I answered that I never read newspapers, and he told me that a young woman had been found dead in the Barra, in her car. It had been in all the papers.
“That girl was, uh, my, er, connected to me, do you know what I mean?”
“Your lover?”
Cavalcante Meier said nothing.
“It was already over. I thought Marly should find someone her own age, get married, have children.”
We lapsed into silence. The telephone rang. “Hello, Mandrake?” I turned off the sound.
“Yes, and then?”
“Our relationship was very discreet, I’d even say secret. No one knew anything. She was found dead on Friday. Saturday I got a phone call, a man, threatening me, saying I had killed her and that he had proof we were lovers. Letters. I don’t know what letters they could be.”
Cavalcante Meier said he hadn’t gone to the police because he had political enemies who would take advantage of the scandal. Besides, he knew nothing that could help clear up the crime. And his only daughter was getting married that month.
“My going to the police would be a socially and ethically useless gesture. I’d like you to find that person for me, see what he wants, defend my interests in the best way possible. I’m willing to pay to avoid scandal.”
“What’s the guy’s name?”
“Márcio was the name he gave. He wants me to meet him tonight at ten at a place called Gordon’s, in Ipanema. He’ll be on a motorcycle, wearing a black shirt with ‘Jesus’ on the back.”
We agreed I’d keep the appointment with Márcio and negotiate the price of his silence. It could be worth a lot or worth nothing.
I asked where he’d heard about me.
“Dr. Medeiros,” he said, getting up. He left without shaking hands, with just a nod of his head.
I went to look for the laugh-box. I rummaged through the closet, the bookshelf, the drawers, until I found it in the kitchen. The maid loved to listen to the laughter.
I took it to the bedroom, lay down, and turned it on. A convulsive and disturbing guffaw, stuck in the glottis, purple, as of someone with a funnel stuck up his anus whose deadly laughter had gone through his body to come out his mouth, clogging lungs and brain. This called for a bit more Faísca. When I was a boy, a man sitting in front of me in the movie theater had a laughing fit so severe that he died. From time to time I remember that guy.
“Why’re you listening to that awful noise? You look like you’re crazy,” Berta said. “Shall we continue the game?”
“I’m going to read the papers now,” I said.
“Shit,” Berta said, knocking the chessboard and pieces to the floor. An impulsive woman.
All the newspapers were on the night table. Young secretary killed in her car in the Barra. A bullet in the head. The victim still had her jewelry and documents. The police ruled out robbery. The victim was in the habit of going straight to work from her house and returning early. She didn’t go out much at night. No boyfriend. The neighbors said she was friendly and shy. Her parents said she would go to her room to read after coming home from work. She read a lot, her mother said, she liked poetry and novels, she was gentle and obedient, without her our life is empty, meaningless. The papers ran several photos of Marly, tall and thin, with long hair. Her expression seemed sad, or was that my imagination? I’m an incurable romantic.
Finally I went back to play with Berta. Playing Black, I opened with king’s pawn. Berta copied my move. I moved my knights, Berta following me, creating symmetrical positions that would bring victory to the more patient player, the one who made fewer mistakes, in other words Berta. I’m very nervous. I play chess to irritate myself, to blow up in camera; on the outside it’s too dangerous, I have to stay calm.
I tried to recall Capablanca’s game with Tarrash, St. Petersburg, 1914, which featured a four-knight opening and the springing of a terrible trap, but what trap was it? I couldn’t remember; my head was full of the biker at Gordon’s.
“It’s no use giving me that victorious gloating look,” I said, “I’m going to have to leave now.”
“Now? In the middle of the game? Again? You’re a coward, you know you’re going to lose so you run away.”
“That’s true. But besides that I have to see a client.”
Berta raised her arms and began to pin back her hair. A woman’s armpit is a masterpiece, especially when she’s thin and muscular like Berta. Her armpit also smells very nice, when she doesn’t use deodorant, that is. A sweet-and-sour odor that turns me on. She knows it.
“I’m meeting a motorcyclist at Gordon’s.”
“Ah, a motorcyclist.”
“There’s a Hitchcock at eleven on TV.”
“I don’t like television; I detest dubbed films,” Berta said in ill humor.
“Then study the Nimzovitch opening; it offers some good positional traps. I’ll be back soon.”
Berta said she’d wait for me, adding that I had no consideration for her, no respect.
When I stopped in front of Gordon’s, still in the car, I saw the biker. He was a short, husky young man with dark brown hair. He was arguing, insolently, with a girl. Her hair was so dark it looked dyed. Her face was very pale, unlike the suntanned girls who hung out at Gordon’s. Perhaps her pallor made her hair look darker and her hair in turn made her face look paler, which in turn—
While I amused myself with this proposition, thinking about the Quaker Oats I used to eat when I was a child—a Quaker holding a box of oatmeal that showed another Quaker holding a box of oatmeal, etc., ad infinitum—the girl got on the back of the motorcycle and they left quickly down Visconde de Pirajá. I couldn’t follow them; my car was blocked. I got out, went to the counter in Gordon’s, and ordered a coke and sandwich. I ate—slowly. I waited an hour. They didn’t return.
Berta was in bed asleep, the television on.
I called Cavalcante Meier.
“The apostle didn’t show up,” I said. There was no point telling what had happened.
“What are you going to do?” He spoke in a low voice, his mouth close to the phone. My clients always talk that way. It bothers me.
“Nothing. I’m going to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.” I hung up.
I kissed Berta lightly on the lips. She woke up.
“Tell me you love me,” Berta said.
I woke up in the morning with an urge to have some Faísca. Berta didn’t like me to drink so early, but Portuguese wine does no harm at any time of day or night. I turned on the answering machine and found a message from Cavalcante Meier.
I called.
“Have you seen the papers?” Cavalcante Meier asked.
“I just got up,” I lied. “What time is it?”
“Noon. Have you read the papers? No, of course you haven’t yet. The police say they have a suspect.”
“They always have a suspect, who’s usually innocent.”
“Since I’m innocent, I may be the suspect, following your logic. Another thing. That guy Márcio called. He says he’s coming to my house this afternoon.”
“I’ll be there. Introduce me as your personal secretary.”
“What time did you start in on the wine?” Berta asked, coming into the living room.
I explained to her that Churchill used to get out of bed, have some champagne, smoke a few cigars, and win the war.
I read the papers, smoking a dark Suerdieck panatela. Marly’s death got a lot of space, but there was nothing new. No mention of a suspect.
I called Raul.
“That crime with the girl in the Barra. What’s the word on it?”
“Which girl? The one who was strangled, the one who got run over, the one shot in the head, the one—”
“Shot in the head.”
“Marly Moreira, the secretary at Cordovil Meier. My boys are on the case.”