Hotel Brasil

by Frei Betto

  As he dried himself down with a shaggy blue towel, he heard the phone ring. It rang and rang, as if nobody was home. At last he heard a door opening.

  “Sim… sim… He’s here. Now?… What did she say?… Wait a minute, I’ll get him.” There was a pause and then Mônica shouted: “Cândido, it’s the publisher’s. Bia’s turned up!”

  Mônica passed the phone and T-shirt through the half-open door. She saw he was wrapped in a white towel and had made a turban for his hair out of a smaller towel of the same colour.

  The security guard from the publisher’s told Cândido that the girl had arrived a short while ago and seemed to be under the influence of drugs. She was talking excitedly, confusing what she said and gesticulating a lot. Cândido told the guard not to let her out of his sight.

  Cândido said goodbye to Mônica with a kiss on the cheek. She wished him luck. He jumped in a taxi bound for Alto da Boa Vista, clutching a plastic bag containing his dirty shirt.

  IN KIND

  Beatriz was dressed in brown jeans and a green fake-leather jacket. She was barefoot and her eyes were bloodshot. Her nails were painted bright red. As soon as she caught sight of Cândido, she started to giggle.

  “Bia,” he said, hugging her. “What happened? Where’ve you been all this time?”

  “Ora, I went on a trip, tio. A good one! But tudo bem, it’s all sorted now,” she said, between fits of laughter.

  Cândido tried to bring her back to reality.

  “Why did you disappear? Where are your trainers?”

  “I traded them in for this,” she said, pulling a tin of glue from her pocket. “It’s wild!”

  Cândido noticed something bulky in her other pocket.

  “And what have you got in there? More glue?”

  Beatriz pulled out the revolver, as if surprised to find it.

  “You take it, tio, chuck it away. I won’t be needing it no more. I’ve replied in kind,” she said. She burst out laughing again, totally beside herself.

  Cândido sat down and pulled her towards him.

  “What happened, Bia? You can tell me. I promise whatever you say will stay between the two of us.”

  A look of spite darkened the girl’s face.

  “I wasted Soslaio, the little snitch. By now that branquelo will be rotting in hell.”

  Cândido nearly choked. His body started shaking. He hugged Beatriz tightly as the tears came. They cried in each other’s arms.

  Back at the hotel, Cândido made up a bed in the room Dona Dinó had set aside for the girl.

  “Promise me something, tio?” Beatriz asked.

  “That depends, Bia. If it’s in my power.”

  “Find Taco and Bola for me.”

  FLOWERING

  Dear Cândido,

  I cursed fate when your visit to my flat was cut short by Beatriz’s reappearance. I know how much of a relief the news was to you, and it was to me too. But I couldn’t help regretting having missed out on the chance of you opening up to me.

  In any case, here’s what I’d planned to say: I’ve been thinking about you a lot, about us, and I know that these feelings flowering inside me are stronger than reason and good sense.

  The fact of the matter is, I like you very, very much.

  Yours,

  Mônica

  8Back to Square One

  Beatriz woke up early and went to find Cândido. She noticed a stain on the floor in the shadows of the corridor. She turned the light on and saw a thick ruby-red liquid: blood. It was flowing out from under one of the bedroom doors.

  “Tio, wake up, quick!” she urged, banging on Cândido’s door.

  Cândido opened the door in his pyjamas.

  “What is it, Bia?”

  “There’s blood over there.”

  Cândido came out into the corridor. He saw Madame Larência, dressed as if for a gala ball, standing dumbstruck before a puddle of blood. She took a deep breath, filled her lungs and screamed:

  “Santa Mãe de Deus! Dona Dinóóóóó, come here, quickly!”

  Soon, all the guests had their heads and torsos poking out into the corridor. Dona Dinó banged hard on the door that was the focus of everyone’s attention.

  “Doutor Pacheco! Doutor Pacheeeeco!”

  She found her copy of the key and fumbled nervously, trying to get it into the lock. The door opened and she froze before what she saw: Pacheco in a rocking chair, dead, his head in his lap, two black holes beneath bushy eyebrows and tortoiseshell glasses.

  In a jittery voice, Marcelo said, “He always did run around like a headless chicken.”

  Diamante Negro gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs.

  OBLIVION

  “Ah, here’s Del Bosco,” said Marcelo, “come to beat the killer’s name out of Pacheco’s dead body.”

  The detective walked in sheepishly, with Jorge in tow. The caretaker was being returned to freedom, though he looked ragged and traumatized. Del Bosco ignored Marcelo and greeted the forensics team, who were busy setting up their equipment. Then he went over to Dona Dinó.

  “I want to talk to the girl.”

  Cândido stepped in.

  “Not until the Juiz de Menores gets here, delegado.”

  Diamante Negro bounded down the corridor.

  “Minha Nossa Senhora dos Aflitos! Santa Mãe de Deus!”

  He threw himself into the detective’s arms.

  “Delegado, why does one never see a bacalhau with a head, black twins, a bald beggar, a saint wearing glasses, a dwarf’s funeral, an ex-corrupto, a mother-in-law’s bust on the mantelpiece, a puta’s son named Júnior, or police who solve crimes by investigation?”

  Del Bosco brusquely shook himself free of the transformista.

  MANIAS

  After learning nothing from Beatriz’s testimony before the Juiz de Menores, Del Bosco summoned Madame Larência to the police station.

  “Ora, does senhor seriously think I could chop a man’s head off without getting a single drop of blood on my party dress? I just happened to be passing the room when the blood seeped under the door.”

  “And where had senhora been?”

  “At a fashion show thrown by the Performance model-ling agency,” she said, before adding in a confidential tone, “There are always a few girls left over for my market, senhor. Clients are very demanding these days. They want girls with soft skin, perfect teeth and light-coloured eyes, but above all they want girls who look healthy. A common cold and the client thinks the girl’s got Aids.”

  Del Bosco found her chatter annoying and considered her forced attempt at familiarity a sign she had something to hide. He decided to put the pressure on.

  “Madame Larência, I have it on good authority that senhora knows who committed the Hotel Brasil murders.”

  Her rosy make-up couldn’t hide the sudden paleness in her face.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea who the murderer is, my dear. I do, however, think it’s probably some maluco, killing just for the fun of it. Senhor can’t imagine what humans are capable of! I’ve had clients spread corn out on the floor in order to watch girls peck the ground like hens. Another covered his body in sticking plasters because he got a thrill out of being ‘peeled’ and having his hairs pulled. I know a businessman who puts a dog collar around his neck and gets the girl to hold the lead while he goes about on all fours and barks and pants with his tongue hanging out.”

  ACCOMPLICES

  “We’re back to square one,” said Delegado Del Bosco, as he welcomed Cândido in to testify.

  “And why did senhor think it was Jorge?” asked Cândido.

  “After cross-referencing Madame Larência’s and Rosaura’s statements, I identified Jorge Maldonado as the prime suspect,” the detective said. “Then I analysed his psychological profile.”

  “Has senhor studied psychology?” said Cândido, making an effort to contain his sarcasm.

  “Experience affords me a certain authority in the field,” said Del Bosco. “I deduced tha
t the caretaker was envious of the guests, or motivated by some other despicable reason, but I lacked hard proof. So I asked forensics to examine his fish knife.”

  “And?”

  “They ascertained that the fish knife had different properties to the blade used for the beheadings, which was longer and narrower, like a fencing sword with a longitudinal edge.”

  “Meaning,” said Cândido, “that the forensics were unable to prove senhor’s psychological hunch?”

  “That’s right,” Del Bosco admitted, somewhat uncomfortably. “It turns out I was mistaken.”

  “So why did senhor keep Jorge locked up?”

  “Because out of fear, before the forensic report came in, Jorge confessed to killing Seu Marçal.”

  “And what about Pacheco? Do we know for sure it’s the same killer?” asked Cândido.

  “Sim, the laceration was identical on both heads. And once again, nothing was stolen other than the eyeballs. It’s the work of a lunatic.”

  Cândido closed his own eyes in an atavistic act of defence.

  “And are there any new clues or suspects?”

  The detective got up from his chair and started walking from one side of the room to the other.

  “To be frank,” said Del Bosco, “I’m as in the dark as the decapitated heads. I’m taking the whole investigation back to the beginning and starting again. We’re calling for new statements from all the residents and anyone else who’s been in the hotel.”

  Del Bosco stopped and leaned over the table, his fingers spread wide, his head close to Cândido’s. The detective was fighting a feeling of failure.

  “Would senhor not agree with me that the killer has to be someone from inside the hotel?”

  Cândido flinched. He was wary of the detective’s tricks.

  “Não sei. I don’t think so. The police have gone down that road once before and been wrong. I sincerely hope the same mistakes aren’t made twice. That said, I trust senhor will soon have the case wrapped up.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re now taking a more scientific approach,” said the detective, emphasizing the word “scientific”. “Nevertheless, I’ll be needing everyone’s cooperation. I’d like senhor to give me the low-down on Doutor Pacheco.”

  “I’m sorry to have to disappoint,” said Cândido, “but all I know is that Pacheco moved in political circles and was friends with influential people.”

  The detective cut in.

  “Did he and Marçal get on well?”

  Cândido strained his memory.

  “I’ve a feeling they barely even greeted one another.”

  Del Bosco started circling the room, propelled by a sudden sense of encouragement.

  “Eis aí! There you have it: they were partners trading precious stones, but to avoid suspicion they feigned mutual indifference. Everything points to the two murders being connected. The gemstones that Marçal offered guests were merely a front, a cover for larger deals. I’ve already asked the Polícia Federal and Interpol to look into the case.”

  He stopped walking round the room and said, “Has senhor got anything else to add regarding Pacheco?”

  “Não, we were never friends.”

  “Bem, I appreciate senhor coming in.”

  As he was being shown out of the room, Cândido asked:

  “Why did senhor insist on Beatriz being questioned?”

  “Couldn’t the killer have gained access to the hotel through her?” said Del Bosco. Seeing Cândido’s look of disapproval, he added, “I have to follow up every hypothesis.”

  Cândido turned to face the detective.

  “And, in such a hypothesis, who gave the killer access to the hotel when Seu Marçal was murdered and we didn’t even know the girl existed?”

  “Jorge,” said the detective.

  “Jorge?!” exclaimed Cândido. “The man senhor arrested without any evidence and paraded before the public as the ‘Lapa Decapa’?”

  Del Bosco smiled, unamused.

  “As I’ve already said, out of fear, Jorge confessed to a crime he did not commit.”

  INTERLUDE

  “Come on, man, have the guts to say what you really think,” said Odidnac.

  “If you insist, I’ll go for it.”

  A SUSPICION

  “Was it fear that led Jorge to confess to a crime he didn’t commit, or was it certain police methods?” asked Cândido. “If it weren’t for an identical crime having been committed, he’d now be appearing before a jury and facing a life in prison.”

  “Thanks for coming in,” said Del Bosco.

  Cândido stepped through the door. Then he turned and suddenly gave voice to what was bothering him.

  “Senhor asked me if I thought the killer was someone from inside the hotel. I gave my verdict resident by resident, suspect by suspect. However, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if the killer turned out to be someone from inside the police.”

  The delegado didn’t like what he’d heard, but he didn’t react. He knew Cândido was upset.

  PERVERTS

  “Dona Dinó,” said Del Bosco, looking troubled, “the moral integrity of senhora’s hotel is in ruins. How does senhora think the killer got in without leaving any clues?”

  The landlady thrust her hands under Osíris’s back legs, picked him up and placed him on her right shoulder. Osíris made himself comfortable, moulding to the shape of Dona Dinó’s body.

  “Doutor Pacheco’s death doesn’t really surprise me,” she said. “He always hung about with big-shot contractors and politicians. I never said anything, but there was one thing I could never understand: why did he live at the hotel if he was so well connected? I can understand why Larência and Rosaura live in an economical guest house in Lapa. Same with Diamante Negro. In another environment he might suffer prejudice. Professor Cândido is accustomed to a simple lifestyle. I can see why he feels at home under my roof. And Marcelo prefers saving on rent what he can spend on drink. But Pacheco?! He was no king, yet he acted like royalty. Unless it was all an act. I suppose we’ll soon find out if all that grandstanding was cover for some unsavoury business.”

  “And what unsavoury business does senhora think he could have been involved in?” asked the detective, pleased to see a witness opening up for a change.

  “I never mistrusted Marçal,” Dona Dinó went on, ignoring the question. “But after these two tragedies, I’m no longer so sure. Were his frequent disappearances really trips to Minas?”

  Del Bosco interrupted her.

  “I went up to Vale do Rio Doce and confirmed he went there regularly, bought gemstones and amused himself with putas.”

  “Ora, senhor,” said Dona Dinó. She moved the cat on to her left shoulder. “If Marçal and Pacheco had one thing in common, it was that they were both perverts.”

  “Perverts?!” the detective said, surprised.

  “Sim,” Dona Dinó confirmed. “Marçal couldn’t look at a girl’s legs without getting all smutty. Pacheco was caught sneaking into Rosaura’s room only the other night. I had to reprimand him and remind him of the rules.”

  Del Bosco leaned back on the hind legs of his chair and rested his knees on the edge of the table.

  “Is there a drop of morality anywhere among senhora’s guests?”

  Dona Dinó put the cat down in her lap.

  “Ora, do I look like the sort of woman who pries into people’s affairs? What they get up to in their private lives is their own business. As long as they don’t bring it into the hotel.”

  “Obrigado, Dona Dinó,” said the detective. “Senhora has helped me more than she can imagine.”

  “Perverts…” Del Bosco whispered through his teeth, as he closed the door behind the old lady.

  THE SIEGE

  “Tell me about Doutor Pacheco trying to rape you,” said the detective.

  Rosaura recounted the episode. When she’d finished, Del Bosco regarded her thoughtfully.

  “Did you tell anyone outside the hotel about what ha
ppened?”

  “Não, no one,” Rosaura lied. “I was too ashamed.”

  Rosaura had actually told everyone at the mansion where she worked, in order to justify her lateness, but she didn’t want her employers mixed up in the murky goings-on at Hotel Brasil.

  “Didn’t you tell your family in Goiás? Maybe you mentioned it in a letter?” the detective persisted. “Perhaps you spilled your heart out to one of your amigas, or to a boyfriend?”

  “Não, senhor. My family saw the beheadings on TV and were worried about me. Imagine if I then told them I’d been assaulted!”

  Del Bosco was convinced the girl was hiding something. Her behaviour was different to when he’d questioned her before. This time she replied with more poise, as if she’d been practising.

  “In your previous statement, you said Pacheco stared at your legs a lot,” said Del Bosco, staring at the legs in question. They were crossed, knees poking out from underneath the hem of her skirt. “Would you say that Pacheco and Marçal were perverts?”

  Rosaura uncrossed her legs, tugging at her skirt and trying to cover up her knees.

  “There are all sorts of people in this world, senhor. Whether Pacheco and Marçal were or weren’t perverts, não sei. But I will say this: they had it coming. Folk don’t get killed like that unless it’s payback for a debt of some sort.”

  “Let’s get to the heart of the matter,” said Del Bosco. He stood up and sat down on the edge of the table, very close to Rosaura. “The debt was with you. They tried to rape you and you arranged for someone to cut off their sick heads. Thanks to your help, the killer got in and out of the hotel without leaving a trace.”

  Rosaura stared at him, wide-eyed. Her face went from white to pink to red. She plunged her head into her hands and bent forward, sobbing uncontrollably.

  POSES

  “Is senhora familiar with this collection of magazines?” the detective said challengingly, as he spread them out over the table. Madame Larência sat before him. She was concerned to have been called in for further questioning. The magazines contained naked women in pornographic poses.