Authors: Patricia Melo
Anyone who hasn't been through it, I told Sulamita more than a hundred times, can't understand. You don't have the faintest idea of what a death without a body is.
Of course I do, it's like a crime without a body: it doesn't exist.
It's more than that, it's like being in purgatory. There are days when you accept that the person is dead. Then you cry and pray. At other times, you hear a sound at the door and think he's come back. You run to the living room and there's no one there. And if the phone rings in the middle of the night you pick it up, full of hope. And you never stop suffering. Or believing. Life doesn't matter anymore, but you also can't die completely, because there's always the possibility of the door opening or the telephone ringing. And you want to be there when it happens.
After seventeen calls making threats, the moment had come for the ransom, and we knew it. We barely slept that night.
The day before, I had called José Beraba demanding that he rent the car with license plate 3422 from the Panorama agency. Sulamita didn't want José Beraba to use one of the family's luxurious and flashy vehicles for the operation, and we had taken care to verify the plate numbers of the available cars at the rental agency.
Sulamita continued delving into what she called “technical questions.” Now, when she aired her ideas and theories, she said “I” and “you.” I did the same thing, I thought. At the beginning there was a certain reserve on our part, we didn't speak in such personal terms, there wasn't any “I” or “you,” just the fisherman. The fisherman who called the Berabas late at night. And made threats. Now, I thought, we were that fisherman.
Before leaving the bakery, Sulamita told me that at the end of the afternoon she'd bring her uncle's car for the operation. It's better for it to stay with you. I'll take a taxi, she said.
I walked with her to the bus stop.
I love you, she said.
In such situations I always felt obliged to say “Me too.” And I always remembered Rita. “Me too,” Rita used to say. It's the response of someone who feels nothing.
Here comes your bus, I told Sulamita.
Do you love me?
Yes, I answered.
Then say it.
I already did.
Say: “Sulamita, I love you.”
Sulamita, I love you.
She got on the bus and waved at me from the window, smiling, making me feel like a rat.
I went home to get the car, and before going to work I stopped by Eliana's.
Talk to your Indian, she said when I gave her money for purchases. That crazy woman refuses to eat, she just sits there with that imbecilic look on her face, and I've got two kids to take care of.
Serafina was sad, in the corner of the kitchen, huddled in a chair, her coarse ugly hands entwined in her lap. I felt enormous affection for her. I kneeled beside her and asked for a little more patience. Just a few more days and I'll take you away from here, I said. You're going to live with me and Sulamita.
She smiled. I think it was the first time I ever saw Serafina smile.
There weren't many teeth in her mouth.
The day was a long one. All I could feel was a wordless tension that left my nerves in tatters. I spent the entire time alone in the garage. I wasn't asked to do anything, I did absolutely nothing besides drink coffee with Dalva and chat with the pool man.
At certain moments I was totally convinced I should give up on our plan. I thought about Dona Lu and how she was suffering, and how all of it was similar to the ordeal my mother had gone through. The alternatives were complicated, I thought.
Killing Ramirez and Juan, running away to Rita, arranging false documents. I said to myself, Get out, over. But it was too late. My clandestine radio was off the air. Over and out. There wasn't anyone more inside me. I ruled, I decided. Just me.
At eight that evening Sulamita was on watch at the bus station.
Half an hour earlier, at home, we had reviewed the plan thoroughly, but she went on asking me the same questions.
Are you sure? she asked by phone.
I'm sure, I said.
Only say what's necessary. And disguise your voice. When you make contact, talk as if you were hoarse. Do exactly what we agreed. I'm going to keep tabs on the precinct by phone.
You already told me all that.
Is Junior's cell phone charged?
Fully charged.
I love you, she said.
Me too.
No matter what happens, we're in this together.
That's fine, I said, I gotta go.
At 8.10 p.m. I called José Beraba and told him to go by himself to the bus station and look for the public phones near the ticket window. Get in the rental car, I said. There's an envelope taped under the first telephone. Just follow the instructions.
Sulamita called me at 8.45 p.m. It's clear, she said. José Beraba is by himself. I'm taking a taxi to the gas station.
In the envelope were instructions for José Beraba to drive to the Krispan supermarket and look for a red piece of paper under the trash can to the right of the entrance.
I was waiting in the supermarket parking lot in Sulamita's aunt's car, an old VW whose tinted windows prevented me being seen from the outside.
Underneath the trash can we placed the following directions:
“Take Highway 26A to Kilometer 34. Wait for phone call.”
We set up a kind of treasure hunt, and Sulamita told me that was how kidnappers operated. You have to get the victim dazed, she said, and at the same time check how he acts at different stages. If the police are involved, we'll know.
Sulamita, who was already at the gas station at the entrance to 26A, phoned me when she saw Beraba's rental car heading toward Kilometer 34.
Ten minutes later, I arrived at the gas station. Sulamita got in the car, panting. Park back there, she said, pointing to a more protected area.
Then she called Joel at the precinct, with the excuse that she needed the number of a mutual friend. Sweetheart, he
said, is there anything you ask me with a smile that I don't do for you? he said. Don't suck up to me, Tranqueira, just give me the information. Before hanging up, she also asked to speak with Dudu.
The whole team's there, having their Friday night beer bust, she said when she hung up.
We waited a few minutes and then I called José Beraba's cell phone again. I told him to walk to the third lamp post on the highway, to his left, where there was an envelope with more instructions, beneath a rectangular stone.
Sulamita, always thinking of forensics, had prepared all the notes that afternoon. The final one read: “Take the side road at Kilometer 42. Park the car. Go four hundred meters toward Green Creek and wait there with the headlights off.”
We went toward the side road, taking a shortcut that started at the same abandoned farm where we had buried our cadaver. The shortcut came out at Green Creek on the other side of 26A. We hid the car behind a thicket and waited a bit, looking at the road, which was now just below us. From there we could see any vehicle that approached.
Minutes later we saw a car enter the side road and turn off its headlights. I called José Beraba again.
I'm already there, he said. It's very dark; I can't see anything.
Drive three hundred meters. You'll find a crossroad. Wait inside the car. With the lights off, I ordered.
I put on the mask and said goodbye to Sulamita. Wait until I turn on the headlights, I said before starting my walk.
I had already covered the same course three times with Sulamita, but at night things were very different. I walked carefully, afraid I would hurt myself. The darkness, however, was our guarantee. If any car approached, we would abort the operation. It took me over ten minutes to get to the crossroad.
José Beraba was inside the car. Only then did I turn on the flashlight, signaling. I kept the beam of light on the rancher's face, blinding him. As soon as he got out of the car I asked where the money was.
In the valise on the front seat, the passenger side, he said.
I turned off the flashlight, went to the car, opened and closed the door twice as if there were more people with me.
Don't call the police, I said. Keep your cell phone on.
What about my son? he asked.
You'll receive instructions.
I added that he was to go on until he got to the main road. It's an hour's walk, I said.
I turned on the headlights and took off at high speed.
It was like having no arms or legs. Tires, steering wheel, head, ideas, nothing. Just my heart beating out of control. I recalled the CD I had received from Rita two days ago. Like always, no return address. On it, an ultrasound image with the same black dot, but this time with sound.
Toom toom toom
, the creature pulsated. I spent half an hour at an Internet café downtown, listening to those heartbeats. Now, driving in the darkness, I felt like that black dot. A heart in the dark, nothing more. Pulsating.
At the agreed-upon location, Sulamita was waiting for me in the VW. I parked beside her, under a tree. No sign of movement, no one. Everything's fine, she said, coming over to my window. I opened the valise, wearing gloves, and transferred the money to a garbage bag she had brought. Then I left the valise in the rental car and put the key on top of one of the tires the way parking valets do.
Sulamita ran a cloth over the panel and locks to wipe away my fingerprints.
On the way home, using Junior's cell phone, I called José Beraba again and explained where he could find the rental car and where I'd left the ignition key.
If you keep on cooperating you'll have your son back soon, I said.
We arrived home at 10.20 p.m.
Sulamita spread the money on top of the bed and started saying holy shit. Holy shit, she repeated as she walked around the bed.
Holy shit. I couldn't believe it myself.
Good morning, man of the Pantanal, said Sulamita when we woke on Saturday. Now that we're almost rich, she said, all I want is some peace.
After returning the car to Sulamita's aunt, we went to the outdoor market in shorts and sandals with a list of purchases her mother had given by phone.
My father-in-law had stocked the refrigerator with beer and we spent Saturday around the barbecue grill.
I've never seen you drink so much, the old man told Sulamita.
Regina was happy on such occasions, shouting and thrashing around like some caged animal. At times her screams disturbed me. Calm your sister down, I asked Sulamita.
Around ten that night, when we were mellowed out on the living room sofa, watching television, Sulamita, hanging onto my neck, said she wanted to dance.
Where? I asked.
I don't know, wherever.
I've always hated nightclubs, I explained.
You don't understand. I need to. It's a real necessity.
I waited for Sulamita to bathe and get dolled up, and we went to a discotheque in the city, a veritable oven, with techno music that shattered my eardrums. She continued to hit the booze and at one point disappeared into the crowd entirely. I didn't find her till half an hour later, dancing by
herself, eyes closed, no rhythm, ignoring the music. When I approached, I saw she was crying. Enough, Sulamita, we've celebrated enough, I said.
I woke up Sunday with a dull pain in the back of my neck and a dry sandpaper tongue as if I'd eaten dirt. My eyes burned and I could barely sit up in bed. Sulamita, already showered, brought me a cup of coffee that Serafina had made. She was about to leave for her shift at the morgue.
Call now, she said. I want to leave with everything taken care of.
At noon precisely I called José Beraba and gave detailed information about where Junior's body was buried. There's a white fence post, I said, half a meter high, marking the spot.
He was silent.
Did you hear me? I asked.
Yes, he said. I can't believe it. You want me to dig up my own son, you piece of shit?
I hung up, not understanding.
What did he want us to do? asked Sulamita. Deliver the body to his house? Send it by mail?
She sighed, distressed.
Get rid of Junior's phone, she said. Throw it in the river. I'm leaving. I need to be there when everything happens.
And this is how everything happened:
José Beraba went with Dona Lu to the place we indicated. From there, even before opening the grave, he called Pedro Caleiro and asked the precinct chief to meet him.
Caleiro, after being apprised of the matter, called Joel and Dudu, along with the hostage team.
By five o'clock the body was at the morgue. I received it myself, Sulamita told me when she returned from work at eleven that night.
We were now in my bed, facing each other, holding hands.