Eduardo had continued on his way. Paulo soon caught him up. They were both so deeply engaged in their own concerns that neither of them noticed the silence that had grown up between them.
Eduardo’s worries included a fear he had never known before: what if he had no future? The future that until that morning, in the headmaster’s office, he had taken for granted. What if in Brazil, in this new Brazil where industries, highways, jobs, were springing up all the time, what if in this new Brazil, even though, as their teachers taught them, it was a democracy, where we, the people, have free elections and can choose who is to govern us, what if in this Brazil there were powers, forces he could not describe or explain, or point to where they were lurking, what if they existed, those forces, those powers that could decide his destiny without him being able to do anything about it? Decide to change everything irremediably? Just as on the day when they took Aparecida from the orphanage and married her to the dentist?
They reached the dirt track. They rode on for almost ten minutes before they saw the fence. They went even faster, anxious to reach the lake. All at once they had to stop and dismount. Fresh barbed wire had been put up in the open ground at the edge of the woods. On the wire, a hand-painted sign read: Private Property: No Entry.
Paulo took off his shirt, wrapped it round two of the barbs, and slipped through the space. Eduardo passed the bikes through. As soon as Paulo had taken them, he held the strands apart for Eduardo. Then they walked in the shade of the trees, the bike tyres and their feet thudding gently on dry leaves and rotten, greying mangoes. They still did not say a word to each other, until a slightly acrid smell hit Eduardo’s nostrils.
‘Can you smell that?’
‘What?’
‘That smell. Don’t you notice anything?’
They entered the bamboo grove. Instead of the usual coolness of the green tunnel, an acrid odour filled the air. Flakes of ash floated round them. The further they advanced, the more of them there were. Throwing down their bikes, the two boys rushed to the end of the tunnel, where the bright blue gleam of water was no longer visible.
When they emerged into the clearing, they came to a shocked halt.
All round the lake, from the bamboo grove to the sugar cane plantation, from the undergrowth on the right to the mango trees stretching out to the left, what before had been a mixture of green grass, bushes, tree stumps and wild flowers had become a black, desolate, smoking circle. Someone had burned off all the vegetation.
The paradise they had known was destroyed.
The policeman loaded the heavy photographic enlarger into the back of the jeep, together with the developing trays, then went to sit in the driver’s seat. Another policeman came out of the front door of the dentist’s house, struggling to carry a trunk that was too big for his short arms. As he turned to thrust it into the vehicle, he lost his balance. The wooden chest slipped out of his grasp and fell, opening and spilling its contents out between pavement and road. The other policeman immediately jumped down and helped his colleague pick up papers, photographs and X-rays. One of them cursed. They closed the trunk again and put it on the floor of the car, wiped their hands on a piece of cloth, got into the jeep and drove off. It wasn’t long before the neighbours left their windows and doorways to return to their empty afternoon routines.
It was only then that Ubiratan came over. He wanted to get into the house to start a new search. He had almost reached the gate when he saw that a third policeman had been left on guard inside. He walked on past. He would follow Sister Maria Rosa’s suggestion and visit the cemetery. All he needed to know was where to look.
His attention was caught by a piece of paper emerging from a puddle. It rose to the surface. He bent down and picked up the rectangle, the size of a notebook. As the dirty water ran off it, he could see dozens of small images. It was a photo contact sheet. It showed shots of a young blonde woman, surrounded by several men. Her vagina and anus were penetrated by a variety of objects.
They pedalled as fast as they could along the middle of the asphalted road, avoiding the verges that the rain had turned muddy. They still said nothing.
Several times it occurred to Eduardo to ask Paulo if he felt anything similar to the weight he could feel in his chest, the impression that his guts were wrenching, that his blood was close to exploding from beating so hard at his temples. He wanted to say something, but it was more than his dry mouth that made it impossible. The words he was searching for rushed by too quickly for him to seize them, like balloons swept along by a furious wind.
Paulo could not understand his feelings either. Disconnected images and sounds crowded his memory: the pot of rice on the wooden stove, the headmaster’s voice, monkey, just like your uncle, the chopped-off breast, the patter of rain on the roof, his father’s hot hand slapping his face, the dust under the table, golliwog has no idea, good-for-nothing, blood, bread, grass, ashes, Chimène, Le Cid, Tarzan, I’m scared, no I’m not, I’m not …
Panting, unaware of how tired they were, sweating, they rode on. They wanted to reach the city as quickly as possible. They needed help to explain the flood of events that had engulfed them. Perhaps that was why they did not notice the car approaching. At least not until it was too late. Eduardo never knew if he first heard the noise of the engine or glimpsed the shiny gleam of black metal bearing down on them, whether it was him or Paulo who shouted to warn the other one, or how he managed to throw himself and his bike towards the muddy verge. What Eduardo did remember was flying over the handlebars into the mud as he heard to his horror how the car tyres crashed into metal on the asphalt and thinking: Oh no, Paulo, Paulo, no!
The cemetery stretched down the hill. It was divided into two areas of equal size, separated by a stone wall to the left of the entrance gate. On the arch over the gate stood an image of the Virgin Mary crushing a serpent beneath her feet, surrounded by bodiless cherubims. Black iron railings with gilded tips enclosed the entire burial ground.
To the right of the wall, beyond a stone cross littered with candle stubs and melted wax, stood rows of low tombs, rectangles covered with concrete plaques or lined with tiles. There were also several flat graves, with grass growing on the disturbed earth. What he was looking for would not be on this side, thought Ubiratan.
He turned towards the left-hand side of the wall. Beyond it, at the top of a burial monument, between two iron columns, a stone angel was brandishing a sword to the heavens in his right hand, while in his left he clutched the shaft of a tattered silk banner.
He went towards it.
The tombs in this part of the cemetery were larger, lined with marble, and decorated with busts, sculptures, metal inscriptions, photographs, vases, flowers. This was where the mortal remains of the region’s leading families lay. Even in death they had no wish to mingle with the hoi polloi.
He made straight for the mausoleum with the angel, the largest in the entire cemetery. He was sure this was where he would find what he was searching for. He was surprised at the slime in the corners of the stained marble slabs, and the ferns growing in the cracks. This arrogant neo-Gothic monument had not been cleaned or visited for a very long time.
Ubiratan searched for some clue in the words engraved on the side wall. He read: Gloria Virtutem Tamquam Umbra Sequitur. And beneath it: In Honoris Amarílio Rodrigues de Mello Freire. He was wrong: this wasn’t the one.
He looked all around. There was only one other tomb as big as the one with the armed angel. At the far end of the central aisle.
He soon reached it.
Compared to the Mello Freire family’s pantheon, it was almost simple in its colonial chapel design: whitewashed, with no statues, images or plaques. At the front of the chamber, between two oval stained-glass windows, stood a gate with thick iron railings. In the centre was a hexagonal coat of arms with coffee-bush branches crossed over an open book with the letters M and T visible on it.
He pushed the gate. It didn’t move. He pushed harder. It was padlocked.
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Walking back to the right-hand side of the cemetery, he headed straight for the simple earth graves. Their numbers were fixed to the crosses with bits of wire. He chose the one that looked the easiest to unfasten.
Then he went back to the Marques Torres family mausoleum.
He got to his feet in a daze, covered in mud, anxious. When the black fog in front of his eyes finally lifted, the first thing he saw was his bicycle lying on the road. The raised back wheel was still spinning round. At the other side of the road, Paulo was flat out, motionless, his face in a puddle of muddy water.
Eduardo ran over to him, lifted his head. His eyes were closed. He turned him over, shook him. Called his name. There was no one coming along the road to whom he could shout for help.
Then Paulo coughed. He spat, first once and then a second time, his head still cradled in his friend’s arms. He slowly started to get up, using both hands. He was on all fours. He coughed and spat again. Rising to his knees, he rubbed his face with his hands, in a useless attempt to wipe it clean. Eduardo felt in his back trouser pocket for the handkerchief he always carried, but what he pulled out was a filthy, dripping wet rag. He quickly put it away. Paulo was still rubbing his eyes, blinking constantly. He couldn’t see anything. He tried to stand up, but lost his balance and fell on his backside again.
‘Does it hurt? Is anything broken?’
Paulo shook his head, without much conviction. The whole of his right side, which had hit the road first, was aching. From his experience of having a broken arm and ankle, he thought it couldn’t be too serious. Still bewildered, he could make out Eduardo’s face. It was streaked with mud. He looked like a bushman from one of the tribes fighting Tarzan. He felt like laughing, but then groaned when he saw what lay beyond his friend.
‘What’s the matter, Paulo? Where does it hurt?’
Distraught, Paulo pointed to his mangled bike.
‘Today’s the day my father’s finally going to kill me.’
A slight click told him the lock had given way. Slipping the piece of wire into his coat pocket, Ubiratan pushed the gate open and stepped inside the spacious Marques Torres family vault.
The slanting late-afternoon sun caught the stained-glass windows, casting multicoloured shapes on to drawers and niches, some of them open, and glinting off bronze letters set in the far wall, the only one lined with marble. In Gothic lettering at the top was an inscription: In the arms of God the Saviour, awaiting the call of Resurrection, here lie Baron Olivério Santanna Marques Torres, his beloved spouse Maria Beatriz de Castro Marques Torres and all their descendants. Below it was a phrase in Latin: Os ex ossibus meis et caro carne mea. Bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh.
The names and dates that followed constituted a long list beginning in 1811, and were full of archaic Christian names and titles that had vanished with the Brazilian empire. He searched them until he came to Diógenes Marques Torres. Before his name was the title of senator, in capital letters; underneath, the dates 1882–1955. No other name was added after his. Above it, beyond a blank space, he saw two names written close to one another: Vicente Luiz Marques Torres – 1947, and André Luiz Marques Torres – 1947–1949. Contrary to his expectations, there was no woman’s name since the 1940s.
He walked round the crypt, without knowing what he was looking for. The niches of the two little boys Vicente and André had the same phrase written on the front lid: Forever in the thoughts of his parents, Adriano and Isabel. So the twins were the sons of the mayor Marques Torres. One of them stillborn, the other dead at the age of two. The family name was to die with them.
Beneath the twins’ niche was an open rectangle. He bent down and peered inside. Another niche. It was empty, apart from a few fragments of marble and cement.
He straightened up, leaning his left hand on the lid of the bigger sepulchre. He felt a stabbing pain in his lower back. A sign that his rheumatism would soon return. He stretched. Raised his hands above his head. Sometimes this trick worked: his spine cracked, and the pain went away. But not this time. He sighed. He was beginning to feel weary.
The sun had shifted and now threw a yellow stripe on the far wall. Indistinct at that distance, the lengthy names now looked like gleaming, harmonious metallic lists, with one dead person following another, then another, and another … All at once he noticed a gap in this regular list. A bigger space between the name of the senator and that of his grandson Vicente.
He went closer. The surface of the marble had been scratched, but faint shapes were still visible. They could be letters. A name might have been scratched out. And dates. He went right up to the wall. The vague shapes looked like the numbers 1, 9 and 5. Nineteen hundred and … ? The fourth number was hard to make out. It looked like a 7, or a 2. He remembered that 1952 was the year Aparecida was married.
He took the wire from his pocket, and started to dig at the marble above the numbers. Letters gradually emerged. First a C … then an L … then an E … and an A. Cléa? Who could Cléa be?
He saw the mistake he had made.
He began to scrape more firmly with the wire in the centre of the letter C, where it was almost completely obliterated, and soon also made out the original shape of the third letter, Z. So the nuns had been right: this was the past that the surviving members of the Marques Torres family wanted to remove all traces of from their tomb, their history, their lives. Elza. Aparecida’s mother.
9
Mao, Snow White and Another Anita
THEY WALKED UP the street without a word, bathed in the golden evening sunlight that threw their long shadows on to the paving stones of the road. They didn’t know what to say to each other. One of the boys was disconsolately pushing a twisted bike, imagining all the ruses he would have to come up with to prevent his brother and father seeing it before he had straightened it out even a little. The other boy walked beside him in sympathy, holding his own bike by the handlebars, experiencing the unknown, possibly liberating and yet uncomfortable feeling of being seen in public as filthy as a beggar. They both noticed the crowd outside the police station at the same time.
They pushed their way through the adults whispering outside the main entrance. At the top of the steps an elegantly dressed man was talking to the police chief. He was standing erect, without moving either his long arms or his hands, which held a sheaf of papers. It looked as if he were delegating tasks to a subordinate. His jutting jaw and pointed chin dominated his long, straw-coloured face. He was wearing a pair of round, gold-rimmed glasses.
Eduardo noted how white his starched shirt collar was, the way it was closed by the perfect knot of a plain dark tie, the elegance of his charcoal-grey pinstripe suit. He had seen material like that among his mother’s fabrics. It was cashmere. He remembered how his hand slid easily along the soft, fine cloth. The opposite of the police chief’s rough cotton suit. Boss’s clothes versus those of an employee.
A nudge from Paulo jerked him out of these thoughts.
‘Can you hear what they’re saying?’
‘No. He’s talking in a low voice, and they’re a long way off.’
‘Who’s talking low?’
‘The factory owner. Over there, with the police chief.’
‘No, Eduardo! I mean what these people’ – he indicated the crowd around them – ‘are saying.’
‘Who?’
‘Everyone. About what the dentist did.’
‘What did he do?’
Before Paulo could reply, the voices around them went suddenly quiet. Everyone was gazing in the same direction: at the coffin emerging from the police station door, carried by several policemen. Geraldo Bastos and the police chief had to move out of the way to let them down the steps.
‘He killed himself!’ shouted Eduardo, from the entrance to the courtyard.
‘He hanged himself!’ added Paulo, starting to run over towards Ubiratan, who was seated under the only light the nuns had left on. He was shuffling through bits of paper of different sizes strewn over
a small table, next to the notebook he always carried with him. Picking up one of the pieces of paper, he stuffed it in his pocket, without looking up at the approaching boys.
‘He hanged himself with his tie!’
‘He tied it round a bar in his cell window!’
‘And jumped!’
‘Just now!’ As usual, Paulo was the one who arrived first. ‘It only happened a few minutes ago!’
Ubiratan put down two small sheets of paper, placing two narrower strips on top of each of them. All the pieces had dates, names and notes written on them.
‘The coffin was …’ Eduardo came to a halt next to the table, trying to get his breath back, ‘was being carried out of the police station just as we—’
Ubiratan interrupted him.
‘Have you seen Snow White? Have either of you seen it?’
‘… arrived on our bikes.’
‘Snow White,’ Ubiratan repeated.
‘The people were saying that he had hanged himself, but Eduardo didn’t realize—’
‘I didn’t realize they were talking about the dentist hanging himself, because—’
‘Eduardo didn’t hear a thing.’
‘I was surprised to see the factory owner there. That was why—’
‘It was then they came out with the coffin. Eduardo wasn’t looking!’
‘I was!’
If I Close My Eyes Now Page 15