Rubem Fonseca: Crimes of August

During the wine reception hosted by the Jockey Club’s board of directors after the race, the Black Angel, his expression grim, posted himself behind the president, caressing under his coat the dagger in his belt.

MATTOS LIVED ON THE EIGHTH FLOOR of a building on Marquês de Abrantes, in the Flamengo district. A small apartment with a bedroom and living room, bathroom and kitchen, in the rear. The bathroom was its best feature, spacious with an enormous old tub whose metal feet mimicked the paws of an animal. The living room accommodated only a table and two chairs, a bookcase crammed with books, and a console containing a phonograph and partitions for records. On the console was an album of 78-rpm records, with La Traviata, another with La Bohème in long-play, and the scores of both operas in Italian. The bedroom was also tiny, with a sofa bed and a small table with a reading lamp.

The apartment was hot and stuffy that day, despite it being August. The bedroom window looked out over a small interior courtyard. The neighbor across the way was arguing with his wife. Mattos could see and hear the couple gesticulating and shouting. He closed the window, turning on the light and the radio, took off his coat and tie, placed his revolver on the table, opened the sofa bed and, still wearing pants and shoes, lay down. He was used to sleeping dressed.

He woke up to the ringing of the telephone. The announcer on the radio was saying, “The President of the Republic, Mr. Getúlio Vargas, has just arrived at the Gávea Hippodrome.” Mattos answered the phone.

“You want to see me today?”

It was Salete. He felt a brief surge of desire, which quickly passed. This wasn’t a good day. Besides everything else, his stomach was acting up.

“I’m tired.”

“You’re not thinking about me?”

“No, I’m not thinking about anything.”

“You police people are always thinking about something. Don’t be mean.”

“I’m very tired.”

“I’ll be there in a little while, and you’ll be fine.”

The policeman went back to listening to the radio. El Aragonés, ridden by L. Rigoni, won the Brazilian Grand Prix. Mattos would have bet on Joiosa, because of the mysterious name: joyeuse? Or the sword of El Cid and other illustrious knights? But the mare finished second. He had to find out who was behind a murder and here he was listening to a horse race. . He picked up the civil law book. As a cop, he threw guys in jail; as a judge, he would send them off to rot in some filthy precinct lockup. A great prospect. He felt like hurling the book against the wall. If he started throwing books against the wall, he really was crazy in the head. Go back to practicing law? His last client had given him a chicken as payment. That is, the client’s mother; the client was behind bars. An unhappy woman like the mothers of all the criminals who got caught. The poor woman had decided she needed to pay him in some way. He recalled the happy look on the woman’s face when she handed him the live hen, wrapped in newspaper, its feet tied with string.

He had told the story to Alice, his ex-girlfriend. It had upset her. Hers was a different world, with no place for chickens with their feet tied and wrapped in newspaper. Alice.

Alice.

He took off his shirt and went back to sleep.

He awoke to the ringing of the doorbell.

“I like you that way, without a shirt,” said Salete, hugging him.

Mattos freed himself from the embrace, went into the bedroom, followed by Salete, and put back on the dirty shirt from his shift.

“If you prefer, we can go to the São Luiz cinema.”

“I don’t want to put on a coat and tie.”

“Then let’s go to the Polyteama. In that fleabag you don’t need a coat and tie.”

“I don’t like film.”

“You used to like it.” Salete picked up the holster and revolver on the night table. “The movie is Beat the Devil . You’re possessed by him.” An uncertain smile.

“Please put down that weapon.”

“You know I love holding your revolver.”

“Do you mind?”

Salete placed the holster on the table.

“I won’t be good company today,” said Mattos.

“Every time you come from your shift you’re like that. Let’s go to bed, and I’ll make you feel better.”

“I need to take a bath.”

“You’ve got water?”

“It came on today. Now it’s every other day.”

“Let me do it for you.”

While Salete filled the bathtub, Mattos read his book on civil law.

“It’s ready, you can come,” shouted Salete.

“Why are you dressed all in black?”

“Don’t you know what’s in style? You’ve never heard of Juliette Greco, the muse of existentialism?”

“I’m going to bathe by myself.” Mattos took Salete by the arm and delicately pushed her out of the bathroom.

The inspector was enveloped in the bathtub’s warm water when Salete knocked on the door.

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

Salete opened the door. She saw Mattos’s clothes strewn on the floor.

“If there’s one good thing about this horrible old apartment, it’s the bathroom. I think I’m going to have a bath too. There’s easily room for two people in the tub, and my place didn’t get any water today,” said Salete. “But first I’m going to straighten up this mess.”

Salete picked up the clothes from the floor and took them into the bedroom, draping them over a chair. The undershorts, she put in her purse. Then she took off her dress and her slip, and, in only panties — she didn’t wear a bra — went into the bathroom.

Facing Mattos so he could see her movements, Salete removed her panties and got into the tub. She wrapped her legs around the waist and her arms around the shoulders of the inspector. Mattos felt her firm breasts against his back.

“Let me soap you up.”

“I’m really tired.”

Salete scrubbed Mattos’s back. His chest, his belly, his pubis. “Turn around and face me,” Salete said.

She seemed to have become more beautiful. She had undone the bun in which she wore her hair, now wet at the ends.

“How old are you, really?”

“You know perfectly well how old I am,” said Salete, lifting one of Mattos’s legs, causing him to fall backwards in the tub. “You need to cut your toenails.”

“You told me twenty-one, but I think you’re eighteen.”

“You think I’m younger, because you consider me dumb.”

“You’re both clever and intelligent.”

“The other day you called me stupid.”

“You’re illiterate, that’s what I said.”

“I know how to read very well. I’ll show you, when we get out of the tub.”

“Why don’t you show me your ID?”

“So you won’t see my photo; it’s very ugly.”

From the tub they went to the bed. For a time he forgot the wretched fucked-up criminals and the fucked-up victims and the fucked-up dirty cops and the fucked-up honest cops.

“Want me to read to you now? How about that book that you never put down?”

“Okay.”

“Article 544. The abandoned riverbed of a public or private river belongs to the riparians on the respective banks, without owners of the lands through which the waters may open new channels having the right of indemnification. It is understood that the—”

“Enough. You read like a grown-up.”

“You lawyers have a very odd way of talking to each other. I don’t know how you can stand reading that book.”

“I hate that shit.”

“Riparians. What’s that?”

“The dwellers on the banks of a river.”

Salete laughed. “Rivers can change their course?”

“Doubting is a sign of intelligence. Not finding answers is a sign of stupidity. That’s the way you are.”