São Paulo Noir

by Tony Bellotto

  She gave him fifty reais. “Keep the change.”

  He paid, returned the change to her. The ice cream man left.

  “What guarantee do I have that you and Neia aren’t going to run off with the money? With the hundred thousand.”

  “None, my good lady! None!”

  “I know—”

  Silence.

  “And when are you going to kidnap me?”

  “When you least expect it. You won’t know the time or place. It’ll have all the surprise of a real kidnapping.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably best. And don’t forget an accomplice.”

  She left with Neia.

  She’s bonkers, Cardim didn’t say but thought.

  Part Two

  I’m crazy about crime literature.

  You must have seen (at least once) the Hitchcock film Vertigo, known in Brazil as A Falling Body. The script is based on the short story “D’entre les morts” by the French writing team Boileau-Narcejac. The incredible thing about them—they wrote nineteen novels between 1952 and 1992—is that one of them lived in Paris and the other away from the city. The first one wrote the initial part and mailed it to the other, who wrote the second and final part without knowing the plans of the other. Then they would reverse the process. And they didn’t communicate about it. Total freedom.

  The most incredible part is that each one loved jerking the other’s chain. And that’s evident in the Hitchcock film. The first one wrote up to the point that Kim Novak leaps from the tower. The second one began writing by saying it wasn’t Kim Novak who fell. In other words, he completely changes the direction of the plot and the film becomes even better. So much so—and I’m not making a joke here—that in Portugal the film was called (and is still called) The Woman Who Died Twice (see Google).

  I told the above story because the one writing now is me, Teresão. Actually, my name isn’t Teresão. Prata, the author, changed it. Because it’s a true story that involves more people.

  He sent me the first part to see what I thought of it. I have to say, right off, that he exaggerated a bit about the weight, lowered my height, and no one ever called me Tubby. The rest was just as he wrote it.

  Part Two has to be about the kidnapping itself and I think (without discussing it with Prata) that I ought to be the one to write it. Then he can give some finishing touches (I bet he won’t like the phrase “finishing touches”).

  And I’m in a hurry, because he has a deadline for delivery to the publisher. So let’s get started.

  * * *

  It was late at night (I know that’s an awful way to begin a paragraph, Prata). It was raining cats and dogs (you can cut “cats and dogs,” because I don’t even know what that means). It was raining like hell—there! I was in my pajamas in bed, watching a Swedish-Danish miniseries, when I heard the bomb go off. A very loud sound. (I don’t remember if Prata mentioned that we’re neighbors and friends of Maluf, the former governor.) I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs where I found my husband Pires. Also a fake name. No one has been called Pires since the playwright Nelson Rodrigues died. We went out into the rain. The security guards were all at the gate to the Maluf residence. The lights of every house on the street were coming on. A security man came out of the house.

  “Everyone’s okay. The police have been called.”

  Within three minutes the house was surrounded by that black-and-yellow tape you see in American films, in another seven minutes the team from the Datena true-crime show arrived as if by magic, traffic was diverted for two blocks.

  Someone touched my shoulder, I turned around. It was almost dark under the tree. My husband had gone into their residence. I wasn’t going to enter dressed as I was, without makeup, and my hair uncombed. Dona Silvia would notice. I know Arab culture, the Mulaf are descendants. I said I was under a tree where it rained less. Little light, the guy who greeted me was also as wet as could be. About thirty years old, tall, in perfect shape. I was stupefied, people. After the bomb, a candied chestnut.

  “I’m the accomplice.”

  “Who?”

  He smiled and then frowned. “The accomplice. For the kidnapping.”

  I didn’t believe him. At that very moment! What a shitty trick! And I was going to miss all the developments? Even the ex-president, Lula, might show up with his wife. Hebe, the TV star, if she were alive, would already be there. An ambulance arrived. Somebody must be fucked up. A servant, no doubt.

  “Let’s go, Dona Terezinha. And don’t make me ask twice.” The hunk was serious.

  “At least let me put on more appropriate clothes, some basic makeup.”

  He grabbed my arm and pulled me, and I let myself be led. The more we walked, the less pressure he applied. When we got into the car he said: “It was us who threw the bomb . . .” And he giggled.

  A lovely plan, I had to admit. I sensed firmness, people. I felt I was working with professionals.

  “What did you say your name is?”

  “I didn’t. You can call me Accomplice.”

  “Right. You’re not going to slap me, handcuff me, nothing? What a lame kidn—”

  That was when a hand came from the backseat with a white cloth like a handkerchief and stuck it over my nose. I calculated we were already on the Marginal en route to Castelo Branco Highway. That’s all I had time to calculate.

  * * *

  Shit, we had agreed on a meeting every three days and I’m sure I’ve been here longer than that. A week? I can’t take any more. The bucket with pee and poop hasn’t been changed a single time. One more piss and it’ll overflow. I’m holding it in. The light never goes out, I have no idea whether it’s day or night. I reek. And the music? Nothing but Teló. The same CD, nonstop. Loud, very loud. I can’t hear my own voice. And it does no good to beat on the walls. They’re cork, probably soundproof. There’s a small hole above for air to enter. It’s my only contact with the outside. I think I’m fucked! And in these goddamn pink polka-dot pajamas! Shit! If it weren’t for the cockroaches—

  The worst of all, worse than that shitty bucket, the lack of a bath, Teló, the light always on, the worst thing of all is not having Internet. Especially WhatsApp and Facebook. My God, living without Facebook, that’s torture! I wasn’t counting on that. I should have thought of that . . . Especially now that everyone must know I’ve been kidnapped—my message box must be exploding. And what about Twitter? Someone must have posted something like #freeteresão. I must be in the top ten, easily. How I miss all those friends of mine, 1,287, to be exact. Loyal, always there giving me strength, greeting me when I wake up, wishing me good night. Those are real friends. I remember that we would talk for hours, organizing demonstrations along Avenida Paulista, discussing where the action was going to start. I miss seeing the avenue all in yellow, the phrase “They should have killed them all in ’64” touched me deeply . . . Brazil would have been much better off without the damn Workers Party. How much culture, how much information I learned on Facebook. I love that boy with the complicated name who invented Facebook. You see, if I had my iPad here I’d just use Google to find out his name. Google is another fucker of an invention. The other day, Pires located a very rare part for one of his Mercedes—in reality, mine—on Google, as he said, with two keystrokes. The world advancing out there and me here literally in shit!

  People, don’t ever wish you were kidnapped. I know every square inch of this cork-lined cubicle, I’ve measured it with hands, with fingers . . . I know by heart all of Teló’s lyrics. I’m even beginning to find some of them interesting. He’s no Martinho da Vila, but . . .

  My God, the lights just went out. Is it just them or is it a general blackout? Because Teló also shut up and the breeze up there stopped too. Are they going to kill me by suffocation? Have the police arrived? Did everybody run away? Just look at my belly! It’s in the dark that you know you’re fat. Prodding yourself, without light. By physical contact.

  My God, I think they’re opening the door. I want Wi-Fi! I
don’t want to lose weight anymore. Wi-Fi there where the air comes in . . . Simple enough, isn’t it?

  * * *

  I can’t believe it. I’m in the shower, happy. Neia is sitting on the toilet lid, quite tense.

  “You could at least provide toilet paper in the goddamn room. My ass is raw. Do you have any talcum powder?”

  “Finish your shower, we’ve got an important meeting.”

  “Look at the hair on my snatch, what a discouraging sight. My Portuguese heritage. Has Pires settled for the four million?”

  “Cardim’s going to talk to you about that.”

  “You don’t have a scale handy, do you? I must’ve lost seven or eight pounds. What do you think?”

  “Put these clothes on. He’s waiting for you out there.”

  Neia left, and I was happy, humming Teló at full volume.

  Neia is funny, the scamp. Until the other day I was the employer and she was the maid. Now it seems everything’s changed: Get out of there, take off your clothes, get into the shower, Cardim will explain. She’s giving me the orders, Dona Terezinha.

  As if I were an idiot. Ten minutes ago I was buried in shit, hearing that music, that spotlight in my face. Now I’m taking a shower with hot water, shampoo, etc. and so forth. What happened? Did Pires agree to pay the four million? What shit is this? I ordered the kidnap to last fifty-two days, which is how long I need to lose weight. They’re going to take me out of here? Return me? I can’t believe it. Pires doesn’t love me that much, to pay right off the bat. Something sketchy is going on.

  The shower wasn’t part of any plan. In none of my research on kidnappings did anyone ever take a shower. Not even the kidnappers, I think.

  What kind of shit is this?

  I’m going to miss Creuza, Edineia, Formigão, Manquinha, Orapronobis . . . There were more than twenty roaches. The first day, when I arrived, there was one. I hate roaches! There wasn’t a chair to climb on. But I killed it. I thought: it has to sleep sometime. Every animal sleeps. I don’t know how many hours I spent huddled watching it. I sensed it was asleep. Splat! It never woke up again. On the second day, another appeared, which I named Edineia in honor of Neia. I came to think that each day they were introducing another one. I decided to live with them, and them with me. I can guarantee you: they’re darlings. I came to cuddle them in the palm of my hand. They were my friends. I talked to them. There were some, the oldest ones, that I called by name, and they would come. Who’s going to take care of them now, for God’s sake?

  * * *

  Neia took me from the bathroom. I discovered that I was in the upper floor of the house. We went down the stairs. Judging by the sounds of cars in the street, it must be the city. Cardim and Accomplice were down below.

  Cardim opened a drawer, took out a revolver, spun the drum, checked that it had all the bullets.

  Accomplice was startled. I thought I was going to faint. No one was giving me any information at all.

  Accomplice took a step toward Cardim. “What’s this? You’re going to kill the woman?”

  “For now, no. I’ve got a hunch I was followed.”

  I only managed to say: “Oh shit!”

  Neia and Cardim were also tense. Cardim gave me a look full of hate.

  “The guy laughed in my face!”

  “Pires?”

  “Yes, I demanded ten million, he laughed like crazy and said, word for word, I won’t pay ten thousand for that cow.”

  “I don’t believe it. Pires? Not Pires.”

  “Fucked!”

  “Fucked!”

  “We’re all fucked. And it won’t do any good to call again. I sensed total conviction. He wants to see you dead. He almost thanked me . . .”

  That was when I saw the light. Our wealth was all mine. Including our house, which I inherited as the only child of my father, who got rich during the coffee boom. Pires worked at Eucatex, which belonged to Mr. Maluf, because I asked Dona Silvia. The guy didn’t have a pot to piss in. He’s in charge of the warehouse. Is that a profession to brag about? So, of course, if he didn’t pay the ransom they’d kill me and he would end up with everything. Shit!!!

  Neia was behind Cardim, massaging his shoulders. He was tense.

  “Can you at least take the poop bucket out of the room?”

  “First of all, stop doing that shit you call massage on my back. And you, you’re not going back to the room. Everything’s gone wrong, sister, and you know who we are.”

  “You’re very tense, Cardim! She’s not gonna rat anybody out.”

  “It’s your fault! You blabbed about the advertising-exec kidnapping.”

  “What’re you gonna do, Cardim?”

  “Don’t bust my balls. Fuck!”

  Neia went into the bathroom. Cardim gestured for Accomplice to come closer.

  “We’re going to change to captivity number two. Is everything clean there? I’m almost sure we were followed.”

  I ventured: “May I make a little suggestion?”

  “No fucking way! Is everything clear at captivity number two?”

  “Yeah. I went by there early today.” Changing the subject, alarmed: “It’s probably just your imagination.”

  “Whatever, we’re getting the hell outta here.”

  * * *

  Cardim and Accomplice at a table eating finger food and drinking soda. Me sitting in a corner trying to come up with a way of fleeing.

  Total silence. Cardim shouted upstairs: “All the doorknobs, Neia! With bleach!”

  It was Accomplice who broke the ice: “Every year the turnovers get worse.”

  Cardim agreed: “Neia’s don’t crumble. Look at the mess these make. Look at the floor. There’s more turnover on the floor than in my stomach.”

  Cardim took a look: “When we finish eating, we’re going to start the cleanup down here. Everybody. Despite us wearing gloves the whole time, you can’t be too careful. You hear me, Dona Terezinha? Are you off in space somewhere?”

  “No, I’m thinking about my maid.”

  “Fuck that maid crap! Just look at the shit storm you two stirred up for us.”

  Accomplice moved to head off the impending fight between the couple. “Are we going to decide what to do? Every wasted minute is a minute we’re in danger.” I thought I’d heard that in a Mexican crime show, one of the worst.

  Cardim went to the window. Neia came down and began gathering up the turnover crumbs. Accomplice picked his teeth.

  Before anyone could grab me, I got up and went to help Neia. They didn’t even offer me a turnover. Which, by the way, I wouldn’t have accepted. A diet is a diet.

  Neia tossed the crumbs out the window.

  To my surprise and terror, I saw that son of a bitch Cardim pick up the revolver and attach the silencer.

  * * *

  I started praying softly while they did the cleanup of the lower floor. After much discussion they decided it was better for me not to participate because I might leave clues on purpose. So I went back to my corner and began praying by myself, recalling my time at the Sacred Heart of Mary School, when I was just a chubby little angel.

  Cardim sent Accomplice out for a newspaper.

  “O Jesus, who condemning us to death have hidden its hour and its moment, lead me to live all my days in justice and sanctity, that I may merit the grace of departing this world in Thy holy love, by the worthiness of our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives with us and reigns as one with the Holy Spirit, amen.

  “I, a sinner, confess to Almighty God; to the blessed and eternal Virgin Mary; to the blessed Archangel Michael and to the blessed St. John the Baptist: to the Holy Apostles St. Peter and St. Paul and all the saints; and to Thee, Father, that I have sinned greatly in my thoughts, words, and deeds, through my fault, my fault, my maximum fault. I therefore ask and pray to the blessed Virgin Mary; to the blessed St. Michael Archangel and to the blessed St. John the Baptist; to the Holy Apostles St. Peter and St. Paul and all the saints; and to Thee, Father, that You pray
for me to God our Lord!”

  Neia came near.

  “Amen!”

  “Come . . . It’s all right.”

  “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.”

  She mocked: “Amen! Saravá.”

  * * *

  Accomplice had just brought the newspaper.

  The headline: “Maid Is Suspect in Jardim Europa Kidnapping.”

  Cardim read: “Since the night of the kidnapping the domestic servant of the Pires couple, Dona Dulcineia Sabina Damasceno, known as Neia, forty, mulatto, has disappeared . . .”

  Cardim struck the table with the revolver.

  I tried to keep things calm: “You know that banging the gun like that can cause it to go off, don’t you?”

  “You shut up and listen to me: your fucker of a husband says he won’t pay a fucking cent for you. Fucker! Not a cent!”

  “You already told me, Mr. Ricardo. I can’t believe it . . . Pires . . .” I put my hand on my cheek and started to cry in earnest. The others even patted me on the back. Except for Cardim.

  “And now where do we stand, my good woman?”

  “Shit, here I am in one hell of an effort to lose weight and the son of a bitch refuses to pay anything? Does he want to see me fat and dead?”

  Suddenly he understood my plan.

  “Fuck! My God! I don’t believe that all of this was to lose weight. You’re crazier than I thought.”

  “Yes, to win back that son of a bitch Pires! And he wants to see me fat and dead?”

  Neia: “It’s not quite like that.”

  “Yes it is!”

  Silence. I looked at the three of them, knew I had to be killed. I couldn’t stay alive because I knew the kidnappers.

  Cardim pointed the revolver at me as if offering vanilla ice cream. “Forgive me, you have to die.”

  Neia was desperate: “No, Ricardo, no! For the love of God!”

  Cardim slapped Neia, who fell on the floor behind him.

  “May I say a prayer first, Mr. Ricardo?”

  He pointed with his chin, agreeing.

  “Hail O Queen, mother of mercy: our life, sweetness, and hope, hail. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee we sigh, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, our advocate, those merciful eyes toward us. And Jesus, after our exile, show us.” I saw Neia rising silently behind Cardim and approaching where he sat.