“We need to talk about our situation,” said Luciana, sitting up, exhausted, after arranging the pillows against the headboard to support their backs. “Now you’re going to dump that woman, aren’t you?”
“Take it easy, Luciana. We have to wait a little, you know that as well as I do.”
“Her father and mother left Alice a lot of money. Who handles business for her?”
“I do. I put most of it in real estate.”
“Are you married under community property or separation of assets?”
“Separation. My old man thought it was better that way. But these days Alice probably has more money than I do.”
“But she doesn’t have more money than me, and isn’t prettier than me,” said Luciana.
“I don’t know how much you have, but I imagine not.”
Luciana caressed Lomagno’s body. Lomagno took her hand, moving it away from his sex. Sweat on his face. He remembered Freitas, at the A Minhota restaurant, calling Luciana a nymphomaniacal harpy. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his hand. He joked: “Empress Messalina, I have to make a phone call.”
“Wait . . . you can call afterwards,” whispered Luciana.
“It’s urgent. Important business.”
INSPECTOR MATTOS spent most of the day trying to obtain information about Anastácio, known as Squinty, and about the prisoner Bolão. A reporter from O Radical, who received money from Ilídio, owner of the betting sites near the newspaper’s downtown headquarters, ended up providing the reliable information he needed.
“I take a bit of scratch from that son of a bitch, because the paper doesn’t pay me anything and my wife, you know about it, is hospitalized in Belo Horizonte with TB.”
“I know, I know.”
“Mattos, you’re not on the take, I know, but you’re one of the few exceptions, everybody’s in their pocket. Politicians, judges, people who if I told you their name you wouldn’t believe me. It would be one fucking exposé. The problem is that no one would publish it. And I’m not crazy enough to put that in the paper.”
“Does Squinty work for Ilídio? Are you sure?”
“Not the slightest doubt. Bolão too.”
Before taking his leave, Mattos listened patiently, his stomach burning, to the reporter recount his vicissitudes and suffering.
When he got to his apartment, two surprises were awaiting him.
In the living room, sitting in silence around the table, Alice, Salete, and an old black woman.
They all stood up when the inspector entered. He sensed that his arrival relieved to a degree the tension among them.
“I asked Salete to wait for you. She wanted to leave, and I wouldn’t let her,” said Alice. “She came here to introduce you to her mother.”
“This is my mother,” said Salete.
The woman stood and extended her hand to Mattos.
“My daughter says you’ve been very good to her.”
Mattos shook the hand of Salete’s mother. “Pleased to meet you. I have the greatest respect and admiration for your daughter.”
“Thank you very much. My name is Sebastiana. I’m very happy to be here . . . I had lost my daughter. Can you imagine, losing a daughter and then finding her again?”
“Alice was very nice,” said Salete.
“Very nice,” her mother repeated.
“Salete is the one who was nice,” said Alice.
The second surprise: a console with a new record player, a pile of LPs, wrapped packages of various sizes scattered on the floor, a new double bed.
“What’s all this?” asked Mattos, pointing to the packages on the floor.
Alice, looking at Salete: “We’ll talk about it later . . . We used to go together, we almost got married, didn’t we, Alberto?”
“But now he’s my boyfriend,” said Salete.
“I won’t argue,” said Alice.
Mattos also wasn’t about to argue with anyone. “I’m going to have a glass of milk,” he said. He got the milk from the refrigerator and went into the bedroom. He felt the springs of the new bed yield under the weight of his body as he drank the milk. Dr. Arnoldo: She behaves prodigally. One on occasion she gave me a gold watch.
The two younger women remained in the living room, staring at opposite walls.
Sebastiana, respectfully: “Do you still have your mother, dear?”
“My mother died.”
“From what? Poor thing.”
“Cancer.”
“That’s a very bad disease.”
“Don’t let’s talk about sad things, Mommy.”
“I was just trying to break the silence.”
“Is he going to want to be with both of us?” asked Salete.
“That’s impossible,” said Alice.
“Salete’s father had ten at the same time.”
“Being with ten is less complicated than being with two,” said Alice.
“He was a butterfly. Said that women were flowers. A handsome and sly Portuguese man,” said Salete.
“Salete looks a lot like him. The spit and image of her father.”
“I’m not pretty.”
Mattos came back into the room.
Salete and Alice looked at him apprehensively.
“Your mother is a very nice lady. I’d enjoy having another opportunity to chat with her . . . I, I—”
“Would you like us to leave?” Salete placed both hands on her chest. She thought her heart would burst.
“It’s not that. I just need to have a private conversation with Alice. Please. I’ll call you later.”
“Let’s go, daughter. The young man is asking.”
Salete felt like crying but contained herself. She wasn’t going to make a scene in front of that blonde hussy.
As she left, she averted her face so Mattos couldn’t kiss her. And also so he wouldn’t see her damp eyes. She ran to the door, followed by her mother.
Mattos and Alice alone.
“Where did my sofa bed go?”
“I told the men to get rid of it.”
“Are you taking your medications?”
“I don’t need medications. I feel perfectly fine. Don’t believe what others say.”
“Why’d you buy all that?”
“For you. Want to listen to an opera on the new record player? L’Elisir d’Amore. It has that aria, ‘Una furtiva lagrima,’ that made you cry when you were a child.”
“No, I don’t want to hear it. Put down that record and come sit next to me. Please.”
Alice sat down in a chair beside Mattos.
“Alice, pay attention. I can’t accept this. I’m going to have to return it, I’m very sorry.”
“It’s all paid for. The store won’t take it back.”
“Then I’ll give it to an old folks’ asylum.”
“Old people are deaf and don’t like opera.”
“I’m not joking, Alice.”
“Want to know what old people in asylums like? Candy and visits, to talk. The women also like cologne, lipstick, and face powder.”
“I’m not joking, Alice.”
“I know because my governess was institutionalized—”
“All of this has to go out of here.”
Alice began to cry. “Then leave the bed, the operas, the china, the glasses, and the silverware.”
Mattos looked for another antacid in his pocket. Nothing. The neighbors in the next apartment began arguing loudly. He closed the window. Turned on the light.
“All right. Let’s listen to L’Elisir d’Amore.”
“Your cups are very ugly, and all of them are chipped,” said Alice, laughing, as she put the LP on the new record player.
fifteen
DONA MARIA LEFT TINGUÁ very early Sunday morning, taking advantage of a ride from Onofre Braga, who was going to Rio to visit a sick relative.
Arriving at Vilar dos Teles, Dona Maria phoned an acquaintance of hers, Lieutenant Niemeier, of the air force.
Some time later,
two private automobiles stopped in front of 57 Santa Isabel. The cars were marked with two white crosses, one in the back windshield, the other on the rear window. Twenty-six private cars, identified by white crosses, carrying officers of the three armed forces, were helping in the search for those involved in the crime of Rua Tonelero.
“Done Maria, this is Colonel Aquino,” said Lieutenant Niemeier. “Tell him what you said to me on the phone.”
Dona Maria was listened to attentively by the military men.
“You’re sure the man is Climerio?”
“Mr. Oscar said his name was Almeida.”
“Who’s Mr. Oscar?”
“His friend. The two of them were together at Mr. Simplício’s store. Like I said, that man is staying at Mr. Oscar’s farm.”
“What does he look like? Can you describe him?”
“He’s more or less your height. He’s got a pockmarked face. Talks like he’s from Rio Grande do Sul.”
“Exactly where is the farm located?”
“It’s near Tinguá, on a hill. I’ve never been there.”
“Tinguá is in the Baixada Fluminense,” explained Niemeier.
After hearing Dona Maria’s account several times and asking her not to speak about it with anyone, as it could hurt the measures they were going to take to catch the killer, the military men got in their cars and left.
Before the cars pulled away, Dona Maria said to Colonel Aquino loudly so the others in uniform could hear, “For Mr. Carlos Lacerda I’d do anything.”
LUCIANA phoned Lomagno.
“Know what I’d like to do today? Have lunch at the Jockey Club and watch the horse races.”
“So would I, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“What if we meet there on Beira Mar?”
“I’m expecting a phone call.”
“Who from?”
“Chicão.”
“Chicão? What does he want?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t in when he called.”
“We could take a trip.”
“Let’s wait a bit.”
“My life is so tedious . . . Sundays are such a bore . . . Has Alice come back from São Paulo yet?”
Lomagno hesitated. “Not yet. I discovered she took the diary she was writing.”
“Diary?! That’s so childish. I kept a diary when I was twelve. What the devil does she write about in the diary? Her fits of insanity?”
“She doesn’t have fits of insanity.”
“Now you’re defending your sweet little wife?”
“It’s not like that at all. I just don’t like for you to speak ill of her. You know that.”
“What does she write about in that little diary of hers? Eh?”
“I don’t know. I never read it.”
“You were never curious?”
“No.”
“Afraid of discovering she has a lover? Every woman has a lover, didn’t you know? And they tell the truth in their diary. Dear Diary, I’m madly in love, my husband is a boring brute, and I’ve found this sensitive man who sends me red roses. The sly ones like Alice are the worst.”
“What about you? Do you have a diary?”
“Not yet, for now all I have is a lover. Who doesn’t send me red roses.”
“What’s with you?”
“Sundays are so boring! And this thing is still in its beginning!”
“You’re nervous. Calm down.”
“You’re not expecting a call from Chicão. That’s just an excuse not to see me. I’m finding you indifferent.”
“That’s silly.”
“Don’t try to fool me. I’m not Alice. I’m warning you. My insanity isn’t the tame kind.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“A glass of champagne doesn’t get anybody drunk.”
“Early in the morning?”
“It’s eleven o’clock. Let’s meet at Beira Mar, my love. Please. I’m begging you.”
Had she set down the champagne glass and joined her hands in a gesture of prayer as she did after fucking? Lomagno wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“I have to call Chicão.”
“Isn’t he supposed to call you?”
“Yes, but if Chicão doesn’t call, I have to try to find out what he wants.”
“You said you didn’t know where Chicão was. You said he had orders to disappear. How are you going to call him? Pedro Lomagno, I didn’t do what I did so afterward you could make a fool out of me!”
Nymphomaniacal harpy. Because of her, two people had been killed. How had things ever gotten to that point?
“Did you hear what I said?!”
“I heard, Luciana . . .”
“Then we going to meet at Beira Mar. Now! Chicão can go to hell.”
“It’s impossible, dear. Be reasonable.”
Luciana’s tone changed. Now, sarcastic and bitter. “Did that Negro ever play the woman for you? Or did you play the woman for him?”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“Paulo did. Why not you?”
“Your husband was different from me.”
“You’re a bi just like he was.”
Lomagno hung up. Perplexed, stunned, he analyzed what he was feeling. A month earlier he was overwhelmed by a permanent and irresistible desire to be with that woman, to eat and drink with her, to go to bed with her. He remembered the pleasantry of falsely casual public encounters, carefully planned, of attending a ballet where he, from the back of his box, would spend the night watching her through opera glasses while Luciana, knowing she was being observed, sent him subtle hidden signals, running her tongue over her lips, or biting them, or secretly caressing her own breasts almost bared by the low-cut evening gown. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he had tired of her; the way he tired of everything, it was true, but never in that manner. He couldn’t understand what had caused that sudden, so powerful, feeling of aversion. Paulo’s death, which she had planned? He disdained Paulo. And Paulo had to be killed, or he would have driven Cemtex into bankruptcy. Then what was it? Now, he wanted Alice by his side. Did he love Alice?
Maybe he wasn’t asking the right questions, maybe he wasn’t giving the right answers to the right questions or to the wrong questions he was asking himself. Maybe there was no question to ask, or no answer to the confusion, the turmoil he was feeling at that moment.
AS ALWAYS, Mattos awoke before Alice, who had slept with him in the new bed.
But neither had slept well.
Both remained immobile in the darkness, eyes shut. Alice amused herself for a time with the dark images that formed under her closed eyelids: black gases, expanding like stormy clouds of carbon in an endless opaque vault, assumed almost indistinct shapes in continuous mutation—a face with no eyes, a black butterfly, a hunchback, her own face . . .
“Are you sleeping?”
“No,” said Mattos. “It always takes a long time for me to fall asleep.” (When he slept with a woman.)
“I think I’m going to take another pill,” said Alice.
Mattos got up, turned on the light, and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
Alice was wearing a short-sleeved nightgown closed up to the neckline. Mattos was in undershorts and a long-sleeved shirt that he had rolled up to the elbows. Neither of them wanted to sleep naked in front of the other.
“Better to take a sleeping pill than lie awake, don’t you think?”
“Wouldn’t you like a glass of warm milk?” asked Mattos, worried about the woman’s thin, pallid face and the dark circles around her eyes.
“All right. If that doesn’t work, I’ll take a pill.”
They sat on the edge of the bed, drinking milk.
“Are you having trouble getting used to the new bed?” asked Alice.
“I’m not sleepy.”
“You slept better on that sofa?”
“I always sleep badly.”
“Are you angry with me because of the sofa bed?”
“No. L
ie down. Let’s see if you can get to sleep now.”
Again in darkness. “May I hug you?”
“Yes.”
Alice hugged Mattos.
Sleeping embraced by a woman was tiring and disagreeable to Mattos. A woman up against his body kept him from thinking straight.
Now in the living room, Mattos, who had gotten dressed as if leaving for work, thought about the woman sleeping in his bedroom. If he had a friend, he would ask what he should do in such a situation. His pride had been badly hurt when she left him. It did no good for Alice to return now, humble, crazy, prodigal. He no longer wanted to live with her. He didn’t want to live with any woman.
Alice appeared in the room.
“Are you going out?”
“I always get dressed when I wake up. I take a bath and get dressed. But I haven’t put on my tie.”
“That’s true. You haven’t put on your tie.”
“I don’t know how to say this . . .”
“Say what?”
Alice seemed to have become emaciated during the night. The dark circles around her eyes hadn’t disappeared, despite a night’s sleep, and they stood out against her pale skin.
“It’s nothing important. We can talk later.”
“How nice. I wake up completely foggy. I don’t wake up right until—How to say what? What is it you don’t know how to tell me? Something unpleasant?”
“No . . . It’s not—I already told you, it’s not important.”
“I want to know. Please . . .”
“This isn’t a good place for you to stay. That’s what it is.”
“Why?”
“Several reasons. The other day a man came here to kill me.”
“Were you afraid?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not afraid either.”
“This place isn’t comfortable . . . It’s very small . . .”
Crimes of August: A Novel: 5 (Brazilian Literature in Translation Series) Page 22