There was a moment when I was so desperate that I tried to convince Sulamita that we should turn ourselves in. We would return the ransom money and I would rat out Ramirez. That would weigh in our favor at our trial. You said yourself there’s no such thing as a perfect crime. They’re going to find out.
What I know is that there are bungled investigations, she replied. I’m on the inside and see a lot of sloppy practices. I know how things work. There are many ways to sabotage an investigation.
By morning, Sulamita had managed to calm me down by saying there’d be no problem at all if we were suspected. Nobody goes to jail for being suspected of a crime, she said. What they can’t be allowed to do is establish proof.
I felt exhausted, without the strength to resist what was ahead, but even so, I followed her instructions to the letter.
I arrived at the Berabas’ early. The pool was covered with leaves, and clearing them away was an activity that served to calm me. From poolside, holding a strainer with a long handle, I cleaned carefully.
Dalva brought me coffee. They found Junior, she said, confused. Did Sulamita tell you anything?
Nothing, I said, emptying the strainer in the garden.
What does she think of the whole thing?
She was on duty yesterday, I answered. We haven’t had a chance to talk.
Dalva looked at me as if she didn’t believe me.
You didn’t ask anything?
I set the strainer down and sighed.
The police must have a machine, Dalva said, I don’t know, some way to tell if it’s really Junior. I’ve seen it on TV.
I was rescued by Dona Lu, who signaled from the window of Junior’s room for me to come there.
I went into the house, agitated, my thoughts going from that pulsating black spot in Rita’s belly to Sulamita’s agile hands breaking the cadaver’s bones, while I repeated to myself that they knew nothing, over, I hadn’t killed anyone, there was no way they’d catch me.
In the bedroom Dona Lu, looking better than usual, asked if I’d heard the news, and before I could reply she threw open the door of the built-in wardrobe and said she had decided to donate her son’s clothes to charity. Choose anything you’d like, she said before leaving me by myself. You’re about the same size.
As I separated a few items, pants, shirts, I remembered that until the day she died, twenty years after my father’s disappearance, my mother kept her husband’s closet intact. It’s true, I thought, trying on a red T-shirt, Junior’s death is happening at this very moment, and I felt happy for Dona Lu. You could see a certain relief in her expression. She’s finally free, I thought.
And it was then, out the window, that I saw the precinct chief Pedro Caleiro coming through the garden, accompanied by Joel and Dudu.
I ran to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and threw cold water on my face, trying to calm myself. It’s not the only test we plan to run, I heard someone say minutes later. Junior’s bathroom was next to José Beraba’s office, with both looking out onto the front garden of the house. I closed the bedroom door and carefully opened the bathroom window, but even then it wasn’t possible to hear clearly what they were saying.
I went back to the bedroom and called Sulamita.
Try to listen to what they’re saying, she said. I’ve found out it was José Beraba who called the meeting there. I imagine they’re going to talk about the tests. Try to find out.
I hung up the cell phone, chose some clothes at random from the wardrobe, left them in the small outbuilding, and went to chat with the pool man, offering to help him in the garden.
With the garden shears, I approached the window of José Beraba’s office without getting so close as to appear indiscreet. What I heard was stray bits of sentences: My wife is living on tranquilizers. Expand the investigation. Inconvenient. Employees. Another way of resolving. Employees. Interrogations. Dalva. Interests. Employees.
What made me uneasy was hearing the word employees several times, always uttered by Caleiro.
And it was like that, squatting, pretending to trim the grass, that I saw Joel’s boots approaching. You take care of the garden too? he asked.
I rose quickly and felt my vision go dark.
Helping out, I answered.
It’s very good to have friends who help, he said.
I didn’t like Joel’s manner. A bit arrogant, standing with his hands on his waist, without looking at me directly.
It’s my job, I said.
Who’s talking about work? he asked, a malign smile on his lips. I’m talking about friends. Real friends. People who cover for you. I myself have lots of friends. Sulamita, for example. She’s my friend. I mean, I think we’re friends.
And he laughed.
What did you two do on the weekend?
We went dancing, I said.
He looked at me suspiciously.
What a macabre story, eh?
Very, I said.
We’re going to have to call you in to make a statement, he said.
I remained silent.
Dalva appeared in the garden and asked me to get Dona Lu’s car ready. I said goodbye to Joel and headed for the garage, my heart almost leaping out of my mouth.
The Martins & Sons Funeral Home.
Urns, wreaths, candleholders, prayer beads – the products were displayed like kitchen appliances. Not even death escapes the tactics of business. There are people who lie in the coffin to try it out. There are people who buy with an eye to the future. That’s what Martins’ son told me as I waited on the sidewalk for Dona Lu. I wanted to be by myself, to call Sulamita, find out what the hell was happening, but the young man wouldn’t stop talking, and when he finally figured out I wasn’t in the mood for idle chitchat, Dona Lu signaled for me to come help her.
Do you like it? she asked, showing me a dark, overly ornamented casket.
I prefer this one, I replied.
It’s more discreet, she said. You’re right.
Afterward, we went to the church, where she had a meeting with Father Alfredo to talk about the wake and the mass. Come in with me, she said as I parked. I need your help.
Despite her behavior not indicating she suspected me, I couldn’t calm down. What had Joel been insinuating with that talk about friends? What did he know?
Back at the Berabas’, as soon as Dona Lu got out of the car I phoned Sulamita at the morgue.
There’s no one here, said the operator. They were all called to an emergency meeting at the precinct.
36
You know what I’m going to do with this piece of crap? Do you?
I was at the window, out of control, a knife in one hand and the soccer ball in the other. The boys in the street looked at me, scared. Overcome with fury, I stabbed the ball in several places and tossed the wilted leather hull back onto the asphalt.
Jeez, said one of the Indian kids, it was a professional soccer ball. Alceu bought it for us.
It was after eight at night, and the kids had just broken my window. Generally, I was patient with the little Guatós, but that night my nerves were rubbed raw. After my outburst, the noise stopped, but I could still hear some mews of unhappiness as I attempted to find out what had happened with Sulamita. I had phoned the morgue more than twenty times, and she still hadn’t returned from that meeting. What the fuck kind of meeting was it? What was going on? Why had she turned off her cell?
I paced the room, in circles, with the feeling that something bad was about to happen. The kids called me to talk at the window. Jeez, they said. They said, Forgive us. Jeez, they said, darn. I ended up giving them the money to buy another ball. But play a long way from here, I said.
Shortly afterward, Sulamita called. Come to the precinct, she said. There’s no describing the fear I felt en route. It was more like a breakdown, a collapse; I sweated, trembled, my heart raced. I thought, maybe I’m having a coronary. On the radio, the reporter said: São Paulo is still flooded. I imagined the poor in water up to their waists. Fu
rniture floating in the streets. Refrigerators, television sets. The reporter said: Three Muslims flogged in Malaysia for adultery. I imagined the welts on their skin. The reporter said: Court upholds impeachment of the governor. So far, so good, I thought. I’m not in São Paulo. I’m not a Muslim. Or the governor.
When I parked, Joel was standing at the door of the station.
Come to give yourself up? he asked.
It occurred to me at that moment that Sulamita had betrayed me. And then Joel guffawed. You lucky guy, he said.
I don’t know how long I stayed in the van, but Joel, smoking on the sidewalk, never took his eyes off me for a second. When Sulamita got in the car, I took off abruptly, and as soon as I turned the corner started shouting Fuck, how could you do that to me? Where’d you disappear to? What the fuck is happening? I roared, slamming my fist against the dashboard.
They’ve closed the case, she said, taking from her purse a wad of bills she had just gotten from the chief.
Livid, I parked the car in Central Square to hear the rest of the story. I found out early this afternoon that the investigation had been called off, said Sulamita. I had already phoned my friend in Brasilia. Good thing I didn’t bring up the subject.
Sulamita added that it had been Dudu who called her to the meeting at the station. Caleiro was there, she said, they asked questions about you, about the two of us, blah blah blah. They talked and talked without saying anything. Then I asked when we would have the material from the family for the tests in Brasilia. The two of them got even more flustered. They said we needed to respect the family’s suffering and blah blah blah, and I finally understood why they’d called me there. Beraba himself doesn’t want the test done to identify the body. To spare his wife.
They’re not going to do the test?
The rich have their own laws. Case closed. And I, as a member of the team, have to keep my mouth shut. What they wanted to know was my price. We opened a negotiation. Telling it like that, it may seem like we were businessmen talking about sales. But the thing is quite sophisticated. Those guys know how to bribe. They’re very efficient and do it in such a way that you’re unaware you’re being corrupted. Actually, you even believe you’re doing them a favor. Helping. The word money was never mentioned. We talked about compensation and collaboration. Facilitation. And mutual benefit. That’s how things are done in this country.
What about Joel? I asked.
As soon as I got to the station he took me aside and asked who my partners were. Just like that, out of nowhere. With the expression of someone who’s joking but speaking seriously, you know? I told him my partner was the owner of a junkyard and a cocaine trafficker. You should’ve seen his face. He wilted immediately. He understood my message perfectly.
Is that it? I asked.
C’est fini, she replied.
We remained silent for a moment, holding hands. Give me a kiss, she said, and take me home.
First, I opened the window. I needed air.
37
The suitcase was opened and the dollars were there. Sixty thousand.
Juan started to count them, greedily. The scene was disgusting. He took apart the bundles of money, methodically piling the bills, all the time wetting his fingers with saliva, as if feasting on delicacies.
Ramirez looked at me with satisfaction. His hair, flattened and rebellious, now seemed like an old, useless brush.
Sit down. Want something to drink, Porco?
I thanked him.
Funny thing, he said, I forgot your name.
You can go on calling me Porco, I said.
Porco, of course. Now that we trust each other, Porco, we can grow our business.
We smiled.
We were in the kitchen of his laboratory in Puerto Suárez. Ramirez said that Corumbá was only the route for cocaine coming from Bolivia and that all the Colombian drugs entered Brazil through Paraguay. We can grow your business, he repeated, adding that now they had a partner in Paraguay and needed someone like me to get the drug into Brazil. I don’t need mules, he said. I need brains. It’s a great deal for you; extradition from Paraguay is real complicated. I can guarantee there ain’t no risks.
I wasn’t the least bit interested in what Ramirez was saying, and he went on talking and I went on reading the newspaper I’d brought with me, where there was an item saying that Junior’s body had been found. The official version was that a farmer had noticed a strange smell on his land and had discovered the cadaver in a thicket. The police “believed” that Junior had left the airplane, wounded, and had died trying to find help.
I continued reading the paper, and Ramirez wouldn’t shut up. Out of every ten words, one was Porco. Porco chum. Porco friend. I ran my eyes over the other headlines. “Covered in a burka, Afghan woman displays her dirty finger after voting.” Goddamn, I thought, I’ve never seen so many ugly words together. Burka. Dirty finger.
It’s all there, said Juan, who had finished counting the money.
Before I left, Ramirez put his hand on my shoulder and asked me to think about his offer. He also said it hadn’t been him who killed Moacir. I found out he really did kill himself, he said.
It’s sad, he said. The truth is, Porco, that good people always end up dying.
Now, I thought on my way back to Corumbá, I don’t have anybody on my neck. Free, over.
38
The wake was a grand event.
The coffin was closed, and there were so many flowers that from outside the church you could already smell a sweetish aroma in the air.
The entire city showed up. Most of those present had no direct connection to the family, curious types who followed the news on television and were there for their own amusement. There were eulogies and weeping.
Dona Lu received the condolences and I could see, behind her mourning attire and her controlled expression, a certain peace.
Sulamita and I also went to the funeral the next morning.
The day was sunny.
I noticed that the gravedigger who’d done Junior’s sepulcher was the same one who had sold us the cadaver,
At the end of the ceremony, we gave our condolences to Dona Lu and Mr. José.
Thank you very much, they said.
We left through the passageways of the cemetery, hand in hand, feeling the sun hot upon our dark clothing.
39
The next morning, when I arrived at work, Dona Lu was in a T-shirt and overalls, puttering in the garden. I’m going to plant azaleas, she said.
In the kitchen, Dalva didn’t offer me coffee as she normally did. And when I asked her for a cup, she pointed to the thermos bottle. Get it yourself, she said, I’m busy.
Is there some problem? I asked.
She smiled in an odd way, a bit cynically, and said that José Beraba was waiting for me in the office.
I found him working, behind his desk. He didn’t greet me or even raise his eyes to speak to me.
It’s all here, he said, your severance pay, all that’s missing is your signature on the paperwork. Starting today, you’re no longer in my employ.
I started to say something, but he interrupted me. Listen carefully to what I’m about to say. You’re going to leave here right now, you’re going to call Dona Lu and say you’ve resigned. Tell her that beginning today you can’t work anymore. Tell her you’re getting married, you’ve got cancer, or make up some lie.
I stood there looking at the severance check, paralyzed.
Sign here, he said.
While I signed the receipts in a shaky hand, José Beraba went on talking. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him.
If it weren’t for my wife, he said, my sainted wife, if it weren’t for her health, I swear to you everything would have been different. I would have put a bullet in your cynical face myself.
I handed him the papers.
Get out of my house, you worm. That’s what you are. A worm.
And he didn’t even wait for me to go. He left me standing ther
e, hearing the sound of his boots echoing on the floor.
Epilogue
One year later
The cow didn’t look well, and I was concerned. She was a present from Dona Lu for our wedding, a purebred, and I didn’t want to take any chances.
Get a rope, I told my father-in-law.
Regina, who had come to the stable with Serafina to witness the birth, yelled in distress. Take her out of here, I said to Serafina, we’re not going to upset the cow even more.
My father-in-law brought the rope and we tied the calf’s legs, which were partially outside its mother’s belly. I carefully pulled them, and gradually the calf emerged, along with the placenta.
It’s a female, I said.
In the afternoon, after lunch, I went to the city with a list of purchases that Sulamita had given me.
In the supermarket I ran into Eliana.
It’s been a long time, I said. Eliana was pregnant and married to Alceu.
I asked about the children.
Good, she said. I’ve got an envelope for you at home. It came some time ago; I didn’t know how to find you.
I gave her and Alceu a lift, and when we got to her house she gave me the envelope.
I opened it and saw a photo of Rita, in a bikini, with a little girl in her lap and the two of them having ice cream at the beach.
“If you want to meet your daughter, we’re here. Life in Rio is wonderful, it has nothing to do with the smell of cow dung, or that collection of rednecks in Corumbá.”
I stood there on the sidewalk, looking at the photo. Damn, Rita, the girl looks like me. I burned the photo, with a heavy heart. Who can predict the turns the world takes?
When I arrived at the ranch, Sulamita was in the garden, with Regina and her mother. Her belly was large; our child would be born in two months.
The Body Snatcher Page 14