When I arrived at work on Monday, Dalva already knew everything. She confessed without embarrassment that she had eavesdropped on her employers’ conversation through the door. You know, she said while she served me fresh coffee, I’ve been in this house for over twenty years. I raised that boy. I have the right to know what’s going on.
Breathing heavily, she pulled up a stool and sat in front of me.
Remember that crazy guy who called here saying that Junior was dead? He’s still calling, she said.
I felt my heart race. Stay calm, over. They don’t know anything, over. I remembered what Sulamita had said about her profession, after we buried the body. Maybe now you understand, she said, the shame I feel at working in the morgue. People are disgusted by me. They avoid speaking to me, as if I could contaminate them. And the worst part is that I do feel contaminated.
While Dalva told me about the mysterious calls the Berabas had been receiving for several days, I also felt infected.
Do you think it’s possible to kidnap a corpse? asked Dalva. From what I understood, they kidnapped Junior’s body. I didn’t know that now they kidnap cadavers. That’s new to me. How can they kidnap a cadaver?
Dalva was confused: it was as if she were telling me, Okay, I understand criminals killing, raping, stealing, kidnapping, demanding ransoms, I understand them slaughtering and burning, blowing up the World Trade Center, but stealing cadavers? Bodies aren’t stolen, that’s what she meant. Cadavers exist to be buried in cemeteries.
Actually, over, I wasn’t hearing what Dalva was saying any longer, just staring at her puzzled face and repeating to myself that at least we hadn’t killed anyone. We’re not murderers, I repeated silently, and when I focused my attention on Dalva again, I confirmed my earlier predictions: Mr. José wanted to call the police and Dona Lu was against it. They’re arguing all the time, Dalva said.
She told me further that Dona Lu was wearing Junior’s watch. You know, she said, I think Mr. José is right. They should call the police. If I got my hands on a lowlife like that, I don’t know what I’d do. To me anybody who does that kind of thing deserves to die in the electric chair. It’s a real shame Brazil doesn’t have the death penalty.
After breakfast I felt worse. I became nauseous and went into the bathroom to vomit. I had woken up that morning feeling sick, but Sulamita insisted I mustn’t change my routine. At a time like this, she said, anything irregular is suspect.
I vomited twice more undetected. To outward appearances, I was calm.
Dalva kept coming to me in the garage with unusual questions. How did the criminals get hold of Junior’s body? Were they in the plane? Or did they find Junior dead after the accident? And where did they keep the body, in a refrigerator? Why didn’t they kidnap Junior alive? Junior alive must be worth a lot more money than Junior dead, she said.
There came a moment when the questions grew more heated. Doesn’t your girlfriend work at the morgue? What does she do exactly? Can she tell, looking at a cadaver, that it’s really Junior’s? Or if it’s another person? Are there tests for that?
It was obvious, I thought; of course they would make the association. You’re going to get caught, over. I called Sulamita several times. Keep calm, she told me, don’t ruin everything. You have to stay calm, that’s all. No one knows anything. Isn’t that what Dalva said?
After lunch, Mr. José called me into his office.
When I entered, he was talking on the phone to one of his ranch hands and gestured for me to wait.
I observed the wilted hibiscuses outside the window. They hadn’t even bloomed and were already dead. That was life in Corumbá.
Dalva told me your girlfriend works for the police, he said, hanging up the phone.
I confirmed the information. And on impulse asked if there was anything we could do to help.
He looked at me, thinking of the best way to tell me what must be said.
Then Dona Lu came into the office. It’s impressive what pain can do to people. The damage is greatest in the face. When I looked at that defeated woman, the sound of Sulamita breaking the bones of the cadaver, a sharp sound almost like a crack, was ringing in my ears.
Lu, the rancher said, his fiancée works for the police.
I know, she said.
She looked at her husband and then at me, distressed, as if fearing some piece of bad news. Then in her gentle way she asked me to leave them by themselves.
They spoke loudly; I couldn’t help but hear. I stopped in the middle of the living room, hearing everything they said. Dalva came in with a tray of coffee and stood beside me. Listen to what I’m going to say, Dona Lu said. I want my son. I have the right to bury my son, she said. I’m going to bury my son even if it’s the last thing I do on earth. And you’re not going to stand in my way. She repeated this several times amid sobs. And she cried, imploring her husband to listen, not to take a stance, not to call the police, not to ask anyone for help. Including me. Because nothing that could be done, however well it might be done, would bring Junior back. Even if the police discovered who the mentally ill person blackmailing them was, Junior would still be dead. And she would rather die than not bury her own son.
After that, we heard nothing but her crying, which was neither sobs nor moans but only the phrase “I want my son,” intoned like a prayer or mantra.
I saw that Dalva was crying too. I myself had a knot in my throat. I took her to the kitchen and went into the bathroom to vomit again. It had been horrific to witness that scene, but on the other hand I felt safer. They’re not going to alert the police, I thought.
That day I made five trips to the pharmacy to buy medicines for Dona Lu. The doctor came to see her and spent the afternoon at the house.
At six, I met Sulamita at the entrance to the morgue. I told her what had happened, in detail.
You’re sure that was all? she asked.
Yes.
He didn’t ask anything further about my work?
No, and I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t time. Dona Lu interrupted our conversation. But Dalva asked questions. Maybe Dalva suspects, I don’t know. She also asked about my life in São Paulo. But maybe it’s nothing.
We were in the car, and the heat was making me dizzy.
What about him? Mr. José? Think he suspects you? asked Sulamita.
I’ve changed my opinion on that several times during the day, I replied. I’ve thought yes and no. Sometimes I think everything is so obvious. You, the morgue. On the other hand, I know how these things go. When you’re in the middle of it, suffering, you can’t have an overall view of the situation. When I think about my mother, for example, I believe he would come to me for help. That’s all.
Rich the way he is? Why doesn’t he ask the secretary of public security for help?
Because Dona Lu wants to bury her son. Because the police can get in the way. They might scare off the kidnapper.
She’s not going to alert the police?
No. You can take that to the bank.
We had talked about it a lot. Sulamita believed the problem might arise in the future. There are moments, she said, when they’ll have to bring in the police. When they receive the body. They’ll have to do a DNA test for the burial. It’s normal procedure. The police will ask questions.
However, Sulamita knew a worker in the Brasilia laboratory where the tests in the region were carried out. She believed we could convince him to help us.
How? I asked.
For six hundred, she said. You can convince a guy to do anything for six hundred. All you have to do is pay.
Now, she said, the important thing is to use the strategy of silence. We’re going to terrorize them. We’re going to disappear for a time. Silence is our most powerful weapon.