Shadows Across America Page 41

  The girls exchanged a knowing glance and started to laugh with adolescent hysteria. The laughter separated them from the dull world of adults. He realized that they were the same as the others: they decided who deserved to live and who must die. It didn’t matter who had given the order. Still laughing at him, they took automatic pistols out from their sweatpants and aimed at Andrés, who stood indifferently, looking down at them with a paternal expression. They fired six shots into his hand, mouth, and body, blinking with each discharge. After seeing the inert body fall, they fired one final shot to wipe out his face, removing his last human attribute so he would be remembered like that: an empty, featureless John Doe, nothing but orphaned flesh and blood. A victim, like them, of the vida loca. They emptied out the cash register and left to report to their boss, feeling nothing but pleasure at having completed a mission. They’d gotten rid of an old man whose final moments of pity they’d already forgotten.

  11

  Secret Societies

  “Suffer no more” was just one of the slogans of the Universal Church of the Celestial Kingdom, but it had become the most famous. Research had told Ari and Michelle that it was a controversial community that had been accused of being a cult and ejected from the Union of Evangelical Churches, of which Andrés’s church formed part. But it was only one of many amid the chaotic mixture of cults and blurred doctrines that had proliferated in the Americas. The church’s history was plagued with accusations of money laundering and fraud across several different countries, but it had nonetheless been able to influence presidential elections and was expanding exponentially across the globe. Its followers now numbered in the millions.

  After finding a discreet apartment that was less exposed and cheaper than a hotel, they bought food and SIM cards and prepared for their journey. Michelle’s stress levels rose, as though she were about to take an exam. She struggled to choose an outfit and grew extremely tense, sometimes so much that she started to physically shake. She spent hours getting dressed, and Ari noticed that she’d covered a nervous rash with makeup.

  Once they got out into the street, they paid no attention to their new surroundings; they went straight for the local church. They found it easily enough: it was prominently situated on a main road in front of a modern bus station. The two-story building was right in the middle of the block, but its brick facade suggested a vague neoclassical influence, with reflective glass windows and an immense atrium with four Doric columns that immediately caught the eye, making it stand out from its neighbors. The two women stepped into the atrium, where they were welcomed by several very friendly members of the church wearing white shirts, red ties, and beaming smiles. The timetable for the services was pinned to a notice board. They were held almost every hour under the guise of seminars on happiness and how to triumph with titles like “Congress for Success,” “Meeting to Cure Body and Soul,” and so on throughout the week. Ari and Michelle were overwhelmed by the different options. They smiled at their hosts and stepped outside in order to talk privately.

  “They sound like movie titles. What shall we do? When will he come?”

  “I don’t know. What if he doesn’t come on Saturdays?”

  “Then we have no choice but to come every day until we find him. Let’s go back inside.”

  The congregation members came over again. They were just as friendly as before but now more curious. “Boa tarde, irmãs. É a primeira vez de vocês?”

  Ari didn’t understand a word and kept her mouth shut.

  Michelle answered in Spanish, but she was flustered and sounded like a teenager. “We’re traveling, but we didn’t want to miss a service. So we came . . .”

  The answer seemed to arouse more curiosity, although everyone remained relaxed. What were they doing there if they didn’t speak Portuguese?

  Meanwhile Ari instinctively trusted her bad pronunciation. “Suffer no more!”

  The ushers’ faces lit up while those farther off repeated the phrase in watery, Portuguese-inflected Spanish.

  “Suffer no more! Suffer no more! God be praised!”

  They were enveloped in a wave of empathy and acceptance. Faith didn’t need communication.

  Ari and Michelle went to the church every day that week. Rather than helping Michelle to relax, the repetition made her even more nervous. She vomited before each visit while her skin seemed to age visibly and her personality withdrew into itself. This, paradoxically, appeared to endear them to their fellow churchgoers, especially after they’d contributed to the collection, not that they had much choice given that it was requested a quarter of an hour after they’d stepped through the door and then again an average of three times per session.

  The first surprise was the hall, which was more like an auditorium than a church. It was an airy, double-heighted construction with a ceramic floor, white walls, and a false ceiling with neon lights and hundreds of red chairs that were always filled, flanked by hundreds of other churchgoers who’d arrived later and had to stand. Michelle scanned the crowd, looking for a particular face while staying anonymous herself, which wasn’t easy. Meanwhile, Ari was forced to observe what was going on without understanding a word. At first she was just bored, but she soon grew irritated. The pattern was replicated again and again. There were no decorations other than a fake stained glass window and a plastic pulpit with a blue LED cross. A raised stage was constantly being crisscrossed by church employees leading believers to and fro, serving the pastor, handling the public, and preparing the offerings, which could be made by cash in velvet bags or by card. Michelle and Ari ended up paying an average of thirty dollars per service. Apparently, this ensured that they’d avoid any further scrutiny.

  The pastor, who dressed either in white or in gray pinstripe pants, always seemed to announce something important on his arrival; then he read a phrase from a book that Ari assumed was a Bible. He never moved away from the pulpit but, like on a talk show, invited those present to come up on stage to share their experiences. Images were projected on a screen, and every twenty minutes, a social issue was introduced as an excuse to ask for more contributions, ostensibly to pay for more churches, provide help to poor communities, or to support women and children in need. Every request had a goal, just as every instructive lesson had a protagonist. The first was an ordinary-looking man in a striped shirt who desultorily described the marijuana addiction that had brought him there. The sinner droned on like a bureaucrat listing municipal regulations while the pastor added the spice with questions, thoughts, and exclamations, all of which were applauded by his audience. Eventually the pastor deemed the sinner saved and proved it by making him smell the contents of a bag. The regretful man stepped back, stating in his monotone voice that he couldn’t stand it—he didn’t know what it was, but it made him sick. To general amazement, the pastor announced that it was marijuana. Thanks to prayer, the addict could no longer stand it.

  The ceremonies turned out to be a series of miracles and payments punctuated with musical performances that occasionally spurred spasmodic dancing in the front rows. A young woman overcame terminal cancer, a dull office worker got a wonderful job, a single mother won back her partner, while a serial seducer gave up his lovers and now celebrated a life in Christ. The boundaries between religion and magic show appeared to have been torn down.

  Ari soon saw the reason for the church’s success. Its promise was transactional: the more one paid, the greater the benefits would be. On the third day, she heard something called “the theology of prosperity.” She became increasingly frustrated, but she did nothing.

  Their fourth visit was on a Saturday. Ari, now very annoyed, expected a new set of hokey miracles, but this time the congregation was much larger than on the previous days. The pastor solemnly announced that the devil lurked among them. After her intensive linguistic immersion, Ari was picking up a lot more. She knew that she hadn’t misheard. The pastor was accusing someone, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Had they been found out? To her
relief, the same pastor, taking a calculating, defiant pose, invited the demon to show himself. Four women of different ages stood up amid general murmuring and were led by members of the leadership to the stage.

  The moment he called them, the possessed started to walk along, gesturing frantically, with bestial expressions, staring up at the ceiling, more or less as one would imagine a possessed person might act. Although they were supposedly controlled by the devil himself, they seemed happy to wait quietly at the back of the stage as the pastor interviewed them one by one, microphone in hand. The interviewees waved their arms and bodies around, shook their heads back and forth, and answered the questions in deep voices, amid demoniacal laughter. Providing polite answers to each question, they dutifully explained how and when they had taken hold of their victim (led astray by an evil lover or through pagan practices) and their objective (to cause suffering, disease, and death among the young) and then allowed themselves to be exorcized with surprising passivity, especially the one who’d just seen three demons have the same thing done to them. Together with their freedom, each lucky victim also happened to be cured of a mortal ailment. Eventually, Ari couldn’t stand another minute. But now this festival of extortion took on unsuspected new dimensions: ritual dances broke out all over the place, and more and more worshippers joined them, starting to roll around the floor until the smug preacher invited them to accept Christ. One of the most pathetic characters was a dirty cripple whose leg was missing below the thigh. He wore a frayed khaki jacket and pants and a shoe with holes in the sole and used his weathered crutches to lever himself onstage to roll around on the floor with the others and receive the pastor’s blessing.

  Michelle went pale. “It’s him. Oh my God. Oh, Lord God, it can’t be!”

  Michelle’s knees buckled, and Ari caught her before she hit the floor. She looked in the same direction, but all she could see was a sorry excuse for a man allowing himself to be consoled with melancholy passion. Michelle got hold of herself and stared at him, suppressing a gag reflex.

  “No, Lord. Please, holy Virgin, it can’t be. It can’t be him.”

  Colônia Liberdade, 1976

  Helmut Schwindt was wearing a half-open Hawaiian shirt. He looked like a lost tourist. He’d certainly gone out of his way. The greeting between old friends wasn’t especially affectionate. Stobert introduced himself as Aspiazi, and they shook hands, headed away from their bodyguards, and went for a walk on the pretense of taking a tour of the compound.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Things went well for me after the war. I went to Africa to train indigenous troops and was very well paid for it. Then I moved to Switzerland to set up a private security firm. I had a good relationship with the Algerian pieds noires, and that gave me an in with France. Odessa took me back to Germany. Following the rise of the Viet Minh, my services as an instructor were required again, and so my investments diversified. My contacts with the OAS and Spanish regiment were crucial. Today I run a network in Europe financed by the CIA.” He smiled ironically. “The communists have been very lucrative for me. As you can imagine, it wasn’t very difficult to track you down. I was surprised to find you in this remote corner of the world.”

  “But you’re not surprised by my appearance or my temperature. That makes you the first.”

  “I have spent much time over the past few years studying. Getting into the protection industry helped; I made contact with families with long histories, former aristocrats, Dutch and Swiss bankers . . . the military past from which we shy in public makes us seem more reliable in private. Word of my interest in the esoteric spread.”

  “I don’t remember your being interested in such things. It was me that talked about—”

  “That’s true. It was you, until the night we killed your uncle. The chief didn’t understand—he was a fool, an idiot with all the intelligence of a lead pipe—but I know what I saw that night. Ever since then, I have developed a . . . passion for the subject that eventually became an obsession.”

  “You mean you joined a cult like my uncle?”

  “No, that wasn’t possible. But I did learn a lot. There are circles at the highest level that propagate ancient beliefs, rituals dating back to the Neolithic period. Neither of us could ever gain access to such societies. It’s strictly controlled by birthright. Listen to me: I have investigated secret circles: Rosicrucians, spiritualists, magicians like Aleister Crowley . . . they’re all frauds. They only con the gullible . . . charlatans who offer nothing but empty promises. But as my company became more prestigious, I got a commission from an old contact: certain groups required special, exclusive, discreet services. These were leading families, surnames I’d seen in advertisements and magazines, people with an incredible amount of power. I became a guardian of what they called their ‘ancient worship.’ They made me a multimillionaire.”

  “Did you meet anyone like my uncle?”

  “No. I never attended one of their rituals; I’m ineligible. I don’t know their ways. But even so, I know that your uncle was feared in those circles. In certain corners, his name is still whispered with caution. And just think that none of them saw what we saw. If they knew what happened that night, if they knew about you, they’d hunt you down wherever you are in the world. They wouldn’t hesitate to pay more money than you can possibly imagine to possess you. To study you.”

  “What happened that night?”

  Schwindt frowned as though he’d suddenly switched languages. “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t remember a thing. I remember nothing from that accursed night in Vienna!”

  Henrique, looking nondescript and bereft, left the church and limped laboriously down a back alley. Several blocks farther on, he heard a foreign woman’s voice.

  “Henrique!”

  A pair of women he didn’t know were trying to get his attention. The shorter one was speaking to him in Spanish.

  “Hello, Henrique. Do you remember me?”

  He was hit by a wave of disturbing memories but couldn’t tell which applied. She came closer and took hold of his wrist. There was no anger in her gaze, only compassion.

  “It’s Michelle, Henrique. I was seventeen when you last saw me. Don’t you remember me?”

  “M . . . Michelle . . .”

  “You’ve been sending me money for the girl.”

  “Yes, yes. I . . . I’ve been sending it. When I can.”

  Michelle hadn’t come to confront him; all she conveyed was reassurance. She stroked his face. “I know. Thank you.”

  Henrique, overwhelmed by this reunion, started to cry. He looked down, avoiding their gazes. “I’m so sorry.”

  Michelle took him by the chin and lifted his face. “I forgave you many years ago. We just want you to tell us something. Will you tell us?”

  “Yes . . . what?”

  “Do you live close by?”

  “Yes, close by. In a room . . .”

  “Would you like something to eat? We’d like to take you out for a meal, if that’s OK?”

  Henrique allowed himself to be led to a nearby restaurant, where he asked for a glass of water. It took Michelle and Ari a long time to persuade him to have something to eat, but when the food came, he devoured it with long-accumulated hunger. His sunken eye sockets conveyed nothing but misery and resignation. Michelle brought up the time they’d spent together to help him to remember, but he stopped her, saying that he remembered very well: she was as beautiful as ever. Then he let out a brief sob, and she moved to reassure him some more, stroking his thin hair.

  “Why, Henrique? Can you tell us? We know that you fathered other girls like my daughter; we just want to know why.”

  Ari was dumbstruck by Michelle’s calm poise. There was no anger, only pity. This man had ruined her life but now was just a ghost of the person he’d once been. Ari wondered how she’d have reacted in Michelle’s place. She’d probably have killed him.

  Henrique began a stuttering tale from which he broke of
f every now and again to mumble something to himself before tuning back in. He was slowly getting used to talking in Spanish.

  “Michelle, I . . . sinto muito, we never really knew each other. I lied; I sinned. I did a lot of harm to você and a lot of others. Other poor, innocent, young meninas. I’m responsible. I’m a criminal.” He grabbed his stump. “And I’ve been punished by God.”

  Looking at this man, who had once been the love of her life, Michelle was overcome by feelings of nostalgia and futility.

  “I was born in a religious village, founded by Germans. Do you know about the German immigrants to Brazil? A lot came in the nineteenth century to found colonies.”

  “Colônia Liberdade?” Ari interjected.

  Henrique recoiled at the mere mention of the place but recovered his composure. “Before, it had a different name, but my grandfather changed it. I don’t know when, but I do remember that he was always the leader. The community lost its religion, and he controlled everything. He’s still alive and still there. He decided on everything—he decided who the sinners were, and he punished them. He was a messiah, a prophet; everyone obeyed him. My brother and I lived very well because we were his grandchildren, understand? My mother was Uruguayan, and we learned Spanish from her. You had to get permission from my grandfather to get married or have children. He paid for our schooling and made sure we’d learn Spanish because later he was going to send us out to find girls outside Brazil.”

  “And I was one of those girls?”

  “Você were the second. They taught us to do it.” He covered his face, avoiding their gaze. “We were born into royalty: nine cousins, five boys and four girls fathered by my father and his brother. We were the grandchildren of the Lord. We could do anything we wanted. They said that we were pure, but it wasn’t true. The male grandchildren had it all—we had drugs and a lot of money. The women couldn’t say no. We lived in sin, and we didn’t care. We went to the city in luxury cars, spending our cash like rich kids without a thought for anyone but ourselves. But my girl cousins were locked away. They weren’t allowed out. They just prayed, and after they turned eight, we barely saw them again.” Henrique stopped and broke into an absurd-sounding sob, more of a whistle, his face still covered. Finally, he continued very quietly. “We never saw our girl cousins. Much later I learned that we were all my grandfather’s playthings. He was obsessed with having female descendants; he only cared about meninas. He started with my cousins, doing experiments on them, drugging them and speaking to them in their sleep. The first two were killed by cocktails of drugs; the two others made a plan and killed themselves. Their lives had been hell. We didn’t know that then, and we didn’t care. I had grown up by then and lived outside of Brazil. My brother found out all this much later. My father and uncle knew, and they allowed it. When my brother found out, he told me, and then he committed suicide too. He couldn’t stand it. He knew other things he didn’t tell me about, but he killed himself.”