Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

“Don’t fuck with me, Teodoro. Let’s skip the bullshit. You and me go back a long way.”

“Which backroom deals?”

“The Cemtex import license.”

“That by itself isn’t worth a transfer to Vice.”

“Mattos is also investigating more serious stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Article 121.”

“Article 121?” said Teodoro, surprised. “The senator isn’t the type to kill anybody. You’re sure? What homicide is it?”

Rosalvo hesitated. It was better not to talk about the murder of Paulo Gomes Aguiar just yet, hold on to a few trump cards.

“I still don’t know what the homicide is. But I’m sure that man’s investigating a 121 involving the senator.”

“Didn’t you say he eats out of your hand? How can you not know?”

“I’m being frank with you, I don’t know yet. But the man is going to have to call on me for help in the investigation. Like I said, Mattos doesn’t trust anyone else. Tell the senator that if it’s in his interest, and I think it is, I can ball up the investigation so bad that not a goddamn thing’ll come out of it.”

“But you haven’t said which 121 it is.”

“I don’t know yet. Yet. The senator must know, doesn’t he? Have you forgotten what you learned at the academy, Sherlock?”

The fat man with the diamond ring had sat down at one of the tables with Cleyde. They were drinking champagne. She had found a better sucker.

Rosalvo looked at his watch.

“Go talk to the senator. I want guarantees. The transfer to Vice has got to be published first, in the daily bulletin from HQ. I get a month for the transfer. That’ll give me the time to fuck up the inquiry.” As he was saying this, he thought regretfully that he had done something stupid by running to Mattos with the news that he had located José Silva. But for everything in life there was a remedy.

“Now get lost. I’ve got other things to take care of.”

Teodoro left. Rosalvo went to the table where Cleyde and the fat guy were.

“Beat it,” said Rosalvo, sitting down beside the fat man and showing his ID with the word POLICE in red letters.

The fat man rose, startled.

“You shouldn’t be up this late. . Pay your bill and go home. Your old lady’s waiting for you.”

Rosalvo took Cleyde by the arm. The orchestra was playing a bolero; he liked boleros.

As they danced: “Is that fat guy a butcher?”

“He said he’s an accountant.”

“An accountant of sirloins and T-bones.”

“I didn’t know you were a policeman.”

“Now you know. The face doesn’t always match the heart. That’s the crux of it.”

“My boyfriend is coming to pick me up at the end of the evening.”

“Give him his walking papers. Like a good pimp, he knows better than to eat off someone else’s plate; he’ll pull in his horns.”

IN THE EARLY HOURS THAT NIGHT, General Zenóbio da Costa had arrived at the Catete Palace to confer with President Vargas in his office on the second floor. Also present was General Caiado de Castro. Zenóbio had come to bring the president word of the extraordinary meeting of the Army High Command.

“The High Command asked me to reiterate to Your Excellence the army’s firm commitment to safeguard and defend our institutions,” said Zenóbio.

Vargas found the High Command’s guarantees ambiguous. “The office of president of the Republic is a democratic institution. Does the High Command have that in mind when it speaks of safeguarding and defending institutions?”

Zenóbio hesitated before answering.

“The High Command didn’t go into specifics.”

“Was the attack on Major Vaz discussed at the meeting? And the unjust attacks I’ve been receiving from the opposition?”

Zenóbio continued to vacillate. “No, not during the meeting. It was discussed informally earlier, before the meeting began. Fleeting comments.”

“Such as?”

“About the uneasiness among the personnel in the air force.”

“The army has never given any importance to uneasiness in the air force,” replied Vargas. “Or in the navy, which is the oldest and most traditional armed service. The army is the army!”

“Beyond a doubt, Mr. President.”

“Can we count on all the generals in the High Command?” asked Vargas.

“Yes, Mr. President.” Zenóbio’s broad, expressive face pathetically betrayed his nervousness.

“General Caiado?”

“Uh, I didn’t take part in the meeting of the High Command, but I share the secretary’s point of view,” Caiado replied.

As he said goodbye, before leaving in the company of Caiado de Castro, General Zenóbio added:

“Your Excellence’s measure of dissolving the personal guard was well received.”

Vargas didn’t answer. The general left and the president remained seated at the small desk on the second floor, looking out into the darkness through the windows of his office. That same day he had received, in the afternoon, the visit of Vice President Café Filho; the secretary of justice and internal affairs, Tancredo Neves; the secretary of education, Edgard Santos; the secretary of health, Mário Pinotti; the secretary of labor, Hugo de Faria; and Governor Amaral Peixoto. With the exception of the expression of Peixoto, who was his son-in-law, and that of Tancredo, in which he noticed primarily nervousness, in the face of all the others he had detected the same thing he had seen in Zenóbio’s: indecision.

TEODORO TELEPHONED Senator Vitor Freitas.

“You told me to call you at home if I had any important and urgent information.”

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t think it’s good to talk on the phone.”

“Come by the house, 88 Praia do Flamengo, corner of Ferreira Viana. Seabra Building.”

Teodoro knew where the Seabra was located, one of the best known residential buildings in the city. One of his dreams was to live in that building of black granite. It’s a funny world, he thought.

“Want something to drink, Teodoro?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“I’m going to have some scotch; don’t you want to join me? I called my adviser Clemente to hear your story, and while we wait for him—”

“Well, if you insist. .”

In the spacious living room was a bar, with a carved wood counter on which stood countless bottles. While Freitas prepared the drinks, Teodoro contemplated the room’s décor. He had never seen anything like it.

“Do you like the decoration?” asked the senator, extending the whiskey on the rocks to Teodoro.

“Very pretty,” said Teodoro.

“The motifs are Tunisian. Do you know Tunisia?”

“I’ve never been out of Brazil, Senator.”

“The fashion these days is to decorate in the American style, a thing of unbearably bad taste. Ah, the Brazilian bourgeoisie! First it was everything French, now it’s everything American. Americans are the most vulgar people in the world. They have no history, no culture, nothing but money. But Tunisia. . You’ve no doubt heard speak of Carthage, an empire founded by the Phoenicians thousands of years ago. .”

“Ah. . Yes, sir. .”

“Unfortunately, today it’s a French colony. And the French, like all colonizers, have done nothing but try to destroy the cul—”

The doorbell cut short the senator’s digression. It was Clemente.

“I waited for you to get here,” said Freitas. “As yet I don’t know what Teodoro has to tell us.”

Clemente made himself a drink. They sat on one of the sectional sofas in the living room.

“You may speak, Teodoro,” said Freitas. He and his adviser were in a good mood.

Teodoro cleared his throat. He didn’t know where to begin.

“Go ahead, Teodoro. What are you waiting for?”