I placed the revolver against the back of his neck and fired.
I remembered to take his wallet, to make it look like a robbery, and left, moving kind of unsteadily. I didn’t stop walking until I got to the beach at Botafogo. I took off my sneakers and walked to the water, feeling the cold sand on my feet. Since the day was cloudy, no one was at the beach. I never thought it would be so easy to kill someone. I took the revolver and Mollusk’s wallet from my pocket and threw them out into the water. I wet my face and washed my hands, which were a bit bloody. Then I stretched out on the sand and realized that my legs were trembling a little, even when I was lying down. I turned over, did about two hundred push-ups to get rid of the trembling, and left, my body feeling as heavy as if I was carrying Sugar Loaf on my back.
13.
In the days that followed, I fell into a weird listlessness, like I had caught a bad flu. My mother asked, “What’s the matter, boy?” and I said it was just the flu. She thought it was dengue but I said no, dengue didn’t stand a chance with me. She had some açaí delivered; I took it and then went out so she wouldn’t keep worrying. I had lots of places I could go, but I decided to return to the beach at Botafogo, don’t ask me why. I caught the 434 bus to Rua Real Grandeza and walked to the beach. It was sunny and I sat on a bench, watching the sea. I peered at the sand, afraid the waves had brought back the wallet and the revolver. I didn’t see anything. I had a strong desire to call Veronique, but I figured everything would be in a total uproar after the wake and the burial. By now she must be talking with the lawyers about the inheritance. At one point I even dialed her cell phone but hung up. I summoned the patience to let a week go by before calling, like we had agreed.
When I returned home, my mother told me Alferes was looking for me. I found that odd. “What did he say?” I asked.
“Nothing, just for you to meet him tonight at the Black Cat.”
“I’m not in the mood for the Black Cat.”
“Go,” my mother said, running her hand over my hair, “the distraction will do you good.”
14
As soon as I entered the Black Cat, Alferes came up and whispered in my ear: “Meet me in the square at midnight.” Sometimes I have the impression that Alferes is a bit light in the loafers. That business of him wanting to talk to me made me nervous and I decided to have a few beers. Could I have screwed something up?
At midnight I was at the square, anxious. Drinking hadn’t calmed me down but it had given me the urge to piss. Alferes arrived and immediately asked, “Say, tiger, you’re not involved in the death of that numbers bankroller, are you?”
“What bankroller?” I asked. I hadn’t killed anybody connected with the numbers racket. I was so relieved that I decided to relieve my bladder too and started to piss behind a lamppost.
“Raposo Muller, the old numbers kingpin who was murdered.”
“Of course not, Alferes. I just put a scare into a guy,” I said, shaking the snake before putting it back in its nest. “Why would I want to kill some racketeer? You nuts?”
“Because no professional would accept the contract. Besides his numbers connection, he was also a colonel in the army and a torturer during the dictatorship. You watch television, don’t you? Only an insane person would kill that bastard. Or some fall guy. Whoever killed him must be a long way from here. Or else he’s pushing up daisies.”
“You calling me a sucker?”
“No. Or a dead man. It’s just that I worry about my customers.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’m dying to get some sleep.”
Alferes had a distant look, as if he’d seen a ghost come up behind me. “I never heard of anybody being murdered in a cemetery,” he said.
“Cemetery? What cemetery?”
“Who told the fool to go to the cemetery without a bodyguard?”
“What are you talking about?”
“They wasted the lunatic in São João Cemetery while he was praying at his mother’s tomb. This country’s gone bonkers.”
I felt like shitting my pants, but I concealed it and said goodbye to Alferes. Something was very wrong.
I wasn’t able to sleep that night. Early the next day, when I looked at the newspaper on my way to the bakery, I saw that the old man I had killed at the cemetery wasn’t Mr. Mollusk but the retired numbers kingpin Raposo Muller. In the photo of the funeral, I saw his widow, a fat old hag I didn’t know. I became dizzy and had to support myself against the newsstand to keep from falling. I called Veronique, but she didn’t answer. Not then or ever again.
15
I was remembering Ronald Biggs.
There comes a time when you have to run away somewhere. He fled to Rio. I had to flee from Rio. My bad luck.
But it’s not all that bad here. There’s that crazy president, an old pothead with the air of a hippie about him. Maybe they’ll be more understanding to a HIG — highly idiotic grifter — like me. I swear that weighed heavily when it was time to decide where to go. The beaches here have their charm, although the local toned cougars can’t hold a candle to the ones in Leme. The advantage is that here all the cougars are gringas, including the Brazilians. And they’re the ones who support me. Sure, I’ve had to go back to getting women tourists drunk to survive. I’m taking a break from toned cougars. Trauma. Today I settle for ugly cougars and old bags. I lead a modest life, I earn enough to pay the rent for the small apartment where I live and the fees at the shitty asylum where I had to dump Mom, near Friburgo. In any case, today is a special day for me. I’ve just received a letter from France. And to think I didn’t believe there was such a thing as letters anymore. I kept it to open at the beach. I’m not much of a reader, but when it happens, I like to read lying on the sand so I can quickly doze off.
My dear, pardon the confusion. I hope you’re not terribly angry with me. After all, stealing from a thief is not really stealing. It took some doing to find your address. Your mother helped me, but only after a lot of convincing. It was hard to find her in that asylum/exile in the mountains. Don’t worry, she revealed your whereabouts to me because I’m a respectable lady and older than her. I know you’ll never forgive me, but you at least deserve an explanation. In 1972 I was a few years past thirty and shared an office with my husband Ivan, like me a psychiatrist. We weren’t guerrillas but we sympathized with enemies of the military regime and even hid political fugitives in our apartment on Lagoa. One day we were dragged from the apartment by agents of the dictatorship. We were barbarously tortured and Ivan was murdered. They probably threw his body into the sea, because it was never found. The man who tortured us and killed Ivan was Colonel Raposo Muller, that monster whom you did the favor of eliminating from human society. As soon as I was released, I came to France and tried to rebuild my life. I paid a high price. I spent decades without the courage to return to Brazil. But I never gave up on the idea of one day taking revenge on Raposo Muller. The animal, after leaving the army, became a powerful racketeer and was constantly surrounded by hired gunmen, even after he retired. It wasn’t until recently that I gathered the courage and returned to Rio to exact my vengeance. But no professional assassin I contacted would agree to kill him. It would be too dangerous. Even when I said I had studied the monster’s movements and discovered that he visited the cemetery by himself once a month, no one would agree to kill Raposo Muller, fearing retaliation. I know that I could have — and should have — shot the abominable torturer myself. Don’t think I wouldn’t have felt enormous pleasure in doing so, even if it cost me my life. And it wasn’t out of fear that I didn’t, but from lack of confidence in my abilities. I’m old and my hands tremble a lot, as you know. Unfortunately, you can’t fire a gun with your pussy. In any case, I will always be grateful to you in the time I have left, which won’t be that long.