The Body Snatcher

by Patricia Melo

  We were like that now, with one or the other always thinking about giving up our gruesome plan. First me, then her. Afterward me again, and her once more. And then both of us together. Or just her. Just me. Day after day like that, an infernal seesaw.

  I realized that Sulamita couldn’t drink anymore. I took the glass from her hand, telling the waiter that I wanted to take the bottle of vodka with me.

  But I’m the only one who’s going to drink, advised Sulamita. You don’t have the stomach for it.

  At eleven that night we arrived at the cemetery. Gilmar was at the gate with a woman who I later learned was his wife. Lots of people make a living that way, Sulamita explained. They sell everything: objects, vases, and even the bronze plaques from the tombs.

  As we followed the couple in the dark, the smell of rot entered through the car’s window.

  What if they talk?

  There’s no way to be involved in a plan like this without leaving skin on the barbed wire. We’ve got to take the chance, she said.

  Do you trust him?

  We’re paying well. That’s what I trust. Money.

  When we arrived at the farthest confines of the cemetery, Gilmar motioned for us to stop.

  When I got out of the car I saw a modest coffin sitting beside a simple grave.

  How are we going to carry it? I asked.

  Get the canvas out of the car, Sulamita replied.

  I kept my back turned while the couple opened the coffin, only hearing Sulamita’s instructions to wrap the corpse and put it in the bed of the van.

  We had brought black plastic to seal off the body of the vehicle.

  I got back into the car when everything was ready and waited for Sulamita to pay the couple.

  It was twenty-past eleven when we left the cemetery.

  29

  We drove for over half an hour on the dirt road without meeting a soul. Sulamita knew the route well. At the next entrance, she said, park near the fence. It’s an old abandoned farm. No one ever comes to these parts.

  My head was spinning from the vodka.

  We parked, and when I turned off the lights it was as if night had plummeted onto our heads. I couldn’t even see my own hands.

  I turned on the headlights, drank a bit more vodka, and we got out, taking with us the materials we had brought on the rear seat of the van.

  Then I turned on the flashlights and Sulamita handed me the raincoat, the goggles, the boots, and gloves for me to get ready. While she was getting dressed, she told me of a disease caused by necrophagous worms that caused blindness. Careful, she said.

  We removed the body from the van and placed it on the ground.

  We had agreed that I would dig the grave while she prepared the cadaver. But because of the darkness she thought it better for us to do everything together. You have to bring the light close to him, she said.

  Sulamita was on her knees in front of the car, taking advantage of the illumination from the headlights. I approached with the flashlights, and it was only then that I saw the body. Nothing was recognizable; there was a kind of gelatinous mass, a slime covering the skeleton. Every hair on my body stood on end from fear.

  Anxiously, I drank more vodka. Sulamita too.

  Pieces of rotting clothing still clung to the body.

  Using scissors, Sulamita cut away the remaining cloth and put it in a garbage bag. She performed a meticulous search to make sure there were no identifying objects.

  Then I dug a deep hole and we carefully placed the body inside, removing the black canvas we had used to transport it.

  Just when I thought the worst was past, Sulamita asked me to point the light into the grave. With the hammer she broke the teeth and legs of the deceased in several places. They won’t be able to establish the identity from dental records. I’ve done autopsies on pilots who died in crashes, she said. They’re all smashed up. She took the blowtorch and charred the skeleton’s legs.

  Then we closed the grave, gathered the canvas and the plastic bags, and lit a bonfire.

  The goggles, hoe, and all the other objects were tossed in the river in a garbage bag weighted down with stones.

  At three in the morning we arrived at my house.

  We went directly into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and remained silent, embracing, feeling the water cascade over us.

  On Sunday, when Sulamita arose, I had already put the clothes we had worn the night before into a garbage bag. We’re going out, I said.

  We had breakfast at the corner bakery and then left on the Old Highway. After leaving the city, we stopped at a dump and got rid of our clothes.

  We spent the morning swimming in the same grotto that we always went to. We practically didn’t speak.

  Sulamita told me several times that she loved me.

  We lay in the sun, drying our bodies. I was so tired that at times I closed my eyes and slept.

  One of those times, I awoke with Sulamita looking at me.

  She asked me if we would someday forget what we had done.

  I sighed.

  What I fear, she said, is that we’ll carry that cadaver for the rest of our lives.

  We’ll have to carry something, I thought. But I didn’t say anything. I closed my eyes and went on feeling the sun on my body.

  30

  When I arrived at work on Monday, Dalva already knew everything. She confessed without embarrassment that she had eavesdropped on her employers’ conversation through the door. You know, she said while she served me fresh coffee, I’ve been in this house for over twenty years. I raised that boy. I have the right to know what’s going on.

  Breathing heavily, she pulled up a stool and sat in front of me.

  Remember that crazy guy who called here saying that Junior was dead? He’s still calling, she said.

  I felt my heart race. Stay calm, over. They don’t know anything, over. I remembered what Sulamita had said about her profession, after we buried the body. Maybe now you understand, she said, the shame I feel at working in the morgue. People are disgusted by me. They avoid speaking to me, as if I could contaminate them. And the worst part is that I do feel contaminated.

  While Dalva told me about the mysterious calls the Berabas had been receiving for several days, I also felt infected.

  Do you think it’s possible to kidnap a corpse? asked Dalva. From what I understood, they kidnapped Junior’s body. I didn’t know that now they kidnap cadavers. That’s new to me. How can they kidnap a cadaver?

  Dalva was confused: it was as if she were telling me, Okay, I understand criminals killing, raping, stealing, kidnapping, demanding ransoms, I understand them slaughtering and burning, blowing up the World Trade Center, but stealing cadavers? Bodies aren’t stolen, that’s what she meant. Cadavers exist to be buried in cemeteries.

  Actually, over, I wasn’t hearing what Dalva was saying any longer, just staring at her puzzled face and repeating to myself that at least we hadn’t killed anyone. We’re not murderers, I repeated silently, and when I focused my attention on Dalva again, I confirmed my earlier predictions: Mr. José wanted to call the police and Dona Lu was against it. They’re arguing all the time, Dalva said.

  She told me further that Dona Lu was wearing Junior’s watch. You know, she said, I think Mr. José is right. They should call the police. If I got my hands on a lowlife like that, I don’t know what I’d do. To me anybody who does that kind of thing deserves to die in the electric chair. It’s a real shame Brazil doesn’t have the death penalty.

  After breakfast I felt worse. I became nauseous and went into the bathroom to vomit. I had woken up that morning feeling sick, but Sulamita insisted I mustn’t change my routine. At a time like this, she said, anything irregular is suspect.

  I vomited twice more undetected. To outward appearances, I was calm.

  Dalva kept coming to me in the garage with unusual questions. How did the criminals get hold of Junior’s body? Were they in the plane? Or did they find Junior dead after the accident
? And where did they keep the body, in a refrigerator? Why didn’t they kidnap Junior alive? Junior alive must be worth a lot more money than Junior dead, she said.

  There came a moment when the questions grew more heated. Doesn’t your girlfriend work at the morgue? What does she do exactly? Can she tell, looking at a cadaver, that it’s really Junior’s? Or if it’s another person? Are there tests for that?

  It was obvious, I thought; of course they would make the association. You’re going to get caught, over. I called Sulamita several times. Keep calm, she told me, don’t ruin everything. You have to stay calm, that’s all. No one knows anything. Isn’t that what Dalva said?

  After lunch, Mr. José called me into his office.

  When I entered, he was talking on the phone to one of his ranch hands and gestured for me to wait.

  I observed the wilted hibiscuses outside the window. They hadn’t even bloomed and were already dead. That was life in Corumbá.

  Dalva told me your girlfriend works for the police, he said, hanging up the phone.

  I confirmed the information. And on impulse asked if there was anything we could do to help.

  He looked at me, thinking of the best way to tell me what must be said.

  Then Dona Lu came into the office. It’s impressive what pain can do to people. The damage is greatest in the face. When I looked at that defeated woman, the sound of Sulamita breaking the bones of the cadaver, a sharp sound almost like a crack, was ringing in my ears.

  Lu, the rancher said, his fiancée works for the police.

  I know, she said.

  She looked at her husband and then at me, distressed, as if fearing some piece of bad news. Then in her gentle way she asked me to leave them by themselves.

  They spoke loudly; I couldn’t help but hear. I stopped in the middle of the living room, hearing everything they said. Dalva came in with a tray of coffee and stood beside me. Listen to what I’m going to say, Dona Lu said. I want my son. I have the right to bury my son, she said. I’m going to bury my son even if it’s the last thing I do on earth. And you’re not going to stand in my way. She repeated this several times amid sobs. And she cried, imploring her husband to listen, not to take a stance, not to call the police, not to ask anyone for help. Including me. Because nothing that could be done, however well it might be done, would bring Junior back. Even if the police discovered who the mentally ill person blackmailing them was, Junior would still be dead. And she would rather die than not bury her own son.

  After that, we heard nothing but her crying, which was neither sobs nor moans but only the phrase “I want my son,” intoned like a prayer or mantra.

  I saw that Dalva was crying too. I myself had a knot in my throat. I took her to the kitchen and went into the bathroom to vomit again. It had been horrific to witness that scene, but on the other hand I felt safer. They’re not going to alert the police, I thought.

  That day I made five trips to the pharmacy to buy medicines for Dona Lu. The doctor came to see her and spent the afternoon at the house.

  At six, I met Sulamita at the entrance to the morgue. I told her what had happened, in detail.

  You’re sure that was all? she asked.

  Yes.

  He didn’t ask anything further about my work?

  No, and I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t time. Dona Lu interrupted our conversation. But Dalva asked questions. Maybe Dalva suspects, I don’t know. She also asked about my life in São Paulo. But maybe it’s nothing.

  We were in the car, and the heat was making me dizzy.

  What about him? Mr. José? Think he suspects you? asked Sulamita.

  I’ve changed my opinion on that several times during the day, I replied. I’ve thought yes and no. Sometimes I think everything is so obvious. You, the morgue. On the other hand, I know how these things go. When you’re in the middle of it, suffering, you can’t have an overall view of the situation. When I think about my mother, for example, I believe he would come to me for help. That’s all.

  Rich the way he is? Why doesn’t he ask the secretary of public security for help?

  Because Dona Lu wants to bury her son. Because the police can get in the way. They might scare off the kidnapper.

  She’s not going to alert the police?

  No. You can take that to the bank.

  We had talked about it a lot. Sulamita believed the problem might arise in the future. There are moments, she said, when they’ll have to bring in the police. When they receive the body. They’ll have to do a DNA test for the burial. It’s normal procedure. The police will ask questions.

  However, Sulamita knew a worker in the Brasilia laboratory where the tests in the region were carried out. She believed we could convince him to help us.

  How? I asked.

  For six hundred, she said. You can convince a guy to do anything for six hundred. All you have to do is pay.

  Now, she said, the important thing is to use the strategy of silence. We’re going to terrorize them. We’re going to disappear for a time. Silence is our most powerful weapon.

  31

  When you commit a crime like this the problem isn’t the others. Much less the reality. The evidence. The problem is you yourself. The slip-up you make when you’re asked a question. The imperfect actions. Your inappropriate reaction in a given situation. Not to mention the urge to confess that arises time and again. That’s common, said Sulamita. Guilt is the feeling that usually leads to fatal consequences at such moments. People simply don’t take into account the extra weight they begin to carry. They want to be free of it so they can sleep. Actually, confession has more to do with relief than with repentance. It functions like a salve. A discharge. Afterward, people repent having confessed, but then it’s too late.

  Our conversations in bed were always about such matters. How we should act in this or that situation. Self-control is the watchword, Sulamita said. Permanent self-control.

  I had relapses, but in general I did all right. It didn’t matter what Dalva asked or what happened at the house. I remained firm until we decided the moment had come.

  On a Monday, around nine in the evening, we went to the neighborhood square, taking Junior’s cell phone.

  The first call was tense. They wanted to know why their son’s phone was still working: Didn’t you say you found my son in the water? They were quite nervous, and I took advantage of that. I said they had ample proof, that the mere fact of me talking to them from that number was one more piece of evidence, and that we wanted $200,000 to hand over the cadaver.

  I don’t have that amount, stated José Beraba. And I don’t even know for sure that you’re telling the truth.

  In less than two hours I called back twice. I threatened, said that if they called the police they would never learn how to find their son.

  Later, as we had ice cream in the square, I summarized the conversations for Sulamita.

  The rich are goddamn tough, she said. Even at times like this they want to bargain.

  The night was stuffy, and on the way home we decided to buy a bottle of vodka. Sulamita also bought chocolates, peanuts, and potato chips.

  We stayed at home the rest of the night, watching a science fiction film muted. At times, groggy from the vodka, I managed to doze off. And would wake up immediately, with a start, a sharp sound in my ear, like the crack of a whip.

  When the cracking stopped, I fell into a heavy sleep and dreamed of Rita. I had a load of explanations to give; I was ready to ask forgiveness, but Rita only wanted to show me that damn sonogram. See this spot here? she asked. I couldn’t see anything. It’s our child, she said. And suddenly we were fucking like two dogs, in the cemetery where Sulamita and I had bought the cadaver. You can come inside me, she said.

  I awoke with my orgasm, feeling terrible. Sulamita wasn’t in the bed.

  When I went into the bathroom, I found her in the shower. I haven’t slept a wink, she said. I saw she’d been crying.

  I took off my clothes, got into th
e shower, and we started kissing. She licked my neck, went on kissing me, and I thought I wouldn’t have the strength for fucking at that moment.

  When I came it was slow, weak, like an echo.

  The next morning, when we left for work, I heard Eliana bellowing. I was irritated at the widow and knew exactly what was going on in that hole.

  I asked Sulamita to wait for me in the car.

  When I entered Eliana’s kitchen I found Serafina sitting by the Formica table, with one of the grandchildren protecting her from their mother’s fury.

  I took Eliana outside to talk.

  I didn’t let her say a word. You see Sulamita over there? I asked, pointing to the van. She’s got her eye on you. She wants me to warn you: if you lay a hand on Serafina again, she’s coming here to arrest you, understand? You know what the penalty is for mistreating Indians? I’m giving you notice, it’s a crime without bail. Worse than trafficking drugs or rare birds, you hear me?

  She stared at me, not knowing what to say.

  Sulamita waved at us from the car.

  When I drove away, Sulamita asked if there was some problem.

  Not at all, I said.

  We’re going to the bank, Beraba said as soon as he got in the car.

  The day’s beginning well, I thought while I waited in the car. Some moments later he returned, accompanied by the manager, who was carrying a black valise like the ones you see in the movies, to transport the money.

  At four o’clock Dona Lu asked me to go with her to the church. She seemed more willing than her husband, and said she was receiving grace and wished to give thanks. I saw she wanted to talk, but I only managed to say yes and no, unable to come up with anything resembling conversation. On the way back, she kept her eyes closed, holding a rosary. I saw that she never stopped praying.

  My stomach still wasn’t in good shape, and as the day progressed I became more and more nauseated. I was careful, however, to maintain my composure.

  That night, I did what Sulamita and I had agreed on.

  At seven o’clock I phoned and spoke with José Beraba. I agreed to reduce the ransom to the figure he proposed: $160,000.