“You didn’t mention it to me. In any case, I couldn’t leave Rio. I’m in the middle of a very difficult investigation.”
“Please don’t yell at me.”
“I’m not yelling.”
“Try to control your aggressiveness for a minute and listen to what I’m going to read to you now.” Alice displayed a sheet of paper in her hand. “Can you do that? One minute?”
“All right.”
“Let’s go sit in the bedroom.”
Mattos took of his coat. Now, owing to the present of Alice in the apartment, he left his revolver at the station.
They sat on the bed. “May I read?”
“Go ahead.”
“Declaration of Principles of the Conference on Poetry. Are you paying attention?”
“Yes, yes.”
“See how it is? You can’t hide your impatience.”
“Please, read, I’m paying total attention.”
“The poetry section of the International Writers Conference, meeting in São Paulo, during ceremonies commemorating the quadricentennial of the city in whose foundation collaborated the poet-priest José de Anchieta, recognizes the considerable technical progress that has characterized poetry, both international and Brazilian, systematized by critics of the most diverse conceptions; proclaims the broad right of the poet to aesthetic search and the necessity that he dominate his instrument in order to enrich creation; and manifests not only the conviction that conquests of form will be directed toward expressing great collective aspirations, belief in human beings and in individual rights, as well as confidence that there will be found in all its fullness the way to reach the sensitivity of the man of today — that’s directed straight at you, Alberto — the man of today unattuned to the poetry of high quality that is being published.”
“Interesting.”
“Interesting? Do you know who’s in São Paulo at this very moment? Robert Frost, William Faulkner, Miguel Torga, João Cabral de Melo Neto. And all you can say is ‘interesting.’”
“Wonderful.”
Alice tore up the paper she was holding. With closed fists she beat against Mattos’s chest, saying that he couldn’t treat her so cruelly. Her blows were weak; Mattos let her go on striking him until she tired.
Leaving Alice lying on the bed, now immobile as if dead, Mattos went back to the living room. His stomach hurt, but there was no milk in the refrigerator, and he had run out of antacids.
The telephone rang.
“This is Pedro Lomagno. Is my wife there?”
“She’s sleeping.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“She’s sleeping.”
“You’re aware that my wife. . uh. . has problems. . I spoke to the doctor and he told me it would be best for Alice to come home. . She feels more protected in familiar surroundings. . I’d like to have your help for that. .”
“Mr. Lomagno, I don’t feel good about this situation either. But Alice is here because she wants to be. She told me she’s separated from you. She asked to stay here, because she doesn’t have a family member to stay with. I don’t think it’s a good solution either, but I can’t throw her out. .”
“I’d like to hear her say that.”
“You spoke with her yesterday, I believe, and she said something to that effect. I’m very sorry, Mr. Lomagno, but there’s nothing I can do.”
“I’d like to talk to her again.”
“I already told you she’s sleeping.”
“You’re not cooperating.”
“I’m very sorry. Good evening.”
As soon as Mattos hung up, the phone rang again.
“You been looking for me?”
“I wanted to talk about your crisis of conscience.”
“What crisis? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“If not remorse, what made you pay for the burial of Old Turk in Caxambu?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Pádua, I know you killed Old Turk. I can’t just do nothing, knowing what I do. I can’t be an accomplice.”
“You’re not being an accomplice. You’re gonna do nothing simply ’cause there’s nothing you can do.”
“Yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t. I know you’re a good cop, but not even Sherlock Holmes could prove I killed that guy. Mattos, Old Turk was a hired killer, he was going to kill you. You need to stop suffering over nonsense. That’s why you have the ulcer. When you come to relieve me, day after tomorrow, we’ll talk more about the matter if you want to.” Pause. Trying to change the subject: “Did you hear that Arlindo Pimenta is running for city council?”
“I’m not interested in that.”
“The numbers men are gonna take over the country yet. I know a very interesting story about Arlindo.”
“Not interested.” Mattos hung up the phone.
This was the story Mattos had refused to hear:
The numbers game bankroller Arlindo Pimenta, commonly called a gangster in the newspapers because of the flashy manner in which he conducted other criminal activities besides financing the numbers game, had been advised by his lawyer and his fellow lawbreakers to change his negative image. Heeding their counsel, Arlindo promised that he would continue exercising, with proper decorum, only the illegality of the numbers game; he sold the Cadillac in which he ostentatiously circulated in the outskirts of the city; stopped causing disturbances in bars; and, finally, became a candidate for alderman.
Arlindo launched his candidacy on his birthday. On Rua Leopoldina Rego, on the outskirts, an election party was held with speeches and fireworks. A large table of sweets and savories displayed in its center an outsized birthday cake representing a Chinese garden with an enormous pagoda, which provoked wonder, and even astonishment, among the guests. The cake maker, following the request of one of Arlindo’s thugs who wished to curry favor with his boss, placed in the middle of the Chinese garden a marzipan miniature of a.38 revolver. A small birthday candle was placed in the barrel of the revolver. Arlindo Pimenta, amid applause, blew it out with a single puff.
nineteen
THE BURN that Salete had caused on Mattos’s hand with boiling water had healed, created a scab, and the inspector had removed the scab, but Salete knew nothing of that, because she hadn’t appeared at the inspector’s apartment since Alice had moved there. Alice had answered the phone the two times she called Mattos’s home. Salete had hung up without saying anything.
Days of suffering. She lacked the will to leave the house. She didn’t go to the benefit tea for the Maronites, at the Monte Líbano club, featuring a fashion show by Elsa Haouche, the designer whose dresses she most appreciated, and even knowing that Mário Mascarenhas, her favorite musician, accompanied by fifteen other accordionists, would be playing classical and folkloric music. She forewent seeing the film Mogambo, with Clark Gable and Ava Gardner, whom she adored. She felt so unhappy that she didn’t even have her toenails and fingernails done.
She cried in the corners, didn’t eat, lost weight, and her eyes looked even larger and her face bonier, which increased her anguish, because she thought it worsened her ugliness. Actually, her slimness made her face appear even prettier.
She was suffering from her irremediable misfortune when Luiz Magalhães telephoned. Lately Salete had refused to speak with him, telling the maid to say she was very ill. That Thursday she went to the phone. Magalhães said he needed her to do him a big favor. When Salete again refused to see him, Magalhães begged, in such a humble manner that it left her disturbed:
“I’m in a tight spot, I need you. For the love of God, help me.”
“I don’t have the strength to leave. I look very ugly, I don’t want anyone to see me.”