He walks over and introduces himself. Zenão, a mulatto who appears to be about sixty, although he is older than that, motions for him to sit on the adjacent sofa. He looks like a former athlete, someone who has had to maintain a considerable amount of muscle mass his whole life, like a boxer or rower. He is wearing dress pants, good shoes, and a wool blazer. A cigarillo is burning between his fingers, and the smoke from his last few puffs forms a dome that spreads lazily around the three of them.
The young woman’s legs are draped over her client’s. Her black tube dress barely passes her waist, and he can see her red panties. Her long, straight hair looks discolored and seems to give off a white light. In fact, her whole head emanates a slightly ghostly light. He strains to see her better. She is albino.
Guess what her name is? asks Zenão, noting his interest. Ivory! A guttural laugh escapes the old man’s throat in long bursts that end in a smoker’s wheeze and start up again with full force. It takes some time. While he tries to stop laughing, he pours himself another generous shot from the bottle of Natu Nobilis on the table. Ivory mixes a little of the same whiskey with an energy drink in her tall glass, sips it with her colorless lips, and then analyzes it with a pair of gray eyes almost camouflaged in her un-made-up face.
Why did you want to meet me here?
I’m among friends here.
I figured that.
Because I don’t know you, and I’m not really sure why you wanted to come and see me in person. You didn’t strike me as dangerous, but at my age, in my line of work… a guy calls you wanting to know about an old case… you know how it is.
I can imagine. Don’t worry.
And I might as well take the opportunity and have some fun, right? These folks owe me so many favors that I can hide the hedgehog for free until I die.
While Zenão has another long fit of laughter, he notices one of the hookers at the back of the club heading toward their table. She sits next to him without touching him. She is a brunette with large thighs, wet hair, and lips cracked with cold. She is drenched in perfume and appears to have stepped out of the shower moments earlier.
Can I keep you company?
I’m just here to have a quick chat with my friend here.
But what fun is that if you’re alone? What’s your name?
It takes him a few minutes to get rid of her.
Pick one, says Zenão.
What?
Pick one, and call her over to sit here. They’re going to keep coming one by one, and when they’ve all tried, they’re going to start again. The house is empty.
The waiter sees him signal and comes over to the table.
Ask the girl in boots over at the bar to come here. And I’d like a can of beer.
I’m on it.
The forró song that is playing gives way to a Roxette song that he recognizes from his tender youth. He has to raise his voice to be heard, and he and Zenão lean in toward each other, sandwiching the albino girl between them. She nibbles on Zenão’s ear and then pulls her white hair over her shoulder and occupies herself inspecting it for split ends. Zenão confirms that he was the police chief in Laguna in 1969.
Do you remember a case where a man was stabbed to death in Garopaba at the end of that year? A man who was known as Gaudério?
A female voice sings “Listen to your heaaart” in his ear, and the weight of a body shakes the seat cushion on the sofa. The smell of cinnamon chewing gum reaches his nostrils.
I was hoping you’d call me.
I like your boots. What’s your name?
Honey.
Your real name.
That’s something you don’t ask, handsome.
He stares into her eyes. Blue irises, heavy mascara. Bloodred lipstick. A small mole on her left cheekbone. It is all he can make out in the half-light.
It’s Andreia.
Have a seat, Andreia. I’ll talk to you properly in a minute. I just need to finish talking to my friend here.
Can I order a drink?
What would you like?
Wine.
Go ahead and order one.
Zenão gives him a little slap on the knee.
Doesn’t she look a bit like a young Anjelica Huston?
Who?
Your girl there.
She looks like who?
Anjelica Huston. The actress. You know?
He doesn’t but he looks at Andreia and pretends to be considering it.
I think she does a bit. But anyway. At the end of ’sixty-nine.
I remember that story about the guy who was killed in Garopaba. It was one of the weirdest cases I’d ever come across, which is probably why the investigations didn’t get very far.
Weird why?
Because there was no body.
My dad told me the same thing. That when he got there, he couldn’t find out where they’d buried my granddad. There was a beggar’s grave with grass growing over it. It didn’t look recent.
Come again? Your dad? What are you talking about?
His name was Hélio. He was the one who told me the story.
Ah, his son. From Porto Alegre. That’s right, we managed to track him down a few days later. He came. Blond hair, smoked like a chimney.
That’s him.
I remember him. But anyway. The mystery is that there was no body when I got there.
Who’d they bury then?
Dunno. Listen. I got a tip-off by telegraph. There were no phones in Garopaba back then. I think they only got phone lines in the mid-seventies. Sometimes they’d call the station in Laguna and ask us to come and investigate more serious crimes in the region. Garopaba had been a separate municipality since the early sixties. The municipalities had their own police commissioners, but it was all a bit primitive. I saw the lockup once, a little guard post with iron bars where they’d hold their criminals. It was near the parish church. The guy would spend a day in the lockup, and then he’d have to pull weeds in the square in the presence of the police chief or officer. I was called in a few times to resolve things there. Murders, violent rapes, arson.
Arson?
Garopaba has a long tradition of arson.
Were there many murders? One local told me no one had ever been killed in Garopaba.
People are killed everywhere. There were lots of problems when the gauchos started moving there. There was an invasion of them overnight. They’d come to camp, surf. Hippies. A lot of them stayed on, and the place was overrun with them. They started to get involved in money, property, power. There was even a gaucho killer. His name was Corporal Freitas. He was kept in work for many years until someone took him out too. He was a walking archive.
Andreia nuzzles up to him.
Move closer.
Her breath now smells of sweet wine.
Put your hand on my leg.