Jean-Marie Blas De Robles - Where Tigers Are at Home

It was almost midday when Nelson decided to take the bus to Aldeota, the posh district of the town. Not that there was any chance of getting a single cruzeiro there — the rich were barricaded in their fortress-like villas and it was teeming with vigilantes, often more dangerous than the cops themselves — but Zé had finally given him the address of the garage that had acquired the Willis. He intended to ferret around a bit up there.

At the José de Alcanar Garage Nelson observed an employee half-heartedly polishing a radiator grille; taking advantage of his inattention, he slipped under one of the cars parked inside the garage building. A Mercedes agent, the owner had specialized in classic cars. Nelson’s eye was caught by a splendid front-wheel-drive Citroën whose polished chrome parts seemed to him as beautiful as monstrances. Crawling under the cars with the litheness of a Sioux, he reached the shelter of the Citroën without mishap and, stretched out on his back, his nose glued to the rear axle, closed his eyes the better to savor the smells of oil and rubber.

He couldn’t have said how much time had passed when he was roused from his half sleep by loud claps. “Hello! Is anyone there?” said a deep, imperious voice.

“ Sim senhor . I’ll be right with you,” the garage-hand replied.

“I’m Deputado Jefferson Vasconscelos. Go and fetch your boss, I want to see his old cars.”

“Right away, sir. Have a look around, he’ll be here in a moment.”

Nelson heard the garage-hand run off and, a few seconds later, the steps of the garage-owner hurrying to see his customer.

“Floriano Duarte, at your service, sir. Pleased to meet you, senhor deputado .”

“Yes, yes …” came the irritated voice of the member of parliament. “To put it briefly, I’m in a great hurry. I promised to buy my son a car for his eighteenth birthday and he’s taken it into his head to ask for an old model instead of the Golf I was going to give him, and I can’t get him to change his mind …”

“I know how it is, sir. It’s impossible to go against fashion and young people are crazy about those cars and, with all due respect, I think they’re right. And I’m not saying that just because I sell them, mind you, since I also sell Mercedes. Modern cars look like suppositories or, at best, like bars of soap: bathroom design, no imagination, no beauty. It’s as if all the manufacturers are in it together. Whereas in the old days they used to deck them out like carriages, like cathedral altars! And I’m not just talking about your Hispano-Suizas, your Delahayes or Bugattis, mind you — look at the Plymouths, the Hotchkisses, the Chryslers. People pamper them, exhibit them in museums like works of art while they’re still working, often better than lots of others! This model, for example. Please, come and have a look.”

Two pairs of feet came up to the car under which Nelson was hiding. He immediately identified those of the deputado by the perfect cut of his trousers over his polished casuals. He could touch them if he stretched out his hand.

“A 1953 front-wheel-drive Citroën. Look at this little jewel! Six cylinders, fifteen hp, floating engine with wet-lined cylinders, eighty miles an hour in twenty-seven seconds! What do you say to that? Come closer, no need to be afraid! Now tell me honestly: doesn’t that scream class, style? Look at the curve of those wings, of the bumper. A Volkswagen and a marvel of engineering like that — there’s simply no comparison! It’s more than just a car, it’s a symbol, a way of life—”

“I’m sure you’re right,” the deputado said, the nervous tapping of his foot indicating his irritation, “but I’ve not come here to buy a symbol, I just want a car that will keep going without breaking down every five minutes. You see what I’m getting at, don’t you?”

“Do you know what this model was called, senhor deputado ?” Duarte said, in offended tones. “ ‘The Queen of the Road’! I don’t know if you realize what that means. During the last war the Germans requisitioned all of them; believe me, they did thousands of miles without the slightest hiccup. May I remind you that it’s engines like this that did the Croisière Jaune from Beirut to Peking or crossed Africa.”

“Precisely, senhor— What did you say your name was?”

“Duarte, Floriano Duarte.”

“Precisely, Senhor Duarte, precisely. All these engines have done far too much. How many miles does this marvel of engineering have on the clock?”

“None,” Duarte replied proudly.

“What d’you mean, none? Are you putting me on?”

“Not at all, senhor deputado , I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ve completely rebuilt the engine using a batch of original parts: this car might well be old, but its engine is as new as if it was straight out of the factory. Your son can drive to Belém and back, if he feels like it, and I will guarantee he’ll have no problems. Not to mention the comfort,” he said, opening the door, “velvet interior trim, rebuilt suspension, plenty of room in the trunk. It’s a little gem, senhor deputado . Get in and see for yourself.”

Realizing his legs might be trapped if someone got in the car, Nelson twisted around so he would be able to escape at the last moment.

“I haven’t the time,” the other replied. “Let’s get down to the painful part: how much does it cost?”

“The same as a Golf, senhor deputado . Exactly the amount you intended to pay for that car.”

“The same as a Golf? For this pile of scrap metal? What do you take me for?”

“For a man who wants to buy his son a car while getting a bargain at the same time. I will guarantee this Citroën for three years, labor and parts included, and I promise to find you a buyer at the same price if you should decide to sell it. As you know as well as I do, a new car loses something of its value with every day that passes. With quality old models it’s exactly the opposite. Instead of squandering your money on a simple whim, you would be making a very good investment. And you should note that I’m doing you a personal favor with my guarantee: true collectors don’t demand anything like that, I can assure you. Only last week I sold a 1930 Willis without even seeing the purchaser. And it cost twice as much as the Citroën! It was Colonel José de Moreira who bought it from me, I’m sure you know him …”

“The governor of Maranhão?”

“The very same, senhor deputado . Not a man who was born yesterday as far as classic cars are concerned, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

Nelson almost cried out. That name above all names, held in such contempt he could hardly bring himself to speak it, associated with the Willis, hit him like an electric shock. His expression froze and the tears suddenly poured down in absurd, mechanical spurts. His hatred swelled until it enveloped the whole world in its inky whorls until even he was blinded by its opacity. For a brief moment he saw himself as an octopus, a mollusk lurking in its shell of black metal, a shapeless beast throwing its tentacles around the legs of the garage-owner, drawing him into the morass of rancor that would reduce him to a pulp underneath the car. His limbs jerked convulsively, flecks of foam gathered at the corners of his mouth. When he came to himself again, just a few seconds later, there was only one thing in his mind: the name had been spoken, it was like a sign of his justification, a final exhortation to carry out the punishment.

There was no one around the car anymore so that Nelson could emerge from his hiding place unmolested. Risking a glance over the hood, he saw the garage owner and the deputado in deep discussion behind the glass door of the office. Reassured, he went to the part of the garage used as a workshop, rummaged through a toolbox beside a car that was being repaired and swiped a file before leaving. He had no trouble getting back out to the heat of the pavement and the comforting feeling of the softened asphalt under his fingers.