Rio Noir

The Hanged Man by Adriana Lisboa

Largo do Machado

Nowadays I almost never come to Largo do Machado. The gymnastics equipment I see when I leave the subway, for example, I’m not familiar with, and I think it was put here in the square some years back. I remember having read something about it in the paper. Today, under the fine, cold rain, it appears no one is motivated to exercise. The concrete tables where I used to see old men playing checkers and cards are also unoccupied. The pigeons look for shelter wherever they can. There in the distance, haughty and sad, the church watches.

The traffic moves around the square, a sluggish flow of buses and cars, but the square itself seems strangely uninhabited beyond the irregular stream of people entering or leaving the subway station, their umbrellas challenging one another.

I miss the gypsies. In the period when I lived here they used to hang out in the square offering to read your palm or divine your future in their cards. At the time, they irritated me. Today I feel they would provide me a certain comfort, as proof that my past didn’t totally unravel.

I very rarely come by here. Currently we live in Recreio and our life is there, my work and my wife’s, the children’s school. Before that, there was the long stay in Belo Horizonte. But in the 1980s I lived near here in a two-room apartment on Rua Bento Lisboa. Those weren’t easy times, and I was right to take the job in Belo Horizonte.

I think about going by my old building to see what has changed in the decades since — in this city some things have begun changing with such treacherous speed that I sometimes can’t keep up with it. But I don’t, because of the rain. Distracted, I step in a puddle, soaking my foot. Shit.

Remembering the gypsies takes me back to my girlfriend in those days, Simone, who was interested in tarot. I always considered that kind of thing utter foolishness, but even so there was a homey comfort in seeing her take out the deck from its old box, shuffle the cards, place some on the table — turning them this way and that. There were some curious images. From time to time she would raise her eyes from the cards and observe me obliquely. But whatever the cards told her about me, it was without my approval.

Simone claimed to have gypsy ancestors. I don’t know if she actually did. She was a bit crazy, to tell the truth. “Ask your cousins to stop bothering people in Largo do Machado,” I once told my alleged gypsy.

“They’re not my cousins,” she replied.

Ours was an unhappy story. We didn’t part on good terms. I take my share of responsibility, but Simone was excessively dramatic. Everything was serious, everything was yes or no, black or white, she recognized no in-between. I learned, years later, of her death in an automobile accident. It apparently happened shortly after our breakup. She was so young. I don’t usually revisit that topic, it pains me, but returning to Largo do Machado (we used to go to the Portuguese wine cellar, and we would have sfihas and tabouli at the Arab’s in the Condor Gallery; sometimes Simone would buy Indian skirts at the Meu Cantinho boutique) knots something in my heart.

The rain gets heavier. My wet sock bothers me. I wait until I make it to the building where I have to take the documents. I could handle the matter of the documents another way, but I’m up for promotion at the end of the year and until then have to suck up to the boss. I sit on a bench in the reception area, take off the shoe and sock, wring out the sock, and put it back on. My foot is still wet, but at least now it doesn’t sink into a puddle of water with each step. The building’s doorman watches me.

I spend more time with the client than I had planned. I know that now, in the late afternoon, especially with the rain, the subway will be hell. I decide to kill time around here, maybe get something to eat, have a beer. The idea of getting home later isn’t all bad. I can’t recall just when I became a slave to routine, but I swear it was involuntary. I think about how odd that is. How we become fossilized in the apathy of that production line. And still have to suck up to the boss.

I call my wife to say that I’ll be home a little late, that I decided to wait for rush hour to end because I’m in Largo do Machado and it’s raining, she knows how it is. They shouldn’t wait for me to have dinner.

I think about checking to see if anything worthwhile is playing at the São Luiz Cinema (when I lived here there was also a movie theater in the Condor gallery, which later became an evangelical church and today I have no idea what it is). I walk under the marquees of the buildings and pass a young boy handing out leaflets. I buy gold, or something similar, I imagine, but when I take one of the papers the coincidence surprises me: Tarot readings. Guidance in love, spiritual issues, answers to your most pressing concerns.

I smile. It looks as if the gypsies who used to wander around the square have also moved up in life and now some have their own private offices. I read the address, which is in the old Condor Gallery building, 29 Largo do Machado.

I stop at the entrance, in front of the gallery. What the hell, I’m not doing anything, isn’t one lie as good as another, whether it’s going to the movies or getting a tarot reading? And who knows, maybe it’s a way of paying homage, however belatedly, to Simone. Who was kind of crazy but wasn’t a bad person and didn’t deserve to have her life cut short so tragically. I decide to look for the place. I take the elevator to the fourth floor.

The door is opened by a beautiful, well-dressed young woman who in no way resembles the gypsies of two decades ago, and I automatically smooth my hair and adjust my collar. I explain that I’d like a reading, is she available?

“When?” she asks.

“Right now, if possible,” I reply. “I live pretty far away, in Recreio, but on the street here I saw a leaflet with your address and was interested.”

“I’m with a client at the moment,” she says.

“I can wait.”

It’s true, I can wait, but more than that, suddenly it has become strangely important for this beautiful girl to read whatever there is to be read about me in the tarot cards.

“It’s going to be awhile. Half an hour, forty minutes,” she says.

I look around. The waiting room is tiny and windowless, but there’s a pile of magazines in one corner, next to a candle and a vase with plastic flowers. An iron thing on the wall representing a sun and moon. A vague smell of incense.

“I’ll stay here and read a little, if you can see me next?”

Everything seems totally professional. The phrases: I’d like a reading. I’m with a client. If you can see me right away. I sit in the black faux-leather armchair, pick up a magazine, begin leafing through it. I see orderly stacks of business cards: other people offering alternative therapies there in the same small space. Every Wednesday night, transcendental meditation. Right, I didn’t imagine that tarot readings would pay the rent.

My reading lasts an hour. I sign a check and leave there transformed. I don’t remember much of anything that was said, except for the comments about a particularly interesting card, the Hanged Man (actually, a guy dangling upside down, tied by one of his feet). According to the card reader — Renata — the Hanged Man indicates a situation of personal sacrifice of something valuable: when I leave the building, words like destiny, initiation, indecision, and self-denial are still floating in my head, like moths around a lamppost. A well-conceived plan that remains only a theory, Renata also says. Loss and helplessness would be the negative aspects of the card. On the other hand, there’s also a very positive aspect, the possibility of changing one’s life, of interior peace.

I leave there dreaming of changing my life and interior peace. More than that, I leave there dreaming of Renata.

My wife and I have had our crises, some of them quite serious, but awhile ago we fashioned a modus vivendi without major disturbance, for the sake of the children. We’ve been married for twelve years, which is the number of the Hanged Man tarot card, I think, I who always found that sort of thing utter nonsense. But suddenly, while being jostled on the subway en route to the Cantagalo Station, I’m making plans to set up another reading with Renata, to return to Largo do Machado.

I’d left the car in my sister’s garage in Copacabana. I collect the car without going up to say goodbye to her. I put on music and think about Renata on the long journey from Cantagalo to the Avenue of the Americas. I’m still thinking about her when I turn onto my street, park the car in my spot in the garage, and take the elevator to my floor — still thinking about her when I open the door to the apartment.

At my second reading, two weeks later, I want to talk more about myself. I want Renata to know me. The first time, I was reticent, asked generic questions to which she gave generic answers. Now I want to pluck my soul out from under the skin and spread it out for Renata, take it, explain this, please — and you don’t need to return it afterward. As far as I’m concerned, she can spread my soul on the floor and walk on it if she wishes.

This reading takes almost two hours. The World card (challenge of seeing something that must be concluded) and the Tower (imminent moment when it will be necessary to knock down old structures) appear in meaningful positions. Renata’s hair is loose this time, long dark hair like that of the gypsy she is not. She is wearing large silver earrings and a T-shirt that outlines her pert, pretty breasts. She is more sexy this time, and I want to believe it’s not by chance.

At the end of the reading she asks me if I’d like another cup of tea, and obviously I accept, while still debating with myself whether I should invite her to get something to eat nearby. She brings the teapot with hot water and a small box with tea bags of various kinds. Then she brings a plate with raisins. I conclude it’s better to leave the invitation for the next reading, today would be hasty. In any case, we have time to chat a little.

“Well,” she says, sitting down and pushing her hair behind her ears, “how did you become interested in tarot?”

“Oh, it’s a long story,” I answer. “I had a girlfriend, many years ago, more than twenty years — almost thirty, actually — who liked tarot. She wasn’t a professional but liked to do it for herself, for her friends. I confess that I thought it sheer foolishness, I thought that in the readings the person heard what he wanted to hear. For example, if the card said, It’s necessary to knock down old structures, the person would always manage to frame it in the context of his own life — that’s what I thought.”

“But you don’t think that anymore?”

“You’ve changed my opinion about tarot,” I say excitedly. “When I was here the first time I was quite skeptical, but now I’m seeing things differently.”

“And why did you come the first time if you thought tarot was silly?”

“That old girlfriend of mine. We had a difficult relationship, at the end. Ugly fights, things I don’t miss at all. Later I found out she died in a car accident. She was still quite young.”

“Oh, that’s so sad, I’m sorry.”

The tarot reader’s almond eyes fall on mine. She seems so sweet.

I take a raisin from the plate, put it in my mouth, and chew. Sweet. The wedding ring on my left hand bothers me.

“It’s very rare for me to come to Largo do Machado,” I continue. “My life these days is all in Recreio and Barra, but that afternoon, two weeks ago, I happened to be here on business and started thinking about Simone, my ex-girlfriend. When a boy handed me your leaflet I thought I should come, as a kind of homage to her. I don’t know. It’s as if something made the decision for me.”

Renata gets up and goes to the window overlooking the square. “We never know the reason for certain decisions,” she says. “It’s as if they were made not by us but by some entity, something external.”

I rise and go over to her. “There’s something I have to tell you, Renata. Forgive me if it seems rather sudden. But I haven’t been able to get you off my mind since the first time I was here.”

She doesn’t turn to look at me. I see her in profile and the tension is obvious in her face. The situation isn’t easy, she knows I’m married, but I don’t want to come across as rash, just one more guy trying to get her into bed. (I imagine there must be many, and I don’t even know if she’s in a committed relationship. She probably is.) I’m genuinely interested in Renata, although beyond that nothing is clear to me.

I find myself thinking again about the Hanged Man, card number 12, thinking about fate, indecision, self-denial, sacrifice, the possibility of changing one’s life.

How pretty she is. I run my hand lightly over her hair, and she doesn’t move away. I’m about to kiss her, but then she goes back to the table and begins putting away the deck of cards.

“I’ve thought a lot about you too,” she says, her eyes averted. “But we have to give things time, everything’s happening too quickly. I think it’s best for you to leave now, and we’ll agree to meet again soon. There are so many things in my personal life that I have to resolve, so many things.”

“Will you call me? I’d love for you to call me,” I say.

I give her my cell phone number and, on my way down, float in the elevator like a young boy. I’m coming back for a reading as soon as possible. I’d come back tomorrow if I could. I’d come back in half an hour.

Self-denial, sacrifice, indecision. That night I make love to my wife thinking furiously about Renata. Rather, I don’t make love at all, I try to identify love in the act but after twelve years our love has become a digression. Marriage Inc., for the sake of the children. Exactly when is it that we sign on the dotted line? Or is it that we don’t necessarily sign, that the agreement is by default, one more decision something else makes for us?

My situation is the most common in the world, and I know it. I’m a man in his fifties who’s fed up with life and his family, dying to experience something different. But I ask myself, is it possible my wife is fed up too? She must be. Impossible for her not to be.

I think about the tarot cards again when I awaken — imminent moment when it will be necessary to knock down old structures, said the Tower card. It all makes sense. I need to see Renata right away.

Three days later she calls me in the afternoon and asks if I have a minute. I close the door to my office.

“Of course, we can talk.”

“I’ve been thinking about the two of us. I think we need to see each other again,” she says.

I imagine Renata in my arms. I want to get to know her, find out everything about her, but we can begin like that, with her in my arms. I remember the T-shirt clinging to her body. I think about my hands touching her breasts, lingering there. Over the shirt, under the shirt, and the rest, calmly. I imagine the cloth grazing her nipples. Afterward we can decide what comes next.

“Can you come next week?” she asks.

“Of course,” I answer. “Of course I can.”

“On Tuesday I have clients until seven. Come right after that, we’ll have time. Is that possible?”

I make up an excuse at home and arrive at Largo do Machado almost an hour early on the appointed day. It’s hard to calculate the time it takes to travel around Rio de Janeiro, even more so when you have to cross the entire city. And I can’t afford to be late.

Unlike my last two visits, today’s weather is good. Largo do Machado is back to normal. The game tables are all occupied, a dozen people take turns on the exercise equipment, others sit on the edge of the dry fountain. Hordes of pigeons on the Portuguese mosaic stones. I don’t remember who once told me that the name Largo do Machado came from a butcher shop with a large ax, or machado, on its façade that used to be there, at the beginning of the nineteenth century. I remember that a street kid once assaulted Simone with a piece of broken glass as she was leaving the ATM beside the supermarket.

I kill time by walking around the square, think once again about visiting my old building only to once again decide against doing so: my past holds no appeal. Especially today. I prefer to stop for a few moments and watch a young man play the saxophone. You didn’t see that when I lived here. Largo do Machado is much more together than in my time, even with the beggar sleeping by the fountain. In certain parts of Rio you’re used to beggars sleeping in the street, and what can you do? I buy flowers for Renata at one of the kiosks.

I wait until a bit past seven and go up.

“How good that you came,” she says when she opens the door.

“It was great that you called,” I answer.

I hand her the flowers and embrace her, smell her perfume, but I know I have to proceed slowly. I sense that it must be that way with Renata.

Today there’s no tarot deck between us. By now, however, I have begun to think of the cards as accomplices. I’m ready to change my life. I could be an adolescent with a backpack, clutching a one-way ticket to somewhere.

Renata offers me the usual tea, bringing the teapot with hot water and the small box with tea bags for me to select. We sit at the table, the tarot silent in its packaging — the deck is wrapped in a silk cloth inside a wooden box, just like before.

I put my hand on Renata’s. She doesn’t draw away. She begins talking about her life, her gentle voice in harmony with her gentle eyes. She speaks of her work, then finally of her heart. She has someone, as I imagined, a boyfriend, of some years, but things aren’t going well between them. From the moment I came in for the initial reading, she says, she felt a special connection between us.

“But I was involved with a married man before and suffered greatly,” she warns.

Let’s go to bed first and then think about the rest, I feel like suggesting. We’re in Rio de Janeiro in the twenty-first century, we need to test-drive relationships before thinking about anything else, don’t we? Instead, I say I’ve been married for twelve years and it’s not a happy marriage. There’s almost no sex between me and my wife anymore. So often, people stay together only because of the children, I add. I feel like an idiot saying this, but she nods in agreement.

“It was like that with the other man I was involved with. I liked him a lot. Except that in the end he wanted to stay married. Most of them do.”

Another classic story, I think. I decide I’m going to rid myself of the classics once and for all, and it’s going to be now.

“I have to be very careful with men,” Renata says in a slightly more confrontational tone.

I smile. What an adorable girl. “No need to be careful with me,” I say.

“You’re married. It’s the same story.”

“Marriage isn’t forever. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?”

“Tell me about your wife.”

“I would rather talk about you.”

“No, no, tell me about her. What she does in life, for example.”

“She’s a beautician. She has a small salon in Recreio.”

“She must be pretty. Beauticians know how to take care of themselves.”

“She’s not ugly, but in any case that’s not important.”

“I think I’m very naïve around men,” she says. “I get involved too quickly and end up disappointed just as quickly.”

“But you can trust me. It’s different. I’m truly interested in you, I’m not like that other guy.”

She smiles and covers our hands with her other hand. I pat it. I caress her wrist. I feel her bones, the texture of her delicate skin.

“My mother,” she says. “My mother was also naïve with men. With you, for example, she was an idiot.”

I jolt back at that odd statement.

“She died because of you,” Renata says. “But you didn’t know, of course. She was pregnant when you disappeared.”

“Your mother was pregnant?”

“Yes, my mother, Simone, who liked to do tarot readings — isn’t that what you told me? Who died in a car accident many years ago.”

I take my hand away quickly. Suddenly, everything is wrong. A well-conceived plan that remains a theory. “I don’t know if I understand.”

“No? I’ll explain,” she says. “My mother was pregnant when you went away without even leaving a phone number.”

“Our relationship was on the rocks, I wasn’t—”

“But that’s not something you do. You knew she might be pregnant.”

Renata opens the tarot box, unwraps the deck, then carefully folds the purple silk cloth. She shuffles the cards, takes one out, and places it on the table.

“The Fool,” she says. “The card with no number.”

“If she was pregnant like you say, was she pregnant... with you?”

“She died in a car accident, that’s what they say. The truth is she crashed on purpose. Because of you. And she died, but I didn’t. She was pregnant when she had the accident. The accident she caused to kill us both. Exactly twenty-eight years ago.”

There’s nowhere for me to look, so I stare at the card of the Fool on the table.

“I was raised by my aunt, who tried every way possible to get in contact with you, unsuccessfully. You had disappeared.”

“Simone was a very complicated person. I had tried to break up with her before, and it was always a drama, she would show up at my building, stalk me, and—”

“You knew she might be pregnant.”

I remain silent. Words have fled in disarray. What Renata says is true: Simone’s sister did call me once, as soon as she and I separated. She said Simone might be pregnant. The test still had to be done, but it was possible. At that moment, in desperation, I considered sticking with Simone for good. A child with her! That was when I accepted the job in Belo Horizonte. Years later, I was told that Simone had died in an accident, but I never found out the details, nor did I want to know. First came the shock, then I confess to feeling a certain relief. There must not have been a child at all, or I’d have known about it. Wouldn’t I? We always end up finding out about those things sooner or late, right? Sooner or later.

“The Fool has no number,” Renata says after my long silence. “Sometimes they attribute the number zero to him. Zero is the number that alters no addition. In multiplication it transforms everything into itself. It absorbs the other numbers. Look, in the deck I use, the Fool is unwittingly walking toward a cliff. But it’s a good card. I like the Fool a lot. See how he’s carrying a flower in his left hand? That means he appreciates beauty. And his carefree walk is as happy as a child comfortable in the world. Notice that he also carries a staff, which can represent self-denial and wisdom. The Fool always operates outside of social norms and will usually say and do whatever comes into his head.”

She slides her finger along the edges of the card. Her nails are nicely manicured.

I think about the number 12 card, the Hanged Man, in an uncomfortable position, dangling upside down by one foot. A burst of noise comes from outside, and through the window I see pigeons taking flight. Suddenly a wave of intense nausea hits me, and only then, looking at my empty cup and Renata’s, still full to the brim, do I understand the severity of my mistake. I dash to the door, which is unlocked, and from there to the elevator, which takes a long time to arrive. When the doors open, it’s empty.

I press the button for the ground floor. Stabbing pains shoot through my stomach. I need someone to take me to the nearest emergency room. I stagger through the gallery, and when I make it to the sidewalk I see a boy distributing handbills: I buy gold, immediate payment. People look at me. Then Largo do Machado goes dark, and I see nothing more, not the pigeons, not the old men, not the flower kiosks, not the gypsies — but they left a long time ago.

Toned Cougars by Tony Bellotto

The Cannibal of Ipanema by Alexandre Fraga dos Santos

Ipanema

The cannibal had been inactive since the end of the seventies. He had sold the old family home in Santa Clara, inhabited by memories and the spirits that haunted his mind. The voice of his grandmother, always calling him a cowardly little lieutenant, a weakling, unmanly... By getting rid of the mansion he had blotted out all those ghosts. With the money from the sale he had bought a two-story house with a terrace on Rua Canning, along with a Siberian husky. He named the dog Dollar. He wanted the animal to be strong, like the American currency.

Retired from the army with the rank of colonel, Leopoldo passed for a peaceful citizen of Ipanema, dividing his time between walking the dog as far as the Arpoador rocks and painting, along with sporadic visits to the establishment near his building, the Centaurus, the neighborhood’s traditional bordello.

Although he considered himself more a reserve officer than a professional artist, from time to time he made a little money from the sale of his canvases in exhibitions around the city. He would spend the extra income at the Centaurus, but not in a more orthodox manner. He would always make his incursions in late afternoon and take a leisurely sauna, followed by a cold shower. He would shave, powder his armpits, and slip into the white robe provided by the bordello. He would take the elevator to the third floor, to the nightclub going full blast, with the perfume of lust in the air. He would sit down next to the bar and have the waiter bring his favorite scotch. And then the pilgrimage of the whores would begin, as it did that Friday...

“Can I sit here, baby?”

“Do I look like a baby?”

The whore sat down and put her forefinger on Leopoldo’s lips. “You look like a naughty baby.”

“You can’t imagine how naughty...”

“Maybe what I need is some fooling around.” She ran her fingers through the colonel’s hair. “I can’t see a gray-haired man without wanting to put out.”

“I can imagine.”

“You don’t have to imagine. Just look.”

The whore took Leopoldo’s hand and stuck it under her bikini bottom. The colonel allowed his finger to probe her vulva for a few moments, evaluating the wetness.

“Now take it out. If you don’t, the madam gets on my case. You see how I get?”

“Yes, you’re very damp.”

“Wet, drenched.”

“Yes. Can you tell me your name?”

“Roberta. Can I have some of your whiskey?”

“Yes.”

“Can I get your key, so we can get a little friendly?”

“Yes.”

“Anything you’d like.”

The hooker left Leopoldo by himself at the table. The colonel took advantage of her absence to observe his surroundings. There were better-looking whores than Roberta in the place, but the young woman had been efficient in her approach. Besides, the club was infested with gringos who, judging by the tattoos of anchors and women on their arms, and the whiteness of their skin, were from some Scandinavian ship.

Roberta came back twenty minutes later, panting. She must have blown one of those Vikings en route. She tried to kiss the colonel, but he refused. As if by reflex, she downed a shot of whiskey in a single gulp. Then she apologized: “The house is packed, that’s why I took so long.”

She took Leopoldo by the hand and led him to the suite, where Roberta got naked. She told the colonel to take off his robe.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I want to stay this way. Dressed.”

“Hey, I wanna get off.”

“And I want to talk.”

“Are you gay?”

“I’m a colonel in the Brazilian army. I expect a modicum of respect.”

“Okay then. What does the colonel want to talk about?”

Leopoldo wanted to know everything about Roberta’s life: how she got started in prostitution; whether she had children; her relationship with her parents; if she dreamed of having a family.

The whore let out a sob: “I don’t have anybody... I feel so lonely...”

Leopoldo paid the girl extra. In dollars... With the colonel, everything was in dollars. She thanked him and asked if she could kiss him.

“On the cheek, please.”

Roberta kissed the colonel on his right cheek and concluded the encounter.

As Roberta was leaving the nightclub, a Passat pulled up alongside her and the driver lowered the window.

“Shall we finish what we started?”

Roberta glanced around to make sure the security guys from the club weren’t watching them. She couldn’t have outside dates; if she were found out, she’d be sent packing. There was no one, and she was horny and needy. Besides which, she would make some dough. Making dough was good.

“Let’s go.” She jumped in the car. “Which motel, colonel?”

The colonel drove a short distance and clicked the remote control for his garage. The Siberian husky had its nose against the gate. Roberta took a deep breath; whenever the door to a man’s house opened, she nurtured the hope of a serious relationship, of building something for herself. And this could be her lucky night.

“I love a man in uniform.”

They got out of the car. Dollar jumped onto Roberta and sniffed her from head to toe. The hooker became a bit tense.

“Does he bite?”

“Not him.”

“Cute,” said the whore, patting the dog.

Leopoldo opened the door and let Dollar in as well.

“Is he gonna participate?” asked Roberta.

“No. Just watch.”

“Do you enjoy that?”

“You talk too much.”

“You’re rude.”

“Go wash up.”

“How much are you gonna pay?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

Chic, this colonel... Always in dollars.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

“End of the hall. Last door on the left.”

The working girl went down the corridor, observing the row of paintings illuminated by bluish light. The man must really be a pervert, and Roberta found the thought encouraging: there were two buffalo cornering a blond woman with a thick dark tuft around her vagina; a horse corralling a black woman with a vast blond tuft around her pussy, while another horse reared on its hind legs, offering his rigid member to the woman; the mad colonel had even painted bats attacking a nun. There were also rifles and antique weapons hanging on the walls, along with family photos.

Roberta laughed to herself. The game was going to be a good one.

Leopoldo waited anxiously. As did Dollar. Together they were a devilish pair. But there was never anything left for Dollar. He was only a voyeur. The colonel was aware of the insanity of his habits, but this was better than eating neighbors for lunch or dinner. The cannibal was retired, thanks to Our Lady, his devotional saint.

Roberta came out of the bathroom naked. She encountered the colonel in dress uniform complete with a short ceremonial sword. She sat on a sofa, spread her legs, and beckoned to Leopoldo.

The colonel couldn’t control himself and buried his head between Roberta’s legs. The whore removed his cap and put it on. A pro, she began saying dirty words and striking the colonel in the face; he obediently accepted and continued with the cunnilingus. Dollar merely watched, his ears pricked up.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” the whore announced.

And she came.

Then the colonel’s face assumed the look of a wolf that has just attacked its prey: flushed, colored by raging blood. His formal uniform, his medals — everything was smeared with blood.

“I’m sorry, colonel. I think I got my period.”

Leopoldo shook his head from side to side, unresigned. Dollar, frightened, climbed the stairs to the second floor.

“You had no right to do that.”

“Colonel, forgive me. I didn’t mean to—”

“I was cured!”

“A woman has no control over these things...”

“Get off my sofa!”

“I’m so ashamed...”

“Get out! Get out of my house!”

“I’m sorry, colonel...”

“I don’t want to do it! I don’t want to do it! Get out!”

“You’re humiliating me...”

“Get out of here! Out!!”

“Don’t talk to me like that... you coward!!”

It was his grandmother’s voice returning: Coward! Leopoldo, you’re not a man and never were...

From the terrace, Dollar was howling.

“Coward! You don’t talk like that to a lady!” The whore was offended by the grossness...

Bringing home a whore, Leopoldo?

“I don’t want to do that, Grandma!”

The dog howled.

Taking insults from a tramp, Leopoldo? You sissy.

“I don’t want to, I don’t want to, Grandma...”

“Grandma my ass, you calling me old? You shitty two-bit colonel, coward, faggot...”

The dog howled...

You wimp, you were never a man... you weakling...

“You flaming fag!”

“I’m a colonel in the Brazilian army—”

Faggot, she’s right, Leopoldo. Ever since you were a child... I always knew...

The dog howled.

“You queer! I want my two hundred dollars!”

Then the cannibal hurled himself onto the woman, burying his sharpened teeth in the neck of his prey while his hand covered her mouth. The victim tried to escape by striking the executioner, but the man’s trained jaw had tremendous strength and soon the woman surrendered, her blows losing power and her eyes closing as she yielded to death. She emitted a few moans that could have been mistaken for pleasure. And succumbed. The cannibal alternated between the vagina and the neck, leaving the remaining parts for another time. Using the sword, he cut the body into uniform pieces and stored them in the old freezer.

He was a methodical cannibal. Military.

On the terrace, Dollar let loose another howl, sharp; then in falsetto, sounding like a chant of anguish and submission. The animal recognized the smell of blood by instinct inherited from his ancestors and knew one thing: there was a predator in the house, and it wasn’t him.

The cannibal was back.