The waiter approached.
“Tea and toast?” asked Mattos.
Alice nodded.
“Are you still in the, the Department?”
She doesn’t even want to say the word police, he thought. Federal Department of Public Safety is a bit less shameful.
“Yes.”
Alice opened her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, which she placed on the table. She tried to smile. “I smoke now.”
Mattos picked up the lighter and lit her cigarette.
The waiter brought the tea. Alice put out her cigarette in the ashtray.
“I have an appointment at 5:30. With the maestro. You remember the maestro?”
“Maestro?”
“The old man who ran the claque, Mr. Emilio. Remember?”
She vaguely recalled Mattos having said that as a student he’d been part of the claque at the Municipal Theater in order to attend operas free while making some pocket money.
“I haven’t seen him for some time. . The last time, I cut class to meet him by the Chopin statue. . That’s where the claqueurs gathered. . That day we were setting up the claque for Parsifal. .”
Alice stuck another cigarette in her mouth. Mattos picked up the lighter and lit the cigarette.
“Wagnerian operas were always a lot of work for the claqueurs. In Parsifal you’re never supposed to applaud at the end of the first act, and making the audience keep quiet was much harder than making them clap hands. I remember Mr. Emilio saying, ‘We’re not going to ask some second-rater for an encore.’”
“I saw Parsifal in—” Alice stopped. In London.
“I didn’t get to see it. It ended up not being staged. The claque was dissolved soon afterward. Finished. It went out of style. A thing of the past.”
Alice would have liked to be able to say something. She had lost the courage to speak about the matter that had led her to suggest that meeting. Why had Mattos told her that story? Because, like her, he didn’t know what to say? Or did he think she wanted to get back together, and he was telling her that like the claque she, too, was a thing of the past? He had always been very odd.
“Have you been going to the Municipal?”
Some time after the breakup with Alice he had gone to see La Bohème at the Municipal with Di Stefano and Tebaldi. He was used to sitting in the peanut gallery because it was cheaper and because it was where the claque stationed itself, and he was accustomed to the location. But on that occasion he had bought a ticket in the orchestra section, near the dress circle, where a man and a woman dozed the entire time. He also noticed that other people fell asleep in their boxes, even when Di Stefano hit a fabulous high C in the aria “Che gelida manina.” It irritated him greatly; at the time he was feeling the initial symptoms of his duodenal ulcer and his hatred of the rich. Going to the opera, to concerts, to museums pretending they read the classics, it was all part of a grand scheme of playacting by the rich, whose objective was to show that they — he thought mainly of Alice and her family — belonged to a special superior class that, unlike the ignorant rabble, knew how to see, hear, and eat with elegance and sensitivity, which justified their having money and every privilege they enjoyed.
“I’m not interested in opera anymore,” replied Mattos. He picked up his knife and read the word stainless engraved on the blade.
Alice looked at the teacup before her.
“My mother died.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Why? She didn’t like you.”
Stainless.
“I got married.”
“I know.”
“Pedro is a good person. He knows about us.”
“Knows what? There’s nothing to know.”
“He knows there’s nothing to know.” Pause. “What about you? Did you marry?”
“No.”
Their gazes met for a few instants.
“Are you going to tell me what you wanted with me?”
“I think I’ll leave that for another day. . I don’t know how to say what I want to say. . Will you meet me again? Tomorrow? Tomorrow I’ll be braver. .”
“Tomorrow. . The fourth. . I can’t. I go on duty at noon. A 24-hour shift. I get off at noon on the fifth.”
“Then day after tomorrow. Thursday.”
The old man was waiting for him beside the Chopin statue. As always, he was wearing a Panama hat and a bowtie, but the hat was crumpled and the suit was of cheap material. The collar was dirty. The silver-handled cane that he held in his hand, instead of making him look elegant, as before, now gave him a fragile, sickly appearance.
“My young man,” said Emilio, embracing Mattos and biting his dentures, “I’m so pleased with your success.”
Success. There came to Mattos’s mind the precinct lockup full of smelly, sick men.
“And how are you, sir?”
“Don’t call me sir. You’re no longer that boy who asked me to teach him everything about opera.”
“How are things going?”
“Going. . When I saw your picture I said, That’s him, it’s that boy who worked with me in the claque. . He’s come up in life, I thought, now he’s traveling in high circles. . Then I said to myself, I’m going to call him. I never imagined you’d come. . I thought success had gone to your head. .”
Emilio took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his damp eyes.
“Want something to drink? A beer?” asked Mattos.
“Let’s go to that bar on Álvaro Alvim at the corner of Alcindo Guanabara.”
The man behind the counter greeted Emilio.
“Good afternoon, maestro.”
“This is Mr. Mattos, police inspector and an old friend of mine.”
The man cleaned his hands on a dirty cloth. “Pleased to meet you, sir.” Mattos shook the guy’s wet hand.
“Two beers. Would you care for something to eat?” asked Mattos.
“I’m thinking about the roast pork sandwich they serve here. The best pork sandwich in the whole city. Isn’t it, Robledo?”
“All modesty aside, it really is the best. One for you too, sir?”
“I’m not hungry. Just one.”
“A beer with a head of foam and a Steinhager, to raise the spirits,” said Emilio. He was suddenly happy and was biting his dentures less.
The sandwich was placed on the counter. Emilio took off his hat, put his cane on the counter, and dedicated himself to the difficult task of chewing the enormous quantity of roast pork that Robledo had put between two pieces of French bread. Meanwhile, he drank several beers, accompanied by glasses of Steinhager.
Finally, Emilio finished eating. He picked up the beer glass and rubbed its cold surface against his temples. “They all died,” he said. “This country is going badly. These days, Gigli wouldn’t set foot here. Remember Gigli? It was in ’45, you were part of the claque. .”
“I remember.”
“Neither Gigli nor Scotti set foot here anymore. . No, no, my head isn’t working right, Scotti died a long time ago, you never got to see him, but I saw him, with these eyes that the earth will yet consume, singing Falstaff at the Teatro Lírico, which was torn down, a beautiful theater with better acoustics than La Scala in Milan. It was the twenty-ninth of July, 1893, I remember it as if it were today, I was nineteen years old and was very happy. . The ‘Sir John’ that night never was and never will be equaled. . Pay attention to what I’m saying, Scotti was more than just a great singer, he was a great artist! Another beer, Robledo, and another Steinhager. Do you know how old Verdi was when he composed that masterpiece, when he turned the history of opera upside down with his Falstaff? Eighty, my age, boy. But in Brazil anything eighty years old has to be destroyed, thrown in the trash. That’s why in the past all the great singers would come to Brazil, and now no one comes here, not even a Del Monaco, not even a Pinza, who doesn’t know how to read a single note of music, no one!”