Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

“What’s with Claudio?” asked Freitas when Lomagno returned from the bathroom.

“He’s not feeling well.”

“Is he having a tizzy?” asked Clemente with a sarcastic smile.

Lomagno ignored the question.

“Cravalheira’s going to have a whiskey with us while he waits for some friends who’re having lunch with him,” Freitas said.

The waiter brought glasses and another bottle of whiskey. They drank. They spoke about the assassination attempt that had claimed Major Vaz’s life and talked about generalities. Cravalheira commented that Judge Murta Ribeiro had been chosen by lot to draft the report on the appeal of Lieutenant Bandeira, sentenced to fifteen years in prison for the death of the banker Afrânio Arsênio de Lemos, a crime of passion that still held the city’s attention. The water shortage, as always, was mentioned, but only briefly. Freitas mentioned the issuing of money by the government. “You know how much Oswaldo Aranha has issued in the last twelve months, from August first ’53 to August first ’54? Over eight billion cruzeiros. There’s not even time for the employees to authenticate the notes manufactured by the presses at the Mint, American Bank Note, and Thomas de la Rue.”

Lomagno remained silent. Claudio returned to the table.

“Feeling better, dear boy?” Clemente asked. “You look as if you might have a touch of fever.”

Cravalheira returned to the subject of the assassination attempt.

“Until yesterday, or rather, until last night, the fourth, or the early hours of the fifth, when the attempt took place on Rua Tonelero, the climate in this country recalled that of 1937. But now Getúlio no longer has any chance of pulling a coup.”

“He wasn’t going to pull any coup,” said Cravalheira.

“Why do you think Getúlio canceled his trip to Bolivia for the inauguration of the Santa Cruz de la Sierra-Corumbá highway?” said Freitas, pouring himself another whiskey. He answered his own question, labeling as lies the reasons stated, that the Santa Cruz airport, in Bolivia, provided no security. Actually, Getúlio didn’t want Vice President Café Filho to assume the presidency.

“Like every coup-maker, he’s always thinking that others are trying to pull a coup on him,” said Clemente.

Cravalheira took a clipping from his pocket.

“Let me show you who this Café Filho is. Look at what he said.”

The deputy read aloud: “My life has been one long participation in revolutions and conspiracies. I’ve suffered a lot; I have bullets in my body.”

“Poor thing,” said Clemente.

“Listen to the rest. He says that the most dramatic moment in his life occurred not long ago. He was flying to Chile and the air force plane in which he was traveling had to make a forced landing among the Andean peaks. Immediately, the governments of Chile and Argentina sent planes so they could continue the trip. But Café patriotically reflected that this was a Brazilian Air Force plane and that changing planes in those circumstances would show lack of confidence in the technical skills of the valiant officers of the air force. He sensed, as he made this decision, the full extent of his responsibility as vice president of the Republic. When the plane was repaired, brave Café said he dismissed those accompanying him and embarked on the plane to die, for he was fulfilling the duty of rendering prestige to our aviation and our pilots.”

Clemente sang the refrain from a well known Carnival song: “And the band of brownnosers grows and grows.”

“Café ended the interview with these words: ‘That was how I experienced my most dramatic moment, because of my mandate as vice president of the Republic. I had never imagined that such a thing would happen to me, not even during the most arduous campaigns and the most inflamed revolutions.’ To think this poseur may become president.”

“It’s the flyboys who give the orders. . Café knows which way the wind is blowing.”

“Did you go the major’s funeral?”

“Yes. You’d have to be crazy not to go,” said Freitas.

“A public prosecutor and an air force officer were named as observers to the inquiry. There’s talk that Commissioner Pastor, who’s heading the police inquiry, is a Getulist.”

“Speaking of police, I need to talk to you about an inspector—” Clemente stopped mid-sentence.

“What inspector?” Freitas asked.

“No, nothing. We’ll talk about it later.”

“Getúlio’s days are numbered,” Freitas said.

“Getúlio usually has an ace up his sleeve,” said Cravalheira.

“The man’s senile. Did you see the photo of him having his hair combed by Gregório in public? He looked like an orderly at the Santa Casa da Misericórdia hospital taking care of one of those geezers who pee in their pants.”

Cravalheira answered that underestimating Getúlio was a mistake. “Remember the lunch-pail campaign the old man put together?”

“Borghi was the one who planned it all.”

Cravalheira gave a long commentary on the opportunism and cowardice of Brazilian politicians. “Pila is an exception; he had the integrity to say that it’s necessary to meet force with force. When the impeachment attempt came up, and that’s only just over a month ago, only thirty-five deputies had the courage to face the Catete Palace. The only reason Getúlio didn’t close down Congress was because he didn’t want to.”

“Why didn’t he want to?”

“He preferred to first divide the opposition, preparing the way for a coup. Oswaldo Aranha’s waiting room at Treasury was packed with people from the UDN until yesterday. But I agree that the assassination attempt changed everything. Getúlio’s been put on the defensive.”

“This chickenshit political stuff bores me,” said Clemente.

“He made a mistake for the first time in his life. He didn’t need to waste time dividing a party like the UDN. The army would have gone along with the coup, before the assassination attempt. Now that the aviator was killed it’s more difficult.”

Lomagno and Claudio took no part in the conversation, maintaining an aggressive silence that finally bothered Cravalheira. The deputy, even before his lunch companions arrived, said goodbye and went to sit at another table.

“A total cretin,” said Clemente. “I don’t know why you waste your time on an idiot like him.”

“What’s the urgent problem you wanted to talk to me about?” Freitas asked.

“It’s a private matter,” Claudio said, looking pointedly at Clemente.

“Clemente is in on everything.”

“I don’t trust the guy,” said Lomagno.

“Dear boy, as Vitor said, I’m in on everything. When push comes to shove, it doesn’t matter in the least whether you trust me or not.”

“If you call me dear boy one more time, I’ll knock the daylights out of you right here,” said Lomagno.

“Shut up, Clemente,” said Vitor, sighing. “So, what’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem? What’s the problem? The murder of Paulo!” exclaimed Claudio. “The largest shareholder in Cemtex now is Luciana.”

“That nymphomaniacal harpy?” said Freitas.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Lomagno, with a violence that took Freitas by surprise. “You don’t know Luciana,” Lomagno added, controlling his unexpected rage.

“Maybe I don’t, actually. . I was just repeating—”

“Let’s change the subject,” Lomagno said dryly.

“I asked Magalhães to speak with Gregório to see if he could transfer the import license to Brasfesa,” Claudio said, looking timidly at Lomagno. “The Negro refused to talk to him. Magalhães is scared to death of him.”

“Since Gregório received the Maria Quitéria Medal, he’s gotten even more arrogant. Absurd, giving the army’s highest decoration to that guy.”