‘Lies, lies, all lies! You killed her with one of Daddy’s daggers. I know it was one of his!’
‘It was a kitchen knife. A knife that belonged to her, not me. I didn’t take any knife with me, daughter. Renato saw Anita getting the knife from her bag and threatening me. He came up behind her and hit her on the side of the head. I was frightened. I opened the car door to escape. She grabbed me by the skirt. Renato took her by the hair. She pointed the knife at him, shouting something I didn’t understand. Your sister, your sister, or something like that. Renato dragged Anita out of the car, punching and kicking her. She was yelling at him, trying to get away. He caught hold of her by the blouse. It ripped. Renato punched her again. She fell, but soon got back to her feet. I think she was sobbing. After that, I can only remember her running away. She ran towards the lake, with Renato behind her. I started running as well. She stumbled and fell.’
‘It was by the lake that you killed Anita! I heard you telling my father that. And between you, you forced Dr Andrade to confess to the crime!’
‘We brought Anita to the ground. I held her down. Immobilized her arms. Renato got hold of the knife. I didn’t see how often he stabbed her. We had to do it, daughter. We would have had no peace if that woman had lived. Renato did what was necessary.’
The pool of dark liquid seeping from Renato’s body grew and grew until it reached Ubiratan’s shoes. He begged again:
‘Cecilia: give me that gun.’
‘Be quiet, old man!’
‘Too many people have already died, Cecilia. There’s been too much pain. Give me the gun.’
‘Don’t come near me!’ she shouted, pointing the revolver at his head.
‘For the love of God, little one.’
‘Shut your mouth, or I’ll kill you too! I killed him, and I’ll kill you!’
‘Cecilia …’
‘Don’t come any closer! I warn you!’
‘Stay calm, daughter. Calm. Give him the gun. Don’t worry about what happened here. We can explain it as self-defence. We can say that Renato tried to rape you, that he was violent towards you. That’s what we’ll say. Renato tried to force you, and you took out the gun and fired. To defend your honour. That’s what it was. That’s how we’ll explain it. Or we can say I was the one who fired. I discovered what was going on, and came here with your father’s revolver. It makes no difference. We can see what line of defence the lawyers prefer.’
‘I loved Renato!’
‘We don’t even need lawyers! We don’t have to use them. Your father can sort this out, daughter. He’ll get rid of Renato’s body. Renato has no family. Nobody will report his disappearance, daughter, absolutely nobody!’
‘I loved Renato!’
‘Give me the gun, Cecilia,’ said Ubiratan softly, edging towards her.
‘Put the revolver down, daughter. Let your father sort—’
‘You’re the guilty one! I was aiming at you, not him! He pushed himself in front of you! He protected you!’
‘Please, little Cecilia, my little daughter, put that gun down.’
‘There’s still one bullet in it! I can kill one of you!’
‘Give me the weapon, Cecilia.’
‘My little daughter …’
‘The gun, Cecilia. Give it me.’
‘Be quiet! Just be quiet!’
‘Please, give—’
‘Don’t talk to me, either of you. Get away from me, old man!’
‘Give me—’
‘Don’t come any closer, or I’ll kill that whore!’
Isabel broke down in tears.
‘No, my little girl, please,’ she begged, terrified. ‘Please don’t shoot, don’t kill me, Cecilia, my little girl …’
‘Give me the weapon, please.’
‘I’m going to kill her!’
Isabel began to weep disconsolately.
‘No, little daughter, no!’
Her sobs grew more and more desperate.
Cecilia pointed the gun at her.
‘I’m going to kill that whore!’
‘Cecilia, hand me that revolver.’
‘No, daughter, please, I beg you!’ Isabel moaned, raising her hands to cover her face.
‘Give me …’ said Ubiratan yet again, so close to her by now he could reach out and seize the weapon.
Cecilia drew back, and fired the last bullet.
13
São Paulo, 28 February 2002
THE TELEPHONE RANG twice, three, eight, fifteen times, before he gave up and put it back on its cradle. He was still sitting on the bed. He calculated quickly what he still had to pack: not much. A change of clothes, the report from the Brazilian supplier, the laptop, a few diskettes and CDs. His shaving kit. His toilet bag. He could carry his overcoat. He could stuff the scarf in the sleeves, and put the gloves in the pockets. It was cold in Paris, where he had his first stopover, even colder in Geneva, where he would catch the train to his final destination, Lausanne. He had no intention of working during the flight. He was tired after four days of meetings and visits in a city where the traffic was always chaotic. He wanted to sleep: as soon as the plane took off, he would take a pill, and ask not to be roused for either dinner or breakfast. But he would keep the diskettes with him anyway, with all the information he still needed to study and analyse before he wrote his final report. The turbulence in the mid-Atlantic at this time of year was so bad it sometimes woke him whether or not he had taken a Lexotan.
He dialled the front desk, and asked them to call him a taxi in forty-five minutes. It was still early for his flight, and he would probably arrive at Guarulhos airport far too soon, but he didn’t want to run the risk of getting stuck in a traffic jam, and perhaps this way he might even avoid the queues for passport control. If he had to wait a long time, he would buy a book or magazine: with any luck he would find the day before’s edition of El País or a recent copy of the Financial Times.
He got up, went into the tiny bathroom, picked up his shaving kit, then went into the cramped shower and turned on the tap. The jet of cold water brought him a sense of relief that no air-conditioning could equal, in the heat and humidity of a Brazilian summer that he had become unaccustomed to. It was worse in Dili: air-conditioning was a rare luxury in East Timor.
He dressed, and put the remaining things in his hand luggage. He glanced at his watch: there was still half an hour before the taxi was due to arrive. He switched on the TV, and tuned in to CNN International. In front of a map of Afghanistan, an expert in military strategy was explaining the objectives of a US troop operation near Kandahar. The blonde, serious-looking presenter behind an acrylic and Formica desk asked a supposedly intelligent question about a recent bomb attack in Baghdad and the challenge the British troops stationed in Basra could face from an apparently pro-Saddam Shi’ite resistance group. Before the expert could begin his reply, he switched off the TV. He picked up the phone, and once more dialled the number he had underlined in the directory.
It rang once, then a brief pause, then another ring. Another pause. After the sixth ring he gave up, and was about to put the phone down when somebody answered.
‘Hello?’ said a voice. ‘Hello!’
It was a woman’s voice. She sounded out of breath.
‘Hello! Who’s there?’
A young woman.
‘Yes, hello,’ he replied, his own voice thick with an emotion that took him unawares. ‘Hello there.’
‘Who is this?’
‘I’m sorry to call you like this, out of the blue. You don’t know me …’
He was speaking slowly, without an accent, but like a foreigner who is trying to find the exact terms in a language he’s no longer familiar with.
‘Who’s there?’
‘I looked in the phone directory for—’
‘What is it you want?’
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself …’
‘Who do you wish to speak to?’
‘I’ve been ringing throughout
the four days that I’ve been in São Paulo …’
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘The phone kept ringing, but nobody picked up. There was no answering machine for me to leave a message.’
‘Who is this?’
‘I don’t live here. It’s a long time since I’ve been here. It was on an impulse that I looked for his name in the directory.’
‘Yes, but who is “he”? Who do you want to talk to?’
‘I did the same when I was in Rio, ten years ago. I also tried in Porto Alegre. And in Recife. In Brasilia, Manaus and Belo Horizonte. Wherever I go in Brazil, I look for his name. I never thought of it until recently. I’d given up …’
‘But who are you?’
‘… Until, four days ago, when I saw the phone directory here in my hotel room, I opened it and looked. And found the name. I think it must be him. I hope it is.’
‘What is it you want?’
‘The name’s the same. I thought it might be him.’
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t say who I am. I’m a bit … emotional. Forgive me: I didn’t think I was ever going to find him. It’s been such a long time since we … since we saw each other. I never lost hope of meeting him again some day. But, living abroad as I do … and coming here for only short periods of time … only a few days … meetings, talks … and yet deep down, I always believed that one day … I’m sorry. I’m not someone who finds it hard to express himself, but when you answered the phone, so many things went through my mind. It’s been so many years …’
‘Are you trying to sell me something, is that it?’
‘No! No! As I told you, I simply want to talk to him. I don’t even know what I’ll say to him, after such a long time. We were friends in our childhood. Our adolescence. Well, when we were almost adolescents. Circumstances drove us apart. Ever since then …’
‘Were you friends in Taubaté?’
‘No. We were classmates in the interior of Rio de Janeiro state.’
‘My husband has never lived in Rio. He’s lived in many places throughout Brazil, but I’m sure he was never in Rio. You’ve got through to the wrong person.’
‘He never lived in the interior of Rio de Janeiro state? In a city called—’
‘Never.’
‘No?’
‘Never.’
‘Ah … well then, I’m sorry. It’s just that I saw his name in the directory, the same name as my friend, so I thought … I thought it could be him. I thought it was him.’
‘Which directory?’
‘This one. The directory for São Paulo.’
‘I thought you’d looked in Yellow Pages. My husband’s name isn’t in the general directory.’
‘It isn’t? But this phone number …’
‘Have you called to speak to Fábio?’
‘Fábio?’
‘My husband.’
‘No, not Fábio. I didn’t call to speak to anyone called Fábio. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. But the name’s here in the directory. I even underlined it …’
‘It must be an old book.’
He looked at the front cover.
‘It’s from 1996.’
‘Ah, that’s why. The number was still in my father-in-law’s name then.’
‘Your father-in-law? This is his number? Could I speak to him? It’s been many years since we saw each other, but he must remember me.’
The woman’s voice did not reply.
‘May I speak to your father-in-law?’
‘What is it you want?’
‘Forgive me insisting, but I’m in a hurry. My taxi will be here any minute. I tried to get through earlier. As I said, I rang several times, but no one answered.’
‘We were away, with the kids. School holidays.’
‘Yes of course, I understand. Your father-in-law …’
‘Who exactly are you?’
‘A friend. From way back. We each went our own way, and …’
‘Wait a moment. I’ll call my husband.’
He heard the sound of the phone being put down on a hard surface. Then there was silence for a while. The noise of children in the background. The woman’s voice, then a man’s. Her voice once again. More silence. Her voice. The sound of footsteps. The telephone being picked up, then a man’s voice at the other end of the line.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Good day. You don’t know me …’ His voice dried up. He was so moved he couldn’t go on. He was talking to his friend’s son! After all these years!
‘Good afternoon.’
‘Yes, of course, good afternoon. Good afternoon. You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of your father’s.’
‘I know all my father’s friends. There weren’t very many of them. Which one are you?’
‘From a long way back. When we lived in the interior of Rio de Janeiro state.’
‘Papa left there when he was twelve.’
‘I know. I left at the same age. Both his parents and my father were forced to—’
‘Did you study with him at the Faculty of Engineering?’
‘We never saw each other again.’
‘Why are you trying to get in touch now?’
‘I’d like to talk to him. I’ve been trying for years. I lost contact with him. We split up. Life split us up.’
‘What is it you want?’
‘Nothing. I can understand you being so cautious. I’m a stranger to you. But not to your father. As I said: I don’t want anything. I don’t live in Brazil. A taxi is about to come to pick me up. I’m flying out quite soon, so I don’t have much time. I’d like to talk to your father, if only for a few minutes. Now that I’ve found him, we could arrange to meet in the future. Is he there? Can I talk to him?’
‘How long is it since … you heard from him?’
‘Forty years. It’ll be forty-one years in April.’
‘So you really knew my father?’
‘Yes, yes, I knew him. He was my best friend. I was his best friend.’
‘What were the names of his parents?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘You can’t remember my grandfather’s name? Or my grandmother’s?’
‘No, quite simply, I can’t.’
‘Didn’t you say you were friends?’
‘Yes, we were. But I never thought about his parents’ names. I don’t know if I even knew them.’
‘You never knew? The name of your best friend’s father? Or of his mother?’
‘It’s been forty … forty-one years since we last spoke, since I last saw him, since I had any news of him. His father and mine had to leave the city where we were living. A crime took place there. Did he never mention that?’
‘Never.’
‘Did he never talk about the murder of a woman called Anita?’
‘No.’
‘Aparecida?’
‘No. Aparecida or Anita?’
‘I’ve remembered!’
‘What?’
‘His father’s name: Ronaldo.’
‘My grandfather wasn’t called Ronaldo.’
‘He wasn’t?’
‘No. Are you sure you didn’t dial the wrong number?’
‘Adolfo. Was that his name?’
‘No. Who do you actually want to speak to?’
‘Your father had lost his mother. I remember that.’
‘My grandmother is still alive.’
‘He hadn’t lost his mother?’
‘It was my grandfather who died young. At forty-something. He had a heart attack. The same problem that killed my father.’
Silence.
‘Your father …’ he began, but couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘Papa died six years ago. Of a heart attack too.’
‘Your father …’ he began again, his voice trembling. He saw his face in the wardrobe mirror. He had gone pale. He took a deep breath and tried again:
‘Your father’s name was …’
/> ‘Eduardo.’
‘Eduardo …’ he said, with a sigh. ‘Eduardo José Massaranni.’
‘That’s right. Eduardo José Massaranni. So you knew him?’
Silence.
‘Hello?’
No sound at the other end of the line.
‘Hello?’
Still no reply.
‘Hello? Are you there?’
Nothing.
‘Hello? Hello?’
Nothing.
The sound of breathing into the mouthpiece. But he didn’t say a word.
‘Can you hear me? Hello, hello!’
More breathing. But not a word.
‘Hello? Are you still there? Hello?’
‘I’m here,’ said the voice, faintly. Then, in a louder tone: ‘I’m here.’
‘Forgive me for giving you the news so abruptly. I didn’t think that you … I can tell it came as a shock.’
‘Yes. I never imagined that. I never imagined he … I’ve been searching for Eduardo for so long, and just when I thought I’d found him … How long ago did he die?’
‘Six years ago. In 1996.’
‘He must have been forty-seven.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘We’re the same age. We were. I’m slightly older. Forty-eight days older. I was born on 11 January. His birthday is 28 February. Was. It was his birthday today.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry to break the news to you like that. I never thought …’
‘Did you say he studied engineering?’
‘Yes, he was a civil engineer. He helped build lots of hydroelectric dams in Brazil. Including the one at Itaipú. We lived in Paraguay when he was working on that. My father took his family with him wherever he went.’
‘Always?’
‘Always. We lived in places no one has ever heard of: Itumbiara, in the state of Goiás; Icém, in Minas; Três Lagoas, in Mato Grosso do Sul; Candeias do Jamari, in Rondônia, close to the border with Bolivia; and even somewhere that had no name, a tiny village in Pará, in the midst of the Amazon jungle. Four hundred kilometres from Belém, when they were building the hydro-electric plant at Tucuruí. Have you been there?’
‘To Belém? Yes.’
‘There was one place, in Rio Grande do Sul, that had the most incredible name you can imagine: Passo do Inferno, the gates of hell. In the mountains there. It was unbelievably cold. I hate the cold. We lived in loads of places. My brother liked it, but I didn’t.’
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