It was Sulamita’s day off and she had decided to wait for me at my place. She had arrived around three and had straightened up the room. I organized your drawers, she said, changed the sheets, cleaned the bathroom, and when I was lying on the bed watching television, after taking a bath, I heard a phone ring. And it wasn’t mine. I noticed that the sound was coming from the ceiling. I got a chair, opened the crawl space, and in the area under the roof found the backpack with the telephone and documents of the pilot who disappeared.
From the tin roof came waves of hot air that drained my strength. I took off my shirt and lay down beside Sulamita.
Next time turn the phone off before hiding it, over. If she wanted the truth, it was very easy, I thought, all I had to do was open my mouth, over. The words gushed forth without difficulty or censorship. I told her everything that had happened, spoke of the fishing trip on the Paraguay River, the explosion in the sky, the plane crashing and how the man died before my very eyes. I spoke of my attempt to save him. Know why you found the safety belt undone and the doors open? I asked. Because I tried to save him. I repeated that information with a degree of pride, I wanted Sulamita to understand that before anything else I had tried to help the pilot, but she kept interrupting me. Why didn’t you call the police? Why are you working for his family? You’re lying, she said. What about this backpack? And this cell phone? She didn’t even wait for an answer. Stop, I said, stop and listen.
Don’t touch me, she said.
My mistake, I said, was undoing the safety belt, and if I’m to be judged, let it be for that, and for leaving the plane’s doors open. As for the cell phone and the backpack, what could he do with them? I asked. He was dead, I said. I thought they wouldn’t be missed, either by him or the family.
You were in that plane, she stated, you saw that young man.
I recounted everything again, explained that the pilot had probably been swept away by the current and devoured by piranhas. That’s my theory, I said.
Outside, the children were jumping rope, and for a moment the only sound was the lashing against the pavement, synchronized with the beating of my heart. Without heeding the consequences, I told the rest of the story, said I’d found a kilo of powder inside the plane, had sold the drug, which was why I hadn’t reported the accident to the police. I spoke of my deal with Ramirez, said that Moacir was my partner, and went on talking until coming to the conversation I’d had with the Bolivian that morning. As I advanced, Sulamita withdrew, prostrate, as if my words were some kind of paralyzing gas. At the end she was sitting on my bed, her head in her hands, staring at the floor, saying that it wasn’t possible. It’s not possible, she repeated.
I also told of my job and how I ended up at the Berabas’ house. I said something about vultures and rotting flesh. Deep down, I said, I must miss seeing my mother cry, maybe this job is so I can suffer with Dona Lu the same way I suffered with my mother, maybe the vicarious pain is a form of vicarious pleasure, I said, but didn’t use those words, I wasn’t clear. I spoke of my mother and my father, of how much I missed them both, mixed everything with Dona Lu and ended with promises. Nothing’s going to change, I said, we’re going to go ahead with our plans, deep down I didn’t do anything wrong, I’m making the greatest effort possible, I said, you have to trust me.
I felt an enormous sense of peace after dumping my steaming sin on Sulamita. It was as if the burden was now hers as well, mine and hers, as much ours as the idea of marriage that she had shoved down my throat, I thought. I sat on the bed, tried to hug her, but she moved away. I ought to leave here and go straight to the precinct, said Sulamita.
We remained silent for a time, then she asked me, how could you go behind my back? It has nothing to do with you, I replied, and she continued to inquire: What’s going to happen now? What’s going to happen to you? To me?
If you help me, I said, we can find a way out of this.
How? She wanted to know. You think you’re up to fooling the police, deceiving Junior’s family, getting around the traffickers, outwitting everybody? How are you going to get fifty thousand dollars to pay Ramirez?
I asked if there was any way of getting the powder back. What are you talking about? she screamed. Do you think I can just waltz into the station, grab the drugs and say, “Joel, this belongs to my boyfriend?” Good God, you don’t have a clue about anything. You’re crazy.
Maybe, I said, if you explained to your friends at the station —, over, but I didn’t have the heart to continue. At that moment Sulamita threw herself face down on the bed, sobbing, saying I had no right to do that to her life, to her family. How do you find the courage to ruin everything like that? To destroy my dreams? I haven’t destroyed anything, I said, everything I did was for the two of us. Stop that nonsense, she said, you’re an egotist.
All of it was making me sick: the heat, Sulamita’s crying, and there outside, the knife-sharpener working at his emery wheel. I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to sharpen my knives, just to get away from there.
At the exact moment I had this thought, Sulamita got up, grabbed her things, and left. She slammed the door without even bothering to say goodbye.