If I Close My Eyes Now (20 page)

Paulo took off his shirt, wrapped it round two of the barbs, and slipped through the space. Eduardo passed the bikes through. As soon as Paulo had taken them, he held the strands apart for Eduardo. Then they walked in the shade of the trees, the bike tyres and their feet thudding gently on dry leaves and rotten, greying mangoes. They still did not say a word to each other, until a slightly acrid smell hit Eduardo’s nostrils.

‘Can you smell that?’

‘What?’

‘That smell. Don’t you notice anything?’

They entered the bamboo grove. Instead of the usual coolness of the green tunnel, an acrid odour filled the air. Flakes of ash floated round them. The further they advanced, the more of them there were. Throwing down their bikes, the two boys rushed to the end of the tunnel, where the bright blue gleam of water was no longer visible.

When they emerged into the clearing, they came to a shocked halt.

All round the lake, from the bamboo grove to the sugar cane plantation, from the undergrowth on the right to the
mango trees stretching out to the left, what before had been a mixture of green grass, bushes, tree stumps and wild flowers had become a black, desolate, smoking circle. Someone had burned off all the vegetation.

The paradise they had known was destroyed.

The policeman loaded the heavy photographic enlarger into the back of the jeep, together with the developing trays, then went to sit in the driver’s seat. Another policeman came out of the front door of the dentist’s house, struggling to carry a trunk that was too big for his short arms. As he turned to thrust it into the vehicle, he lost his balance. The wooden chest slipped out of his grasp and fell, opening and spilling its contents out between pavement and road. The other policeman immediately jumped down and helped his colleague pick up papers, photographs and X-rays. One of them cursed. They closed the trunk again and put it on the floor of the car, wiped their hands on a piece of cloth, got into the jeep and drove off. It wasn’t long before the neighbours left their windows and doorways to return to their empty afternoon routines.

It was only then that Ubiratan came over. He wanted to get into the house to start a new search. He had almost reached the gate when he saw that a third policeman had been left on guard inside. He walked on past. He would follow Sister Maria Rosa’s suggestion and visit the cemetery. All he needed to know was where to look.

His attention was caught by a piece of paper emerging from a puddle. It rose to the surface. He bent down and picked up the rectangle, the size of a notebook. As the dirty water ran off it, he could see dozens of small images. It was a photo contact sheet. It showed shots of a young blonde woman, surrounded by several men. Her vagina and anus were penetrated by a variety of objects.

They pedalled as fast as they could along the middle of the asphalted road, avoiding the verges that the rain had turned muddy. They still said nothing.

Several times it occurred to Eduardo to ask Paulo if he felt anything similar to the weight he could feel in his chest, the impression that his guts were wrenching, that his blood was close to exploding from beating so hard at his temples. He wanted to say something, but it was more than his dry mouth that made it impossible. The words he was searching for rushed by too quickly for him to seize them, like balloons swept along by a furious wind.

Paulo could not understand his feelings either. Disconnected images and sounds crowded his memory: the pot of rice on the wooden stove, the headmaster’s voice, monkey, just like your uncle, the chopped-off breast, the patter of rain on the roof, his father’s hot hand slapping his face, the dust under the table, golliwog has no idea, good-for-nothing, blood, bread, grass, ashes, Chimène, Le Cid, Tarzan, I’m scared, no I’m not, I’m not …

Panting, unaware of how tired they were, sweating, they rode on. They wanted to reach the city as quickly as possible. They needed help to explain the flood of events that had engulfed them. Perhaps that was why they did not notice the car approaching. At least not until it was too late. Eduardo never knew if he first heard the noise of the engine or glimpsed the shiny gleam of black metal bearing down on them, whether it was him or Paulo who shouted to warn the other one, or how he managed to throw himself and his bike towards the muddy verge. What Eduardo did remember was flying over the handlebars into the mud as he heard to his horror how the car tyres crashed into metal on the asphalt and thinking: Oh no, Paulo, Paulo, no!

The cemetery stretched down the hill. It was divided into two areas of equal size, separated by a stone wall to the left of the entrance gate. On the arch over the gate stood an image of the Virgin Mary crushing a serpent beneath her feet, surrounded by bodiless cherubims. Black iron railings with gilded tips enclosed the entire burial ground.

To the right of the wall, beyond a stone cross littered with candle stubs and melted wax, stood rows of low tombs, rectangles covered with concrete plaques or lined with tiles. There were also several flat graves, with grass growing on the disturbed earth. What he was looking for would not be on this side, thought Ubiratan.

He turned towards the left-hand side of the wall. Beyond it,
at the top of a burial monument, between two iron columns, a stone angel was brandishing a sword to the heavens in his right hand, while in his left he clutched the shaft of a tattered silk banner.

He went towards it.

The tombs in this part of the cemetery were larger, lined with marble, and decorated with busts, sculptures, metal inscriptions, photographs, vases, flowers. This was where the mortal remains of the region’s leading families lay. Even in death they had no wish to mingle with the hoi polloi.

He made straight for the mausoleum with the angel, the largest in the entire cemetery. He was sure this was where he would find what he was searching for. He was surprised at the slime in the corners of the stained marble slabs, and the ferns growing in the cracks. This arrogant neo-Gothic monument had not been cleaned or visited for a very long time.

Ubiratan searched for some clue in the words engraved on the side wall. He read:
Gloria Virtutem Tamquam Umbra Sequitur
. And beneath it:
In Honoris Amarílio Rodrigues de Mello Freire
. He was wrong: this wasn’t the one.

He looked all around. There was only one other tomb as big as the one with the armed angel. At the far end of the central aisle.

He soon reached it.

Compared to the Mello Freire family’s pantheon, it was almost simple in its colonial chapel design: whitewashed, with no statues, images or plaques. At the front of the chamber, between two oval stained-glass windows, stood a gate with thick iron railings. In the centre was a hexagonal coat of arms
with coffee-bush branches crossed over an open book with the letters M and T visible on it.

He pushed the gate. It didn’t move. He pushed harder. It was padlocked.

Walking back to the right-hand side of the cemetery, he headed straight for the simple earth graves. Their numbers were fixed to the crosses with bits of wire. He chose the one that looked the easiest to unfasten.

Then he went back to the Marques Torres family mausoleum.

He got to his feet in a daze, covered in mud, anxious. When the black fog in front of his eyes finally lifted, the first thing he saw was his bicycle lying on the road. The raised back wheel was still spinning round. At the other side of the road, Paulo was flat out, motionless, his face in a puddle of muddy water.

Eduardo ran over to him, lifted his head. His eyes were closed. He turned him over, shook him. Called his name. There was no one coming along the road to whom he could shout for help.

Then Paulo coughed. He spat, first once and then a second time, his head still cradled in his friend’s arms. He slowly started to get up, using both hands. He was on all fours. He coughed and spat again. Rising to his knees, he rubbed his face with his hands, in a useless attempt to wipe it clean. Eduardo felt in his back trouser pocket for the handkerchief he always carried, but what he pulled out was a filthy, dripping
wet rag. He quickly put it away. Paulo was still rubbing his eyes, blinking constantly. He couldn’t see anything. He tried to stand up, but lost his balance and fell on his backside again.

‘Does it hurt? Is anything broken?’

Paulo shook his head, without much conviction. The whole of his right side, which had hit the road first, was aching. From his experience of having a broken arm and ankle, he thought it couldn’t be too serious. Still bewildered, he could make out Eduardo’s face. It was streaked with mud. He looked like a bushman from one of the tribes fighting Tarzan. He felt like laughing, but then groaned when he saw what lay beyond his friend.

‘What’s the matter, Paulo? Where does it hurt?’

Distraught, Paulo pointed to his mangled bike.

‘Today’s the day my father’s finally going to kill me.’

A slight click told him the lock had given way. Slipping the piece of wire into his coat pocket, Ubiratan pushed the gate open and stepped inside the spacious Marques Torres family vault.

The slanting late-afternoon sun caught the stained-glass windows, casting multicoloured shapes on to drawers and niches, some of them open, and glinting off bronze letters set in the far wall, the only one lined with marble. In Gothic lettering at the top was an inscription:
In the arms of God the Saviour, awaiting the call of Resurrection, here lie Baron Olivério Santanna Marques Torres, his beloved spouse Maria
Beatriz de Castro Marques Torres and all their descendants
. Below it was a phrase in Latin:
Os ex ossibus meis et caro carne mea
. Bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh.