violent
– happening to her about three months ago?’

Dias jerked her head back. ‘What happened to Sandi then?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say. But did Pedro ever tell you anything that led you to believe she’d been hurt?’

‘No, but he wasn’t very comfortable talking about Sandi with me. I was her teacher, and that made things awkward.’

‘Did he seem nervous or worried on the morning of his murder?’

‘No. He seemed . . .’ She reached a hand to her temple. I had the feeling that my mentioning that Sandi had been a victim of violence had had a delayed effect on her. Turning over her hand, she stared at the Om with a determined expression. At length, she said, ‘Give me a moment.’ Standing up, she rested her hands on her thighs, crouched forward and took a series of ten sharp breaths. Then, standing on her toes, she stretched her arms over her head – with her palms together – and lowered them ever so slowly to her sides, as though closing her wings.

I could easily imagine Coutinho painting her with his Japanese brushes and then summoning her into bed with him. I took a long sip of my tea, wondering how a Buddhist would react to the suicide of a young woman she cared about.

‘What?’ Dias said, seeing me hesitate.

‘I’m sorry to tell you this, but Sandi took her own life last night.’

She tilted her head, as though she hadn’t heard me right.

‘Sandi took an overdose of pills,’ I said. ‘She was pronounced dead early this morning. I’m sorry to have to tell you.’

She jumped up, her jaw clenched, her expression suspicious. ‘You’re lying!’ she yelled. ‘And now I see what you’re trying to do! You must think I’m a fool!’

‘No, I’m telling you the truth. Sandi took a handful of her mother’s sleeping pills. She downed them with vodka.’

Dias leaned towards me, pressing her hands to the table. The wild fury in her eyes made me believe she might come at me.

‘Tell me what’s really happened, you bastard!’ she hollered.

‘Sandi died at seven o’clock this morning,’ I said, opening my hands and keeping my voice even, as I’d learned to do with violent people. ‘And we’ve no reason to suspect anything other than suicide.’

Her tightly focused stare unnerved me. Counting on the accumulation of details to weigh down her rage, I said, ‘I was told that doctors couldn’t get her blood pressure stabilized. She took Victan – twenty tablets. She took the pills from her mother’s medicine cabinet.’

She gazed past me and tugged at her hair. ‘This . . . it’s impossible,’ she whispered absently.

‘I’m sorry to have given you such a shock. I realize—’

‘Merde!’
she hollered.

As I looked for what else to say that might be of some small help to her, she turned her back to me and whisper-screamed
merde
three more times.

Rushing to her bedroom, she banged the door closed and clicked the lock in place. Her sobs set me pacing across her living room. I ended up at her window facing the square below. The hazy light slanting over the rooftops brought tears to my eyes. When I opened them again, I was standing by the kitchen door, in front of a small portrait. There had been no throbbing in my head or any other warning signal.

The painting was of a young woman in a shimmering white gown standing before a mirror, her dark tresses – swirled on top of her head – held in place by a long purple ribbon. She was looking left, and her eyes showed exultant surprise – as if an unexpected friend or family member had just entered her room after a long absence. From the slightly downward angle of her eyes, I guessed that her visitor was her son or daughter. The painting was executed in the style of Goya. And the woman had Dias’s slender face and intelligent eyes. They could have been sisters. Which meant that this work of art hadn’t been stolen from Coutinho’s living room, after all; he must have given it to her as a gift.

I looked down into my hand, but nothing was written there.

Dias came back into the room holding a tissue. Her eyes were rimmed red. Shuffling to a small desk near the Buddha, she took a stick of incense from the top drawer and inserted it into the palm of a white ceramic hand sitting on one of her bookshelves. Once it was lit, she wafted the smoke towards her and inhaled gratefully.

‘I’m sorry to have left you alone,’ she said on returning to me, her voice unsteady.

‘It’s all right, I understand,’ I said.

She sat down and started tearing her tissue into small pieces – but carefully, as though it were important not to lose control again.