Winning the Game and Other Stories

marta

I’m forty years old, a sensitive man who likes music, poetry, and cinema. I’m a lawyer, single, and live alone. I’m looking for a lasting relationship of love and respect. INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC.

I spent a week, me, Incorrigible Romantic, visiting chat rooms and was getting discouraged, when the woman I was looking for showed up:

DEAR INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC, Like you, I am also looking for a lasting relationship with someone worthy and affectionate. I too love music and poetry and especially cinema. Tell me more about yourself. LOUISE BROOKS.

DEAR LOUISE BROOKS, I’ve never married, not because I lacked the financial conditions to do so, just the opposite, I’m a man of means, despite living a modest life. I’ve never married because I haven’t met the ideal woman. They say there’s no such thing, that it’s a romantic illusion. But I refuse to accept such pessimism. That’s why I used the pseudonym Incorrigible Romantic. What about you? Why Louise Brooks?

DEAR INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC, Louise Brooks was a beautiful actress in silent films. One day a boyfriend gave me a picture of her that looked so much like me that I still have it even now. A woman with an air of mystery, which I, to tell the truth, don’t have. I’m an open book. I’ve never been married either and am looking for the ideal man. I know I’m going to find him. Who knows if he’s you. Do you have a girlfriend? LOUISE BROOKS.

DEAR LOUISE, No, I don’t have a girlfriend. I would like to meet you. You must be thinking, he doesn’t know me, how can he want to meet me? But I’m sure we’re going to get along very well. Give it some thought. ROMANTIC.

DEAR ROMANTIC, I’m a shy person, I live with my mother, I’m doing this crazy thing for the first time in my life, talking with a stranger on the Internet. I don’t know if I should go any further with this. I’m afraid. LOUISE.

I was anxious to get that woman.

DEAR LOUISE, I’m a shy person like you, it’s the first time I’ve done this. But I know, a type of premonition, that we’re going to get along very well. May I visit your home? I know your mother will like me. ROMANTIC.

DEAR ROMANTIC, At my house it’s impossible, it will have to be at yours. Give me your address. I’ll be there tomorrow, at nightfall. KISSES, LOUISE.

DEAR LOUISE, My address is on Gomes Monteiro, third floor. It’s a four-story building, one apartment per floor, one of those old buildings that real estate speculation hasn’t managed to destroy. Call on the intercom and I’ll buzz you in. Anxiously awaiting you. ROMANTIC.

I was tense all day, and as the time approached I got worse. I had to get that woman.

Then the intercom rang.

“It’s Louise.”

I pushed the button. A short time later the bell to my apartment rang. I opened the door.

She was a very pale woman, with hair so dark it looked dyed. She was wearing a miniskirt that displayed her beautiful, long white legs.

“Come in, please.”

There she stood, the woman I was looking for. She came in. I asked her to have a seat.

“A lovely apartment. Is it yours?”

“I have another one, in the Barra. I rent this one.”

“My real name is Diana.”

“Mine is Carlos.”

“Take a look at this photo of Louise Brooks,” she said.

I looked. A black and white photo. Her hair was of an unusual blackness and her skin was very white. A beautiful woman.

“Want something to drink?”

“A little whiskey.”

I got from the pantry a bottle of whiskey, one of mineral water, and a bucket of ice.

“I like mine without ice, just whiskey and water, more whiskey than water,” I said.

“Ice with mine, please, and lots of water.”

I fixed our drinks and put the glasses on a tray.

“Do you have anything to munch on?” she asked.

“I’ll check inside there, be right back,” I replied.

I dawdled, sitting in the pantry holding the bag of cookies. I wanted to give her time.

After some minutes I returned. Louise lifted her glass.

“I’d like to make a toast, in hopes that our relationship is a lasting one, as you said in your e-mail.”

I raised my glass to my lips.

“Before drinking I’d like to get something salty from the kitchen,” I said. “I only brought cookies.”

I went to the kitchen, carrying my glass. I returned with a plate of savory snacks.

I raised the glass. “To a lasting relationship,” I said.

“Cheers,” she answered, clinking her glass against mine.

We drank while we chatted.

She had lost her father, and the widowed mother she lived with was very controlling. She had no other relatives.

I told her I had four sisters, all older than me. I said I would like to travel with her, go to Paris or New York. I already had the money for the trip put aside. She said she’d like to see Katmandu.

“I’m going to get more water from the kitchen,” I said, getting up.

But as soon as I stood up, I staggered, supporting myself on the back on the armchair.

“I feel a bit dizzy …”

She hugged me.

“Are you really dizzy or is that just a trick so I’ll put my arms around you?” She grabbed my cock, which was soft. “In a little while I’ll make it hard. Sit down on the sofa for a moment,” she said.

I sat down and immediately my head fell forward.

“Carlos, Carlos, are you all right?”

No answer.

Soon afterwards, she shook my arm.

“Carlos, can you hear me?”

I remained silent.

I heard the sound of Diana trying to open the bedroom door. I felt her hands going through my pockets. Then I heard her voice, she must be talking on a cell phone.

“Igor, he collapsed. The things must be locked in another room. Yes, I’ll wait. You know the address, don’t you? Ring the buzzer.”

I lay there in the armchair, not moving. I heard the buzzer.

“It’s Igor,” said the voice on the intercom.

“Come on up,” said Diana.

Sound of the door being opened.

“Was it easy?” A man’s voice.

“A piece of cake. I think there’s jewels, cash, everything that counts in that locked bedroom. But I couldn’t find the key.”

“It must be in his pocket.”

“I searched him. There’s no key. Igor, let’s do the guy, the whole bit.”

“I don’t like that, Marta.”

“He saw my goddamn face. If you cut his throat, he won’t feel a thing. The whole bit, Igor, and you walk away with half and get to screw me too.”

“Let’s break down that door,” said Igor.

But the door opened before they could break it down.

The two cops working with me came out of the bedroom with guns pointed at them. They ordered the couple to get down on the floor with their hands behind them.

While the pair were being handcuffed, I got up from the sofa.

“Marta Castro and Igor da Silva, you’re under arrest for the murder of Edgard Gouveia,” I said.

They began a heated argument in which Igor said that it was Marta’s idea, that she had forced him to kill the guy, and Marta said she had tried to stop him but Igor had killed him anyway.

“It was you who killed him,” Marta repeated.

“You gave the order, you whore,” Igor said.

The argument went on all the way to the precinct, where they were booked and held without bail. They would be sentenced to long prison terms.

Before being locked away, Marta spoke with me.

“You didn’t black out, and I put a heavy dose of barbiturates in your drink. What happened?”

“When I went to the kitchen, I switched glasses. The one I drank out of was clean.”

“How did you discover me?”

“By examining the computer belonging to your victim, Edgard Gouveia, whom you killed by cutting his throat. It was all there, the chat with Louise Brooks. You should have changed names.”

“But I wanted to be her. Louise looks a lot like me, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, a lot,” I replied.

And she did, really. An unusual face. Marta could be a photographic model or an actress in film. Without even changing her name. But by the time she gets out of prison it’ll be too late.