The Aram Yamí suited Roberto Rocha impeccably. Upscale and colonial, it was the sort of hotel in which Alessandro would have gone on about his grandmothers scrubbing the floors of such a place for Rocha’s grandmothers.

But Alessandro was not here. And in his absence, Rocha had no problem indulging his love of rosewood tables with cabriole legs and the heavy giltwood mirrors in the halls. The voluptuousness of it all enchanted him. Every old object could be a correlative to an injustice if one wanted to see the world that way. But what for? A meticulously carved mahogany settee was still a marvelous settee. Its elegance didn’t have to be tainted by the thought of his grandmother’s staff on their knees, rubbing in the oil to preserve the gleam of the wood.

Rocha had despised his grandmother, always tinkling her silver service bells and telling him what an odd boy he was, how he had something in his voice that made people nervous.

His loafers removed, Rocha lowered himself onto the bed. It creaked under his weight. Down the hall, a group of American tourists had begun to natter outside the elevator, making it impossible to take a proper rest. Soon, thankfully, the elevator ferried them away and he was almost asleep when the room phone rang.

I’m sorry to disturb you, Senhor Roberto, the receptionist said, but we have a woman in the lobby here to see you.

Is that so? Well, tell her I’ll be right down.

He slid his loafers on again, lifted his bifocals from the bedside table. It was so like Beatriz to be the one to find him. And on the very day he arrived. Surely he’d be able to shake something out of her—a novella or a handful of new stories. She knew he would respect her privacy, wouldn’t give away her whereabouts to anyone.

Bing.

The elevator doors parted and Roberto Rocha summoned his most confident, admiring smile. Where was she? The only woman he spotted in the quiet lobby was a gangly tourist wearing a giant cream-colored hat that gave her something of the air of a flapper. When the woman with the hat got up and started to move in his direction, he thought it must be a coincidence.

Boa tarde, the woman said. I’m Beatriz’s American translator.

He made the face he reserved for vinegar. Was it you who just called? Did you just ask reception to ring my room and rouse me from my nap?

I’m terribly sorry, she said. I can come back later. I was just hoping I could speak to you for a few minutes about Beatriz.

Is her son here with you as well?

Marcus? Oh, no, I came alone. The translator blushed under her broad hat. Her Portuguese wasn’t terrible for an American, but she was a nervous girl and too tall. She made him feel absurd, lifting his face to her like a schoolboy, exposing all the rolls of flesh under his chin.

He took a step back to regain control of the conversation. I presume you’ve spoken with Beatriz.

Well, no… I—well, are you here to meet with her?

Of course, Rocha said.

So she’s definitely here, in Bahia.

I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose her location, he said.

Well, perhaps you could relay a message. The translator stepped closer, towering over him again. It’s about her safety. If she wants to leave Brazil, I want her to know I can help her. She could get a residency in Iowa at the International Writing Program there, or I could get her a longer-term teaching job with—

Because teaching at an American university, he interrupted, is the pot of gold at the end of every writer’s rainbow?

I just want to help her get out of danger.

And into the sanctuary of one of your just American institutions.

Senhor Roberto, all I want to do is help.

Oh, I have no doubt, he said. All Americans ever want to do is help. If you’ll excuse me, I’m really quite tired. He gave the translator a nod as he turned away and felt her blanch behind him. For months, Alessandro had been warning him that he was turning into a dried-up lemon of a man. It wouldn’t have killed him to admit that he had no idea where to find Beatriz either, that the day before he’d arrived she’d vanished from the hotel where she’d registered as S. Martins, having persuaded the hotel to give her cash for the remaining nights he’d paid for her to stay there. He’d been furious at such a blatant manipulation of his generosity, and furious at her for making him travel all this way for nothing.

Although that didn’t give him a reason to be rude to her translator, whose name he’d already forgotten.

Beatriz had written a curious story once about five brothers who had trouble remembering names, even each other’s. At dinner, to get one another’s attention, they’d throw bits of bread crust or sausage across the table. As grown men, they had trouble staying in love. They’d turn to touch the women beside them in bed and realize they had no memory of what their names were. In middle age, they struggled to recall their own names and had to call their parents for a reminder. However, by then their parents were hard of hearing and couldn’t differentiate among their sons’ voices on the phone. Whoever called, they would reply, Bruno—your name is Bruno, sweetheart. Their sons would then murmur the name to themselves as they buttoned their coats, trying to hold on to it until they got out the door. When they saw one another on the street, they’d shout, It’s me—Bruno! But I’m Bruno, the other would answer. Mother just told me. And the two brothers would stare at each other with—what had Beatriz called it?—the terrifying conviction of lost men.

The first time Rocha read the story, the terrifying conviction of those brothers reckoning with one another in the street stopped him cold. He’d been sitting in his office, and for a minute everything on his desk had an unsettling glimmer, like the scales on a just-killed fish or the glint of tinfoil floating on dark water in a well.