The Body Snatcher

by Patricia Melo

  She was under fifty, compact, and seemed to be made of some material that would break easily. The type of person who, if I were God, I’d pay to play on my team. She looked you in the eye when she spoke, without affectation, in a very feminine way. I don’t know how to deal with that type. The result of certain combinations, wealth with kindness, beauty with kindness, wealth with beauty, or even just kindness or pure beauty is very destructive. It puts an end to you. You’re reduced to dust, that’s the truth.

  Dona Lu stood beside the car, waiting for me to open the door. The subtle smell of a rich woman quickly permeated everything. It took me a time to understand that my duties also included opening doors.

  She asked me to take her to the church. On the way she asked several questions: if I was married, if I had children, family, if I liked Corumbá. She also said that I had brought good luck to her family. And that the police thought her son was still alive. She herself was certain of it. You’ll like him, she said.

  She also asked if I was religious. I remembered reading somewhere that people prefer celebrities to Santa Claus. Actresses, in my opinion, are more interesting than saints. Between Madonna and Hail Mary I would stick with Madonna, but you can’t say that in surveys or to Dona Lu.

  There was no one in the church. Just coolness and the dim light and her, on her knees, praying. I felt sorry for her, felt like shortening the path she would have to follow. I thought that if I told her the boy was dead, if I took her to see the body and she could give him a proper burial, with a wake and flowers, if she could cry at the tomb, she wouldn’t, like my mother, have to keep the home fires burning for a long time. Stark death isn’t the hardest thing. Worse is mystery. Doubt. That’s what destroys us.

  We went home in silence, and in the rearview mirror I saw that Dona Lu was crying softly.

  That devastated me. I remembered my mother crying, the tears dripping into the beaten egg whites. I thought about the happy brides who ate my mother’s cakes of tears at their wedding parties.

  That night, I went to pick up Sulamita at the precinct. There was a farewell party; it was her last day on the job. The next day she would be transferred to the Forensics division, as head of the morgue.

  They were drinking beer, sitting at the tables.

  Know what her work’s gonna be? they asked me.

  I had no idea. They laughed, trying to tease me.

  Sulamita’s gonna talk with cadavers, they said. Laughter. Now it’s serious, they told me. A corpse is the plane’s black box. Everything’s recorded in that hunk of flesh, and you just have to sit down and know how to listen. The deceased. The dead truly speak. They tell all. Who did it. How he did it. That’s how you crack the crime, they said. Someone added, My best teachers were the great killers. The hard part, they said, is putting up with the smell.

  A young guy I’d never seen there, with thin legs and a voluminous belly, recalled an investigation in which the detective, new at the time, and who later died of a heart attack, went into the bathroom in the victim’s house, got some perfume and scattered it around the place. Just imagine the smell. Rotting flesh with perfume. They guffawed. The stench, said the precinct chief, whose name was Pedro Caleiro, that hot smell of rot along with the perfume – I almost killed Raul, the idiot. We were sweating like pigs. They laughed loudly. Especially Dudu, the chief’s assistant, a blond guy with blue eyes and the face of an old Weimaraner. It was he who suggested that Sulamita use Vicks VapoRub.

  It was a hot night, suffocating. I stopped paying attention to what they were saying. The image of Dona Lu weeping behind her sunglasses wouldn’t leave my head.

  What’s wrong? Sulamita asked.

  I must’ve drunk too much, I said, and went out to vomit in the hallway, where a few tires and other junk were blocking the exit.

  Sulamita brought a glass of soda. She sat down by me and took my hand. Are you feeling any better?

  I said yes.

  She said her family wanted to meet me. My mother’s going to make lunch for you on Sunday.

  I asked if she would mind if I left.

  Sulamita was affectionate with me. I’ll take you to the car, she said.

  As I was leaving, I heard her ask Joel, Can you give me a ride, Tranqueira?

  Of course, Sweetheart.

  At home, I kept tossing in bed, looking at the clock, unable to sleep. The image of the body floating in the river wouldn’t leave my mind.

  At three o’clock I got up, went to the pay phone at the corner and called the Beraba family.

  I have some important information, I told whoever answered the phone.

  Who’s calling?

  I recognized the rancher’s voice.

  Your son is dead, I said.

  And hung up.

  11

  First Brian blew his brains out. Ten days later, Robbie hanged himself. And then Justin drank rat poison. And Max, three days later, followed the path of Brian, Robbie, and Justin. I thought to myself, the people in that area, Texas, I’m not sure exactly where it was, Wisconsin, the people there must wake up every morning wondering who’s going to hang himself today. Who’s going to jump from the tenth floor?

  It’s no coincidence, concluded the experts. I don’t know where I read the story, but the theory is that it’s an epidemic. Somebody kills himself and the news spreads like the flu. A powerful virus. It appears in all the papers, on television, radio, and those dead who hours before were just a shy student, just a widower, a peaceful appliance salesman, or the son of Chinese immigrants, with no talent or luster, are transformed into celebrities like movie actors or baseball players. A dark fame, true. Infectious stars.

  The others, the ones who don’t kill themselves, foster death and mount the spectacle. That’s also part of the sickness. They gossip, comment, really smear themselves. They devour newspapers. They live off that. The funeral is a great event, with the presence of the mayor, who eulogizes the hanged man in a lovely speech. Schoolchildren join hands and sing a hymn. A period of mourning is declared and the team flag is flown at half-staff. It’s like the awarding of a local Oscar. It’s a prize, the homage. You kill yourself, and in exchange you become famous in your little town. For a few days. And sometime later, somebody else hangs himself, and then another, in a vicious circle that paradoxically lends life to those dead cities with names like Frostproof.

  An epidemic, say the sociologists. And it does no good to wash your hands. No good to disinfect with alcohol. Or wear a mask. The only way for you not to blow your brains out is to turn off the television. Turn off the radio. Not to read newspapers. To leave the city.

  I felt contaminated myself. In my opinion, what we were experiencing in Corumbá was an outbreak. Of a different sort, but equally vicious. In all the papers, on the radio and television, the exclusive topic was the pilot’s accident. The difference was that no one had killed himself. It was pitiful seeing Dona Lu. She had lost a lot of weight. I practically had to carry her to the car when we went to the church. On those occasions, the vultures hovered around her, all but asking for autographs. Does it hurt badly? is what they wanted to know. How much does it hurt to have a son disappear? Jackals after raw meat. They liked feeling pity for that rich and attractive woman, who was royally screwed despite being rich and attractive. They felt good about that. Dona Lu’s misfortune allowed them to feel sympathetic. In fact, that’s another symptom of the epidemic. Pathological generosity that surges in the community. Instead of fever and diarrhea, there suddenly appears that symptom, compassion.

  The young people of the city organized and went out in search of the pilot, in the vicinity of the Old Highway. At the location of the accident there was now a cross. And flowers. JUNIOR LIVES. Banners like that proliferated around the city.

  The worst part was the vigils. I would sometimes arrive for work and there was no other way to get into the garage except by stepping on flowers and candles. We would gather up the bouquets to open a path, throw everything in the trash, but right away
they would bring more flowers, more garbage, and block the entrance again. On a Monday, there were also bags of French fries and Coca-Cola cans strewn around. In the riding area. Where people suffered a little to enjoy themselves a lot. At the misfortune of others. Instead of going to the park or the movies, they suffered on our sidewalk, joining hands, with prayer and song. And later, tired of amusing themselves by crying, they would return to their homes, satiated.

  There was no rest. By day, indignation, and at night, bad dreams. In them there was always a cake with several layers, like the ones my mother used to make, and on top, instead of the smiling bride and groom, was the wreckage of an airplane around which vultures and gulls circled endlessly. I observed the small dark cloud of birds and, as I was getting up to shoo them away, I realized I was moving with the vultures. I woke up, feeling the giddiness of rapture. Or of falling, I don’t really remember.

  The epidemic didn’t last long. A month, perhaps. A bit more. And when we were at the apex, with the entire city greatly enjoying itself, the inevitable happened. That’s how an epidemic works, according to immunologists. It peaks and then begins to retreat. Descend. Really plummet.

  Just as we were beginning to experience a bit of peace, Dona Lu sank for good. She wasn’t resigned. How could my son, so loved, my only son, my love, not come through this door again? I want my son, she repeated to her husband like a spoiled little girl.

  We could hear her sobs from the kitchen. Doctors came to sedate her. But she would wake up and resume her wailing. Sometimes she would become confused and ask us if Junior had woken up, if he’d had breakfast. Sometimes she would call me to look at albums of Junior as a child. We spent afternoons like that, looking at photos from the past.

  I recall that one day when I returned from the bank where I’d gone to pay some bills, I went to look for her in the office to give her the receipts and found her with her head on the desk, weeping uncontrollably, crying like a small child. Where is my son? she asked when I came in. I want my son, she said, almost imploring, looking into my eyes, that’s how she spoke to people, with her penetrating gaze, fearless, and when you answered, she would listen with almost childish attention, believing, as if the others were incapable of lying.

  What could I say at that moment? That her son was food for the piranhas?

  True, I had said that. In different form. Not to her, to her husband. If she answered the phone I hung up. But on two occasions, in the middle of the night, from the pay phone at the corner of my block, when I was sure it was him on the phone, I said point-blank: your son is dead.

  And hung up. I thought the information would help, that knowing it they would go forward, look for the body in the river or else start to accept the idea that their son had died, at least that, but what’s odd is that at no time did they take that hypothesis into consideration. Some crazy guy keeps calling, Dalva said one morning. A psychopath.

  And so my warnings were just one more element of the family’s nightmare. They would listen to me and the next day go on believing their son would be found. They didn’t want to know that he had fallen into a river full of piranhas. They didn’t even give it a thought. The piranhas. They had raised cattle for decades and were all too familiar with losing steers to the piranhas in the very river where their son had crashed, but they chose to overlook that detail.

  Five weeks after the accident I received my first pay and took Sulamita for pizza in a restaurant near the belvedere on Santo Inácio Hill, from which we could see a stretch of the Paraguay River in the distance.

  The night was hot, stuffy, and we sat at a table outside to enjoy the view.

  Sulamita was a bit down, and I felt her mood had to do with my reluctance to meet her family. She had been insisting on it for some weeks, and I had put her off a little because of Rita. Not that I didn’t like Sulamita. But Rita was something else entirely. Rita was as bubbly as a waterfall, everything about her was lushness and strength, hyper-feminine, legs exposed, always wearing rings, necklaces, and clogs, always gesticulating. I was crazy about all of it.

  Carlão believed she was attending to clients, and Sulamita thought I was putting in overtime at the Berabas’, and we would go to motels, fill the tub and stay there, fucking and escaping the heat.

  One day we were embracing in bed after making love when I asked why she didn’t get out if her relationship with Carlão was so bad. I think that at the time I was also thinking about a more serious step with Rita. Why? she said. Because I have a heart. Carlão left a long-standing marriage and two daughters to be with me, and now that I’m with you, in a good thing, now that I’m in love with you I just say ciao? Just like that? No, I’m not that kind of woman. I want to do things right, she said. Without hurting anybody.

  After that, I understood where Rita was coming from and slowed things down. Actually, I saw it was time to end the affair. But that wasn’t easy. We had a crazy connection, she knew how to keep me close. Naturally, we started fighting a lot too. Especially because of Sulamita. Or Carlão. I didn’t like the idea of dumping Sulamita, and that irritated Rita. Carlão also exasperated me. He would sometimes call three times in a row to ask dumb questions. A goddamn drag. You’re not even married and already act like a husband, she said. That’s when things heated up. We’d fight, she’d phone and I wouldn’t answer, or vice versa. I would plead, she would plead, we’d both say no and yes, yes and no, we’d make up and then fight again, go back, and get offended, then make up again.

  Our relationship really heated up one Thursday when I went out to have some beers with Carlão and he told me he wanted to have a child with Rita. I got pissed off.

  That Saturday at the pizzeria, in that infernal heat, without even the hint of a breeze, I finally told Sulamita she could set up the lunch with her family on Sunday.

  She kissed me and said she loved me. But she was still sad, I noticed. Sad and in love.

  On Sunday I woke up resolved to get my life back in order. Rita called and I made a point of telling her, I’m going to meet Sulamita’s family, and we may get engaged. You’re ridiculous, she answered, and hung up in my face, before I could tell her she was the one who was ridiculous with that talk about a baby.

  As I was getting ready to leave, Moacir knocked at the door. I had been trying to talk with him for a week, to find out what the fuck was going on, why he was so tuned out, didn’t open his workshop anymore, slept late, left the junk piled up at the entrance to the house, cans from the shop. The neighborhood kids were already starting to steal that crap.

  He was also drinking. At least that’s what Sulamita kept telling me. But what really worried me was Eliana. It was true that we were making some money. Not much, because my strategy was to sell cheaply to undercut the competition. But it was dribs and drabs, coming in every day. Every day Moacir would push a few fives and tens under the door of my room: he paid for his part, and that was good for both of us, I could spend it all without calling attention, I spent it on motels and restaurants with Rita, and with Sulamita too, I’d bought a ring for Sulamita that I was going to take to the lunch, and a tray for Sulamita’s mother and a hunting knife for her father. I spent everything, but without calling attention to myself, while Moacir – what a bungler, and that business of not opening the workshop? And Eliana, who went around in new clothes, all dolled up? Why’d she dyed her hair blonde? To make herself stand out?

  On Friday, as I was leaving for work, I noticed that everybody in Moacir’s house, including Serafina, was wearing new sneakers. The same model. What’s this, I asked, a football team? I explained to Moacir that he was attracting unwanted attention. You think the people in the neighborhood don’t see it? You go barefoot and all of a sudden show up in new Reeboks? You think people don’t spot the splurge?

  I’ll be careful, he said. He swore he’d talk to Eliana, but I noticed that he reeked of alcohol, and became more concerned.

  I’m talking seriously, I said.

  I know, Moacir answered. He asked how much of
the drug we had left.

  A little less than two hundred grams, I answered.

  Is that all? We don’t even need to bag it. Let me have it all, I have a major buyer.

  The sun was searing when I got in the car, and the landscape shimmered like it was a bad film.

  12

  Your car was stolen? Go to Puerto Suárez and see if it’s there. That’s what I’d read about the city. Now I was driving through the muddy streets of Puerto Suárez, though my van hadn’t been stolen. We were there, Moacir and me, to negotiate.

  Ever since our supply ran out, Moacir wouldn’t leave me alone. He stopped drinking, got his act together, and when he hammered his old pieces of junk in his hot, dirty workshop, he would try to convince me to meet his friend Ramirez, the Bolivian. Or rather, almost friend. I’m friends with a guy who works for him, Moacir had said. Juan. Another Bolivian. Their scheme is foolproof, you just have to use your own car.

  The more I resisted, the more Moacir tried to convince me. With a van like mine, he said, I’d be rolling in dough. Know what my plan is?

  He was funny, with those stripped bikes in that shithole shack, the Indian was talking about the future. My plan is to get away, I said, to get the hell out. We’ll make a bundle with Ramirez, he promised. Ramirez’s like you, he don’t want problems. He wants money. You and him got a lot in common, you know? You’re gonna be friends, I’m sure of it. Ramirez only gets along with people like you. If everything works out and we get in, know what I wanna do with my part? Open up a real workshop, with a gigantic hydraulic lift, you know, a hydraulic jack? To raise the car? Right in downtown Corumbá. Hire a couple of guys to work with me. Everybody in uniforms. If you go to Puerto Suárez with me and meet Ramirez, you’ll see how easy it is to get the dough.

  Naturally, I didn’t take any of that seriously. In reality, it was Sulamita’s reaction the next day when she discovered Rita’s panties in my bedroom that made me change my mind. Whose are they? she asked. I don’t know, I answered, preparing for a fight that never came. Actually, what happened between us was anticlimactic. First a great silence, then an emptiness, a void. Sulamita said nothing, and I started to make up things while she sat on the edge of the bed, under control, biting her lip, listening to me repeat that I didn’t know how the panties had got there, I swear I don’t know, I repeated, it must be something the Indians did, those goddamn kids, they come into houses, rummage around in everything – and then Sulamita interrupted and said that whenever she received a body in the morgue she couldn’t help thinking that hours before that piece of meat was breathing, the heart beating, the blood flowing. It hurt to think, she said, that he, the cadaver, had plans before he died, a trip, a house, a child, forgiveness, whatever, you always think you can put off your dream till tomorrow, you think “I’ll take care of it tomorrow,” but then you catch a bullet in the brain, or die run over by a truck, or your heart bursts, and just like that it’s all over. There is no tomorrow. She said this the Sunday I met her parents, while we were eating the fish her mother had spent all morning preparing, all of us at the table. She could hardly breathe from such happiness. Finally, she said, I thought I had found the man who would be the father of my children. That was me. Project Children, of course. Me, the father. The provider. Full of responsibilities. Suddenly, she continued, I could see a wonderful future for me and my family. That was my dream, right in front of me, and I thought we would make it come true. The dream. You and I. The fact that her father, her mother, and her sister liked me only served to confirm her dream. We were going to save our money, she said, and buy some land in the Pantanal. Build a house. Raise cattle. And now, she said, those panties, those stinking panties from some vulgar woman, have ended it all.