Joana had brought the sopranino along. She knew that Durval preferred the higher-pitched flute when he was anxious or worried. And he was quite anxious and worried in the hospital bed, all broken since he had been pushed off the cliff inside his Corcel.
– Better not to play the small high flute, Dolores said as soon as he picked up the instrument.
– It makes you tense.
– It doesn’t.
– You know it does.
Durval shrugged and began to play Beethoven Virus on the flute. The beginning of the third movement of the Sonata Pathétique. He loved that music. So rich and full of vigor. His shoulder hurt, but playing brought him a comfort and clarity of ideas that made the pain worth it. He loved feeling his fingers moving almost on their own across the body of the instrument. There was no time to think when playing a piece as fast as that. The notes simply jumped straight from his fingers.
After a while, there was a small audience at the door of the room that applauded at the end of the performance. Durval laughed and thanked them for the applause.
The night had been strange. That nurse Marisa coming and going down the hall and peeking through the little glass window at the top of the door. At one point, Durval woke up startled and was sure he saw her sneaking out of the room without making a sound. It wasn’t time for his injection. What could that woman have come to do inside the room? Dolores was sleeping in the bed next to him, and after that, Durval couldn’t close his eyes again. He heard the birds singing as soon as the sun rose and saw the light penetrate the room like a yellow sheet being pulled slowly over his body. It was already afternoon when someone knocked lightly on the door of the room. Durval jumped, and Dolores was startled too. Durval saw her jump near the window. The door opened slowly, and Officer Moreira poked his head into the room.
– Here comes the police when the victim is already dead, Durval said, scratching his voice on purpose, even more than it would normally sound.
Moreira entered the room smiling and approached the bed. He gave a short wave to Dolores, who didn’t leave the window.
– So you decided to investigate the supposed crime on your own, my old friend? Moreira asked.
– Look, the supposed murderer pushed me off a supposed cliff. Supposedly, I broke a few bones.
– I went to the place where you had the accident. There were several skid marks from the Corcel’s tires right before the edge of the cliff, and now you’re going to like this, Moreira paused, tire marks from a Ford F1000 truck.
– But what did I tell you yesterday, man? A truck! I knew it was.
Dolores approached the two.
– So now you believe us, officer? Do you believe we really saw a body stretched out in our kitchen? And the murderer is the owner of that truck?
– We are investigating everything, Dolores. The fact is that it seems someone really tried to get rid of your husband last night.
– And now what? Durval asked the officer.
– Now nothing. We will investigate, and you recover.
When the officer left, Durval turned to Dolores.
– Funny. Do you know who has an F1000?
– Who?
– Botelho.
JOSÉ GASPARFilmmaker and writerwww.historiasdooutromundo.comjagramos@gmail.com