Crimes of August: A Novel: 5 (Brazilian Literature in Translation Series) Read Online Free
Author: Rubem Fonseca
CEO of Cemtex—”
“Today’s Sunday, I can’t do anything. In a little while I’m going to the Jockey Club with the president. Call me tomorrow,” said Gregório drily, hanging up.
The second call: “When’s the job going to get done?”
“One day soon,” answered Gregório. “Let’s take it easy, I don’t want to run any useless risks.”
“If something happens with you—which I don’t believe, because I know you act with the prudence necessary to avoid any complications—I’ll deposit the money abroad in your name. You’ll be a rich man. Very rich. Trust me, the way I’m trusting you.”
The third call: “When are you going to blast the man?”
“One day soon, Mr. Lodi.”
Euvaldo Lodi was a federal deputy and an important leader in the Federation of Industries.
At three in the afternoon, the head of the president’s military cabinet, General Caiado de Castro, arrived at the Catete Palace. A short time later the secretary of finance, Oswaldo Aranha, arrived. Both were shown into the president’s office. Shortly before four o’clock, the presidential entourage, made up, among others, of the general and the secretary, got into the automobiles waiting in the palace gardens. Major Dornelles sat beside the driver in the car carrying the president and his wife, Dona Darcy.
Gregório gave instructions to the special police escorts, then gestured to Dornelles that the motorcade could get under way. His car, occupied by three other members of the personal guard, was immediately behind the president’s. Preceded by the motorcycles of the escorts in their red berets, the entourage left through the palace gates onto Rua do Catete, heading for the hippodrome in Gávea.
As Gregório feared, the president was booed when the announcer at the Jockey Club, on the loudspeakers, made his arrival known. The president pretended not to hear the jeers coming from the special stands. From the regular seats came no applause, no support. So that’s how the people treat Mr. Getúlio? thought Gregório. After all the sacrifices he’s made and goes on making for the poor and humble?
During the wine reception hosted by the Jockey Club’s board of directors after the race, the Black Angel, his expression grim, posted himself behind the president, caressing under his coat the dagger in his belt.
MATTOS LIVED ON THE EIGHTH FLOOR of a building on Marquês de Abrantes, in the Flamengo district. A small apartment with a bedroom and living room, bathroom and kitchen, in the rear. The bathroom was its best feature, spacious with an enormous old tub whose metal feet mimicked the paws of an animal. The living room accommodated only a table and two chairs, a bookcase crammed with books, and a console containing a phonograph and partitions for records. On the console was an album of 78-rpm records, with La Traviata, another with La Bohème in long-play, and the scores of both operas in Italian. The bedroom was also tiny, with a sofa bed and a small table with a reading lamp.
The apartment was hot and stuffy that day, despite it being August. The bedroom window looked out over a small interior courtyard. The neighbor across the way was arguing with his wife. Mattos could see and hear the couple gesticulating and shouting. He closed the window, turning on the light and the radio, took off his coat and tie, placed his revolver on the table, opened the sofa bed and, still wearing pants and shoes, lay down. He was used to sleeping dressed.
He woke up to the ringing of the telephone. The announcer on the radio was saying, “The President of the Republic, Mr. Getúlio Vargas, has just arrived at the Gávea Hippodrome.” Mattos answered the phone.
“You want to see me today?”
It was Salete. He felt a brief surge of desire, which quickly passed. This wasn’t a good day. Besides everything else, his stomach was acting up.
“I’m tired.”
“You’re not thinking about me?”
“No, I’m not thinking about
“Today’s Sunday, I can’t do anything. In a little while I’m going to the Jockey Club with the president. Call me tomorrow,” said Gregório drily, hanging up.
The second call: “When’s the job going to get done?”
“One day soon,” answered Gregório. “Let’s take it easy, I don’t want to run any useless risks.”
“If something happens with you—which I don’t believe, because I know you act with the prudence necessary to avoid any complications—I’ll deposit the money abroad in your name. You’ll be a rich man. Very rich. Trust me, the way I’m trusting you.”
The third call: “When are you going to blast the man?”
“One day soon, Mr. Lodi.”
Euvaldo Lodi was a federal deputy and an important leader in the Federation of Industries.
At three in the afternoon, the head of the president’s military cabinet, General Caiado de Castro, arrived at the Catete Palace. A short time later the secretary of finance, Oswaldo Aranha, arrived. Both were shown into the president’s office. Shortly before four o’clock, the presidential entourage, made up, among others, of the general and the secretary, got into the automobiles waiting in the palace gardens. Major Dornelles sat beside the driver in the car carrying the president and his wife, Dona Darcy.
Gregório gave instructions to the special police escorts, then gestured to Dornelles that the motorcade could get under way. His car, occupied by three other members of the personal guard, was immediately behind the president’s. Preceded by the motorcycles of the escorts in their red berets, the entourage left through the palace gates onto Rua do Catete, heading for the hippodrome in Gávea.
As Gregório feared, the president was booed when the announcer at the Jockey Club, on the loudspeakers, made his arrival known. The president pretended not to hear the jeers coming from the special stands. From the regular seats came no applause, no support. So that’s how the people treat Mr. Getúlio? thought Gregório. After all the sacrifices he’s made and goes on making for the poor and humble?
During the wine reception hosted by the Jockey Club’s board of directors after the race, the Black Angel, his expression grim, posted himself behind the president, caressing under his coat the dagger in his belt.
MATTOS LIVED ON THE EIGHTH FLOOR of a building on Marquês de Abrantes, in the Flamengo district. A small apartment with a bedroom and living room, bathroom and kitchen, in the rear. The bathroom was its best feature, spacious with an enormous old tub whose metal feet mimicked the paws of an animal. The living room accommodated only a table and two chairs, a bookcase crammed with books, and a console containing a phonograph and partitions for records. On the console was an album of 78-rpm records, with La Traviata, another with La Bohème in long-play, and the scores of both operas in Italian. The bedroom was also tiny, with a sofa bed and a small table with a reading lamp.
The apartment was hot and stuffy that day, despite it being August. The bedroom window looked out over a small interior courtyard. The neighbor across the way was arguing with his wife. Mattos could see and hear the couple gesticulating and shouting. He closed the window, turning on the light and the radio, took off his coat and tie, placed his revolver on the table, opened the sofa bed and, still wearing pants and shoes, lay down. He was used to sleeping dressed.
He woke up to the ringing of the telephone. The announcer on the radio was saying, “The President of the Republic, Mr. Getúlio Vargas, has just arrived at the Gávea Hippodrome.” Mattos answered the phone.
“You want to see me today?”
It was Salete. He felt a brief surge of desire, which quickly passed. This wasn’t a good day. Besides everything else, his stomach was acting up.
“I’m tired.”
“You’re not thinking about me?”
“No, I’m not thinking about
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