The Body Snatcher

by Patricia Melo

  Driving back to downtown Puerto Suárez, I was overcome by a sense of relief. After all, I had 24 days, over. Better than twenty-four hours. If Ramirez said twenty-four days, I had twenty-four days. Earlier, I’d had thirty, and now twenty-four. Which was fair, if you consider the size of the debt. Sixty grand. And ten kilos of cocaine.

  I couldn’t stop thinking that this was how someone condemned to death must feel. Twenty-four days. His quota and then the electric chair. And kidney cancer too. The doctor says: six months. A deadline and it’s over. My advantage is that I had the reprieve, the antidote, right there in my pocket. Sulamita had prepared everything that morning: a small wooden box with Junior’s watch, to be mailed to the Berabas from there, Puerto Suárez.

  Sulamita had carefully cleaned the watch, removing our fingerprints, and wrapped it in carbon paper, a technique to thwart X-rays.

  We also took care to write the name of the recipient on a sticker printed on Sulamita’s computer and to use a fake return address. If they checked, they’d quickly see the street and the number didn’t exist.

  I parked two blocks from the post office and walked, avoiding the puddles, over, feeling the volume of the package in the pocket of my jeans jacket.

  Movement was heavy work. A luncheonette, trinket store, bank, another trinket store, bakery, yet another trinket store, all packed because of the rain, which was coming down harder now.

  I hesitated in front of the post office, not knowing whether to go in or ask someone to do it for me. A kid, one of those who offers to carry tourists’ bags, could handle it. Don’t trust anyone, over. Then a group of American backpackers went into the agency, creating the kind of confusion typical of adolescents. I joined them and mailed the watch, not drawing much attention to myself.

  Mission accomplished, I thought as I got into the car.

  26

  The next few days were days of waiting.

  The fisherman didn’t get in contact, but there was tension in the house that you could feel in the air.

  The three times I spoke with Dona Lu, I noticed that she kept the cell phone in her hand the entire time. And if it rang, she didn’t wait for the second ring and answered it with an anxiety that I knew very well.

  I remember that my mother once went to take a bath and asked me to listen for the phone. I ended up falling asleep and awoke to hear her yelling, fallen on the floor, wrapped in a towel, crying. Why didn’t you answer? she screamed.

  At the Berabas’ I also witnessed the moment when the rancher, returning from work, asked his wife if they had called. Nothing, she said. Nothing yet.

  On another day, when I went in to deliver their mail, I found Dona Lu sleeping in the living room, with the phone in her lap. She was rapidly losing weight and no longer seemed to care about the white roots of her hair, which contrasted greatly with the dyed part. She had completely lost any vanity. She wore a faded blue robe and mustard-colored slippers. She looked like an old flower. With no fragrance. My presence woke her; she straightened up on the sofa and said she was doing that lately, sleeping anywhere. And at night, she said, I stay awake. She asked if I had brothers or sisters. I said no. You’re like Junior, she said. An only child. And her eyes welled with tears. I felt such love for Dona Lu that day that, if there had been any other way to get the money, I would have aborted the plan. There is no other way, over.

  She’s hanging on by a thread, said Dalva in the kitchen. Now she only drinks milk. Nothing else.

  Early Wednesday morning, the bomb exploded. As soon as the package that I had mailed from Puerto Suárez came, it was as if an alarm had gone off. José Beraba was informed by phone, and half an hour later parked his car in the garage. Dona Lu’s doctor also arrived hurriedly.

  What’s happening? Dalva asked.

  Later, I was called to Mr. José’s office. He asked if I was the one who had received the mail that morning.

  I said yes.

  Was it the same mailman as always?

  The same, I said. Is there some problem?

  No, he said, dismissing me.

  In the kitchen, before I left, Dalva offered me a slice of the orange cake she had just baked. Something’s going on, she said. Something very strange. Have you noticed it? It was after you took them the mail, Dalva said.

  That night, I told Sulamita everything.

  We’re getting into Phase B of our plan, she said.

  Sulamita had heard that an effective pressure technique used by kidnappers was to phone the family and, instead of making demands or threats, simply remain silent. Silence, she said, is a horrible threat. We have to destabilize them. We have to shake them up. We have to prevent them from moving.

  For a long time, I believed that evil was a slow learning process. In those days, however, I finally understood that kindness is learned with great difficulty, through daily exercises that people sometimes call God or Buddha, depending on their beliefs. We are born with evil ensconced in us like a dormant virus only waiting for the moment to emerge. Otherwise, how to explain my behavior and Sulamita’s? How to explain that two good people could act so horribly?

  There was no trace in Sulamita of the terrified woman of a few days before. It was she who thought of the details and made the decisions. Maybe because of that my internal radio, that voice inside me, spoke less now. It still spoke, but with gaps and interference. It no longer guided me. It just alerted. It was Sulamita who was in charge.

  Getting back to what matters: our nights were long studies of probability. At times it was as if we were in a frenetic ghost train running off the tracks, as if that grotesque plan were a dark adventure that awoke a savage tremor in us. Sulamita’s eyes glowed with excitement. And mine burned. We have to study every detail, she said. Especially the cadaver. And the money. I would wake up in the middle of the night, think about this too, I remembered. And about that. And I slept and she would awaken me. One mistake, one single mistake and we’re fucked, she repeated. You know, she said, it’s like a game of chess. And she would ask questions for which I had no answer. The color of Junior’s hair and eyes, his height and weight. How am I supposed to know? I asked. Checkmate, she said. Find out. I need precise information. Think. Remember. How do you expect me to come up with a cadaver if I don’t even know Junior’s height?

  The same night that the package was delivered, the fisherman phoned the family. We repeated the calls at various times on following days. Sulamita also phoned a few times while I was at work, so they wouldn’t suspect me.

  Late Friday night I called four times. Dona Lu or Mr. José answered, in great distress, begging the fisherman to say something. You’re using our son’s phone, they said.

  The fisherman made no sound, only breathing. A heavy breathing, rhythmical like that of an unhurried animal waiting for the right moment to attack – that’s how I felt on the other end of the line.

  The last time, Mr. José lost control.

  You cur, he said. You worm. You son of a bitch.

  And hung up in my face.

  27

  The sun shone in through the spaces between the roof tiles. And also through the sides, the cracks, and under the door.

  It was Saturday, I was in bed, half asleep, half awake. The ceiling fan was humming, but even so I could hear the laughter. It seemed like a crackling fire. Through the window glass I could see the tops of heads. I was even pleased by the sight. A bunch of nosy half-pints. The children were guffawing. Whispering. Climb on the roof, one of them said. I knew what they wanted. I got up slowly and opened the window, howling threats. They ran away laughing, in a band. They’d be back, I knew, hoping I’d play the game again.

  Outside, the day was hot. Serafina was washing the sidewalk with the hose. I’ll make you some fresh coffee, she said when she saw me.

  At eight, Sulamita called. She was irritated at her father. The old man’s hopeless, she said. I found out he bought the neighbor’s VW and I had to cancel the deal, can you believe it?

  I asked about t
he preparations, and she said everything was ready. Come pick me up, she said.

  As I was coming out of the shower, Serafina knocked at the door and handed me a cup of coffee along with a brown envelope with no return address. It arrived yesterday, she said.

  I noticed she had a bruise on her arm. What’s that? I asked.

  She smiled awkwardly.

  Was it Eliana?

  No, she answered, not looking away. I bumped into the wardrobe.

  Eliana mustn’t do that, do you understand?

  Serafina went downstairs, taking the empty coffee cup.

  I opened the envelope and found a kind of X-ray. On it was a red tag in the form of an arrow pointing to a tiny spot on the image. On the attached sheet was the following information: Ultrasound examination. Placenta with 9 mm fetus. The arrow indicates the blood-suffused heart.

  Only that, nothing else. It was postmarked Rio de Janeiro. So was that where Rita had gone?

  I stood there, looking at that black sheet, out of breath. The dot. Rio de Janeiro. I burned everything and went downstairs to speak with Serafina. I asked her to never give me anything in front of Sulamita. You promise?

  Yes, she said.

  It’s very important. Do you understand?

  Yes, she repeated.

  I got in the car and started thinking about what I had just seen. It was just a dot, but it already had a heart and blood.

  The beggar was sleeping on a steaming tombstone, the sun hitting him in the face. No one else was around. Only dogs and trash.

  We walked down the fetid passageways of the cemetery, Sulamita carrying the bouquet of wildflowers we had bought en route. If anything comes up, she said, we’re visiting the tomb of my paternal grandmother.

  We were holding hands. I was sweating profusely and looking behind me at every moment. The sun was intense.

  If they’re following us, I said, they’re going to catch us.

  Nobody’s watching us, Sulamita replied.

  I trust you, I said, looking back again.

  Sulamita stopped in front of a ravaged sepulcher from which emanated a strong smell of urine.

  Your behavior isn’t helping, she said. Try to control yourself. You’re just making me more nervous.

  The day was clear, without a single cloud, and I felt I lacked the strength to go on walking under that sun.

  Are you afraid? she asked.

  It’s a horrible thing we’re doing, I answered.

  We’re not going to kill anyone, she said. Think about your mother. About Dona Lu. You said yourself that she’s going to feel better once all this is over.

  We were at the stage in the plan where we were starting to spend money. Sulamita’s money. That week, I had offered to sell the van. No way, she had said. We can’t do anything that draws attention – selling, buying, spending, fighting, separating, nothing. Not now and not later, when everything is over. You’re going to have to go on working at the Berabas’ for a good period of time. As if nothing had happened. Know when a criminal messes up?

  We’re not murderers, I had said.

  Of course not, she had replied, but we are committing a crime. And there’s one guideline for people who do what we’re doing: don’t change your routine, it’s when you change your routine that we, the police, find the thread.

  I’m thinking about your money, I said. The money you’re going to spend. Think about it. If we’re going to back out, it has to be now, I said.

  I don’t want to back out of anything, she replied. I have friends who drink before going to work. You might want to have something to drink too. It would calm you down. Now let’s go on, she said, pulling me by the hand. He’s waiting for us.

  The man’s name was Gilmar. His suntanned body and his earth-stained clothes were a kind of blot on that luminous day. He was holding a hoe in one hand and his hat in the other.

  We were in the middle of the cemetery, with horseflies buzzing around us. On the way, Sulamita had told me that the place had been taken over by vandals. The sepulchers and mausoleums serve as latrines for beggars, she had said. The government is authorized to open the resting places of those buried more than five years, but thieves and tramps open them and take what they want, she had stated.

  Now she was talking to Gilmar, and I stayed at a distance, as if that way I wouldn’t be part of the macabre negotiation.

  It’s been five months, Gilmar said.

  That’s not a problem, Sulamita answered. As long as it’s a man.

  It’s a man, he said. I buried him myself.

  What’s the height?

  Five-eleven, just like you asked for.

  How do we do it? she asked.

  I’ll dig him up today and you come by tonight. I’ll be waiting at the gate.

  There’s no watchman? she asked.

  Gilmar laughed.

  While they talked about payment, I couldn’t think about anything but that dark spot. That red arrow. 9 mm. Placenta. What if I were in Rio with Rita? I closed my eyes and imagined the scene, the two of us holding hands as we walked along the beach. Hang gliders in the sky, a breeze cooling our bodies. Let’s go swimming, said Rita. And we plunged into the water.

  Soaked in sweat, we left the cemetery. The sun was merciless.

  28

  Half an hour later, when I parked in front of the construction supply store, Sulamita handed me the list.

  2 raincoats

  2 pairs of gloves

  2 goggles

  2 masks

  1 hoe

  8 meters of thick black plastic

  1 blowtorch

  1 hammer

  2 strong flashlights

  8 hundred-liter garbage bags

  5 meters of black canvas

  Rope

  Buy the first four items here and leave the rest for other stores, she said, handing me the money she had withdrawn from her savings the day before.

  The fact that Sulamita was bankrolling the operation also bothered me.

  We’re going to recoup what we’re spending, I said.

  She kissed me.

  I got out of the car, made the purchases, and we repeated the procedure in three more stores in the city in order to avoid drawing attention to ourselves. When I returned to the car after buying the last of the materials, I found Sulamita on the sidewalk.

  What is it? I asked.

  I wanted to make sure we weren’t being followed.

  I looked around us, frightened.

  It was just a check, she said. I thought I saw Joel. But it’s clear.

  We got in the car, me with my eye on the rearview mirror.

  What now? I asked.

  Now I want something to eat. I’m starving.

  You know, my father-in-law said, that I’m going to pay you. He was speaking softly, afraid that Sulamita would hear us. We had just had lunch and were sitting in front of the TV, watching some idiotic film. I should have cut the conversation short, Talk to your daughter, I should have said, she’s the one who can solve your problem. But I let the old man ramble on. The thing is, he said, that I lent money to a friend and I don’t want to pressure my friend, you know? Money puts an end to friendships, he said. If I press him, I’ll lose the friendship and a good friend is hard to find. It’s different than owing somebody in your own family. Like us. I owe you, but I’m going to pay. And if someday you need it, I can give you a loan. In the future. And you’ll pay me when you can. I’ll never dun my own son-in-law. But I’m going to pay you. I need you to lend me another thousand. Twelve hundred, actually. My friend’s going to pay me, and I’ll use it to pay you. I’ll pay the five plus the thousand you’re going to lend me now.

  I noticed that Regina was paying attention to her father and smiling at me. Then she looked at her father again and gave an odd guffaw, like pebbles falling to the ground. The old man went on talking, and every time he repeated that he would pay me, Regina threw more pebbles on the ground. And looked at me. I found that funny and began to laugh too.
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  Stop that, Regina, said the old man. But then he realized what was happening and began laughing with us. A real pistol, that girl, he said. Nothing retarded about her. She’s just a bit off. We laugh a lot. People think she’s crafty, he said, choking on his own laughter, but she’s keeping her eye on us.

  And the three of us were laughing our heads off when Sulamita arrived and asked what was so funny.

  That retard is very clever, said her father, still laughing.

  Sulamita became furious when Regina was referred to that way. Don’t talk like that, she said. Such ignorance, father. She’s not retarded. And the quarrel began. The daughter yelled at the old man, who yelled at his daughter, who yelled at her mother and father, who yelled at each other, making Regina cry. I had witnessed the scene several times. Now do you understand why I can’t leave home? she asked. They don’t know how to take care of my sister.

  Let’s take Regina for some ice cream, Sulamita said. Help me get her into the car.

  Late in the day, after leaving Regina with her parents, we went to my place and took a bath. Put on old clothes, said Sulamita, who had done the same minutes before at her house.

  The sun had set less than half an hour earlier. We had time and decided to have a pizza at a place with outdoor tables where you could feel the breeze from the river.

  The restaurant was packed with families and children, and I felt at ease, especially once the vodka began to take effect.

  We ate and went on drinking, killing time.

  Sulamita told me that when she was in college her anatomy professor recommended a story about murder and the sale of cadavers, based on events that occurred in London in the nineteenth century. A sordid story: amoral people who suffocated beggars and sold their bodies to the universities. But all that sordidness, she said, had a noble purpose, which was science and progress. The story, she continued, was by Robert Louis Stevenson and was called “The Body Snatcher.”

  After saying this, she fell silent for several instants.

  We don’t even have a noble purpose, she said, with an expression of vulnerability.