Rubem Fonseca - Winning the Game and Other Stories

“And you believe they’re telling the truth. What about jewels? Don’t any of them have jewels? A gold wedding ring?”

“They’re telling the truth. Can we ask for jewels?”

“Why not? They’re for Jesus.”

The bishop’s face is unreadable.

“The devil hasn’t been there lately. I’ve been looking for him. I’m not afraid; he’s walking around the city and I’m going to find him,” Raimundo says.

“And when you find him, what do you plan to do?”

“If the bishop could enlighten me with his counsel …”

“You have to discover for yourself, in the sacred books, what you must do. Sylvester II made a pact with the devil, to achieve the Papacy and wisdom. Whenever the devil appears, it’s always to make a pact. Lucifer appeared to you, not to me. But remember, if the devil outsmarts you, it means you’re not a good pastor.”

“All good comes from God and all evil from the Devil,” Raimundo says.

“Yes, yes,” the bishop says with a bored sigh.

“But good can overcome evil.”

“Yes,” another sigh.

The lunch at the Timpanas continues. The old man speaks of the Ideal Cinema, on Carioca Street.

“The Ideal was on one side on the street, the Iris Cinema on the other. The Iris is still there. Now it shows pornographic films.”

“It may become a church,” Augusto says.

“At the night showings the Iris’s ceiling would open and let in the evening cool. You could see the stars in the sky,” the old man says.

“Only crazy people go to the movies to see stars,” Kelly says.

“How did the ceiling open?” Augusto asks.

“A very advanced engineering system for the time. Pulleys, pulleys … Rui Barbosa always used to go there, and sometimes I sat near him.”

“You sat near him?”

The old man notes a certain incredulity in Augusto’s voice. “What do you think? Rui Barbosa died just the other day, in 1923.”

“My mother was born in 1950,” Kelly says. “She’s an old woman who’s falling apart.”

“For a long time, after Rui died, and until the theater became a shoe store, his seat was separated by a velvet rope and there was a plaque saying This seat was occupied by Senator Rui Barbosa. I voted for him for president, twice, but Brazilians always elect the wrong presidents.”

“The theater became a shoe store?”

“If Rui were alive, he wouldn’t let them do that. The two facades, one of stone and the other of marble, and the glass marquee, a glass just like that in my skylight, are still there, but inside there’s nothing but piles of cheap shoes; it’s enough to break your heart,” says the old man.

“Shall we go there?” Augusto suggests to Kelly.

“I’m not going anywhere with you to see fountains, buildings falling to pieces and disgusting trees until you stop and listen to my life story. He doesn’t want to listen to the story of my life. But he listens to the story of everybody else’s life.”

“Why don’t you want to hear the story of her life?” the old man asks.

“Because I’ve already heard the life stories of twenty-seven whores, and they’re all the same.”

“That’s not the way to treat a girlfriend,” the old man says.

“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s someone I’m teaching to read and speak.”

“If she’d put in a front tooth, she might even be pretty,” says the old man.

“Why put in a tooth? I’m not going to be a whore anymore. I’ve given it up.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

On Monday, regretting having treated Kelly badly, even more so in light of the fact that she is learning to read with great rapidity, Augusto leaves his lodgings to go to Tiradentes Square to buy a semiprecious stone in the rough to give her as a gift. He has a friend, who goes by the false name Mojica, who buys and sells these stones and lives in the Hotel Rio on Silva Jardim and can give him a good price. Mojica, before establishing himself as a seller of stones, earned his living as a bagger of fat women, a specialty of lazy gigolos.

On Uruguaiana, hundreds of street vendors, prohibited by City Hall from setting up their stalls and assisted by unemployed youths and other passersby, plunder and sack the stores. Some security guards hired by the stores shoot into the air. The noise of broken store windows and of steel doors being battered down mixes with the screams of women running through the street. Augusto turns onto Ramalho Ortigão and takes Carioca in the direction of Tiradentes Square. The weather is overcast and it’s threatening to rain. He is almost at Silva Jardim when Pastor Raimundo appears unexpectedly in front of him.

“You disappeared,” says Pastor Raimundo, his voice tremulous.

“I’ve been very busy. Writing a book,” Augusto says.

“Writing a book … You’re writing a book … Can I ask about the subject?”

“No. Sorry,” says Augusto.

“I don’t know your name. May I ask your name?”

“Augusto. Epifânio.”

At that moment it starts to thunder and a heavy rain begins to fall.

“What do you want from me? A pact?”

“I went into your theater by chance, because of some selenium capsules.”

“Selenium capsules,” says the pastor, paling even more. Wasn’t selenium one of the elements used by the devil? He can’t remember.

“Good-bye,” says Augusto. Standing in the rain doesn’t bother him, but the ex-bagger of fat women is waiting for him.

The pastor grabs Augusto by the arm, in a flight of courage. “Is it a pact? Is it a pact?” He staggers as if about to faint, opens his arms, and doesn’t fall to the ground only because Augusto holds him up. Recovering his strength, the pastor frees himself from Augusto’s arms, yelling “Let me go, let me go, this is too much.”

Augusto disappears, entering the Hotel Rio. Raimundo shakes convulsively and falls in a faint. He lies for some time with his face in the gutter, wetted by the heavy rain, white foam coming out of the corner of his mouth, without attracting the attention of charitable souls, the police, or passersby in general. Finally, the water running in the gutter rises over his face and brings him back to consciousness; Raimundo gathers the strength to stand and walk unsteadily in search of the devil; he crosses the square, then Visconde do Rio Branco, proceeds staggeringly between the jobless musicians who meet at the corner of Avenida Passos under the marquee of the Café Capital, across from the João Caetano Theater; he passes the door of the church of Our Lady of Lampadosa, smells the odor of candles being burned inside there and crosses the street to the side where the theater is, running to avoid the automobiles; all over the city automobiles hit one another in the search for space to move in, and they run over slower or careless pedestrians. Dizzy, Raimundo leans against the base of a bronze statue of a short, fat man covered with pigeon crap, wearing a Greek skirt and Greek sandals and holding a sword, in front of the theater; beside it, a vendor selling undershorts and rulers pretends not to see his suffering. Raimundo turns left onto Alexandre Herculano, a small street with only one door, the back door of the School of Philosophy that appears never to be used, and finally enters a luncheonette on Conceição where he has a glass of guava juice and mulls over his unspeakable encounter. He has discovered the name behind which Satan is hiding, Augusto Epifânio. Augusto: magnificent, majestic; Epifânio: originating in a divine manifestation. Ha! He could expect nothing from Beelzebub less than pride and mockery. And if the one who calls himself Augusto Epifânio is not the Evil One himself, he is at least a partner in his iniquity. He remembers Exodus 22:18: “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”