I had walked the few blocks from my own apartment, along the East River promenade, toward the Queensboro Bridge, its majesty little diminished, even as it was pelted by the storm—fierce exclamation marks of snow. When I took a seat in Edward’s living room, snow obscured my...
THE NIGHT BEFORE Alfredo Monteverde died, Laurinda dreamed that she had fallen down the main staircase at the redbrick house on Rua Icatu. It was Alfredo himself—tall and handsome, in his pinstripe suit and his favorite pink and white striped shirt, smelling of sandalwood—who rushed to her rescue...