Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

“Yes.”

“I can’t hear you. Louder.”

“Yes, I was.”

“You saw everything, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What? I didn’t hear you.”

“I saw it.”

“How did it happen?”

“That individual was a very rude person, he insulted and hit my son. . The boy lost his head. .”

“Speak louder. What did the boy do?”

“My son was much weaker. . And the other man hitting him, hitting him mercilessly. . Then he picked up the lug wrench to defend himself. . Just one blow and the man fell. .”

“Cosme and his wife are expecting a child, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Speak louder.”

“Yes.”

“It’ll be your first grandchild?”

“Yes.”

“Louder.”

“Yes.”

“Louder.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“The first grandchild. .” said Mattos.

Adelino lowered his eyes.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” said Adelino, wiping his eyes.

They remained silent for several moments.

“Where are you from?”

“From Sabrosa. .”

“Sabrosa. . Where’s that near?”

“Vila Real.”

“Trás-os-Montes?”

Adelino nodded.

“The land of Camilo Castelo Branco.”

Adelino didn’t react to the writer’s name.

“Your son is going to be in prison for twenty years.”

Again, Adelino wiped his eyes.

“I know why you’re crying.”

Adelino’s body shook.

“Because you’re ashamed of accusing your own son of a crime you yourself committed.”

Adelino nodded, his head hanging forward, as if he were about to say something. His body shook again.

“Tell me how it was. The truth.” Mattos placed his hand lightly on Adelino’s shoulder.

“No, it wasn’t me. I should have defended my son, but it wasn’t me.”

“Tell the truth. We know it was you. You’ll serve a shorter term than your son. . You’re an old man. .”

Adelino wiped his eyes. Pensive, he took some time before he spoke.

“It was me, yes,” he finally confessed. “I lost my head when I saw the boy being beaten by that animal. Then I grabbed the lug wrench. .”

The Portuguese went on to say he had struck the man in the head, the man fell and lay still, his eyes open. Horrified, Adelino and his son saw that the man was dead. The family, called together, had decided that Cosme should take the blame, as the old man, who had a heart condition, would never survive being in prison.

“Are you willing to repeat that to the clerk and sign a paper with your confession?”

“I don’t know how to read or write,” said Adelino, who appeared relieved.

“No matter. We’ll call two witnesses.”

Mattos went with Adelino to the clerk’s room. On the way he bumped into Biriba, the trusty, and asked him to buy a box of antacids at the pharmacy.

Adelino’s confession was signed by the two witnesses who had been rounded up in the neighborhood, an attendant at a school and the counterman at a hardware store.

“You can return to your orange grove. For now.”

“I can leave?”

“Yes. You weren’t arrested within twenty-four hours of the offense. We’re not even going to ask for preventive custody. You’re going to await trial in freedom. A good lawyer can get you acquitted.”

“What about my son?”

“He’ll be released after a few formalities.”

“Jesus heard my prayers!”

The inspector went to the lockup. Cosme was eating a codfish ball from the lunch pail.

“Want one, inspector?”

Mattos took the codfish ball. “Come with me,” he told Cosme.

The youth followed the inspector, pallid, as if knowing what he was about to hear. They went to the area where Cosme usually saw his wife.

“Your father confessed that he killed that guy in your workshop.”

“It was me, it was me! Papa doesn’t know what he’s saying!”

“He confessed in the presence of two witnesses.”

“You can’t do this to my father. He’s a sick man. Don’t you see he’s sacrificing himself for me?”

“I’m very sorry.”

“My father doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s a sick man. It was me who killed that guy.”

“Your father killed him.”

“I swear it was me! He’s a sick man.”

“Get him a good lawyer.”

There was a knock on the door. “Can the boy’s father come in?” asked the guard.

Mattos left as soon as the old man entered the room. He walked down the corridor. His stomach ached. He saw that he still had the codfish ball in his hand. He crushed it against the wall until it crumbled into small pieces that fell to the floor. He wiped his hand on his pants. Then he banged his head twice against the wall, cursing.

Still on Wednesday afternoon, Pádua returned to the precinct to see Mattos. Rosalvo was there, with the inspector.

“What happened to your head?” asked Pádua.

“I banged it against a wall. I’m thinking of taking Rosalvo with us.”

“Better not to,” said Pádua.

In the taxi, heading downtown.

“That Rosalvo, besides being a Lacerdist and a Jesus freak, is a thief. He’s gonna want to put the squeeze on the madam who runs the Senate Annex. He wouldn’t get anywhere, but it’d stir up a real shitstorm.”

“He’s not a thief. Maybe he doesn’t even take numbers money,” answered Mattos.

“Thieves start with game money, then go on to take from everybody. When it comes to honesty, once the guy pops his cherry, he never stops. Careful, one of these days that scumbag will end up taking payoffs in your name.”

“He doesn’t have the courage to do that,” said Mattos, putting an antacid tablet in his mouth.

“Did you let those dirtbags I arrested go?”

“Yes. They didn’t have a record.”

“Did you already get the records?”

“Not yet. But I cut the red tape and called headquarters, and they gave me the information on the phone.”

“Holy shit! That’s illegal, don’t you know that? You put yourself at risk for a bunch of scumbags. You expecting some kind of medal for that? One of these days you’re gonna get fucked — they’ll open up an internal investigation and kick your ass out. Fired for the public good. HQ has had its eye on you ever since that crazy strike you tried to organize.”

They got out on Avenida Rio Branco, at the door of the São Borja Building. The building, eighteen stories, was relatively new, having been built during the war. Across from it, the Senate palace.

“After all, exactly what is it you’re after? Let’s not rattle Laura’s cage unnecessarily.”

“I want information about Senator Vitor Freitas. You think she’ll come across?”

“She does for me.” Pause. “Look, I’ve never had anything with her.” Pause. “Or with any whore.”

“But she’s a friend of yours.”

“Friend, my ass. She’s my informant.”

The São Borja had an ample entrance, a long corridor with several businesses, a tobacco shop, a café, a barbershop, and a record store — the Casa Carlos Wehrs. Mattos remembered then that in that store, some months earlier, he had bought the scores for La Traviata and La Bohème . If he were alone, he would use the opportunity to ask what the long-play of La Traviata cost.

The cops walked down the corridor where the elevators were, three on each side. The São Borja was a mixed-occupancy building, residential and commercial. In a large glassed-in panel Mattos noted some names, followed by room numbers: Brazilian Workers Party, Radiobrás, Odeon Records, Rádio Copacabana. A Workers Party poster read: “Vote for the candidates of the Workers Party and participate in the gigantic struggle for the transformation of Brazil into a great nation. Social Justice. Economic Emancipation. Nationalistic Policy. Defense of Petroleum. Respect for the Minimum Wage. Democratic Enfranchisement. Union Freedom. Agrarian Reform. A Workers Party government is a government of the people.”