If I Close My Eyes Now (12 page)

‘It’s not that, sister …’

‘It’s a normal reaction. Don’t worry, I’m not offended. There are others that are much more … obvious. Aggressive.
More hostile. From higher-ranking people, if you follow me? The bishop himself seemed … Are you on good terms with the monsignor?’

‘The bishop? He … we … Our relations are, let’s say … the bishop and I … We hardly see each other.’

‘The bishop comes from a traditional family of this region. Very intelligent. Very refined. He has a keen sense of humour. Has he never commented on your accent?’

‘My accent?’

‘I suspect you come from the north-east.’

‘I was born in Sergipe. But I left for Pernambuco when I was little. I never realized that my accent …’

‘Before I came here, I had never been out of the state of Minas Gerais. I’ve no idea if racial mixes are acceptable in the north-east. Here … d’you know that even some girls in the orphanage seemed rather hostile? Even the ones the same colour as me? I’m the first black woman they haven’t seen working in the kitchen or cooking. They can’t understand it. If that girl, or that woman, Aparecida or Anita, had been white, perhaps things would have been easier for her. But your glass is empty.’

She took the liqueur bottle over to him, and poured him another glass.

‘Wasn’t Anita … ?’

‘White? No. In the orphanage’s records she is described as “pale mulatto”,’ she said, going over to one of the filing cabinets. She opened a drawer and took out a cardboard file stuffed with pieces of paper and documents.

‘Pale mulatto?’

‘Pale mulatto. As you know, that’s a euphemism for a mixed-race person with light-coloured skin. Look at this file. It’s the earliest mention of the girl, completed when the baby was brought here. As you can see, she still doesn’t have a name.’

‘I haven’t got my glasses. What does this line say?’

‘Colour of eyes. Green.’

‘She was …’

‘Pale mulatto, with green eyes.’

‘A light-skinned mulatto. Who could pass for white. And with green eyes.’

‘Now, her brother is registered as …’

‘Brother?’

‘Brother. Renato. They’re in the same file. Renato was registered as black. Some more liqueur?’

They descended the concrete tiers of seats through the gaps among a group of fans. On the pitch, a team in blue shirts was playing against another in yellow. The old man did not recognize the game, but it looked like a more violent version of football. Paulo, who was in front of Eduardo, turned and said something about a regional semi-final of five-a-side, but the old man could not hear him in the crowd of youngsters who were shouting, waving scarves and banners.

The two boys were the first to reach the pitch, and stood watching the match while the white-haired man was still struggling down through the spectators, hindered by the
height of the rows used for seats and the lack of handrails.

The three of them finally reached the blue team’s substitutes’ bench. Paulo and Eduardo spoke to a youngster with a military crew-cut. Leaning over to hear them, he shook his head, and pointed to the yellow team’s substitutes on the far side of the pitch, under a corrugated iron shelter.

They rushed round the stand, treading on the feet of complaining spectators. By the time the old man caught up with them, they had already got the information they were after. The three of them talked together, then went to the entrance to the changing rooms. They huddled together again, and the white-haired man walked into the changing-room area on his own.

It stank of urine, damp, sweat. The lights were switched off. Thanks to the floodlights on the pitch, he could make out a corridor. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. The corridor led to a big room with cubicles. Tiled walls. Clothes hanging from hooks. A couple of wooden benches. A urinal. A corner with low partition walls, which he assumed must contain toilets. A row of showers. The greenish stain of damp like a map drawn on the ceiling. Drops of dirty water dripping from it, forming a large puddle he could not avoid.

The old man walked on his heels through it. He had almost reached one of the benches when he stumbled against a bucket. The hollow sound echoed off the walls, faded away in the darkness. He froze: he thought he had heard whispering. He could make out a different smell in the air: something new and fresh he couldn’t identify. He stood still for a few moments, but all he could hear was water dripping into
the puddle, and the muffled sounds of the game outside.

He was about to leave when he was sure he heard a human sound – possibly a gasp, or someone panting or whispering. He held his breath and waited. Once again, all he heard was the water dripping into the puddle and distant sounds from the pitch. Without knowing exactly why, he decided to go on to the far end of the changing room. He began opening the cubicle doors. First one, then the next, a third and a fourth. Before he could open the fifth, a looming figure gripped his wrist and stopped him.

‘Renato?’ asked the old man, when he had recovered from his fright.

The black youth did not reply. He still had hold of the old man’s wrist, and was squeezing it. All he was wearing was a jockstrap.

‘I’m looking for Renato.’

He was tall. The old man had to glance upwards to see his face. An adolescent. A strong jaw and prominent cheekbones that contrasted with his delicate nose and fine nostrils. His close-set eyes were staring at him hostilely.

‘Are you … Renato?’

Instead of answering, the youngster grabbed his other wrist, and came even closer. The old man caught a whiff of the mysterious fragrance once more, this time mixed with the sweat from the young man’s body.

‘Are you Renato?’

‘What of it?’ he snapped.

‘Renato dos Santos?’

‘What do you want?’

The old man was certain now: his skin was impregnated with the fragrance. It came from him. He smelt of sweat and perfume.

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘I can’t right now.’

‘It’ll be quick.’

‘Some other time.’

‘It’s a rapid matter.’

‘Come back in a while.’

‘I won’t be long.’

‘Later.’

‘It’s about your sister.’

‘I don’t have a sister.’

‘It’s about Anita.’

The old man thought he detected a flicker in the young man’s eyes, and the pressure on his wrists grew. He repeated himself.

‘It’s about your sister. I need some information.’

The youth didn’t move.

‘Information. About some things that don’t fit. About Anita.’

He could feel the grip on his wrists tighten still further.

‘About Aparecida.’

The youngster moved slightly away from him.

‘I was at the orphanage this afternoon.’

The athletic figure’s breathing seemed more agitated.

‘At the orphanage.’

He could hear him breathing in and out.

‘I saw the files.’

The young man looked away.

‘I saw the files, Renato. Yours and hers.’

Without releasing his wrists or withdrawing, the youngster said out loud:

‘You’d better go.’

The cubicle door opened. The fragrance reached the old man before he saw her. Lavender. Coming from her.

She kept her head down as she came out, adjusting her bra and buttoning up her blouse above the pleated skirt. She glanced up quickly at the old man as she scooped her fair hair into a ponytail. She could not have been more than fifteen.

The old man heard her walking off down the corridor, the noise from the pitch when she opened the door, then the water dripping into the puddle after she had gone out.

‘Who are you?’ asked the youth, letting go of his wrists.

‘I only want to help,’ the old man began, rubbing his sore arms.

‘Help with what? Help whom?’

‘Help to discover …’

‘Discover what?’

‘The person responsible for your sister’s death.’

‘I don’t have a sister,’ the young man snapped, moving away towards a shower. He turned the knob, and the water came gushing out.

‘I was at the orphanage this afternoon, Renato.’

The youth began to soap himself.

‘Where your sister was brought up.’

The old man had to shout over the noise of the shower.

‘Until she became Anita.’

Renato pushed his head under the jet of water. Closed his eyes. Said something the old man did not catch.

‘Your sister, Anita de Andrade Gomes,’ he said, going closer.

The water splashed his shoes and trouser legs.

‘Aren’t you concerned about Dona Anita’s death?’

The youth’s lips were moving, but the old man couldn’t tell what he was saying.

‘Aren’t you concerned about your sister’s murder?’

‘My sister died when I was ten years old.’

‘Didn’t you see each other? Didn’t she ever tell you if she was afraid of someone?’

The youth turned on the next shower, and the sound of the water grew even louder.

‘Didn’t you stay in contact?’

Turning his back on the old man, the youngster turned on another shower. Then another, and another. He faced towards him again.

‘Didn’t she ever come to see you?’

The noise from the showers was so deafening the old man had to shout. His socks and shoes were soaking.

‘What did you say, Renato? That your sister died when you were ten? Was that what you said?’

The youngster started to soap his penis with obscene rubbing gestures.

‘So Aparecida died when she was fifteen, did she, Renato? Still a girl. Fifteen. A young girl. I must be talking about someone else. She must be … You’re black. She was blonde. White. Are you going to carry on masturbating in front of me? Shaking your dick at me? Are you trying to embarrass me? To
force me to leave? Is that what you’re doing? Anita must have seen lots of men doing that. Masturbating. For her. In her. Inside her.’

The youngster moved away to the furthest shower. The old man followed him.

‘The murdered woman can’t have been a black boy’s sister. She was blonde. A beautiful blonde. Sensual. Even blonder than that girl who just left. Tall. Pretty as a film star. She was twenty-four. She can’t have been your sister. Aparecida died when she was fifteen, didn’t she, Renato? The murdered woman’s name was Anita. A rich woman’s name. A white woman’s name. She was well known in the city. Very well known. Every man in the city knew Anita. And she knew lots of them. One of those men hated her. Perhaps she had humiliated him. In bed, who knows? And he took his revenge. He killed her by stabbing her a dozen times. Or more. Fifteen perhaps, or sixteen, eighteen times. And he cut off one of her breasts. One of her beautiful breasts. As a trophy. A ghastly murder. A horrible crime. Revolting. But you’re not concerned, are you, Renato? Nobody’s worried. Do you know why, Renato? Because everyone thought she was a tramp. Everybody’s whore. And that’s the kind of end every tramp deserves. Especially a black tramp who tried to pass herself off as white, who showed herself off alongside—’

The youngster leapt at him, grabbing him by the jacket lapels. He pushed him under the showers. The old man groaned as his head hit the wall. The youth seized it and forced it up under the jet. The water blinded the old man. It filled his nostrils, so that he had to open his mouth to breathe, then
gurgled down his throat. He coughed, but only swallowed more water. He tried to loosen the young man’s grip, but he pushed him upwards. The old man lost his footing. His chest hurt, his cheeks felt as though they were being crushed. Every time he tried to draw breath he only took more water into his nostrils and throat; this made him cough, and swallow yet more liquid. He struggled, kicking out. One of his shoes came off. He was slipping on the tiled floor. He was blacking out. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the gushing water hurt them. His sight dimmed. He realized he was losing consciousness. He wanted to throw up. He coughed, gagged, coughed again. The water took on a bitter taste. His hands grew weak as he tried to free himself from the youngster’s grip. He felt for the floor with his stockinged foot, but it no longer seemed to be there. He stopped struggling. Around him, everything went dark.

When he came to, he was lying stretched out on the wet floor. The showers had been turned off. The young man was bending over him. The old man raised his hands to ward off the blow. The youth took hold of him under the arms, and hauled him upright. He carried him over to one of the benches, sat him down. He walked off, then came back with a towel. The old man wrapped it round himself, shivering. Renato stood naked in front of him, not saying a word. Then he sat down, and said:

‘What do you want to ask me?’

HE WAS STILL
pale when he left the changing room. He searched for a cigarette, but everything in his pockets was soaking. Eduardo and Paulo were busy watching an argument between the blue team’s goalkeeper and a yellow-team forward. Trainers and substitutes from both teams were trying to pull them apart, but before long they became involved in the brawl as well. The exchange of blows and insults quickly spread, and some of the fans jumped down on to the pitch to join in.