Durval looked at the clock one last time before ringing the bell at house number 72 on Bela Vista Street in Santa Tereza. Exactly nine o’clock. He didn’t want to seem intrusive by calling his neighbor Heitor before he was at least somewhat presentable in the morning. He knew the guy wasn’t one to sleep in; even retired, he usually woke up early to play bocce at Adelino’s bar. Whenever Durval passed by the bar on his way to the newsstand, he would see Heitor and the gang of retirees joking around on the polished wooden courts or loudly debating the distance between the balls that would give one team an extra point or take one away.
Someone inside the house peeked through a crack in the curtain. Durval waved, raising his arm in the air. The crack closed.
After a while, the door opened, and Heitor stepped out. He grunted something and strutted over to the gate.
— Heitor! Heitor! How are you, my old friend? — Durval greeted him.
Heitor kept his brow furrowed and looked at Durval as if assessing an insect he had to decide whether to squash or just shoo away.
— Hey, I wanted to talk to you about something.
Durval waited a second after finishing his sentence to make sure the man wasn’t going to respond. He continued:
— Dolores was with Melinda… Melinda, your wife. And the two talked… about Botelho…
Heitor grunted in agreement. Durval felt like smiling, as even a grunt from that man was something to be happy about.
— So, you see what I mean — Durval continued. — I wanted to know if I could see the photograph, the one you have of Botelho. I got intrigued by that, you know? So I thought you might…
— Listen here, Durval! — the man thundered. — I’m not one for gossip. You know I’m not.
— I know, of course! — Durval made a serious expression to affirm that the guy was a decent and upright person.
— We only called Dolores here because Melinda is worried about her. I didn’t even want Mel to get involved in this! But we’ve seen things that… You know…
— I know? I don’t know if I know, do I?
— Come on! All this talk about dead people here and there, and dead people disappearing, and dead people showing up. And you guys mixed up with this type. That guy is no good, Durval!
Durval nodded in agreement.
— I’ve known this guy for a long time. Since I served as a soldier. He’s not someone to be trusted, I tell you.
— So, I wanted to see the photo. Can I see it?
Heitor looked at Durval again in that way that seemed like he was looking down from a two-meter-high pulpit. Prominent nose, almost like a deity who could decide between heaven and hell for a poor lost soul.
Finally, he opened the gate and went back into the house. Durval followed. He needed to see the photograph in which Botelho appears next to a man with horns.
JOSÉ GASPARFilmmaker and writerwww.historiasdooutromundo.comjagramos@gmail.com