Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

The pantryman brought the newspaper. Lomagno picked up the silver coffeepot and placed it in front of him. He folded the paper and rested it against the coffeepot. He read as he spread jam on a piece of toast.

From the other side of the table, Alice saw only her husband’s forehead and carefully combed hair. Lomagno folded and unfolded the paper several times as he ate, looking for items that interested him, without even once glancing at his wife. When he finished, he rose from the table, picked up the tennis racket.

“I may have to make a trip abroad.”

“May I ask where you’re going?”

“Europe.”

“Europe has lots of countries.”

“France. Any more questions?”

“Are you taking that woman?”

“What woman?”

“You know very well what woman.”

“I’m going by myself.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Have you been to the doctor this week? Are you taking your medicines?”

“I’m fine.” Pause. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“What is it, dear?”

“I told that police inspector friend of mine that you were Luciana Gomes Aguiar’s lover.” Alice’s voice quivered.

Lomagno spun the handle of the racket in his hand, as tennis players do. But his expression remained impassive.

“I didn’t know you had police inspector friends,” said Lomagno calmly.

“Alberto Mattos. He was my boyfriend.”

“Ah, yes, I know.” Lomagno knew that Mattos was investigating the murder of Paulo Gomes Aguiar. He looked at Alice, interested in seeing the reactions on her face.

“Where did you two meet?”

“At his apartment.” The tremor in her voice had subsided, now that she was taking revenge against her husband, and she felt pleasure in it. She would feel even greater pleasure if he lost that disturbing tranquility.

“What did he say? The policeman? Did he ask any questions?”

“No.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re an idiot. Why’d you do such a thing?”

“He asked if a Negro frequented our house,” exclaimed Alice, hoping without reason to destroy the control displayed by her husband.

Lomagno turned his back on Alice and left without looking back.

LUCIANA GOMES AGUIAR was waiting for Lomagno at the Country Club, in Ipanema, seated at one of the tables around the pool, dressed for tennis. Luciana was nervous, as they had agreed after Gomes Aguiar’s death to go a few days without seeing each other and had merely spoken by phone.

“I paid the doorman not to say anything, but the fool couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

“Love, I had told you we could use the macumba priest as cover.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“The rabble can’t ever be trusted. There’s only one type of people worse than the rich: the poor.” Many nouveaux riches were emerging in society, and Pedro and Luciana detested the vulgarity of those arrivistes .

“It so happens that the macumba priest is a blunderer incapable of keeping dates straight. Remember, he was in your apartment the night before, on the 30th. It’s easy to confuse things; I’ll take care of that. I’m going to see the inspector. I think the time has come to face him. I’ll confirm to him the story of the macumba priest. If necessary, I’ll speak of Alice’s health problems. .”

“But we have to get rid of that doorman. Chicão can handle that. He adores you, he does anything you ask. .”

“I’m going to call him now,” said Lomagno. “We can’t waste any time.”

Lomagno returned after a few moments.

“Everything’s taken care of. Now let’s play our match.”

“Today I’m going to beat you,” said Luciana.

“No doubt. You’re getting better all the time. But don’t think for a minute that I’m going to throw the match.”

Having found a solution to the problem, they turned their attention to the center tennis court, which had been reserved for them.

EVERY TUESDAY Salete would go downtown to look at the displays in the high-fashion shops. Though some of the dresses in the A Imperial and A Moda caught her attention, she only tried on a little jersey dress she saw in the window of A Capital. But she felt the dress looked better on the mannequin than on her body.

“I know my face is ugly, but I have a perfect body. If this dress looks bad on me, just imagine the average woman.”

“Your face is also very pretty,” replied the saleswoman.

“I have a mirror at home, dearie, so don’t think that by flattering me you’re going to sell this dress with a defect in the sleeve. As a saleswoman you should’ve seen that.”

“It looks very nice on you,” said the woman, ignoring Salete’s aggressive tone.

“You really think so?”

“It’s wonderful on you.”

Salete tried several poses in front of the mirror before deciding to buy the dress. Happily carrying the brightly wrapped package from the shop, taking care to avoid wrinkling its contents, she walked to the minibus stop in Carioca Square, a short distance from A Capital. She boarded the first one for Copacabana. While the vehicle remained at the stop, waiting for passengers, Salete looked out the window. Across from her was a low-end fabric shop. A woman was coming out of the shop. When she saw her, Salete, frightened, ducked down in the seat, her head almost touching her knees. She felt dizzy, as if about to faint. It can’t be her, she thought.

She cautiously raised her head and took another look. The woman was standing there, as if she didn’t know where to go. It was her, all right, the wretched woman hadn’t died! My God, she’s blacker and uglier than ever!

Finding out that her mother was still alive made Salete’s heart ache with unhappiness. What if Luiz saw her? Worse yet, what if the black woman were to show up someday in front of Alberto and say, “I’m Salete’s mother”? She crouched down again in the seat, afraid her mother would look toward the bus and see her inside.

The bus finally pulled away, heading for Rua Senador Dantas. When it stopped at the corner of Evaristo da Veiga, Salete kneeled on the seat and looked back. Relieved, she saw that the ghost of her mother had disappeared. A tall, muscular black man carrying a package crossed the street, signaling to the bus driver. He got on and took the only empty seat, in the rear, having to bend over to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling.

Until a few minutes earlier that man had been in the Cassio Muniz store, where he had bought, on the installment plan, a.32-caliber Smith & Wesson, for 520 cruzeiros a month, and a French MAB pistol, 7.65, with a ten-bullet clip, for only 220 a month. The total price didn’t matter; credit accounts were invented precisely so no one would have that type of concern. He had thought of also buying a Winchester.22 carbine but decided against it. He already owned a 12-gauge shotgun, a veritable lethal jewel with silver engraving on the butt and the breech housing.

Chicão — that was the Negro’s name — had been contracted by Pedro Lomagno to kill Raimundo, the doorman at the Deauville Building. He planned to do so that evening. But first he would take the firearms he had bought for temporary storage in the home of a woman he slept with from time to time, on Rua Almirante Tamandaré, not far from the Deauville.

CHICÃO HAD MET PEDRO LOMAGNO in January 1946, at the Boqueirão do Passeio club on Santa Luzia. Two years earlier he had been drafted into military service and incorporated into the Ninth Engineering Battalion, one of the first units of the FEB, the Brazilian Expeditionary Forces, to go to Italy, in July 1944, and one of the last to return, on October 3, 1945. He had risen to the rank of corporal. Chicão had enjoyed the war. He’d never eaten so well in his life; the Brazilian soldiers had access to the abundant resources and services of the American Fourth Army. The rations, the cigarettes, and everything else he received facilitated his relationship with the Italian ragazze . For a pack of cigarettes or a chocolate bar he had gotten some good pieces of ass. The possibility of dying didn’t worry him, and after seeing two comrades die beside him, one hit by mortar fire from the tedeschi and the other blown apart by a booby trap, without anything happening to him, Chicão had come to the conclusion that he was invulnerable. His athletic build had led to his being called to serve as sparring partner for American colleagues and take part in boxing exhibitions. He had fucked and boxed and disarmed landmines and not caught gonorrhea like everyone else and all that without breaking his delicate white man’s nose and without getting blown apart: yes, the war had been a good thing. People died suddenly in war, but didn’t they also die that way in São João de Meriti, where he lived?