Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 835 & 836, March/April 2011

Fly Me to the Moon by Patricia Melo

Brazilian writer Patricia Melo is the author of eight novels, five of which have appeared in English translation. The Killer, a bestseller in Brazil, was made into the 2003 film The Man of the Year, directed by José Henrique Fonseca. In 1999, Time magazine listed Ms. Melo as one of the fifty Latin American leaders of the new millennium. Her novels have also been translated into German, Italian, Spanish, Dutch, Greek, Finnish, and Chinese. This is her first work of short fiction published in English.

Translated from the Portuguese by Clifford E. Landers

A malfunction of the neurotransmitter system, that’s basically what it is,” he told me. I didn’t understand but I felt relieved. I avoided doctors. I thought the countdown was already under way. The inexorable one. The inevitable one. Death, in a word. I was sure the problem was with my heart, that I would suddenly be turned off. He explained it to me as if I were an imbecile, stressing syllables: PsychoLOGical disORDer, VIRTually incaPACitating, what we call an anxIETY atTACK. “Is it fatal?” I asked. He said no. He was going to prescribe an antidepressant and psychotherapy. Medicine maybe, but psychobabble never. Anxiety attack. That was a crock of crap.

I was burned out. I’d long since lost interest in work. I went into the Department of Criminal Investigation building; the line for the elevator was huge. I walked up six flights; in the hall I ran into Rubinho with a three-by-four photo of the Lapa rapist and the artist’s impression he’d done two months before: “Looks just like him, doesn’t it?” I didn’t answer. I was irritated, had a bad headache. The doctor said it’d be like this in the period between crises. It was normal. Anxiety attacks. How could anybody believe that story? Really, I preferred leukemia.

I went into my office. An envelope was on the desk, with a note attached to it: “Take a look at this. Paulo.” It’s nice to be the boss: Take a look at this and get rid of the problem for me. I opened the envelope. Some photos, a couple of newspaper clippings.

“Teacher found dead in bathtub,” said the headline of the first article. “Lucia Basconte, 32, drowned in a bathtub at the Hotel Miranda where she was spending her honeymoon.” Accidental drowning. Photos. Lucia Basconte in the tub. Dead. How did they manage to get so many photos? Lucia Basconte at the beach, hands on hips. Lucia Basconte at a school party, long hair, children. Lucia Basconte in a passport shot. I’m quick in the emotional area, Lucia Basconte. I locked onto you. Like that. Immediately. I know just from seeing the photos. I could have loved you. I could have married you. We’d have dinner together tonight. Not tonight, tomorrow. I have a shift tonight.

It’s funny what a calling women have for unhappiness. Soraya, for example. She can’t bring herself to admit that I’m a piece of crap. I do everything wrong, cheat on her, lie to her, treat her badly, ignore her — and she loves me. If you had married me, Lucia Basconte, that wouldn’t have happened.

I brushed against the coffee cup and wet the second clipping. Damn. I could still read it. It was from a paper in Rio. “Honeymoon ends in tragedy,” said the headline. The story was exactly the same. Newlywed drowns in bathtub at honeymoon hotel while her husband is out. Rigorously identical details. Only the name changed. Victim: Eleonora Mendes Brandao. Husband: Nelson Brandao.

Lucia Basconte, I’ve been lead detective in the Homicide division for fifteen years and I’m going to tell you something: You and Eleonora died of blind love. You were killed by the same man. Starting today, he and I are playing chess.

“No, Soraya, I’m on duty tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I put a photo of Lucia Basconte in my pocket, called Tonho and asked for a car. We’re on our way to investigate at the Hotel Miranda, near the Copan Cinema, where you died, Lucia Basconte; the place where your killer was. I’m tired of being a detective, love. Promotion parties. Confiscated-weapons exhibits. Homicide killed my faith. I’ve had these people up to my eyebrows. I was even going to take some time off. Good thing you came along.

The woman who owns the Hotel Miranda thinks she’s a blonde, with that Barbie hairdo of hers. I feel sorry for women who age like that. We went up to the place where you were murdered, Lucia Basconte. It was murder, of course. Nobody could drown in a teacup like that, Lucia Basconte! “I have a fabulous memory. She did nothing but cry, the poor thing. That was no honeymoon. It was martyrdom. The two of them fought a lot, and one of the times it was because of the bathtub. Not that I was eavesdropping. I don’t do that kind of thing. But he yelled, that man. That murderer. That monster. That criminal. You can imagine how I felt when I opened the newspaper and saw the poor woman had drowned. A horrible thing. I clearly remember his face. Bald, a real unattractive guy. I’d recognize him if I saw him.”

It was only noon and I’d already had half a dozen cups of espresso with sweetener. Soraya had called again, I don’t know for what. She knew I was on duty. The report on Lucia Basconte was already on my desk. I read and reread the death certificate five hundred times — natural death, they said. I phoned the pathologist who did the autopsy. He told me, love. He told me there were no marks on the body, no lesions, no hematomas, no sign of a struggle, nothing of that sort, Lucia Basconte. Very strange. So how did he kill you, love?

“Hamilton on line one.”

“Tonho told me about the Lucia Basconte case,” he said.

“And?”

“And it made me think of the story my crazy sister-in-law told me some time ago. She runs a small hotel in Mooca. A guy shows up there one day wanting to rent a room. He doesn’t ask about the price, whether it had a minibar, air conditioning, nothing, he just wants to see the bathtub. She shows him. Then the guy climbs into the tub, clothes and all. My sister-in-law thought he was nuts and didn’t rent him the room. Whaddya make of it?”

Eight a.m., I was going home. I began feeling pains in my chest. Panic syndrome, whatever; it was a heart attack, I was going to die. I got out of the car and asked to be taken to the emergency room, fast. Sweating. Our Father, etc. Hail Mary, etc. Tremors. God. I only believe in God when I think I’m about to die. I only believe in God when I get onto an airplane. God, I’m dying. Ten, God, nine, eight, seven, six. Emergency room. Zero. It was over. Nothing. Zero. No trace of the crisis. Zero. I didn’t look at the doctor; I had screamed at the nurses who took care of me.

“I think it’d be advisable for you to see a therapist. The attack is just that, a sensation of imminent death.” I thanked him and left the hospital, devastated. Lucia Basconte, don’t summon me again. I don’t want it.

I opened the door and saw Soraya asleep on the sofa. She always manages to get in, she must have some deal with the doorman. I lay down beside her. We intertwined and had sex for over an hour. She lit a cigarette and took a book from her handbag. Soraya is a college student, twenty-four years old. She read:

She thought of herself as B and of me as A. I buried my face in her hair and went to sleep. Lucia Basconte, with you it would be different, I feel it.

I woke up ten hours later. Soraya was crying beside me. Every time I see that scene I remember Meryl Streep, the worst actress I’ve ever seen. All crying women are alike. Meryl Streep. Soraya showed me the photo of Lucia Basconte that she’d found in my pocket. “Who is this woman?”

“My lover,” I confessed. “Soraya, I always wanted to spare you, but now that you’ve found out, screw it.”

She slammed the door. I heard Meryl Streep crying in the hallway, waiting for the elevator to come. Do you remember, Lucia Basconte, what I told you about women?

Later, at Homicide, I received a phone call from one Mauricio Fraga.

“I work in the legal department of Delta Insurance,” he said, “and I learned that you’re investigating the death of Lucia Basconte.”

There are just two kinds of murder: the interesting and the contemptible. My opponent was involved in both, Lucia Basconte. His execution was flawless, but his trail smelled to high heaven. A huge insurance policy taken out only hours before your death, love. Lucia Basconte, a woman in love is a stack of foolishness. You. Eleonora. Soraya. Three fools.

I should have done it earlier, but overcoming inertia was something beyond my strength. I called Renato, the great Renato, chief of the 2nd Precinct in Rio, where the inquiry into the death of Eleonora Mendes Brandao began. I asked for information about the case.

I can’t swim in the ocean. I can’t travel in planes. I can’t go on boats. Or hang gliders, jet skis, or shantytown raids. Fights, amorous arguments, crowded elevators. All forbidden. Stress triggers the attack. It occasions discharges of adrenaline in the body. The certainty of death is a great illusion. You’re condemned, but at the moment of execution it does no good. There are no warnings like with epilepsy, the auras that announce an attack. In the bathroom, at the lunch stand, crossing the street. Suddenly you realize the abyss that’s opening beneath your feet. No one’s sure, but the affected region of the brain may be the locus coeruleus. That’s why the increasing doses of Anafranil. I’m one of the two percent of the population with panic syndrome. “Why?” “No one knows,” the doctor said. Doctors are the most ignorant people I’ve ever met. Panic syndrome. Because of it, I was avoiding being by myself. It’s horrible when even an Uzi can’t protect us. I phoned and left a message on the answering machine: “Soraya, even killers have the right to lie.”

On Friday, as I was leaving, the report arrived from Rio. I bought pizza, Coca-Cola, and cigarettes and went home. It was going to be an awful weekend.

I opened the stack of papers (I thought of you, Soraya). Six years ago, Nelson Brandao arrived at the Hotel Calamar in Copacabana. He had recently married Eleonora Mendes, 30. The husband insisted on a suite with a bathtub. A large bathtub. (The phone rang. I answered and they hung up. It was Soraya, I’m sure of it. A good sign.) The next day, the couple left to visit the Christ statue on Corcovado. Christ the Redeemer. They returned at the end of the afternoon. Eleonora went to take a bath. In the tub. A good tub. (Was Soraya going to call again? 9:15.) The husband went out briefly to buy aspirin. When he got back, he found his wife dead in the bathtub, the cunning bastard. (Soraya, stealing my thoughts away to her hot triangle.) He didn’t say anything else, nor was he asked. Read, recorded, and signed by the constituted authority, my great old friend in Rio, Renato, who loves Sao Paulo only because of Dada, that luscious dark-skinned beauty who engages in explicit sex at a nightclub there.

Eleonora wasn’t beautiful like you, Lucia Basconte. She had blue eyes. She was a secretary. She met her husband at a pizzeria, on a Sunday. One day before the wedding, Eleonora, like you, Lucia Basconte, took out a life insurance policy, and guess who was the sole beneficiary?

When I was almost asleep, Tonho called.

“I’ve got the guy’s rap sheet in my hand,” he said. “His name’s not Ernesto or Nelson. It’s Gilberto Santos. Seems the son of a bitch’s business is to dupe ugly women. He specialized in it. There’s three more in line, just small stuff.”

“Any witnesses?”

“That’s the problem. None.”

Monday, the Department of Criminal Investigations. I arrived dying for some coffee. It’s incredible, but there’s no bar near the Department that sells espresso. There wasn’t a line for the elevator. The door closed and I was surrounded by detectives, poor people, murderers, lawyers, mothers, brothers, damn, I want out. I began to sweat. Lucia Basconte wants to see me immediately. I don’t want to die. I want beaches. I want to leave Homicide. I want to sleep. I want money. I want gentle people. I want nice smells. I want to visit my mother. I want the sea. I want sex. I want vodka. I want God. I was learning to control myself. I didn’t faint, it just got darker. When I opened my eyes, I saw Tonho fanning me. “They’re saying you’re pregnant, sir.” I called my doctor: “Did you go see that psychotherapist I recommended to you?”

I got an audience with Judge Edevaldo Fontoura. I spoke of the double identity of the husband, Ernesto Basconte and Nelson Brandao. Lucia Basconte, you don’t know how good it feels when you get a bench warrant for the arrest of a homicide suspect.

I always say my profession is to play chess with murderers. The trap was ready, Lucia Basconte. Now I’m going to tell you about my encounter with your ex-husband, at the Delta Insurance Company office door.

“Homicide Division. You’re under arrest. Checkmate.”

He looked at me as if he were better than me. Please explain to me, Lucia Basconte, why the best women always end up with the scum? Did you love that traitor? How did you marry that guy?

Lucia Basconte, your husband is in jail. My time is short: I have just five days to prove he’s the killer. Five days. After that, he walks. That’s the way our justice system works.

The next step was Lucia Basconte’s exhumation. I thought about Gregorio, the forensic expert and professor who left the university and the morgue for a private forensic investigation lab. We had worked together in the days when he was poor. Now he only did autopsies on the beautiful people and is constantly in the crime pages. A respected guy, even if he’s a bit too much the celebrity type for my taste, always giving interviews with his hair in a ponytail, but let it go. I gave him a call. “I don’t have a penny. It’s for old times’ sake.” It’s been said that the rich have no past, they have selective memory. But he remembered. He agreed at once. Philanthropy in the police moves me deeply.

We set up a meeting. As I was leaving, Soraya called. “I want to return your records. And your books too.”

“I love you,” I said. Silence, a long silence.

“What about Lucia Basconte?” Soraya took on a childish tone when she felt she could dominate me.

“We ended it.” She remained silent at the other end. She was happy, I could tell.

When the lid of the coffin was raised, I felt a chill in my belly. You were still beautiful, Lucia Basconte.

Gregorio found no sign of violence on your body, love. I believed it was poisoning. Twelve cases in the last three months. The crazy woman who turned in her husband. Acqua Toffana. Poor woman, she was right. That’s how the police are, they know somebody’s going to be killed and they sit on their hands. There’s nothing we can do. Nobody can do anything for anyone, ever. Gregorio, the humanist. I don’t like the guy.

Results of the exhumation:

You didn’t have a heart condition.

You’re beautiful.

You didn’t faint in the bathtub.

You weren’t poisoned.

Your skin was all wrinkly (an indication of death by drowning).

You’re beautiful.

You married the wrong guy.

You’re beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

You’re the woman of my dreams.

Gregorio and I left there and went to the Department. “The drowning is a fact,” he said. “Except, my friend, that nobody drowns in a puddle.”

We found Soraya in my office, tiny miniskirt, firm legs, long hair, young. Gregorio liked her, I could tell. She also liked the playboy. Screw them both.

I asked Tonho to make a full-scale replica of the deadly bathtub in the Hotel Miranda and send it to Gregorio’s lab in Jaboticabal. That son of a bitch womanizer wanted to run some experiments.

I descended six flights of stairs mute, with Soraya trying to catch up to me. “What’s with you, man?” I didn’t open my mouth on the way down. Soraya, at my side, was talking nonstop. At home, I ordered a pizza. Soraya was gorgeous, shaved legs. She sat on top of the table. We had sex there, almost fully clothed. She wanted to know why I was so quiet. “Soraya, Lucia Basconte called me and we’re getting back together. I had to tell you that.” She slapped my face and left. We were even. That’s how it is with me.

I took off my clothes and was getting into the shower when I felt a wave of heat. I nearly pissed my pants. My legs were tingling. Shortness of breath. Lucia Basconte wants to make a date. Not today. There’s not enough air, Lucia Basconte. I promise I’ll see the psychotherapist. I promise I’ll pay my bookie. I promise to spend more time with my son. I promise to treat Soraya better, Lucia Basconte. I promise to stop. I promise anything. I hit my head on the bidet. When I opened my eyes, I saw Soraya. She said she had come back to kill me. A dog, that’s what she called me, a real dog, but even so, she loved me. I wanted to sleep, to vomit, go away, Soraya. “I’m not going to let you vomit in peace,” she said, “do you really want to be my boyfriend?”

I’ve always been afraid of cancer, of cirrhosis. Now I was afraid of a hypercrisis. Psychotherapeutic techniques. All that’s missing is those color tests. I dialed the number my doctor had given me. “Psychological Clinic, good morning.” I hung up.

There are 3,583 investigations going on, Lucia Basconte, and I can think of nothing but you. Your photo is still in my pocket. Soraya will get used to it.

Gregorio phoned me with the latest. (Could he have called Soraya?) He hired some starving university coeds to do tests in the killer bathtub and confirmed that without violence it was impossible to drown them. (How did he get Soraya’s phone number?)

Lapa Cemetery. We were impressed by the good condition of Eleonora Mendes Brandao’s body. The exhumation was only possible because she’d been embalmed. Gregorio, insufferably professorial, explained, “Whenever a corpse is transported from one city to another, we do that. It slows down decomposition.” Know-it-all. Two-bit media-friendly playboy. Screw you.

The results of the exhumation led us nowhere.

Eleonora had died by drowning just like Lucia Basconte. Drowned in a water puddle. We still didn’t have a shred of evidence against the bastard. That was the truth.

Gregorio gave me a ride. Silently, I mulled over the same question: How is it possible to drown someone in a tub without leaving a trace?

I arrived home, took off my shirt, and collapsed onto the bed. Soraya didn’t call. No one called. I fell asleep thinking how good it would be if you were here, Lucia Basconte.

The phone rang. Soraya checking up on me?

“Jaboticabal? Jesus, Gregorio, now, at this hour?”

At four-thirty I was arriving in Jaboticabal. Gregorio is married and has seven kids. I’m going to mention that to Soraya. I’d like to see her a newlywed taking care of all seven. We went into a room packed with books and glass. In the middle was a bathtub filled with water and three inflatable dolls.

“Take off your clothes and get in,” said Gregorio, pointing to the tub. “Why?” I asked. He was grandstanding, which irritated me. I hate people who grandstand. My situation was ridiculous. There I was, in undershorts and T-shirt, in a pathologist’s lab, getting into a bathtub. (I can’t believe you’re seeing this guy, Soraya.)

“I think I’ve discovered how Lucia Basconte and Eleonora Brandao were murdered. Put your feet here, please.” I obeyed, more irritated than ever. “They were found with their feet outside the tub, you know why?” I had no answer. Gregorio held my feet. “You don’t know, but I do. See, the killer stood here, near the feet of the women, and like a Don Juan—” I felt water rushing into my nose.

I awoke dizzy, my head throbbing. (I’m sure of it, Soraya wasn’t screwing this guy.) He was a doctor, he’d probably heard of the panic syndrome. I was going to tell him. I have panic syndrome, whatever the hell that is. I was just about to spit out the first word, when he delivered the gold. “When I pulled on your feet, the water went up your nose suddenly and provoked a collapse in your nervous system. You fainted. If I had let you, you’ve have drowned in the tub, and no one would find a single sign of violence. The murderer did to Lucia Basconte and Eleonora Brandao exactly what I did to you,” Gregorio explained.

I now know what your final moment was like, Lucia Basconte. That bald clown yanking with all his might on your feet. You deserved better, love.

I lit a cigarette. I was tired, it was six a.m. Gregorio lent me some dry clothes. I could smell Soraya on the shirt. There was no mistaking it. Fake Azzarro Number 9. It was my Christmas present. I started the car:

“Why didn’t you do that with the coeds?”

“Do what?”

“Pull their feet.”

“I didn’t get the idea till this morning. They weren’t here.”

We laughed. You son of a bitch. I’ve got my eye on you.

I’m going away, Lucia Basconte. Try to forget me, love.

Copyright © 2011 by Patricia Melo; translation ©2011 by Clifford E. Landers