six
ON FRIDAY, AROUND SEVEN A.M., carrying an empty suitcase, Climerio returned to the home of the gunman Alcino.
“The shit’s hit the fan,” said Climerio. “That fucker Nelson turned himself in to the police yesterday. Today they took him to the Military Police barracks, and the bastard spilled his guts. I shouldn’t have trusted the son of a bitch. You’d better go into hiding.”
He handed Alcino the suitcase. “Put some clothes in it. It’s best for you to leave immediately.”
“What about my money? You promised it by today.”
Climerio took from his pocket a wad of money and handed it to Alcino. Ten thousand cruzeiro notes.
Alcino threw into the suitcase a sweater, two pairs of undershorts, two shorts, a knit woolen cap, a rosary with a metal cross at its tip, and a pair of clogs.
FIRST TO ARRIVE AT THE A MINHOTA, on São José, downtown, not very far from the Chamber of Deputies, was Lomagno. It was almost one o’clock. The restaurant, normally frequented by many senators and deputies, was empty.
Lomagno sat down, uncommunicative. He asked the waiter for a whiskey on the rocks. After serving Lomagno, the waiter left on the table a bucket of ice and a half-full bottle of White Horse onto which was attached a vertical strip of paper marking the number of drinks consumed.
A short time later, Claudio Aguiar arrived. They had spoken several times by telephone, but that was the first time they had seen each other since the death of Gomes Aguiar. Claudio gestured to the waiter, indicating Lomagno’s whiskey.
“Claudio, you’re a son of a bitch. Magalhães told me you tried to transfer the Cemtex financing to Brasfesa.”
Claudio stammered. “He. . he said that?”
“Why did you do it?”
“Luciana is going to get control of Cemtex now. I don’t trust her. Luciana is going to cheat us.”
At that moment, Vitor Freitas arrived, accompanied by his aide Clemente and Deputy Orestes Cravalheira, of the PSD. Claudio greeted the three dryly and left the table, heading for the bathroom. Lomagno followed him.
“Take it easy,” Lomagno said inside the bathroom.
“Did he have to bring his catamite?”
“Easy, easy,” Lomagno repeated.
“He can’t do this to me. I’m going to tell him I don’t want that fag at our table. The scoundrel! The scoundrel!”
Lomagno slapped Claudio forcefully. The latter drew back, startled.
“Why did you do that?”
“You’re not going to say anything. When you’re over this attack of hysteria, come back to the table and keep quiet.”
“What’s with Claudio?” asked Freitas when Lomagno returned from the bathroom.
“He’s not feeling well.”
“Is he having a tizzy?” asked Clemente with a sarcastic smile.
Lomagno ignored the question.
“Cravalheira’s going to have a whiskey with us while he waits for some friends who’re having lunch with him,” Freitas said.
The waiter brought glasses and another bottle of whiskey. They drank. They spoke about the assassination attempt that had claimed Major Vaz’s life and talked about generalities. Cravalheira commented that Judge Murta Ribeiro had been chosen by lot to draft the report on the appeal of Lieutenant Bandeira, sentenced to fifteen years in prison for the death of the banker Afrânio Arsênio de Lemos, a crime of passion that still held the city’s attention. The water shortage, as always, was mentioned, but only briefly. Freitas mentioned the issuing of money by the government. “You know how much Oswaldo Aranha has issued in the last twelve months, from August first ’53 to August first ’54? Over eight billion cruzeiros. There’s not even time for the employees to authenticate the notes manufactured by the presses at the Mint, American Bank Note, and Thomas de la Rue.”
Lomagno remained silent. Claudio returned to the table.
“Feeling better, dear boy?” Clemente asked. “You look as if you might have a touch of fever.”
Cravalheira returned to the subject of the assassination attempt.
“Until yesterday, or rather, until last night, the fourth, or the early hours of the fifth, when the attempt took place on Rua Tonelero, the climate in this country recalled that of 1937. But now Getúlio no longer has any chance of pulling a coup.”
“He wasn’t going to pull any coup,” said Cravalheira.
“Why do you think Getúlio canceled his trip to Bolivia for the inauguration of the Santa Cruz de la Sierra-Corumbá highway?” said Freitas, pouring himself another whiskey. He answered his own question, labeling as lies the reasons stated, that the Santa Cruz airport, in Bolivia, provided no security. Actually, Getúlio didn’t want Vice President Café Filho to assume the presidency.
“Like every coup-maker, he’s always thinking that others are trying to pull a coup on him,” said Clemente.
Cravalheira took a clipping from his pocket.
“Let me show you who this Café Filho is. Look at what he said.”
The deputy read aloud: “My life has been one long participation in revolutions and conspiracies. I’ve suffered a lot; I have bullets in my body.”
“Poor thing,” said Clemente.
“Listen to the rest. He says that the most dramatic moment in his life occurred not long ago. He was flying to Chile and the air force plane in which he was traveling had to make a forced landing among the Andean peaks. Immediately, the governments of Chile and Argentina sent planes so they could continue the trip. But Café patriotically reflected that this was a Brazilian Air Force plane and that changing planes in those circumstances would show lack of confidence in the technical skills of the valiant officers of the air force. He sensed, as he made this decision, the full extent of his responsibility as vice president of the Republic. When the plane was repaired, brave Café said he dismissed those accompanying him and embarked on the plane to die, for he was fulfilling the duty of rendering prestige to our aviation and our pilots.”
Clemente sang the refrain from a well known Carnival song: “And the band of brownnosers grows and grows.”
“Café ended the interview with these words: ‘That was how I experienced my most dramatic moment, because of my mandate as vice president of the Republic. I had never imagined that such a thing would happen to me, not even during the most arduous campaigns and the most inflamed revolutions.’ To think this poseur may become president.”
“It’s the flyboys who give the orders. . Café knows which way the wind is blowing.”
“Did you go the major’s funeral?”
“Yes. You’d have to be crazy not to go,” said Freitas.
“A public prosecutor and an air force officer were named as observers to the inquiry. There’s talk that Commissioner Pastor, who’s heading the police inquiry, is a Getulist.”
“Speaking of police, I need to talk to you about an inspector—” Clemente stopped mid-sentence.
“What inspector?” Freitas asked.
“No, nothing. We’ll talk about it later.”
“Getúlio’s days are numbered,” Freitas said.
“Getúlio usually has an ace up his sleeve,” said Cravalheira.
“The man’s senile. Did you see the photo of him having his hair combed by Gregório in public? He looked like an orderly at the Santa Casa da Misericórdia hospital taking care of one of those geezers who pee in their pants.”
Cravalheira answered that underestimating Getúlio was a mistake. “Remember the lunch-pail campaign the old man put together?”
“Borghi was the one who planned it all.”
Cravalheira gave a long commentary on the opportunism and cowardice of Brazilian politicians. “Pila is an exception; he had the integrity to say that it’s necessary to meet force with force. When the impeachment attempt came up, and that’s only just over a month ago, only thirty-five deputies had the courage to face the Catete Palace. The only reason Getúlio didn’t close down Congress was because he didn’t want to.”