Winning the Game and Other Stories

by Rubem Fonseca

  I put on a beret and went back to my old place. The Luger and the tray were still on the table. I needed to make plans for a trip, but I was tired and it could wait till the next day. I lay down and slept badly.

  It was a relief when day began to dawn.

  be my valentine

  IF THERE’S ONE THING I CAN’T STOMACH, it’s a blackmailer. If it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t have left home that Saturday for all the money in the world.

  Medeiros, the lawyer, called me and said, “It’s blackmail and my client will pay.” His client was J.J. Santos, the banker.

  “Mandrake,” Medeiros continued, “the matter has to be settled without leaving a trace, understand?”

  “I understand, but it’s going to cost a bundle,” I said, looking at the blonde princess who was with me.

  “I know, I know,” Medeiros said. And he did know; he’d been a politician, he’d been in the government, he was a retired cabinet minister, he was on top of things.

  I got off to a bad start that Saturday. I woke up out of sorts, with a headache, hung over from a night of drinking. I walked around the house, listened to some Nelson Gonçalves, opened the fridge, and had a piece of cheese.

  I got my car and headed for Itanhangá, where the upper crust play polo. I like to see rich people sweat. That’s where I met the blonde. She looked like a dew-covered flower, her skin healthy and clean, her eyes shining with health.

  “Polo players are going to hell,” I said.

  “What?” she asked.

  “On the Day of Judgment the rich will get screwed,” I answered.

  “A romantic socialist!” she laughed disdainfully.

  That was the blonde who was in my apartment when Medeiros, the lawyer, called.

  J.J. Santos, the banker from Minas Gerais, was arguing with his wife that same Saturday about whether they should go to the wedding of the daughter of one of his partners.

  “I’m not going,” J.J. Santos’s wife said. “You go.” She preferred to stay home and watch television and eat cookies. Married for ten years, they were at that point where you either resign yourself and die imprisoned or send your wife packing and live free.

  J.J. Santos put on a dark suit, white shirt, silver tie.

  I grabbed the blonde princess and said, “Come with me.” It was Valentine’s Day.

  “Did you ever read a book of poetry?” she asked me.

  “Look,” I replied, “I’ve never read any kind of book, except law books.”

  She laughed.

  “Do you have all your teeth?” I asked.

  She did have all her teeth. She opened her mouth, and I saw the two rows, upper and lower. That’s the rich for you.

  We got to my apartment. I said, “What’s going to happen here, between the two of us, will be different from anything that ever happened to you before, princess.”

  “Roll the preview,” she said.

  When I was born they called me Paulo, my father’s name, but I became Mandrake, a person who doesn’t pray and speaks little but makes the necessary gestures. “Prepare yourself, princess, for something never before seen.”

  Then the phone rang. It was Medeiros, the lawyer.

  The altar was covered with flowers. The bride, escorted by her father, came slowly down the aisle of the church, to the sound of choir voices singing in harmony. The groom, as always, wore a foolish expression as he waited for the bride at the altar.

  At eight o’clock J.J. Santos left the church, got into his Mercedes, and went to the home of the bride’s parents in Ipanema. The apartment was packed. J.J. Santos exchanged greetings with people, joked with the bride and groom, and left unnoticed half an hour later. He didn’t know for sure what he wanted to do. He certainly had no desire to go home and watch old dubbed movies on the color TV. He got his car and drove along Ipanema beach, in the direction of the Barra da Tijuca. He had only been living in Rio for half a year and found the city fascinating. About five hundred yards ahead, J.J. Santos saw the girl, standing on the sidewalk. Stereo music poured from his car’s speakers, and J.J. Santos was emotionally predisposed. He had never seen such a pretty girl. He had the impression that she had looked at him, but he must be mistaken; she wasn’t the type for a street hooker, like those who pick up customers in passing cars. He was to the end of Leblon when he decided to go back. Maybe the girl was still there; he wanted to see her again. The girl was there, leaning over the door of a Volkswagen—haggling over price? J.J. Santos stopped some twenty yards behind, blinking his high beams. The girl looked, saw the big Mercedes, and left the guy in the Volks talking to himself. She approached slowly, with perfect balance, knowing how to put one foot on the ground and distribute her weight along the muscles of her body as she moved.

  She stuck her head in the door and said, “Hello.” Her face was very young, but there was greater maturity in her voice.

  “Hello,” J.J. Santos replied, looking around in fear someone had seen him stopping there. “Get in.”

  The girl got in and J.J. Santos put the car in motion.

  “How old are you?” asked J.J. Santos.

  “Sixteen,” replied the girl.

  “Sixteen!” said J.J. Santos.

  “What of it, you fool? If I don’t go with you, I’ll go with somebody else.”

  “What’s your name?” asked J.J. Santos, his conscience relieved.

  “Viveca.”

  In another part of the city, where I was:

  “My name is Maria Amelia. Don’t call me princess. How ridiculous!” the blonde complained.

  “Bullshit,” I answered.

  “You’re vulgar, gross, and ignorant.”

  “Right. Want out?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You want to beat it? Beat it.”

  “Can’t you even talk?”

  “Right again.”

  “You’re an idiot!” the blonde laughed noisily, amused, all her teeth shining.

  I laughed too. We were both interested in each other. I go crazy over rich women.

  “Just what is your name anyway? Paulo, Mandrake, Picasso?”

  “That’s not the question,” I replied. “You have to ask me, just who are you anyway?”

  “Just who are you anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered.

  “Paranoia has filtered down to Class C,” the blonde said.

  J.J. Santos knew the Barra was full of hotels. He had never been to any of them but had heard the stories. He headed for the most famous one.

  He chose the Presidential Suite.

  The Presidential Suite had its own pool, color television, radio, and dining room, and the bedroom abounded with chandeliers and was lined with mirrors.

  J.J. Santos was excited.

  “Do you want anything?” he asked the girl.

  “A soft drink,” she answered modestly.

  The waiter brought a soft drink and Chivas Regal.

  J.J. Santos took a sip, removed his coat, and said, “I’m going to the bathroom, make yourself comfortable.”

  When he came out of the bathroom, the girl was naked, lying on the bed, on her stomach. J.J. Santos took off his clothes and lay down beside her, caressing her as he watched himself in the mirrors. Then the girl rolled over on her back, a smile on her lips.

  It wasn’t a girl. It was a man, his penis reflected, menacingly rigid, in the countless mirrors.

  J.J. Santos leaped from the bed.

  Viveca returned to her prone position. Turning her head, she stared at J.J. and asked sweetly, “Don’t you want me?”

  “You goddam pe—pervert,” said J.J. He grabbed his clothes and ran to the bathroom, where he quickly dressed.

  “You don’t want me?” said Viveca, still in the same position, when J.J. Santos returned to the room. Distressed, J.J. Santos put on his coat and took out his wallet. He always carried a lot of money in his wallet. That day he had two thousand in bills of five hundred. People from Minas are like that. His papers wer
e in the wallet. The money was gone.

  “On top of everything else you stole my money!”

  “What? What? Are you calling me a thief? I’m no thief!” Viveca screamed, getting up from the bed. Suddenly a razor blade appeared in her hand. “Calling me a thief!” With a rapid gesture Viveca made the first cut in her arm and a thread of blood welled on her skin.

  J.J., dismayed, made a gesture of disgust and fear.

  “Yes, I’m a faggot, I’m a FAAAAG-GOT!” Viveca’s scream seemed capable of shattering every chandelier and mirror.

  “Don’t do that,” J.J. begged, terrified.

  “You knew what I was, you brought me here knowing everything, and now you scorn me as if I were trash,” Viveca sobbed, as she gave her arm another cut with the razor.

  “I didn’t know anything; you look like a girl, with that makeup and wearing that wig.”

  “This isn’t a wig, it’s my own hair. See how you treat me?” Another slash on the arm, by now covered with blood.

  “Stop that!” J.J. requested.

  “I won’t stop! I won’t stop! I won’t stop! You called me a thief, thief, thief! I may be poor but I’m honest. You have money and think everybody else is trash! I always wanted to die and destroy a big shot, like in the film Black Widow. Did you see Black Widow?” Viveca asked, resting the razor blade against her throat, over the carotid, which was standing out from the force of her screams.

  “Forgive me,” J.J. asked.

  “It’s too late now,” said Viveca.

  In the meantime I was arriving at my apartment with the high-toned blonde. She sat in the easy chair; that aura was building between us, two responsible people calmly exchanging significant glances.

  “Roll the preview,” she said.

  “Prepare yourself, princess, for something never before seen.”

  At that instant Medeiros, the lawyer, called.

  “My client, J.J. Santos, picked up a woman in the street, took her to a hotel, and when they got there he discovered it was a transvestite. The transvestite stole two thousand from my client. They had an argument, and the transvestite, armed with a razor blade, threatened to commit suicide unless he got ten thousand in cash. My client asked me for the money, which I have here with me now. We want to pay the money and put an end to the whole affair. You’re experienced in police matters, and we’d like you to take charge of the thing. No police; we’ll pay the money and want everything buried. The matter has to be covered up without a trace, understand?”

  “I understand, but it’s going to cost a bundle,” I said, looking at the blonde princess beside me.

  “I know, I know,” said Medeiros, “money’s no problem.”

  J.J. and Viveca were inside the Mercedes, parked at the beach.

  J.J. was at the wheel, as pale as a corpse. Beside him, Viveca was holding the razor blade next to her throat. She really did look like a young woman. I pulled my old wreck up beside the huge Mercedes.

  “I work with Mr. Medeiros,” I said.

  “Did you bring the money?” Viveca asked, brusquely.

  “It was hard to arrange, today’s Saturday,” I alibied, humbly. “We’re going to get it now.”

  I opened the door and pulled J.J. out.

  I got in and tore off, with the door still open, leaving the dumbfounded J.J. on the sidewalk.

  “Is it far? Where’s the money?” asked Viveca.

  “It’s nearby,” I said, driving at high speed.

  “I want my money right now, otherwise I’ll do something crazy!” Viveca screamed, cutting herself on the arm. The gesture was abrupt and violent, but the blade touched lightly on her skin, just enough to draw blood and scare the suckers.

  “For God’s sake don’t do that!”

  “I’ll do something crazy!” Viveca threatened.

  He must not have known Rio very well, or else he didn’t know where the police stations were located. At the door of the Leblon precinct two cops were talking. I braked the car, almost on top of them, and jumped out, yelling, “Look out! The transvestite’s got a razor blade!”

  Viveca leaped from the car. The situation was truly confusing for him. One of the cops approached and Viveca lashed out, cutting his hand. The cop retreated a step, pulled a .45 from his belt, and said, “Drop that piece of shit unless you wanna die right now.” Viveca hesitated. The other cop, who had approached him, gave Viveca a kick in the stomach. Viveca fell to the ground.

  We all went into the precinct headquarters. There were four or five cops around us.

  Viveca was crying.

  “I beg the forgiveness of all the law enforcement officers here, especially the man that I injured and I’m very sorry about that. I am a man, yes, but since I was a child my mother dressed me as a girl and I always liked to play with dolls. I’m a man because my name is Jorge, but that’s the only reason. I have the soul of a woman, and I suffer because I’m not a woman and can’t have children like other women. I’m wretched. Then that man in the Mercedes picked me up at the beach and said, Come with me, boy; and I answered, I’m not a boy, I’m a woman; and he said, Woman my foot, get in, tonight I feel like something different. He said he’d pay me five hundred, and I have my mother and grandmother to support, and so I went. When we got there, besides doing all sorts of immoral things to me, he beat me and cut me with the razor blade. Then I grabbed the blade and said I’d kill myself if he didn’t give me five hundred. He said he didn’t have it and telephoned a friend of his and that man there showed up and brought me here and I lost my head, please forgive me. I’m a delicate person; I went crazy over the unfairness and the bad things they did to me.”

  “What’s your client’s name?” said a suspicious cop.

  “I’m not at liberty to say. He’s committed no crime. This guy’s lying,” I said.

  In reality I wasn’t sure of a damned thing, but a client is a client.

  “Lying! Me?!” Tears ran down Viveca’s makeup. “Just because I’m weak and poor and the other one’s rich and powerful, I’m going to be crucified?” Viveca screamed, between sobs.

  “Rich people don’t run things here,” one of the cops said.

  “What about that car?” said the injured cop, in the middle of the confusion. Luckily nobody else heard him.

  “It’s mine, I bought it yesterday, I haven’t had time to transfer the title yet,” I said, as the cop took notes on a piece of paper.

  “We’re going to wait for the commissioner,” the cop said.

  “This guy stole two thousand from my client. It must be hidden somewhere on his person,” I said.

  “You can frisk me. Go ahead, frisk me!” Viveca challenged, spreading his arms.

  None of the policemen showed any interest in frisking Viveca. That’s when I had the flash. I grabbed Viveca’s hair and yanked it. The hair came off in my hand and four bills of five hundred flew into the air and fell to the floor.

  “That’s the money he stole from my client,” I said, relieved.

  “He gave it to me, he gave it to me, I swear it,” said Viveca, without much conviction.

  Before they put Viveca in the lockup, they noticed he had a number of old marks on both arms. He must have used that trick several times before.

  “You’ll have to wait for the commissioner,” the injured cop said.

  I gave him my card. “I’ll stop by later, OK? One other thing, let’s pretend we didn’t find the money, all right? My client won’t mind.”

  “We’ll need to talk with you, if not tonight, one of these days.” I looked at him and saw we’d just made a deal.

  “No problem. Just give me a call,” I said.

  I took off like a jet in the Mercedes. I got to the hotel and looked up the manager. I took two of the twenty notes of five hundred that I had in my pocket, gave them to him and said, “I want to see the registration card for a guest who was here a couple of hours ago.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said.

  I gave him two more bills. “The g
uy’s my client,” I said.

  “I don’t want any trouble!”

  “Give me the card, you sonofabitch, or you’ll have trouble you’ll never see the end of. It was a minor he had with him, and you’ll be royally screwed.”

  The manager brought me the cards. There was J.J.’s full name. Profession: bank employee. Irony or lack of imagination? The other card read Viveca Lindfords, resident of Nova Iguaçu. Where the shit had he gotten that name? I put both cards in my pocket.

  I rushed home. What a car that was. I’d have to transfer the title to my name backdated to Friday, for the protection of my client….I got home and went in shouting, “Princess! I’m back.” But the blonde had vanished. My pockets full of money, a Mercedes at the curb, and what? I was a sad and unlucky man. I’d never see the rich blonde again, I knew.

  kisses on the cheek

  “YOUR BLADDER WILL HAVE TO BE removed entirely,” Roberto said. “And in these cases a place is prepared for the urine to be stored before it’s excreted. A part of your intestine will be converted into a small sac, connected to the ureters. The urine from that receptacle will be directed to a bag placed in an opening in your abdominal wall. I’m describing the procedure in layman’s terms so you can understand. The bag will be hidden by your clothes and will have to be emptied periodically. Have I been clear?”

  “Yes,” I replied, lighting a cigarette.

  “I’d like to schedule the surgery immediately following the tests I’m asking for. Did I tell you about the relationship between bladder cancer and smoking?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Three out of five cases of bladder cancer are linked to smoking. The link between smoking and bladder cancer is especially strong among men.”

  “I promise I’ll stop smoking.”

  “This year, worldwide, there will be close to three hundred thousand cases of bladder cancer.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s the fourth most common type of cancer and the seventh leading cause of death from cancer.”

  I felt like telling Roberto to stop bugging me, but besides being my doctor he was also my friend.

  “Bladder cancer,” he continued, “can occur at any age, but it usually hits people over fifty. You’ll be fifty next month. You’re a month older than me.”