Durval accompanied Heitor from the gate to the entrance of the house. The backyard was obsessively tidy. Each stone that formed the path to the house seemed to have been positioned millimetrically. The leaves of the low bushes, precisely trimmed, looked like soldier helmets around the trunks, and the various strawberry trees were arranged like a platoon ready for battle. The lower part of the trunks was painted white, and the grass in the yard, very well trimmed, only reached about thirty centimeters from the base of the plants. A perfect circle of black soil was separated from the grass by small stones, so clean that Durval imagined Heitor scrubbing them with a toothbrush. The wall behind the bushes was covered with dark-leaved ivy.
As he stepped up onto the porch, Durval nearly fell with his cane when startled by what he thought was a gunshot. He thought he would hit the ground, but Heitor was quick and grabbed him by the wool sweater, which stretched and nearly tore.
— It’s just Dorotéia — Heitor said.
The white cockatoo was perched on the porch just above Durval’s head. Looking like a maze, a series of red and yellow painted perches and ladders lined the entire ceiling. The bird seemed not to like Durval. It shook its head with ruffled feathers and made an irritating, shrill gargling noise.
Heitor grabbed a spray bottle and sprayed water on the bird.
— In the heat, she likes it — he explained.
The cockatoo spread its wings and reveled in the mist.
— There’s diluted vitamin in the water for the feathers.
Heitor petted the bird’s belly, but it tried to peck his hand.
— Doesn’t like strangers. Gets skittish.
Durval let out an awkward chuckle. He wanted to give the unfriendly bird a good shake. But he needed to maintain cordiality with his host if he wanted to see the photograph in which Botelho appears next to a man with horns.
Heitor opened the door to the house and stepped inside. Durval took one last glance at the cockatoo, which looked back at him with its head tilted, using only one eye.
As soon as he entered the house, he spotted another white creature. Sprawled on the arm of the sofa, it seemed to be the cat that often wandered into his home. It let out a meow as the two entered.
— Is this cat yours? — Durval asked.
— It’s not a cat. It’s a male. It belongs to Mel. She has eight.
— Eight cats?
Durval approached the feline, trying to decide if it was the same one he had seen the day he and Dolores found the corpse in their kitchen. His wife always referred to the animal as a cat. But it could very well be a male cat.
Heitor opened a drawer of the small desk and took out a photo album with a black cover.
— Sit.
Durval obeyed and sat next to the cat.
Heitor stood in front of him, turning the pages of the album. On the cover, it read in golden letters: “Military Academy of Infantry of the Third Combat Engineering Regiment”.
— There it is! – He extended the open album to him.
Episode XXX continues in the next edition.