Winning the Game and Other Stories

by Rubem Fonseca

  “I’m late for an appointment. I have to go, Roberto.”

  “Don’t forget to have the tests done.”

  I ran out. I didn’t have any appointment. I wanted to smoke another cigarette in peace. And I also needed to meet with someone who could get me a gun. I remembered my brother.

  I phoned him.

  “Do you still have that weapon?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Want to sell it?”

  “No.”

  “Aren’t you afraid one of your children will find the gun and shoot the other one in the head? Something like that happened the other day. It was in the papers.”

  “My gun is locked inside a drawer.”

  “According to the paper, so was that poor guy’s.”

  “I didn’t read anything about it.”

  “You always say you only read the headlines. That didn’t make the headlines because it happens every day.”

  “And just how did it happen?”

  “The boy was playing cowboys and Indians with his brother and the tragedy occurred. Any day now I’m going to read in the newspaper that one nephew of mine killed the other playing a game.”

  “Enough with the foreboding.”

  “I’ll stop by there tonight.”

  When I got to my brother’s house he said, “Take a look at this drawer. You think a couple of kids could break that lock?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Want to see me break into that piece of shit?”

  “You’re an adult.”

  “Where’s Helena?”

  “In the bedroom.”

  “Have her come out here.”

  I told his wife about the article in the newspaper, which I had made up.

  “I’m constantly asking Carlos to get rid of that damned thing, but he won’t listen,” said Helena.

  “I came here to buy the revolver, but this idiot doesn’t want to sell.”

  “What are you going to do with the gun?” Carlos asked.

  “Nothing. Own it, that’s all. I’ve always wanted a revolver.”

  Helena and my brother argued for a time. She won the debate when she said that one of the boys could get hold of the key while my brother was sleeping, or when he forgot the key in a place where the kids could find it, or on some other occasion. Finally, Carlos opened the drawer and took out the gun.

  “And to make things worse, you keep the thing loaded,” I said, after examining the firearm.

  “You irresponsible madman,” said Helena, furious, “you always told me the revolver wasn’t loaded. Listen, let your brother take that piece of crap with him, now. Otherwise I’m moving out and taking the children.”

  I got the revolver and went back to my apartment. I phoned my girlfriend. I felt like going to the bathroom but knew I’d see signs of blood in the urine, which always sent a shiver down my spine. That could spoil my time with her. I urinated with my eyes closed and, also with my eyes closed, flushed the toilet several times.

  While I was waiting for my girlfriend, I thought about the future, smoking and drinking whiskey. I was going to spend the rest of my life filling with urine a bag stuck to my body, which would then have to be emptied somehow or other. How could I go to the beach? How could I make love to a woman? I imagined the horror she would feel upon seeing that thing.

  My girlfriend arrived and we went to bed.

  “You’re worried about something,” she said, after a time.

  “I’m not feeling well.”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we can just talk; I love talking with you.”

  This is one of the worst phrases a man can hear when he’s naked with a naked woman in bed.

  We got up and got dressed without looking at each other. We went into the living room. We talked a little. My girlfriend looked at her watch, said, “I have to go, love,” kissed me on the cheek, left, and I shot myself in the chest.

  But the story doesn’t end there. I should have shot myself in the head, but it was in the chest and I didn’t die.

  During my convalescence, Roberto came to see me several times to say we didn’t have much time, but we could still do the bladder surgery, successfully.

  It was done. Now I easily empty the urine bag. It’s well hidden under my clothes; no one realizes it’s there, over my abdomen. The cancer appears to have been entirely eliminated. I no longer have a girlfriend, and I’m addicted to crossword puzzles. I stopped going to the beach. I did go once, to throw the gun into the sea.

  marta

  I’m forty years old, a sensitive man who likes music, poetry, and cinema. I’m a lawyer, single, and live alone. I’m looking for a lasting relationship of love and respect. INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC.

  I spent a week, me, Incorrigible Romantic, visiting chat rooms and was getting discouraged, when the woman I was looking for showed up:

  DEAR INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC, Like you, I am also looking for a lasting relationship with someone worthy and affectionate. I too love music and poetry and especially cinema. Tell me more about yourself. LOUISE BROOKS.

  DEAR LOUISE BROOKS, I’ve never married, not because I lacked the financial conditions to do so, just the opposite, I’m a man of means, despite living a modest life. I’ve never married because I haven’t met the ideal woman. They say there’s no such thing, that it’s a romantic illusion. But I refuse to accept such pessimism. That’s why I used the pseudonym Incorrigible Romantic. What about you? Why Louise Brooks?

  DEAR INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC, Louise Brooks was a beautiful actress in silent films. One day a boyfriend gave me a picture of her that looked so much like me that I still have it even now. A woman with an air of mystery, which I, to tell the truth, don’t have. I’m an open book. I’ve never been married either and am looking for the ideal man. I know I’m going to find him. Who knows if he’s you. Do you have a girlfriend? LOUISE BROOKS.

  DEAR LOUISE, No, I don’t have a girlfriend. I would like to meet you. You must be thinking, he doesn’t know me, how can he want to meet me? But I’m sure we’re going to get along very well. Give it some thought. ROMANTIC.

  DEAR ROMANTIC, I’m a shy person, I live with my mother, I’m doing this crazy thing for the first time in my life, talking with a stranger on the Internet. I don’t know if I should go any further with this. I’m afraid. LOUISE.

  I was anxious to get that woman.

  DEAR LOUISE, I’m a shy person like you, it’s the first time I’ve done this. But I know, a type of premonition, that we’re going to get along very well. May I visit your home? I know your mother will like me. ROMANTIC.

  DEAR ROMANTIC, At my house it’s impossible, it will have to be at yours. Give me your address. I’ll be there tomorrow, at nightfall. KISSES, LOUISE.

  DEAR LOUISE, My address is on Gomes Monteiro, third floor. It’s a four-story building, one apartment per floor, one of those old buildings that real estate speculation hasn’t managed to destroy. Call on the intercom and I’ll buzz you in. Anxiously awaiting you. ROMANTIC.

  I was tense all day, and as the time approached I got worse. I had to get that woman.

  Then the intercom rang.

  “It’s Louise.”

  I pushed the button. A short time later the bell to my apartment rang. I opened the door.

  She was a very pale woman, with hair so dark it looked dyed. She was wearing a miniskirt that displayed her beautiful, long white legs.

  “Come in, please.”

  There she stood, the woman I was looking for. She came in. I asked her to have a seat.

  “A lovely apartment. Is it yours?”

  “I have another one, in the Barra. I rent this one.”

  “My real name is Diana.”

  “Mine is Carlos.”

  “Take a look at this photo of Louise Brooks,” she said.

  I looked. A black and white photo. Her hair was of an unusual blackness and her skin was very white. A beautiful woman.

  “Want something to drink?”


  “A little whiskey.”

  I got from the pantry a bottle of whiskey, one of mineral water, and a bucket of ice.

  “I like mine without ice, just whiskey and water, more whiskey than water,” I said.

  “Ice with mine, please, and lots of water.”

  I fixed our drinks and put the glasses on a tray.

  “Do you have anything to munch on?” she asked.

  “I’ll check inside there, be right back,” I replied.

  I dawdled, sitting in the pantry holding the bag of cookies. I wanted to give her time.

  After some minutes I returned. Louise lifted her glass.

  “I’d like to make a toast, in hopes that our relationship is a lasting one, as you said in your e-mail.”

  I raised my glass to my lips.

  “Before drinking I’d like to get something salty from the kitchen,” I said. “I only brought cookies.”

  I went to the kitchen, carrying my glass. I returned with a plate of savory snacks.

  I raised the glass. “To a lasting relationship,” I said.

  “Cheers,” she answered, clinking her glass against mine.

  We drank while we chatted.

  She had lost her father, and the widowed mother she lived with was very controlling. She had no other relatives.

  I told her I had four sisters, all older than me. I said I would like to travel with her, go to Paris or New York. I already had the money for the trip put aside. She said she’d like to see Katmandu.

  “I’m going to get more water from the kitchen,” I said, getting up.

  But as soon as I stood up, I staggered, supporting myself on the back on the armchair.

  “I feel a bit dizzy …”

  She hugged me.

  “Are you really dizzy or is that just a trick so I’ll put my arms around you?” She grabbed my cock, which was soft. “In a little while I’ll make it hard. Sit down on the sofa for a moment,” she said.

  I sat down and immediately my head fell forward.

  “Carlos, Carlos, are you all right?”

  No answer.

  Soon afterwards, she shook my arm.

  “Carlos, can you hear me?”

  I remained silent.

  I heard the sound of Diana trying to open the bedroom door. I felt her hands going through my pockets. Then I heard her voice, she must be talking on a cell phone.

  “Igor, he collapsed. The things must be locked in another room. Yes, I’ll wait. You know the address, don’t you? Ring the buzzer.”

  I lay there in the armchair, not moving. I heard the buzzer.

  “It’s Igor,” said the voice on the intercom.

  “Come on up,” said Diana.

  Sound of the door being opened.

  “Was it easy?” A man’s voice.

  “A piece of cake. I think there’s jewels, cash, everything that counts in that locked bedroom. But I couldn’t find the key.”

  “It must be in his pocket.”

  “I searched him. There’s no key. Igor, let’s do the guy, the whole bit.”

  “I don’t like that, Marta.”

  “He saw my goddamn face. If you cut his throat, he won’t feel a thing. The whole bit, Igor, and you walk away with half and get to screw me too.”

  “Let’s break down that door,” said Igor.

  But the door opened before they could break it down.

  The two cops working with me came out of the bedroom with guns pointed at them. They ordered the couple to get down on the floor with their hands behind them.

  While the pair were being handcuffed, I got up from the sofa.

  “Marta Castro and Igor da Silva, you’re under arrest for the murder of Edgard Gouveia,” I said.

  They began a heated argument in which Igor said that it was Marta’s idea, that she had forced him to kill the guy, and Marta said she had tried to stop him but Igor had killed him anyway.

  “It was you who killed him,” Marta repeated.

  “You gave the order, you whore,” Igor said.

  The argument went on all the way to the precinct, where they were booked and held without bail. They would be sentenced to long prison terms.

  Before being locked away, Marta spoke with me.

  “You didn’t black out, and I put a heavy dose of barbiturates in your drink. What happened?”

  “When I went to the kitchen, I switched glasses. The one I drank out of was clean.”

  “How did you discover me?”

  “By examining the computer belonging to your victim, Edgard Gouveia, whom you killed by cutting his throat. It was all there, the chat with Louise Brooks. You should have changed names.”

  “But I wanted to be her. Louise looks a lot like me, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes, a lot,” I replied.

  And she did, really. An unusual face. Marta could be a photographic model or an actress in film. Without even changing her name. But by the time she gets out of prison it’ll be too late.

  passion

  ONCE, I WAS IN LOVE WITH A GIRL and to prove to her the magnitude of my feeling cut off the little finger of my right hand. They say passion is a pathological condition, a sickness that luckily is transitory.

  Though I was never in love with Nelly, I married her. I’m a writer, and all writers (with notorious exceptions) are poor devils. Nelly had money, inherited from her father, in addition to making quite a lot in her profession as a lawyer specializing in indemnities.

  I have to tell the truth. I was a failure as a writer. Not even that, I wasn’t even a failure, which would be something, I was a writer who’d never managed to get published. I sent my originals to countless publishers and every one, without exception, was returned, with those routine hypocritical explanations. I spoke with Nelly to see if she could finance the publication of one of my books, just one, with those publishing houses that do that, but she asked me if I had no shame and said she’d have no part of something as unworthy as that.

  Nelly is very jealous and has hired a team of private detectives who watch me day and night. You know how I met Michele, the passion of my life? At the office of Dr. Amancio, a surgeon friend of mine. He let me use one of the rooms and I made love to Michele on one of the hospital beds. Actually, it was Amancio who found the solution to my problem, about which I’ll have more to say later.

  For Michele I’d cut off any finger, my whole hand, anything but my dick. I like making love to Michele. Making love with passion demands a rite, a protocol, pomp, solemnity. But for that, the body of the woman you’re going to make love to needs to be very beautiful, perfect, like Michele’s. Or that you find to be perfect, which amounts to the same thing. Pirandello is right: if it seems that way to you, it is. Here’s the rite, which encompasses the five senses: the woman lies down in bed, completely nude, and you contemplate her body, from head to toe, front and back. You look at every detail, the neck, the shoulder blades, the navel, the knee, the toes, the mouth, the eyes, open so you can distinguish the color, and closed, so you can see the lash and the dark circles, every woman has them, some more pronounced, others more subtle. Next you lightly brush the belly and the breasts, and the inside of the thighs. The skin has nerve endings and corpuscles, the so-called tactile receptors, which make the body sensitive to the caress. Next you bring your nose close to her body and smell the aroma of each part, the hair, the underarms, the breasts, the feet, the vagina, the back, the buttocks. Then, following the ritual, you taste the woman by lightly biting and running your tongue over her entire body, lips, tongue, breasts, again the underarms, the belly, navel, legs, not forgetting the part behind the knees, and also the feet and finally the vagina—in the vulva, where the tongue must explore all the recesses, for the tastes of the vagina are countless and varied in each fragment, and at certain moments you should shape your tongue into a cone and stick it as far as possible into that voluptuously flavorful fissure. Afterward, the buttocks and anus. The tongue must roam and discover the pleasures contained in that magic orifice of
extremely high sensitivity that can afford a sublime delight.

  Only after these prolegomena should we introduce the penis into the dazzling rift, which will be balsamically aromatic, prepared to receive it.

  How to do that with Nelly? She has an ugly body, drooping breasts, flaccid ass and belly. And when I suggested that she consult a plastic surgeon, she asked bitingly, “You think I’m some kind of Botoxed social butterfly? I’m a professional, a famous lawyer, respected, who makes a living by working.” Implicit in the way she said this was that I was a bum, a make-believe writer, who didn’t work.

  I had a long talk with my friend Amancio. “I don’t know what to do about my life,” I told him. “I’m in love with Michele, and my wife is suffocating me, humiliating me, making me unhappy.”

  Amancio was silent for some time. Then he said he had the answer to my problem. “I know you want to give Michele an apartment, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I’d like to satisfy her fondest dream, which is to have a penthouse apartment in Leblon. But I don’t even have the money to buy a shack in a shantytown.”

  “I’ve got the solution to your problem.”

  Amancio’s solution horrified me.

  “I can’t do that, Amancio, I don’t have the courage.”

  “Think, think about it.”

  “I would never do something like that.”

  But that night, Nelly told me she was tired of living with a parasite and was going to find me a job in the bureaucracy that I couldn’t refuse.

  “Go on, say yes. I’m ordering it, I’ve already decided.”

  “All right, all right, Nelly, I’ll go by the office tomorrow.”

  But I wasn’t about to obey Nelly’s intolerable ukase. Instead, I went to Amancio’s office.

  “I’m in,” I said.

  “Everything’s ready,” Amancio said.

  He gave me a hypodermic needle and told me to scrape it on Nelly’s skin as she slept; one scratch would be enough. The needle was infected with tetanus. I remembered someone saying that a good way of getting rid of a person was by infecting them with tetanus, but I couldn’t recall who had said it.