Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, No. 5. Whole No. 855, November 2012

Beauty by Rubem Fonseca

EQMM has published several short stories by Rubem Fonseca over the years. As we have noted on past occasions, the author is one of Brazil’s best-known literary figures, a writer whose work is considered groundbreaking for its gritty and realistic depiction of life in the cities of his native country. What we have not mentioned before is that the author was once a policeman in Rio de Janeiro, where he rose to the rank of police commissioner.

Translated from the Portuguese by Clifford E. Landers

Then Elza told me: “When I see myself in the mirror I feel like dying. I look at photographs of when I was twenty, you remember me when I was twenty, don’t you? And I think, how did this happen? I forget that, like someone said, time is the worst poison of all. I should have died when I was twenty, it doesn’t matter how, run over, murdered, a brick falling on my head. If I’d known I was going to end up like this, look at me, just look at me, go ahead and look at me, if I’d known I was going to end up like this, I would’ve killed myself. But would it do any good? Do you believe in the soul?”

“Soul?”

“Anima, in Latin. In theology, the incorporeal, nonmaterial, invisible substance created by God in his image; the source and engine of every human act.”

“Of course.”

“And the soul also ages, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know. If there’s life after death, it’s a noncorporeal existence...”

“I read in a book by a philosopher that the soul ages too.”

“Ages?”

“Yes. But I don’t know what he meant by that. When I saw myself in the mirror I thought, When I die is my soul going to have this decadent, horrible look?”

“If the soul has a noncorporeal existence—” I began to say, but Elza interrupted, crying convulsively, saying between sobs, “I should have killed myself when I was twenty, when I was twenty...”

I remembered her at twenty. A beautiful woman. Now, sitting with me at the bar, was an ugly, fat woman, aged and depressed. Yes, Elza should have killed herself, or else someone should have had the kindness to do it for her, an unequaled gesture of generosity and nobility.

I went home and got two slices of moldy bread from the refrigerator and placed them in a small toaster oven, planning to make a sandwich. But then I realized I didn’t have anything to put between the slices of toast. Go out and buy something at the corner supermarket? I didn’t feel like eating; those slices of toasted bread were enough. I wanted to think. A human being’s beauty is a joy that’s short-lived; its enchantment and quality don’t increase, they disappear. Elza was right: For a woman as beautiful as she was at twenty, old age is worse than death.

Elza is my patient. I’m a doctor, a general practitioner. Before getting my medical degree I studied chemistry, but I changed majors a year before graduating. I wanted a profession in which I could help people, so I chose medicine. If patients call me late at night to complain about a problem, I respond completely willingly and if necessary go to their home. But for a long time now I’ve been contemplating a gesture of generosity, a truly transcendental kindness, something sublime never before achieved. I lie awake nights thinking about it. I needed to show my generosity in a different way, not merely by attending to people who can’t pay for the consultation, or by giving alms, but by something quite different... uniquely sublime.

I live alone and when I leave the office I go straight home. For dinner I have some soup that the maid leaves for me. I like being alone; by the time I arrive, the maid has already been gone for a long time, and when I leave early for the office she hasn’t gotten in yet. I can’t even recall what she looks like, don’t know if she’s white, black, or biracial, or Chinese, or a dwarf. I do know I pay her a good salary and make no demands.

Now I’m at home, thinking. What if Elza is right and the soul also ages? It’s better to die young. I remembered my nieces. They’re three very pretty young women. Lisete, eighteen years old. Norma, the same age, and Sabrina, nineteen. It would be better for them to die while they’re still beautiful. And I could help them. Yes, I could.

I thought about what poison to use. I’m not going to use guns or knives, poison is the best option. I first thought about strychnine, a very quickly absorbed drug. As soon as it enters the bloodstream, strychnine immediately affects the central nervous system. The problem is that it causes convulsions, spasms, and the facial distortion known as risus sardonicus. Cyanide? Cyanide blocks the blood’s oxygenation ability, paralyzing the respiratory center in the brain and provoking a rapid loss of consciousness. The problem is that cyanide also causes convulsions and unpleasant symptoms like dilation of the pupils. So I also ruled out cyanide. Poisoning by bacteria? But it would have to be typhoid, anthrax, diphtheria, the difficulty of which would be the inoculation. I know there was a murderer who used bacteria in a nasal spray, but the victim was his wife. It’s easy to get the woman we live with to use a nasal spray. Bacteria were also ruled out. Arsenic? How was it I only now thought of a poison known since antiquity, much used in Imperial Rome, the poison the Borgias used in the Renaissance? The problem is that it produces vomiting and diarrhea in the victim, something quite unseemly. So I ruled out arsenic. Aconite? Aconite is a vegetable alkaloid obtained from the root and purple leaves of the aconitum, a genre of poisonous plants of the ranunculus family, found in temperate regions. Aconite can be introduced through the skin and is highly toxic. It causes nausea and vomiting, another poison with unpleasant side effects.

How is it I know about so many poisons? Don’t forget, I studied chemistry and I practice medicine.

There’s nothing better for killing a person than a strong dose of some narcotic. But how to administer it?

Then I remembered ricin, a toxic alkaloid extracted from the seeds and leaves of the castor oil bean. In the right dose, a needle prick with a small portion of the substance is enough for the victim to present symptoms of a cold the following day and quickly succumb. But I needed a good lab with a high-temperature oven, as well as a specialist, a chemist with knowledge of advanced technology.

I had such a person, a friend of mine by the name of Gustavo. Perhaps the most sophisticated chemist in the country. I looked him up and told him what I needed.

“But it’s illegal to manufacture that substance,” Gustavo said. “I could go to jail, or lose my license.”

“I’ll pay anything you want.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“An experiment,” I said. “Afterwards, when you give me the material, I’ll tell you everything.”

Gustavo took a month to prepare the ricin.

It was a weekend when I arrived at his laboratory. Luck was on my side.

The first thing Gustavo told me was how much money he wanted. An absurd sum. I gave him a check for that amount.

“Here it is,” he told me, handing me a box inside which were small ampoules and a hypodermic needle. “One light scratch from the needle and the person will die within twenty-four hours. And no one will ever discover the cause.”

I took the needle, inserted it into one of the ampoules and, when Gustavo was distracted, stuck his arm with it. He was startled. I pulled from my pocket the .45 I’d brought with me and hit him over the head, hard, causing him to lose consciousness. Then I tied and gagged him with duct tape. I took my check and Gustavo’s wallet, along with a few objects, so that when his helpers showed up on Monday they would suspect robbery.

I returned home radiant. I was going to be able to exercise generosity in its sublime fullness, which would make me into a different person.

The papers carried news of Gustavo’s death, saying that he had been robbed. The coroner said he had probably died of heart failure after being tied and gagged with duct table.

Lisete came to my office. She’s extremely careful about her health and has periodic, unnecessary examinations. I think she’s a bit of a hypochondriac.

I imagine her aged, a wrinkled, ugly old woman, senile. Every woman nowadays is going to live long years until turning into a repugnant dotard. I couldn’t allow that to happen. Without her noticing, that’s how light the needle prick was, I inoculated her with ricin.

“You’re in excellent health, Lisete. You don’t need any kind of examination.”

“Not even a blood test?” she asked.

“Not even a blood test. You can go home with your mind at ease.”

The next day, in the morning, they called to say that Lisete had passed away in her sleep.

“But she was here yesterday. Her health was perfect,” I said, concealing my exaltation. “I’m going to stop by her house.”

I hung up the phone. My delight, my joy, my happiness at having done good was so great that I began to cry. But I quickly regained my composure. I had to plan my actions very carefully. Norma would have to be benefitted later; two of my nieces dying mysteriously could create suspicion. I would have to choose the places where I would act. And also choose other beautiful young women. There are so many, the poor things.

I had to plan, plan, plan. Doing good is harder and more laborious than doing evil.

Copyright © 2012 by Rubem Fonseca; translation Copyright © 2012 by Clifford E. Landers