Winning the Game and Other Stories (20 page)

“We're going to wait for the commissioner,” the cop said.

“This guy stole two thousand from my client. It must be hidden somewhere on his person,” I said.

“You can frisk me. Go ahead, frisk me!” Viveca challenged, spreading his arms.

None of the policemen showed any interest in frisking Viveca. That's when I had the flash. I grabbed Viveca's hair and yanked it. The hair came off in my hand and four bills of five hundred flew into the air and fell to the floor.

“That's the money he stole from my client,” I said, relieved.

“He gave it to me, he gave it to me, I swear it,” said Viveca, without much conviction.

Before they put Viveca in the lockup, they noticed he had a number of old marks on both arms. He must have used that trick several times before.

“You'll have to wait for the commissioner,” the injured cop said.

I gave him my card. “I'll stop by later,
OK
? One other thing, let's pretend we didn't find the money, all right? My client won't mind.”

“We'll need to talk with you, if not tonight, one of these days.” I looked at him and saw we'd just made a deal.

“No problem. Just give me a call,” I said.

I took off like a jet in the Mercedes. I got to the hotel and looked up the manager. I took two of the twenty notes of five hundred that I had in my pocket, gave them to him and said, “I want to see the registration card for a guest who was here a couple of hours ago.”

“I can't do that,” he said.

I gave him two more bills. “The guy's my client,” I said.

“I don't want any trouble!”

“Give me the card, you sonofabitch, or you'll have trouble you'll never see the end of. It was a minor he had with him, and you'll be royally screwed.”

The manager brought me the cards. There was J.J.'s full name. Profession: bank employee. Irony or lack of imagination? The other card read Viveca Lindfords, resident of Nova Iguaçu. Where the shit had he gotten that name? I put both cards in my pocket.

I rushed home. What a car that was. I'd have to transfer the title to my name backdated to Friday, for the protection of my client….I got home and went in shouting, “Princess! I'm back.” But the blonde had vanished. My pockets full of money, a Mercedes at the curb, and what? I was a sad and unlucky man. I'd never see the rich blonde again, I knew.

“YOUR BLADDER WILL HAVE TO BE
removed entirely,” Roberto said. “And in these cases a place is prepared for the urine to be stored before it's excreted. A part of your intestine will be converted into a small sac, connected to the ureters. The urine from that receptacle will be directed to a bag placed in an opening in your abdominal wall. I'm describing the procedure in layman's terms so you can understand. The bag will be hidden by your clothes and will have to be emptied periodically. Have I been clear?”

“Yes,” I replied, lighting a cigarette.

“I'd like to schedule the surgery immediately following the tests I'm asking for. Did I tell you about the relationship between bladder cancer and smoking?”

“I don't remember.”

“Three out of five cases of bladder cancer are linked to smoking. The link between smoking and bladder cancer is especially strong among men.”

“I promise I'll stop smoking.”

“This year, worldwide, there will be close to three hundred thousand cases of bladder cancer.”

“Really?”

“It's the fourth most common type of cancer and the seventh leading cause of death from cancer.”

I felt like telling Roberto to stop bugging me, but besides being my doctor he was also my friend.

“Bladder cancer,” he continued, “can occur at any age, but it usually hits people over fifty. You'll be fifty next month. You're a month older than me.”

“I'm late for an appointment. I have to go, Roberto.”

“Don't forget to have the tests done.”

I ran out. I didn't have any appointment. I wanted to smoke another cigarette in peace. And I also needed to meet with someone who could get me a gun. I remembered my brother.

I phoned him.

“Do you still have that weapon?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Want to sell it?”

“No.”

“Aren't you afraid one of your children will find the gun and shoot the other one in the head? Something like that happened the other day. It was in the papers.”

“My gun is locked inside a drawer.”

“According to the paper, so was that poor guy's.”

“I didn't read anything about it.”

“You always say you only read the headlines. That didn't make the headlines because it happens every day.”

“And just how did it happen?”

“The boy was playing cowboys and Indians with his brother and the tragedy occurred. Any day now I'm going to read in the newspaper that one nephew of mine killed the other playing a game.”

“Enough with the foreboding.”

“I'll stop by there tonight.”

When I got to my brother's house he said, “Take a look at this drawer. You think a couple of kids could break that lock?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Want to see me break into that piece of shit?”

“You're an adult.”

“Where's Helena?”

“In the bedroom.”

“Have her come out here.”

I told his wife about the article in the newspaper, which I had made up.

“I'm constantly asking Carlos to get rid of that damned thing, but he won't listen,” said Helena.

“I came here to buy the revolver, but this idiot doesn't want to sell.”

“What are you going to do with the gun?” Carlos asked.

“Nothing. Own it, that's all. I've always wanted a revolver.”

Helena and my brother argued for a time. She won the debate when she said that one of the boys could get hold of the key while my brother was sleeping, or when he forgot the key in a place where the kids could find it, or on some other occasion. Finally, Carlos opened the drawer and took out the gun.

“And to make things worse, you keep the thing loaded,” I said, after examining the firearm.

“You irresponsible madman,” said Helena, furious, “you always told me the revolver wasn't loaded. Listen, let your brother take that piece of crap with him, now. Otherwise I'm moving out and taking the children.”

I got the revolver and went back to my apartment. I phoned my girlfriend. I felt like going to the bathroom but knew I'd see signs of blood in the urine, which always sent a shiver down my spine. That could spoil my time with her. I urinated with my eyes closed and, also with my eyes closed, flushed the toilet several times.

While I was waiting for my girlfriend, I thought about the future, smoking and drinking whiskey. I was going to spend the rest of my life filling with urine a bag stuck to my body, which would then have to be emptied somehow or other. How could I go to the beach? How could I make love to a woman? I imagined the horror she would feel upon seeing that thing.

My girlfriend arrived and we went to bed.

“You're worried about something,” she said, after a time.

“I'm not feeling well.”

“Don't worry, sweetheart, we can just talk; I love talking with you.”

This is one of the worst phrases a man can hear when he's naked with a naked woman in bed.

We got up and got dressed without looking at each other. We went into the living room. We talked a little. My girlfriend looked at her watch, said, “I have to go, love,” kissed me on the cheek, left, and I shot myself in the chest.

But the story doesn't end there. I should have shot myself in the head, but it was in the chest and I didn't die.

During my convalescence, Roberto came to see me several times to say we didn't have much time, but we could still do the bladder surgery, successfully.

It was done. Now I easily empty the urine bag. It's well hidden under my clothes; no one realizes it's there, over my abdomen. The cancer appears to have been entirely eliminated. I no longer have a girlfriend, and I'm addicted to crossword puzzles. I stopped going to the beach. I did go once, to throw the gun into the sea.

I'm forty years old, a sensitive man who likes music, poetry, and cinema. I'm a lawyer, single, and live alone. I'm looking for a lasting relationship of love and respect.
INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC.

I spent a week, me, Incorrigible Romantic, visiting chat rooms and was getting discouraged, when the woman I was looking for showed up:

DEAR INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC,
Like you, I am also looking for a lasting relationship with someone worthy and affectionate. I too love music and poetry and especially cinema. Tell me more about yourself.
LOUISE BROOKS.

DEAR LOUISE BROOKS,
I've never married, not because I lacked the financial conditions to do so, just the opposite, I'm a man of means, despite living a modest life. I've never married because I haven't met the ideal woman. They say there's no such thing, that it's a romantic illusion. But I refuse to accept such pessimism. That's why I used the pseudonym Incorrigible Romantic. What about you? Why Louise Brooks?

DEAR INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC,
Louise Brooks was a beautiful actress in silent films. One day a boyfriend gave me a picture of her that looked so much like me that I still have it even now. A woman with an air of mystery, which I, to tell the truth, don't have. I'm an open book. I've never been married either and am looking for the ideal man. I know I'm going to find him. Who knows if he's you. Do you have a girlfriend?
LOUISE BROOKS.

DEAR LOUISE,
No, I don't have a girlfriend. I would like to meet you. You must be thinking, he doesn't know me, how can he want to meet me? But I'm sure we're going to get along very well. Give it some thought.
ROMANTIC.

DEAR ROMANTIC,
I'm a shy person, I live with my mother, I'm doing this crazy thing for the first time in my life, talking with a stranger on the Internet. I don't know if I should go any further with this. I'm afraid.
LOUISE.

I was anxious to get that woman.

DEAR LOUISE,
I'm a shy person like you, it's the first time I've done this. But I know, a type of premonition, that we're going to get along very well. May I visit your home? I know your mother will like me.
ROMANTIC.

DEAR ROMANTIC,
At my house it's impossible, it will have to be at yours. Give me your address. I'll be there tomorrow, at nightfall.
KISSES, LOUISE.

DEAR LOUISE,
My address is on Gomes Monteiro, third floor. It's a four-story building, one apartment per floor, one of those old buildings that real estate speculation hasn't managed to destroy. Call on the intercom and I'll buzz you in. Anxiously awaiting you.
ROMANTIC.

I was tense all day, and as the time approached I got worse. I had to get that woman.

Then the intercom rang.

“It's Louise.”

I pushed the button. A short time later the bell to my apartment rang. I opened the door.

She was a very pale woman, with hair so dark it looked dyed. She was wearing a miniskirt that displayed her beautiful, long white legs.

“Come in, please.”

There she stood, the woman I was looking for. She came in. I asked her to have a seat.

“A lovely apartment. Is it yours?”

“I have another one, in the Barra. I rent this one.”

“My real name is Diana.”

“Mine is Carlos.”

“Take a look at this photo of Louise Brooks,” she said.

I looked. A black and white photo. Her hair was of an unusual blackness and her skin was very white. A beautiful woman.

“Want something to drink?”

“A little whiskey.”

I got from the pantry a bottle of whiskey, one of mineral water, and a bucket of ice.

“I like mine without ice, just whiskey and water, more whiskey than water,” I said.

“Ice with mine, please, and lots of water.”

I fixed our drinks and put the glasses on a tray.

“Do you have anything to munch on?” she asked.

“I'll check inside there, be right back,” I replied.

I dawdled, sitting in the pantry holding the bag of cookies. I wanted to give her time.

After some minutes I returned. Louise lifted her glass.

“I'd like to make a toast, in hopes that our relationship is a lasting one, as you said in your e-mail.”

I raised my glass to my lips.

“Before drinking I'd like to get something salty from the kitchen,” I said. “I only brought cookies.”

I went to the kitchen, carrying my glass. I returned with a plate of savory snacks.

I raised the glass. “To a lasting relationship,” I said.

“Cheers,” she answered, clinking her glass against mine.

We drank while we chatted.

She had lost her father, and the widowed mother she lived with was very controlling. She had no other relatives.

I told her I had four sisters, all older than me. I said I would like to travel with her, go to Paris or New York. I already had the money for the trip put aside. She said she'd like to see Katmandu.

“I'm going to get more water from the kitchen,” I said, getting up.

But as soon as I stood up, I staggered, supporting myself on the back on the armchair.

“I feel a bit dizzy …”

She hugged me.

“Are you really dizzy or is that just a trick so I'll put my arms around you?” She grabbed my cock, which was soft. “In a little while I'll make it hard. Sit down on the sofa for a moment,” she said.

I sat down and immediately my head fell forward.

“Carlos, Carlos, are you all right?”

No answer.

Soon afterwards, she shook my arm.

“Carlos, can you hear me?”

I remained silent.

I heard the sound of Diana trying to open the bedroom door. I felt her hands going through my pockets. Then I heard her voice, she must be talking on a cell phone.

“Igor, he collapsed. The things must be locked in another room. Yes, I'll wait. You know the address, don't you? Ring the buzzer.”

I lay there in the armchair, not moving. I heard the buzzer.

“It's Igor,” said the voice on the intercom.

“Come on up,” said Diana.

Sound of the door being opened.

“Was it easy?” A man's voice.

“A piece of cake. I think there's jewels, cash, everything that counts in that locked bedroom. But I couldn't find the key.”

“It must be in his pocket.”

“I searched him. There's no key. Igor, let's do the guy, the whole bit.”

“I don't like that, Marta.”

“He saw my goddamn face. If you cut his throat, he won't feel a thing. The whole bit, Igor, and you walk away with half and get to screw me too.”

“Let's break down that door,” said Igor.

But the door opened before they could break it down.

The two cops working with me came out of the bedroom with guns pointed at them. They ordered the couple to get down on the floor with their hands behind them.

While the pair were being handcuffed, I got up from the sofa.

“Marta Castro and Igor da Silva, you're under arrest for the murder of Edgard Gouveia,” I said.

They began a heated argument in which Igor said that it was Marta's idea, that she had forced him to kill the guy, and Marta said she had tried to stop him but Igor had killed him anyway.

“It was you who killed him,” Marta repeated.

“You gave the order, you whore,” Igor said.

The argument went on all the way to the precinct, where they were booked and held without bail. They would be sentenced to long prison terms.

Before being locked away, Marta spoke with me.

“You didn't black out, and I put a heavy dose of barbiturates in your drink. What happened?”

“When I went to the kitchen, I switched glasses. The one I drank out of was clean.”

“How did you discover me?”

“By examining the computer belonging to your victim, Edgard Gouveia, whom you killed by cutting his throat. It was all there, the chat with Louise Brooks. You should have changed names.”

“But I wanted to be her. Louise looks a lot like me, doesn't she?”

“Yes, a lot,” I replied.

And she did, really. An unusual face. Marta could be a photographic model or an actress in film. Without even changing her name. But by the time she gets out of prison it'll be too late.