The Mystery of Rio (11 page)

Therein lies the genius of the building, whose form discovers the character of those who inhabited it. The side seen from the street, while classic and elegant, does not have the grace of the rear façade in three planes, which overlooks the garden, and whose intimacy is invisible to passersby because of its position behind a wall of leafy trees.

A visitor entering the lobby would head straight to the imposing staircase, which, after reaching a half landing, divided into two flights, one to the right and one to the left, leading to the second floor. All of this was lit by a huge skylight with a stained-glass dome.

It was below this staircase, across from the oval room on the first floor, that the exit (or entrance) to the secret tunnel was located, excavated to connect the Marquise's House to the Quinta da Boa Vista Palace. It was in this tunnel that Dr. Zmuda created an impromptu wine cellar. And this was the wine cellar where the prostitute Fortunata took the bottle of wine on the day of the secretary's death.

As I already mentioned, all illicit activity took place upstairs, therefore it is there that our story resumes.

On that day, the House of Swaps was receiving couples. To provoke the senses—and ensure confidentiality—light was kept at a minimum, except for the natural light from the skylight, and a few gaps in the curtains allowing in a faint stream from the street. Pairs arrived in cabs or rented carriages. As per the rules, the drivers were instructed to leave immediately. The housemaid, an inconspicuous girl, stood in the garden in front of the iron stairs leading to the second floor with a candle in hand as she greeted the visitors.

When Baeta arrived with his wife, Guiomar, it was still early. They followed the receptionist up the stairs to the oval room. It was there that the guests were prepared before entering into the house proper.

The expert and his wife stripped naked, handing their clothes to the girl with the candle, who placed them behind a folding screen so as not to be recognized by others. He donned a robe, and she a slightly sheer tunic, in the style of a Greek maenad.

Although there were rare exceptions, Madame Brigitte and Dr. Zmuda preferred that couples always kept their identities concealed in public spaces. To that end, they provided guests with special hoods of very soft silk, reminiscent of the executioners of old. They could be adjusted with an elastic band, and exposed only the eyes and mouth, with a discreet opening at the nose. There was also enough space in the hoods for women with large manes to wear their hair loose.

In the front hall, there were already half a dozen couples, besides the hosts and a few nurses (the only ones who always kept their faces uncovered). In general, people drank and talked, getting drunker and drunker and breaking out into groups, and then proceeded into the nearby rooms.

Baeta took an interest in a lady, apparently young, probably blonde, whose skin, even in the dim light, seemed extremely fair. Guiomar, for her part, tried to distract the man so that Baeta and the blonde could make the arrangements alone. That was their game: Guiomar was a fierce and jealous woman, unaware of her husband's adventures, who would never stand for an affair, and who could not even suspect, for example, the existence of a flag-bearer on Favela Hill.

And yet, she loved to see him with other women, especially the white ones, which was when his powers of seduction became most evident. Therefore, she consented. Therefore, she looked forward to their visits to the House of Swaps, where Baeta could show off his virility, which so enraptured her.

However, Guiomar would never allow anyone to touch her. Not only because this was a condition set by her husband, but because she felt better that way, as though she were worth more, knowing that she belonged to just one man, a man who could have any woman.

Things had begun well enough that night; that is, until something seemed to irk the expert—a new couple had just arrived, and Baeta heard a familiar greeting:

“Evening, boss!”

The greeting was addressed to the doctor, the owner of the House, who responded in a familiar tone. There could be no doubt concerning the identity of the newcomer: the timbre of the voice, the subtle body movements, and especially the insolent manner he had of blowing cigarette smoke. Aniceto was the last person Baeta expected to meet at the House of Swaps.

Everyone noticed Baeta's anxiety as he excused himself and pulled the Polish doctor aside.

“This guy may be implicated in the secretary's death!”

Dr. Zmuda was always discreet, but the vehemence with which Baeta addressed him, and the fact that he was police, led him to talk.

“He is the widow Palhares' guest. They've been here several times before. The nurses love him.”

Baeta had never noticed the capoeira's presence there before. He insisted that the man was a lowlife who preyed on women, and that he had just led an honest woman to kill her husband. He was also probably involved in some very shady dealings because it was inconceivable that a mere typographer's apprentice could have so many opportunities to meet and conquer rich lovers. The doctor looked surprised:

“From what I understand, he works on Ouvidor Street, at La Parisienne. He is Madame Montfort's right arm.”

So that was Aniceto's secret: he had found a job at a store that sold luxury items in order to seduce society ladies. But even if this helped explain the question of opportunity, it still could not elucidate the fascination the capoeira exercised over the female sex—a phenomenon that extended even to prostitutes.

The expert also did not understand why the capoeira had omitted this fact—his “working” at Madame Montfort's establishment—which would have been enough to have the charge of vagrancy against him dismissed in his latest encounter with the police.

Dr. Zmuda interrupted the conversation, pointing to a group that was getting up. Baeta and Guiomar accompanied the other couples to a room that had once been the Marquise's dressing room. There was a bed at the center and benches against the walls for observers.

Onto the bed climbed Aniceto, the young widow Palhares, and another, very tall lady, who was there for the third time but who had only been a spectator until then.

Brazen, and forceful, the capoeira put on a show. The two women, in a sudden surge of desire, were completely tamed by him; he orchestrated every action, every initiative. However varied his movements, at no time—and perhaps this is where his great artistry lay—did their bodies lose contact. There was some shyness, some reticence on their part. The two tried to disguise their excitement and pleasure, as if everything were unfolding by chance.

Baeta noticed a detail that might have escaped the others: Aniceto never ignored the widow, but he also never looked straight into her eyes. The high point of the night was when he, with a gesture of contempt and dismissiveness, held her by the hair and made her explore, with her mouth, the entire body of the tall woman—who suddenly overcame her shyness and offered herself up, swearing all the while.

Lastly, the audience watched yet another impressive feat: putting the tall woman in a supine position and openly turning his back to Palhares, he brought them to simultaneous orgasms, entering the first one with force, while stretching his arms to caress the widow.

That earlier comment by the doctor about Aniceto's success with the nurses, and the great excitement he had just observed in his own wife, definitely shook the expert's pride. Guiomar, however, did not perceive this slight change in his mood, and the couple returned to the salon because she insisted on a drink.

When the rogue walked by arm-in-arm with Palhares, recomposed and smiling, Guiomar's quick swerve in his direction did not escape Baeta.

 

In almost every crime novel in which the investigator is the protagonist, there is an element of improbability seldom noticed: the investigators seem to have nothing else to do, no other cases to solve other than the one central to the story. This, of course, is a mistake.

In this novel—constructed from real events—the policemen have plenty of work to do, especially because the action takes place in Rio de Janeiro, a city prone to very sophisticated crimes.

And that is why officers of the First District, accompanied by the first lieutenant, were obliged to put aside work related to this book's plot to perform an investigation at the piers.

In the early morning hours, some boatmen found the body of a teenage female floating in the bay, her hands tied behind her back with strips of thick denim. When they returned to report the discovery, they saw, a few meters away, hitting up against the pier's ladder, the corpse of an adult man with his hands tied in the same way, with the same type of fabric.

Baeta appeared on site and concluded (foreshadowing the coroner's report) that the two had been drowned no more than four days earlier. They were probably immobilized and thrown into the water from the pier itself. And he concluded that the strips of denim came from the same pair of pants. The only problem was there was no apparent connection between the victims, especially because he lived in Niterói, and she in Itaguaí.

The police considered it almost impossible for anyone to have murdered those people at that location without being seen or heard, because the victims most likely cried out for help. It must, therefore, have been a group job. And the immediate suspicion fell on the stevedores or other dockworkers. At least, that was the opinion of Officer Mixila.

“This area, lieutenant, especially at night, is frequented by a bunch of bums.”

What the officer said was true. And Mixila went further: such a murder could only have been committed by hired assassins—the type that threaten witnesses.

“We still haven't rid ourselves of the scourge of capoeiras.”

At that moment, everyone agreed with Mixila's thesis, especially the first lieutenant. And soon thereafter they decided to pay a visit to the pier, to round up some suspects: street thugs and capoeiras that could be found there every night, participating in the well-known
pernada
sparring circles.

That was the First District's sense of justice. I am not sure we can blame them, because revenge—the basis of the legal systems of the Talion and Hammurabi, for example—is perhaps the most ancient of prehistoric man's sentiments; perhaps it is our most legitimate and inalienable right. And even Yahweh was taken up by this impulse, in the episode that culminated with the peopling of Earth.

Those policemen did not have to be convinced of any of this, though they had arrived at their conclusions by other means. Their conversation was confidential, as, by the way, were all the conversations of the Brotherhood of Mauá Square, when planning any operation that did not strictly follow procedures or comply with the law.

That is why Baeta, someone close to the investigation, who had personally examined the crime scene, did not hear of the plan. If he had, he would not have gone back to the pier at night, as he had intended to do since the previous Thursday, when he recognized the capoeira at the House of Swaps.

For the reader, it is easy to understand the expert's intentions. Although he had no proof (because he did not want to endure the shame of going back to Favela Hill), he was convinced that the flag-bearer had dumped him due to Aniceto's interference. And as if that were not enough, the
malandro
was now a great celebrity at Dr. Zmuda's parties—not to mention that he had aroused the curiosity (and perhaps the interest) of Guiomar.

Vanity leads men like these to extremes. Baeta was counting on catching Aniceto in some criminal act. What's more, he was itching (consciously, even) for some type of resistance, for a skirmish where shots might be exchanged. In such a situation, he would not hesitate to aim a gun at his rival.

The piers in Rio de Janeiro at nighttime are a deserted, gloomy place, and are therefore full of danger. But those who visit them after dark see very little: everything bad or illegal that may occur on the docks is concealed inside the warehouses.

That night was no different. Lit by only two or three candles, a dozen men had been gathered since early morning between stacks of boxes and burlap bags, drinking cachaça and sparring for keeps. Among them, of course, was Aniceto.

A feature of the true
pernada
—which cannot exist in any state but one of illegality—is that there is no singing or clapping. Time is only kept by an abstract, corporal rhythm that manifests itself by the shuffling of feet.

The game is simple: a man stands still, awaiting the blow, which could be in that circle, a sweep, a
banda
, a
tapona
, or a
cocada
. He has to hold his ground or dodge; what he cannot do is fall to the ground. The other
malandro
comes shaking his hips, circling, as though dancing samba in front of his standing adversary, waiting for an opportunity, when the opponent's defenses are down, to apply the blow.

It was precisely at such a moment that the police broke up the circle. They gave no warning; a shotgun blast blew the lock open.

“Everyone on the ground!”

To the frustration of the police, however, no one resisted. As it happened, no one was even carrying a gun, or cash—bets were made with toothpicks, and could only be traded in the next day. The warehouse foreman, who also played, came up with the strategy himself.

“They were tipped off, lieutenant.”

It was, in essence, an attempt to console themselves, because the facts did not look good for the police. First, because the crime of
capoeiragem
could only be charged if practiced in a public place; second, because the officers had just endangered the property of several merchants—the warehouse gate had been blasted open.

Still, they arrested just about everyone for questioning. And then, just as they were leaving, the police and the street toughs noticed Baeta approach. He had been prowling the neighborhood, trying to surprise the capoeira, and was attracted by the noise.