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

by Rubem Fonseca

  “You understand that you’ve got to die, to serve as an example?”

  “I do understand, sir. I know how life is,” said Old Turk stoically. “It was written the day I was born that I would die.”

  “You killed a lot of people. What’s the fastest and most painless way?”

  “In the back of the neck. Holding the barrel steady. What in the old days they called the coup de grace.”

  “Good. Shall we have some coffee?”

  “Can you do me one favor?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “To call my mother and tell her to pick up a deed I left at the public registry in Caxambu. I bought a small house for her and the dear old lady doesn’t know it yet. It was for her birthday, day after tomorrow.”

  “Give me the phone number, and I’ll call her.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Old Turk knew that Pádua would honor his word. The three of them drank coffee from a thermos. Afterward, they left by car.

  thirteen

  PÁDUA SPENT THE RAINY MORNING in his office, flexing his arm muscles and thinking. He phoned Old Turk’s mother as agreed. A promise was a promise, even when made to an outlaw.

  “You worried, boss?” asked Murilo, who rarely saw Pádua so somber.

  “No,” replied Pádua.

  However, Pádua was very worried. He regretted having killed Old Turk. In the past he had regretted not having killed someone. But for having killed, it was the first time. It had been a mistake to liquidate Old Turk. Old Turk was an expensive gunman who usually worked for politicians, plantation owners, and others with financial resources. Now it was impossible to find out who had hired him to kill Mattos. There was some bastard in the city with the balls to order a police inspector killed; the fucker had to be identified. How? How? On top of everything, now he couldn’t warn that idiot Mattos, saying “Know who Ibrahim Assad was? The famous Old Turk, the biggest hired gun in the country. Somebody with a lot of green wants you dead.” Mattos was nuts; if he knew that he, Pádua, had killed Old Turk, he’d immediately open an inquiry, saying in that damned way of his, “Very sorry, Pádua, but you broke the law.” What important interests could Mattos be bucking, who had Mattos gotten riled up to cause such a strong reaction? Pádua, mistakenly, lost no time thinking about the arrest of Ilídio. Numbers bigwigs don’t have policemen killed. Someone else was behind it.

  Mattos arrived at the precinct shortly after eleven in the morning.

  Pádua turned over the blotter to Mattos.

  “Anything important?”

  “Nothing. Just routine.”

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’ve got a slight headache. Oh yeah, I was forgetting. I released that itinerant peddler that you arrested.”

  “What peddler?”

  “That guy that entered your apartment. A third-rate burglar who got the wrong address. I think he learned his lesson.”

  “He wasn’t some shitass burglar. I’d like to know more about him. Did you ask HQ for his record?”

  “I asked for the information by phone, like you do. The guy was, is clean.”

  “Did you draw up the concealed weapons charge?”

  “No. You’ve done the same thing with me. Releasing crooks I arrest. See how annoying it is?”

  “This case was different. He was caught in the act.”

  “But I let the guy go. It’s too late now.” Pause. “Too late now.”

  Mattos perceived lies and bitterness in his colleague’s voice.

  “How are things going?” asked Pádua.

  “What things?”

  “Work.”

  “Nothing new.”

  “You never told me why you want info on Senator Vitor Freitas. Anything I can help with?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “If you need help, you can count on me, okay?”

  After Pádua left, Mattos went to the lockup. He told the jailer to open the cell.

  “Odorico, come to my office.”

  The cell boss followed Mattos to his room.

  “Remember that tall guy who was arrested two days ago?”

  “I remember him, sir. A guy with the face of a Syrian. I didn’t like him. He kept to himself in a corner, without speaking to nobody. I figured I’d have problems with him. He got out.”

  “Who let him out?”

  “Inspector Pádua.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “Uh-huh. At night Inspector Pádua showed up at the cell and called the guy. Said he was getting out.”

  “Anything else?”

  Odorico thought it very strange for Pádua to release a prisoner. But a cell boss’s job was to maintain order in lockup. Anybody who talked a lot was a gossip.

  “After the man was let go, I went back to sleep, sir. Everything in order.”

  Mattos summoned Rosalvo.

  “Call all the precincts and tell them we’re looking for a dark-skinned man with a mustache, named Ibrahim Assad. Born in Caxambu, Minas Gerais, in 1912. Call the morgue and ask them to notify me if a corpse matching that description shows up.”

  Mattos remained in his office listening to the radio while he signed poverty papers and proofs of residence.

  Brigadier Eduardo Gomes had denied that an uprising had taken place at the air base at Santa Cruz, where the Brazilian Air Force fighter planes were housed. There was an atmosphere of apprehension in the city, according to the newscast. Families were taking their children out of schools.

  Radio Globo spoke of a second attack on Lacerda, kept secret till then. On Sunday, August 8, Lacerda was arriving by boat to the island of Paquetá for a rally, accompanied by a Radio Globo reporter, Raul Brunini, and other persons when, amid the popping of fireworks launched by voters in welcome, they heard a loud blast underfoot. It was a stick of dynamite that had exploded near the hull. No one had been hurt. The vessel had begun taking on water, without, however, sinking. Lacerda’s party attempted to downplay the fact and returned to the mainland on a different boat.

  Downplay the fact? Did anyone believe that? thought Mattos. A cherry bomb had probably gone off near the launch, and some joker must have suggested, “Why don’t we say we were under attack?”

  News from everywhere in Brazil was transmitted by the radio, emphasizing the atmosphere of agitation among students, politicians, the manufacturing class, and professionals, because of the assassination of Major Vaz.

  The ASA agency distributed statements by Federal Deputy Otávio Mangabeira, offered at the Hotel Bahia, in Salvador. Mangabeira said the nation was exhausted from so much humiliation and suffering. However, everything had limits. Only the armed forces could come to the aid of the country. “Let us unite around them as one, placing in them our complete confidence, obeying their command as if we were at war.”

  What could be expected of a guy, thought Mattos, who as a sitting federal deputy had subserviently kissed Eisenhower’s hand in Congress when the American general had visited Brazil after the war? What could be expected from an old enemy of Vargas? From one of the founders of the UDN?

  Mangabeira said he had no doubts about the responsibility of the government and of the president himself for the monstrous attack that was having such an effect on public opinion in the nation. Until then, it was the unprecedented levels of embezzlement, the immorality that corrupted with incredible insolence. The people, driven to hunger by the cost of living resulting in great part from acts of the government, were clearly and calculatingly being led toward anarchy, to the benefit of the administration itself. But now came the effort to eliminate the unvanquished denouncer of the scandals, who had escaped only by a miracle. But the bullets intended for him had killed an officer of the air force, an exemplar of devotion to his kind, who was accompanying the intrepid Lacerda. What was operating in the country under the name of legality was the negation of legal order, even greater now that it had stooped to murder. The wretch who had committed the crime was, in this case, the least responsible. The
one most responsible, the one truly responsible occupied the Catete Palace, though ready, if necessary, to shed tears. Mangabeira preferred to see Brazil attacked and bravely expelling the foreign aggressor than to see what he said he was seeing: the country sapped, undermined, and corrupted by the enemy within, ensconced in power.

  At seven p.m. Mattos told Rosalvo he was going out. “I won’t be long. If anyone comes looking for me, I’ll be back around nine.”

  “Can I ask where you’re going?”

  “No. It’s official.”

  He took a cab. “Sixty Rainha Elizabeth,” Mattos told the driver. Had Rosalvo been lying or mistaken José Silva’s address? Number sixty was a luxury apartment building.

  “Which is Mr. José Silva’s apartment?” Mattos asked the doorman.

  “Five-oh-one,” the doorman said.

  Mattos took the elevator. One apartment per floor.

  He rang the bell. A little girl, with her hair in two long braids, opened the door.

  “Daddy,” the girl shouted, “it’s for you.”

  The man who came forth appeared to be about forty-five, with light brown hair, beginning to go bald. He was holding a newspaper.

  “I’m looking for Mr. José Silva.”

  “That’s me.”

  Mattos identified himself. “I’m investigating the murder of Paulo Gomes Aguiar.”

  “I don’t know how I can be of any help.”

  “May I come in?”

  “Uh . . . Yes . . . Please.”

  The girl was still in the living room, staring at the cop with curiosity.

  “Go inside there, with Mommy,” said José Silva.

  José Silva folded, then unfolded the newspaper. He put it on a table.

  “Please have a seat.”

  “I have information that you knew Paulo Gomes Aguiar.”

  “Yes. But I haven’t seen him for many years.”

  “Could you be more precise?”

  “We were classmates in the first years of high school, at the São Joaquim. I never saw him after that.”

  “What about Pedro Lomagno? Were you also a classmate of his?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you seen Pedro Lomagno?”

  “Also no. They weren’t friends of mine. Just classmates. In fact, they left the school before graduating.”

  The girl appeared at the door and stared at the policeman.

  “What is it, Aninha?”

  “Mommy wants to speak to you.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Mattos and the girl were alone in the room.

  “Are you from the police?” she asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Are you going to arrest Daddy?”

  “No.”

  “Mommy?”

  “I’m not here to arrest anyone.”

  “Oh . . .” exclaimed the girl, disappointed.

  José Silva returned.

  “My wife isn’t feeling well.” A smile. “We’re expecting another child, you know? It’ll be our second.”

  Mattos noticed the small drops of sweat forming on José Silva’s brow.

  “May I ask your profession?”

  “I’m a dentist.”

  “A good profession,” said Mattos.

  “I like my work,” said José Silva.

  Mattos stood up. “Well, Dr. Silva, I don’t think you have much to tell me. Sorry to have taken up your time.”

  José Silva opened the door.

  “One thing more. If another policeman shows up here, tell him you already spoke with me. Say: Inspector Mattos left orders for me to speak with no one but him about the death of Paulo Gomes Aguiar.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to understand. Just say that to any policeman who appears.”

  “Can I offer you some coffee?”

  Mattos would like to have a glass of milk.

  “No, thank you very much.”

  Before nine, Mattos was back at the precinct. Rosalvo came to talk to him.

  “I saw the reports. A Negro. Is Antonio Carlos making this up?”

  “He’s competent and diligent.”

  “You want me to start looking for that Negro?”

  “No need. I already know who he is.”

  “And was it him who killed Paulo Gomes Aguiar?”

  “Very likely.”

  “When are you going to arrest him?”

  “At the right moment.”

  The inspector was being very laconic. Maybe it was good to irritate him a bit. He always talked a lot when angry.

  “Did you see the president is going to pardon more criminals? In July thirty murderers, twenty-two thieves, three swindlers, a macumba priest, and a fence were the beneficiaries. What do you think of that, sir? Sixty some-odd criminals let loose in the streets.”

  “They should never even have been arrested.”

  “Are you speaking seriously? I think our problem is there’s too many criminals in the streets.”

  “Arresting a macumba priest or a fence is stupid. A prisoner costs society money, he spends some time in jail, and comes out worse than when he went in.”

  “Then you think not even thieves or killers should be arrested? What about a rapist pervert like Febrônio?”

  “If the guy is a major risk to society, a criminal psychopath, that sort of thing, then he just needs to get treatment.”

  “And the victim’s family?”

  “Fuck the victim’s family. You talk as if we were in the eighteenth century, before Feuerbach. Punishment as revenge. You should’ve studied that shit more carefully in college.”

  “I’m not a cultured man like you, but please tell me: isn’t the number of criminals larger and larger? In the whole world? What’s the reason for that? Please enlighten me. Too many people, or too few in jail?”

  “I’m not going to waste time arguing with you.”

  This time it hadn’t worked. The man was hiding something. Rosalvo firmly believed that obsessives like Mattos shouldn’t be policemen or have any type of authority. He, Rosalvo, didn’t have any type of obsession other than living well, which meant sleeping well, eating well, and fucking well. He thought about Teodoro’s promise. When he transferred to Vice, his simple obsessions could be more easily satisfied. The problem was how to convince Senator Freitas that he’d done something to merit that prize. A Negro. He didn’t see how a Negro could be involved with the senator. In any case, now he had something to offer.

  AS THEY HAD AGREED, Lomagno arrived at the precinct to pick up Inspector Mattos, to look for the macumba priest in Caxias. He arrived in a new Buick, driven by a uniformed chauffeur from Lomagno & Co.

  “Wait for my return,” Mattos told Rosalvo.

  “Where are you going? Wouldn’t it be better for me to go with you?”

  “No. Stay here.”

  Mattos and Lomagno, sitting in the back seat of the car, did not talk until they got to the city of Caxias, in the Baixada Fluminense.

  After driving around for a time in the city center, the car continued toward one of the neighborhoods on the outskirts. At a certain point, Lomagno told the driver to turn onto a dirt road. They stopped in front of a stonework house, with blue windows, beside which was a worship site with a compacted earth floor, surrounded by trees.

  “This is it,” said Lomagno.

  The two men got out of the car.

  A gray-haired mulatto woman wearing clogs, who had come to the door when she noticed the car arriving, greeted the visitors.

  “We’re looking for the priest,” said Lomagno.

  “Please be so kind as to enter,” said the woman.

  The living room was modestly furnished: a table, some chairs, a worn sofa, an old china cabinet.

  “I’ll call Father Miguel,” the woman said.

  The macumba priest, a thin black man of indefinite age, dressed in white, received the visitors with deference.

  “Welcome to my home.”

 
; “Do you remember me, Father Miguel?”

  The priest hesitated.

  “I was here with Paulo Gomes Aguiar.”

  “Oh . . . yes.”

  “This is Police Inspector Alberto Mattos.”

  “Police?”

  The man drew back in fright. He turned to flee. Mattos grabbed him by the shirt.

  “Sir, I closed down the worship site. Please don’t arrest me!”

  “I’m not here to arrest you. Stay calm.”

  The policeman’s tone calmed the macumba priest somewhat.

  “I’m not interested in your activities. I think people like you should be left in peace. I came only to ask a few questions, and then I’ll leave. Do you know that Paulo Gomes Aguiar was murdered?”

  “Yes. One of my acolytes told me. I was very sad. He was a good man.”

  “Were you in the habit of going to Gomes Aguiar’s home?”

  “I went three or four times. I was working on sealing his body. Much envy, many enemies, bad spirits on him. But Mr. Paulo’s wife didn’t like me, and I couldn’t do a proper job. I knew something bad was going to happen, a spirit had descended here in the site and told me. There were people doing bad things against him.”

  “When was the last time you were with Paulo Gomes Aguiar?”

  “A short time before he died. I think it was a Friday.”

  “Do you recall the date?”

  “The date I can’t remember.”

  “You’re sure it was a Friday?”

  “I’m not sure. But there are certain kinds of work I like to do on Friday. What was the date of Friday a week ago?”

  “The thirtieth.”

  “The thirtieth, the thirtieth . . .”

  “Could it have been Saturday, the thirty-first?” asked Lomagno.

  “Let me ask the questions,” said Mattos.

  “Sorry,” said Lomagno.

  “One moment, please,” said Miguel.

  He went to speak with the mulatto woman, who was a certain distance away. They talked for some time.

  “She doesn’t remember either. It was so long ago . . .”

  “Only thirteen days,” said the inspector. “You don’t make notes of your work?”

  “I’m illiterate, sir. But Cremilda here thinks it may have been on Saturday, after midnight. The work of exorcising bad spirits can also be done in the early hours of the month of August. The month of August is a good month for the spirits to descend.”