Crimes of August: A Novel: 5 (Brazilian Literature in Translation Series)

by Rubem Fonseca

  The head of the president’s military cabinet, visibly uneasy, remained in a corner, accompanied by an adjutant. Caiado de Castro was there as the personal representative of President Vargas. The general had come directly from the Catete, where the Vargas family had gathered.

  Freitas greeted Caiado, who recognized him.

  “The president is deeply shocked by this barbarous crime. He has given strict orders to find those responsible, whomever it may hurt,” said Caiado.

  “Vargas is facing this situation like the great statesman he is,” said Freitas, quickly taking his leave of the general. It was best not to commit to anyone. The situation was very fluid.

  A throng of five thousand people accompanied the casket on foot to the São João Batista cemetery. Senator Vitor Freitas and his adviser had finally succeeded in insinuating themselves among the military and civilians surrounding Eduardo Gomes. Upon recognizing the brigadier, bystanders along the cortege route shouted to him, “Brigadier, keep democracy alive!” and “We’re going to sweep the criminals out of the palace!” The brigadier maintained a solemn and concentrated bearing.

  It was 6:30 p.m. when they finally arrived at the cemetery. A canopy, with a lantern burning at its top, covered the tomb where Major Vaz was to be buried. When the body was lowered into the sepulcher, Vitor Freitas had managed to place himself between Tancredo Neves, the secretary of justice, and Cardinal Dom Jaime de Barros Câmara. “The police will do everything possible to bring to justice those responsible for this crime,” said the secretary in a weary voice when he recognized the senator beside him. Tancredo Neves had uttered that phrase dozens of times in the last twenty-four hours.

  Before leaving the cemetery Vitor Freitas suddenly found himself beside Eduardo Gomes. For a few instants he didn’t know what to say, but his indecision was brief: “The death of this hero will be the birth of decency in Brazil,” he said, recalling a phrase he had read on a wreath back at the Aeronautics Club. He saw that the phrase had an effect on the brigadier. “I’m Senator Vitor Freitas, of the PSD,” he added. “Thank you, Senator,” replied Eduardo Gomes, in a voice heavy with emotion.

  From the cemetery, Freitas and Clemente went to the home of the journalist Carlos Lacerda. The apartment was crowded with people, many of them uniformed military. Lacerda was leaning back on a sofa, his foot in a cast, elevated. Freitas approached the journalist. “A monstrosity,” he said. “This administration is one of lawlessness and insanity,” answered Lacerda. The senator spoke with various people to mark his presence, among them Generals Canrobert and Etchgoyen, Brigadier Trompowski, the lawyer Sobral Pinto, and the deputy Prado Kelly. He even spoke with Dona Olga, the journalist’s mother.

  From Lacerda’s home, the senator and Clemente went to Ciro’s, a nightclub.

  “What a day,” Freitas said after the waiter served him a double whiskey.

  “You think the cruzeiro will be devaluated? It’s 18.82 to the dollar, official rate, and 64.30 in the black market,” said Clemente.

  “You’re speculating in dollars?”

  “I have to look out for myself. What you pay me in the Senate isn’t much. I have expensive habits. Let’s hear it, Vitor, answer.”

  “Souza Dantas said the cruzeiro isn’t going to be devaluated. It’s going to be maintained at the official rate of 18.82.”

  “I don’t believe anything coming from those fuckers in the government. If you find out anything, you’ll let me know immediately?”

  “Of course I will, my angel. What a day! I think I deserve a rest.”

  “I know what you need,” said Clemente, with a devious smile.

  “Get me a good-looking boy this time.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. But don’t forget, I deserve a rest myself.”

  IT WAS ALREADY NIGHT when Salete arrived at the macumba site of Mother Ingrácia.

  She related everything that had happened. Mother Ingrácia, smoking a pipe, her head turned because she was a little deaf, listened attentively.

  “What was the blonde woman’s voice like? Did it sound hoarse?”

  “I didn’t hear her voice. But she must have a pretty voice. The wretched woman is beautiful.”

  “When the man’s undershorts don’t work, there’s just one thing that does,” said Mother Ingrácia after several puffs.

  “What’s that, Mother?”

  “The scab from an injury. You have to bring me a scab from an injury of his.”

  “A scab? How am I supposed to get a scab?”

  “Who doesn’t have a small injury of some kind? Everybody gets injured from time to time. And every injury creates a scab. Look here.”

  Mother Ingrácia showed her arm, where there was a lesion covered by a scab.

  “Can’t it be something else?”

  “No. It’s got to be a scab. One of those little brown ones.”

  Mother Ingrácia carefully removed the scab, placed it in the palm of her hand and showed it to Salete.

  six

  ON FRIDAY, AROUND SEVEN A.M., carrying an empty suitcase, Climerio returned to the home of the gunman Alcino.

  “The shit’s hit the fan,” said Climerio. “That fucker Nelson turned himself in to the police yesterday. Today they took him to the Military Police barracks, and the bastard spilled his guts. I shouldn’t have trusted the son of a bitch. You’d better go into hiding.”

  He handed Alcino the suitcase. “Put some clothes in it. It’s best for you to leave immediately.”

  “What about my money? You promised it by today.”

  Climerio took from his pocket a wad of money and handed it to Alcino. Ten thousand cruzeiro notes.

  Alcino threw into the suitcase a sweater, two pairs of undershorts, two shorts, a knit woolen cap, a rosary with a metal cross at its tip, and a pair of clogs.

  FIRST TO ARRIVE AT THE A MINHOTA, on São José, downtown, not very far from the Chamber of Deputies, was Lomagno. It was almost one o’clock. The restaurant, normally frequented by many senators and deputies, was empty.

  Lomagno sat down, uncommunicative. He asked the waiter for a whiskey on the rocks. After serving Lomagno, the waiter left on the table a bucket of ice and a half-full bottle of White Horse onto which was attached a vertical strip of paper marking the number of drinks consumed.

  A short time later, Claudio Aguiar arrived. They had spoken several times by telephone, but that was the first time they had seen each other since the death of Gomes Aguiar. Claudio gestured to the waiter, indicating Lomagno’s whiskey.

  “Claudio, you’re a son of a bitch. Magalhães told me you tried to transfer the Cemtex financing to Brasfesa.”

  Claudio stammered. “He . . . he said that?”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Luciana is going to get control of Cemtex now. I don’t trust her. Luciana is going to cheat us.”

  At that moment, Vitor Freitas arrived, accompanied by his aide Clemente and Deputy Orestes Cravalheira, of the PSD. Claudio greeted the three dryly and left the table, heading for the bathroom. Lomagno followed him.

  “Take it easy,” Lomagno said inside the bathroom.

  “Did he have to bring his catamite?”

  “Easy, easy,” Lomagno repeated.

  “He can’t do this to me. I’m going to tell him I don’t want that fag at our table. The scoundrel! The scoundrel!”

  Lomagno slapped Claudio forcefully. The latter drew back, startled.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “You’re not going to say anything. When you’re over this attack of hysteria, come back to the table and keep quiet.”

  “What’s with Claudio?” asked Freitas when Lomagno returned from the bathroom.

  “He’s not feeling well.”

  “Is he having a tizzy?” asked Clemente with a sarcastic smile.

  Lomagno ignored the question.

  “Cravalheira’s going to have a whiskey with us while he waits for some friends who’re having lunch with him,” Freitas said.

 
The waiter brought glasses and another bottle of whiskey. They drank. They spoke about the assassination attempt that had claimed Major Vaz’s life and talked about generalities. Cravalheira commented that Judge Murta Ribeiro had been chosen by lot to draft the report on the appeal of Lieutenant Bandeira, sentenced to fifteen years in prison for the death of the banker Afrânio Arsênio de Lemos, a crime of passion that still held the city’s attention. The water shortage, as always, was mentioned, but only briefly. Freitas mentioned the issuing of money by the government. “You know how much Oswaldo Aranha has issued in the last twelve months, from August first ’53 to August first ’54? Over eight billion cruzeiros. There’s not even time for the employees to authenticate the notes manufactured by the presses at the Mint, American Bank Note, and Thomas de la Rue.”

  Lomagno remained silent. Claudio returned to the table.

  “Feeling better, dear boy?” Clemente asked. “You look as if you might have a touch of fever.”

  Cravalheira returned to the subject of the assassination attempt.

  “Until yesterday, or rather, until last night, the fourth, or the early hours of the fifth, when the attempt took place on Rua Tonelero, the climate in this country recalled that of 1937. But now Getúlio no longer has any chance of pulling a coup.”

  “He wasn’t going to pull any coup,” said Cravalheira.

  “Why do you think Getúlio canceled his trip to Bolivia for the inauguration of the Santa Cruz de la Sierra-Corumbá highway?” said Freitas, pouring himself another whiskey. He answered his own question, labeling as lies the reasons stated, that the Santa Cruz airport, in Bolivia, provided no security. Actually, Getúlio didn’t want Vice President Café Filho to assume the presidency.

  “Like every coup-maker, he’s always thinking that others are trying to pull a coup on him,” said Clemente.

  Cravalheira took a clipping from his pocket.

  “Let me show you who this Café Filho is. Look at what he said.”

  The deputy read aloud: “My life has been one long participation in revolutions and conspiracies. I’ve suffered a lot; I have bullets in my body.”

  “Poor thing,” said Clemente.

  “Listen to the rest. He says that the most dramatic moment in his life occurred not long ago. He was flying to Chile and the air force plane in which he was traveling had to make a forced landing among the Andean peaks. Immediately, the governments of Chile and Argentina sent planes so they could continue the trip. But Café patriotically reflected that this was a Brazilian Air Force plane and that changing planes in those circumstances would show lack of confidence in the technical skills of the valiant officers of the air force. He sensed, as he made this decision, the full extent of his responsibility as vice president of the Republic. When the plane was repaired, brave Café said he dismissed those accompanying him and embarked on the plane to die, for he was fulfilling the duty of rendering prestige to our aviation and our pilots.”

  Clemente sang the refrain from a well known Carnival song: “And the band of brownnosers grows and grows.”

  “Café ended the interview with these words: ‘That was how I experienced my most dramatic moment, because of my mandate as vice president of the Republic. I had never imagined that such a thing would happen to me, not even during the most arduous campaigns and the most inflamed revolutions.’ To think this poseur may become president.”

  “It’s the flyboys who give the orders . . . Café knows which way the wind is blowing.”

  “Did you go the major’s funeral?”

  “Yes. You’d have to be crazy not to go,” said Freitas.

  “A public prosecutor and an air force officer were named as observers to the inquiry. There’s talk that Commissioner Pastor, who’s heading the police inquiry, is a Getulist.”

  “Speaking of police, I need to talk to you about an inspector—” Clemente stopped mid-sentence.

  “What inspector?” Freitas asked.

  “No, nothing. We’ll talk about it later.”

  “Getúlio’s days are numbered,” Freitas said.

  “Getúlio usually has an ace up his sleeve,” said Cravalheira.

  “The man’s senile. Did you see the photo of him having his hair combed by Gregório in public? He looked like an orderly at the Santa Casa da Misericórdia hospital taking care of one of those geezers who pee in their pants.”

  Cravalheira answered that underestimating Getúlio was a mistake. “Remember the lunch-pail campaign the old man put together?”

  “Borghi was the one who planned it all.”

  Cravalheira gave a long commentary on the opportunism and cowardice of Brazilian politicians. “Pila is an exception; he had the integrity to say that it’s necessary to meet force with force. When the impeachment attempt came up, and that’s only just over a month ago, only thirty-five deputies had the courage to face the Catete Palace. The only reason Getúlio didn’t close down Congress was because he didn’t want to.”

  “Why didn’t he want to?”

  “He preferred to first divide the opposition, preparing the way for a coup. Oswaldo Aranha’s waiting room at Treasury was packed with people from the UDN until yesterday. But I agree that the assassination attempt changed everything. Getúlio’s been put on the defensive.”

  “This chickenshit political stuff bores me,” said Clemente.

  “He made a mistake for the first time in his life. He didn’t need to waste time dividing a party like the UDN. The army would have gone along with the coup, before the assassination attempt. Now that the aviator was killed it’s more difficult.”

  Lomagno and Claudio took no part in the conversation, maintaining an aggressive silence that finally bothered Cravalheira. The deputy, even before his lunch companions arrived, said goodbye and went to sit at another table.

  “A total cretin,” said Clemente. “I don’t know why you waste your time on an idiot like him.”

  “What’s the urgent problem you wanted to talk to me about?” Freitas asked.

  “It’s a private matter,” Claudio said, looking pointedly at Clemente.

  “Clemente is in on everything.”

  “I don’t trust the guy,” said Lomagno.

  “Dear boy, as Vitor said, I’m in on everything. When push comes to shove, it doesn’t matter in the least whether you trust me or not.”

  “If you call me dear boy one more time, I’ll knock the daylights out of you right here,” said Lomagno.

  “Shut up, Clemente,” said Vitor, sighing. “So, what’s the problem?”

  “What’s the problem? What’s the problem? The murder of Paulo!” exclaimed Claudio. “The largest shareholder in Cemtex now is Luciana.”

  “That nymphomaniacal harpy?” said Freitas.

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” said Lomagno, with a violence that took Freitas by surprise. “You don’t know Luciana,” Lomagno added, controlling his unexpected rage.

  “Maybe I don’t, actually . . . I was just repeating—”

  “Let’s change the subject,” Lomagno said dryly.

  “I asked Magalhães to speak with Gregório to see if he could transfer the import license to Brasfesa,” Claudio said, looking timidly at Lomagno. “The Negro refused to talk to him. Magalhães is scared to death of him.”

  “Since Gregório received the Maria Quitéria Medal, he’s gotten even more arrogant. Absurd, giving the army’s highest decoration to that guy.”

  “You could speak directly with Souza Dantas,” Claudio said. “As president of the Bank of Brazil he gives the orders in the Cexim.”

  “The situation is very serious,” said the senator, taking another swallow of whiskey, choosing his words with care. “The country has entered a crisis that can have grave consequences.”

  “The death of that aviator? It’ll soon be forgotten.”

  “Lacerda won’t let anyone forget.”

  “You’re avoiding the subject,” said Claudio, annoyed. “I asked if you’d speak with the president of the Bank of Brazil. W
ill you speak to him or not?”

  “The attempt changed everything,” Freitas said. “The military is furious over Major Vaz’s death. Today there’s an assembly at the Aeronautics Club, with clear-cut coup objectives. Also today, in both chambers of Congress addresses will be given condemning the attempt. Deputy Aliomar Baleeiro, who’s coordinating this joint action and will be one of the deputies to speak, asked me to talk also.”

  “He’s not going to speak to Souza Dantas. Let it go, Claudio,” said Lomagno. His irritation appeared under control.

  “My friend,” Freitas said, “I’m from the Northeast. You know what that means? That I’m a survivor. I foresee anything bad that’s going to happen. Nero Moura, the secretary of the air force, and the secretary of war, Zenóbio da Costa, said there would be no assembly of military men at the Aeronautics Club. But Zenóbio put elite units like the Guard Battalion and the Military Police Battalion on stand-by alert. Truth is, the military secretaries no longer have control over the younger officer corps. When generals can only command other generals, things are bad. Very bad.”

  “Are you or aren’t you going to speak to Souza Dantas?”

  “He’s not going to. Let’s drop the subject,” said Lomagno brusquely.

  “The opposition is going to take advantage of the situation. Souza Dantas was already a target before, just imagine now . . . I’ll be frank with you: I don’t want to be involved in this business anymore. I can’t. I have to hunker down and see what’s going to happen,” Freitas said.

  “You’re in this business up to your neck,” Claudio said.

  “Don’t let yourself be coerced, dear man,” said Clemente.

  Freitas stood up.

  “Claudio,” said the senator in an obliging tone, “in my thirty years in politics I’ve never made a wrong move. It won’t be you, who besides everything else are my friend, and I hope you’ll continue to be despite this unpleasant episode, who’ll succeed in blackmailing me. You’re going to have to get out of this mess on your own.”

  “You’re nothing but a corrupt son of a bitch,” said Lomagno.

  “We’re all corrupt sons of bitches at this table. In this country. Let’s go, Clemente.”