Crimes of August: A Novel: 5 (Brazilian Literature in Translation Series) (18 page)

“I’ll call Father Miguel,” the woman said.

The macumba priest, a thin black man of indefinite age, dressed in white, received the visitors with deference.

“Welcome to my home.”

“Do you remember me, Father Miguel?”

The priest hesitated.

“I was here with Paulo Gomes Aguiar.”

“Oh . . . yes.”

“This is Police Inspector Alberto Mattos.”

“Police?”

The man drew back in fright. He turned to flee. Mattos grabbed him by the shirt.

“Sir, I closed down the worship site. Please don’t arrest me!”

“I’m not here to arrest you. Stay calm.”

The policeman’s tone calmed the macumba priest somewhat.

“I’m not interested in your activities. I think people like you should be left in peace. I came only to ask a few questions, and then I’ll leave. Do you know that Paulo Gomes Aguiar was murdered?”

“Yes. One of my acolytes told me. I was very sad. He was a good man.”

“Were you in the habit of going to Gomes Aguiar’s home?”

“I went three or four times. I was working on sealing his body. Much envy, many enemies, bad spirits on him. But Mr. Paulo’s wife didn’t like me, and I couldn’t do a proper job. I knew something bad was going to happen, a spirit had descended here in the site and told me. There were people doing bad things against him.”

“When was the last time you were with Paulo Gomes Aguiar?”

“A short time before he died. I think it was a Friday.”

“Do you recall the date?”

“The date I can’t remember.”

“You’re sure it was a Friday?”

“I’m not sure. But there are certain kinds of work I like to do on Friday. What was the date of Friday a week ago?”

“The thirtieth.”

“The thirtieth, the thirtieth . . .”

“Could it have been Saturday, the thirty-first?” asked Lomagno.

“Let me ask the questions,” said Mattos.

“Sorry,” said Lomagno.

“One moment, please,” said Miguel.

He went to speak with the mulatto woman, who was a certain distance away. They talked for some time.

“She doesn’t remember either. It was so long ago . . .”

“Only thirteen days,” said the inspector. “You don’t make notes of your work?”

“I’m illiterate, sir. But Cremilda here thinks it may have been on Saturday, after midnight. The work of exorcising bad spirits can also be done in the early hours of the month of August. The month of August is a good month for the spirits to descend.”

“Did you leave Gomes Aguiar’s apartment after midnight?”

“Yes. I think it was Saturday, yes . . . I performed the service when it was starting to be Sunday, in August . . .”

“Gomes Aguiar was murdered in the early hours of Sunday, the first hours of the first day of August, when the spirits were descending, as you say.”

“What? When I left there the man was still alive, I swear it . . . I must have gone there on Friday.”

Mattos took the ring from his pocket.

“Is this ring yours?”

“No, sir.”

“Please put the ring on your finger.”

Miguel placed the ring on his finger. Very loose.

Mattos put the ring back in his pocket and got an antacid. He chewed the tablet pensively. The ring had an F engraved on it; the doorman had mentioned a powerfully built and angry-looking black man who seemed to be Gregório Fortunato. Miguel didn’t begin with F and was far from a strong black man.

“What’s your full name?”

“Miguel Francisco dos Santos, sir.”

Francisco. F. Two Black men whose names have an F. Coincidences . . . No jumping to conclusions . . . He would need to arrange a confrontation between the macumba priest and the doorman to clarify that episode.

“I’d like you to go with me to the precinct, in Rio.”

“You said you weren’t going to arrest me,” lamented Miguel.

“I’m not arresting you. It’s an invitation.”

“It’d be better for you to go with the inspector,” said Lomagno menacingly.

“Keep your mouth shut or go back to the car,” said Mattos, irritated.

Lomagno gulped. His face went pale with rage.

“I’m not going to be arrested?”

“No, you’re not going to be arrested.”

They got into the car. Lomagno sat in front with the driver. Miguel complained during the trip, protesting his innocence. Despite the antacid he’d chewed, Mattos’s stomach ached.

When they got to the precinct, Lomagno said, “I hope I was of some help.”

“You helped a lot. Thank you. You may go.”

Rosalvo, curious, observed Mattos take Miguel to his office. Through the open door he saw the inspector say something to the black man, who was seated, downcast, in a chair.

“Did you find the man?” Rosalvo asked from the door.

“I don’t know. We’re going to the Deauville. Get the van.”

When they got to the Deauville, accompanied by Miguel, they were met by a doorman who wasn’t Raimundo.

“Where’s Raimundo? I’m Inspector Mattos.”

“He didn’t show up. Left without saying a word, leaving the reception empty all night. The super says he’s gonna fire him.”

Mattos went to the doorman’s quarters, in the rear.

“Are these his clothes?”

“Yes. He must be planning on coming back, ’cause he left everything here.”

“If he does, tell him I want to speak to him. Tell him if he doesn’t show up at the precinct, he’ll be arrested.”

“Sir, I’m confused, at a loss. What’s going on?” asked Rosalvo, back in the van.

“I don’t know yet.” To Miguel: “I may need to talk to you sometime in the future. No need for you to worry.”

Mattos was certain Miguel wasn’t the black man he was looking for, despite the coincidences. “Excuse the inconvenience. I’m going to drop you off at the train station.”

There was no train at that hour. But Miguel said nothing. He preferred spending the night at the station to continuing with the cops.

There were few occurrences during the remainder of Mattos’s shift.

Late that night the guard came into the inspector’s office, accompanied by Rosalvo.

“What is it?”

“The radio patrol caught a man and woman doing the dirty on a dark street. What should I do?” asked Rosalvo.

“Who are they?”

“Man’s a construction worker. Woman’s a maid.”

“Let them go,” said Mattos.

“The detective in charge of the garrison’s a hard-ass. Says they were caught in the act.”

A man and a woman were sitting on a wooden bench in the waiting room. They stood up when they saw the inspector.

“Bring the people from the garrison to my office,” Mattos told Rosalvo.

The detective and the two patrol cops entered the office.

“What happened?”

The detective explained that they were on patrol when they saw the man and woman in a clinch.

“In a clinch? Doing what?”

One of the cops laughed.

“It was real dark, but we had a flashlight, and we could see what they were doing. When they saw us, the woman pulled her skirt back down and ran, but it was too late. We grabbed her panties off the ground as proof.”

“Proof?” Mattos tasted the bitterness of acid in his mouth. “Don’t bring me any more cases of a couple of poor devils fucking in a dark spot. There’s no such thing as invisible indecent exposure; someone has to see it. Without using a flashlight.”

Doubtless the cops had tried to extort money from the hapless couple.

“You may leave. The next time you bring me a couple under such circumstances, I’ll charge you with arbitrary use of force.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Or else extortion and abuse of power. You may go.”

The cops left, and Mattos thought about what made a guy want to be a policeman. In his case, it had been simply the inability to find a better job. After three years as a defense lawyer for poor criminals, not earning enough to pay the rent on his office, without the money to get married, the chance had come along to work twenty-four straight hours and have seventy-two hours off, time he planned to use studying for the test for a judgeship. A guaranteed and dignified job. One more year and he would have had the five years since graduation required to qualify. But Alice hadn’t had the patience to wait.

The couple continued to sit on the bench in the waiting room, silent and frightened.

“You can leave now,” the inspector said.

“I don’t have no money with me . . . I explained that to the policemen . . . I haven’t got paid yet . . .”

Mattos was too tired to make another speech.

“You can go.”

It was past four in the morning when he picked up the book on civil law, the radio, and went upstairs to the inspectors’ break room. During his first shifts, Mattos would spend the twenty-four hours in his office or on paperwork. Lately, he would go to the break room, but he didn’t take a clean sheet and pillowcase like the others. He would lie down on the smelly mattress, removing only his coat and tie.

During the night, the cook Geraldo Barbosa, twenty-six, was run over in front of his residence by an unidentified automobile and taken to the emergency room. Bernardo Lemgruber, thirty-two, was mugged in the street by two individuals. Mattos duly registered the occurrences in the blotter. A drunk was arrested for disturbance of the peace. The inspector had the man sit in the waiting room, and then he sent him away, without the lecture that good policemen are wont to administer to harmless drunks.

He was becoming more and more tired. His stomach was beginning to ache, and he chewed two antacid tablets.

He went into the bathroom. His feces were dark. The doctor had talked about the color of coffee grounds. There was no toilet paper in the precinct bathroom. But the inspector had brought a newspaper, full of important news about Brazil and the world. It wasn’t the first time he’d cleaned himself with newsprint. In his youth he had been very poor. He merely avoided cleaning himself with someone’s photograph. A scruple he’d had since childhood.

fourteen

VITOR FREITAS
, in a secret meeting with several members of his party, the
PSD
, called his colleagues’ attention to the
UDN
campaign to take advantage of the dissatisfaction of the military and of the unsettled political atmosphere resulting from the Tonelero attack.

“The
UDN
has mobilized its best orators to demand the furlough or resignation or deposing of Vargas. If any of these things happens—”

“Getúlio will never resign,” interrupted Deputy Azevedo Pascoal.

“Let me finish. If it’s resignation, or deposition—”

“Deposition? The army is with Getúlio.”

“You forget yesterday’s meeting at the Aeronautics Club,” Freitas continued, “where hundreds of army officers sided with their air force colleagues. Zenóbio declared: ‘Let us unite in defense of peace and the happiness of the Brazilian family.’ And Estillac added: ‘The army is unified against any attempt at a coup and ready to defend the Constitution.’ A coup by whom? What coup is General Estillac referring to? It’s not a coup originating in and inspired by the military. It’s a coup by him who so far has succeeded in every coup, the president of the Republic. In reality the military is warning Getúlio himself. It’s necessary to read between the lines, my friends, to understand the metaphors. The army won’t stand for a pro-Getúlio coup. But the opposite, yes.”

“No need to give us a class, Freitas. No one here was born yesterday.”

“As I was saying—let me continue my reasoning—if Getúlio resigns or is deposed, the
UDN
will take power, whether by installing its college-boy/military dictatorship or by filling the political vacuum left by Vargas to sweep the October elections. Some sectors of the
UDN
favor resignation, which will discredit Vargas and undermine the parties that support him, namely us and the
PTB
. Brazilians don’t like anyone who resigns. But a considerable part of the
UDN
, led by Lacerda, wants deposition, pure and simple. Few here, I’m sorry to say, heard Afonso Arinos’s speech attacking Getúlio, heard Arinos state that the suspicions of the nation converge on the president, or on persons intimately linked to him—Arinos tactfully refrained from mentioning his son Lutero or his brother Benjamim—and concluded his
j’accuse
by demanding the removal of Vargas so the crime of Rua Tonelero can be clarified once and for all under conditions of absolute impartiality and security. Arinos speaks of the disintegration of public authority, crisis of morality, those tired—but nevertheless effective—clichés of
UDN
rhetoric. Arinos’s speech, however, wasn’t violent. He wants the voluntary removal of the president. He belongs to those more intelligent sectors that I mentioned. It’s possible that the procoup faction, which isn’t bothered that the military may take power as long as Getúlio is deposed, will end up prevailing in the
UDN
. In any case, it seems to me that if Getúlio asks for a leave, they won’t allow him to resume, and it’ll be the same as resignation.”

“Lutero waived his parliamentary immunity so that the whole truth can come out. He swore before God and the nation that he had no involvement in the events, and that the plot using his name is aimed at his father,” said Deputy Azevedo Pascoal.

“Lutero Vargas swore! Does anyone here believe the sworn word of Lutero Vargas? If so, let that innocent raise his hand, I want to see his face.”

Azevedo Pascoal took the floor again. “I was present when Arinos gave his speech, and I thought it indecisive, mediocre, unworthy of the intelligence you mentioned. When he said he suspected the police inquiry, Arinos declared that the police are trying to eliminate the validity of the proofs by a process of ‘enfeeblization.’ That vulgarity doesn’t appear in any dictionary. It strikes me that the abasement of the language, confirmed in the deputy’s speech, reflects his disdain, perhaps unconscious, for our institutions. I believe that Arinos himself wouldn’t mind a coup as long as it brought the
UDN
to power. They know how to guide and manipulate the military.”

“There’s also José Bonifácio’s speech,” continued Freitas. “You all know the line of the political clan that Zé Bonifácio belongs to—they’re synonymous with provincial shrewdness. To Zé, Getúlio’s government disappeared from the earth along with his personal guard. He believes, or pretends to believe, that the government survives off favors from the armed forces, the love of sergeants, the indifference of the lower ranks, and the hope of truth emerging from this inquiry. The government’s days are numbered, and Zé asks of Getúlio a gesture of pride from a true son of Rio Grande do Sul, asks the president to take the advice that João Neves de Fontoura, in one of his rare moments of political lucidity, gave him: when everything falls apart, Getúlio should display the elegance of the vanquished, look Brazil in the eye, salute, and fall. But fall, says Zé, wrapped in the cloak of dignity and honor, by resigning.”

“
UDN
politicians, in any situation, always want people to salute,” one deputy joked.

“Zé Bonifácio proposes what he calls the excision of one of the most unspeakable, one of the most abject and purulent abscesses that has ever corrupted the body politic of any nation. We witness, according to the astute deputy from Minas, blood and tears; witness unblemished reputations disintegrate in the common pit of greed; witness the terror of the weak, the cry of victory from the powerful; witness the black market, the delights of inflation causing an air force major not to have the money for a phone while his assassin owned a country home.”

“We can’t turn back the tide. The sea of mud exists,” commented a deputy.

“That country home, few people know,” continued Freitas, “is nothing but a miserable shack between Belford Roxo and Nova Iguaçu. A place the outlaw Climerio calls Happy Repose, with no sewer, no running water, where a handful of pigs wallow in the mud and chickens scratch and peck inside the house. An air force sergeant would be ashamed to live there. Zé Bonifácio knows that, but it’s necessary to arouse outrage, revolt, regardless of the methods used.”

“What’s your point, Freitas?”

“Public opinion is being manipulated shamelessly. But effectively. We need to define ourselves. We can’t hide our heads like ostriches and pretend nothing is happening. There wasn’t a single leader of the majority present at Arinos’s speech and Baleeiro’s, to reply defending the president.”

“Defending the institutions,” said Azevedo Pascoal.

“In the final analysis, defending our party, because defense of the fate of the
PSD
is intertwined with defense of the institutions. My friends, there are less than two months until the election. We know that Getúlio is innocent of the crime against Major Vaz. Everyone knows that. However senile he may be, Getúlio would never order Lacerda killed, for one simple reason: he and the government would have nothing to gain from the death of the journalist; they would merely create a martyr for the
UDN
. The assassination was the work of stupid subordinates like the Negro, Gregório, instigated by persons whose interests were being hurt by Lacerda. But the campaign in the press is making people believe Getúlio is guilty. The gunman Alcino was arrested, Gregório was arrested, and they’ll probably say whatever they want them to say. Climerio’s arrest is only a matter of time. A veritable operation of war is being organized to realize that arrest. The scene is set, my friends. Getúlio has no way out. If he remains in power, the loss of prestige will grow by the day. If he resigns, he’ll be abominated, execrated by the people. The fate of the
PSD
cannot be slavishly tied to that of a president whose days are numbered and who in addition is remiss and negligent.”

“What’s your point?” repeated the deputy.

“When politicians from Minas forsake prudence and stop straddling the fence, it’s a sign there’s no balance of forces and the scale has dipped to one side. I’m convinced the
PSD
must adopt a stance of independence in this delicate situation.”

“We’re the government. Many of our fellow party members have also abused their power and taken advantage of the situation,” said Azevedo Pascoal, looking pointedly at Freitas, who everyone knew had gotten rich during Vargas’s administration. “Capanema would never accept a cynical and opportunistic posture like this.”

After saying this, Azevedo Pascoal left the meeting.

Those who stayed—sixteen deputies and four senators—continued discussing the political alternatives presented by Vitor Freitas.

After the meeting ended, Freitas sat in the solitude of his office, meditating. If the military and the
UDN
took power, as was certain to happen, there would follow a wave of moralism, which would be hypocritical and shortlived but in the short run would need scapegoats. But the possibility of his role in the Cemtex scheme being discovered was remote. And the suspicions of that idiot inspector also shouldn’t be taken into account. So there was no need for action, of any sort whatever, in relation to that policeman. Clemente didn’t share his thinking, but his adviser liked to display his usefulness, to become indispensable, to create complications. He needed to clip Clemente’s wings—more than that, get him out of his life.

Freitas phoned Clemente and asked him to come to his office.

“Clemente, look up Teodoro and tell him I’m no longer interested in what that inspector—what’s his name again?”

“Mattos.”

“What Inspector Mattos is investigating concerning me. I don’t want to know what he’s doing or not doing. To tell the truth, I don’t even want to hear the name of that individual. Say that to Teodoro.”

“Teodoro is already on the field, doing that job.”

Freitas laughed, without great conviction. “Then get him off the field. End the game.”

Clemente left Freitas’s room, pensive. It didn’t take long for him to form his plan. He telephoned Teodoro.

“What’s up, Teodoro? The senator wants news. You’re very slow.”

“I’m moving, sir, I’m moving. You can tell the senator that.”

FOR A DAY AND A NIGHT
, Salete thought about nothing but her mother. If she had found out, something she had never undertaken to do, that she had died, Salete would have been very sad and wept with pain. But the wretched woman hadn’t died. So for twenty-four hours Salete felt only hatred toward her mother for still being alive, for her mother being even uglier, older, blacker.

At the end of that period of rancor, a feeling of regret started to overcome her. This began when she saw in her closet a piece of silk that she had bought to make a dress. She had seen her mother, in a print dress of faded calico, coming out of a store in Carioca Square. Surely she had bought some remnants to make another horrible dress.

Salete thought about that as she smoothed the piece of French silk against her breast. Her mother had never had a silk dress, never had the pleasure of feeling the softness of silk on her skin, the poor woman.

An idea began taking shape in her mind. She put on the simplest skirt and blouse in her wardrobe, removed her jewels. Carrying a package with the cut of silk, she took a taxi and told the driver to take her to São Cristóvão.

“Where in São Cristóvão?”

“Favel—uh, Rua São Luiz Gonzaga.”

When they arrived at the street, Salete asked the driver if he knew where Elisa Cylleno Square was.

The driver didn’t know.

“I’ll show you.”

They drove through a series of alleyways without finding the square.

“Just where exactly do you want to go?” asked the driver.

“The Tuiuti favela.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t go into favelas, ma’am. Very dangerous. Not even the police go there.”

They drove around a bit more. Salete spotted Rua Curuzu.

“You can drop me off here,” she said.

From Rua Curuzu she remembered how to get to the favela.

She arrived at the foot of the hill. She started climbing, passing by shacks in whose doors she saw the same women from her childhood, hanging clothes on lines to dry, carrying undernourished children, some of them pregnant, urchins playing marbles in the dirt, men in undershirts drinking at an openair bar. They all looked at her, finding her presence strange.

“Who you looking for, dear?” asked an old woman with a child in her arms.

“Dona Sebastiana’s house.”

“It’s up there.”

“I know where it is.”

The door to the wooden shack, covered with zinc sheets, was closed. Salete knocked.

Her mother opened the door. She didn’t recognize her daughter.

“It’s me . . . mother.”

“Salete? Salete?”

They stood there silent for several seconds, her mother wiping her hands on her dirty skirt, shifting her feet in clogs.

“I brought you a gift.”

“Don’t you want to come in . . . ?”

Salete entered. She remembered those odors impregnating the house: body smells, mold, rancid food, the stench of poverty. The few pieces of furniture, old and broken, appeared to be the same ones from her time.

“What about my brothers?”

“Joãozinho is in prison. He fell in with some bad company. Tião disappeared one day and never came back. Like you.”

“I came back, mommy. Open your gift.”

Sebastiana opened the package.

“What am I going to do with something like this?”

“Make a dress.”

“A dress? Me, walking around in a silk dress here in the favela?”

“You’re going to leave the favela,” said Salete impulsively. “I’ve come to take you to live with me.”

Sebastiana covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

Salete approached her mother. Affectionately, she caressed that swollen body racked by sobs.

“Forgive me, mommy.”

They both cried, hugging. Along with the pain and repentance she felt, Salete also thought her mother needed a bath.

“
I’D LIKE
to talk to you.”

“Yes.”

“May I come by your place?”