‘Yes, it did occur to me,’ Ubiratan admitted.
‘You yourself live on charity in the old people’s home.’
‘But I changed my mind after I saw a photo.’
She inhaled and exhaled the smoke hastily.
‘It appears the dentist liked taking photographs,’ Ubiratan said casually.
Hanna cast him a sidelong glance.
‘He even had a darkroom in his house. He liked to develop the photos he had taken on the spot.’
He could see Hanna was quickening her step. He did the same.
‘Photos of those who came to visit.’
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘The visits he liked to see Anita have.’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘Did you know he and his wife slept in separate rooms? Each in their own bedroom. A very odd couple.’
They were walking more and more rapidly now.
‘They received visitors late at night. The couple received male visitors. He liked to watch.’
Hanna snatched the cigarette from the holder and threw it into the street.
‘To watch and take photographs.’
The holder was stuffed back into her bag. She strode out even more forcefully. Ubiratan started to fall back.
‘The dentist liked to watch and photograph the visitors and what they did with his own wife, to watch and photograph everything they forced his wife to do with them, with the friends who visited, to photograph what they did to her, inside her, and which gave him pleasure, as if it was being done to him, as if they were inside him.’
By now she was almost running. Both of them were out of breath.
‘I’ve got one of those photographs, Madame Wizorek.’
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘What the photo shows is disgusting.’
‘I don’t want to know!’
‘Why? Are you scared?’
‘I’ve got nothing to do with that. Nothing!’
‘Scared of what? Of whom?’
‘You’re a crazy old man!’ Hanna exclaimed, breaking into a run.
He wasn’t willing to let this opportunity escape. He started to run as well. He was panting, speaking in short gasps.
‘You’re scared. Because those meetings happened in your hotel too. Isn’t that right? With several men. Many men. Together. Isn’t that so? And also with objects. The dentist was there. Taking photographs. The girl he took out of the orphanage. In that supposedly charitable act. That you spoke of. The girl. Changed into that. Into that plaything. Of all of them. Where every hole had to be … penetrated. With flesh. With rubber tubes. Bottles! Who was there? Who took part? Who were the others? Why did they have to kill her? Why? What for? Why did they kill her? Why did they have to do it? Why? Why?’
Hanna ran across the street to the far pavement, her body shaking in her mourning clothes.
Ubiratan couldn’t keep up any more. Fighting for breath, sweating, he leaned against the cemetery railings, befuddled with weariness and rage.
Geraldo Bastos strode angrily into the glassed-in office where Ubiratan was standing waiting for him, his hand outstretched in a greeting the other man ignored. He was still carrying the clipboard where he had been noting observations about the performance of his new Belgian looms before he was interrupted with the news of this unannounced visit.
Ubiratan let his hand drop, untroubled.
‘May I sit down?’
The industrialist made a vague, unfriendly gesture in the direction of a chair opposite his desk.
‘I’ve been walking the whole morning,’ said Ubiratan, still on his feet. ‘I went to the cemetery. I was at the burial of Dona Anita’s husband. Then I went for a stroll with that Madame Wizorek, that Polish lady who runs the brothel. You know her, don’t you?’
No reply. Ubiratan said nothing for a while, waiting for some reaction from Bastos. Then he sat down.
‘Before I came here, I passed by the bishop’s residence. Unfortunately, I was unable to talk to him. I was received by the good-looking young man who acts as his secretary and chauffeur. Do you know him perhaps?’
Geraldo Bastos closed the door. The rhythmic clacking of the looms disappeared. The soundproofed office, built up on this mezzanine only two years earlier, became a silent glass cage hanging over the vast floor of the Union & Progress textile factory.
‘It seems the monsignor has a very full agenda. He couldn’t see me today, or tomorrow, or any time next week. Not even next month. That is what I was told by that boy, that young man … what’s he called, that friend of this city’s bishop?’
The factory owner stared at him without a word. Ubiratan slowly lifted his hand to his coat pocket, reached for the box of matches, and then took out one of his rolled-up cigarettes. He waited again. Bastos did not move.
‘Do you have a light?’
‘I don’t smoke.’
Ubiratan waved the unlit cigarette.
‘Do you mind if I do?’
Bastos put the clipboard on the desk and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his starched coat. Ubiratan lit his cigarette.
Without a word, Bastos went over to a fan on a stand, pointed it in Ubiratan’s direction and switched it on. Walking over to the other side of the room, he did the same with a second identical fan.
The noisy draughts of air enveloped the old man. He lifted the lapels of his coat to protect his neck. He felt slightly ridiculous.
Geraldo Bastos went back to the desk, picked up the clipboard again and rested it on his arm.
‘You know I have no time to waste, that I’m a very busy man.’
‘No doubt. I just thought I ought to come and see you, because—’
‘I have to check how the new machinery I imported is performing. They’re extremely expensive looms, paid for in dollars. I can’t leave that responsibility to anyone else. I don’t wish to. Therefore—’
‘Since it was not possible for me to meet the bishop, I thought that—’
‘What you’ve been doing during the day is not of the slightest interest to me. And how Dom Tadeu conducts his private life is none of my business. I interrupted my work because I was told that the lawyer of Dona Anita’s family wanted …’ he corrected himself, ‘needed to talk to me. About some photographs.’
‘Precisely.’
‘You are not the lawyer of Dona Anita’s family. You are a retired cook, who used to work at a school in Recife. You’re on the police files as a Communist agitator.’
‘Yes, I did come here to talk about photographs. I’ve just left one with the monsignor. A contact sheet with lots of images. To remind him of the happy days in the seminary, where he and the dentist met and became such good friends. They were very close, so devoted to one another.’
‘That doesn’t interest me.’
‘But photography does. The photographs do. There are several images on this contact sheet. And there are lots more sheets. A trunk full of photos and negatives. I think they will interest you. Although it was of recent photos and contained new members of the group, the sheet I left for the monsignor shows the continuity of that intense—’
‘We’re wasting time,’ Bastos interrupted him.
‘Perhaps not. Do you know what photographs I’m referring to?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘The ones the dentist used to like to take. Of his wife with—’
‘I know the photos you mean.’
‘What you possibly don’t know is that the police took them from the dentist’s house and that they’ve now vanished.’
‘No, they didn’t vanish.’
‘I saw with my own eyes when the jeep—’
‘I have them.’
Ubiratan’s self-confidence evaporated.
‘The negatives as well,’ Bastos added.
‘So then …’
‘I’ve got everything.’
Not knowing where to go from here, Ubiratan tried to play for time. Taking the cigarette
from his mouth, he glanced over to the desk looking for an ashtray to stub it out in. When he saw there wasn’t one, he crushed it on the sole of his shoe. Some of the ash fell to the floor and the air from the fan blew it all over the office.
‘Those photos …’ he began, not knowing how to continue. ‘They …’
Geraldo Bastos walked over to the door and opened it.
‘Is that all you had to say to me?’
Ubiratan put one hand on the glass desktop, and stood up, unconsciously obeying this order to leave.
‘I didn’t think that you took part in those …’
The memory of the muddy photograph flashed through his mind. Like hyenas devouring their inert prey. A pack of animals, tearing at an open belly.
‘Was that all?’ Bastos insisted.
The old man felt stupid. Yet again a feeling of nausea rose from the pit of his stomach, making him shiver.
‘I never thought you would be in those photos.’
‘I’m not.’
‘So why then … ?’
‘I’m not an exhibitionist, and I don’t like being photographed.’
‘Why then?’ he said, straightening up with difficulty. ‘Why then … ?’
‘As you yourself said, some … acquaintances of mine … possibly led on by their lack of shame and Dona Anita’s erotic arts, allowed Dr Andrade to take photographs of their moments of lust with his own wife. They were less careful than me. That’s why I thought it best to keep the photos. In the hands of an unscrupulous person they could damage the private lives and the careers of people I appreciate. I could never permit that.’
Ubiratan took a deep breath. He looked for any sign of cynicism in Geraldo Bastos’s face, but could not detect any. All he could see were the bland, impersonal features of a man who had been well fed for generations. There was no hint of irony either. He was dealing with someone who sincerely and honestly believed he was morally superior.
‘So you’re going to destroy them,’ said Ubiratan, heading for the door.
‘Yes, I ought to.’
They were standing next to each other. Geraldo Bastos smiled slightly.
‘But I think it will be better if I keep them.’
His level voice did not alter, but Ubiratan thought he saw a fresh glint in his eyes.
‘Our mayor is an impulsive man, but he has a valuable legacy: the name of Marques Torres and the memory it evokes of his closeness to Getúlio Vargas. A partnership that was responsible for so much progress in this region. So many industries. So many jobs. So many votes for his party. With proper support, in the next elections Adriano Marques Torres could be the congressional deputy who wins most votes. He could become a party leader, the head of commissions, even the minister for industry. After that, who knows: perhaps even state governor. Or a national senator, like his father and grandfather before him. Dr Marques Torres’s potential is limitless. With proper guidance, our city mayor can be very useful to our country.’
‘You’re going to use the photos to keep him under control.’
‘Don’t jump to hasty conclusions. I’m not going to use anything. It won’t be necessary. In this new Brazil of ours, new industry and new politics will go hand in hand. We’re going to establish links that are increasingly fertile and long-lasting. Which will not be undermined by a few dozen or hundreds of poor-quality photographs.’
‘But very clear ones.’
‘Yes, really very clear. It would be a shame to destroy them. They contain a considerable part of the history of our city over the past eight years. The next time you dare trespass on my workplace, I’ll have you kicked out immediately.’
Ubiratan left the office. He had taken only a couple of steps when he turned to face the textile factory owner once more. He still had the slight smile on his thin lips.
‘Do you know the photo of Josef Stalin with his daughter on his lap?’
‘No.’
‘Stalin is holding the girl, with his face next to hers as if he is about to kiss her. Svetlana Alliluyeva is smiling, arms round his chest. He’s smiling too. It’s a happy photo, a domestic scene with a loving father. It was taken at the same time as Stalin was ordering one of the most obscene campaigns of mass extermination humanity has ever seen.’
Ubiratan turned on his heel and left.
‘So finally I’m going to get a hundred per cent in science!’ crowed Paulo, at the end of lessons that Wednesday as they walked to the wall where they had left their bikes propped up.
‘No you’re not,’ Eduardo warned him.
‘What do you mean? You were the one who answered all the questions for me.’
‘I gave some wrong answers.’
‘Wrong answers?’
‘On purpose.’
‘Why did you do that? Aren’t you my friend?’
‘Precisely because I am.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘The person copying can’t get everything right, Paulo. It looks suspicious. To look real, it has to have mistakes in it.’
Paulo didn’t have time to reply, because he was surprised to see the old man waiting for them.
‘We have to go and check something straight away,’ said Ubiratan, getting hold of Paulo’s bike. ‘Come with me!’
‘Where? To check what?’ Eduardo wanted to know.
‘Which of you can take me on the handlebars?’
‘Take you where, Ubiratan?’
‘Is your bike the one that got smashed?’
‘No, that’s Paulo’s.’
‘Is it strong enough to ride on?’
‘I rode it here from my house, but it’s a bit wobbly. I don’t know if it will take two people.’
‘Where do you want to go? What for?’
Ubiratan was still talking to Paulo.
‘Do you think it can take us far?’
‘That depends. How far?’
‘Where to?’
Ubiratan turned to Eduardo.
‘Your bike’s not damaged. You take me. Come on!’
‘Where to? It’s lunchtime and my mother—’
‘On second thoughts, it’s better if I pedal and you ride on the crossbar.’
‘Do you know how to ride a bike?’
‘Get on!’ the old man ordered him, climbing on the bike and leaning on his left leg with an agility that took the boys by surprise. But Eduardo was reluctant for other reasons:
‘My mother will be worried if—’
‘Let’s go! Get on!’
‘But—’
‘Come on, Eduardo. We’re wasting time.’
‘You’ve discovered something!’ Paulo exclaimed, beaming.
‘Not yet. I’m not sure. It’s just a feeling. Come on, Eduardo!’
After a moment’s hesitation, Eduardo put his school bag in the bike basket and clambered on to the crossbar.
‘How am I going to explain this to my mother?’ he grumbled to himself.
There were no reflections in the muddy water. The banks and all the surrounding area were burned, ash grey, stripped of vegetation. He took a few steps away from the bamboo grove. The smell of scorched earth was stronger with each step. Mosquitoes buzzed past his face. So this was the paradise they talked so much about, he thought sadly. A banal lake in the midst of a not particularly beautiful landscape. The unremarkable scene of the end of an orphaned girl who had never been in charge of her own destiny.
A distant bird call, the shrill cry of an ani bird, broke the silence. Ubiratan saw that Eduardo was staring at him intently.
‘Where did it happen?’ he asked the boy.
‘Over there, more or less,’ said Eduardo, pointing. ‘Over towards the mango trees. That was where we found the body.’
Paulo tugged at his coat sleeve.
‘Come and I’ll show you.’
They went in the direction he indicated, with Paulo in the lead. Eduardo was still sulking over having to abandon the routine that meant so much to him.
‘Why have we come here? E
verything’s been burned. I’m hungry. My mother’s going to be really angry. She’ll have made lunch for me, and I haven’t been home. You can see how it’s all been destroyed. I don’t think we’ll find anything here.’
‘Who said we needed to find something?’
‘Oh, Ubiratan,’ sighed Paulo. ‘There you go again with your mania for answering questions with more questions!’
‘Why did you want to come here? What lead are you looking for?’
‘I’ll only know if I find it.’
‘So you don’t know what you’re looking for?’
‘Is it the knife we’re trying to find, Ubiratan?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Eduardo, drawing out every syllable. ‘Unless the murderer was stupid enough to leave the weapon exactly where the police were bound to look for it. And besides, with the way they set fire to everything here, it’s obvious there’s nothing left to give us a lead.’
Paulo thought the opposite.
‘I think he could have dropped it. When he ran away from us. When he saw we were getting close.’
‘But we weren’t at the lake yet, Paulo! The crime took place an hour or two, roughly, before we arrived. We must still have been in the classroom, looking at that magazine, when she was killed.’
‘How can we be sure?’
‘Wasn’t the blood all congealed?’
‘More or less.’
‘Well then, that’s a sign that—’
Ubiratan came to a sudden stop. Eduardo almost bumped into him.
‘It’s further on,’ said Paulo, tugging at him again. ‘It was further down there that …’
Ubiratan was looking at an opening hidden by the mango trees and beyond the undergrowth, that was only visible from the angle they were at now.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s the other path down to the lake.’
‘The entrance is further on than the one we took,’ Eduardo added. ‘But the track to reach it is very bumpy.’
‘You can only use it if you have a car,’ Paulo said.
‘You mean it’s possible to get down here in a vehicle?’
‘Yes, it’s possible,’ Eduardo agreed. ‘But it’s better to come the way we did.’
If I Close My Eyes Now Page 18