Page 19 of An Immaculate Deception

“What about you, Leandro?” I try, facing him from across the table between two tall candles. “Do you have stories to share from your time in Europe?”

Leandro’s brothers studied law and the fine arts in Europe, but Leandro returned to Brazil as directionless as he was before. That is why his father, the comendador, assigned him the renovation of the Santa Tereza mill, in the hopes of seeing Leandro become a sugar baron. Given the current state of the mill, it’s looking more like the baron of jararacas.

Leandro’s whole demeanor hardens. The same look comes across his face as when I asked about his parents. At the time, I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination, but now that he’s across the table from me, it is plain as daylight: He’s angry. His jaw squares. He shakes his head slightly and returns his attention to his food, stiff necked, and now I know that my question irritated him.

I can hardly eat now. Why is he so ill-tempered? I try to recall the last time he was sweet with me. Right after the accident. Then, by the time we got to the tour, he was cold again. Is he mad because I dropped the perfume? No, he seemed kind then. And if he reacted this way to such an innocuous question about his travels in Europe, I most certainly won’t be asking about the rotten cake or the bizarre book-tearing ritual.

Even the way he sits, shrunk into his seat like he doesn’t want to be seen or spoken to. But I do catch him eyeing me quite frequently out of the corner of his eye. At one of those times, I hold his gaze and work up my courage to address him again.

“How are the renovations going, Leandro?”

“The renovations?”

“I visited the mill this afternoon.”

He stares dumbly.

“I was expecting to see carpenters and sledgehammers and painters,” I continue, “but all I saw were dead leaves and jararaca nests.”

A loud silence falls again. He blinks, opens his mouth tentatively. His lower lip quivers. “I…I have to excuse myself. I must use the chamber pot.”

He gets up and quickly disappears down the dim corridor.

The moment he leaves, I turn to Doctor Lobo.

“Doctor, I’m concerned about Leandro.” I keep my voice low but I speak quickly because I don’t have much time. “He’s much changed since the accident.”

“How so?”

I tilt my head, puzzled. “Didn’t you know him before the accident?”

“Yes, of course I did.”

“Well, don’t you see, then? He’s awfully ill-tempered and sullen. He’s not well at all.”

“He’s still recovering from the shock.”

“It is not merely that. Earlier today I saw him in his study ripping pages out of books, one by one, like a madman.”

“Hmm.” He nods thoughtfully. “Kindling for the fire pit, perhaps?”

“I thought so, too, at first, but think about it. Who uses pages of books for kindling? Old newspaper is what people normally use. And besides, no fire has been built in the outdoor pit.”

He drums his fingers on the table, eyes narrowing. I want to throw more at him, to mention the decaying cake, the lack of renovations, the police visit, the mysterious woman-scented room. But those things all preceded the accident, so Doctor Lobo won’t be able to account for them. Leandro is the one that needs to explain them to me.

“Ripping pages out of books, you say?”

“Yes, for quite a while. There was a big pile.” I recollect his frenzied movements, the feverish aura about him.

“From the same book or from different books?”

“Different books.” I glance over at the hallway for signs of Leandro’s return. I watch the floor, expecting to see the blur of his shadow manifest before he does. “He moved quickly, as though he wasn’t even checking what book it was. There can be no sense in such behavior.”

“I see.” He snaps his fingers. “I know what it is. This is a harmless thing, you see.”

“What is it?”

“Sometimes patients engage in repetitive behaviors to soothe their minds. Often when they are distressed. It helps calm their nerves.”