Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

“What is it, Aninha?”

“Mommy wants to speak to you.”

“One moment, please.”

Mattos and the girl were alone in the room.

“Are you from the police?” she asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“Are you going to arrest Daddy?”

“No.”

“Mommy?”

“I’m not here to arrest anyone.”

“Oh. .” exclaimed the girl, disappointed.

José Silva returned.

“My wife isn’t feeling well.” A smile. “We’re expecting another child, you know? It’ll be our second.”

Mattos noticed the small drops of sweat forming on José Silva’s brow.

“May I ask your profession?”

“I’m a dentist.”

“A good profession,” said Mattos.

“I like my work,” said José Silva.

Mattos stood up. “Well, Dr. Silva, I don’t think you have much to tell me. Sorry to have taken up your time.”

José Silva opened the door.

“One thing more. If another policeman shows up here, tell him you already spoke with me. Say: Inspector Mattos left orders for me to speak with no one but him about the death of Paulo Gomes Aguiar.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to understand. Just say that to any policeman who appears.”

“Can I offer you some coffee?”

Mattos would like to have a glass of milk.

“No, thank you very much.”

Before nine, Mattos was back at the precinct. Rosalvo came to talk to him.

“I saw the reports. A Negro. Is Antonio Carlos making this up?”

“He’s competent and diligent.”

“You want me to start looking for that Negro?”

“No need. I already know who he is.”

“And was it him who killed Paulo Gomes Aguiar?”

“Very likely.”

“When are you going to arrest him?”

“At the right moment.”

The inspector was being very laconic. Maybe it was good to irritate him a bit. He always talked a lot when angry.

“Did you see the president is going to pardon more criminals? In July thirty murderers, twenty-two thieves, three swindlers, a macumba priest, and a fence were the beneficiaries. What do you think of that, sir? Sixty some-odd criminals let loose in the streets.”

“They should never even have been arrested.”

“Are you speaking seriously? I think our problem is there’s too many criminals in the streets.”

“Arresting a macumba priest or a fence is stupid. A prisoner costs society money, he spends some time in jail, and comes out worse than when he went in.”

“Then you think not even thieves or killers should be arrested? What about a rapist pervert like Febrônio?”

“If the guy is a major risk to society, a criminal psychopath, that sort of thing, then he just needs to get treatment.”

“And the victim’s family?”

“Fuck the victim’s family. You talk as if we were in the eighteenth century, before Feuerbach. Punishment as revenge. You should’ve studied that shit more carefully in college.”

“I’m not a cultured man like you, but please tell me: isn’t the number of criminals larger and larger? In the whole world? What’s the reason for that? Please enlighten me. Too many people, or too few in jail?”

“I’m not going to waste time arguing with you.”

This time it hadn’t worked. The man was hiding something. Rosalvo firmly believed that obsessives like Mattos shouldn’t be policemen or have any type of authority. He, Rosalvo, didn’t have any type of obsession other than living well, which meant sleeping well, eating well, and fucking well. He thought about Teodoro’s promise. When he transferred to Vice, his simple obsessions could be more easily satisfied. The problem was how to convince Senator Freitas that he’d done something to merit that prize. A Negro. He didn’t see how a Negro could be involved with the senator. In any case, now he had something to offer.

AS THEY HAD AGREED, Lomagno arrived at the precinct to pick up Inspector Mattos, to look for the macumba priest in Caxias. He arrived in a new Buick, driven by a uniformed chauffeur from Lomagno & Co.

“Wait for my return,” Mattos told Rosalvo.

“Where are you going? Wouldn’t it be better for me to go with you?”

“No. Stay here.”

Mattos and Lomagno, sitting in the back seat of the car, did not talk until they got to the city of Caxias, in the Baixada Fluminense.

After driving around for a time in the city center, the car continued toward one of the neighborhoods on the outskirts. At a certain point, Lomagno told the driver to turn onto a dirt road. They stopped in front of a stonework house, with blue windows, beside which was a worship site with a compacted earth floor, surrounded by trees.

“This is it,” said Lomagno.

The two men got out of the car.

A gray-haired mulatto woman wearing clogs, who had come to the door when she noticed the car arriving, greeted the visitors.

“We’re looking for the priest,” said Lomagno.

“Please be so kind as to enter,” said the woman.

The living room was modestly furnished: a table, some chairs, a worn sofa, an old china cabinet.

“I’ll call Father Miguel,” the woman said.

The macumba priest, a thin black man of indefinite age, dressed in white, received the visitors with deference.

“Welcome to my home.”

“Do you remember me, Father Miguel?”

The priest hesitated.

“I was here with Paulo Gomes Aguiar.”

“Oh. . yes.”

“This is Police Inspector Alberto Mattos.”

“Police?”

The man drew back in fright. He turned to flee. Mattos grabbed him by the shirt.

“Sir, I closed down the worship site. Please don’t arrest me!”

“I’m not here to arrest you. Stay calm.”

The policeman’s tone calmed the macumba priest somewhat.

“I’m not interested in your activities. I think people like you should be left in peace. I came only to ask a few questions, and then I’ll leave. Do you know that Paulo Gomes Aguiar was murdered?”

“Yes. One of my acolytes told me. I was very sad. He was a good man.”

“Were you in the habit of going to Gomes Aguiar’s home?”

“I went three or four times. I was working on sealing his body. Much envy, many enemies, bad spirits on him. But Mr. Paulo’s wife didn’t like me, and I couldn’t do a proper job. I knew something bad was going to happen, a spirit had descended here in the site and told me. There were people doing bad things against him.”

“When was the last time you were with Paulo Gomes Aguiar?”

“A short time before he died. I think it was a Friday.”

“Do you recall the date?”

“The date I can’t remember.”

“You’re sure it was a Friday?”

“I’m not sure. But there are certain kinds of work I like to do on Friday. What was the date of Friday a week ago?”

“The thirtieth.”

“The thirtieth, the thirtieth. .”

“Could it have been Saturday, the thirty-first?” asked Lomagno.

“Let me ask the questions,” said Mattos.

“Sorry,” said Lomagno.

“One moment, please,” said Miguel.

He went to speak with the mulatto woman, who was a certain distance away. They talked for some time.

“She doesn’t remember either. It was so long ago. .”

“Only thirteen days,” said the inspector. “You don’t make notes of your work?”

“I’m illiterate, sir. But Cremilda here thinks it may have been on Saturday, after midnight. The work of exorcising bad spirits can also be done in the early hours of the month of August. The month of August is a good month for the spirits to descend.”

“Did you leave Gomes Aguiar’s apartment after midnight?”

“Yes. I think it was Saturday, yes. . I performed the service when it was starting to be Sunday, in August. .”