Authors: Patricia Melo
But I was spending everything, I couldn't control myself. Serafina had asked me for money to visit her tribe, I paid for the visit. My father-in-law asked for money to repair his roof, I paid for the repair. Don't say anything to Sulamita, he said. And afterward he asked for more money, I didn't really understand for what, and I gave it to him. Later he said he was going to build a room in the rear, for Sulamita and me, and I gave him more money. If my father asks you for money, don't give it to him, warned Sulamita. I suspect, she said, that my father has a second family. She spoke too
late: the old man had already gotten a good piece of dough for his lover. If he actually had a lover.
Even today, when I close my eyes, I remember that weekend. We only left the room to hike trails and swim. I spent the morning floating in the lake, feeling the sun on my body, and after lunch we would sleep and make love. Sulamita sometimes left to go horseback riding, but I stayed in the room, thinking that everything was going to be all right, over. Not everything, over. Be careful, over. My premonitions, I thought, were a false alarm. They're real, over. Be careful. They're not real, I repeated. After all, who wouldn't be impressed at seeing so much suffering? Good thing, I thought, that it was Rita who suffered, that it was Carlão who suffered, that it was Dona Lu who suffered, over. Better them than me, I thought. So far everything is fine, I thought. I'm safe in that bedroom with blue curtains, with everything blue like the blue sky outside. Black, over.
When we returned on Sunday night we found Sulamita's mother saddened. Rita went away, she said with a disconsolate expression. She said to give you a hug. I really like that girl, my mother-in-law said, she was so patient with Regina.
Did she leave a letter? I asked.
No, just a hug.
I left there devastated, feeling like crap. How could I have treated the pregnant Rita that way? I didn't know where to look for her, and the absurd idea occurred to me of asking for Carlão's help. I even called my cousin, but I hung up when he answered the phone in a drunken voice. Carlão had been drinking lately. And crying at the door of his ex-wife. That's what I was told.
That night I sat out in front of the workshop, hoping she would appear. Time passed, and in the darkness, as I looked at the deserted street and the line of telephone poles, all
that existed was a strange silence that only allowed me to hear my heart throbbing in my head.
It was already getting light when I went to my room. And as soon as I lay down, the shouting began. Fuck them, I thought, burying my head under the pillows.
I didn't get up until I heard the sirens.
I went downstairs just as I was, in shorts, without a shirt. Moacir had given Eliana a beating; it must be the thing in Corumbá to beat your wife. That was how couples got along, by beatings. Drawing blood.
Two policemen were talking, leaning against the patrol car, while two other cops, inside the house, were trying to defuse the situation.
I stood there, tense, disguising my feelings with small talk, thinking only about the drugs.
He's a good guy, I said.
There's women who deserve being slapped around, agreed one of the cops.
Some of 'em even like it, said the other.
We laughed, and I thought the matter would end there. But then one of the cops inside the house came out and asked for handcuffs.
We found ten kilos of powder here with the perp, he said.
Ten kilos. Almost ten kilos.
What world does a dead man belong to? T'other world.
What world does money belong to? This world.
CHARLES DICKENS
Our Mutual Friend
How much you got? asked Ramirez.
We were back on the veranda of his factory, in Puerto Suárez. The sewers in that region are exposed, and the stench of excrement filled the air. I felt dizzy, I had gotten lost on the way, right, left, right, left again, trying to remember the route taken on my first visit, but I got mixed up, I took chances more than once and got confused, I had to return to downtown and phone Juan, write down the directions, and now there I was, feeling awkward, sweating, it's going to end up in shit, over.
Juan listened to our conversation while he taught two women how to work the press. A third woman, younger and fatter, used an electric clipper to cut Ramirez's hair very short so that his shock of black hair stood up like the bristles of a broom.
Be clear, insisted Ramirez. I hate it when anybody starts with “I think.” I wanna know exactly how much you've got to give me.
I didn't have anything, I'd spent it all. Moacir, when I visited him in prison the day before, had said the same thing, nothing, he'd spent everything, paying creditors, nothing, nothing was left, he'd said. Installments on the refrigerator, the television, the washing machine; Moacir's house looked like the showroom of an appliance store. All because of that bitch, he had said. I do everything to please the woman and it doesn't do any good, she's cuckolding me, I found a note
from the butcher setting up a meeting with her behind the butcher shop. “I love you too” was in the note, Moacir had said, shaken.
I had gone to see him to talk about our problem, to ask Moacir to keep his mouth shut, to not get me involved in anything, and also to see what we could do about Ramirez, but Moacir was only concerned with Eliana, he'd gone crazy over the fact of his wife being in love with the butcher. If Alceu wrote “I love you too,” he said, emphasizing the word
too
, it's because Eliana's been telling him “I love you.” Don't you think?
I tried to bring him back to reality. How are we going to get you out of here? I asked more than once. I'd rather be a prisoner than see Eliana with Alceu, he replied. How can I look people in the eye? My neighbors? What are they gonna say? And my kids?
Fuck Eliana, I told Moacir. Kick the bitch out. On top of everything else she's ugly as sin.
Ugly? Eliana? Moacir didn't like hearing that, he was the only one who could bad-mouth his obese dwarf. Don't offend Eliana, he answered. Eliana is my life, and it's not even her fault. I know my wife, she wouldn't fall for a cross-eye like Alceu, who's all the time hauling goat on his back. The butcher shop is the thing. She's in love with the butcher shop. I keep wondering, is the butcher shop really his?
Now, in front of Ramirez, I made an effort to understand what was being said, our conversation wasn't fluent, I was nervous and several times my Spanish tripped over my ideas, I got confused, and to make matters worse, the noise of the electric clippers also got in the way. What? I repeated, uncertain, what're you saying?
Is Porco deaf? Ramirez said, exasperated, and Juan was forced to put the press aside and use his Portunhol to translate the trafficker's words.
It's very simple, Ramirez said, Moacir told me your wife works for the police, isn't that right? Talk to your wife, tell her to give back the confiscated drugs. I stumbled over that part, it never entered my head to put Sulamita in the middle of things. The first thing that occurred to me was that I was an idiot; how could I ever have relied on Moacir? We think the devil comes in the back door, that he comes with your enemies, but the truth is that we ourselves open the door to him the moment we trust someone. Goddamn Indian. Blabbermouth. What's the name of your wife? asked Ramirez. Ex-wife, I replied. Ex, I repeated, I'm separated, actually we weren't married, just lovers. She worked in the precinct as an administrative assistant, I explained, but now she's at the morgue.
Ah, Porco, that's gotta be why you were caught, concluded Ramirez. I'm gonna tell you something: you shouldn't have separated. No woman likes a kick in the ass. She ratted you out. That's what happened.
I didn't kick anybody in the ass, I said, and I wasn't caught. Moacir was arrested, not me.
I don't give a shit what happened, Ramirez said. You're costing me money.
Ramirez spoke without looking at me, gazing only at the mirror in his hands. The front part of his hair was already looking like a perfect brush, but the back part hadn't been trimmed yet and appeared more like a vulture's wing.
Just look at the situation you're putting me in, Porco. You showed up here, took ten kilos on consignment.
Five, I said. Ten, he insisted, it was part of our agreement to deliver the other five in Corumbá. And that didn't happen. Twice my runner tried to pick up the drugs, which were gonna be taken to Araraquara, and Moacir wasn't there. And now you tell me the shipment got seized. And
that you don't have no way to pay. When your girlfriend blew the whistle on us â Hold on, I interrupted, she didn't blow the whistle on anybody. I told him about the argument between Moacir and his wife. It was because of the fight that the police showed up, I insisted, there wasn't any squealing. Of course there was. It was your girlfriend.
Now the hair-clipping machine seemed to be inside my head, cutting into my thoughts. I was sweating, soaking my work shirt. I'm going to have to make a stop at home before returning to the Barabas', I thought.
Let's continue the conversation, he said. First: Moacir has to keep his trap shut, 'cause if he talks, I fear for his life. Guys who talk a lot, I hear, die hung in their cells. A shame, but it happens. Second: you two owe me fifty thousand dollars. Thirty for the product and twenty for the loss. And third: I'll give you a month, not a day longer, to come up with the money. I'm doing you a favor. I like Moacir. Fourth: if you don't pay, be very clear about it, I'll go to your home and kill you. You worthless Porco, I'll kill your girlfriend, her relatives, I'll kill Moacir's family and feel avenged. Now get outta here so I can cut my hair in peace.
On the road back, I felt totally discouraged: you're fucked, over. Where am I going to find fifty thousand dollars? I had an enormous desire to be with Rita, on a boat, listening to the sound of the water. Where must Rita be?
On the radio they said that N.K., an Englishwoman, cashier at a supermarket, had just won two million pounds in the lottery, which is almost eight million in our currency. A pity, I thought, that it happened to N.K. and not to me. Really bad things, I thought â and really good things â only happen to others. Only others have their heads cut off by the blades of a helicopter. Only others lose almost everything in the stock market. On the other hand, only others make
a killing in the stock market. Or the lottery. Only others. Life is others, I thought. Others. We, the rest, remain here, seeing and hearing about their lives in celebrity magazines and the news on TV.
My only solution, I thought as I passed a truck that was falling apart, my only solution is Dona Lu. What if I had a talk with her? What if I told her the truth? Dona Lu was always saying she liked me. She likes you to drive her car, over. To open and close doors. To say thank you, yes ma'am. Certainly. If I were Junior, I thought, she'd pay. You're not Junior, over. Junior is the others, over. Them. The ones who have helicopters. The drugs, though, were Junior's, I thought to myself. I mean, not specifically those drugs, but the ones before, the ones that had already been sold. In a way, Junior was involved in my imbroglio. Thinking about it, if not for Junior I wouldn't be in that mess.
At home, when I changed clothes, already late for work, I saw I didn't have any money. I climbed into the crawl space to get the last few bills Moacir had given me before his arrest. And there I saw Junior's backpack.
I got it, dumped the contents on my bed: credit cards, key ring, ID card, driver's license. I looked at the photos in the documents. Good-looking guy, Junior. Handsome. I put on the sunglasses and went to look at myself in the mirror. Only they are born rich. The Juniors. Only they crash in their private planes.
I turned on the cell phone.
You have new messages
appeared on the screen. Enter your code, said the recording. I tried the day and year of Junior's birth. Nothing. The messages were released when I typed part of his ID number. Son, said Dona Lu, what time are you arriving? Your father wants to have dinner earlier, he's traveling tomorrow. Call me. I love you, my dear. Another message, from Daniela, his girlfriend:
Hi, love. Gil invited us to his house today. Ricky and Laura are going too. Gabi's here also. When you get in, call me at home.
The other messages were from Dona Lu, and it was obvious they'd been left after the accident. Actually, they were nothing but sobs, moans, a throbbing pain that penetrated the soul like a sharp object. If I had to define the moment when the idea of blackmailing Dona Lu first entered my head, I'd say it was then, in bed, listening to those recordings. My sensation was that something came to the surface at that moment, a part of me submerged in the depths of my swamp, the evil, over. And what if you blackmail the family, over? What if you say you know where the body is? And ask for money in exchange for the body? Over.
I liked Dona Lu a lot, but that didn't keep me from having that horrible idea. That, I thought, is nothing but pure iniquity, and I'm a good person. If I'm not good, I thought, at least I'm not the worst. I'm a regular type. Almost good. I'm neutral, to tell the truth. I always sin. Yes, I did push that telemarketer into the abyss. With a slap. Yes, I had an affair with my cousin's wife. I've lied a lot in my life. But I don't do certain things. I don't kill. I don't steal. I'm incapable of taking advantage of a mother's pain. Or blackmailing a mother who's suffering. Money, over. From the cadaver of her own son. Opportunity, over. A mother you know and who's called Dona Lu. Fifty thousand dollars, over. If that vileness was inside me, trying to break out, I would put an end to it.