By then half the neighborhood was at their windows, enjoying the circus. Antônio Sérgio Lemos de Alcântara—that was the name on his ID card—was strong, but he wasn’t crazy. He dropped the razor blade and was put in a chokehold by a soldier. Another soldier applied a bandage to the hand of the accountant—Felipe Krauss Barreto, according to his ID—and the patrol brought everybody in, along with the crime weapon in a small plastic bag. When the group came into the precinct I guessed the nature of the shit, but what I said, smiling, was: “How can I help you?”
The sergeant sensed the irony, and I thought he was about to tell me to shove it up my ass, but he reconsidered, understood he was playing on my field, and related the incident in general terms, in a flat monotone. Then I listened to what the corporal and the soldiers had to say in order to release the patrol. The inspectors on duty could handle any other flesh wound from Antônio Sérgio.
Felipe’s hand was bleeding a little under the bandage, and he looked at it, distressed. If his friend had AIDS, that wound was going to complicate his life. It wouldn’t put an end to it, as it would have twenty years ago, before the cocktails. But it would complicate it, even if the incident never went beyond the precinct. If it did, then yes, Felipe Krauss Barreto was in for a shitload of problems. People in his office were going to look cross-eyed at him, disinfect chairs, a bunch of stupid and shitty things. Therefore it was neither startling nor even surprising when, as soon as the BOPE left, he declared he wouldn’t file a complaint. The volume under the skirt had come as a surprise, the blows in the park had been unplanned, and the razor blade attack was an impulse that, God willing, would have no greater consequences than requiring five or six stitches.
“God willing,” I repeated mechanically.
The silence in the room carried the implications of that observation.
“All of this is a nightmare, and the best thing is to wake up from it,” said Felipe, half to himself, without taking his eyes from the bandaged hand.
The drag queen was quiet, crossing and uncrossing thick legs free of cellulite, exuding charm toward the audience, because queens always draw a crowd in the precinct, but when he heard this he couldn’t hold back: “Nightmare?! Felipe Barreto, you fucker! When it’s suck time—”
All Hudson had to do was squeeze the creature’s clavicle lightly for him to stop roaring, moan weakly, and compose himself. The big black guy looked at me and smiled, satisfied with his physical authority. Good show. His mistake was not being able to resist a wisecrack.
“Look, boss, the doll’s got an off button,” he said, to guffaws from his colleagues.
But I didn’t laugh. “My dear inspector, you must respect every citizen,” I said in as bureaucratic a tone as possible, picking up one of the IDs from my desk. “It’s no different with the citizen Antônio Sérgio Lemos de Alcântara. Or whatever name he, or she, prefers to be known by.”
“Candy. Candy Spears.”
It struck me that it was the first time the transvestite had spoken. Really spoken, without bellowing. A woman’s voice, not that husky mewing that seemed to be the national language of poor cocksuckers. The story from the accountant—who, incidentally, wasn’t an accountant but “a salesman in the field of auto parts”—became more and more consistent. Not that I cared in the least, of course, but under the influence of drugs it was possible to confuse Antônio Sérgio with a bodybuilding woman. The guy’s high, hears that voice, squeezes that thigh, he wants to fuck any which way.
“Candy Spears then,” I agreed.
The pissed-off expression that Hudson made just reminded me that I didn’t like his kisser all that much. That pose of his of the case-hardened cop who disdains police academy graduates. I didn’t think twice before insisting on my line of reasoning. If I had thought twice, I wouldn’t have insisted. What good would come from that playacting? Too bad.
“My dear Hudson,” I said, “apologize to citizen Candy Spears.”
Hudson wasn’t the only one astonished. Paulinho, César Franco, Tião, the pseudo-accountant, and the fake blonde were too.
“Apologize to Candy Spears,” I pressed, before adding, with a gentleness that only further increased the ignominy of the scene, “please.”
Hudson skewered me with his eyes and stomped off, puffing, toward the interior of the precinct. The sound of a fist punching a metal filing cabinet was heard. I felt I had fucked up, but I couldn’t lose face.
“I apologize in the name of the entire precinct, my dear Candy. Just because the citizen, whether male or female, committed an infraction does not give the police the right to put him, or her, down. We must treat everyone with due respect.”
Candy smiled shyly, nodding in agreement. The pseudo-accountant repeated that he didn’t want to lodge a complaint against the fake blonde. I looked at the fat, sweaty face, trying to think of at least one good reason for him to register the incident. Nothing came to mind, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. I knew how to play good cop and bad cop at the same time.
“The blotter guards against future problems, my dear citizen. We’re taking you to Forensics for a corpus delicti examination. It covers bodily harm, it doesn’t have to be attempted homicide. Later you can sue Candy Spears, our friends from the BOPE will testify . . . She’ll do three months in the slammer, for sure, but unfortunately in a men’s prison. Besides, let’s be frank, you were both disturbing the peace.”
Felipe Krauss Barreto didn’t understand, or pretended he didn’t understand, my threat. I couldn’t sell ice in the desert with that palaver. The phony accountant must have envisioned the scene of the fake blonde providing favors to a long line of locked-up traffickers who hadn’t seen an ass in weeks. He displayed a painful expression. Ah, love.
“So, it’s up to you . . .” I sighed and left this in the air.
If it was up to him, then that settled it. “Thank you very much, detective, but I really prefer to end the matter here. I don’t want to lodge any complaint. Let’s agree, all of us, that this nightmare . . .” he said cautiously, looking sideways at Candy, but now she was calm, inspecting her nails. “Thank you very much for your time, your patience, and your courtesy.”
He extended his right hand to me. I didn’t take it. We stood there looking at the blood on his bandage. I gave him two pats on the shoulder, meaning, Hang in there, friend. We accompanied Felipe and Candy to the precinct door to make sure they were heading in opposite directions. We kept the false accountant for a few minutes longer, until the fake blonde disappeared from sight. As if that meant anything, but damnit, there was a ritual to observe. Paulinho, César Franco, and Tião avoided any mention of the case. It was obvious they were pissed at me too. I felt even worse, but I still wasn’t convinced that I’d ever have to apologize to Hudson.
I had just gone back to my chair when two drivers, definitely sober, came in to report a fender bender—petty stuff, no one injured, but the insurance companies were going to demand an accident report. When I finished, I went outside to smoke. I was distracted, thinking about what I’d do on my day off, probably sleep and wake up just for the pleasure of going back to sleep, when Candy Spears appeared from behind the trees whose roots I was using as an ashtray. Crap, what if she was carrying another razor blade? I regretted leaving my revolver in my desk. Candy was larger than Felipe and also bigger than me. I threw the cigarette away so as to have both hands free and planted my feet in a defensive stance. She came around the flower bed, without the exaggerated female flourishes. If Antônio Sérgio had been born ten centimeters shorter and fifteen less around, maybe seventeen less between his legs, he would be a woman. Nature plays tricks on us.
“Detective,” she said.
“Yes, Dona Candy?”
“I just wanted to thank you for the treatment you gave me there inside. You can imagine it’s not the first time I’ve been in a police station, but it was the first time that I didn’t feel attacked just for being . . . who I am.”
I remained s
ilent.
“Your sensitive treatment was super important for me to get out of that mega-embarrassing situation.” The four hundred milliliters of silicone heaved beneath the black mesh. “Although young, you’re a man of experience. You surely saw that Lipe wasn’t some casual client who was disappointed when he found out I had . . . that extra something that you men are ashamed to admit you like. The two of us have had a serious relationship for seven months, see? I think he’s the man of my life.”
At this point my silence must have been quite eloquent, because she felt the need to reply.
“It’s serious! And I think he feels the same way about me. So mentioning a men’s penitentiary was a masterful stroke on your part. He must not have been able to bear the thought. I’m not a woman to tolerate all that.”
Candy made a significant pause.
“He loves me, but he still doesn’t have the psychological strength to come out—you know what lower-middle-class families are like. And he also doesn’t have the financial fortitude to support me. So I go on having to hook to pay for a tiny place on Laranjeiras, near Rua Alice, you know it? Much better than the tenement in Lapa that, praise God, I managed to get away from. But Lipe goes crazy with jealousy about me sleeping with other men.”
Candy Spears paused again. I asked myself whether she actually was a believer or merely invoked His holy name in vain.
“Would he be bothered if I went to bed with a woman?” she wondered aloud.
I reinforced my silence. The whole thing seemed like more information than I would ever need to know. I have to admit that sometimes smoking is bad for one’s health.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I noticed a pack of cigarettes on your desk and so I waited here till you came out to smoke, just to say thank you. I don’t think I can even dream of someday repaying your kindness, but who knows? Keep my phone number and address. I don’t know, maybe I can be your informant. We see everything that goes on at night in the streets . . . Ciao.”
Candy Spears came closer, stuck a folded piece of paper in the pocket of my jacket, kissed me gently on the cheek, and walked away, without swinging her hips much, in the direction of Glória. I looked to both sides. The door to the precinct was empty, the cold light falling on the sidewalk. If anyone had witnessed that, I was fucked. I’d be mocked to death.
* * *
The cigarette is almost burning the filter, and Aguiar is nearly asleep, sitting on a step, when we hear the dragging of chains, as if the ghosts who lost their lives on this mountain were returning from hell—or on their way to hell—and had come to avenge themselves with the first survivors they met. We turn around, but it’s just the firemen tasked with retrieving the body of the blonde. Soldiers drag ropes, belts, snap hooks, harnesses, a stretcher. Behind them comes a lieutenant.
“Lieutenant Vaz, at your command.” He shakes our hands.
Although they’re military, I’m in charge of the operation. But Aguiar takes the lead and complains about the delay. The lieutenant replies that it wouldn’t have helped to come before the fog dissipated. Aguiar grumbles something that’s muffled by the noise of the soldiers setting up the materials for the rappel. I bring the lieutenant up to speed on the situation, take him to the wall and point to the body, now fully exposed, at the edge of an almost cloudless sky. He asks if we plan to descend. Aguiar breaks in again and says no, that it’s a matter of suicide and that our presence down there would make no difference to the case.
The lieutenant agrees and goes to join the troop, while I again contemplate the cadaver of the blond woman in the black dress. Her shoes can’t be seen from this angle, though it’s unlikely she ascended the mountain barefoot. Only if it was to honor a vow, but obviously there was no grace achieved there to be grateful for. Then I finally understand what bothered me from the first moment I saw her there. Not the most obvious thing, the thick legs in an impossible position even for a boneless ballerina. It’s something else, a bit more subtle. I call Aguiar, who is watching the firemen. I point to the cadaver again.
“Look, could hitting the rock leave her head twisted like that?”
“You think it’s weird? Maybe the impact broke her neck and turned it a bit . . . Maybe she wears a wig that came off in the fall . . . Hard to say without examining it up close. Let’s wait for them to bring her up.”
I think about all the possible consequences of what Aguiar, the forensics expert, has just told me. Now he contemplates the landscape, glorious in the pristine light of winter.
“I’m going down,” I say.
It takes a moment for Aguiar to digest the information. “Are you nuts, man? What for?!”
“The scene of death wasn’t up here. It was down there. Or not. But we’re only going to find out if we go down. Letting the firemen get the body, strap it to the stretcher, and hoist it vertically can displace things even further. And displacement can completely change the direction of our investigation.”
“Shit, these guys are profes—” Aguiar starts to argue, but then notices the we in my previous sentence. I take his silence as consent. If I descend he’s obliged to do the same.
I go to the team of firemen and announce I’ve changed my mind. Not only changed my mind but that we want to descend before any of them. Lieutenant Vaz doesn’t attempt to conceal his surprise, but orders are orders, and orders come down the chain of command, however circumstantial. He orders a soldier to give me one of the safety harnesses. Aguiar also accepts one, wordlessly. A second soldier hands us helmets and gloves. A third checks the equipment and gives us rapid instructions. I take a deep breath. The smell of smoke is still in the air, though the mist has dissipated. I touch the folded paper in the pocket of my jacket. I begin the descent.
Blind Spot
by Victoria Saramago
Tijuca Forest
Annie was recovering. Slowly, said some friends who obviously had no idea how much time a long and painful recovery process takes. Precisely because they thought Annie’s world should have the same smell and texture as before, she found no solution other than to leave her life in Kansas and go somewhere far away. A place not totally unknown and that had some appeal for what others understood as tourism, perhaps, but that didn’t recall the snow, the open fields where you could walk for hours without seeing a tree. Some city, maybe one in South America, about which she knew very little—I’ll always be a foreigner, she reminded herself—but a city that would welcome her anyway. A place whose language I’m not going to speak, because that will be easier, a city full of trees. Like those long-ago days of childhood walks in Central Park where certain dense areas of bushes gave the impression of being far, far away in some forgotten land where the horizon of New York buildings could no longer be seen.
So Annie, upon arriving in Rio, had rented a room very close to the Tijuca Forest and indulged in long walks to the lakes and peaks. People passed by the trails and cascades with children and bottles of water, appearing to not have a care in the world. Annie envied them: they would return home after a few hours and not have some scowling guy offering them more blow.
But what Annie saw in front of her now was a coati. Not very small and probably old, the coati, like all the inhabitants of the urban forest, was obsessed with a trash can. With its hind legs at the base and its tiny hands stuck into the opening that might be hiding the remains of cookies and sandwiches, the animal let its long, striped tail slide along the base of the trash can while it impatiently slipped into the orange box. Of course, the children and the tourists nearby didn’t miss the opportunity. “A coati in the trash,” they said, and smiled, though slightly perturbed by the intrusion of all that street garbage into the routine of a wild animal. As if they weren’t precisely the ones, Annie thought, who made the trash can what it is. The coati, dizzy now, with a final effort succeeded in grabbing the contents out of the top part of the trash can—that is, an enormous wad of plastic bags, cups, and bottles smelling like a rotting picnic—which exploded and scattered onto the gr
ound. The children clapped and the tourists accelerated their picture taking until the animal left with its morsel and the audience dispersed in boredom.
Annie was disturbed. They’re amused by the mess the coati makes and never think about the fact that it’s not the coati who’s going to clean it up. They find it reasonable, as long as they don’t have to bother with anything besides transferring the photos to their computers. Because some things had survived from the years Annie lived in Oregon, and this was one—walking angrily to the mess, she began picking it up item by item and depositing it back into the trash can. The cups with the remains of orange juice and the napkins with scraps of ham disgusted her, naturally, but caused nothing close to the shock she experienced when she discovered a human finger wrapped in a piece of paper that had fallen from a plastic bag.
She’d opened the paper carefully and, realizing that a new phase was beginning for her, observed the relatively fresh, though purplish, index finger with its dark nail and the stump of bone emerging from the other end. Some dried bloodstains were interrupted by the folds of skin, as if the finger, after being covered in its own blood, were still able to move. Annie lightly nudged one of the stains, and the dark red skin came off in her hand, occupying a small area of her own index finger as if it had come from there. It was fascinating. She would never again see, for no reason, by sheer luck—or not exactly luck, but chance, improbability—what she was seeing now. A finger that no longer belonged to any human being, that would remain there, among the coati’s paws and the remains of food, until garbagemen hauled it away and made it disappear. This finger doesn’t have an owner anymore, she thought, and it will be mine. She rewrapped it in the paper and threw the rest of the refuse into the trash can. Walking with determination, holding the object between her fingers, with a challenging expression for any forest ranger who might have witnessed her actions, she headed for the park exit and then to Jonas’s house.
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