The photograph should have been in color when taken, but it was so aged that it looked black and white. Durval brought the album closer to his face. Indeed, undeniably, the man standing in the foreground was Botelho. He looked younger, probably under 40, but it was him. He wore a white lab coat with a closed priest collar up to his neck, his face serious and focused. Around him were three men in army uniforms and two others wearing lab coats. The place seemed to be a laboratory. The walls were covered with panels of electronic instruments and in the center of the photo was a table that looked like stainless steel. Lying on it was a man covered with a sheet up to his chest. With one hand, Botelho held his head from behind, lifted. The man’s eyes were closed and from his forehead protruded two horns, each the thickness of a closed fist. Like those of a ram, they were curved and wrapped around the man’s head, like two large headphones made of bone. They were wrinkled and tapered until they became as thin as the tip of a pencil.
Durval coughed.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the image. The mouth slightly open and the strange feeling that the world was not quite as he imagined. At 76 years old, he thought he had seen everything in this land. He thought he was somewhat familiar with the things of the world. An old friend who knew all the rooms of the host’s house. But no. There were cabinets, rooms, basements, that he never imagined were there. Yes, he had seen photos on the internet the night before of people with “horns.” But those needed to be in quotes, as they were not real. Orthopedic diseases, abnormal growth of bone tissue that ended up breaking through the skin and protruding from the head or even other parts of the body, tragic, yes for the bearer of the ailment, but just that. However, what was stamped before him in the photograph was something else. It went far beyond a bone deformity.
Durval blinked and tried to swallow the saliva, but his mouth was dry. He sat on the couch next to the white cat.
He wondered why Botelho, whom he had known for more than thirty years, had never told him anything about something like this. He thought they had no secrets from each other. Especially Botelho, who loved to tell unusual stories. Like when he detailed the ordeal he went through in Argentina when he volunteered to help the victims of the San Justo Tornado. The team of volunteers was caught by a second tornado during the attempt to rescue the victims and, after a collapse of the building they were in, they had to be rescued by a second team of volunteers.
— I told you that Botelho was not a good guy — Durval heard from afar.
He looked at Heitor, who was already putting the album back in the drawer of the living room desk.
— How did you get this photograph?
Heitor smiled and Durval understood that he was about to hear an even more bizarre story than the photograph itself.Episode XXXI continues in the next edition.
JOSÉ GASPAR
Filmmaker and writer
www.historiasdooutromundo.com