Part 2 \u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And then a child\u2019s voice, wet and soft, whispered my name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 Arturo\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The voice crossed my back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It wasn\u2019t a scream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was a wet whisper, of a tired child, glued to the back of my neck like an icy breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No one has called me the whole Arturo since my mother died. In the village everyone calls me Turo. Only Rebeca, when she was still selling ice cream, called me Arturo because, according to her, \u201cour name also deserves respect\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I haven\u2019t looked back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not because he was brave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because the audio had just told me not to look.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I lowered my eyes to the wet pranks. They were small, barefoot, marked in the cement of the slab as if a child had come out of the water and stopped right behind me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The water tank made the noise again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rrrras.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rrrras.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rrrras.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The voice repeated my name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 Arturo\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So I ran.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I almost died going down the stairs. I slipped on the third floor, hit my knee on the wall and continued descending with my cell phone in my hand as if I were carrying a bomb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I knocked first on the door of Mrs. Chayo, from 1B.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOpen!\u201d Open it, please!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Do\u00f1a Chayo appeared wearing a flowered robe, her hair wrapped in bobs and a black rosary hanging around her neck. She was one of those women who, in Mooca, have seen everything and yet continue to light candles on Mondays near the S\u00e3o Rafael Church because they say that the dead hear better at dawn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat happened, Turo?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t speak.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I just put the audio to play.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When she heard Rebekah\u2019s voice, she lost her color right away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat woman was buried yesterday,\u201d he murmured.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere\u2019s something in the water tank.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t ask anything else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He called Mr. Beto, the retired plumber from 3C. Then he called Mrs. Licha, who always knew things before those involved. In less than ten minutes, five neighbors were in the courtyard looking at the stairs as if the slab were the mouth of an animal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou have to call the police,\u201d said Mrs. Chayo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf they call before they see it, they\u2019ll pretend it\u2019s nothing,\u201d replied Mr. Bob. \u201cJust like they did four years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No one disagreed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On the night Emiliano disappeared, two cars, three police officers and an investigator with a sleepy face came. They took a quick look, asked if Rebeca had enemies and at the end wrote \u201cpossible withdrawal by relative\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A week later, the case was already forgotten in some drawer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the periphery, disappearances also have business hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We went up together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dona Chayo held the rosary tightly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Beto carried a wrench.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I held the cell phone recording.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don\u2019t even know why.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Maybe because, in Mooca, if you don\u2019t record, then everyone says they\u2019ve never seen anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The slab was the same.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The yellow lamp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The old tanks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The wet blanket thrown where I had left it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The black water tank at the bottom, huge, covered in dust, with the rusty wire wrapped around the lid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But the footprints were gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey were here,\u201d I said in a broken voice. \u201cI swear they were here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Do\u00f1a Chayo didn\u2019t call me crazy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He just looked at the cement and made the sign of the cross.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The scratch returned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rrrras.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dona Licha gritou e tampou a bottle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Beto approached slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not a rat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The cell phone vibrated in my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Another audio.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It started on its own before I touched the screen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebeca\u2019s voice came out full of hiss.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t call Mauro. He knows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Everyone froze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro was the caretaker of the village.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The guy who charged for water, changed the lock and decided who could go up to hang clothes. He lived in the room near the entrance, always sitting on a bench, looking at the movement of Rua da Mooca with the face of an old dog.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro had been the first to say that Emiliano\u2019s father had taken the boy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro had convinced Rebeca to \u201cnot make a fuss\u201d because \u201cthe more you look, the more bad things you find\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Beto tightened the wrench.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSon of a\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He did not finish the sentence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
From the side of the stairs came a noise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then steps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro appeared on the slab wearing a black sweatshirt and the swollen face of someone who slept poorly. He didn\u2019t look like someone who had climbed up by chance after hearing noise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It came straight through.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As if he were waiting for us to go up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat are you doing here?\u201d He asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No one answered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His eyes went straight to the water tank.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then to my cell phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTurn it off, Turo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro smiled without joy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t mess with the dead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Do\u00f1a Chayo stood in front of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 Rebeca sent audio.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro\u2019s face changed just a little.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Very little.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But it was enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat woman was crazy,\u201d he said. \u201cEveryone knows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe\u2019s dead,\u201d I replied. \u201cAnd yet he speaks more truth than you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro took a step.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Beto raised the wrench.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt doesn\u2019t even come close.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Downstairs a siren began to sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Do\u00f1a Chayo, a holy woman, had called the police without telling anyone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro listened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And he lost his mask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou idiots!\u201d He shouted. \u201cI told them not to open anything!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dona Licha began to cry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s in there, Mauro?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He did not answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And when a man doesn\u2019t respond, sometimes he\u2019s confessed everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro threw himself towards the water tank.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Beto came in front. I don\u2019t know where I got my strength from, but I pushed Mauro against the wall. He elbowed me in the mouth. I tasted blood. Do\u00f1a Chayo slammed her rosary in his face as if she were casting out a demon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGo, Turo!\u201d \u2013 shouted Mr. Beto. \u201cThe wire!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stuck my hands in the rust.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The wire cut my fingers, but I kept pulling. Mr. Beto put the key in, forced it, something clicked. Mauro screamed. Down there, the car braked squealing tire on the street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The lid came off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The smell came out first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was not a recent body smell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was worse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Old water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rust.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mofo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Years rotting closed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dona Chayo vomitou no canto.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wanted to close the lid again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But then I saw something floating.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A black bag tied with ribbon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And glued to her, as if waiting for the light to arrive, a little blue slipper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Of a child.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With a little white star on the side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The same one that Rebeca described a thousand times on the posters she spread around the dawn market, the tennis boxes, the steel doors, every corner where someone said \u201cstrength, mom\u201d without even looking at the paper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emiliano.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t scream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My voice went out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro stopped fighting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The police ran upstairs. One was young. The other looked like someone who had seen too much, but when he smelled the smell coming from the water tank he also turned pale.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNobody touches anything,\u201d he ordered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cToo late,\u201d Mauro said, laughing like a cornered animal. \u201cThey have already played. They have already ruined everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I kept recording.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The older policeman looked at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat did they ruin?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro closed his mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But Rebeca\u2019s audio played again on my cell phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf Mauro says they ruined everything, ask about the night of the rain. Ask about the man in the green vest. Ask about the packages.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The entire slab was muted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro stared at me with hatred.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDamn woman.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That sentence finished sinking him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The young policeman grabbed his arm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou come with us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou have no idea who you\u2019re messing with!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes, we do,\u201d replied Do\u00f1a Chayo, wiping her mouth. \u201cWith a coward who let a mother bury wind for four years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
More vehicles arrived.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then expertise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then a white van.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The slab was filled with lights, gloves, plastic bags, cameras and questions. The market hadn\u2019t even woken up yet, but some doors were already starting to open downstairs. In Mooca, the dawn is short-lived. Soon someone would be selling socks, tools, clothes, pastels, anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They say that in S\u00e3o Paulo everything is sold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Except for dignity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That morning they also tried to sell silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But no one else was able to buy it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They made me sit on an overturned bucket because my mouth was bleeding. An expert carefully removed the bag from the water tank. They didn\u2019t let us see everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thank God.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I could only see a piece of blue fabric with dinosaurs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emiliano\u2019s shirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The one that Rebeca never stopped washing inside her own head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Inside the water tank they also found a plastic lunch box sealed with tape and bags. It wasn\u2019t the boy\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was at Rebeca\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He had an old cell phone, a pen drive, newspaper clippings, copies of complaints and a notebook full of dates.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Four years of dates.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Every night she climbed the slab.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Every single thing he heard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Each time Mauro told her to stop asking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Every time someone from 4D saw a man in a green vest walk in carrying a backpack and leave without it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Each time she tried to speak and someone reminded her that Emiliano \u201cwasn\u2019t the only child in the world.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They took me to testify at the police station in the morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The city was already awake. We passed through streets where the smell of pastel mixed with bus smoke. On Avenida do Estado, the street vendors began to set up stalls as if they were building another city made of canvas, iron and scream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No one there knew yet that, in an old village in Mooca, a boy had returned after four years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The flash drive changed everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebeca had recorded Mauro.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Many.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In one recording, her voice came out tired:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTell me where my son is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And Mauro replied:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour son saw something he shouldn\u2019t. Let him rest, Rebbe. If you open your mouth, you go along with it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In another, older, you could hear rain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A child crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A metal door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro saying:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPut him in there quickly.\u201d When people pass by, we take them out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then blows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The man in the green vest never appeared on video, but Rebeca had written down a name:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBlack\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One of those names that are spoken of in the neighborhood looking over your shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The police knew him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Of course they did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That\u2019s what made me angry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emiliano had not evaporated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They had hidden it on top of our heads, inside the water tank that everyone avoided because \u201cthe water tasted bad\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The truth was there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ten steps from us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And we all continue to live down there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro was arrested that same morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He tried to say that Rebeca was crazy, that the pen drive was fake, that the boy fell alone, that he was just afraid. Later, when they showed the audios, he started blaming Neri. He said that Emiliano climbed the slab following a cat, saw packages hidden near the water tank and that Neri held the boy by the arm and covered his mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI just wanted to scare him,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Only.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What a comfortable word for those who destroy lives.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebekah, from what they later discovered, understood everything days later. I don\u2019t know how.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Perhaps a mother recognizes her child as far as there is no longer life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro forced her to be quiet. She said that if she said anything, her sister, her nephews, anyone could end up the same.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And she did the only thing she could do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He kept evidence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Like someone who saves bread for a long war.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The audios I received did not come from beyond, the experts said. Rebeca had hidden an old cell phone in the slab, protected inside a plastic box, connected to a portable battery. He programmed the messages before he died.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He knew that his sister would not touch her cell phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He knew that Mauro was watching the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I knew that I went up to hang clothes at dawn when the heat took away my sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She chose me because I was a neighbor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because I wasn\u2019t brave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because even a guilt-ridden coward can do a right thing when someone pushes it from the grave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But no one explained the wet footprints.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nor the voice behind me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nor the small mark I found that night on my shirt, like a wet child\u2019s hand, exactly where I felt the breath on the back of my neck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t put that in the statement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There are truths that no paper can bear to carry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Three days later, we set up Rebekah\u2019s altar in the courtyard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dona Chayo placed yellow flowers even though they were not All Souls. Mr. Beto brought candles. Dona Licha made freshly brewed coffee. I bought sweet bread on the corner and a pa\u00e7oca because I remembered that Emiliano always asked for one when Rebeca sold ice cream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We also put his photo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The only one we had.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emiliano smiling with crooked teeth, wearing a dinosaur T-shirt and lifting a blue shoe on the sidewalk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That day we spoke of Rebekah.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Out loud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We told her she wasn\u2019t crazy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That he did not exaggerate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That she wasn\u2019t an obsessed mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was a single mother in a neighborhood who let her carry an invisible coffin for four years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mauro never returned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Neri fell weeks later, in a shed near Br\u00e1s. They said he had false documents, money and a gun. I didn\u2019t mind seeing his face in the newspaper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The only thing I wanted was for Emiliano\u2019s name to stop being a rumor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The investigation took months, as it takes everything that should hurt people the most. But one day they called us to officially recognize the belongings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rebeca was no longer there to do that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was me and Mrs. Chayo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I saw the slipper inside the transparent package, my legs gave way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Do\u00f1a Chayo held me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNow he\u2019s gone back to his mother,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wanted to believe it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the Fourth Stop Cemetery, where they had buried Rebeca in a hurry and few flowers, they opened a small space next to her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The sister really cried this time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The priest spoke again of eternal rest, but now it did not seem like a memorized speech.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When they threw the first shovel of earth, the wind stirred the flowers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And for a second, just a second, I swear I heard a child\u2019s laughter behind the graves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t tell anyone about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At Mooca we learn early on that not everything should be said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But since then, every time I climb the slab, I look at the place where the black water tank was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It is no longer there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They took everything away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They put two new, blue, clean boxes, with a tightly closed lid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The water no longer tastes like rust.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, when I\u2019m hanging out laundry and the yellow light flashes, I smell a faint smell of lemon jelly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So I say softly:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNow you can rest, Rebbe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And when the wind comes from the side of the tanks, it almost always seems that I hear a small, wet but calm voice, answering from somewhere where there are finally no lids, wires or adults telling them to shut up:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThank you, Arturo.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Part 2 \u2026 And then a child\u2019s voice, wet and soft, whispered my name. \u2013 Arturo\u2026 The voice crossed my back. It wasn\u2019t a scream. It was… <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4543","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4543","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=4543"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4543\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4546,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4543\/revisions\/4546"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=4543"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=4543"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=4543"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}