Chapter 3: The Labyrinth

The rays of the early morning sun had not spilled over the snow covered tops of the nearby mountains, yet Clara was already on her feet. She put on her running shoes and clothes to go for a morning jog before breakfast. The physical exertion would reinvigorate every cell in her brain to attack with clarity the challenges of the day.

Based on the tourist map provided by the hotel, she traced a trajectory she wanted to run that would take her through a labyrinth of streets of the old section of the city referred to as the Vorwald. It was located at the margins of a large forest preserve, hence its name. She wanted to get a feel for the area and eventually find the house painted in the color peach. Moreover, someone jogging would not create as much suspicion as someone walking about sniffing around like a dog, especially a stranger to the area.

Aside from the temperate climate and the architecture, the sector reminded her of the city of Salvador in Bahia with façades painted in a rainbow of colors. Here they were somewhat more subdued, restrained. Almost all the windows, especially those on the first floors, were adorned with flowers giving off cheery smiles. The narrow cobbled streets were pedestrian zones; no sidewalks; very few cars. Clara passed in front of several peach colored façades, but none with an entryway in the form of an arch. Before getting lost, she retraced the path she ran and returned to the hotel.

Her first destination right after breakfast was the university library, an imposing building from the Austro-Hungarian Empire, overlooking a green park with lots of spring flowers and a stone column crowned with a golden eagle, reflecting the sun’s rays; its wings spread ready to take flight. Circling the park were a variety of small shops, cafes and restaurants, however none with the name of Alô Brasil. The park was alive mainly with students going to classes or sitting on benches reading a book or talking with someone. Clara approached a group of young people engaged in a lively conversation.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Do any of you speak English?”

They all nodded and Clara asked them if they knew and could give her directions to get to the restaurant Alô Brasil. One of the guys, a tall student with long hair, pointed the way which was just around one of the corners. Grateful, Clara waved goodbye and hurried in the direction indicated.

She had no difficulty in identifying the restaurant from afar. Two flags hung from the façade waving their patriotic colors of green, yellow, blue and white of her native Brazil. The restaurant took up the entire ground floor of a narrow building with two floors above it, squeezed between two larger, taller buildings built at least over a hundred years ago. When she went to open the door, she discovered they were closed with a sign in one of the glass panes informing that opening hours would be 10 a.m. It was 8:45 on Clara’s wrist watch and she couldn’t wait. Every minute was precious in the search for Rebeca.

With calm politeness, she knocked on the door hoping that someone would hear her. Nothing stirred inside in the dimly lit restaurant. Clara knocked again with more resolve and noise. A man appeared in the back of the room wearing an apron, waving and saying something in German which left little doubt in Clara’s mind for her to return later. She refused to accept the response and knocked again, showing her police badge. The man didn’t see the badge and came closer to the door determined to free himself of a very persistent customer. However, when he came face to face with the shiny bronze badge, he turned pale, stared in surprise, and froze like a statue.

“Bom dia,” Clara broke the silence, greeting him with a good morning in Portuguese. “I am the sister of Rebeca and I need to talk to you, urgent.”

Overcoming his initial shock and apprehension, the man unlocked the door and welcomed Clara to enter.

“Me desculpe,” he stuttered, apologizing, “but it’s not every day that you see a federal agent from Brazil around here. How can I help you?”

“It might be better if we could sit where no one can see us,” Clara suggested.

“You’re right. Please come this way,” he said, still somewhat shaky, taking Clara to the kitchen where his wife was stirring pots and pans. “By the way, my name is Roberto and this here is my wife, Maria.”

“I also want to apologize, bursting in like this at this hour, but my purpose is urgent, maybe a matter of life and death, and I don’t intend to take up much of your time.”

Clara showed them her photo ID tag to formally identify herself and removed an envelope containing photographs of Rebeca, placing them on the table. “Do you recognize this young woman?”

“Sim,” Maria responded affirmatively. “That’s Rebeca. She ate lunch here with us every day during the months of January and February, and suddenly vanished. She even paid the month of March in advance, but we never saw her again.”

“That’s true and we would like to contact her to refund her the money,” Roberto chimed in. “But, we don’t know where in the Vorwald she was staying.”

“What do you mean you don’t know exactly?” Clara reacted quickly, seizing on his words, typical of her interrogation style.

“Well, I’ve been in the Vorwald section maybe two times, but that was years ago. At one time it was a rather decadent area, with a low reputation, if you know what I mean. It was infested with Turkish immigrants who came here to work as Gastarbeiter, that is, immigrants with a temporary work visa. The municipal administration requested the government to suspend the renewal of those visas and began pressuring owners of the area to clean up, renovate their properties or pay hefty fines. They say that the area is now Bohemian, much calmer and picturesque, occupied mostly by artists, students and tourists who don’t want to pay high hotel prices. Most of the old residences were transformed into pensions or boarding houses in order to recuperate the renovation costs. In the long run everything turned out well.”

“I imagine these establishments are required to keep a registry of their guests and provide the information to the local police,” Clara interrupted.

“The hotels, yes,” Roberto replied. “However, the pensions in that sector are exempt from that requirement. They are classified as private or family guest houses and therefore also exempt from local service taxes, just like thousands of home owners across the country who rent a room to wandering tourists to supplement their income.”

Since Roberto and Maria had no further useful information, Clara gave them her business card with the name of her hotel and room number written on the back and asked them to contact her if they knew or remembered any additional detail.

“Sim, of course, we will,” Maria responded. “And, if you can, please give us news about Rebeca before you return to Brazil. Oh, one more thing, here are the 90 Euros that Rebeca left as advanced payment for March.”

Even though the local police had no registry about Rebeca’s stay at a pension, Clara thought it was high time to pay them a visit. The police headquarters was near the main train station, another magnificent monument of Imperial architecture. The police station, on the other hand, was built with straight lines and angles, very serious and efficient looking. She went to the main desk and was surprised to see none of the tumultuous atmosphere and mayhem so typical of police stations in Brazil with arrested people or those clamoring for information about family members locked up.

The uniformed police on duty was calmly filling out some official papers and didn’t notice Clara approaching his desk and asking for permission to talk. However, when she mentioned that she was from the Bundespolizei of Brazil, the officer immediately raised his head, straightened his shoulders, and looked with surprise at Clara. He probably only heard the reference to Bundespolizei. Clara liked the sound of the word rolling off her tongue and was proud of herself, being able to pronounce it with perfection. It certainly had the desired effect.

After a succinct explication for her presence, Clara was taken to a woman detective with the last name of Obermoser. She was responsible for missing persons. A photograph of her two little daughters on one side of her desk immediately caught Clara’s attention. She pointed to them and asked the detective if they were hers. The question helped to melt the ice, that initial phase of cold formality common among Germanic people. The detective easily talked with pride about her children, how each one had a sense of herself, how they sometimes would fight, but, in the end, recognized that it was impossible to ignore each other and that they were unconditional friends for life. To Clara, it sounded like the detective was talking about her and Rebeca. Her eyes began to well up, a sign that was not lost on the detective.

Detective Obermoser gave Clara her undivided attention and offer to help, making notes of the meager facts of the case. She shook her head, regretting that the information was not enough to point to the whereabouts of the sister. With regard to the section of the city where the pension was supposedly located, the police never received any reports of missing persons, not even crimes of any sort. Occasionally, the police received rumors from the area of wild sex parties and cases of BDSM. It was a life style, consensual for the most part, that didn’t require police intervention.