Hotel Brasil

by Frei Betto

  Whenever big stories broke – the fall of government ministros, currency crashes, bankruptcies, deaths of actors and celebrities – he would work for two or three days solid, surviving on ham sandwiches, coffee and cigarettes. As an editor, he satisfied his love of devising headlines, starting campaigns, making texts concise and presenting stories with maximum impact. But whenever he could, he returned to reporting.

  Marcelo went for a drink every day after work, retiring to whichever boteco was the latest watering hole of choice among hacks. There he’d deliver alcohol-fuelled rants about chairmen, managers and the state of sports writing. He’d conjure up the names of players, form teams and predict results, genuinely convinced that nobody knew as much about football as he did.

  A chronic Flamengo fan, he constantly engaged in banter with Jorge at the hotel. He also argued regularly with Diamante Negro, voices raised increasingly loud. Marcelo spoke in a shout, finding endless new energy from somewhere.

  DUEL

  Marcelo showed no sign of being intimidated as he sat before the detective. He was a whirlwind of anxiety on the inside, but not a single muscle betrayed this on the outside. The only outward sign of nerves was the short amount of time that elapsed between his putting one cigarette out and lighting another.

  “What can you tell me about Seu Marçal’s murder?” asked Del Bosco. The detective was acutely aware that he was dealing with a member of the press and had to handle the questioning with care. It was like a game of chess, with the need to anticipate your opponent’s next move.

  “Actually, I’d like you to tell me what the police have confirmed so far,” replied Marcelo. The journalist subscribed to the view that the best form of defence was attack.

  “We’ve uncovered several important clues,” the detective bluffed.

  Del Bosco was adept at getting the measure of the people he questioned. He knew some journalists weren’t in the habit of distinguishing between what was said in private and what was divulged in public, and so he added, before Marcelo had a chance to ask:

  “Clues that must, for the moment, remain undisclosed.”

  Marcelo drew hard on his cigarette.

  “If the killer lived in the hotel, there’s no way I wouldn’t be able to spot him. It can’t have been an inside job,” he said, without a great deal of conviction.

  Del Bosco leaned in over the table.

  “It was an outside job, but with the assistance of someone on the inside. Nothing was broken into, no door was forced open. The killer came and went just like one of the residents.”

  “That’s what intrigues me, too,” said Marcelo, relaxing his guard. “How did someone break in and go on the rampage without any of us hearing so much as a sound, struggle or scream? But we’ve got it covered at the newspaper.”

  The last sentence sounded to Del Bosco like an insult and a challenge. Blood rose to his temples, as if to a wound to his professional pride. If the press solved the mystery before the police did, discredit and career demotion would come down on Del Bosco like a ton of bricks.

  “I saw the story,” said the detective, with visible restraint. “It speculated that Seu Marçal was murdered by someone with free transit about the hotel.” He stared Marcelo in the eye and added, “Which would include you among the suspects…”

  The detective’s tone was mocking. He had been trying to prevent his feelings from boiling over, but now he rushed to press home his advantage and regain the initiative.

  “Does your newspaper have access to some concrete clue, or is it pure conjecture?”

  Marcelo didn’t like what was being insinuated, but he chose not to object. He placed a new cigarette in his mouth, slowly moved his lighter up to it and took a deep, satisfied drag. He watched the spiral of smoke climb above the detective’s head.

  “The newspaper is conducting a parallel investigation,” Marcelo said, as he exhaled a second drag. “And if you’ll forgive me, Del Bosco, I haven’t come here to give you an exclusive.”

  The detective stretched back in his chair, allowing his body to relax into a slump. He sketched out a smile and sighed.

  “Investigation is the job of the police.”

  “Ora,” began Marcelo defiantly, “unless you lot show a bit more urgency, we’ll be the ones with the scoop, amigo.”

  “Are you saying you refuse to answer my questions?”

  “Ask and I’ll answer; I won’t shirk my duties before the law,” said Marcelo, conscious he’d been calling police authority into question. “But I’m not obliged to reveal my sources. Don’t expect any revelations from me. I’m more inclined to help my newspaper.”

  MODERNIZATION

  Being a member of a news team gave Marcelo more than just a sense of satisfaction. Having the power to promote or destroy people and institutions in a matter of two or three lines gave him confidence and security.

  The press room was an extension of his self. He’d joined the profession shortly before entrance exams were introduced. New recruits had henceforth been required to brandish journalism degrees, an initiative that had significantly changed the profile of reporters. These days, clean-cut youngsters in fashionable suits dominated, IT experts who spoke a dialect that mixed Portuguese and English. They referred to New York as if they’d been born there and bowed in deference to every political and economic act of the post-industrial countries, while limiting criticism of their own government to a form of sarcasm that never risked challenging the elite’s grip on power.

  Marcelo lacked such subtleties. He stood out for his ability to transform any trivial fact into headline news, and yet he knew his style of journalism was becoming obsolete. Press rooms and editorial desks were modernizing and, just as monks no longer travelled the world saving souls, reporters no longer strayed from their desks. They had become acolytes of electronic paraphernalia. It was not unusual for them to implant their interpretation of the facts onto the facts themselves.

  CLARIFICATION

  “Could you at least clarify where you were at the time of Seu Marçal’s murder?” said the detective.

  “Bem, you saw me arrive at the hotel,” Marcelo reminded him. “I got there just before the forensics. I was in Lamas, having a few beers with the guys from work, discussing the Brazil squad for the World Cup. If there’s one thing that connects me to the crime, it’s the fact that I was calling for the manager’s head at the time of the murder. Oh, that someone might do to him what they did to Seu Marçal!”

  9Shadows Offstage

  “Rosaura Dorotéia dos Santos,” the girl said hesitantly. Delegado Del Bosco jotted her name down and tried to clear his head in preparation for the questioning.

  Rosaura had short straight hair, moist eyes and a little dimple on her chin. Her appearance advertised her vanity: her hair was immaculately combed, her nails were painted salmon pink and her skin was saturated in creams. She’d grown up in Goiás, where she’d studied until second grade, but moved to Rio to pursue her dream of breaking into television. These days she was motivated by a singular obsession: to stop being a wage slave and become a telenovela star.

  She collected variety magazines and decorated the walls of her room at the hotel with photos of actors and actresses. She spent hours in front of the mirror, playing the roles of imaginary characters, studying the expression in her eyes, the curve of her mouth, the posture of her shoulders, the gestures of her hands. Her mind was a stage on which she performed to herself, the sole spectator. She read and reread tales of television presenters who had been born in the interior, as she had. Girls from humble backgrounds who, through pluck and hard work, had overcome anonymity to reach the heights of success. But she became confused when she flicked through unauthorized biographies that told of TV stars who’d climbed the ladder of fame by acting in pornographic films, appearing naked in men’s magazines and sleeping with media chiefs.

  At weekends, she waited at the stage doors of television centres, elbowing her way through crowds of adolescents to fight for th
e privilege of sitting in the studio audience, the chance to watch her idols in action. As a female, she was almost always selected to bolster the contingent of garotas who stood and applauded before fainting spontaneously, as instructed on monitors the viewer at home couldn’t see.

  All the same, the best she’d managed in terms of an actual job was that of servant to a rich entrepreneur in a stately home. She took offence whenever people said she was a “domestic maid”. She preferred to call herself a “precious-metals polishing specialist”, an expression coined by Seu Marçal.

  She was paid relatively well for the job. Every centavo she didn’t spend on cosmetics, jewellery and clothes made by a neighbourhood seamstress, she set to one side, concerned as she was for her future. Nevertheless, she was certain her talent would one day be recognized by someone with influence, someone capable of putting her in front of the studio lights.

  PREDICAMENT

  “Senhor, I wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Rosaura said in an imploring and tearful tone, in response to the detective’s insinuation that she might have had something to do with Seu Marçal’s death.

  “Rosaura, your situation is delicate to say the least.” Del Bosco knew the best approach to interrogation varied according to the profile of the suspect, so he was being threatening, albeit somewhat reluctantly. “We have concrete information that you know who the killer is,” he said, as per the Manual’s guidelines, under the chapter “Squeeze an Orange: Get Strawberry Juice”.

  The girl’s cheeks went red. Then they turned pale. Floods of tears poured from her little round eyes. She took a hankie from her handbag and buried her face in it. Her shoulders rocked to the rhythm of her silent sobbing.

  Del Bosco stood up, went over to her and ran his hand through her hair. The touch was pregnant with ambiguity, objectively purporting to be an act of comfort, subjectively showing the first stage of the male ready to pounce if the female opened the door.

  “There’s no need to cry,” he said, stroking Rosaura’s hair and restyling it with his fingers. “There’s no actual evidence against you,” he added, trying to supplant the image of authoritative police officer with that of affectionate and understanding gentleman, alive to her feminine charms.

  Rosaura kept her head bowed, her body having tensed up at the unexpected and unwanted touch of the detective.

  He went on, now inflecting his voice with a hint of the paternal:

  “All I’m saying is that I’ve received certain information, information that may prove to be unfounded. All you have to do is tell me exactly what you know,” he said, before taking a step back, “and then I’ll send you on your way.”

  “Senhor, I’ve got nothing to do with the crime. I barely even used to say tudo bom to Seu Marçal.”

  “Do you suspect Diamante Negro?” asked the detective, swiftly switching from confrontation to complicity. “Could it not have been Professor Cândido? Or, who knows, maybe Marcelo?” He paused, before trying to exonerate himself: “One of them mentioned your name, doubtless to divert our lines of inquiry. And what about Doutor Pacheco? Can you be sure it wasn’t him?”

  Rosaura noticed the portrait of the Presidente da República and felt uncomfortable. It looked like o presidente was staring at her.

  “Diamante Negro is the way he is, but deep down he’s a good person,” said the girl. “Professor Cândido has his head full of books, but his heart is with the street kids. He’s always considerate to me, though I don’t think he even knows my name. Doutor Pacheco is a bit of a safado, always leching after my legs, but he’s an important man. Why would he run the risk of ending up in jail if he dreams of becoming president? I don’t like Marcelo. He talks too much and sticks his nose into things. But I don’t think he’s a killer because of it.”

  “And Jorge?”

  “He’s the only one like me at the hotel, delegado. He was born poor, struggles, causes nobody any harm. Quite the opposite: folk trample all over him and the poor rapaz never says a word.”

  “Do you suspect any of the women in the hotel?” asked Del Bosco, his lust having subsided.

  “Dona Dinó is a saint; her head is in heaven more than it is on earth. I’d rather not talk about Madame Larência.”

  “Why not?” said Del Bosco. “Your silence might be interpreted as an accusation.”

  “I don’t suspect her,” said Rosaura, “I just don’t have any sympathy for cafetinas. It’s bad enough that menfolk exploit prostitutes, but a woman!”

  “Where were you at the time of the murder?”

  “In the shower. I’d just finished supper.”

  10The Cat and the Old Lady

  For her appearance at the police station, Dona Dinó had chosen a green full-skirted dress that gathered at the waist. She wore an alpaca hat atop her snowy-white hair, a hat that made her head too hot and that she found to be an uncomfortable accessory, one inappropriate to Rio’s tropical climate. Nevertheless, she wore it, for the same reason other women submitted themselves to similar tortures: she believed the hat made her look more beautiful. She wielded one further accessory: the thick-coated Osíris, his eyes oscillating between the various features of the room.

  “Does senhora have any idea, any evidence or clue, that might help our investigation?” asked Del Bosco, wondering why the old lady was wearing such a ridiculous hat.

  “Não,” she said with a tired, expressionless voice. “I sleep at the back of the hotel, delegado. I barely know what goes on in the guest wing. Especially at night.”

  “The killing took place between nine and ten o’clock,” said the detective. “Does senhora really go to bed that early?”

  “Around ten.”

  “And so where was senhora at the time of the murder?”

  “In my room saying my evening prayers. The novena de São Dionísio. One of my patron saints.”

  “And senhora didn’t hear any strange noises?”

  The woman paused. She needed time to think.

  “When I pray, I only have eyes and ears for heaven.”

  “How long has the house operated as a hotel?”

  “It used to belong to Professor Hórus,” Dona Dinó explained. “An Egyptian. He came to Brazil to research a plant the índios make tea out of to induce visions. I was his governess for many years. When he left the country, he asked me to take charge of the property. I didn’t have the resources to pay for its upkeep. I had to turn it into a hotel.”

  “What can senhora tell me about Diamante Negro?”

  Dona Dinó plunged her hands into Osíris’s fur, nervously running her fingers along his back and up to his tail.

  “He’s the embodiment of a fallen angel. He has the looks of a man and the ways of a woman. He was friendly with Seu Marçal. The night it happened, he was out working the streets.”

  “Could Doutor Pacheco be the killer?” said Del Bosco impatiently.

  Dona Dinó hesitated.

  “The doutor is a man of many obsessions. He speaks in a way my head can’t compute. He’d do well not to be so conceited. He lives his life hanging around with bigwigs. But he has a good heart. Why would he kill Seu Marçal? He’s too soft to have committed such an outrage.”

  Dona Dinó spoke leaning forward over the cat, the tip of a finger poking up the brim of her hat. Del Bosco put his knees up against the table edge and rocked back on his chair, his weight on its hind legs.

  “Dona Dinó, wouldn’t the caretaker have cause to hate the victim?”

  “Jorge!?” she exclaimed in surprise, curling her lips into a subtle smile. “He doesn’t even kill the cockroaches infesting his room. Besides, if he were a killer, he wouldn’t have to chop anyone’s head off. The rapaz could just poison the food.”

  “Tell me about Madame Larência?”

  “Her spirit is conflicted. Her orixás don’t match. She still needs to pass through several incarnations. But she was very fond of Seu Marçal. She sold gemstones for him.”

  The detective put the front legs of his chair back o
n the floor and leaned over the table to stare at Dona Dinó from close quarters.

  “Couldn’t she have double-crossed him?” he said in a low, firm tone. “Couldn’t she have racked up debts with him? Couldn’t she have contracted someone to kill him?”

  Dona Dinó drew comfort from a cuddle with the cat.

  “I don’t know anything about their business dealings. But they got on well. I even thought they’d make a good couple. But she seemed only to have eyes for his gemstones.”

  Del Bosco stood up to exercise his legs and his impatience, then suggested:

  “I think we’re on to something. Seu Marçal and Madame Larência were lovers. He couldn’t keep his eyes off other women and so she killed him out of jealousy!”

  “Senhor, Larência is not the sort of woman to be jealous of anyone. She’s a lady of the night. Unless she were in love. A woman’s love is blind.”

  “Tell me about the other guests.”

  Dona Dinó arranged the cat about her neck.

  “Professor Cândido is the most educated of them all. He must have been a prince in a previous life. Or a mountain hermit. He studied to become a priest, so he’s well trained. He looks after abandoned street children. He’d never do a thing like this. Marcelo is a bit of a loose cannon. He likes attention. But he was friendly with Seu Marçal. He works for the newspaper. He wasn’t home at the time of the incident.”

  Del Bosco interrupted her, irritated:

  “Dona Dinó, don’t be so naive. It might seem as though whoever killed Seu Marçal wasn’t home at the time, but we don’t know that until we identify the killer. Someone was in his room, that’s for sure.”