Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

“Gomes Aguiar was murdered in the early hours of Sunday, the first hours of the first day of August, when the spirits were descending, as you say.”

“What? When I left there the man was still alive, I swear it. . I must have gone there on Friday.”

Mattos took the ring from his pocket.

“Is this ring yours?”

“No, sir.”

“Please put the ring on your finger.”

Miguel placed the ring on his finger. Very loose.

Mattos put the ring back in his pocket and got an antacid. He chewed the tablet pensively. The ring had an F engraved on it; the doorman had mentioned a powerfully built and angry-looking black man who seemed to be Gregório Fortunato. Miguel didn’t begin with F and was far from a strong black man.

“What’s your full name?”

“Miguel Francisco dos Santos, sir.”

Francisco. F. Two Black men whose names have an F. Coincidences. . No jumping to conclusions. . He would need to arrange a confrontation between the macumba priest and the doorman to clarify that episode.

“I’d like you to go with me to the precinct, in Rio.”

“You said you weren’t going to arrest me,” lamented Miguel.

“I’m not arresting you. It’s an invitation.”

“It’d be better for you to go with the inspector,” said Lomagno menacingly.

“Keep your mouth shut or go back to the car,” said Mattos, irritated.

Lomagno gulped. His face went pale with rage.

“I’m not going to be arrested?”

“No, you’re not going to be arrested.”

They got into the car. Lomagno sat in front with the driver. Miguel complained during the trip, protesting his innocence. Despite the antacid he’d chewed, Mattos’s stomach ached.

When they got to the precinct, Lomagno said, “I hope I was of some help.”

“You helped a lot. Thank you. You may go.”

Rosalvo, curious, observed Mattos take Miguel to his office. Through the open door he saw the inspector say something to the black man, who was seated, downcast, in a chair.

“Did you find the man?” Rosalvo asked from the door.

“I don’t know. We’re going to the Deauville. Get the van.”

When they got to the Deauville, accompanied by Miguel, they were met by a doorman who wasn’t Raimundo.

“Where’s Raimundo? I’m Inspector Mattos.”

“He didn’t show up. Left without saying a word, leaving the reception empty all night. The super says he’s gonna fire him.”

Mattos went to the doorman’s quarters, in the rear.

“Are these his clothes?”

“Yes. He must be planning on coming back, ’cause he left everything here.”

“If he does, tell him I want to speak to him. Tell him if he doesn’t show up at the precinct, he’ll be arrested.”

“Sir, I’m confused, at a loss. What’s going on?” asked Rosalvo, back in the van.

“I don’t know yet.” To Miguel: “I may need to talk to you sometime in the future. No need for you to worry.”

Mattos was certain Miguel wasn’t the black man he was looking for, despite the coincidences. “Excuse the inconvenience. I’m going to drop you off at the train station.”

There was no train at that hour. But Miguel said nothing. He preferred spending the night at the station to continuing with the cops.

There were few occurrences during the remainder of Mattos’s shift.

Late that night the guard came into the inspector’s office, accompanied by Rosalvo.

“What is it?”

“The radio patrol caught a man and woman doing the dirty on a dark street. What should I do?” asked Rosalvo.

“Who are they?”

“Man’s a construction worker. Woman’s a maid.”

“Let them go,” said Mattos.

“The detective in charge of the garrison’s a hard-ass. Says they were caught in the act.”

A man and a woman were sitting on a wooden bench in the waiting room. They stood up when they saw the inspector.

“Bring the people from the garrison to my office,” Mattos told Rosalvo.

The detective and the two patrol cops entered the office.

“What happened?”

The detective explained that they were on patrol when they saw the man and woman in a clinch.

“In a clinch? Doing what?”

One of the cops laughed.

“It was real dark, but we had a flashlight, and we could see what they were doing. When they saw us, the woman pulled her skirt back down and ran, but it was too late. We grabbed her panties off the ground as proof.”

“Proof?” Mattos tasted the bitterness of acid in his mouth. “Don’t bring me any more cases of a couple of poor devils fucking in a dark spot. There’s no such thing as invisible indecent exposure; someone has to see it. Without using a flashlight.”

Doubtless the cops had tried to extort money from the hapless couple.

“You may leave. The next time you bring me a couple under such circumstances, I’ll charge you with arbitrary use of force.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Or else extortion and abuse of power. You may go.”

The cops left, and Mattos thought about what made a guy want to be a policeman. In his case, it had been simply the inability to find a better job. After three years as a defense lawyer for poor criminals, not earning enough to pay the rent on his office, without the money to get married, the chance had come along to work twenty-four straight hours and have seventy-two hours off, time he planned to use studying for the test for a judgeship. A guaranteed and dignified job. One more year and he would have had the five years since graduation required to qualify. But Alice hadn’t had the patience to wait.

The couple continued to sit on the bench in the waiting room, silent and frightened.

“You can leave now,” the inspector said.

“I don’t have no money with me. . I explained that to the policemen. . I haven’t got paid yet. .”

Mattos was too tired to make another speech.

“You can go.”

It was past four in the morning when he picked up the book on civil law, the radio, and went upstairs to the inspectors’ break room. During his first shifts, Mattos would spend the twenty-four hours in his office or on paperwork. Lately, he would go to the break room, but he didn’t take a clean sheet and pillowcase like the others. He would lie down on the smelly mattress, removing only his coat and tie.

During the night, the cook Geraldo Barbosa, twenty-six, was run over in front of his residence by an unidentified automobile and taken to the emergency room. Bernardo Lemgruber, thirty-two, was mugged in the street by two individuals. Mattos duly registered the occurrences in the blotter. A drunk was arrested for disturbance of the peace. The inspector had the man sit in the waiting room, and then he sent him away, without the lecture that good policemen are wont to administer to harmless drunks.

He was becoming more and more tired. His stomach was beginning to ache, and he chewed two antacid tablets.

He went into the bathroom. His feces were dark. The doctor had talked about the color of coffee grounds. There was no toilet paper in the precinct bathroom. But the inspector had brought a newspaper, full of important news about Brazil and the world. It wasn’t the first time he’d cleaned himself with newsprint. In his youth he had been very poor. He merely avoided cleaning himself with someone’s photograph. A scruple he’d had since childhood.

VITOR FREITAS, in a secret meeting with several members of his party, the PSD, called his colleagues’ attention to the UDN campaign to take advantage of the dissatisfaction of the military and of the unsettled political atmosphere resulting from the Tonelero attack.

“The UDN has mobilized its best orators to demand the furlough or resignation or deposing of Vargas. If any of these things happens—”