The Body Snatcher

by Patricia Melo

  I thought about how my own mother would have been happy if one day someone from the morgue had called, if we had gone there, identified my father’s body so that later we could bury him and be done with the matter. That’s the meaning of the word bury. To put a full stop to something. Bury the dead and take care of the living – who said that? Until we bury the dead, the living stay behind and bleed. The dead destroy us. Destroy Dona Lu. I had noticed that in the last few days it no longer mattered if she found her son alive. Finding his body would be enough. She was at the point where the cadaver was better than nothing. Better the cadaver. It was exactly how things worked. I knew this from my own experience. There are times when even bad news is welcome. We found an arm. A piece of the skull. We caught the killer. The grave. Anything will do.

  We ordered Coca-Cola, and Sulamita began repeating that she felt ill from that smell of decomposition, of rotting things, and for me not to come close, my hair stinks, my clothing, the odor sticks like chewing gum, it doesn’t do any good to bathe with just soap, she said, if I don’t use alcohol on my entire body the smell won’t go away.

  I tried to calm her, while I tried to calm myself, by speaking of our plans, the land we would buy. I said that soon she’d be able to resign from that place and be free of that stench. So you do smell it? she asked. No, I said. Of course I did, and in fact it was unbearable, a mixture of formaldehyde and offal, with the sun overhead cooking it all.

  As long as the two of us aren’t able to support my father, my mother, and my sister, I can’t leave here, she said. They depend on me. Things were more complicated than I thought. Father, mother, and sister make up a total hell, I thought, and even so I went ahead with my lie, said that ranchers, cattle raisers, farmers also had families, naturally we’re going to be able to support ours. Ours, I said, as if it were mine too. Though it was hers. Only hers. When we buy our land, I said, you’ll leave all that behind. We’re going to have cattle, we’re going to make money.

  I was certain none of that would happen, but I felt so sorry for Sulamita and so much affection for her that I went on making promises. Anyone overhearing me would believe I didn’t think about Rita anymore, though I couldn’t get her out of my head for even a second.

  I’ve tried, she said, not looking at the faces of the cadavers. That was the tip they gave me when I got here. Don’t look.

  I remembered the pilot, his eyes. At times, for no reason, those eyes appeared in my memory. And the final breath. When I took Dona Lu to the church, I also remembered those eyes. The eyes of someone about to die. The eyes die first, that’s my impression. Before anything else. They cloud over. And fade away.

  Sulamita continued: They said, “Look at the lesion in the liver, the lesion in the stomach, look at the fracture in the skull, look at the lesion, just the lesion.” But who says I can do that? I go directly to the eyes. To the face. I can’t help it, every day when I come here I tell myself “Today, you idiot, you’re not going to see anyone’s face.” I get here and before I realize it, I’m staring at the face of the deceased. It’s like I even want to see that dead face. Like I enjoy seeing it. But I detest it. One more, I think, one more for my funereal gallery. I know very well what the mouth, the nose are like. As soon as I close my eyes the faces parade before me like some horror film.

  After ordering coffee, which was lukewarm and tasted of leftover grounds, she told me that part of her job was also assisting at exhumations. They dig up the cadaver and I have to stand there, watching. It’s like that here. One task worse than the other. I have to do the sutures after they’re all eviscerated. Besides describing the clothes they’re wearing, the color of their hair, eyes, teeth. And that’s not the worst part. The worst is at night, in bed, having to close my eyes and sleep. That’s the worst part. And then wake up and come back here. That’s what’s terrible.

  Last night, she said, the table, which isn’t ergonomic because the state can’t even get that right, the state doesn’t give a shit about its dead, the table twisted as we were carrying an old man who had died of a heart attack, and he rolled onto the floor. I started crying and thought, It’s not enough that the man has died, do I also have to drop him?

  We remained in the bar for a time; it was almost five o’clock and the sun continued strong, as if it were still early afternoon. I commented on that to Sulamita, and she added, True, that’s another problem with my job. Everything in this city rots more quickly.

  Out of the way, said Sulamita’s mother, coming to the table carrying the steaming platter. Fish with annatto was the dish. My mother-in-law’s specialty. I’ve already tried making broth of piranha and alligator meat, but this is my strong point, the old lady repeated.

  It was Sunday and we had spent the morning fishing, my father-in-law and I. En route, we left Sulamita and Regina at the grotto near the Vista Alegre ranch, helped Sulamita take Regina from her wheelchair and place her in the water, then continued ahead to fish.

  It was the rainy season, the river was high, its level had risen significantly, forming a body of water that stretched out of sight. Further on in, my father-in-law said, it’s real beautiful, there’s bayous, swamp birds, lowlands, mountain ranges, salt marshes, one of these days I’ll take you there. To me, if God exists he’s the Pantanal. We’ve got everything, we’ve got forests, we’ve got pastures, we’ve got clear fields, we’ve got the most beautiful birds you can imagine. Today I’m going to teach you to fish, he said. I already knew how to fish, I knew that entire area, I’d hiked through it with Rita, one of our favorite activities. We would sometimes rent a boat and turn off the motor in mid-river and stay there, letting life drift by. Just Rita and me.

  Father-in-law, that’s what I called him, and he called me my son. To me, he said while we fished, now you’re my son. And then he began praising Sulamita: You don’t know how precious that woman is, precious and brave. The adjectives poured out like a waterfall. Now she’s playing with Regina, who loves to swim. It’s only when she’s swimming that Regina feels that her legs aren’t a hindrance, he said. In the wheelchair she’s just a trunk, but in the water her legs are reborn, I think. Sulamita has more patience than you can imagine. Sulamita has a great heart. It wasn’t easy for us, he continued, for me and my wife, to have Regina. A crippled child is almost a half-child. A burden for us, and I say that with total love. At first, her mother didn’t even want to look at the girl: she thought she’d given birth to a monster. But Sulamita, who was a little five-year-old girl, gave us a true lesson of love. She was the one who first fell in love with Regina. The older Regina got, the more twisted and ugly she became, but Sulamita loved her. Have you seen how the two get along?

  I had seen, and I even forced myself to talk to Regina, though I couldn’t understand her grunts. She’s saying she wants ice cream, Sulamita would translate, when the three of us went out together. She’s saying she wants juice. She’s asking me to change her diaper. Sulamita, and only Sulamita, understood that language, which was as twisted and deformed as her sister’s body.

  After fishing, we went for Sulamita and Regina at the lake. Regina was exhausted and fell asleep in the car on the way back.

  Now, ravenous, we sat around the table, along with two of Sulamita’s cousins, a widowed aunt, another widowed aunt, and her ninety-year-old grandmother. How chic, said the aunt when Sulamita showed her the ring I had given her. It wasn’t an engagement ring, but now it might as well have been. Sulamita herself said it was for an engagement. An elegant thing, the aunt repeated. Really chic, the other aunt said. I had also brought Serafina, explaining that she was like a mother to me, and the Indian woman remained silent, eating nonstop, eating and looking, without understanding anything that was happening.

  Sulamita had suggested we invite Carlão and Rita also so she could meet them, but I made up a long story that Rita was having problems of nausea because of the pregnancy. I didn’t want to lay eyes on that tramp’s face. The gall. Wearing boots and her hand on her hip, wanting to know wha
t was “going down” between us. Shit is going down, I should have answered.

  After that day at the morgue, Sulamita and I decided to speed up our plans. Or rather, Sulamita decided. We’d buy a small piece of land and get married. She wanted to get married first, but I was like a bad driver. Forward and backward. More backward than forward. I balked. I hindered the flow. Sometimes I would get really worked up. I even mentioned the marriage to Dona Lu one afternoon when I took her to the doctor. Nowadays she was constantly seeing doctors because she couldn’t sleep anymore except with pills. I’m very happy for you, Dona Lu said. I so wanted my son to marry Daniela, but Junior didn’t think about serious commitments. A naughty boy. She asked me to inform her when we set a date. We want to give you and your fiancée a gift. We think a lot of you. My husband and I, and Dalva too. You’re overqualified for the position of driver, I’ve said that to José, and he agrees. And you’ve been very good to us at this time. And she stopped. It was always like that: Dona Lu would talk her head off and then fall silent in the back seat, quiet.

  My father-in-law always had a newspaper under his arm, marking ads for land sales. All of them were either too expensive or too far away. That’s what I told him. We’ve got to do the thing right, I repeated.

  Tomorrow, he said, I’m going to talk to a real-estate broker. We’d had lunch and were a bit logy, plopped on the sofa, the entire family, with the television on. I had taken Sulamita home, and we spent the rest of the afternoon watching all that Sunday crap. I fell asleep there, my head leaning on the shoulder of Regina, who was sleeping.

  I woke up at seven and Sulamita had gone to the morgue. It was her day to be on duty.

  I said goodbye to everyone, I’m going to catch some sleep, I said. Tomorrow I start work early.

  Auhnsjfgfl, grunted Regina when I kissed her. How was I supposed to understand that growl?

  15

  Sunday night. Moacir bellowed. Eliana bellowed, and the children bellowed.

  I stood in the hallway, wondering whether or not I should interfere.

  Eliana said: She exasperates me. I don’t have to put up with that crazy Indian woman, who almost burned my house down. Moacir: Don’t change the subject; I wanna know who gave you that piece of meat. And those gizzards.

  More shouts. Meats and butcher shops were mentioned. Alceu. Something broke. Glass. And more shouts.

  I scratched my head, lit a cigarette. The devil was on the loose. Things are bad today, said a neighbor when he saw me getting out of the car, a retired guy who was all the time poking his nose in where it didn’t belong. They’ve been yelling like that all afternoon, he said.

  The name-calling went on and on. Tramp. Drunkard. Bastard. Whore. Limp-dick. It was only when I heard the word “trafficker” that I decided to knock on the door.

  Moacir opened the door.

  What’s happening here? I asked. The neighbors are stirred up.

  Moacir came out and closed the door. Eliana continued hurling insults. That woman, he said. Have you heard the rumors? About her and Alceu? You know who Alceu is, the butcher? A kinda cross-eyed guy?

  No, I said.

  I’ve had it, he said. The woman’s driving me crazy.

  I did what I could to calm Moacir, took him for a beer at the corner bar, but to make matters worse, Alceu, the butcher, had the same idea.

  See how he looks at me? Then he says he’s not looking, he’s cross-eyed. Look at him looking over here. I feel like putting out both the bastard’s eyes.

  The guy’s cross-eyed, I said. He’s looking at the door, not at us.

  He is?

  I know those cross-eyed types, I said. You need to calm down. Eliana is an honest woman.

  You think so?

  Without any doubt.

  What about that Alceu guy?

  He sells meat, I said. That’s all. Cross-eyed.

  You think so?

  Of course. Eliana loves you, I replied. That’s what I’m saying.

  We returned home. Moacir seemed to be under control. He said that Ramirez’s agent had run into a problem in Paraguay and still hadn’t come to pick up the shipment. Careful, I said, you’re already talking like a trafficker.

  We laughed. Tomorrow, he said, I’m gonna slip you some dough. I’ve already sold almost a hundred grams today.

  We said goodbye, I went up to my room, and when I was almost asleep Carlão phoned me. Are you awake?

  More or less.

  I want to talk to you.

  I felt a chill in my spine. About what?

  Can you come here?

  Tomorrow?

  No. I need your help. Now.

  From the look of things, that Sunday had no intention of ending.

  Rita’s face was like a handful of raw meat, her mouth swollen, bruises; nothing was in order in that face. Her nose was bleeding, and one tooth had been broken. On the sofa, sobbing, she said she was going to lose her child.

  Let’s take her to the hospital, I told Carlão.

  I hope she dies, my cousin said. That bitch. I left my family for her. Two daughters. I hope the baby dies too, that’s what I want to happen to that cow.

  Carlão left the room. Rita didn’t even look at me, sobbing uncontrollably. I moved toward the phone, planning to call an ambulance, but then Carlão returned with a gun. That was when I realized he knew everything.

  We’re getting out of here, he said. To the car. Both of you. Now.

  Take it easy, Carlão. Let’s talk, I said.

  Now you want to talk, you son of a bitch? You made some poor woman kill herself in São Paulo, I went there, picked you up out of the gutter, brought you here, offered my home, got you a job, you came here, ate my food and took advantage of her being easy, fucked my wife, got my wife pregnant.

  I’m not your wife, Rita said.

  Shut up, you whore.

  You’re not my husband, insisted Rita.

  The only reason I don’t kill the two of you right here and now is ’cause I don’t want to dirty my living room with the blood of a couple of pigs. And ’cause I don’t want to just kill, I want to bury too. Move it, both of you.

  Before going out to the gas station where Carlão’s car was, we went through the garage, and he got a shovel and handed it to Rita. I saw blood running down her legs. Stay calm, I said, everything’s going to be all right.

  In the car, he asked whether if I was spared I would take care of the wretched being that was going to be born, which wouldn’t happen because he would kill me along with Rita. That’s as sure as two and two is four, he said, but let’s suppose I’m a fool and let you two go free?

  As soon as I managed to open my mouth to say I was sorry, that neither Rita nor I meant for it to happen, which was a lie – because we had wanted each other from the first day, seeing her sunbathing in a bikini, I was crazy from the first instant, but it was true that I regretted it, that my wish was never to have gotten near Rita – he started yelling, Shut your trap, you goddamn son of a bitch, shut your mouth, you motherfucker, because I swear if I hear your voice I’ll kill you both right here and then set fire to the car.

  We drove for over twenty minutes, the car being jolted by the dirt road full of potholes, then turned onto a small trail, in even worse condition, and followed it for another ten minutes.

  The night was clear and we could see the terrain around us, the trees, the whole landscape. Carlão parked, turned off the headlights, and as soon as we got out, handed the shovel to Rita, ordering her to dig under an ipê tree. Keep digging, he said repeatedly. Deeper. Faster. Harder. And when she fell down, he would kick her, saying that she wasn’t even any good for that, for digging her own grave. He handed me the shovel.

  When the hole was deep enough, Carlão told us to get inside and keep our backs to him.

  We obeyed. Sobbing, Rita squeezed my hand.

  Let go of his hand, you bitch, screamed Carlão.

  I won’t, she said. If I’m going to die, I want to die like this.

&nbs
p; I tried to pull my hand away, but Rita clutched it tightly.

  I closed my eyes, awaiting the worst. And then we heard footsteps in the woods. I thought it was someone approaching but quickly realized the sound was moving away from us.

  I gathered my courage and looked behind me and saw Carlão leaving, the gun in his hand.

  Rita sobbed, trembling. Stay calm, I said.

  I thought we had sunk as low as we could. But things were going to get a lot worse.

  16

  Collapse, over, I told myself at the hospital. I was trying to stay calm, so was Sulamita. But Sulamita had one curious characteristic. She was capable of sinking into the mud of her own life, to succumb to her private bog, but when it was somebody else in the swamp, she would rise to the occasion, start up her tractor and go about removing and pushing aside the rubble with great ability.

  It was she who took the reins in the situation. It was she who called a taxi and came for us after I phoned the morgue, where she was on duty in the middle of the night, telling her what had happened. We had walked for over two hours before finding an inn where we could ask for help. Rita could barely manage to speak. On the way to the hospital I made up a bunch of lies to tell Sulamita, said I was with Carlão and Rita having a beer at their house when they started fighting, that we went to the inn together and Carlão, who was drunk, lost control and had a fit on the way back. Thanks to me, I said, the worst was averted.

  At the hospital, after Rita was attended to, Sulamita insisted that I report Carlão. Is that cousin of yours a psychopath? He almost killed the girl. It’s very likely she’ll lose the baby.

  You always ask me why I don’t spend time with my cousin, I replied. Now you know. Carlão is crazy, Rita is crazy, their lives are total confusion, and I don’t feel like being part of it.

  I had been very clear with Rita before Sulamita came for us at the inn. I said, If you tell Sulamita anything, if you hurt my fiancée – my exact word, fiancée – I’ll rearrange your face myself. Afterward I felt sorry for being so coarse. At that moment Rita had ceased to be a girl with a bombastic smile and looked more like a slender thread, an insignificant little thing, but nevertheless her ability to do me in, to grind me into dust, was still enormous.