Saturday morning I went to the supermarket with Serafina, bought ham, bread, crackers, and cigarettes, and then we left for the penitentiary to visit Moacir.
He was even more dejected than at our first meeting and very worried about the children. He’d made his mother promise she’d take care of the kids. Don’t let Eliana hit them, he said, Eliana is very high-strung. Serafina wanted to know what was going on and asked a lot of questions. Mother, he answered, it doesn’t do any good to explain. All you’ve gotta do is take care of the children, that’s all.
At the end, he asked his mother to give us a few moments and told me it had been Eliana who blew the whistle on him. How do you know? I asked. She told me so herself, she was here yesterday. Does she know about me? I asked. No, he replied, of course not. She saw the packages of drugs in my workshop and when we were fighting, when the cops arrived, she ratted me out. That’s what happened.
Then his eyes turned red, he made an effort not to cry as he told me that Eliana had stated plainly that she had turned him in because she hated him. She said she’s disgusted by me, he continued, that I’m like a dirty pig in the middle of those bikes. Since when is grease dirty?
I didn’t know what to say. Maybe it’s a lie, I ventured. It’s grease, he said. I tried to calm him, I said I’d talk with Sulamita, see about finding a lawyer, and he told me it wasn’t necessary, that he had already taken care of everything. How? I asked. A friend of mine, you don’t know him. I urged him not to involve me. Are you crazy? he said. Who’s gonna take care of my kids? Or my mother? I’m counting on you, he said.
I was disconcerted by his answer. It wasn’t part of my plans to take care of Moacir’s family, and from the way things were put, the price of my freedom would be something like marrying Eliana. Taking on her children.
Don’t let them lack for anything, he said.
Of course not, I agreed. Never.
I left with Serafina still confused, asking more questions.
When we arrived, we found Eliana returning from the outdoor market with the little Indians, each one with a turnover in his hand. I asked if she needed anything and she told me the only thing she wanted was to be rid of Serafina. I can’t put up with that old woman in my house any longer, she said.
I took Serafina to have lunch nearby, but neither of us managed to eat a bite.
Later, I called Sulamita. What’s going on? asked my father-in-law at the other end of the line. She’s acting strange. Quiet. Come over here so we can talk, the old man continued, maybe I can help you two. I give good advice. I’m your friend. By the way, I need a favor from you. Father to son. An advance, he said, as if I were his boss. The chance to buy my neighbor’s VW has come up. Can’t do it right now, I said. And tell Sulamita I called, over.
I spent the rest of the day in my room, with Serafina beside me, silently braiding straw, and at certain moments her presence was even comforting. From time to time, when I closed my eyes, my plan, over, slowly formed like a gigantic wave that started through a crack in my tectonic plates in the deepest and darkest part of my ocean and came rushing forward, gaining force and volume. The argument for me to go ahead was also powerful: if I had been rich when my father disappeared, and if at the time someone had phoned to propose a trade, my money for my father’s body, I wouldn’t have hesitated for a second. I’d have paid. My plan, per se, wouldn’t do any harm to Dona Lu. She had money to burn. In a way, I’d even be doing the family a favor, since it’s by burying our dead that they die once and for all and leave us in peace. The problem, over, was the cadaver. Where to find a cadaver?
Sunday was worse than Saturday. Sulamita didn’t answer my calls. I felt numb, torpid, and heavy because of the heat.
Serafina brought me a cold fish broth. While I ate it, in bed, the Indian woman taught me, for the first time, an expression in Guató, infani, whose meaning, she explained, was “it’s awful.”
I only got out of bed when, around three o’clock, Dalva phoned, asking if I could pick up José at the airport.
On the way back, the rancher told me how worried he was about Dona Lu’s health. I know, he said, I know deep down that Junior is dead, but she won’t believe it until she sees our son’s body. The word “body” infused me with courage. Act quickly, over.
When I returned home, the Indian kids were in my bedroom, playing hide-and-seek. I threw everyone out and lay down, my head roiling with ideas.
And then, at seven o’clock, I heard a sound on the stairs.
I ran to open the door and saw Sulamita coming toward me.
As I embraced her, I noticed from the sour smell of her clothes and hair that she had come from the morgue.
She took my hand and said she needed to show me something. It’s very important.
Infani, I thought, as we headed out to my car.
21
Sulamita pulled back the sheet, uncovering the naked body of Moacir on the morgue table.
I stepped back in sudden panic, unable to take my eyes off the coarsely sewn cut that began at the pubis and ended high in the chest. That was what I was afraid of, over. The legs had also been cut open and stitched. It’s a common procedure in the autopsy of people who suffer violent deaths, Sulamita explained.
I could barely keep my balance, I was sweating, nauseated at the putrid smell mixed with bleach. It’s the end, I thought, supporting myself against the wall.
Eliana doesn’t know yet, she said. And while she told me that Moacir had been found in his cell, tied to a sheet attached to the bars on the window, a single idea came into my head: I was next.
It was this morning, Sulamita continued, when the prisoners were sunning themselves in the courtyard.
They’re going to kill me, I said. They’re sending me a message.
You think, she answered, that didn’t occur to me when I saw Moacir on the table? That I didn’t think about you and everything you told me the day before yesterday? I wasn’t even supposed to be at the autopsy. I was just leaving my shift. I asked Rosana, the coroner who works here, to let me follow the procedure. I did more than that; I called Joel and asked to read the inquest.
I asked Sulamita if a suicide couldn’t be faked. Maybe, I said, maybe someone tied a sheet to those bars and forced Moacir to hang himself.
Know what we do when a cadaver arrives here? Sulamita said. We sit down beside it and have a chat. A corpse tells all. We turn it inside out, rip it from head to toe, take out the viscera, scalp it, pull out the brain. Look, she said, indicating a deep, irregular groove in Moacir’s neck. This mark is the sign of hanging. If it were a crime, it would be around the entire neck, not just in front. And there would be signs of a struggle. Look here, she said, pointing to the shoulder region, there are no scratches or contusions.
I need protection, I insisted. They killed Moacir, whatever you may have seen in the autopsy. The Bolivians told me they were going to kill him.
I told her in detail about my conversation with Ramirez, said that I’d be the next one and that if I didn’t pay the debt I’d be found floating in the river or hanged like Moacir. I need police protection, I said. I repeated it several times, begging her to believe me, and the more Sulamita asked me to stay calm, the more nervous I became. I said: You’re like those detectives in bad crime movies that get in the way of the investigation and let innocent people die.
Who’s innocent? You? she asked. I didn’t like the way she said it.
I was shaking uncontrollably. You don’t understand, I said. I need protection.
You’re the one who doesn’t understand, she interrupted. Stop talking nonsense. It was a suicide, and it isn’t the police or the Bolivians saying it. It’s me. Yours truly. And what’s this idiotic talk about protection? Do you by some chance want to go to the precinct and confess you’re the owner of the cocaine found at Moacir’s? Is that your plan? If it is, go right ahead. Because those guys only provide protection – and it’s crappy protection that’s not going to solve anything if somebody really w
ants to kill you – if you go there and do what Moacir never did at any time. Open his mouth. Moacir was very decent. He protected you.
The idea of turning myself in didn’t strike me as totally bad. But if they had killed Moacir inside the penitentiary, why wouldn’t they kill me too?
Sulamita took me outside. Go to the car, she said. She returned minutes later with a Coca-Cola. You’ve got to understand one thing, she said. I really did check. I went to the penitentiary after the autopsy. I spoke to Joel. I spoke with Alfredo, the jailer who found Moacir in the morning. He told me that when he went into the cell, Moacir still had an erection, he had just ejaculated. Yes, it was suicide, she said. All the elements point to suicide.
We stood there, with me trembling and drinking Coca-Cola, while I thought about whether there was some way for me to escape.
The only way out was my plan. Project Cadaver, over.
22
The day was rainy, but even so, people kept on arriving. Some merely looked at the deceased and left. Others weren’t satisfied with that little and wanted details about the suicide. They came not because they had known or liked the bicycle repairman but because it wasn’t often that someone killed themselves in those parts. I thought, observing the amusement of the intruders, people here don’t kill themselves, they just die. From a shot to the chest. That’s how they die. They fall from scaffolding. They’re run over. Or they simply rot. If I had to kill myself, said one old woman, it would never be with a rope. Even dogs kill each other, another said.
The coffin sat between the stove and the sofa. Serafina, who had spent the night keeping vigil over the body, was now dozing, leaning over the corpse.
Sitting beside Alceu, Eliana buzzed constantly like some happy bee. Whispering in Alceu’s ear the entire time, she paid no attention to anyone but the butcher, not even looking at her husband’s corpse.
Stop staring at her, said Sulamita, you don’t have anything to do with it.
She can’t act that way, I said. Not in front of everybody.
You’re not one of the family.
I’m paying for the burial, I insisted, the coffin, the flowers, the tomb. She could at least show respect for the deceased.
I must have been talking too loud. Now Eliana and Alceu were looking at me. Let’s go get some coffee, Sulamita said.
I had been drinking coffee all night. I was swimming in coffee, nervous, irritated. And had a headache.
We left and I felt the light rain cool my body.
Those guys over by the lamp post, I told Sulamita. You see them?
What about them?
I’ve never seen them before in this neighborhood.
You’re making me nervous, she replied.
I left Sulamita talking to herself, went back into Moacir’s house, woke up Serafina and took her to the window. I know them, she said, they live in the neighborhood.
When I went back outside, Sulamita said I needed to calm down.
Why don’t you believe me? I asked.
For God’s sake, he killed himself. How many times do I have to tell you that he wasn’t murdered, he killed himself. Moacir was in a bind and he killed himself. That’s what happened.
But I’m in danger, I insisted. They want to kill me. And if I die, if I turn up dead, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
At ten o’clock we got in the car, following the undertaker in the black hearse carrying Moacir’s body. At that exact moment, a deluge burst over the city.
At the cemetery, only Eliana and Alceu plus the children had umbrellas. The others, few in number, watched in the falling rain as the gravedigger lowered the body into what seemed like a muddy reservoir.
After the burial, I saw Eliana leaving hurriedly with the children, at Alceu’s side. Serafina followed her, but I saw Eliana say something to her in a stern manner.
I approached and asked if there was a problem.
There’s no room for her in the car, said Eliana.
She turned her back and walked away, the widow. The merry widow incarnate.
Before parking in front of the bike shop, I asked Serafina to look around. Look carefully, I said, make sure there’s no stranger nearby, over. Behind the car. Look there. The other side of the street. On the corner. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to get a gun, I thought, as I quickly got out of the van.
I called Dalva to say I wouldn’t return to work, and spent the rest of the day in bed. A lot of things were still confused in my head. Maybe I should quit my job with the Berabas. So as not to arouse suspicions later on, at H-hour. The problem is that from the outside, over, the view is different. The particulars get lost. Besides which, an abrupt departure could arouse suspicions. Maybe later on, some detective in the Pantanal, a Joel in boots and hat, would turn up saying “funny that the Berabas’ driver quit at that moment rather than some other.” But it’s also true that the opposite could occur and I would be suspect not for leaving but for staying. For being Sulamita’s boyfriend. Sulamita, of all people, who’s in charge of the morgue. So, I told myself, I have to do some figuring before I act. Weigh up the pros and cons. But the truth is, there’s something that can’t be measured.
Whenever an airliner crashes I think about the people who get to the airport early and have the chance to move up their trip. Wouldn’t they be trading a sure, safe flight for the one that’s going to plunge into the ocean and kill 198 passengers? The worst airline crash ever, the experts will say. Things could also have happened the other way around. And precisely because he didn’t move up his flight, the guy dies. Because the plane marked with an X was that one and not this one. And there are even worse variations. Maybe it’s his presence that determines the crash. Maybe our fate is written in our DNA. Maybe God is just settling accounts with you and all the others are going to die as supporting players on whatever flight you take.
That’s what I mean. Logic, intelligence, strategy, and plans all exist, but there’s also the mystery of life. The truth is that we can only go so far. Beyond that, it’s luck. And luck is luck. That’s what I was thinking in the shower when there was a knock at the door.
I wrapped a towel around me, left the bathroom, and remained quiet for several moments, with the lights out. It’s me, said Sulamita. Open the door.
On the way back from the cemetery, two hours earlier, I had dropped her off at home and felt something in the air, something unspoken, as if Sulamita found odd the fact that I didn’t even ask if she wanted to go to my place. Ever since the day she discovered the pilot’s phone and backpack in my crawl space, since our argument, we hadn’t talked about the subject. We weren’t separated, but we weren’t together either. Not fighting, but much less at peace. With Moacir’s death, things were in a state of suspension. I could very well have made it easier at the moment I left her at her house. Let’s resolve this mess, I could have said, but I thought she’d ask for further explanations, and I didn’t consider myself in any condition to offer them to anyone.
I unlocked the door and Sulamita came in. We embraced in silence for a long time. I smelled a pleasant fragrance in her hair. She looked pretty in a light-colored blue dress, loose-fitting and sheer, that slipped off her body when I undid the shoulder straps.
It was nothing special. A bit of fury in the heat, only that, and afterward silence, with my heart beating, racing. And still later, a diffuse sadness, a mad desire to get out of there.
Later, in bed, smoking, I once again felt my head brimming with problems. And I said to Sulamita: You may not believe it, but Moacir was killed. And I don’t want to die. I’m not going to die.
I said I had a plan in mind. A very good plan that would resolve my life. Our lives, I added. You can help me, I said. We can do this together and continue on our path. Take care of our family, the way we had dreamed. Of Regina and your parents. Of Serafina. But you can also turn it down. You can put on your clothes and leave. And never come back. But if you stay, you’ll have to help me. Because I’m going ahead with it. With or without you, I
’m going ahead with my plan.
That’s what I told her.
Then she said:
When that damn cell phone rang in the crawl space, it turned my life upside down. You know me. I’ve always been well organized. I like things to be done right. I plan ahead for everything. And I do it by following rules. If rules exist, if there are laws, it’s for people to have better lives, or so I imagine. In my opinion, order is everything. It wasn’t by accident that I went to work for the police. I know: there’s a lot of ingenuousness and idealism in that choice, we’re not in Sweden, the police here are corrupt, but it’s one thing to read about it in the papers and another to live and work like an honest person in a public agency. You know that corruption exists, but you don’t see it. Corruption isn’t something that comes from below. It has nothing to do with employees like me. You know everything’s rotten, but you lead an honest life, with honest people who do their job. And suddenly I find myself in the middle of an endless mess. Suddenly there’s a missing pilot, cocaine, a huge debt in dollars, and I’m in the center of the confusion. And I love you. I left the house the day I discovered everything, and spent almost forty-eight hours off the air, not understanding a damn thing. All I could think about was “I love the guy.” Until that day, you were the man in my life, and then I find out you’re also some kind of trafficker. I asked myself what a sensible person should do in my situation and there weren’t many answers. If I wanted to help, I ought to turn you in. The day Moacir died, even before learning it was a suicide, I realized I had to act quickly. Today it’s Moacir, I thought, and tomorrow it may be my boyfriend. That’s when I decided to ask for Joel’s help, remember Joel? Tranqueira? I called Joel and said, Tranqueira, I really need to talk with you. I wanted to understand what was happening, to read the inquest papers on Moacir, to discuss it with Joel, tell him everything and, depending on the seriousness of the snafu, come here and persuade you to give yourself up. Joel is very good at giving advice and I know I can trust him. But Joel was in a meeting at that moment and asked me to come to the precinct later. And that’s when the thing that wasn’t supposed to happen happened. It has to do with God, I imagine. And with the telephone, too. It’s strange how the telephone causes tragedy in people’s lives nowadays. A part of our lives takes place over the phone, and it’s also over the phone that people fuck themselves up. Joel didn’t hang up properly and locked my line. At first I shouted, thinking he could hear me. But suddenly I began hearing their conversation. Besides Joel there was another person; I think it was Dudu, I’m not sure. They were putting the squeeze on a third person, the owner of a junkyard. From what I understood, the guy was caught red-handed distributing drugs and they were demanding a bribe to quash it then and there.
The Body Snatcher Page 9