The Body Snatcher

by Patricia Melo

  Rita was in the hospital for three days, and during that time it was Sulamita who looked after her. She took clothes, magazines, fruit, sat at her side and held her hand, saying, Rest easy, you’re not going to lose the baby. Everything’s all right. You’re going to be okay. We’re going to help you. Do you want me to let your mother know? Your father? Your brothers and sisters? Rita didn’t have anyone, or at least that’s what she said. We’re your family, said Sulamita, wracked with pity for Rita. We’ll take care of you. She repeated that talk of family endlessly.

  Do we need to say those things? I whispered in Sulamita’s ear. Rita was sleeping, but I was afraid she was just faking. Of course we do, Sulamita answered. She’s your cousin. She’s not my cousin, I said, Carlão is my cousin. She is your cousin. And she could be lying on my table, said Sulamita. Instead of meeting her here, the most likely thing, considering what happened, was that I would receive her there, in the morgue, that way, you know how. Cold. But she’s warm. We have to take care of her. Put your hand on her arm, it’s warm, isn’t it? And she repeated the question as if wanting assurance that Rita was alive. Touch is the real difference, she said. I mean, on my table the touch is the same, it’s skin, it’s flesh, but it’s cold. It looks human, it is human, but the temperature says something else. Disgusting. That was the word she used. And Rita is warm, she continued; we have to be happy about that. Don’t you think she’s warm?

  We spoke softly. Sulamita believed Rita was sleeping, but I saw in that swollen, purplish mouth a certain intent that I knew well, the beginning of Rita’s smile, a pilot-smile, the smile of a hooker not worth a plug nickel.

  When Rita was released, Sulamita went to fetch her at the hospital. I was loaded down with work at the Berabas’ house, Dona Lu was being taken from one doctor to another, not only in Corumbá but also in Campo Grande, and I always went with her. She feels safe with you, the rancher had told me. Actually, José wasn’t holding up under the strain. He couldn’t bear seeing his wife being eaten alive by the worms of their son’s death. Even the police, who earlier had said they would find the man, or the man’s body, now held out no hope. They must be betting on the possibility of Junior having disappeared in the river. And José Beraba couldn’t take any more suffering. He couldn’t stand to see his wife suffer. He went off to his ranch and left his wife dying with me and Dalva. Every day there was a new health problem, a neck pain, another in the temples, in the neck and temples at the same time, her arms numb, tingling in the legs, tachycardia, vomiting, always some new symptom. And new doctors. If Junior were to appear, even dead, I knew the illness would go away. The same thing happened with my mother. At first the sickness is just a fiction, a kind of blackmail the body uses against the mind, and then, over time, it becomes a true cancer. That was what happened to my mother, right before my eyes. Pancreatic cancer. Metathesis. Dona Lu herself told me that for the last twenty-seven years her life had been to love that son. Everything else was secondary. God forgive me, she said, but after my son was born, even He, the Lord Almighty, took second place. First came my son, then everything else. God. Her husband. The memory of her beloved parents. Even herself. What’s to become of me? she asked Dalva in the middle of the night, when the cook came to keep her company during the rancher’s travels. Her ailment was not yet a disease but a symptom that would become cancer in the future, called “Where is my son?”, “I want my son back,” “Return my son to me.” That was the problem.

  I couldn’t think about Rita. What are we going to do with her? Sulamita asked upon her release. Rita’s a big girl, I replied, she can take care of herself.

  That night, when I got to Sulamita’s house, I couldn’t believe it. Rita, with that slutty face of hers and those peeling red nails, was sitting at the table, dining with my family. My father-in-law and my mother-in-law. And my sister-in-law.

  They received and treated Rita with the utmost affection. The utmost consideration. Rita slept in the same room as Regina and had her bed linen and clothes laundered. She needs to eat, said Sulamita’s mother. She would bring Rita soup.

  All that was making me crazy.

  One day, when the two of us were alone in the living room, I said, Look here, Rita, if that stuff about the child being mine is true, you should know I’m not going to acknowledge anything. Take this dough, get that piece of shit out of your belly or else go fuck yourself. Have the brat somewhere far away from me. You don’t have the right to fuck up Carlão’s life and then fuck up mine. Your plan of serial fucking up our lives is over. Declare victory, I said.

  I said these things to Rita expecting her to slap me and throw the money on the floor, but she didn’t react. I almost didn’t recognize Rita. And where was that laugh of hers?

  She’s trying to deceive you, over. It was in those days that I began feeling something odd, as if my internal radio, the one that was born inside me when I worked in telemarketing, when I would spend entire days saying over, listening, it was as if that internal radio was beginning to work, to tell me things, independent of my will. A clandestine radio. An interior voice, something that was mine but at the same time independent, spontaneous, telling me: beware, danger. It said: she thinks you’re a fool, that you were born yesterday, over. Danger. Danger, over.

  My head felt like a pressure cooker. Everything worried me. Rita, Sulamita, Dona Lu, Moacir, the cocaine, everything.

  Let’s get out of here, I told Sulamita one Friday, and we went to spend the weekend at a bed and breakfast in the region. Moacir had just given me another wad of money and I didn’t even consider economizing. Isn’t it very expensive? asked Sulamita when we entered the reception area, a cozy setting with a large blue sofa and armchairs with floral patterns where a few tourists were planning outings. This must be very expensive, Sulamita whispered. I lied and said that Dona Lu was a member and had given us the weekend as a present. Sulamita wouldn’t let me spend any more money. If we spend, she said, we don’t save, and we can only move if we build our nest egg. And don’t spend. Save and spend. And economize. She repeated that all the time like it was a prayer.

  But I was spending everything, I couldn’t control myself. Serafina had asked me for money to visit her tribe, I paid for the visit. My father-in-law asked for money to repair his roof, I paid for the repair. Don’t say anything to Sulamita, he said. And afterward he asked for more money, I didn’t really understand for what, and I gave it to him. Later he said he was going to build a room in the rear, for Sulamita and me, and I gave him more money. If my father asks you for money, don’t give it to him, warned Sulamita. I suspect, she said, that my father has a second family. She spoke too late: the old man had already gotten a good piece of dough for his lover. If he actually had a lover.

  Even today, when I close my eyes, I remember that weekend. We only left the room to hike trails and swim. I spent the morning floating in the lake, feeling the sun on my body, and after lunch we would sleep and make love. Sulamita sometimes left to go horseback riding, but I stayed in the room, thinking that everything was going to be all right, over. Not everything, over. Be careful, over. My premonitions, I thought, were a false alarm. They’re real, over. Be careful. They’re not real, I repeated. After all, who wouldn’t be impressed at seeing so much suffering? Good thing, I thought, that it was Rita who suffered, that it was Carlão who suffered, that it was Dona Lu who suffered, over. Better them than me, I thought. So far everything is fine, I thought. I’m safe in that bedroom with blue curtains, with everything blue like the blue sky outside. Black, over.

  When we returned on Sunday night we found Sulamita’s mother saddened. Rita went away, she said with a disconsolate expression. She said to give you a hug. I really like that girl, my mother-in-law said, she was so patient with Regina.

  Did she leave a letter? I asked.

  No, just a hug.

  I left there devastated, feeling like crap. How could I have treated the pregnant Rita that way? I didn’t know where to look for her, and the absurd idea occurre
d to me of asking for Carlão’s help. I even called my cousin, but I hung up when he answered the phone in a drunken voice. Carlão had been drinking lately. And crying at the door of his ex-wife. That’s what I was told.

  That night I sat out in front of the workshop, hoping she would appear. Time passed, and in the darkness, as I looked at the deserted street and the line of telephone poles, all that existed was a strange silence that only allowed me to hear my heart throbbing in my head.

  It was already getting light when I went to my room. And as soon as I lay down, the shouting began. Fuck them, I thought, burying my head under the pillows.

  I didn’t get up until I heard the sirens.

  I went downstairs just as I was, in shorts, without a shirt. Moacir had given Eliana a beating; it must be the thing in Corumbá to beat your wife. That was how couples got along, by beatings. Drawing blood.

  Two policemen were talking, leaning against the patrol car, while two other cops, inside the house, were trying to defuse the situation.

  I stood there, tense, disguising my feelings with small talk, thinking only about the drugs.

  He’s a good guy, I said.

  There’s women who deserve being slapped around, agreed one of the cops.

  Some of ’em even like it, said the other.

  We laughed, and I thought the matter would end there. But then one of the cops inside the house came out and asked for handcuffs.

  We found ten kilos of powder here with the perp, he said.

  Ten kilos. Almost ten kilos.

  What world does a dead man belong to? T’other world.

  What world does money belong to? This world.

  CHARLES DICKENS

  Our Mutual Friend

  Part II

  THE THIEF

  17

  How much you got? asked Ramirez.

  We were back on the veranda of his factory, in Puerto Suárez. The sewers in that region are exposed, and the stench of excrement filled the air. I felt dizzy, I had gotten lost on the way, right, left, right, left again, trying to remember the route taken on my first visit, but I got mixed up, I took chances more than once and got confused, I had to return to downtown and phone Juan, write down the directions, and now there I was, feeling awkward, sweating, it’s going to end up in shit, over.

  Juan listened to our conversation while he taught two women how to work the press. A third woman, younger and fatter, used an electric clipper to cut Ramirez’s hair very short so that his shock of black hair stood up like the bristles of a broom.

  Be clear, insisted Ramirez. I hate it when anybody starts with “I think.” I wanna know exactly how much you’ve got to give me.

  I didn’t have anything, I’d spent it all. Moacir, when I visited him in prison the day before, had said the same thing, nothing, he’d spent everything, paying creditors, nothing, nothing was left, he’d said. Installments on the refrigerator, the television, the washing machine; Moacir’s house looked like the showroom of an appliance store. All because of that bitch, he had said. I do everything to please the woman and it doesn’t do any good, she’s cuckolding me, I found a note from the butcher setting up a meeting with her behind the butcher shop. “I love you too” was in the note, Moacir had said, shaken.

  I had gone to see him to talk about our problem, to ask Moacir to keep his mouth shut, to not get me involved in anything, and also to see what we could do about Ramirez, but Moacir was only concerned with Eliana, he’d gone crazy over the fact of his wife being in love with the butcher. If Alceu wrote “I love you too,” he said, emphasizing the word too, it’s because Eliana’s been telling him “I love you.” Don’t you think?

  I tried to bring him back to reality. How are we going to get you out of here? I asked more than once. I’d rather be a prisoner than see Eliana with Alceu, he replied. How can I look people in the eye? My neighbors? What are they gonna say? And my kids?

  Fuck Eliana, I told Moacir. Kick the bitch out. On top of everything else she’s ugly as sin.

  Ugly? Eliana? Moacir didn’t like hearing that, he was the only one who could bad-mouth his obese dwarf. Don’t offend Eliana, he answered. Eliana is my life, and it’s not even her fault. I know my wife, she wouldn’t fall for a cross-eye like Alceu, who’s all the time hauling goat on his back. The butcher shop is the thing. She’s in love with the butcher shop. I keep wondering, is the butcher shop really his?

  Now, in front of Ramirez, I made an effort to understand what was being said, our conversation wasn’t fluent, I was nervous and several times my Spanish tripped over my ideas, I got confused, and to make matters worse, the noise of the electric clippers also got in the way. What? I repeated, uncertain, what’re you saying?

  Is Porco deaf? Ramirez said, exasperated, and Juan was forced to put the press aside and use his Portunhol to translate the trafficker’s words.

  It’s very simple, Ramirez said, Moacir told me your wife works for the police, isn’t that right? Talk to your wife, tell her to give back the confiscated drugs. I stumbled over that part, it never entered my head to put Sulamita in the middle of things. The first thing that occurred to me was that I was an idiot; how could I ever have relied on Moacir? We think the devil comes in the back door, that he comes with your enemies, but the truth is that we ourselves open the door to him the moment we trust someone. Goddamn Indian. Blabbermouth. What’s the name of your wife? asked Ramirez. Ex-wife, I replied. Ex, I repeated, I’m separated, actually we weren’t married, just lovers. She worked in the precinct as an administrative assistant, I explained, but now she’s at the morgue.

  Ah, Porco, that’s gotta be why you were caught, concluded Ramirez. I’m gonna tell you something: you shouldn’t have separated. No woman likes a kick in the ass. She ratted you out. That’s what happened.

  I didn’t kick anybody in the ass, I said, and I wasn’t caught. Moacir was arrested, not me.

  I don’t give a shit what happened, Ramirez said. You’re costing me money.

  Ramirez spoke without looking at me, gazing only at the mirror in his hands. The front part of his hair was already looking like a perfect brush, but the back part hadn’t been trimmed yet and appeared more like a vulture’s wing.

  Just look at the situation you’re putting me in, Porco. You showed up here, took ten kilos on consignment.

  Five, I said. Ten, he insisted, it was part of our agreement to deliver the other five in Corumbá. And that didn’t happen. Twice my runner tried to pick up the drugs, which were gonna be taken to Araraquara, and Moacir wasn’t there. And now you tell me the shipment got seized. And that you don’t have no way to pay. When your girlfriend blew the whistle on us – Hold on, I interrupted, she didn’t blow the whistle on anybody. I told him about the argument between Moacir and his wife. It was because of the fight that the police showed up, I insisted, there wasn’t any squealing. Of course there was. It was your girlfriend.

  Now the hair-clipping machine seemed to be inside my head, cutting into my thoughts. I was sweating, soaking my work shirt. I’m going to have to make a stop at home before returning to the Barabas’, I thought.

  Let’s continue the conversation, he said. First: Moacir has to keep his trap shut, ’cause if he talks, I fear for his life. Guys who talk a lot, I hear, die hung in their cells. A shame, but it happens. Second: you two owe me fifty thousand dollars. Thirty for the product and twenty for the loss. And third: I’ll give you a month, not a day longer, to come up with the money. I’m doing you a favor. I like Moacir. Fourth: if you don’t pay, be very clear about it, I’ll go to your home and kill you. You worthless Porco, I’ll kill your girlfriend, her relatives, I’ll kill Moacir’s family and feel avenged. Now get outta here so I can cut my hair in peace.

  On the road back, I felt totally discouraged: you’re fucked, over. Where am I going to find fifty thousand dollars? I had an enormous desire to be with Rita, on a boat, listening to the sound of the water. Where must Rita be?

  On the radio they said that N.K., an Englishwoman,
cashier at a supermarket, had just won two million pounds in the lottery, which is almost eight million in our currency. A pity, I thought, that it happened to N.K. and not to me. Really bad things, I thought – and really good things – only happen to others. Only others have their heads cut off by the blades of a helicopter. Only others lose almost everything in the stock market. On the other hand, only others make a killing in the stock market. Or the lottery. Only others. Life is others, I thought. Others. We, the rest, remain here, seeing and hearing about their lives in celebrity magazines and the news on TV.

  My only solution, I thought as I passed a truck that was falling apart, my only solution is Dona Lu. What if I had a talk with her? What if I told her the truth? Dona Lu was always saying she liked me. She likes you to drive her car, over. To open and close doors. To say thank you, yes ma’am. Certainly. If I were Junior, I thought, she’d pay. You’re not Junior, over. Junior is the others, over. Them. The ones who have helicopters. The drugs, though, were Junior’s, I thought to myself. I mean, not specifically those drugs, but the ones before, the ones that had already been sold. In a way, Junior was involved in my imbroglio. Thinking about it, if not for Junior I wouldn’t be in that mess.

  At home, when I changed clothes, already late for work, I saw I didn’t have any money. I climbed into the crawl space to get the last few bills Moacir had given me before his arrest. And there I saw Junior’s backpack.

  I got it, dumped the contents on my bed: credit cards, key ring, ID card, driver’s license. I looked at the photos in the documents. Good-looking guy, Junior. Handsome. I put on the sunglasses and went to look at myself in the mirror. Only they are born rich. The Juniors. Only they crash in their private planes.