Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

“I had to get it off my chest with someone.”

Mattos remained silent, avoiding looking his former girlfriend’s face.

“Do you still like me?” Alice asked.

“I don’t know.” A pause. “Get what off your chest?” Now Mattos looked directly at the woman’s face, seeking signs of guile or treachery.

The doorbell rang again.

“Let it ring,” Alice said.

The inspector opened the door.

It was Emilio, the maestro. He removed his Panama hat, passing it to his left hand, which was already holding his cane, and extended his hand to the inspector.

“Forgive me for bothering you at home, but—”

He stopped when he noticed Alice’s presence. “Good afternoon, Miss. I’m an old and humble friend of the gentleman.”

“Come in,” said the inspector.

“May I have a word with you in private?”

Mattos led Emilio to the bedroom.

“Yes, Mr. Emilio. .”

The old man, surprised and disappointed at the modesty of the inspector’s apartment, didn’t know what to say. He chewed his dentures nervously.

“I’m embarrassed to make another request of you. . After all, it hasn’t even been a week. . But I’ll pay it all back to you. . Something unforeseen came up. .”

“I’m broke, Mr. Emilio. I just bought the Encyclopedia Britannica and a collection of classic books. . More than fifty volumes. .”

“Why didn’t you buy them on credit?”

“I bought them at a used bookstore. They don’t sell on credit.” The sounds of Emilio’s dentures touched the inspector.

“What about your girlfriend?. . Could she maybe. .”

“That young woman is not my girlfriend.”

“She’s not? Well, sir, these eyes that the earth will yet consume can spot passion in a woman’s face. .”

“I can’t ask her for money.”

Emilio took an enormous dirty handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes.

“I’m sorry. We old people cry over nothing.”

The inspector put his arms around Emilio’s shoulders. He felt pity at the old man’s fragility and repugnance at the smell of cheap lavender that emanated from his body.

“Wait here.”

The inspector returned to the living room.

“Do you have any money you can lend me?”

“How much do you want?”

“Five hundred cruzeiros.”

“Two hundred, it can be two hundred,” Emilio shouted from the bedroom.

Alice took a checkbook from her purse and signed a check. The inspector took the check and went back to the bedroom. He found Emilio hiding near the door, his mouth open, attentive, trying to hear better. He was starting to go deaf.

The old man took the check. He looked at the amount.

“I’ll be eternally grateful, I won’t forget—”

“Yes, yes. It’s time to leave,” Mattos interrupted, taking Emilio by the arm and leading him to the living room.

In the living room, the old man stopped. He made a sweeping gesture with his hat in Alice’s direction, like a nobleman hailing a queen. Then, at the door, he looked at the man and woman standing gravely in the middle of the living room and said grandiloquently, “The potion that Brangane gave you to drink is not fatal.” This said, he withdrew, dramatically.

“What did he mean?”

“He was doing justice to the five hundred cruzeiros that you gave him.” Mattos flipped the record again. La Bohème in the background gave him a certain feeling of security.

“Who is Brangane? Do you have any matches?”

“A character in an opera. Isolde asks her chambermaid Brangane to prepare a lethal poison for her and Tristan. But the maid prepares a different potion. When they drink it, they rediscover that they love each other.”

“Light my cigarette.”

Mattos lit Alice’s cigarette.

Alice moved closer to the inspector.

“You said rediscover . Did they love each other before?”

“Yes.”

“And after the rediscovery of love, what did they, the lovers, do?”

“Nothing.”

Alice looked closely at the inspector’s face. He had always been hard to understand. At first Alice had thought that her boyfriend’s awareness of his own poverty and an exaggerated pride were the cause of his problems. Later, agreeing with her mother’s opinion, she came to believe that the young man suffered from some kind of psychological morbidity. But who didn’t?

“Why?”

“As a Wagnerian would say, the pathos in the story is that Tristan’s honor prevents their love from being consummated.”

They fell silent.

“Is your husband a Negro?”

“A Negro? My husband?”

“Whoever killed Paulo Machado Gomes Aguiar was a Negro. If your husband isn’t a Negro, he’s not the murderer.”

“I didn’t say my husband killed Paulo.”

“But you suspect he might have killed Gomes Aguiar.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. You’re making me nervous!”

“Is there some Negro who comes to your house often?”

“Of course not!”

“There are millions of Negroes in this city. One of them might frequent your house.” Pause. “You came here and told me your husband is Luciana Gomes Aguiar’s lover. And then what?”

“Why are you talking to me like that?” The hardness in the inspector’s voice and the stain from water infiltration that she had just noticed on the ceiling made her feel a sudden anxiety. Her hands were trembling.

“You make me nervous talking to me like that.” Alice picked up her purse, took a mirror from it, and went into the bathroom.

Mattos opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of milk, and drank from the bottle. The music had ended, but now he preferred silence. He needed to take a look at his feces; he was always forgetting to do that. He picked up the book on civil law and threw it violently against the wall.

“What was that noise?” asked Alice, startled, coming out of the bathroom.

“Nothing. I threw a book against the wall.”

“Oh. .” Alice said. “I’m late, I have to go.”

“Is that what you wanted? For me to suspect your husband?”

“I’m quite nervous.”

“You do want me to suspect your husband.”

Hurriedly, Alice opened the door and ran out.

When the inspector went after her, Alice had already descended the stairs and disappeared.

At the door to the building on Rua Marquês de Abrantes, holding a package with spaghetti, tomatoes, garlic, and onions, Salete paced back and forth, waiting for Alice to leave. Salete had gone there to visit the cop and arrived at the moment Alice got out of the taxi. She had thought about going in also but lacked the courage. Besides which, Alice’s presence had spoiled her plans. Salete put on dark glasses and cried several times, standing in the street, as she imagined what Alice and the inspector were doing in bed. The displeasure engendered by wounded pride had the effect of dissipating the scruples she had felt at making plans for that visit to the inspector. Now she would go ahead to the end.

When Alice appeared at the building’s door, Salete hid in the bakery on the ground floor, from which she saw the other woman get into a cab.

Salete went up in the elevator with her heart aching. She rang the inspector’s doorbell several times in a row. Mattos opened the door.

“Are you in a hurry?”

The lump on Mattos’s forehead, as she feared would happen, had almost disappeared completely and left no scab. He was holding an egg in his hand.

Salete went in and attempted to take the egg from the inspector’s hand but only managed to break it.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Mattos, trying with his other hand to prevent the egg from sliding to the floor.

“You’re not going to eat an egg. I’m going to make spaghetti for you. Spaghetti is good for your ulcer.”