“I thought you weren’t going to do anything, because he’s had problems with drugs. Nobody cares what happens to him nowadays.” She looked toward Manuel.
“Was it you who contacted the authorities?” Nogueira asked.
“Yes, I’m his aunt. To?ino’s lived with me for the last twelve years. Just the two of us. His father died, and the mother, well, she ran off a long time ago, and we never heard from her after that. The doctors said my brother died from a heart attack, but I think he really died of a broken heart. “The woman shrugged. “She was a bad one.”
“Your name is Rosa, isn’t it?” Nogueira asked, cutting short the recital of family history the woman clearly was willing to continue.
“Rosa María Vidal Cunqueiro, seventy-four years of age this coming May,” she recited. She pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and put it to her right eye. A glob of thick sticky fluid oozed from her cloudy eye like an enormous tear.
Manuel couldn’t stand to look at it.
“Very well, Rosa María. You signed a statement a week ago Monday, declaring your nephew missing. Is that correct?”
Manuel looked over at Nogueira. In addressing the woman he’d adopted a different tone, one Manuel hadn’t heard before. His voice was vibrant, patient, and caring, as if he were speaking to a small girl.
“That’s right,” the woman said gravely.
“And how long has Antonio been missing from your home?”
“It’s been, it had been, since Friday night when he went out. But I don’t make a fuss, you know, because he’s young, and he always goes out on the weekends. He always lets me know when he’s not going to be back at night, so I won’t worry. Sometimes he stays over with a friend, but he always telephones, even if it’s late at night. But I began to worry when he didn’t come back on Saturday.”
Manuel started at that. He released a long low whistle of pain as he turned to look out a window set excessively low in the wall. It offered the desolate prospect of the rain-soaked front yard. A writer knows how to add things up, and the coincidence of the boy’s disappearance with álvaro’s visit upset him.
The policeman noticed his reaction but concentrated on the old woman. “And you haven’t heard from your nephew since?”
“No, se?or. I’ve already phoned all the friends I know and all their families.” She pointed toward the old-fashioned wall phone. Someone had used surgical tape to post next to it a list of phone numbers written in huge digits.
Nogueira pretended to remember something. “What’s the name of that friend of your nephew? The one he’s always with?”
“You mean Ricardo. I called him right away, and he didn’t know anything.”
“When did you talk with him?”
“That same Sat . . . no, Sunday.”
“And he hasn’t called back or come by?”
“No, se?or, not Ricardo. But another friend calls all the time, but I don’t know his name. He told me to inform the police.”
“So, then,” Nogueira said, pretending to scribble in his little notebook, “your nephew doesn’t come home Friday night; Saturday you begin to worry, and you go to the police on Sunday.”
“That’s how it was, se?or. I was sure something had happened to him.”
Manuel gave Nogueira a worried look.
“You see, I know my nephew. Maybe he does have a lot of faults. So does everybody else.” She turned to Manuel. “And I do, too, I have to admit that, but he’s a good boy. He knows I get worried if he doesn’t call, and that’s why ever since he got to be a teenager and started going out on his own, whenever he’s staying overnight with some friend he lets me know, and says, ‘Auntie, don’t worry; I’m staying at so-and-so’s house, you go to bed and get some sleep,’ because he knows that otherwise I won’t sleep a wink. My To?ino’s a good boy, and he’d never do that to me.”
She put the handkerchief to her face and wiped both eyes. She was weeping. Manuel was startled; he hadn’t realized it.
“Something terrible has happened, I know it has,” the old woman moaned through her tears.
Nogueira stepped forward and put a sheltering arm around her shoulders. “No, ma’am, you’ll see, he’ll turn up. He’ll be out there someplace with some friends, and he must have forgotten to call.”
“You don’t know him,” the woman protested. “Something must have happened, because he knew he was supposed to put the drops in my eyes.” She gestured toward the row of medicines on the sideboard. “He always puts them in for me, twice a day, morning and evening. Days and days have gone by, and I haven’t used them because I can’t do it by myself.” She unfolded the handkerchief, covered her face with it, and sobbed.
Nogueira’s lips were a sharp straight line under his mustache. Taking her by the arm like a prisoner, although with great gentleness, he guided her to a chair. “Calm down, se?ora. Stop crying and have a seat. Which drops are you supposed to use?”
She lowered the handkerchief. “The ones in the pink carton, two in each eye.”
Nogueira checked the instructions for the medicine, bent over her, and carefully applied the drops. “It says here everything’ll look blurry for a while, and you shouldn’t move until your vision clears. Don’t worry, I’ll close the door when we leave.” He waved at Manuel and went toward the door.
“God bless you for that!” the woman said, still looking up toward the ceiling. “And please find my To?ino! What would I do without him?”
Nogueira paused in the doorway, surveyed the outside, and stared again at the oil stain on the tiles. He turned back. “Se?ora, does your nephew have a car?”
“Yes, he has one. I bought him one because he needed it for work, but then the job didn’t work out . . .”
“Did you tell the officer you talked to that the car was gone as well?”
The woman put a hand to her mouth. “No. You think that’s important? I didn’t think of it.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell my colleague. Just one more thing: What color is the car?”
“It’s white, se?or.”
Nogueira closed the door carefully and blew out a long breath. The rain had stopped, but the humidity swirling about them had left everything glistening wet.
They walked away from the door. “White,” Manuel said.
“Right,” the lieutenant mused, “but that’s not much help. It’s the least expensive color and the one most frequently used for pickups. Lots of ’em out there in the countryside. I’d guess that just about every barn has one.”
“Do you think she’s right? Could something have happened to him?”
“Well, she’s right about one thing. When it comes to cases like To?ino’s the police don’t waste too much time looking for them. He’s a drug addict and a hustler. He might have gone off with just about anybody, without a second thought. Male prostitutes are like that. But . . .”
“But?”
“But I believe Rosa María. Sure, she’s his aunt and thinks her nephew’s a little angel, but the woman’s practically blind, and the house is spick-and-span. I don’t think she does the cleaning. Those twisted fingers tell me she probably has arthritis. And I don’t know if you took a look at the list of phone numbers on the wall; he took the trouble to write them out with numbers large enough for her to read. I believe her when she says he always called when he wasn’t coming home. My mother was like that. I found out pretty quick that it was better for me to give her a call than to find she’d stayed up all night waiting for me to come in. She’d be exhausted, and I’d have to put up with her scolding all the next day.”