Black Lies, Red Blood: A Mystery

by Kjell Eriksson

  The tears welled up and made their way down her cheeks.

  “And when you read his e-mail, you opened a bottle of vino,” Sammy observed.

  “It’s so petty,” said Lindell. “I feel so deceived, as if someone holds out a bag of candy and then pulls it back right when you’re about to feast on it. The senseless thing is that I think he was in love too. We had a good thing!”

  Sammy Nilsson wondered whether he should tell what he had found in Brant’s bedroom, but not everything needed to be told. She had drawn the right conclusion on her own, so why sprinkle more salt in her wounds by giving her the details?

  She seemed to have shrunk on the couch, her voice had also gotten smaller. How long could she bear to be alone? How long would she manage to control her emotions? When would the wine drinking take over? In silence he cursed Brant, who had unleashed this.

  “He’s coming back,” he said instead.

  “Can you love two at the same time?” she asked no one in particular.

  “I don’t know, I have my hands full with one,” said Sammy Nilsson.

  “I can’t take it,” she said, her voice cracking. “The loneliness. I have Erik and he’s everything, everything! I like my job, I don’t have many friends, but I have you and a few others. But I want someone close. Is that so strange?”

  “No, not at all,” said Sammy, taking her hand.

  “It’s as if this life is not for me. That sounds like a bad soap opera, but that’s really how it is. I had Edvard, and say what you will about him, he was a man with substance, maybe not always fun, but solid. I lost him by getting knocked up. Should I have kept my mouth shut and had an abortion? Do you think I’ve wondered about that, wondered what my life would have been like then. But then I look at Erik and I don’t understand how I could even think that.”

  “He’s a great kid,” said Sammy.

  “I’m really lousy at living,” said Lindell. “I get jealous of all the others, who are living as couples or single and happy with that. How the hell do they do it?”

  “It’s not a given that they’re happy,” Sammy Nilsson objected. “Look at Ola.”

  “I know, but they have the tools, the recipes for it. I’m completely lost, confused when it counts, like a social caricature. If there’s a pill that makes you numb I should take it, go ahead like a mechanical apparatus.”

  “I don’t believe that at all,” said Sammy, who was starting to get tired of the self-pity.

  “No, me neither,” said Lindell downheartedly. “But the thoughts are there, that’s bad enough.”

  “He’s coming back,” Sammy repeated. “If it’s as you said, that he was in love too, it may turn out that way. He’s just indecisive.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I don’t believe anything,” said Sammy Nilsson. “But it may be that way, you know that too. Don’t kick out like a terrified horse, just wait until he comes home. Sit down here on the couch together and talk about everything. You’re not very good at talking about what you’re thinking and feeling. Isn’t that right? You don’t believe anyone can like you.”

  “It’s not like that,” Lindell protested.

  “Yes, it is like that, Ann. It’s the same at work. You’re one of the best we have, but you diss yourself all the time.”

  Lindell burst into tears. Sammy Nilsson pulled the sobbing body next to him. It occurred to him that he had never hugged her before. It was possible that she had awkwardly tried to imitate the lives she observed around her, but she had never adopted the weakness for hugging at all times.

  She freed herself, straightened up, drew her hand over her face, sniffed, and tried to arrange her facial features.

  “My life is filled with lies and a whole lot of blood,” she said. “That’s what I get.”

  She got up and went over to the window next to the balcony. On the table was a chipped saucer. One of his cigarette butts was still there. The sun had gone down and the yard was slowly settling down into darkness. One of the neighbors was sitting by the mock orange, smoking a pipe. His wife, a woman Lindell had seen in line at Torgkassen, was gathering up the remains of a meal. They were talking.

  “A little love wouldn’t be bad,” she said, with her back to him.

  “You have Erik, he’s an exceptional boy,” said Sammy Nilsson, realizing how paltry that sounded.

  Ann tossed her head as if to show what she thought about that comment.

  Thirty-one

  Avenida Oceânica extends all the way from the lighthouse in Barra, the district located on the southwest tip of Salvador, to the Rio Vermelho district. Both areas are relatively prosperous, dominated by the middle class, but with small favelas here and there too.

  On the avenue one of three parades takes place in February during Carnival, the world’s biggest outdoor party, which goes on for a week.

  The parade in Barra, starting just south of the harbor, is dominated by whites, a number of them coming from São Paulo and Rio, who pay to be part of a bloco, one of the sections that make up the parade. Each bloco is led by a gigantic trailer with musicians and singers, followed by those who have the money to buy a T-shirt or costume to participate. Those holding the ropes that keep out those who don’t have the money are overwhelmingly black, as are the observers crowded on the sidewalks.

  Preparations for Carnival starts weeks in advance. Along the entire parade route bleachers are set up where for 100 or 200 dollars you can buy a seat. An inconceivable expense for most.

  Carnival had become business. Brant preferred the one in Pelourinho, the historic part of the city, which is more like a folk festival, where people drink beer, splurge on trinkets, dance, listen to music at a couple of permanent stages or by groups of musicians that wander through the narrow, cobbled alleys.

  * * *

  At eight o’clock in the morning Anders Brant and Ivaldo Assis got into a taxi on Avenida Oceânica. Before that they had coffee, which they bought from a woman who had set up a portable stand, some thermoses, and a pile of plastic mugs, on the sidewalk.

  The coffee was too sweet, but Anders Brant suspected he would need energy to survive the day.

  Right across the street, on the shore promenade, the white, or half-white, Salvadoran middle class was running in brand-name shoes and fluttering linen. They silently observed the joggers; nothing needed to be said. Pointing out that a pair of Nikes cost as much as a minimum monthly wage was unnecessary. Brant knew that, and Assis had experienced it.

  The taxi ride was short, the jail was only a few blocks from Campo Grande, and when Brant paid he said something to the effect that they might as well have walked. It struck him that Assis probably seldom took a taxi, and perhaps he liked getting out of a taxi in front of the entry to the jail where his nephew Vincente was imprisoned. It looked good; maybe he hoped that someone on the staff would notice the arrival.

  Besides, his comment might be taken to mean that he thought he was wasting money on an unnecessary taxi ride, and he was ashamed.

  “But a little air conditioning was nice,” he said. It was hot and sticky outside and the taxi’s air conditioning had cooled them for a few minutes.

  * * *

  The jail, one of forty-two in Salvador, was a circular structure whose exterior did not reveal anything surprising. It was also surprisingly calm, both outside the entrance and in the small reception room into which they stepped. Anders Brant had expected groups of relatives, police cars arriving to drop off persons under arrest, agitated voices, and heart-wrenching scenes.

  In the room a wall-mounted TV was blasting out a cooking show. The program host was white, of course. The picture rolled, but no one bothered to adjust it. It was on simply because that was Brazil; something has to make noise.

  There were three small open booths, like in a Swedish pharmacy, where the arrested person was admitted and where the general public could also report crimes. Only one booth was manned, which reinforced the quiet impression.

  Everyone�
�s eyes were turned toward Brant and Assis. Everyone took it for granted that the gringo had been robbed or the victim of some other crime, and that the older man would help him, possibly submit information important to the case.

  Ivaldo Assis stood passively, perhaps expecting that Anders Brant would act, which he had no intention of doing. It was Ivaldo who had taken the initiative, and it was his relative they were going to visit.

  After a period of mutual indecision, the official in the booth waved them up.

  “Good morning,” Assis began. “Is everything okay?”

  The policeman nodded, somewhat nonchalant but still curious.

  “This gentleman has an important errand,” Assis continued.

  His white shirt was already stained dark with sweat.

  The police turned his eyes toward Brant.

  “If it’s a report, then it’s better if you talk with the federal police,” he said, in an attempt to avoid paperwork and other inconvenience.

  “It’s not about a report, but a visit,” Brant explained.

  “Wednesday is visiting day,” the policeman interrupted. “You can come back next week.”

  “By then I will have left the country,” said Brant quietly.

  “Then that takes care of it automatically.”

  Brant knew from experience that it was pointless to get worked up. It was crucial to preserve dignity and remain polite.

  “It’s about a murder,” he said.

  Consciously he had raised his voice to capture the other policemen’s attention; one of them had retrieved a chair and was fiddling with the TV.

  The policeman got down from the chair and came up to the odd duo.

  “What’s this about?” he asked.

  “Vincente Assis,” said Brant.

  The policeman nodded, as if to confirm that he recognized the name and was interested in continuing.

  He was solidly built, more dark than light, with the sleeves of his T-shirt rolled up, perhaps to show the swelling biceps, and his gaze was alert. I must gain the man’s confidence, thought Brant, choosing his words with the greatest care.

  “I witnessed an incident that was shocking, a man died before my eyes. I would like to visit Vincente and with my own eyes see if he is the one I believe.”

  “And who are you?” the policeman asked, turning toward Ivaldo.

  “Ivaldo Assis.”

  “Father of Vincente?”

  “Uncle. It was my son Arlindo who died.”

  The policeman’s expression did not reveal what he was thinking, but with a head movement indicated that they should follow him.

  They passed a door, following a passageway that looped in an arc between the windows on the one side and small rooms on the opposite. Anders Brant was reminded of a roundhouse. A number of doors were open, Brant looked in and was met by indifferent eyes.

  The policeman stopped suddenly and opened a door.

  “Here we won’t be disturbed,” he said. “This is actually our lunchroom.”

  They sat down at a small, wobbly table.

  “You want to see Vincente?”

  Brant nodded.

  “To identify him.”

  “You witnessed the incident, you say. Why didn’t you come forward earlier?”

  “I was in shock,” said Brant, but realized at once that this was not a good answer. “And then, I didn’t want to get involved. The incident was tragic but didn’t concern me directly. But since then things have changed so that—”

  “You speak excellent Portuguese,” the policeman interrupted. “Do you live here permanently?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have problems with your visa? Was that why you didn’t want to talk with the police?”

  “All my papers are in order,” Brant answered, making a motion to take his passport out of his money belt, but the policeman waved dismissively.

  “We’ll deal with that later,” he said, getting up quickly. “I’m going to take you down to the cells. You will get to see Vincente, but you may not speak with him. I want you to point at him. After that we can sort this out. Senhor Assis, you can wait here.”

  “But he’s my nephew.”

  “It will be fine,” said the policeman. “Visiting day is Wednesday, and then you are welcome. We can’t make any exceptions.”

  Anders Brant was astonished. He had encountered the Brazilian bureaucracy on many different levels and contexts, and was surprised by the policeman’s directness and efficiency.

  They left the lunchroom and continued a dozen meters to a staircase with some fifteen steps leading down below ground. The smell of human excretions was tangible.

  The policeman stopped and looked at Brant with a serious expression.

  “This won’t be a pleasant sight,” he said. “The jail is meant for thirty-five prisoners but right now we have ninety-six.”

  “I understand,” said Brant. “But I’m not here to describe your jail.”

  “I didn’t think so for a moment either,” said the policeman, offering for the first time what Brant with a little good will might characterize as a smile.

  They went down the stairs. The smell got stronger. The voices of the prisoners, echoing between the concrete walls, made it hard for Brant to hear what the man was saying, but he understood that there were three sections: one for murderers, one for drug dealers, and one mixed, with everything from petty thieves to assailants. This was where Vincente Assis was being held.

  At the bottom of the steps there was a small room. That was where visits normally took place, the policeman explained. Five prisoners at a time were taken there and they had fifteen minutes to talk with their relatives. Brant wondered whether the visitors could bring things to the prisoners.

  “Clothes, sanitary articles, and cookies,” said the policeman.

  “No food?”

  The man shook his head, but did not explain why cookies were allowed.

  He unlocked a barred iron grate, gestured for Brant to wait and went to the left in a narrow circular passageway. In the middle of the building was an exercise area, from which shouts and yelling were heard. Cells ran along the passages in both directions. Brant saw hands squeezing the bars.

  The policeman stopped at a cell five or six meters away, silenced the prisoners by holding up both hands and saying something that Brant did not understand.

  “We have a visitor,” said the policeman. “He’s only going to look. I want you all to line up. No one says anything. Anyone who says a single word will have me to deal with.”

  He waved to Brant, who kept as close to the wall as possible to avoid the hands reaching out through the bars. All of them were young and black, dressed only in dirty shorts and barefoot.

  “I’m innocent,” whispered a man in the first cell. “My family doesn’t know I’m here.”

  When Brant came up to the third cell everyone’s eyes were turned toward him. Their gazes were mournful and soulless, young boys and men without hope.

  Brant counted ten persons. Vincente Assis was the third man from the left, in a cell that was perhaps meant for four.

  He raised his hand and pointed without meeting Vincente’s eyes, and then quickly went back to the gate and slipped out to the visitor’s room.

  Immediately the taunts came thick and fast after him.

  * * *

  They returned to the lunchroom where Ivaldo Assis was waiting, standing by the window. He immediately turned around. Anders Brant lowered his eyes.

  “Well, was that the man who shoved his cousin over the wall?”

  The policeman’s immediate, direct question caught Brant by surprise. He took a deep breath, felt the sweat running down his back, his nostrils still filled with the stench from ninety-six people crowded together, and he realized that the hopelessness he had seen in the young men’s eyes would stay with him a long time.

  He gave Ivaldo a quick glance and then answered with as firm a voice as he could.

  “No, the man I saw down there
was standing at least five meters from the wall when Arlindo Assis fell.”

  The policeman’s eyebrows arched a few millimeters, but he was otherwise able to maintain his poker face. Ivaldo Assis on the other hand gasped. Brant did not dare look in his direction.

  “You’re certain?”

  “Completely. I was standing by my window, maybe five or six meters from the wall, I saw what happened plainly and clearly. No one, neither Vincente nor anyone else, shoved Arlindo.”

  “Do you understand what this means?”

  Brant nodded.

  “You also know that we have a witness who maintains the opposite?”

  Brant nodded again.

  “And you’re still certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Are you being paid? Do you know the Assis family from before?”

  “Payment? That’s an insult,” said Brant. “You’re just saying that to provoke me. And I have never seen the Assis family before.”

  That was yet another lie. He had seen them the year before when he lived at the pension, but that time he had not taken specific notice of them, they were one family among others. Then their whole building also had a roof and was not the half-open stage it later became.

  “Are you prepared to testify?”

  “Yes. No innocent person should be convicted.”

  The policeman let out a snort. Ivaldo Assis was crying by the window.

  “Who shoved him?”

  “No one,” said Brant.

  “You mean he jumped head first over the wall himself?”

  “He fell. Maybe he was drunk. I saw how he was leaning over the edge and then lost his footing. Maybe he wanted to see what was on the ground down in the alley. The day before they had thrown out a lot of things. Maybe they quarreled.”

  “Lots of ‘maybes,’” said the policeman.

  Brant nodded.

  “How did you find out that Vincente Assis was in jail?”

  “I saw Ivaldo on the street yesterday and expressed my sympathy.”

  “You said you didn’t know the family.”