Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

“What job?”

“I think it’s some kind of macumba business, a votive offering, that sort of thing. I don’t understand any of that, sir, I don’t believe in those things. Sir, if Dona Luciana—”

“She won’t know anything about our conversation. At least not for now.”

“I’m shafted, sir, I’m gonna lose my job. The chain always breaks at the weakest link.”

“Keep your mouth shut. Don’t tell anyone about our talk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you change addresses or leave Rio, let me know beforehand. I’m going to need to speak with you again. Understand?”

“I don’t know anything else, sir.”

“I repeat: I want to know where you go, where you are. All the time. Don’t try to run away from me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mattos returned to the hallway. The elevator was stopped on the ground floor. The cop got in, pushed the button for the eighth floor.

Nilda opened the door.

“Is Dona Luciana in?”

Nilda hesitated. “No, sir.”

The inspector went in, pushing Nilda aside.

“Tell your mistress I want to talk to her.”

Nilda returned, accompanied by the pantryman.

“Dona Luciana told me to say she can’t see you. She’s sick in bed.”

“Can you give her a message?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell Dona Luciana I’ll be back another time, to talk with her about the Negro.”

THAT NIGHT, AT EIGHT O’CLOCK, as Vitor Freitas had predicted, more than four hundred officers from the air force, army, and navy gathered in the Aeronautics Club to “keep alive the indignation at the death of Major Vaz and to manifest the decision to proceed further with the inquiry into the slaughter of Major Vaz than the police have the courage to venture.” There were few high-ranking officers. One of them, Brigadier Fontenelle, declared: “Despite the barbarities, I am proud of Brazil.” During the meeting, Air Force Major Gustavo Borges, speaking in the name of the “commission of air force officers investigating the assassination of Major Vaz,” said that he and his comrades were ready to follow to their conclusion clues the police had not investigated, because they would lead to high-placed authorities. “We ourselves will do what the police lack the courage to do!” exclaimed Borges. The audience rose to applaud him. Then Major Helder expressed the solidarity of younger army officers with their air force counterparts: “It is necessary to pursue to the end the examination of this heinous crime, which has transformed our country from a civilized nation into a domain of criminals.” After the meeting, the military men distributed to the press a note in which they stated having requested the directors of the Aeronautics Club to convoke an extraordinary assembly to deal with the posthumous homage to be paid to the major and the care of his family.

SALETE AND MATTOS met for dinner at the Recreio, a barbecue restaurant on the street where the inspector lived. Salete had suggested the spot. Luiz Magalhães didn’t go to barbecue restaurants.

“What’s that on your forehead?” asked Salete.

“I banged it against a wall.”

“Is it going to make a scab?”

“No, it’s just a lump.”

“Oh. .”

Salete ordered a barbecue platter with manioc flour and a soft drink. The inspector ordered spaghetti with salt, no sauce, and a glass of milk. The restaurant had no milk.

During the meal Salete said she missed him so much it was killing her.

“We were together yesterday,” Mattos said.

“But we didn’t do anything. . You had a stomach ache.”

“I still do.”

Salete felt a constriction in her heart. She got up abruptly, wiping her eyes. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she said.

There was a mirror in the bathroom. Salete, seeing her face in the mirror, started to cry. A woman came in and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t cry, dear, men aren’t worth our tears,” the unknown woman said.

The woman was fat and ugly, poorly dressed. Even so, Salete threw herself into her arms to cry.

“I’M NOT GOING TO BE ABLE TO SEE YOU TODAY. I’m going on a trip,” said Luiz Magalhães.

“Where are you going?”

“Uruguay. Business. But I’ll be back on Tuesday. What’re you going to do this weekend?”

“Don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You’d better not do anything foolish.”

Could he suspect something? thought Salete. Luiz was very jealous. He had once told her he’d kill her if she betrayed him with another man.

“I think I’m going to go see that American dancer, Katherine Dunham. Or Carmelia Alves. The Queen of the Baião.”

“You’re too influenced by what you read in those idiotic magazines. The baião is for hicks.”

“It’s good for dancing.”

“What?!”

“I’m not going to dance with anybody, don’t worry.”

“You need any money?”

“I still haven’t spent what you gave me last month.”

“Behave, you hear?” said Luiz, hanging up the phone.

Salete took off her clothes, put a Carmelia Alves record on the turntable, and danced the baião in front of the mirror, her arms raised, the right arm a bit higher, as if embracing a partner. In mid-dance she started to cry; her face damp with tears, reflected in the mirror, seemed less vulgar to her, more romantic — but was still ugly. She sighed, pensive: all she did in life was cry.

She was interrupted by the maid knocking at the door. The pedicurist had arrived. She wrapped a towel around herself and opened the door.

“I’m going to do the pedicure in the bedroom, Cida. Come on in. Bring the ottoman, Maria de Lourdes.”

The maid brought a small cushioned stool and placed it in front of a large armchair near the window.

Cida did Salete’s feet every week. There wasn’t that much to do, and the pedicurist quickly finished her work. Cida hadn’t brought nail polish that matched that of Salete’s fingernails; that was that problem. The pedicurist had used one shade and the manicurist another, and the two professionals did not always have the same shades in their kits. Cida removed the polish from Salete’s hands and painted all the nails, both feet and hands, with a polish exactly the same color, bright red.

Afterward they drank coffee that Maria de Lourdes had made.

“And Malvino? How’s he doing?”

“Three days ago he showed up with a big bottle of wine, saying he’s not drinking hard liquor anymore. He said that from now on he’s drinking wine, which is the blood of Christ. But he hasn’t changed at all. I even think getting drunk on the blood of Christ is worse.”

“He’s a drunk but he’s yours, isn’t he? He lives at your house, he’s there when you need him. And me, with two men, one married and the other who doesn’t care about me? There’s a time at night when I look beside me in bed, and there’s no one there; I get up and the apartment is empty. My apartment, like you can see, has the best furniture there is, in the living room and the bedroom, it’s full of things, refrigerator, floor polisher, vacuum cleaner, blender, coffeemaker, a china set, I’ve even got pictures on the wall, sculptures, silver things, but a good man — zero.”

“I’d like to have the things you have. I love the old black man smoking a pipe, on the living room wall.”

“The one who did that is a famous painter, I forget his name. That porcelain ballerina is French, authentic. It was Luiz who gave it to me. But what good does it do?”

“Maybe someday he’ll leave his wife.”

“But I don’t want Luiz, I want the other one. He’s sick, has an ulcer in his stomach. If he came to live with me, I’d cure him.”

“Does he drink?”