Crimes of August: A Novel: 5 (Brazilian Literature in Translation Series) by Rubem Fonseca Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rubem Fonseca
pregnancy. Beside the bench was a lunch pail with food that she brought daily for her husband. The woman knew she owed those meetings to the inspector and tried to smile but didn’t succeed.
“You brought some nice food for him?” said the inspector. “One of these days I’m going to try those delicacies.”
“Whenever you like, sir. Today it’s a cheese turnover,” said the young man, taking it from the lunch pail. The woman remained silent. The two were young and unattractive. Cosme’s ugliness had afforded Rosalvo the opportunity to repeat to the inspector other lessons learned in school: Cosme was a Lombrosian type with physical stigmas of criminality such as recessive forehead, prominence of the zygomas, sharpness of the facial angle, prognathism, plagiocephalism. “Sir, don’t laugh at me, that means an oblique, oval head, asymmetric, pressed between the two halves so that the right side, more developed in front, corresponds to a greater development of the left side in back.”
Looking at Cosme, the inspector saw none of that. Just a scared youth.
“I had your father summoned to come here to talk to me,” said Mattos.
Cosme jumped up from the bench.
“Don’t do that, sir, please, my father is a sick man.”
“I need to speak with him.”
“Please! Isn’t everything already decided? Everything decided? Please,” said Cosme, holding the cheese pastry.
Could the cause and effect relationship be essential to the nature of all the reasoning relevant to the facts? Mattos asked himself. What good were inferences resulting from a chain of suppositions? He knew that propositions allusive to the facts could only be contingent. The conclusion to which he was coming, observing the tremulous couple before him, resulted merely from the senses, from impressions of the moment, which might be false. Everything could be false. My God, my mind is becoming as bizarre as Rosalvo’s.
“I’m very sorry, but I need to question your father.”
The inspector left the room after saying this, not wishing to see the couple’s other reactions. He had no desire to further confuse his ideas and perceptions. For better understanding, he wanted to have more facts available—and more perceptions and more ideas. The attempt to understand things always led him to a frustrating vicious circle.
Mattos stopped beside one of the two lions flanking the stairway of the Monroe Palace. He turned to look at the imposing São Borja Building on the other side of Avenida Rio Branco. The senators had chosen a very convenient place for their dalliances.
The Senate was in session, but Senator Freitas wasn’t on the floor. His aide Clemente Mello Telles Neto, an elegantly dressed young man in a white three-piece linen suit, said the senator was busy at a meeting of the Foreign Relations Committee.
“What’s this about, Inspector?”
“I prefer to tell the senator himself what this is about.”
“It’s going to be difficult for you to speak with him. The senator is a very busy man. Is it anything personal?”
“No. It’s not personal.”
“Then you can speak with me.”
“I want to speak with him.”
“Then you’ll have to wait for the right time.” Pause. “Look, let’s agree on this: you leave me your phone number, and when the interview is possible, I’ll call and let you know.”
Mattos gave the precinct’s number to the aide. “Tell the senator it’s in his interest to speak with me.”
“I’ll tell him,” said the aide, formally.
The inspector took a small pad from his pocket.
“What’s the senator’s phone number, please?”
After hesitating, Clemente gave the inspector the number of the senator’s office.
Leaving the Senate, Mattos walked along Rio Branco to Rua Sete de Setembro. He turned to the left onto Rua Uruguaiana. The Cavé was on the corner.
He went into the tea room and sat down facing the door. It was ten minutes before five. For a few moments he thought of leaving. Why stay
“You brought some nice food for him?” said the inspector. “One of these days I’m going to try those delicacies.”
“Whenever you like, sir. Today it’s a cheese turnover,” said the young man, taking it from the lunch pail. The woman remained silent. The two were young and unattractive. Cosme’s ugliness had afforded Rosalvo the opportunity to repeat to the inspector other lessons learned in school: Cosme was a Lombrosian type with physical stigmas of criminality such as recessive forehead, prominence of the zygomas, sharpness of the facial angle, prognathism, plagiocephalism. “Sir, don’t laugh at me, that means an oblique, oval head, asymmetric, pressed between the two halves so that the right side, more developed in front, corresponds to a greater development of the left side in back.”
Looking at Cosme, the inspector saw none of that. Just a scared youth.
“I had your father summoned to come here to talk to me,” said Mattos.
Cosme jumped up from the bench.
“Don’t do that, sir, please, my father is a sick man.”
“I need to speak with him.”
“Please! Isn’t everything already decided? Everything decided? Please,” said Cosme, holding the cheese pastry.
Could the cause and effect relationship be essential to the nature of all the reasoning relevant to the facts? Mattos asked himself. What good were inferences resulting from a chain of suppositions? He knew that propositions allusive to the facts could only be contingent. The conclusion to which he was coming, observing the tremulous couple before him, resulted merely from the senses, from impressions of the moment, which might be false. Everything could be false. My God, my mind is becoming as bizarre as Rosalvo’s.
“I’m very sorry, but I need to question your father.”
The inspector left the room after saying this, not wishing to see the couple’s other reactions. He had no desire to further confuse his ideas and perceptions. For better understanding, he wanted to have more facts available—and more perceptions and more ideas. The attempt to understand things always led him to a frustrating vicious circle.
Mattos stopped beside one of the two lions flanking the stairway of the Monroe Palace. He turned to look at the imposing São Borja Building on the other side of Avenida Rio Branco. The senators had chosen a very convenient place for their dalliances.
The Senate was in session, but Senator Freitas wasn’t on the floor. His aide Clemente Mello Telles Neto, an elegantly dressed young man in a white three-piece linen suit, said the senator was busy at a meeting of the Foreign Relations Committee.
“What’s this about, Inspector?”
“I prefer to tell the senator himself what this is about.”
“It’s going to be difficult for you to speak with him. The senator is a very busy man. Is it anything personal?”
“No. It’s not personal.”
“Then you can speak with me.”
“I want to speak with him.”
“Then you’ll have to wait for the right time.” Pause. “Look, let’s agree on this: you leave me your phone number, and when the interview is possible, I’ll call and let you know.”
Mattos gave the precinct’s number to the aide. “Tell the senator it’s in his interest to speak with me.”
“I’ll tell him,” said the aide, formally.
The inspector took a small pad from his pocket.
“What’s the senator’s phone number, please?”
After hesitating, Clemente gave the inspector the number of the senator’s office.
Leaving the Senate, Mattos walked along Rio Branco to Rua Sete de Setembro. He turned to the left onto Rua Uruguaiana. The Cavé was on the corner.
He went into the tea room and sat down facing the door. It was ten minutes before five. For a few moments he thought of leaving. Why stay