Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

Clemente whispered in Freitas’s ear, “Take advantage of the chance to speak with General Caiado. It’s not a bad idea to stay on the good side of both Greeks and Trojans.”

The head of the president’s military cabinet, visibly uneasy, remained in a corner, accompanied by an adjutant. Caiado de Castro was there as the personal representative of President Vargas. The general had come directly from the Catete, where the Vargas family had gathered.

Freitas greeted Caiado, who recognized him.

“The president is deeply shocked by this barbarous crime. He has given strict orders to find those responsible, whomever it may hurt,” said Caiado.

“Vargas is facing this situation like the great statesman he is,” said Freitas, quickly taking his leave of the general. It was best not to commit to anyone. The situation was very fluid.

A throng of five thousand people accompanied the casket on foot to the São João Batista cemetery. Senator Vitor Freitas and his adviser had finally succeeded in insinuating themselves among the military and civilians surrounding Eduardo Gomes. Upon recognizing the brigadier, bystanders along the cortege route shouted to him, “Brigadier, keep democracy alive!” and “We’re going to sweep the criminals out of the palace!” The brigadier maintained a solemn and concentrated bearing.

It was 6:30 p.m. when they finally arrived at the cemetery. A canopy, with a lantern burning at its top, covered the tomb where Major Vaz was to be buried. When the body was lowered into the sepulcher, Vitor Freitas had managed to place himself between Tancredo Neves, the secretary of justice, and Cardinal Dom Jaime de Barros Câmara. “The police will do everything possible to bring to justice those responsible for this crime,” said the secretary in a weary voice when he recognized the senator beside him. Tancredo Neves had uttered that phrase dozens of times in the last twenty-four hours.

Before leaving the cemetery Vitor Freitas suddenly found himself beside Eduardo Gomes. For a few instants he didn’t know what to say, but his indecision was brief: “The death of this hero will be the birth of decency in Brazil,” he said, recalling a phrase he had read on a wreath back at the Aeronautics Club. He saw that the phrase had an effect on the brigadier. “I’m Senator Vitor Freitas, of the PSD,” he added. “Thank you, Senator,” replied Eduardo Gomes, in a voice heavy with emotion.

From the cemetery, Freitas and Clemente went to the home of the journalist Carlos Lacerda. The apartment was crowded with people, many of them uniformed military. Lacerda was leaning back on a sofa, his foot in a cast, elevated. Freitas approached the journalist. “A monstrosity,” he said. “This administration is one of lawlessness and insanity,” answered Lacerda. The senator spoke with various people to mark his presence, among them Generals Canrobert and Etchgoyen, Brigadier Trompowski, the lawyer Sobral Pinto, and the deputy Prado Kelly. He even spoke with Dona Olga, the journalist’s mother.

From Lacerda’s home, the senator and Clemente went to Ciro’s, a nightclub.

“What a day,” Freitas said after the waiter served him a double whiskey.

“You think the cruzeiro will be devaluated? It’s 18.82 to the dollar, official rate, and 64.30 in the black market,” said Clemente.

“You’re speculating in dollars?”

“I have to look out for myself. What you pay me in the Senate isn’t much. I have expensive habits. Let’s hear it, Vitor, answer.”

“Souza Dantas said the cruzeiro isn’t going to be devaluated. It’s going to be maintained at the official rate of 18.82.”

“I don’t believe anything coming from those fuckers in the government. If you find out anything, you’ll let me know immediately?”

“Of course I will, my angel. What a day! I think I deserve a rest.”

“I know what you need,” said Clemente, with a devious smile.

“Get me a good-looking boy this time.”

“I’ll see what I can do. But don’t forget, I deserve a rest myself.”

IT WAS ALREADY NIGHT when Salete arrived at the macumba site of Mother Ingrácia.

She related everything that had happened. Mother Ingrácia, smoking a pipe, her head turned because she was a little deaf, listened attentively.

“What was the blonde woman’s voice like? Did it sound hoarse?”

“I didn’t hear her voice. But she must have a pretty voice. The wretched woman is beautiful.”

“When the man’s undershorts don’t work, there’s just one thing that does,” said Mother Ingrácia after several puffs.

“What’s that, Mother?”

“The scab from an injury. You have to bring me a scab from an injury of his.”

“A scab? How am I supposed to get a scab?”

“Who doesn’t have a small injury of some kind? Everybody gets injured from time to time. And every injury creates a scab. Look here.”

Mother Ingrácia showed her arm, where there was a lesion covered by a scab.

“Can’t it be something else?”

“No. It’s got to be a scab. One of those little brown ones.”

Mother Ingrácia carefully removed the scab, placed it in the palm of her hand and showed it to Salete.

ON FRIDAY, AROUND SEVEN A.M., carrying an empty suitcase, Climerio returned to the home of the gunman Alcino.

“The shit’s hit the fan,” said Climerio. “That fucker Nelson turned himself in to the police yesterday. Today they took him to the Military Police barracks, and the bastard spilled his guts. I shouldn’t have trusted the son of a bitch. You’d better go into hiding.”

He handed Alcino the suitcase. “Put some clothes in it. It’s best for you to leave immediately.”

“What about my money? You promised it by today.”

Climerio took from his pocket a wad of money and handed it to Alcino. Ten thousand cruzeiro notes.

Alcino threw into the suitcase a sweater, two pairs of undershorts, two shorts, a knit woolen cap, a rosary with a metal cross at its tip, and a pair of clogs.

FIRST TO ARRIVE AT THE A MINHOTA, on São José, downtown, not very far from the Chamber of Deputies, was Lomagno. It was almost one o’clock. The restaurant, normally frequented by many senators and deputies, was empty.

Lomagno sat down, uncommunicative. He asked the waiter for a whiskey on the rocks. After serving Lomagno, the waiter left on the table a bucket of ice and a half-full bottle of White Horse onto which was attached a vertical strip of paper marking the number of drinks consumed.

A short time later, Claudio Aguiar arrived. They had spoken several times by telephone, but that was the first time they had seen each other since the death of Gomes Aguiar. Claudio gestured to the waiter, indicating Lomagno’s whiskey.

“Claudio, you’re a son of a bitch. Magalhães told me you tried to transfer the Cemtex financing to Brasfesa.”

Claudio stammered. “He. . he said that?”

“Why did you do it?”

“Luciana is going to get control of Cemtex now. I don’t trust her. Luciana is going to cheat us.”

At that moment, Vitor Freitas arrived, accompanied by his aide Clemente and Deputy Orestes Cravalheira, of the PSD. Claudio greeted the three dryly and left the table, heading for the bathroom. Lomagno followed him.

“Take it easy,” Lomagno said inside the bathroom.

“Did he have to bring his catamite?”

“Easy, easy,” Lomagno repeated.

“He can’t do this to me. I’m going to tell him I don’t want that fag at our table. The scoundrel! The scoundrel!”

Lomagno slapped Claudio forcefully. The latter drew back, startled.

“Why did you do that?”

“You’re not going to say anything. When you’re over this attack of hysteria, come back to the table and keep quiet.”