São Paulo Noir Read online

  * * *

  Boni was preparing lunch when the gunfire began. It was as if she were in the favela. She looked out the kitchen window and saw a line of Colinas vans pass by, heard the police sirens, total pandemonium. Something was obviously wrong on Avenida Cidade Jardim. The area was packed with banks and stores, one after the other. She heard a series of gunshots of different calibers, accustomed as she was, shouting, cars braking, people running. And when she heard the doorbell, she went directly to open it for Zen, who must already be tending to the dogs and could only be arriving to have his daily “snack” before leaving for home. Dona Amelinha didn’t even know he had lunch with Boni every day, nor did she need to know, it wasn’t going to be missed, in that house food was always plentiful. She opened the door, anxious to find out what had happened, holdups in the district were nothing unusual, but her soul froze when she saw Dutra standing there, a frightened look on his face, the door to the security van still open.

  “Talk to me, Dutra, talk! What happened? Where’s Zen?”

  “Calm down, Boni, calm down. You need to be strong.”

  “Why strong, Dutra? You’re scaring me!”

  “Boni, there’s been a robbery—”

  “But is Zen involved? Is he a suspect? Don’t tell me something like that, Dutra, he’s gone straight, he works every day . . .” She spoke breathlessly; my God, a robbery and they would immediately suspect him, she was going to lose her job too. She wiped her hands on her apron, desperate, with Dutra more and more tongue-tied.

  “Talk, Dutra, talk! You’re killing me!”

  “Boni, what are you saying, woman? Zen was shot! Zen is the victim!”

  Boni stopped talking. A drop of sweat ran down her back to her butt. She pushed Dutra aside.

  “Out of my way.” She ran, ran, clearing bystanders from her path. There was a body stretched out on the ground. It was him. She grabbed his face, imploring him not to die. She called his name, cried, embraced him, stained herself with blood.

  “It was a gun, a gun!”

  She heard everything that was said, but the sound was far away, disjointed words, murmurs . . . there were four black blazers . . . a bomb . . . glass at the door of the bank . . . a stray bullet . . . A stray bullet? They were joking, weren’t they? To have the life Zen had, to survive in a gang, with him carrying a gun, facing prison and the worst people in the world, paying his debt, reforming, finding work—only to die from a stray bullet while walking other people’s dogs in Cidade Jardim? God must have a diabolical sense of humor, this couldn’t be happening! Not now, not with everything going right, they didn’t deserve this! Dazed, she let herself be taken home—that is, to Dona Amelinha’s—called her mistress’s son to notify the assisted-living agency to send someone urgently, went to Dona Amelinha’s room desperate to leave, though not without first letting her know. Amid weeping and memories, not fully understanding what was happening, she removed her uniform and put on her street clothes. She would not go away in the middle of the swarm of people like every day. She would go alone, the protagonist of the day’s tragedy.

  Almost at the entrance to Dona Amelinha’s room, she heard the last of the coverage on the TV: “. . . bank robber killed by stray bullet in attack in Cidade Jardim.” With her hand on the doorknob, she stood paralyzed. She needed to go in, she knew. Dona Amelinha’s eyes were fixed on her, then on the computer. On the screen was written:

  You lied! Betrayal! You brought a psychopath into my house? My God, the risk! A robber and a killer! Good thing the bullet didn’t kill an innocent person, divine justice speaks louder! The two of you deserved each other, you hypocrite! You have a lot to explain to me, this isn’t the end of it. And you know something? It was God Himself who freed you of him! Each one gets what he deserves. Serves him right!

  Boni opened and closed her mouth without emitting a single word. Amelinha went on writing, as red as a beet, but Boni didn’t see anything more. She was stunned. What a vulgar, vile, spiteful old woman. Granddaughter of the Baron of Quental, blah-blah-blah, so what? Heartless. After everything she had done for her, she had put up with so much! She had given Dona Amelinha her best years, my God, how she had deceived herself. To “say” all of that at such a time, with Zen lying on the ground bleeding, dead, still warm, waiting for forensics. The sons of bitches! Damn her, damn the newscast; she ran out, stifling her sobs. She couldn’t think about that now, not now. Zen needed her.

  * * *

  Dona Amelinha. Dona Amelinha . . . Boniclaide had never suffered such humiliation in her entire life. Hypocrite? After twenty years! Her blood boiled, she could even hear her heart beating. Take it easy, Boniclaide, take it easy, she had been repeating to herself since that fatal day. The dust hadn’t settled, she hadn’t calmed down. She had been working that job for so long, never missing a day, to end up “hearing what she heard.” She wasn’t resigned to it!

  She took the closed-off street beside the Bradesco Bank, greeting the Colinas security man stationed there. Of course, a rich people’s area is going to have a security guard. What irony! She entered her neighborhood—that is to say, Dona Amelinha’s, but it was as if it were hers as well. She spent more time there than in her own home. Cidade Jardim. All the workers arriving and leaving together. If you sat on the bench at the corner in the morning, you could see the movement, the housekeepers, maids, day workers, security men, gardeners, pool cleaners, coming and going through the blocked-off streets, each heading to his or her livelihood, where the bus doesn’t enter. At afternoon’s end everyone scattered.

  She stopped at the corner of her mistress’s house. She looked, trying to remember how it was before, but couldn’t. She only saw Zen dead on the ground and heard Dona Amelinha’s Serves him right! She only saw a body, the body of her love. My love, my love, how did it happen? Boni, the well-raised, well-behaved daughter who had her future planned and her trousseau already bought. Boni, who entered the penitentiary mute and left silent, who disdained those criminals—her, of all people, whom her mother forced to visit her brother in jail, fell in love with his cellmate. She had fought against the feeling as much as she could—how could it possibly work out?—but Sunday by Sunday, smile by smile, glance by glance, she slowly yielded. Until she gave herself. Never again would she feel as loved, never again would she give so much of herself. No one has two soul mates. Her eyes filled with tears that flowed freely at the mere recollection. The security guard at the house across the way looked at her, downcast. She stared at the ground. She was cursed, damned, the wife of a criminal. She clutched the bag under her arm and thought again. Seethed again. Better to not even go inside. How was she going to take care of her after all this? Of course, she could quit. Zen—Zen had won his freedom from prison but was never going to overcome prejudice. Now everyone knew her greatest secret. The weekend had been a nightmare. People looked upon her with different eyes. She wanted to feel her pain in peace. With a mixture of sadness and shame, she imagined herself gathering all her things, packing her bags, and leaving forever that house that was also a little bit hers. She softened as she glanced around, how hard it was to say goodbye to what had been hers for such a long time. No, she couldn’t weaken now. Damn Dona Amelinha, she didn’t deserve Boniclaide’s dedication. Never again would she submit to being humiliated for money. She would have courage, the girls were older now, everything would work out. But how was she going to say this to Dona Amelinha? How to start? Despite her anxiety, it shouldn’t be too difficult, the old woman deserved it.

  She decided to go down Blackberry and cross into the woods. She wasn’t ready yet. She passed by the home of the famous TV personality, Hebe Camargo. On the other side, the Morumbi woods. What did the sign say? Alfredo Volpi Park. She had no idea who he was, but the rich liked to complicate things. She entered through a path filled with shadow and light. Going through these trees always calmed her, even when she was in her uniform, a bit embarrassed, pushing Dona Amelinha’s wheelchair. Heavens, she kept thinking about Dona Ameli
nha, didn’t she? Good Lord, I need to stop this habit of putting her into everything I remember. She picked some flowers along the path and took them to the wooden cross up above. She prayed, deposited the bouquet at the foot of the cross, and asked for understanding. She asked for calm. Rage was taking control of her. All right, she had hidden Zen’s past from her mistress, but what alternative did she have? It was something out of a soap opera to believe that just because Dona Amelinha lived as prisoner in her own body she would understand people who had been in real prison. No way, she would always believe her imprisonment was because of disease, a noble suffering. Was Boni going to tell her that her husband was a prisoner? With two daughters to raise? She couldn’t risk it, she had indeed hidden it, and so what? What difference did it make to Dona Amelinha if her husband was a good guy or a crook? She’d just like to see the woman’s life without Boni. She had never done anything wrong and, knowing Dona Amelinha as she did—if she had told her, it would have been very bad. And it was.

  Today was Monday already, but pain had invaded Boni’s soul. She would never forgive.

  What did Amélia Lins e Silva think? That Boni was going to show up, make breakfast, take care of everything as if nothing had happened? And bear twenty more years after such ingratitude? Judging Zen? Thinking she was better? That sanctimonious woman, friend of the priest of the Saints Peter and Paul Chapel, which was open only for Mass? The self-styled charitable “good soul”? Dona Amelinha was the one who dissembled and lied! Oh no, it wasn’t going to stay that way, not at all.

  Boniclaide da Silva Paranhos left the park and entered the neighboring church, also Saints Peter and Paul, but with its doors always open to the people. She sat in a pew, looked God in the eye, and thought for a long time. And narrowed her gaze, as if to better understand Him. And she decided. Let each one do his part. She placed herself in His hands. She went to the baptismal font, took a small vial from her pocket, threw away the pills, and filled it with a bit of holy water. She put it away and walked back to Dona Amelinha’s house. The day was lovely, the sun shining brighter than ever.

  She entered the house like any normal day. She served breakfast to the orderly, who told her of Dona Amelinha’s general condition. He was irritated at her late arrival, even more because she hadn’t answered her cell phone all morning. Finally, he handed Boni the device to remove saliva and phlegm, for her to wash and sterilize. As always, he recommended she keep watch so the patient wouldn’t suffocate. Of course. Boni witnessed his departure calmly.

  She took a deep breath, unhurriedly climbed the stairs to her mistress’s room, her uniform impeccable. Her legs were heavy, but a frightful calmness dominated her heart. She said good morning, opened the curtains to let in sunlight. There was already a message on the computer screen, a list of everything she had to do that day. You witch, Boni thought, still hoping the old woman would apologize. Of course—to her everything was back to normal. To Boni nothing would ever be the same.

  She carefully opened the vial of holy water. She moistened her fingers and traced a cross on Amelinha’s forehead, the back of her neck, her chest, on each hand and each foot.

  Words began to appear on the computer screen: What are you doing, Boni? Are you crazy? Blessing me?

  Boni didn’t bother to reply. She got a scarf and gently wrapped it around her mistress’s head. Amelinha looked at Boni and at the computer, indicating that she wanted to talk, but the time for apology was past.

  Boniclaide said aloud: “To you, Lord, I commend an evil soul.” She pulled up a chair and sat there, waiting, her eyes locked on Amelinha’s eyes, eyes that thrashed about, seeking air. With each gasp, Boni felt more avenged. She even smiled.

  It did not take long. Amelinha began to turn blue. Fascinating to see a person’s skin change color. Until everything became quiet. Serves her right!

  It wasn’t she who had killed. It was He who didn’t save her.

  Useless Diary

  by Tony Bellotto

  Bixiga

  December 9

  Today John Lennon died. Or maybe yesterday, I don’t know. When I came down for breakfast some of the evening papers were already printing the news. At the August Moon, before serving the salami-and-provolone sandwich, a disconsolate Antônio brought me a beer without a word.

  “I didn’t know you were a Lennon fan,” I grunted after an insipid swallow.

  “The Beatles changed my life.”

  * * *

  On the way to the office I glimpsed through the bus window images of the former Beatle on television sets in bars and appliance stores. The newspaper fluttering on my lap narrated the confused story of an imbecile named Mark Chapman, born in Hawaii, who last night fired five shots into Lennon’s back in New York, when the former Beatle was arriving home after a recording session. In the late afternoon, like an ordinary fan, Chapman had approached the musician at the same spot where he would later assassinate him—on the sidewalk outside the Dakota—and asked him to autograph the cover of the Double Fantasy album. Lennon had a bit of difficulty writing because the ink in the pen didn’t flow smoothly. After signing it and adding a deferential 1980, John Lennon looked into the eyes of the man who was going to kill him and asked, “Is that all? Do you want anything else?”

  * * *

  At the office.

  Dora Lobo received me with traces of tears and an awkward hug. “Such a good young man, who wanted nothing more than peace in the world.”

  Just like the waiter at the August Moon, my boss was revealing an unexpected admiration for John Lennon.

  “Did the Beatles change your life too?” I asked incredulously. I had always thought Dora’s musical idols were a bit disappointing, other than Paganini, Dóris Monteiro, and Dick Farney.

  “They changed the world, Bellini,” she stated, subtly indignant.

  Minutes later, I was in my room facing the client who was waiting for me without disguising an anxiety that was as obvious as her breasts. Her name was Berthe, and she made no comment about Lennon’s death.

  December 10

  Berthe Clemente is looking for her twin brother, Jean Claude, from whom she hasn’t heard in more than a year.

  “Papa is dying in Araraquara,” she said, “and deserves to see his only son before passing.”

  “Take it easy,” I suggested. “Why don’t you tell me the story from the beginning?”

  “Which beginning?”

  “Is there more than one?”

  Berthe stared at me a bit offended. There are several, of course. It was on her to choose.

  “Jean Claude is gay,” she said.

  It was a good start.

  * * *

  Yesterday morning, Mark Chapman left the hotel where he was staying, walked into a bookstore, and bought a copy of The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. He opened the book and, using the same pen Lennon would autograph the cover of his record with that same afternoon, wrote, From Holden Caulfield to Holden Caulfield. Immediately below, he added: This is my statement. And underlined the word this.

  * * *

  The death of John Lennon suggests “Strawberry Fields Forever,” “Across the Universe,” or “Mind Games,” but the Walkman insists on reverberating in my brain the ethereal voice of Mississippi Fred McDowell: “Jesus is on that mainline . . . tell him what you want . . .”

  The twins Berthe and Jean Claude Clemente grew up in Araraquara, in the interior of the state. Although Berthe, like their mother Marie Louise, early on perceived the boy’s homosexual tendencies, their father only learned of this when Jean Claude, by then living in São Paulo and attending a prep school, revealed his sexual preference to the family one rainy weekend. Jean Claude knew it would be a difficult announcement, but nothing had prepared him for the reaction of his father, who threw him out of the house. According to Berthe, she and Marie Louise made innumerable attempts to bring about a reconciliation between father and son, but time only served to further estrange the two. For several years, Jean Claude maintained
sporadic contact with Berthe, who conveyed his messages to their mother. Meetings, however, became increasingly rare.