Chapter 4: The Pension

The morning sky was dull and cloudy. The hotel TV channel was forecasting light rain for the whole day. From her window, Clara saw that the street below was still dry and she quickly put on her jogging outfit. She not only wanted to re-energize her body, but also run through the streets of the old section one more time and be certain that she really knew the trajectory that led to the two presumable pensions.

She had a good sense of direction and quickly found the right path. Within minutes, she saw the first pension. However, there was something about the façade that didn’t seem right. Passing by on foot gave her a different perspective which she did not notice the first time sitting in the police car. The façade was built with a gable that was concaved on both sides and rounded on top, like some kind of crown, to mask the roof and attic. Such a noteworthy feature would certainly have deserved mention in Rebeca’s letters. Furthermore, at the top of the gable was a small attic window. Rebeca wasn’t like that to leave out such obvious details.

Disappointed, but persistent, Clara pressed forward in the direction of the other pension, her last hope. When she turned the corner and the peach-colored building came into sight, she immediately identified it as the right one, not because she wanted it to be, but because something was tugging at her soul, leaving goosebumps and making her heart bet faster.

She was nearly in front of the building on the opposite side of the narrow cobbled street when a young woman appeared at the door, descended the two steps onto the pavement, and opened her umbrella, heading towards downtown. Clara was so caught up in her discovery that she didn’t notice the beginning of a drizzle, the type of rain that no one in Brazil takes serious. Nevertheless, she ran a few meters further down away from the building, crossed over to its side, and continued running at a casual pace, passing in front of the building and giving the impression that she was returning. She not only wanted to see up close the entrance, but more importantly catch up with the person that had just stepped outside.

“Hi, excuse me,” she said to the young woman snug under the umbrella. “Is that a boarding house back there from where you just came?”

The woman smiled and nodded.

Somewhat out of breath, Clara introduced herself, saying that she was a student and was desperately looking for a new, less expensive room to stay.

The young woman recommended the pension, saying that it was decent and reasonably priced, although a bit too far removed from downtown. Her name was Alesa, and she added that Clara could mention her if she decided to visit and talk with the receptionist.

Clara thanked Alesa for her kindness and quickly resumed her jog. The drizzle had now turned into a steady rain. She had to get back to the hotel for more reasons than not getting soaked to the bone.

An hour later, wearing her smart student outfit, Clara left her hotel room, attracting the looks of the guests mingling in the elegant, relaxed atmosphere of the lobby. The doorman took special note of her radiant transformation and gracefully offered her an umbrella, courtesy of the hotel, tipping his cap as she walked past him to exit through the glass revolving door. She was tempted to do a couple of somersaults. The cordial attention had left her encouraged and upbeat, floating on a cloud, as she started her trip back to the pension.

The smooth cobbled stones of the streets glistened from the rain and the sky continued laden with angry looking clouds. The air, however, felt clean and crisp. The rain had made a truce and Clara took less than 30 minutes to arrive at the pension. The young Alesa was right; it was indeed out of the way.

“It’s now or never,” she told herself, pushing open the ornate door and entering the reception area.

She surveyed her immediate surroundings, making a quick reconnaissance. There was the leather couch, the French chair, the painting behind the counter of a weird looking dude on horseback, the round stairway, the rug with diamond shapes, and the peculiarly rare desk bell. Everything was just like Rebeca had described it. There was nobody at the counter, as expected. Before she rang the bell, Clara stuck her head into the adjacent room where breakfast was still being served. Two girls were sitting at separate tables drinking coffee in a setting furbished for nobility. Even the porcelain china with gold painted edges added a romantic charm to the scene.

With the mischievous curiosity of a child, Clara extended her hand and hit the bell. The sound vibrated between the walls and spaces with a harmonious chime.

Instantly, a woman wearing a white apron over a knee high black dress and black shoes appeared at the entrance to the dining room. Her black hair was combed back and tied in a big, tight knot that seemed to stretch her face.

“Yes?” the woman asked tersely and nothing more.

Clara explained that she was interested in renting a room and had received good references from someone at the Hotel Danubius and from one of her boarders, Alesa. The woman responded that she was expecting someone from the Hotel Danubius and had one room available on the top floor for 480 Euros per month. Payment had to be made in advance and in cash. Clara had 170 Euros in her purse and gave the amount to the woman to secure the room, promising to return at noon with the remainder.

The woman did not expect her new boarder to make such snap decision and invited her to come upstairs to see the room and the bathroom. As they climbed the stairs, the woman started rattling off the rules of the house one right after the other without taking a breath.

Breakfast was from 6:00 to 9:00 a.m.; teatime at night between 8:00 and 9:00 p.m.; the front door was locked at ten at night; boarders were not allowed to take men to their rooms; were not to leave personal belongings on the floor in their rooms; not have televisions; not play loud music; not take food or alcoholic beverages to their rooms, only water or sodas. The rules seemed to be from a juvenile facility where the Russian woman would definitely fit right in, administering the reformatory with a heavy hand. Suddenly, she fell silent as she came to the door to room number 12, fumbling around in her apron searching for the master key.

The room was the same size as the bedroom in Clara’s apartment in São Paulo, the only difference being that the closet was built into the wall and there was a dresser with mirror instead of a writing desk. Other than that, the room looked comfortable and the turquoise carpet was charming.

“OK?” the Russian woman asked, obviously in a hurry to get the show over.

“Yes, OK,” Clara answered, giving her a thumbs-up to reinforce her satisfaction.

From there, the woman took Clara to the bathroom. Someone was taking a shower and Clara decided not to enter. The view from the hallway was more than adequate to see that it was clean and functional. Nevertheless, the woman began listing a few more rules, making sure that the person showering could hear, too.

Towels supplied by the pension were not to be left in the bathroom and each guest could use the bathtub only once a week. Hmmm, the wheels in Clara’s mind started turning. If there are six guests to each floor, whoever was clever could use the tub twice, unless that was being monitored, too. It was best not to stir up the queen of the bee hive.

Clara’s timing was perfect. She checked out of her hotel, exchanged more traveler’s checks for cash, and still had time to eat a Bratwurst on a bun with the best mustard ever before returning to the pension promptly at noon. She whiled away the rest of the afternoon undoing her suitcase, connecting her laptop to the Internet, and taking a warm shower. Her police badge and photo ID tag, as well as all of Rebeca’s letters and photographs were safely locked in the suitcase; the key slipped under one of the thick bedposts.

While she sent emails to family and colleagues, read those that filled her inbox, and checked her favorite websites, Clara remained attentive to any movement in the hall, leaving open a small crack in the door. The floor was quiet, an experience which seemed alien to her, considering the constant comings-and-goings in her building in São Paulo. Bored of looking at the screen, she took up a comfortable position on the bed to read the book 11th Hour written by one of her favorite writers of crime novels, James Patterson. Soon, however, she dozed off.

The thunderous sound of a rifle being fired startled her awake, making her jump out of bed and reaching for her hand gun. Everything was calm and quiet. It was probably a dream about one of the book’s episodes, or the door slamming shut when a gust of wind blew through the open window. She had left the window open to let in some fresh air and noticed that the numbered pendant attached to the key in the door’s lock was still swinging from side to side. Clara looked at her watch. It was nearly 8 p.m., time to experiment the evening tea and eventually meet some the new faces. She brushed her wavy hair, adjusted her clothes and bounced down the stairs.