Sapphire Moonlight

The Sapphire Moonlight Chapters 1 to 5

This chapter dedicated to Susan Joubert

Chapter 1

The four men stood quietly at the counter near the front of Tencarlo, the restaurant opposite the Sao Joao D'Acre Stock Exchange in Rua do Comercio.  

It was on an early December afternoon in 2003. With an upwards push followed by a quick twist of the handle, a barmaid fitted one of the shiny brass-coloured bowl-shaped powder containers in the burnt-sienna coloured espresso coffee machine. Almost without a break she did the same with a second container.  

The place was most popular amongst investors and high-fliers who worked at the stock exchange. It had the counter near the entrance, where customers could either stand or sit on comfortable stools with dark, brown leathered, thick cushioned seats, and then there was a lobby and an internal area where there were tables and where the restaurant proper really was. This area was U-shaped with the lobby so that it opened on to the street, next door to the coffee counter entrance. Due to its wide entry the restaurant was airy and well lit. While driving down Comercio Street - which sloped gently downwards -, as you glanced at the restaurant on your right, you would notice it was really well-emplaced, and you would have the impression it stood on a rampart although it was actually level with the street. That was the impression it gave.  

Tencarlo was an elegant place, not very big, with high ceilings, reliefs on its cream walls, heavy vases with plants here and there, and bottles of French, Italian and other imported wine and liquor on shelves on the wall on the right-hand side in the lobby. Parked in front of it in the street were highly expensive cars. As it is often the case with well-to-do establishments whose name is a household brand in the richest circles only, the place did not resort to advertising.  

The barmaid served two more espressos to the four clients near the entrance. 

'Thanks, angel,' one of the men, he was called Joao Caio, said to the barmaid. 

She smiled tenderly at him. The other three smiled at her gently.  

While sipping their coffees, they gazed at the street, which was under a quiet clear blue sky at half past three, partially sunny, partially shaded by the buildings in the area. A light breeze was blowing, then it stopped to resume later. From the darker interior of the bar, the men observed the scene in front of them without thinking of anything. Their minds were a blank. This was a break. And a well deserved break, one might say. The four of them had been working since morning and had barely had enough time to stop for a quick lunch. That was due to a joint, concerted operation in the Stock Exchange, in which they had earned quite a lot of money in one single day. More than many prosperous people would ever dream of winning in such a short term, or in a month, or perhaps in a year. They were experiencing the feeling of internal peace and realization that comes after great exertions and struggles have ended up in victory, as a natural result of talent combined with intense application.  

All this, and the special moment each one of them were living in their lives, had marked that otherwise common afternoon as a memorable one that would remain for ever imprinted in their memories, though in their case every afternoon had something special about it, something of its own. No matter whether great gains were involved or not. As it is the case when we are lucky enough to do the kind of job we want to do for a living. When Monday is a day we look foward to.  

Joao Caio was standing in the middle and had his back to the counter. He, as his friends, was elegantly dressed. He leant against the counter relaxedly, with his elbows on top of it. He was one metre eighty-three centimetres, slim, he had short straight black hair. He was thirty-four years old. An engineer by training, he had chosen to work with the stock market, and was the only one of them who had come from the middle classes. Some calm steady alertness which was about him, an inquiring expression, and the shrewdness in his eyes, marked him as a distinguished, remarkable man. All these, in fact, were characteristics he shared with his friends, and which all in all, added to the fact that the four of them were looking more or less at the same point in the street, gave him, and them that afternoon such an air as they seemed to have come out of Rembrandt's The Syndics of the Clothmaker's Guild.