The next morning, I was at the luggage store in the Lisboa when it opened. None of the suitcases looked big enough for a body, not even for one of the skinny models waving from the photographs in the window.
“I need something large.” I smiled. “Let’s say I wanted to go on a trip. Let’s say for laughs I wanted to go in my own suitcase. You got anything?”
The clerk’s eyes opened for a flicker. “This is the biggest we have.” She went behind the counter and pulled out a Louis Vuitton, a two-wheeler.
“Nice,” I said. “But cramped. How about a Lancel? How about red?”
She shook her head. “Too bad. I sold the last one a few weeks ago.”
“Is that so? You remember whom you sold it to?”
“Sure. Some Russian woman, thin, very careful with the makeup. How come all the interest in red Lancels all of a sudden?”
All of a sudden, she said. I took a chance. “Luis was in last night?”
She shrugged. “You browse. Take your time.” She went back behind the counter. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I pretended to look around. So, Luis hadn’t followed the suitcase angle before. We all had blind spots. His were baggage and balconies. Senhor Penza hadn’t come with a red Lancel. A Russian woman had bought one and ended up floating in it a few days later. Luis hadn’t realized that before. He did now. It didn’t fit in my puzzle. Maybe it fit in his.
“This red suitcase you sold to the nice tourist lady, it had four wheels?”
“What if it did?”
“Lancel doesn’t make four-wheelers, not elegant enough. I checked. Yours must have been a fake.”
“So sue me.”
I picked up a carry-on. “How much is this?”
“Eight thousand Hong Kong. Too small for you. You’d have to cut off your legs.”