They say he made the most astonishing revelations on his deathbed. Only the nurse, Flávio Rescaldinho, was by his side. Flávio was the only person to hear the dead man’s final confessions. After the inevitable outcome, the nurse positioned himself at the door of the room where the body was growing cold. On the wall hung a simple poster, on which the following could be read: HERE LIES THE RECENTLY DEPARTED SALOMÃO GARGALO IN HIS FIRST RESTING PLACE.
The weeping visitors were expected. First came his widow, who was still young, a tearful slip of a girl. Her name was Lisete Dwarves, a name that derived from a certain book she had read about a white girl who was made of snow and who had died because of an apple. Ever since the time of Adam, whites had miserable luck because of this fruit.
—Flávio, tell me: what did he say?
—He talked a lot about love.
—About me?
—Well, I mean he talked about love.
But weren’t they synonymous, she and love? No, that was unlikely in this particular case, the nurse advised. The dying man had philosophized about passion and the universe. Love had always eluded him out of fear. Yes, feelings dreaded him. Only once, on one occasion alone, had he truly felt love in his heart.
—Was I that once, me?
Flávio stayed mum and dumb. In the clouds, goodness knows where, completely silent. But any cricket worth its salt is allergic to silence. And so Flávio Rescaldinho coughed and spluttered. And in his state of wheeziness, he mumbled into his handkerchief:
—The dead man even wrote it down.
—Show me.
He remained stiff and stone-faced. The widow rubbed her index finger and thumb together, suggesting payment. The nurse coughed again and reluctantly offered her a dog-eared piece of paper.
—Here it is.
The widow unfolded the message there and then. She read it to the end, and then returned to the beginning. She read and reread.
—Is this all?
The nurse nodded, denying any responsibility for it. He had not been present when the dying man had written it.
—He wrote with a sinful pen, all you gave him as a nurse was the extreme punctuation.
They needed a priest to resolve the poison of the dead man’s speech, so as to give his soul a destination. What was Salomão Gargalo thinking while he was sighing? Where could he be found now in order to seek clarification? Only in Heaven, crammed into a star, all by himself. Or, more likely, frying in hell just like an egg.
And the widow withdrew, muttering curses and oaths. As for the nurse, he glanced sideways to appreciate her gait, her swaying rear end.
Next came the dead man’s brother, all done up in his Sunday best: everything matching from his tie to his shoes. All in borrowed black and mourning. He spoke as if his voice was also located behind his dark glasses. He asked:
—Did my bro talk about my situation?
—Bro?
—My irmão, my brother, my bro: it’s an up-to-date term. Did he talk about me or not?
The nurse, the guardian of the pharaoh’s tomb, returned his English in kind: No! And he even translated it with a modulated, sarcastic não. Courteously curt in ceremony and protocol. Nothing, zilch, nix. All the departed had left by way of booty was a little piece of paper.
—This piece here.
The brother unfolded the paper eagerly. He read it quickly at one go. He seemed to be expecting more words, paragraphs, chapters.
—Not so much as a crumb of an inheritance, nothing here for Quintonico?
He waited for an answer in vain. And he set off down the hall feeling sorry for himself. Then came the mistress, bee-like, hunched over her stealthy feet. She came up to the nurse, rubbed up against him nice and snug. With a voice like the icing on a cake, she asked:
—Out with it, Flávio: did he mention our relationship?
Flávio swallowed his Adam’s apple. The dead son of a bitch! Had Salomão taken advantage of this dame as well? That would explain the roguish smile on the dying man’s final face. The nurse pretended not to understand. And he asked her to repeat the question. The girl stuck to him more tightly than a fiscal stamp and whispered the question right into his ear. Flávio was reduced to one simple gesture: he just handed her the piece of paper without uttering a sound. The lover opened the message like someone uncorking a bottle of perfume. She glanced over it and then stuffed the paper into the abyss of her bra. She was about to leave when a voice halted her in her tracks:
—Now, now!
It was Flávio, denying her intentions, his index finger swishing this way and that like a windshield wiper. The paper didn’t belong there in those fleshy apertures, it should be returned to the safekeeping of his fingers. The dead man’s mistress now forsook all her flirtiness. She screwed up the paper and threw it on the floor.
At that precise moment, the mayor and his retinue arrived. Only he approached Flávio. The others, their cell phones in their belts like pistols, held back. The head of the local authority growled:
—Did he talk of the money belonging to the municipality?
The nurse failed to understand. You hear people talk about rain, not wetness. The leader of the council was pale: he seemed to belong more to the antechamber of death than to the council chamber. Yes, or rather no, there was just one simple question: had the dead man revealed any private dealings, the transfer of public funds to private wealth?
Flávio, with the utmost respect, made it known that he had heard nothing, knew nothing, suspected nothing.
—If you will excuse me, and pardon the inconvenience, your most esteemed Excellency: all he left was that piece of paper, that one there on the floor.
And he bent down to pick it up. With all due decorum, the nurse blew any intrusive bacteria away and then surrendered the document. The council leader took to rummaging through the pockets of his Italian coat for his glasses. But no sooner had he found them and put them on than he took them off again. The same fury caused him to screw the paper up again and roll it along the ground. The leader grabbed the nurse by the collar and whispered threats:
—D’you know what a one-armed man has? One arm too many.
And the retinue stood, looking straight ahead, awaiting his order. But the leader turned on his heels, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. The nurse looked at the screwed-up little piece of paper on the ground. One or two letters were legible. Flávio peered and made out the odd word: … you sons of …
Finally, when all the visits were done, Flávio Rescaldinho returned to the dead man’s room. And when a solemn silence might have been expected, muffled laughter could be heard. Folk said it came from two breasts, two souls enjoying vengeance to the full. Thus confirming the adage: vengeance isn’t self-serving. It just serves a purpose.