On Friday, as I was leaving, the report arrived from Rio. I bought pizza, Coca-Cola, and cigarettes and went home. It was going to be an awful weekend.
I opened the stack of papers (I thought of you, Soraya). Six years ago, Nelson Brandao arrived at the Hotel Calamar in Copacabana. He had recently married Eleonora Mendes, 30. The husband insisted on a suite with a bathtub. A large bathtub. (The phone rang. I answered and they hung up. It was Soraya, I’m sure of it. A good sign.) The next day, the couple left to visit the Christ statue on Corcovado. Christ the Redeemer. They returned at the end of the afternoon. Eleonora went to take a bath. In the tub. A good tub. (Was Soraya going to call again? 9:15.) The husband went out briefly to buy aspirin. When he got back, he found his wife dead in the bathtub, the cunning bastard. (Soraya, stealing my thoughts away to her hot triangle.) He didn’t say anything else, nor was he asked. Read, recorded, and signed by the constituted authority, my great old friend in Rio, Renato, who loves Sao Paulo only because of Dada, that luscious dark-skinned beauty who engages in explicit sex at a nightclub there.
Eleonora wasn’t beautiful like you, Lucia Basconte. She had blue eyes. She was a secretary. She met her husband at a pizzeria, on a Sunday. One day before the wedding, Eleonora, like you, Lucia Basconte, took out a life insurance policy, and guess who was the sole beneficiary?
When I was almost asleep, Tonho called.
“I’ve got the guy’s rap sheet in my hand,” he said. “His name’s not Ernesto or Nelson. It’s Gilberto Santos. Seems the son of a bitch’s business is to dupe ugly women. He specialized in it. There’s three more in line, just small stuff.”
“Any witnesses?”
“That’s the problem. None.”
Monday, the Department of Criminal Investigations. I arrived dying for some coffee. It’s incredible, but there’s no bar near the Department that sells espresso. There wasn’t a line for the elevator. The door closed and I was surrounded by detectives, poor people, murderers, lawyers, mothers, brothers, damn, I want out. I began to sweat. Lucia Basconte wants to see me immediately. I don’t want to die. I want beaches. I want to leave Homicide. I want to sleep. I want money. I want gentle people. I want nice smells. I want to visit my mother. I want the sea. I want sex. I want vodka. I want God. I was learning to control myself. I didn’t faint, it just got darker. When I opened my eyes, I saw Tonho fanning me. “They’re saying you’re pregnant, sir.” I called my doctor: “Did you go see that psychotherapist I recommended to you?”
I got an audience with Judge Edevaldo Fontoura. I spoke of the double identity of the husband, Ernesto Basconte and Nelson Brandao. Lucia Basconte, you don’t know how good it feels when you get a bench warrant for the arrest of a homicide suspect.
I always say my profession is to play chess with murderers. The trap was ready, Lucia Basconte. Now I’m going to tell you about my encounter with your ex-husband, at the Delta Insurance Company office door.
“Homicide Division. You’re under arrest. Checkmate.”
He looked at me as if he were better than me. Please explain to me, Lucia Basconte, why the best women always end up with the scum? Did you love that traitor? How did you marry that guy?
Lucia Basconte, your husband is in jail. My time is short: I have just five days to prove he’s the killer. Five days. After that, he walks. That’s the way our justice system works.
The next step was Lucia Basconte’s exhumation. I thought about Gregorio, the forensic expert and professor who left the university and the morgue for a private forensic investigation lab. We had worked together in the days when he was poor. Now he only did autopsies on the beautiful people and is constantly in the crime pages. A respected guy, even if he’s a bit too much the celebrity type for my taste, always giving interviews with his hair in a ponytail, but let it go. I gave him a call. “I don’t have a penny. It’s for old times’ sake.” It’s been said that the rich have no past, they have selective memory. But he remembered. He agreed at once. Philanthropy in the police moves me deeply.
We set up a meeting. As I was leaving, Soraya called. “I want to return your records. And your books too.”
“I love you,” I said. Silence, a long silence.
“What about Lucia Basconte?” Soraya took on a childish tone when she felt she could dominate me.
“We ended it.” She remained silent at the other end. She was happy, I could tell.
When the lid of the coffin was raised, I felt a chill in my belly. You were still beautiful, Lucia Basconte.
Gregorio found no sign of violence on your body, love. I believed it was poisoning. Twelve cases in the last three months. The crazy woman who turned in her husband. Acqua Toffana. Poor woman, she was right. That’s how the police are, they know somebody’s going to be killed and they sit on their hands. There’s nothing we can do. Nobody can do anything for anyone, ever. Gregorio, the humanist. I don’t like the guy.
Results of the exhumation:
You didn’t have a heart condition.
You’re beautiful.
You didn’t faint in the bathtub.
You weren’t poisoned.
Your skin was all wrinkly (an indication of death by drowning).
You’re beautiful.
You married the wrong guy.
You’re beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.
You’re the woman of my dreams.
Gregorio and I left there and went to the Department. “The drowning is a fact,” he said. “Except, my friend, that nobody drowns in a puddle.”
We found Soraya in my office, tiny miniskirt, firm legs, long hair, young. Gregorio liked her, I could tell. She also liked the playboy. Screw them both.
I asked Tonho to make a full-scale replica of the deadly bathtub in the Hotel Miranda and send it to Gregorio’s lab in Jaboticabal. That son of a bitch womanizer wanted to run some experiments.
I descended six flights of stairs mute, with Soraya trying to catch up to me. “What’s with you, man?” I didn’t open my mouth on the way down. Soraya, at my side, was talking nonstop. At home, I ordered a pizza. Soraya was gorgeous, shaved legs. She sat on top of the table. We had sex there, almost fully clothed. She wanted to know why I was so quiet. “Soraya, Lucia Basconte called me and we’re getting back together. I had to tell you that.” She slapped my face and left. We were even. That’s how it is with me.
I took off my clothes and was getting into the shower when I felt a wave of heat. I nearly pissed my pants. My legs were tingling. Shortness of breath. Lucia Basconte wants to make a date. Not today. There’s not enough air, Lucia Basconte. I promise I’ll see the psychotherapist. I promise I’ll pay my bookie. I promise to spend more time with my son. I promise to treat Soraya better, Lucia Basconte. I promise to stop. I promise anything. I hit my head on the bidet. When I opened my eyes, I saw Soraya. She said she had come back to kill me. A dog, that’s what she called me, a real dog, but even so, she loved me. I wanted to sleep, to vomit, go away, Soraya. “I’m not going to let you vomit in peace,” she said, “do you really want to be my boyfriend?”