by Paulo Levy
“This is how I move around here. Otherwise I’d have a heart attack going up this hill,” said Nildo on their descent to the middle building. “We just left the administration building, with the accounts payable and receivable departments, the office where we handle the money so to speak. Nothing special.”
‘Like a slush fund’, thought Dornelas.
The cart began gliding down the hill on the perfectly smooth asphalt carpet. The only sound was the whirring of the electric engine.
“We’re nearing the building where we keep our research center and the farm where we produce and sell oysters.
Nildo parked the cart under the shade of a Chapéu-de-sol tropical almond tree. They got out and entered what seemed to be a stark and narrow waiting room with no furniture. Nildo greeted a fellow with long, grey hair wearing a short white lab coat and jeans who was coming out of the door they were heading to. As they went through it Dornelas and Solano could see a number of cisterns the size of water tanks lining the walls. In the cisterns enormous oysters were stuck to tiles and plastic bottles submerged in salt water. Little bubbles rose to the surface of each tank.
The room ran nearly the entire length of the building and had a strong odor of salt and dry algae. The thermostat on the air conditioner next to the door showed twenty-five degrees centigrade.
“This is our hatchery, where we produce the oyster seeds we cultivate in the sea-based nurseries,” Nildo said when he saw Dornelas leaning over one of the tanks to look inside. “In this environment we’re able to control the water temperature and also the food supply.”
“Do you produce one hundred percent of the seeds in this room?” asked Solano.
“Unfortunately, no,” replied Nildo. “We only produce one third of what we need here. In order to complete our breeding stock we buy seeds from other nurseries. We also collect seeds directly from the ocean using tiles and two-liter plastic bottles with the bottoms removed. In order for the seeds to properly attach themselves and then be easily removed the tiles and bottles are bathed in a solution of lime, plaster and fine sand.”
A small stack of dry tiles was waiting to be bathed on a table in the middle of the room. Unlabeled plastic bottles were lined up underneath it. Nildo continued:
“We’re one of three certified Crassostrea rizophorea producers in the state of Rio de Janeiro, the species most commonly found along the Brazilian coast. But because these native oysters sometimes atrophy and don’t grow properly, we have to buy the remaining third from Brazilian universities or from overseas producers of the Crassostrea gigas species, the Japanese oyster, more resistant and well accepted in the market. However, this species requires water at a lower temperature, which demands more care on our part. But it’s worth it.”
“And how is the farming done?” asked Dornelas, afraid he was showing his complete ignorance of the subject.
“In the case of the Japanese oysters we use a system of fixed lamps suspended from fifty meter long lines spread along the bay, spaced five meters apart from one another. We’re in a sheltered cove. Anything less and the baby oysters wouldn’t get enough nourishment to develop.” And before they could ask him, he hurried to say, “We’re authorized to do this.”
He began to walk slowly by the tanks, every so often dipping his hand in the bubbling water. Dornelas decided to keep his attention on the politician so that Solano, further behind, would be free to look around. Nildo’s demeanor was intriguing him because he was obviously making an effort to hide something, albeit behind a decent job of acting.
“We insert pre-selected seeds of between 5 and 7 millimeters in each cylindrical lamp of approximately 2.5 meters in height and 30 centimeters wide, on the 5 or 7 levels that each one has. We use mesh nets with openings of 3, 8 and 12 millimeters, depending on each oyster’s stage of growth: nursery, intermediate or final.”
Rolling up a shirt sleeve, Nildo stuck his arm in the water and took out a tile with oysters the size of a fist stuck to it, possibly the matrixes. Dornelas eyed the shell with a certain wonder, imagining the irregular evolutionary trajectory that had transformed an antediluvian mollusk into modern man, as Darwin had suggested. And he felt sorry that the human species, in its stupidity and greed, had become one of the biggest predators of its own ancestor.
Nildo put the tile back on the bottom of the tank and got a towel from a hook on the wall to dry his arm. He went on:
“The final maturation stage runs from March to the beginning of May every year, with harvesting expected to be in the month of October, although it can be done until the beginning of December, at the latest. If we don’t get it done before the heat of summer arrives we lose everything.”
He crossed the room and pointed to the inside of one of the tanks, without touching the water.
“Now for this native species, easily found here in the city’s mangrove, besides the Crassostrea brasiliana, we use a type of tray we call a pillow. The pillows are fixed horizontally on tables placed at the shallow bottom of the sea and are made of 16-millimeter heavy steel square bars.
The councilman conducted his explication with broad gestures, arms waving in the air. Dornelas watched him fascinated as the man carried on without pause.
“The tables are installed along the shore. We position them at a depth where the baby oysters will stay submerged and only rise above water at very low or lunar tides, when we manage them back underwater. There they can filter 24-hours a day and grow bigger. In order for them to eliminate parasites they need to be castigated, which consists of leaving them uncovered every fifteen days.”
“After they’re harvested, how are they commercialized?” asked Dornelas, trying to figure out if there might be a gap in one of the production stages in which some sort of illegal business could occur.
“We sell them in natura, that is, in their shells, or “caught” as we say, in refrigerated and returnable plastic boxes in units of a dozen. To receive the seal of certification we’re inspected by the sanitation authorities through all stages of the cultivation, from the nursery to harvesting and to the means of transportation. For reasons of hygiene and product quality, we only deliver to clients in our own van within a radius of 150 kilometers. Anything further away the clients have to pick them up themselves.
“Who are your clients?”
“Restaurants, supermarkets, fishmongers. The latter on a smaller scale.”
“Do you export?”
“Oysters, not yet. But I’m planning to soon. Foreign markets create absurd rules to protect their own producers, which ends up limiting the chances for this kind of business.”
“Protectionism,” completed Solano.
“Exactly. In order to avoid some of the barriers, mostly related to the shells, which carry parasites, we even considered commercializing them by processing the oysters, removing them from their shells and packaging and refrigerating them. Even though I could make more money this way, I gave up on the idea. It’s too much work and I don’t have people qualified to do the job yet. And the bureaucracy will drive you crazy. Maybe in the future.”
‘If there’s something wrong here, it’s not in the oyster business,’ thought Dornelas, impressed not only with the installations but also by Nildo Borges’ knowledge of the subject.
“Let’s go down to the pier. I want to show you what we do with the fish.”
The three of them left the room and the building and got back in the electric cart. The late afternoon sun was melting on top of the bay’s calm waters, its reflection stretched out like a Salvador Dali painting. The torpid air that came in scalding wafts made Dornelas feel like he was being cooked in an open-air microwave oven.
Nildo drove the cart down the hill with the help of the brakes, and parked it in the shade of an enormous, rectangular industrial shed built on the shoreline. The metallic structure, a gigantic cage, was covered in undulating plates of galvanized steel that were painted white, as was the gable roof. It looked more like an airplane hangar than a fish proc
essing plant.
In the middle of it there was an immense gate through which a refrigerated truck could easily pass. There were some employees moving around wearing short coats and white helmets. Attached to the shed a tangle of silver, blue and yellow tubes and cylinders let off smoke in every imaginable direction. It made Dornelas feel as if he were about to enter the villain’s headquarters in a James Bond movie.
“This is our processing unit,” said Nildo, opening his arms wide as they entered the immense open space. “On the right we have the training and conference room, the doctor’s office, the clinic, the work safety room, the laundry, locker rooms and dining hall.”
Nildo took a few steps to the other side.
“And on this side, production management, quality control, the federal inspection service, the processing room as well as, of course, the engine room, where the refrigeration units are located. We would not be able to guarantee the quality of our products without the cold.”
As if pulled by a magnet, Dornelas was drawn to the rear gate, exactly the same as the entrance gate, from which a long cement ramp connected the shed to a small, floating pier. Four fishing boats were docked at it, the same ones he’d seen when they arrived. Plastic boxes filled to the top with crushed ice were being unloaded from one of them, an old boat with its paint peeling off and the name Cê Que Sabe – ’S Up to You – crudely written on the bow. As soon as they were taken off the boat the boxes were placed on an electric cart parked next to it on the small pier.
Solano immediately guessed his boss’s thoughts.
“Come see the processing room, Inspector. You’ll see what beautiful work we develop here.”
As if the invitation had been extended only to his boss, Solano broke away from the little entourage and surreptitiously went toward the ramp while Nildo ushered Dornelas to one of the rooms on the left side.
What Solano saw next intrigued him. While two fishermen unloaded the plastic boxes from the boat, a third one, standing on the deck, was talking to a short, fat character, with long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wore khaki pants, a yellow shirt and had on sunglasses exactly like Steve McQueen’s in The Thomas Crown Affair. They were talking business, because at one point the fat guy took a thick wad of cash out of his pocket and gave it to the fisherman, who took a quick look at it and furtively stuffed it in the pocket of his shorts. When they finished the exchange they didn’t even shake hands. The fat guy jumped from the boat onto the pier and went off toward the building. Solano discreetly turned around and slipped away, certain that the objective of their visit had just been accomplished.
He leaned up against one of the shed’s pillars, took his cell phone out of his pocket, dialed his boss’s number and waited.
In the processing room Nildo was explaining to Dornelas the procedures for unloading the fish, details of the Fishing Institute’s inspections, the sizes and weights of the fish, the thickness of the fishing nets and the respect they had for the rules. Dornelas listened to it all, visibly bored. Maybe this was the true purpose for the visit as far as Nildo was concerned: to stuff the inspector so full of useless information that he would lose his interest in trying to ferret out information about the company more thoroughly.
When he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket, Dornelas opened it and saw the number on the screen. He raised his index-finger, excusing himself for a minute from the councilman and went to a corner of the room to murmur out of hearing:
“What’s up?”
“Sir, I just saw a man giving a fisherman a whole lot of money,” said Solano, following the fat guy with his eyes as he entered the building, went up a flight of stairs and entered a room on the mezzanine.
“Do you know who he is?”
“I have no idea but he doesn’t look like an employee. Something’s going on.”
“Good. Where are you?”
“Inside the shed, leaning against a pillar next to the gate that goes to the pier.”
“Stay there. I’ll hurry things along here.”
They hung up. Dornelas went back to Nildo.
“Councilman, I have to go. My team just made a flagrant arrest that requires my immediate presence. You know what these things are like.”
Nildo’s animated expression wilted like a sunflower at the end of the day.
“Can’t I show you the quality control?”
“Unfortunately, no. In any case, I’m very satisfied with the visit. You’re to be commended, sir. I’ve never seen anyone so knowledgeable about their business.”
“The competition doesn’t forgive fools, Inspector. In this business, like in any other, either you know what you’re doing or you’re going to be run out of the market.”
“Tell me something, does your brother work here too?”
Nildo’s eyes opened wide in surprise.
“Not directly. He has an office from where he runs his own businesses.”
“Could we have a quick word with him before we leave?”
“If he’s available, why not?”
They left the room, Nildo closing the door behind him, and began walking through the indoor patio, toward the rooms on the other side. After a few steps Dornelas spotted Solano. They exchanged glances as the inspector continued following behind the councilman.
Right at that moment the electric cart carrying the plastic boxes came up the ramp and entered the shed, going past Solano and on to the processing room where Nildo and the boss had been. The cart stopped in front of the door and the driver got out and opened it. His helper jumped out of the cargo bed and carried the first box into the room.
Solano watched the operation out of the corner of his eye, curious to know what was in them. Unable to restrain himself, he walked over there.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the shed Dornelas and Nildo were going up the red metal stairs with wide, recessed steps that connected the ground floor to the mezzanine on the first, and only floor. The stairway was located in the middle of the building, equidistant from the shed’s two sides. It provided the only access to all the rooms on the upper floor.
From the mezzanine the inspector had a good view of the entire system. He was pleased to see Solano chatting with the employees in the processing room. Nildo rapped his knuckles on the last red door of the left wing, heard a muffled “come in,” and entered with Dornelas at his heels.
“Wilson, this is Inspector Joaquim Dornelas. He’s investigating the Mangrove Crime.”
Wilson lifted his hands from the notebook keyboard, took his reading glasses off, let them rest on his chest, hanging by a cord around his neck, and looked at them.
“Mangrove Crime?” he asked with a measure of resentment characteristic of those who live in an alternative reality.
“Yes, the body they found in the bay this week. It was Inspector Dornelas who pulled it out. And he’s the one now in charge of the investigation.”
Wilson straightened up in his chair and scratched his immense belly like a monkey, wrinkling his yellow shirt.
“Alright, Inspector. Sit down.”
Dornelas and Nildo sat down in the two chairs in front of a cluttered desk: stacked cans, artificial bait of various types and sizes, plastic bags holding seasonings, books, magazines and papers, building plans, a jar of Vaseline, a plane propeller, the Steve McQueen sunglasses, a total mess. ‘Whatever this man is involved in, there’s absolutely no connection between anything and anything else’, thought the inspector while he took a card out of his pocket and gave it to Wilson, who lifted his reading glasses in front of his nose to study it carefully.
“How can I help you?” asked Wilson.
“I’d like to know what you do here in Peixe Dourado.”
Nildo was looking at Dornelas apprehensively.
“Zero,” responded Wilson emphatically while he folded his hands over his stomach and stretched his fat body out in the reclining chair. “I just have this office where I conduct my own business from.”
“And what business wou
ld that be?”
“I’m involved in many enterprises,” he said proudly. “I set up a little factory that makes artificial bait for the fishermen and tourists around here. I began planting aromatic herbs and spices on a small property nearby. I have two employees who package the products in plastic bags, glue on the labels with the brand name I created myself and sell them to restaurants and supermarkets in the region. I’m involved in a new business that’s going to skyrocket. But I can’t say anything about that yet... let it get off the ground first. You know how these things work, don’t you, Inspector!”
“Do these businesses pay for themselves? I mean, do you make any money from them?”
Dornelas could feel Nildo stiffening in the chair beside him.
“Not yet. But I’m very close.”
“That means you have to put in money from your own pocket every month,” stated the inspector.
Wilson’s pleasant expression disappeared.
“Yes, you could say so.”
“And where does the money come from?”
Nildo interrupted before his brother could answer.
“Inspector, although he has no formal function in the company, we are equal partners in it. That was my father’s wish and I respect it in full. That means that both he and I receive equal monthly stipends in the form of director remuneration, as well as sharing equally in the company’s profits, when there are any, at the end of the fiscal year.
Dornelas gave the outward appearance of being satisfied but inside he was still suspicious. He didn’t want to go any deeper into the matter right then. To do so might compromise what he suspected, and which needed to be confirmed with what Solano had seen while they were apart.
“Great. That makes it all very clear. Thank you.”
“Any time, Inspector,” said a relieved Nildo.
As soon as Dornelas got up to leave Wilson buried himself back in his computer without even offering to shake his visitor’s hand.
Solano met them at the foot of the stairs. From there they went towards the exit.
Dornelas feared for the golf cart’s battery as it agonized going uphill with three passengers, one of them being well overweight.