Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

“Sir, just a quick word. We know you’re about to end your shift, but we don’t have nobody else to ask.”

Mattos took an antacid from his pocket, placed it in his mouth, and chewed.

“Whenever you’re in charge of the precinct, you empty the lockup a little. But the situation keeps getting worse. This week five more arrived that not even you can let go, they’ve been convicted. There’s not even room in here to move. There’s barely space for everybody to sleep at the same time.”

Mattos approached the bars. The prisoners, pressed against the bars, seemed like a double wall of bodies.

“Open the door,” Mattos told the jailer.

Mattos entered the lockup. He walked about the cell. The prisoners pressed against one another to let him through. Even so, Mattos rubbed against the dirty bodies of the inmates, smelling their fetid breath.

“We can’t get any sun, or exercise. It’s horrible. Can’t you arrange for some of us to be transferred to the penitentiary?”

“I’ll see, Odorico, I’ll see.”

Mattos knew there were no vacancies in the penitentiaries. And that all the other precincts’ lockups were also beyond normal capacity.

“At least the food’s better, isn’t it?”

“It’s better, but food ain’t everything.”

“I’ll see, Odorico, I’ll see.”

Mattos left his shift, caught the streetcar, thinking about Odorico and the other prisoners in that filthy, stinking cell. He thought about Mr. Adelino. What was his orange grove like? Sweet oranges? He, Mattos, could only eat sweet oranges, which had less acidity. He thought about the son, Cosme, his pregnant wife. The world he lived in was shit. The entire world was shit. And now he was going to the home of a luxury procuress to do the work of a vulture, his heart heavy and his mind laden with problems. The black man who had killed Paulo Gomes Aguiar wasn’t Lieutenant Gregório, as his ingenuous hastiness had led him to suppose. Now he needed to find a black man who was big and strong — the macumba priest Miguel could also be eliminated from his deliberations. He needed to locate the doorman Raimundo. He needed to connect all the dots. He needed to investigate the murder of Old Turk even though the case was in a different jurisdiction and prospects were very unpleasant, since he suspected Pádua. He needed to pressure Ilídio. He needed to have a talk with Alice. He needed to have a talk with Salete. He needed to see the doctor. He needed to check his feces in the toilet bowl.

Almeidinha opened the door.

“Mr. Mattos, so nice to see you. Dona Laura is waiting for you.” Ingratiating, pandering: “You really must come here more often. . Dona Laura was very taken with you. .”

Laura was sitting on a sofa in the semidarkness of her red living room.

“You may go, Almeidinha.”

The two remained silent for a moment.

“Sit down, Inspector.”

Mattos sat in an armchair.

“Sit over here by me,” said Laura, patting the sofa.

“I’m fine here.”

“But I’m not fine with you there. I don’t want to put on my pince-nez to see you, understand? I’m very nearsighted.”

Mattos didn’t move.

“Please, I don’t bite.”

“Put on the pince-nez.”

Laura got the pince-nez from a small table beside the sofa. She placed the silk cord around her neck and brought the pince-nez in front of her eyes, without supporting it on her nose.

“Have you stopped hitting your head against the wall?”

“For the time being. I’d like to get some information from you.”

“About Senator Freitas?”

“Exactly.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What kind of person the senator. . uh—”

“Young men. Business employees, students — any clean, good-looking young man.”

“Does he like black men?”

“The senator?! He’s a racist. He hates blacks. He once fought with a friend, because the guy has a black boxing instructor.”

“Can you tell me the name of that friend?”

“One Pedro Lomagno.”

“Can you tell me what you know about this Lomagno?”

“He was here just once. He only had a few whiskeys with Freitas and left. They were going to meet another senator, who never showed up. I heard a bit of their argument. Freitas said Brazil was a backward country because of Negroes and the Catholic church. A cursed black heritage: the Jesuits’ robes and the skin of slaves. He may even be a little bit right.” Laura patted her red hair. “Of course, blacks aren’t to blame for being black, the poor things.”

Rosalvo, sadly, was right, Mattos had to admit. You can find out a lot of things in high-class bordellos.

“This. . boxing instructor. Do you know him? Do you know anything about him?”

“I don’t have the faintest idea who he is. Let’s change the subject, Inspector. . Let’s forget this unpleasant police work. . I have a suggestion. .”

“I don’t have anything else to discuss with you.”

“But you don’t even know what my suggestion is.”

Mattos stood up. “I don’t want to know.”

“No man treats me like this, did you know that?”

“Like what?”

“With such disdain. You don’t like those who serve as intermediaries in amorous encounters, is that it?”

“It’s a crime. It’s called procuring. I didn’t make the law.”

“So you disdain me, because I’m a criminal?”

“I don’t disdain anyone.” He thought about Salete. He thought about Mr. Adelino. About Alice. Luciana. Lomagno. Ilídio. Old Turk. About the prostitutes in his childhood on Conde Lage. A whirlwind in his head.

“What does someone have to do to deserve a bit of, I don’t say affection, but a bit of your compassion?” asked Laura.

“Look, I already have two women, and I don’t know what to do with them. My hands and my heart are full.”

“Whoever has two can have three,” said Laura, seriously. “I like you. It doesn’t bother me that you’re a policeman, it doesn’t bother me that you have an ulcer in your stomach, it doesn’t bother me that you bang your head against the wall. It doesn’t bother me that you have as many women as you want.”

Mattos sat back down.

“Can you get me a glass of milk?”

“What?”

“My stomach is hurting.”

Laura stood up. She was wearing a long, tight satin dress.

Rua Conde Lage.

“I’ll get your milk.”

As she passed close to him, Mattos smelled the perfume emanating from Laura’s body. Rua Conde Lage.

IT WAS STILL DARK, at five a.m., when the troops employed in the hunt for Climerio began their execution of the plan laid out by their commanders. The dogs, after sniffing again Climerio’s clothing found in the home of his friend, became restless and were the first to move, restrained by the soldiers of the patrol.

As soon as the day brightened, the helicopters took flight.

At the top of the mountain, the sounds of the small creatures of the forest, who during the night had terrified Climerio and not let him sleep, began to be replaced by the distant barking of dogs. Soon afterward, a louder sound filled Climerio with fear. He lay curled up on the ground, and saw, through the crowns of the trees, a helicopter circling slowly. The ’copter was so near that Climerio could read the letters on its cabin: FAB.

The barking of the dogs increased.

Climerio was trembling from cold. His hand was so chilled that he had difficulty taking the revolver from his belt. He rested the barrel against his head. He didn’t have the courage to pull the trigger; they’re not going to kill me, he thought, they need me alive.

When he saw the first dogs and the men from the patrol, Climerio came out from behind the trees with his hands raised.