de Almeida

For many years Peter Throw thought that his mind worked at its best when he was jogging in the outskirts of  Oporto or driving his car through the Portuguese highways.

He would now discover that heaven for his mind was really on the back of a donkey, crossing Latin America.

For the last few days he had been working on a meticulous plan. It would start with a phone call.

That morning - Castro was then walking again for a second day -, from a pay-phone in a small village fifty kilometers north of Luján, he decided to take action:

-Tribunal de Instrução Criminal de Matosinhos, bom dia...

-Bom dia, minha senhora, por favor... eu queria falar com a juíza Cati de Almeida...

-Quem devo anunciar?...

-Diga-lhe que é o primo...Almeida...

Moments later:

-A juíza Cati está neste momento ocupada ...pede para voltar a ligar dentro de vinte minutos...

-Muito obrigado...olhe... e por acaso... o magistrado Toni não está por aí?...

The receptionist seemed to talk laterally to a colleague:

-Oh Célia ... o Toni já voltou...?

And then, back to Peter Throw:

-Não ...está no estrangeiro...há mês e meio...

-Por acaso, pode-me informar onde?...

Again, asking the colleague:

-Célia... onde é que ele anda ?...

-Olha ... enviou-me ontem uma fotografia por telemóvel ... a dançar o tango em Bueno Aires...


They were so nice these people of the Matosinhos Court. They would provide all the information required, if asked.

But Peter Throw was offended and he was seeking revenge.

He could not forget that profoundly offensive detail of treating him as de Almeida whereas Paul was treated as Dos Santos and De Campos. If anything, Peter was more important than Paul. Peter was a Pope, Paul never was a Pope.

The twenty minutes had passed. Peter was ready to call again Matosinhos from the small village near Luján, Castro staring at him.