If I Close My Eyes Now Read online

  ‘He’s the murderer. He went to the dentist’s house to conceal the evidence. Criminals always return to the scene of the crime.’

  ‘But the crime took place near the lake.’

  ‘Didn’t the dentist tell the police he killed her in their house?’

  ‘But we know it can’t have been there.’

  ‘Isn’t it strange that the old man went there?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘If he’s not the dentist’s accomplice, then he’s off his head.’

  ‘He could be. My granddad was like that.’

  ‘The one you used to call Nonno?’

  ‘No, Nonno was the Italian, my father’s father. The crazy one was Portuguese, my mother’s father. He ran away from home, vanished for days on end, went on benders, sang in the street. My mother was ashamed of him.’

  One of the customers staggered out of the bar. Shortly afterwards, so did the other one. The white-haired old man stayed at the counter. He was drinking a clear liquid that the bar owner served him in a small glass. Paulo thought it must be cachaça, white rum.

  ‘Did the crazy grandfather visit your house a lot?’

  ‘The Portuguese? He lived with us in São Paulo. When my father was transferred to the interior, my mother sent him to her sister’s house in Rio. He died there. I can’t recall exactly what of. I can’t remember his name either. I think it was Vicente, but I always called him Granddad. He took me to the district once.’

  ‘The red-light district?’

  ‘Yes. My mother was furious when she found out.’

  ‘Were they naked?’

  ‘The whores? I don’t remember. I was still a kid.’

  ‘You don’t remember whether the women were naked or not?’

  ‘No, I don’t think they were.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Paulo with a sigh. ‘They can’t have been. If you’d seen a naked woman, you wouldn’t have forgotten it.’

  The bar owner began closing the long wooden shutters. The old man came out. The boys got ready to follow him, but he simply walked over to one of the benches and sat down. He took a small notebook out of his inside jacket pocket. He read through a few pages, then wrote something down. He put the notebook away, and from another pocket took out a rolled-up cigarette and a box of matches. He lit it, inhaled deeply, blew out the smoke, drew on it again.

  Paulo yawned. He felt very sleepy.

  The tip of the pen closed the semicircle of the last letter, a consonant, descended slightly to the left, underlined part of the surname. Lifted from the paper, it crossed the letter ‘t’. Moving to the end of the signature, the pen made two dots on the right, one above the other. Finished.

  ‘The reason for you being absent from school, signed by your father,’ said Eduardo, holding out the school notebook to his friend. ‘You can go to class again tomorrow with no worries.’

  Paulo examined the text and the signature. Perfect.

  ‘It’s exactly the same. It’s no different to the one above.’

  Eduardo smiled.

  ‘I did the one above as well.’

  He might be hopeless at football, skinny, clumsy, ugly, a weirdo, a swot – the boys who always chased after him in every new town his father was transferred to could say what they liked about him, but none of them could forge anyone’s handwriting and signature as well as he could.

  It was a skill he had acquired on boring, lonely afternoons, copying his mother’s florid signature, then the small dots above and below his father’s writing, and later the circles and slants he discovered on the envelopes of the letters his relatives wrote. It was a slow, unintentional process that had no real goal or time limit. He only realized how good he was at it when he’d forged the notary public’s signature on his own birth certificate, flourish for flourish, when he presented it in order to enrol at school in the previous town.

  His talent, kept secret from everyone apart from his one real friend, had yet again proved useful. It made no sense for them to be cooped up in school on such a fine morning, listening to each teacher’s blah-blah, one lesson after another. They both understood this the moment they met outside the school gate. They simply looked at each other, and didn’t even bother to get off their bikes. They headed straight for the lake. Time enough the next day to present the reasons for their absence, with their parents’ signatures.

  Eduardo stretched his arms. He was tired. Another late night, thanks to the old man. The worst of it was they hadn’t achieved anything. Nothing new. They were no further forward than on the night they had gone out to investigate for the first time.

  He looked round for a clean, dry spot in the grass, and lay down. His uniform was folded up neatly beside him. In the nearby bushes, birds were celebrating the morning. Clouds were gathering overhead, reflected on the surface of the lake.

  ‘When?’ Paulo’s voice came from some way off. He had to be close to the water.

  ‘When what?’

  ‘When did you do the signature above?’

  ‘The last time you were suspended.’

  ‘Oh, right. When I punched Sávio Januzzi.’

  ‘No. When you put that little mirror under Suzana Scheienfeber’s desk to see her knickers.’

  The sound of someone plunging in, then noisy swimming strokes. Silence. Paulo must be floating. A squawking macaw. Silence. The call of a fly-catcher. A gentle breeze in his ear. Silence. The sound of bamboo rustling against bamboo. A slight rubbing sound. The bamboo swaying. A distant whine – a mosquito, or a dragonfly? Silence. Drowsiness … feeling sleepy. Closing his eyes. The clouds building up. Black.

  ‘She wasn’t wearing knickers.’

  Paulo’s voice woke him with a start.

  ‘She what?’

  ‘No knickers.’

  Paulo was standing in front of him. Sprinkling him with water.

  ‘What d’you mean, no knickers? Suzana had a pair on, I remember.’

  ‘The dead woman, Eduardo. That Anita. She had no knickers on.’

  Eduardo raised himself up on his elbows.

  ‘The murderer must have torn them off.’

  ‘Torn them off?’

  ‘To have his way with her. To rape her.’

  Paulo leaned over him.

  ‘But there weren’t any in the dentist’s house either.’

  ‘Any what?’

  ‘Any knickers. Not a single pair.’

  ‘There must have been – we simply didn’t see them. We didn’t have time to find them.’

  ‘We opened everything.’

  ‘There must have been some. All women wear knickers. Knickers, bra, slip, petticoat, suspender belt and stockings. They wear all that under their dresses.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just know.’

  ‘Does your mother wear all those?’

  ‘Don’t bring my mother into this.’

  Paulo sat down. Mothers were something neither of them discussed. Paulo’s because she was dead. Eduardo’s because she was still pretty. Another tacit understanding between the two of them.

  ‘Do you remember yours?’ Eduardo suddenly asked, afraid of breaking their pact, but genuinely interested.

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Mother.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  It wasn’t a reply: it was meant to close a topic Eduardo imagined must be painful for his friend.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘The thing is, I sometimes wonder … I wonder … if you don’t …’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Miss her … If you don’t feel …’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Don’t you feel … ?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Don’t you remember her?’

  ‘My father.’

  ‘Your father what?’

  ‘My father.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘My father has.’

  ‘Your father has what?’

  ‘One.
’

  ‘Your father has one what?’

  ‘Photo.’

  ‘Photo?’

  ‘A small one. One of those three-by-fours.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘He has one.’

  ‘A photo of what?’

  ‘Of her. A small photo. Hidden in his wallet.’

  ‘A photo of your mother?’

  ‘Just one. That’s the only one I’ve seen.’

  ‘Your mother.’

  ‘I took his wallet to pinch some money.’

  ‘Does he never give you any?’

  ‘I saw it. A tiny one: a three-by-four.’

  ‘He keeps it in—’

  ‘She was dark. Thin. Teeth sticking out a bit. An identity photo. The only one I’ve ever seen of her.’

  ‘You don’t have any others?’

  ‘I don’t remember her.’

  ‘Didn’t you manage to—’

  ‘When I think of her—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think of that photo. Hidden in my father’s wallet. It’s not the same as remembering.’

  He fell silent. Eduardo didn’t know what to say next either.

  ‘If that crazy old man hadn’t appeared,’ Paulo went on, ‘we would have find—’

  ‘Found,’ Eduardo corrected him, glad to be back on safer ground.

  ‘Found something.’

  ‘We found the condoms.’

  ‘We’ve got piles of them at home.’

  ‘Your father and brother are always going with prostitutes. They have to use condoms with them, or they’ll catch a disease.’

  ‘Was it your grandfather who told you that? The crazy grandfather?’

  Eduardo couldn’t remember. He thought he had read about it. But where would it have been possible for him to read about prostitutes and diseases? He couldn’t recall any book talking about things like that. Or newspaper. Or magazine. Not even in Carlos Zéfiro’s dirty mags that he sometimes snitched from the kiosk when he was paying for the German fashion and dressmaking publications his mother ordered. It probably was his grandfather.

  ‘The day he took you to the red-light district?’

  ‘Possibly. Didn’t you know that prostitutes give you diseases?’

  ‘Yes, I did. Antonio told me.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘Yes, you need condoms if you go with prostitutes. You have to wear one. But the dentist … why do you think he needed so many?’

  ‘So as not to have children. So that his wife wouldn’t get pregnant.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘We have them at home.’

  ‘You never said.’

  ‘We have them.’

  ‘Where did you find them?’

  ‘I saw them.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the same bedside table where my father keeps his revolver.’

  ‘What revolver?’

  ‘He has a revolver. From the days when he had to guard the railway.’

  ‘You never told me.’

  ‘I didn’t think of it.’

  ‘Does he leave the drawer open?’

  ‘No, locked.’

  ‘So how come you saw it?’

  ‘I opened it, didn’t I?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With a bit of wire.’

  ‘You know how to open a lock without a key?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you learn that?’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘And the rubbers were there? In the locked drawer?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Your mother and father use them? So as not to have kids? They’re still …’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘You were the one who said you had condoms at home.’

  ‘I don’t like to talk about it.’

  ‘All right. But we could have find … found … more things if that crazy old man hadn’t appeared.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Silence again. Paulo sat with his back to him. Eduardo heard a sharp cry, but couldn’t tell which bird made the sound. He thought it might have been a flycatcher. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the memory of the woman with dark thighs, fleshy lips parted over dazzling white teeth, her arms flung wide. He couldn’t help crying out:

  ‘She was pretty. Really pretty.’

  His face felt hot. He thought he must be blushing, and was embarrassed. Paulo said nothing: perhaps he hadn’t heard.

  The image of the tall, blonde woman filled his mind. Wrapped him in an unwelcome embrace. He could see the streaks of mud on her face. And on her body. Blood. Cuts. On her hands, her breast, her neck. Stab wounds. Stains. Slime. A breast. Only one.

  ‘Why did he chop her breast off?’

  His question seemed to hang in mid-air. Paulo still said nothing.

  ‘I don’t understand. I can understand stabbing someone. I can understand killing them. I don’t know why he killed, but I understand. But to cut her breast off? Why? What for?’

  Paulo didn’t reply. Eduardo stared straight in front of him. He thought about getting up and going for a swim. But he didn’t move. He heard the same sharp cries. Like shrieks. Even without seeing them he was sure this time: they were fly-catchers. They sounded ominous.

  ‘Eduardo …’

  He had never heard Paulo’s voice at such a low pitch.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you remember the cowboy films we saw?’

  Paulo’s big, black eyes were fixed on him.

  ‘Which film?’

  ‘Any of them. The ones where the Red Indians attack the palefaces’ wagons.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘When they kill the whites.’

  ‘In the end, it’s the whites who kill all of them.’

  ‘Yes, they do. But when they surround the wagons and kill the white people, before the hero appears … what do they take back to their tribe?’

  ‘Weapons. Ammunition. Food. Anything they can find in the settlers’ wagons.’

  ‘No, Eduardo! They kill the whites and scalp them!’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘They tear off a piece of the enemy’s body!’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘It’s a trophy, Eduardo!’

  ‘A what … ?’

  ‘The breast, Eduardo!’

  ‘The breast … ?’

  ‘The dead woman’s breast. It’s a trophy!’

  4

  Anita’s Birth

  HE HAD ONLY just reached the lowest rung when the boys rushed over. The skinny one apologized, but said they needed to talk to him urgently. His darker-skinned friend, the one with the curly ringlets and flap ears, was staring at the rope. The old man protested, annoyed at their intrusion.

  ‘You have to help us,’ said the tall one.

  Wiping his hands on his handkerchief, then putting it back in his pocket, the man did not even deign to look at Eduardo.

  ‘Please,’ Eduardo added. ‘We really need you.’

  ‘We’ve discovered an important lead. The most important!’

  ‘Not a lead, Paulo. A trophy.’

  ‘That’s right! The murderer wanted a trophy.’

  ‘Like the redskins!’ explained Eduardo, sure that the reference to the Indians of the Wild West would make sense, but unsure if it was the darkness under the trees or the old man’s squint that made it impossible to tell which direction he was looking in.

  He realized that neither of the old man’s eyes stayed fixed on one spot. Each of them seemed to move independently. If his right eye was looking slightly upwards, then the left one pointed to one side. And vice versa. The one that pointed towards the side, whether it was the left or the right, gave the impression of being stable. Or almost. All of a sudden, it would start to move again, uncoordinated with the other one. For a brief moment it seemed as though they were parallel to one another. Only for them to drift apart again.

  The
old man didn’t even seem to be listening as he hid the end of the rope, with the ladder perched among the tree branches. Paulo thought he should explain further.

  ‘When the Red Indians defeat the palefaces who’ve invaded their lands, they scalp them.’

  ‘As a proof of victory.’

  ‘Did you hear?’

  ‘With the dentist’s wife, the proof of victory was …’

  Eduardo didn’t manage to finish the sentence. The old man turned his back on them and walked off. Not knowing what to do, Eduardo didn’t move.

  ‘Whoever killed her …’ he tried again.

  He couldn’t go on. He felt like an idiot. The invisible boy. The invisible boy who was no use to adults. The useless, invisible, idiotic boy to this particular adult. The idiotic, invisible, useless boy to all adults. His heart was pounding. He was gasping for breath.

  Paulo ran alongside the old man for a few steps. He started and stopped a few phrases about cowboys and Indians, settlers and ambushes, victories and scalps, then gave up. He fell silent, and turned back to his friend. Spreading his arms wide, he shrugged: what now? This wasn’t the reaction they had imagined, or counted on, to continue their search for the real murderer. They weren’t expecting this indifference. What now? What now? What do we do now?

  All at once, unconsciously, Eduardo could feel a hot wave spreading over first his face and then his whole body. It was followed by a loud shout that took him by surprise and made Paulo stare at him wide-eyed.

  ‘Catch him! Catch the old man running away!’

  Eduardo’s greatest surprise came when he realized the shouts were coming from inside him. From his throat. It was his voice he could hear, loud and piercing in a way he had never heard before, roaring in the silent night.

  ‘Look! An old man escaping!’

  After a minute’s astonishment, Paulo joined in, as enthusiastic as a child with a new toy:

  ‘Stop him! Catch the fugitive!’

  The man came to a halt. Both the boys were shouting at the top of their voices. He turned round. They carried on shouting. He stared at them. They were still shouting. He stood with hands on hips, in the attitude adults adopt to get children to obey without having to say anything. He was demanding they be quiet.

  Normally Eduardo would have obeyed, because he was a reasonable sort, and because that was how he had been brought up. Paulo would probably have done the same, not because it was in his nature, but because this was how he had learned to behave, like a wary creature that had the memory of his father’s brutality imprinted on his mind. But together, treated with what they saw as disdainful arrogance, the anger of one complemented the other’s bitterness. This gave them the strength to openly defy an adult for the first time in their lives. They continued shouting.