Rubem Fonseca: Crimes of August

Gregório’s thoughts were interrupted by a telephone call from his wife, Juracy. They had an unpleasant exchange. The head of the guard disliked hearing her complain that he was becoming a visitor in his own home and hung up the phone.

Immediately afterward, he received a call from Magalhães.

“I’ve got the Japanese money.”

“Don’t say anything to Roberto. Bring the check to me.”

“Won’t it bother him if he finds out?”

“I’ve known Roberto from the time he used to clean Mr. Getúlio’s latrine on his ranch in Itu, when we were in exile. Don’t worry about it.”

“Mr. Lodi wants a meeting with you.”

“I was with the deputy here in my room in the palace, I know what he wants.”

“About the Cemtex license—”

“The license has already been issued. It wasn’t easy. Fifty million dollars is a lot of money.”

“Good lord! Is there any way to change the license to another company? That’s what I wanted to talk to you about yesterday. The name of the other company is—”

“You think the government is some damn whorehouse? You think anything goes? Now you come to me with that? After all the problems I faced to get the license granted?”

“The president of Cemtex was murdered. That changes everything. You could say a few words to Souza Dantas—”

“It’s too late.”

“Please, lieutenant, for the love of God, the license has to be transferred to that other company, Brasfesa.”

“It’s too late.”

“Your part is at stake.”

“A cat doesn’t eat a man’s food. Tell your friends that.”

After he hung up, Gregório jotted down on a piece of paper his conversation with Magalhães. In his home he kept a file with confidential information that he deemed important to record; in a folder he would put what he had said to Magalhães about Cemtex and Brasfesa. He needed to arrange a safe place for that folder; his relationship with Juracy was getting worse by the day, because of the woman’s idiotic jealousy. “One of these days I’m going to do something crazy,” she had said, in the middle of an argument. A jealous woman was capable of anything.

IT WAS SIX IN THE MORNING when Mattos’s telephone rang.

“It’s me.”

Silence.

“Remember me?” Alice.

Only three years had gone by.

“I know you like to get up early, that’s why I called at this hour. .”

It was as if he were at the edge of an abyss, ready to fall. Three years earlier he had called Alice’s home, her mother had come to the phone and said that Alice didn’t want to talk to him and for him not to call again.

Alice had traveled abroad, spent six months in Europe. Upon her return she had married some society type whose name he didn’t remember. Three years.

On the edge of the abyss.

“I’d like to see you. Have tea. How about at the Cavé? They haven’t closed the Cavé, have they?”

“No. I passed by there the other day.”

“Can you? Today? At five?”

“All right.”

After he hung up, the inspector remembered he had an appointment with Mr. Emilio, the maestro, at 5:30 p.m. Since he had the time, as it was still early, he decided to honor Mr. Emilio by listening to La Traviata . The recording he owned, made at La Scala in Milan in 1935, wasn’t complete, running only 111 minutes, lacking the aria “No, non udrai rimproveri,” the Germont cabaletta at the end of Act 2, Scene 1. There were thirteen 78-rpm disks, which couldn’t be stacked on the record player. Every eight minutes the inspector had to change the record. Sometimes that irritated him. So, even before hearing all the disks, still in the second act, Mattos turned off the phonograph, put the disks back in the album, and left.

Mattos had asked Rosalvo to investigate the backgrounds of Paulo Gomes Aguiar, Claudio Aguiar, and Vitor Freitas. He hadn’t mentioned Luiz Magalhães.

“Paulo Machado Gomes Aguiar,” said Rosalvo, consulting a notepad in his hand, “Brazilian, white, born here in the Federal District on January 12, 1924. Father a doctor, mother a housewife, both deceased. Studied at the São Joaquim secondary school and the National Law School, where he graduated in 1947. Never practiced law. In 1950 he married Luciana Borges, a banker’s daughter. Seems he married for money. In 1951 he founded the Cemtex import-export firm, which quickly became one of the largest in the country. He has contacts with high-placed government officials. Appears to be the figurehead for foreign groups. I read in the Tribuna —”

“Leave the political intrigues till the end. First the facts.”

“Cemtex’s shady deals are a fact. For example, the firm obtained an import license from Cexim worth fifty million dollars. The Bank of Brazil never gave that much money to anyone; it’s plain as day that it’s one more underhanded trick by some bigwig at the top. Gomes Aguiar was a friend of senator Vitor Freitas, who’s probably one of those clearing the path for him.”

“Continue.”

“Gomes Aguiar had a very active social life. I went through a collection of old newspapers and saw photos of him with Vitor Freitas in the society columns. And also with his cousin and other upper-crust types, especially Pedro Lomagno, son of the late Lomagno, the coffee king.”

“Continue.”

“Claudio, the cousin, also studied at the São Joaquim. Then he left the country and stayed away for a long time; his father was a diplomat or some such thing. He studied economics in London. As for Senator Freitas, it’s possible that he frequents the ‘Senate Annex.’ Those playboy senators, when they get tired of making speeches, are in the habit of crossing the street for a relaxing lay. They say the girls at the annex are marvelous.”

“Where is that annex?”

“You don’t know?” Rosalvo was surprised, but he pretended to be very surprised. “It’s in the São Borja Building, 227 Avenida Rio Branco, right across from the Senate. Very handy. I feel like going there, but they say the madam is a tough old bird, and she’s not going to rat out guys with clout just like that. It’d be good for us to meet one of the whores the senator is screwing.”

“The senator’s sex life doesn’t interest me.”

“I don’t like to nose around in anybody’s sex life either. But the senator must be the type of john who gets off on bragging to girls in bed while drinking champagne. Lots of times we get useful information.”

“You don’t have the slightest notion of ethics, Rosalvo.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“What I’m interested in is finding out whether Gomes Aguiar had enemies, problems with partners, that sort of thing. I’m not interested in gossip, much less your ironies.”

“I don’t argue with you. You’re my boss, and I have the greatest respect for you.”

Actually, Rosalvo was afraid of the inspector. He was sure that Mattos wasn’t right in the head, the faces he made, that crazy strike he’d tried to promote, that business of going unarmed to investigations, and especially his habit of not taking numbers dough — shit, the guy rode the bus, didn’t even own a car, and yet he turned up his nose at the boodle from the bankrollers. You had to be careful with a man like that.

“You’re new in the police — not that I’m trying to give you lessons, who am I to do that? It’s just that I’m older, almost an old man of fifty-five, thirty of them in the police. The only thing I’ve learned in all those years is that in a homicide there are just two motives. Sex and power. That’s the crux. People kill only over money and pussy, excuse my French, or both of them together. That’s the way of the world.” Pause. “I have some business to take care of. Do you need me?”