Crimes of August: A Novel: 5 (Brazilian Literature in Translation Series) (7 page)

“What that guy says doesn’t matter to me. You can tell him that.”

“How can you say that, sir?”

“At the next Marian Congregation meeting you can tell him.”

“Sir, I haven’t entered the Congregation yet. I’m still thinking about it. I went to a meeting last Tuesday, at the Liceu Literário Português, to see what it was like. There were over four hundred congregants. The president of the Catholic Archdiocese Confederation, Eurípedes Cardoso de Meneses, gave a speech against Samuel Wainer’s magazine
Flan
.”

“Rosalvo, I’ve got other things to do.”

“Those Jews who run
Flan
published an article that’s offensive to our Catholic pride. Eurípedes had come from a meeting with Cardinal Dom Jaime de Barros Câmara, at the Palácio São Joaquim, where it was decided that priests would say in their sermons that Catholics shouldn’t read newspapers that support corruption. The congregants were pissed off at the article. Eurípedes asked people to send protest telegrams and letters to
Flan
and
Última Hora
with two phrases: ‘Long live the Pope!’ and ‘Down with
Última Hora
and
Flan
!’”

“Long live the Pope . . . Changing the subject, what did you find out about Pedro Lomagno?”

“Just let me finish the story. Suddenly everyone at the Liceu Literário Português was yelling ‘Long live the Pope! Down with
Última Hora
and
Flan
!’ Mr. Ramos told me that normally they ended the meeting by reciting a Salve Regina, but Tuesday there was nothing but vivas and down withs. As soon as the meeting was over, we went out into the street shouting ‘Long live the Pope!’ and ‘Down with
Última Hora
and
Flan
!’ Suddenly we were ripping up copies of
Última Hora
on newsstands in the neighborhood. You know that I’m Catholic and a Lacerdist, but I’m not a fanatic like those congregants. I think I’ll tell Mr. Morais that I’m not going to enter the Congregation.”

“I’m not interested in that. Talk about Pedro Lomagno.”

Rosalvo took a small notepad from his pocket.

“Lomagno’s father was a well known fascist who financed the Brazilian Integralist Party until 1938, when the ‘green hens’ attempted that putsch that failed. Then Lomagno’s old man changed sides and backed Getúlio, who had wiped out his party. The son was never interested in the Integralists, but it’s also true that he was a young child when Plínio Salgado ran the party. In any case, the boy’s thing is to make money. He was Gomes Aguiar’s partner in Cemtex but never performed any function in the firm. Cemtex, according to the
Tribuna da Imprensa
, obtained a scandalous import license from the Bank of Brazil, through the skullduggery of a fast-buck operator named Luiz Magalhães.”

Luiz Magalhães again. Mattos’s stomach burned.

“Claudio is also a Cemtex partner. The way things look, our friends have been up to their necks in the same schemes from an early age. I think that’s the crux of it.”

“Enough of crux. Proceed.”

“Lomagno plays polo at the Itanhangá Club. High-class guy. A polo player uses four thoroughbreds during the match.” Pause. “One good thing about being a cop is that you’re always learning things.”

“What about José Silva?”

“It’s hard finding the boy, I mean, the thirty-year-old fag he must be by now. I got hold of his old address—my brother-in-law the beadle arranged it. I don’t do anything for him, but even so—”

“Proceed,” Mattos interrupted.

“He lived in a house on Avenida Atlântica. I went there, and you know what I discovered? An enormous building where the house used to be. And the houses on each side had also been demolished. It won’t be long before all the houses on Avenida Atlântica are turned into skyscrapers.”

“Proceed.”

“There’s no neighborhood left where I can ask questions. I’m back at square one.”

“Stop in bakeries, grocery stores, businesses on nearby streets.”

“Good idea.” Pause. “Did the madam come through?”

“No.”

“She didn’t say anything?”

“Nothing. Move ahead.”

Rosalvo left. Mattos called Antonio Carlos at Forensics.

“Got anything for me?”

“We’re running a complete examination of everything found at the scene. You know how long that takes. And we found a lot of stuff, trace evidence, blood, mucus, saliva, sperm, feces, urine, hair samples. All I can give you is some preliminary information.”

“Start with the blood.”

“The blood on the sheet isn’t the same as the victim’s. The victim’s is
AB
, Rh negative. The blood on the sheet is A, Rh positive. Probably the criminal’s. The victim had blood in his mouth that wasn’t his. He must have taken a good bite out of his killer.”

“Hair?”

“There were two hairs on the soap we found in the shower. From examining the medulla and the pigmentation of the cortex, we concluded they’re not the dead man’s.”

“Are they from a man or a woman?”

“We don’t even know for sure what part of the body they’re from. We know they didn’t come from the head of either a man or a woman. Or from the armpit, leg, or nostril. And they’re not an eyelash or eyebrow.”

“That leaves beard and mustache.”

“And the scrotum, anus, and vagina. God made man an animal covered with characteristic hairs, just to make it hard for forensics specialists.” Pause. “But I’m using a new technique in my examinations. Maybe I’ll discover something.”

“What about the sperm?”

“I think it’s the victim’s. In a couple of days you’ll know everything. I’ll call you.”

Next, Mattos called the morgue and spoke with the medical examiner who’d conducted the autopsy.

“The bruises and hematomas of the soft parts of the neck, the muscular tearing, the lesions of the carotids, and the fracturing of the hyoid bone indicate that the guy died from strangulation. But I can’t get the report to you till next week.”

Shortly before Mattos ended his shift, Salete phoned to say that she’d stop by his place. She was anxious to see if Mother Ingrácia’s sorcery had worked. She hoped that through the old macumba woman’s black magic, as soon as she entered Mattos’s apartment the inspector would take her in his arms and, after a passionate kiss, ask her to marry him.

“
THIS EXCESSIVE HYDROCHLORIC ACID
will be the end of me,” said Mattos, opening the door to let Salete in.

“Drink a glass of milk,” the girl said, disconsolate after standing with arms spread for several seconds, hoping for a show of affection from the inspector.

“I already did.”

“Drink another one.”

Salete opened the refrigerator. On the shelves was nothing but some bottles of milk and lots of eggs, some of them hollow. Salete, who felt repugnance toward eggs and had never eaten one in her entire life, had watched in disgust as Mattos made two small holes in the end of an egg and sucked it, “like he was a possum.” Someone had told her that possums sucked eggs that way.

“I don’t want milk.”

“Then suck an egg. It doesn’t bother me. I just won’t watch.”

“I’m going to chew another antacid.”

Salete watched Mattos chew the antacid tablet.

“You don’t . . . don’t feel like it?”

“I will. In a little while.”

“I’m not bothering you, am I?”

“You never bother me.”

“I went to the Getúlio Vargas Foundation and enrolled in the secretarial course.”

“Congratulations. That makes me . . . feel like it.” It was a lie.

“Let me see.” Salete reached toward the inspector’s pubis. He backed away.

“In a little while. In a commentary on the Talmud, a scholar known as Raba said that the erection of the male member can only occur with ‘the aid of reason.’”

“You read that in that book?” Salete pointed to the book the inspector had just picked up.

“A different one.”

“I think you read too much. Dona Floripes said that a man who frequented her house went crazy from so much reading. He wanted the girls to pee on him.”

“If I go crazy, I promise not to ask you to urinate on me.”

“You should do other things. You should dance. Dancing is good for the head.”

“On top of everything else, the doorman told me the water is going to be out until six o’clock. Let’s wait.”

The doorbell rang.

“Who can that be?” said Salete.

Mattos opened the door.

“Did I give you my address?” asked the inspector, surprised to see Alice in the hallway.

“I saw it in the phone book.” Pause. “Colette died, did you know. On the third. She’s going to be buried day after tomorrow, in the Père Lachaise.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“You said you liked her books.” Alice tried to identify the book the inspector had in his hand, unsuccessfully.

“Right now I have my own cadavers to worry about. I’m a cop, or did you forget?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

“I have a visitor.”

Alice raised her gaze past Mattos’s shoulder and saw Salete.

“I’m sorry . . . I came by to—I’ll phone you later . . . Is it all right if I call you later?”

“Yes. Call, if you want to.”

The inspector closed the door.

“Who was that woman?”

“A friend.”

“Pretty.” Pause. “I’m going to see if the water’s come,” said Salete, without moving from her position. “Are you mad because she left when she saw me?”

“No.”

“She’s a lady . . . I saw that right away. Is she your other girlfriend? The real one?”

“It’s nothing like that. Let’s change the subject.”

“You’re mad.” Pause. “I didn’t know you liked blondes . . .” Pause. “If you’d asked, I would’ve gone away and left you here with her, without getting upset.”

In Dona Floripes’s house she had been taught that men existed to be pleased, that men existed to be deceived and exploited, and therefore it was necessary to know how to dissimulate.

But she didn’t want to deceive or exploit this man. “It’s not true. I was jealous of her. I would’ve been very unhappy if you had sent me away.”

Mattos gave Salete a kiss on the cheek.

“I’ll go see if the water’s come,” said Salete.

When she entered the bathroom she saw her face in the mirror of the medicine cabinet. However small, a mirror always attracted her gaze.

She brought her face close to the mirror. She would like very much to be blonde and have blue eyes, like that woman, and like that woman know how to look directly at others, as the blonde woman had done when looking at her from the door. Now, from up close, she contemplated her face in the mirror. The eyes were very round; everyone said it was almond-shaped eyes that were pretty. The eyebrows were thick and dark, the nose too long, the mouth too large. Why had God made her so ugly? What saved her was her body.

She removed her clothes and tried to see her body in the small mirror. She would have liked at that moment to see herself nude in a large mirror in order to forget the blonde lady. At home she would dance naked in front of an enormous wall mirror, and the sight of her nude body in motion always caused her immense happiness. But in Mattos’s apartment there was only that crummy mirror that let her see only her horrible face.

The pipes in the bathroom began to rumble. The water was back. Salete filled the bathtub, taking care to see that the temperature was right. Then she stood beside the tub. She didn’t need to strike a pose; she wasn’t like many of the girls she’d met at Dona Floripes’s, who would try to appeal to johns by hiding their breasts and butt behind cloths, sucking in their belly, contorting themselves by placing one leg over the other to conceal the curved opening between their thighs. She shouted: “You can come in.”

Mattos entered the bathroom.

“Get rid of that book.”

Salete watched the inspector put the book in a corner, on the clothes hamper. Where was the look of surprise at her nudity, or that other look, that of desire? She took Mattos’s hand and placed it on her breast.

“Can you hear my heart?”

She had seen that in a film. It wasn’t one of the clever whore’s tricks that she’d learned in Dona Floripes’s house; whenever she was nude in front of Mattos, her heart would pound, and he must be able to feel that with his fingers. Her body trembled.

“Yes, I can hear your heart beat.” He turned his back to her, picked up the book, and left the bathroom.

Salete retrieved her clothes from the floor and dressed sadly. She went back to the living room. Mattos, his elbows supported on the table, was deeply absorbed in reading the book in front of him. Salete left in silence, without the inspector noticing.

IN THE SENATE GARAGE
, Senator Vitor Freitas, accompanied by his aide Clemente, got into the official car at his disposal and ordered the driver to take them to the Aeronautics Club. The club, on Marechal Ancora Square, wasn’t far from the Senate; normally the car would arrive in less than ten minutes, but that day, after half an hour stuck on Avenida Presidente Antonio Carlos, the senator got out of the car and, along with his adviser, walked the rest of the way.

A crowd was at the door of the club, and several times Vitor Freitas had to invoke his status as senator to finally be allowed to enter.

The coffin with the body of Major Vaz had just been sealed and was being covered with the Brazilian flag.

“We’re late,” Clemente said.

“Where’s the brigadier, Eduardo Gomes? I need for him to see me here,” said Vitor Freitas. The brigadier had been the
UDN
presidential candidate in 1946 and 1950. In the first election, he had lost to General Gaspar Dutra, who had been Vargas’s secretary of war during the dictatorship. In the second, he had lost to Vargas himself, an unexpected victory for the ex-dictator, who thus avenged himself on one of the military officers who had led the movement that deposed him in 1945. Despite being twice defeated, the brigadier maintained in the eyes of the middle class the romantic aura as a revolutionary hero acquired during the episode of the Eighteen of the Fort, on July 5, 1922: seventeen officers and soldiers and one civilian left Copacabana Fort and headed for the Catete Palace, where the commander of the fort had been taken prisoner for insubordination, ready to fight an unequal battle. They were marching along Avenida Atlântica when they were attacked by forces loyal to the government of President Epitácio Pessoa. The civilian and a lieutenant died. Three officers, among them Eduardo Gomes, were seriously wounded.