Crimes of August: A Novel: 5 (Brazilian Literature in Translation Series) (14 page)

A PANTRYMAN OPENED THE DOOR
to Luciana Gomes Aguiar’s apartment.

“I’m Inspector Mattos. Dona Luciana is expecting me.”

Mattos didn’t remember seeing the pantryman when he was at the apartment the day of the crime.

“Are you new here?”

“Yes. All the help is new. Except the cook. I’ll let Dona Luciana know.”

It took Luciana almost ten minutes to appear. She was dressed as if ready to go out, carefully made up, wearing jewels. She had a folded paper in her hand.

“Counselor Galvão told me you had some questions to ask me. Please have a seat.”

“I thought he would be present.”

“I didn’t consider it necessary.”

As soon as the inspector sat down, a pantry maid appeared, carrying a tray with coffee and sweets.

“You may leave it on the table, Mirtes.”

The maid placed the tray on a table and left. Luciana put the paper she was holding beside the tray.

“Sugar?”

“Yes.” He shouldn’t drink coffee; it would increase his hypochlorhydria. He stared at Luciana’s lovely hand stirring the cups.

“Dona Luciana, did Mr. Galvão speak to you about what the doorman Raimundo told me? That you had instructed him not to mention the visit to your apartment, the night of the crime, by a black man?”

Luciana lightly raised the cup to her lips. “I was trying to protect my husband. Foolishness on my part.”

“Protect him how?”

A resigned sigh. “From ridicule. Paulo was a very superstitious man . . . At times he would receive a . . . visitor . . . who would come to the apartment to do some macumba work . . . Since I don’t believe in those things, I asked Paulo to receive that individual when I was at our country home in Petropolis. That’s what happened that day. That, that—”

“Macumbeiro.”

“—macumbeiro, had known Paulo for many years. He wasn’t the one who killed my husband, I’m sure of that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I didn’t want it coming out in the papers that my husband was given to such vulgar practices.”

“He may be your husband’s killer. You’ve made us waste many days of investigation.”

“Why would he do something like that? My husband gave him all the money he asked for. Mr. Galvão said a thief killed my husband.”

“You said nothing was missing.”

“When I saw you, I hadn’t done an inventory of things that disappeared. There was a lot of jewelry. I have a list of it here.”

She handed the inspector the paper beside the tray.

“The only jewels left are these I’m wearing, which I had taken with me to Petropolis.” Mattos put the paper in his pocket.

“Do you know where I can find that macumba priest?”

“All I know is that he lives near Caxias, where he has a macumba site.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t.”

AT THE MEETING
of Aeronautics Club members held that Tuesday, instead of the four hundred officers at the August 6 meeting, there were more than two thousand, from every branch of the armed services. The attendance of higher-ranking officers—generals, brigadiers, admirals—had surprised everyone present.

Brigadier Eduardo Gomes spoke and received a standing ovation. His words were moderated compared to those of other military men who spoke. “In the sacrifice of this fearless life is symbolized the devotion of the military to the truths most dear to our civilization. It honors the glorious memory of Major Vaz. Let us pray that God will receive him in the peace of the just.”

Maritain was quoted by Major Jarbas Passarinho: “When authority loses its character of legality, it is not he who rises up against it who is illegal, but rather he who bows down to it.”

The military man has a single commitment, that of maintaining and defending the Constitution at the sacrifice of his own life, stated Brigadier Godofredo de Faria, who accused the executive power of extremism, the legislative power of sitting on its hands, and the judicial power of absenting itself. “We do not want to be mercenaries for a perverse and traitorous government. We generals are not complying with our duty. Let us be worthy of the uniforms we wear.”

The division of the country into forces that defended corruption, robbery, and assassination and forces that defended dignity and the fatherland was denounced by Colonel José Vaz da Silva, who appealed for unity among the armed forces to “crush the rattlesnake that has bitten the country for twenty-five years. We shall not hide behind some vague principle of indiscipline. Indiscipline was the movements of the Seventh of September, the Fifteenth of November, and the Twenty-ninth of October in our nation.” October 29 marked the day Vargas was forced to resign, in 1945, in a military coup led by the then secretary of war, General Góes Monteiro. Vaz da Silva concluded his words with an entreaty to Brigadier Eduardo Gomes to once again feel the youthful ecstasy that had impelled him to march from Copacabana Fort in 1922.

Colonel Adyl, who had solicited the secretary of justice to confer police power on the air force men who were taking part in the Tonelero investigation, listened ill at ease to Air Force Colonel Ubirajara Alvim declare, in a fantastic and unlikely account, that he had dressed as a tramp to investigate on his own and had arrested Tomé de Souza, brother of Nelson Raimundo de Souza, who drove the car of the killer. Tomé, it was alleged, had told him that the crime had been ordered by Deputy Lutero Vargas. “It is essential to arrest that music-hall deputy.” His testimony created a sensation among those present.

The only voice raised in defense of the government, received with cold hostility, was that of Air Force Colonel Hélio Costa. The death of Major Vaz, according to the colonel, had provoked spurious demonstrations; when he was killed, Major Vaz was not carrying out an official mission, nor was he in uniform; the offense of the murder hadn’t been directed at the air force; adventurers were trying to lead the armed forces to disorder and indiscipline.

The grumbles following Hélio Costa’s words were replaced by applause when an army captain, after terming as unquestioned leaders Brigadier Eduardo Gomes and General Juarez Távora, exclaimed: “Let us leave to our chiefs the hour of decision!”

Finally, the assembly resolved to invite the lawyer Evandro Lins e Silva to lend legal assistance, as part of the prosecution, to Major Vaz’s family.

AROUND MIDNIGHT
, Senator Freitas received a phone call from a “palace friend,” saying that President Vargas was rumored to have met secretly that night with his family and some close friends, among them his son-in-law Amaral Peixoto and Secretary Oswaldo Aranha, in his daughter Alzira’s apartment on Avenida Rui Barbosa. The objective of the meeting was to discuss the political situation in the country. The meetings held that morning between the secretaries and the Army High Command were discussed. Vargas was thought to have said that he considered the situation grave and added that he would resign, if necessary, to avoid a civil war in the country. The consensus among those present had been that the president shouldn’t give in to the government’s political enemies pushing for a coup.

“Thank you, Lourival,” said Freitas, hanging up the phone.

eleven

ALICE AND PEDRO LOMAGNO
lived in a spacious mansion on Avenida Oswaldo Cruz that had belonged to his father.

Alice was first to arrive at the breakfast area. The pantryman, as always, had set the table for two and was serving Alice when Lomagno entered. He was dressed for tennis and had a racket in his hand. He greeted Alice, kissing her affectionately on the cheek, put the racket away on the buffet, and sat down on the opposite side of the table.

“Has the
Correio da Manhã
arrived yet?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the pantryman. “I’ll bring it right away.”

The pantryman brought the newspaper. Lomagno picked up the silver coffeepot and placed it in front of him. He folded the paper and rested it against the coffeepot. He read as he spread jam on a piece of toast.

From the other side of the table, Alice saw only her husband’s forehead and carefully combed hair. Lomagno folded and unfolded the paper several times as he ate, looking for items that interested him, without even once glancing at his wife. When he finished, he rose from the table, picked up the tennis racket.

“I may have to make a trip abroad.”

“May I ask where you’re going?”

“Europe.”

“Europe has lots of countries.”

“France. Any more questions?”

“Are you taking that woman?”

“What woman?”

“You know very well what woman.”

“I’m going by myself.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Have you been to the doctor this week? Are you taking your medicines?”

“I’m fine.” Pause. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“What is it, dear?”

“I told that police inspector friend of mine that you were Luciana Gomes Aguiar’s lover.” Alice’s voice quivered.

Lomagno spun the handle of the racket in his hand, as tennis players do. But his expression remained impassive.

“I didn’t know you had police inspector friends,” said Lomagno calmly.

“Alberto Mattos. He was my boyfriend.”

“Ah, yes, I know.” Lomagno knew that Mattos was investigating the murder of Paulo Gomes Aguiar. He looked at Alice, interested in seeing the reactions on her face.

“Where did you two meet?”

“At his apartment.” The tremor in her voice had subsided, now that she was taking revenge against her husband, and she felt pleasure in it. She would feel even greater pleasure if he lost that disturbing tranquility.

“What did he say? The policeman? Did he ask any questions?”

“No.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re an idiot. Why’d you do such a thing?”

“He asked if a Negro frequented our house,” exclaimed Alice, hoping without reason to destroy the control displayed by her husband.

Lomagno turned his back on Alice and left without looking back.

LUCIANA GOMES AGUIAR
was waiting for Lomagno at the Country Club, in Ipanema, seated at one of the tables around the pool, dressed for tennis. Luciana was nervous, as they had agreed after Gomes Aguiar’s death to go a few days without seeing each other and had merely spoken by phone.

“I paid the doorman not to say anything, but the fool couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

“Love, I had told you we could use the macumba priest as cover.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“The rabble can’t ever be trusted. There’s only one type of people worse than the rich: the poor.” Many nouveaux riches were emerging in society, and Pedro and Luciana detested the vulgarity of those
arrivistes
.

“It so happens that the macumba priest is a blunderer incapable of keeping dates straight. Remember, he was in your apartment the night before, on the 30th. It’s easy to confuse things; I’ll take care of that. I’m going to see the inspector. I think the time has come to face him. I’ll confirm to him the story of the macumba priest. If necessary, I’ll speak of Alice’s health problems . . .”

“But we have to get rid of that doorman. Chicão can handle that. He adores you, he does anything you ask . . .”

“I’m going to call him now,” said Lomagno. “We can’t waste any time.”

Lomagno returned after a few moments.

“Everything’s taken care of. Now let’s play our match.”

“Today I’m going to beat you,” said Luciana.

“No doubt. You’re getting better all the time. But don’t think for a minute that I’m going to throw the match.”

Having found a solution to the problem, they turned their attention to the center tennis court, which had been reserved for them.

EVERY TUESDAY
Salete would go downtown to look at the displays in the high-fashion shops. Though some of the dresses in the A Imperial and A Moda caught her attention, she only tried on a little jersey dress she saw in the window of A Capital. But she felt the dress looked better on the mannequin than on her body.

“I know my face is ugly, but I have a perfect body. If this dress looks bad on me, just imagine the average woman.”

“Your face is also very pretty,” replied the saleswoman.

“I have a mirror at home, dearie, so don’t think that by flattering me you’re going to sell this dress with a defect in the sleeve. As a saleswoman you should’ve seen that.”

“It looks very nice on you,” said the woman, ignoring Salete’s aggressive tone.

“You really think so?”

“It’s wonderful on you.”

Salete tried several poses in front of the mirror before deciding to buy the dress. Happily carrying the brightly wrapped package from the shop, taking care to avoid wrinkling its contents, she walked to the minibus stop in Carioca Square, a short distance from A Capital. She boarded the first one for Copacabana. While the vehicle remained at the stop, waiting for passengers, Salete looked out the window. Across from her was a low-end fabric shop. A woman was coming out of the shop. When she saw her, Salete, frightened, ducked down in the seat, her head almost touching her knees. She felt dizzy, as if about to faint. It can’t be her, she thought.

She cautiously raised her head and took another look. The woman was standing there, as if she didn’t know where to go. It was her, all right, the wretched woman hadn’t died! My God, she’s blacker and uglier than ever!

Finding out that her mother was still alive made Salete’s heart ache with unhappiness. What if Luiz saw her? Worse yet, what if the black woman were to show up someday in front of Alberto and say, “I’m Salete’s mother”? She crouched down again in the seat, afraid her mother would look toward the bus and see her inside.

The bus finally pulled away, heading for Rua Senador Dantas. When it stopped at the corner of Evaristo da Veiga, Salete kneeled on the seat and looked back. Relieved, she saw that the ghost of her mother had disappeared. A tall, muscular black man carrying a package crossed the street, signaling to the bus driver. He got on and took the only empty seat, in the rear, having to bend over to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling.

Until a few minutes earlier that man had been in the Cassio Muniz store, where he had bought, on the installment plan, a .32-caliber Smith & Wesson, for 520 cruzeiros a month, and a French
MAB
pistol, 7.65, with a ten-bullet clip, for only 220 a month. The total price didn’t matter; credit accounts were invented precisely so no one would have that type of concern. He had thought of also buying a Winchester .22 carbine but decided against it. He already owned a 12-gauge shotgun, a veritable lethal jewel with silver engraving on the butt and the breech housing.

Chicão—that was the Negro’s name—had been contracted by Pedro Lomagno to kill Raimundo, the doorman at the Deauville Building. He planned to do so that evening. But first he would take the firearms he had bought for temporary storage in the home of a woman he slept with from time to time, on Rua Almirante Tamandaré, not far from the Deauville.

CHICÃO HAD MET PEDRO LOMAGNO
in January 1946, at the Boqueirão do Passeio club on Santa Luzia. Two years earlier he had been drafted into military service and incorporated into the Ninth Engineering Battalion, one of the first units of the
FEB
, the Brazilian Expeditionary Forces, to go to Italy, in July 1944, and one of the last to return, on October 3, 1945. He had risen to the rank of corporal. Chicão had enjoyed the war. He’d never eaten so well in his life; the Brazilian soldiers had access to the abundant resources and services of the American Fourth Army. The rations, the cigarettes, and everything else he received facilitated his relationship with the Italian
ragazze
. For a pack of cigarettes or a chocolate bar he had gotten some good pieces of ass. The possibility of dying didn’t worry him, and after seeing two comrades die beside him, one hit by mortar fire from the
tedeschi
and the other blown apart by a booby trap, without anything happening to him, Chicão had come to the conclusion that he was invulnerable. His athletic build had led to his being called to serve as sparring partner for American colleagues and take part in boxing exhibitions. He had fucked and boxed and disarmed landmines and not caught gonorrhea like everyone else and all that without breaking his delicate white man’s nose and without getting blown apart: yes, the war had been a good thing. People died suddenly in war, but didn’t they also die that way in São João de Meriti, where he lived?

Demobilization and the return to Brazil had been the worst thing ever to happen to him. He soon spent the money he had saved and needed to find a job. Before being drafted, Chicão had worked in construction. But now he considered that service unworthy of a man with his experience. A former private, a comrade from his regiment, told him the Boqueirão do Passeio club was looking for a boxing instructor.

He appeared at the club wearing a wool-lined American military jacket and black ankle-high boots with thick laces and soles of hard rubber that he called
batbut
, the combat boot of the field uniform worn by enlisted men. Along with a German steel helmet and a Walther pistol, the boots and the jacket were his trophies of war. After a quick interview with Kid Earthquake, a former Rio de Janeiro middleweight champion who ran the Boqueirão do Passeio boxing school, Chicão was hired. Two days later, he and Pedro Lomagno became acquainted. Lomagno had decided to learn to box, and the club was conveniently near the office of his father’s coffee exporting firm, on Avenida Graça Aranha, where Pedro was doing an internship in preparation for one day taking over the businesses of the elder Lomagno.

Pedro and Chicão were the same age, twenty-two. Each immediately felt an attraction to the other. Lomagno, who was a taciturn and introverted youth, admired Chicão’s enthusiasm and joie de vivre. Chicão respected the education, wealth, and whiteness of the other man.

For a year, they saw each other three times a week at the gym. Despite the intimate relationship established between them, they never socialized. Pedro’s parents would not have accepted a friendship with a Negro, and his friends would have thought it quite strange if he showed up with Chicão at the elegant parties he frequented. With the death of his father, Pedro Lomagno assumed the family business and stopped going to the Boqueirão. But that didn’t mean he abandoned his friend. He hired Chicão to oversee the coffee warehouse in his firm, on Avenida Rodrigues Alves. But Chicão lacked the necessary qualities for that job. Lomagno gave him the money to open his own boxing school. After some months of loss, and feeling uncomfortable asking his sponsor for more money, Chicão decided to close down the school. Pedro Lomagno, who missed the boxing matches because his body was starting to acquire an undesirable flaccidity around the waist, appeared at the gymnasium in the Rio Comprido district the day that Chicão was removing from the façade the plaque bearing the name Brazilian Boxing Academy.

“What happened?”

“I failed. I’m not even making enough to pay the rent on this damned place.”

“You should’ve talked to me.”

“I was too embarrassed.”

Lomagno went into the gymnasium. It was six p.m., and the space was dark. A single lightbulb, at the entrance to the dressing room, was burning.

“Turn on all the lights,” Lomagno said.

The ring, official size, stood out in the middle of the gym.

“You got trunks and gloves for me?”

“Here there’s everything you need. Even helmets.”

“Let’s fight without helmets.”

They fought vigorously, until Lomagno tired. It had been a long time since Lomagno had felt that sensation of well-being.

“I was missing that.” The two were naked, in the dressing room. The nudity of the sweating muscular bodies imparted a sense of confidence, partnership, complicity. They went into the shower. The water made Chicão’s body even blacker. In contrast, Lomagno’s skin, even after the violent exercise, continued pale, as if his powerful muscles were made of marble.

“Ask the owner of the gym how much he wants for it. I’m going to buy it for you.”

“It won’t do any good to buy it. Know how many students I had? Two.”

“How many would you like to have?”

“At least twenty.”

“You’ve got the twenty.”

“I do?”

“I’ll be your twenty students.”

Chicão bought the gymnasium, with money lent by Lomagno. They made an agreement: Chicão would have no other students. Twice a week, Lomagno would leave his office in the afternoon, without telling anyone where he was going, to train at the gym, now deserted and closed, on Rua Barão Itapagibe, in Rio Comprido.

NOW, IN THE BUS
, Chicão was thinking of the phone call from Lomagno and making his plans for that night. What Lomagno had asked of him was a piece of cake; anybody could do it with one hand tied behind his back.

He let the bus pass Rua Almirante Tamandaré and got out at Rua Tucumã. He walked past the seat where Salete was sitting, without looking at her; immersed in her concerns, she in turn failed to notice him.

He went up Tucumã to Rua Senador Vergueiro, from which he continued to Machado Square. He knew no one was following him, but he acted as if that might happen. From Machado Square he went to Almirante Tamandaré.