If I Close My Eyes Now (29 page)

A bigger pothole than usual jolted him in the saddle. He was finally getting close to the string of lights. Windows, verandas, porches, walls, roofs, began to emerge from the darkness.

With the cold rain still beating down, he reached something resembling a village. Not even that: an untidy row of squat houses. A housing development for people on low incomes, built around an open space that the rain had turned into a mudbath.

There was no one in sight to ask where Renato lived. Ubiratan rode on to the nearest house, thinking he would knock on the door and ask.

Before he reached it, he heard a shot. The loud, clear sound rent the night and made him shudder.

He turned the bike towards where he thought the sound had come from. In front of him he saw several identical tiny dwellings, most of them unplastered, with the bricks exposed.

He heard another shot.

Then a third.

All of them came from somewhere behind him.

He turned round.

More identical houses, with the same roofs, walls, doors and muddy yards in front of them.

Trusting to instinct, he dropped the bike and ran, feeling awkward and old, towards a shack where the only light came from the veranda. As he drew close, he saw a car parked at the back: a green American car with a white top. A second car was parked just opposite it. He halted. He recognized the sleek lines, the raised tail fins and the big lights: the mayor’s car.

The snake has struck, he thought, hastening on towards the house.

A fourth loud report stopped him in his tracks. Then another one, followed by a cry. Short, high-pitched, almost a sigh. Or a child wailing. And then silence.

He reached the building. He climbed the step up to the veranda. Saw that the door was ajar. He pushed it open slowly. The light from a single bulb flooded the interior. It lit up a bed, and on it Renato’s naked body. There were two bullet holes in his chest, one in his throat and a fourth in his hand. The blood that poured from these wounds was staining red the white sheet Isabel was clutching to her, unsuccessfully trying to hide her small breasts. She was moaning. She was wounded in an arm as well.

‘Where is he?’ Ubiratan asked desperately. ‘Where is the mayor?’

Isabel did not seem to understand. He insisted.

‘Where did the mayor go? Where did your husband go?’ She began to tremble, staring at the far side of the room.

She tried to say something, but failed. Ubiratan followed her gaze.

A figure that until now had been hidden in the shadows
slowly emerged, revolver in hand. The fragrance of lavender reached Ubiratan’s nostrils before he saw her contorted face and small, dark eyes, swollen with tears.

‘Cecilia!’ he shouted, making to move towards her.

She pointed the revolver at him.

‘Don’t move!’

Ubiratan obeyed.

‘Don’t come near me!’

‘Stay calm, Cecilia.’

‘Keep away from me.’

‘I wasn’t going to—’

‘I still have one bullet left!’

‘Listen, don’t—’

‘Be quiet! Be quiet!’

Isabel stretched out a blood-soaked hand.

‘Daughter—’

‘You be quiet too,’ she shouted, swinging the gun round towards her mother.

‘Little daughter—’

‘Quiet!’

‘Listen—’

‘I don’t want to hear you, old man. Keep your mouth shut.’

‘Cecilia, my little girl—’

‘You whore!’

‘My little Cecilia—’

‘You whore, whore, whore! I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. Whore!’

‘Cecilia, please, give me the—’

‘Stay away from me, old man! Well away! I didn’t believe that it was all true! Absolutely everything!’

‘Cecilia, calm down …’

‘I’ll shoot! I’ll kill you!’

‘For the love of God, my little girl …’

‘You’re a whore. More of a whore than the filthiest of whores!’

‘Daughter …’

‘You used to talk about Anita, but it was you who behaved like a tramp! You! She told me everything. Anita told me everything!’

‘She wanted money, my little one …’

‘You and Renato! She even told me about this place! That you two met here every week! Every week, at least once. Sometimes more often. And that you gave him money.’

Ubiratan couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

‘Aparecida couldn’t have done that. She didn’t—’

‘Anita was blackmailing me, Cecilia. Me and Renato.’

‘Don’t do it …’

‘My mother and my boyfriend! You were his lover!’

‘My little girl …’

‘Cecilia, give me that …’

‘Get away from me! Get away. Back over there! Go on!’

He took a step back.

‘Daughter, she wanted to destroy our family …’

‘Anita told me everything. I didn’t believe her! I hit her. I slapped her face. She began to cry.’

‘She was a tramp, sweetheart. She deserved to die as she did.’

‘You’re the tramp! You killed Anita! I know you did!’

‘It wasn’t me, daughter. It wasn’t me.’

‘I heard you talking about it to Papa.’

‘I lied. I had to lie when he found traces of blood on the car seat. I couldn’t tell him the truth, that I was with Renato. And that it was Renato who killed her.’

On the bed, the dead man’s eyes were staring emptily. The hand with the bullet hole in it was lying across Isabel’s stomach. She caught hold of it, trying to pull the body towards her. Renato’s top half slid off the mattress. The blood oozing from his wounds trickled across the cement floor.

‘I took Anita to the lake. Renato was in hiding, waiting for us.’

The mother was speaking gently to her daughter, oblivious to the old man looking on incredulously and to the naked, lifeless body beside her.

‘Anita wanted money. She said it was to leave here. Money wasn’t a problem. I could easily get that. But she was obsessed with another idea. She wanted to separate you and Renato.’

‘That’s a lie!’

‘She said that you two couldn’t stay together. She demanded I forbid you to meet. She demanded I separate you.’

‘It’s all lies!’

‘I swear it, my love. I swear it! But I couldn’t do it. How could I? You would suspect something: it would only confirm the suspicions she had put in your head. It was too much to ask of me. I told her it was impossible. I offered her more money. As much as she wished! She didn’t accept. Instead, she threatened me. She took a knife from her bag.’

‘Lies, lies, all lies! You killed her with one of Daddy’s daggers. I know it was one of his!’

‘It was a kitchen knife. A knife that belonged to her, not me. I didn’t take any knife with me, daughter. Renato saw Anita getting the knife from her bag and threatening me. He came up behind her and hit her on the side of the head. I was frightened. I opened the car door to escape. She grabbed me by the skirt. Renato took her by the hair. She pointed the knife at him, shouting something I didn’t understand. Your sister, your sister, or something like that. Renato dragged Anita out of the car, punching and kicking her. She was yelling at him, trying to get away. He caught hold of her by the blouse. It ripped. Renato punched her again. She fell, but soon got back to her feet. I think she was sobbing. After that, I can only remember her running away. She ran towards the lake, with Renato behind her. I started running as well. She stumbled and fell.’

‘It was by the lake that you killed Anita! I heard you telling my father that. And between you, you forced Dr Andrade to confess to the crime!’

‘We brought Anita to the ground. I held her down. Immobilized her arms. Renato got hold of the knife. I didn’t see how often he stabbed her. We had to do it, daughter. We would have had no peace if that woman had lived. Renato did what was necessary.’

The pool of dark liquid seeping from Renato’s body grew and grew until it reached Ubiratan’s shoes. He begged again:

‘Cecilia: give me that gun.’

‘Be quiet, old man!’

‘Too many people have already died, Cecilia. There’s been too much pain. Give me the gun.’

‘Don’t come near me!’ she shouted, pointing the revolver at his head.

‘For the love of God, little one.’

‘Shut your mouth, or I’ll kill you too! I killed him, and I’ll kill you!’

‘Cecilia …’

‘Don’t come any closer! I warn you!’

‘Stay calm, daughter. Calm. Give him the gun. Don’t worry about what happened here. We can explain it as self-defence. We can say that Renato tried to rape you, that he was violent towards you. That’s what we’ll say. Renato tried to force you, and you took out the gun and fired. To defend your honour. That’s what it was. That’s how we’ll explain it. Or we can say I was the one who fired. I discovered what was going on, and came here with your father’s revolver. It makes no difference. We can see what line of defence the lawyers prefer.’

‘I loved Renato!’

‘We don’t even need lawyers! We don’t have to use them. Your father can sort this out, daughter. He’ll get rid of Renato’s body. Renato has no family. Nobody will report his disappearance, daughter, absolutely nobody!’

‘I loved Renato!’

‘Give me the gun, Cecilia,’ said Ubiratan softly, edging towards her.

‘Put the revolver down, daughter. Let your father sort—’

‘You’re the guilty one! I was aiming at you, not him! He pushed himself in front of you! He protected you!’

‘Please, little Cecilia, my little daughter, put that gun down.’

‘There’s still one bullet in it! I can kill one of you!’

‘Give me the weapon, Cecilia.’

‘My little daughter …’

‘The gun, Cecilia. Give it me.’

‘Be quiet! Just be quiet!’

‘Please, give—’

‘Don’t talk to me, either of you. Get away from me, old man!’

‘Give me—’

‘Don’t come any closer, or I’ll kill that whore!’

Isabel broke down in tears.

‘No, my little girl, please,’ she begged, terrified. ‘Please don’t shoot, don’t kill me, Cecilia, my little girl …’

‘Give me the weapon, please.’

‘I’m going to kill her!’

Isabel began to weep disconsolately.

‘No, little daughter, no!’

Her sobs grew more and more desperate.

Cecilia pointed the gun at her.

‘I’m going to kill that whore!’

‘Cecilia, hand me that revolver.’

‘No, daughter, please, I beg you!’ Isabel moaned, raising her hands to cover her face.

‘Give me …’ said Ubiratan yet again, so close to her by now he could reach out and seize the weapon.

Cecilia drew back, and fired the last bullet.

THE TELEPHONE RANG
twice, three, eight, fifteen times, before he gave up and put it back on its cradle. He was still sitting on the bed. He calculated quickly what he still had to pack: not much. A change of clothes, the report from the Brazilian supplier, the laptop, a few diskettes and CDs. His shaving kit. His toilet bag. He could carry his overcoat. He could stuff the scarf in the sleeves, and put the gloves in the pockets. It was cold in Paris, where he had his first stopover, even colder in Geneva, where he would catch the train to his final destination, Lausanne. He had no intention of working during the flight. He was tired after four days of meetings and visits in a city where the traffic was always chaotic. He wanted to sleep: as soon as the plane took off, he would take a pill, and ask not to be roused for either dinner or breakfast. But he would keep the diskettes with him anyway, with all the information he still needed to study and analyse before he wrote his final report. The turbulence in the mid-Atlantic at this time of year was so bad it sometimes
woke him whether or not he had taken a Lexotan.

He dialled the front desk, and asked them to call him a taxi in forty-five minutes. It was still early for his flight, and he would probably arrive at Guarulhos airport far too soon, but he didn’t want to run the risk of getting stuck in a traffic jam, and perhaps this way he might even avoid the queues for passport control. If he had to wait a long time, he would buy a book or magazine: with any luck he would find the day before’s edition of
El País
or a recent copy of the
Financial Times
.

He got up, went into the tiny bathroom, picked up his shaving kit, then went into the cramped shower and turned on the tap. The jet of cold water brought him a sense of relief that no air-conditioning could equal, in the heat and humidity of a Brazilian summer that he had become unaccustomed to. It was worse in Dili: air-conditioning was a rare luxury in East Timor.

He dressed, and put the remaining things in his hand luggage. He glanced at his watch: there was still half an hour before the taxi was due to arrive. He switched on the TV, and tuned in to CNN International. In front of a map of Afghanistan, an expert in military strategy was explaining the objectives of a US troop operation near Kandahar. The blonde, serious-looking presenter behind an acrylic and Formica desk asked a supposedly intelligent question about a recent bomb attack in Baghdad and the challenge the British troops stationed in Basra could face from an apparently pro-Saddam Shi’ite resistance group. Before the expert could begin his reply, he switched off the TV. He picked
up the phone, and once more dialled the number he had underlined in the directory.

It rang once, then a brief pause, then another ring. Another pause. After the sixth ring he gave up, and was about to put the phone down when somebody answered.

‘Hello?’ said a voice. ‘Hello!’

It was a woman’s voice. She sounded out of breath.

‘Hello! Who’s there?’

A young woman.

‘Yes, hello,’ he replied, his own voice thick with an emotion that took him unawares. ‘Hello there.’

‘Who is this?’

‘I’m sorry to call you like this, out of the blue. You don’t know me …’

He was speaking slowly, without an accent, but like a foreigner who is trying to find the exact terms in a language he’s no longer familiar with.

‘Who’s there?’

‘I looked in the phone directory for—’

‘What is it you want?’

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself …’

‘Who do you wish to speak to?’

‘I’ve been ringing throughout the four days that I’ve been in São Paulo …’