Thick as Thieves
Zacarias woke up to a symphony of alarms. Three clocks screamed in unison, and the fourth — his last resort — was already hammering his skull, beeping for ten minutes straight. As a last resort, there was still the stereo alarm, set to go off in another half hour. That one would crescendo to a blaring tone, forcing Zacarias to flee the bed unless he were dead. Just in case, the stereo alarm was set as a final measure: 9 a.m., the point when hope no longer mattered.
Zacarias struggled hard with himself, which is why he was an expert in alarm clocks. Days pulled too hard on him. Exhaustion petrified him. What could he do? Chug a mug full of cold coffee from the nightstand. Light the first SG Gigante cigarette of the day. It was like hotwiring his body just to start the engine: a point where Zacarias finally knew where he stood. And time began to exist again. First, to turn on the TV — news blasting, loud. Then, to crank up the stereo so he could hear it in the shower. A champion’s Dolby surround system allowed such indulgences — the entire building could hear it, the street too. Angry neighbours? Zacarias couldn’t care less. He had a thick skin. Cop or robber, or robber cop, it all depended on the perspective, the angle from which one viewed the character.
A hustler cutting through life’s waves; an undercover thug or a crooked cop — it was all in the eye of the beholder. It’s the same thing — the gaze. One could tell by the time of day. At that early hour, Zacarias was nothing. He hovered at the border, a no-man’s land, more specifically in the bathtub, under a splendid showerhead he’d insisted on — the most expensive.
After the shower, Zacarias would flash a grin at the mirror. Then, dressed to impress, he’d trim his sparse beard and put on his signature sleeveless pullover, the kind with argyle patterns. The argyle was his trademark. Always. Summer meant t-shirts. Winter, wool sweaters — with or without sleeves. Zacarias without the argyles didn’t feel like himself, didn’t feel like the son of decent folk. And so, the only variation was in the mixing and matching of the colours.
That day it was green, brown, and white. But it could have been blue, red, and yellow; or yellow, orange, and black; or gray, black, and brown; or pink, purple, and orange. Dozens of combinations filled drawers and wardrobes.
Then the phone rang. The stereo and TV had to go silent. Silence filled the air. Zacarias’s voice answered: “Hold on, I’ll call you back from a payphone.”
At the payphone near Dafundo, Zacarias resumed the conversation:
“I’m taking the car to the shop, then handle a few things. We’ll talk around lunchtime. I’ve got stuff to tell you. No… No… Not now… I can’t… Okay. Fine!”
Cryptic language, mere phone discipline. The “shop” wasn’t even a shop, just a warehouse crammed with stolen car parts — but not only that, there were jewels, watches, cutting-edge mobile phones, state-of-the-art stereos like the ones Zacarias had at home. Let’s move on.
He had to head to Gomes Freire Street. At the headquarters of the Polícia Judiciária — a specialized investigative unit — a team was monitoring operations involving a suburban South Bank mafia gang, with its base hidden in Sarcelas. Ingredients: extortion, loansharking, theft, drugs, prostitution. Zacarias brought photos and recordingsZacarias delivered photos and recordings. The feeble Inspector Bettencourt couldn’t hold back his praise:
“You, today, well done.”
“I told you so.”
“Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous…”
Bettencourt flipped through the photos, one by one, back and forth, twice over. He barely knew how to express his gratitude.
“You’re having lunch with me today.”
“I can’t.”
“Come on. No one will see you.”
“I can’t.”
“But I’m paying.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve got a meeting with Chino. Some Russians are coming for lunch.”
Bettencourt said no more. He handed Zacarias an envelope. Thick with five-hundred-euro notes, it held ten thousand euros. Eight years of being conned was the price for presuming Zacarias to be a poor devil with nowhere to fall dead. Zacarias always feigned a sort of subtle resentment, doing it so well he could even glimpse in the feeble inspector that typical private jubilation, hallmark of those clinging to small power. Let him revel. That was Zacarias’s way: delivering what he knew in carefully spaced drips, like fine lab drops, enough to fill the glass over ten years, past its expiry, letting it all prescribe.
When he arrived in Sarcelas, Zacarias handed another envelope, this time to the intimidating, scarred, and crooked Xico Chino — three and a half thousand euros. The remainder was hidden in the car’s trunk, reserved for next week’s delivery.
“This is next week’s already”, said Zacarias.
“You mean next week you’ll bring me more, is that it?” Chino inquired.
“If things go as I expect…”
“What?”
“Some parts coming in. SUVs, Audis, BMWs. Pure masterpieces of fine engineering.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Got two guys working on it.”
“Who?”
“Guys from Odemira. You don’t know them.”
Lunch was at Chino’s Café-Restaurant, a secluded and hidden spot in the outskirts of the outskirts. “Café-Restaurant” was hardly accurate. It was more an exclusive club, minus the glamour, minus the elegance of exclusivity. More like the American mafia’s social clubs. Nobody could walk in just like that, not even with the right connections or knowing so-and-so might not be enough. What mattered was having something to offer, something tied to business. Belonging to the organization was key. In these worlds, knowing the ropes could mean life or death — be it in Sarcelas, New York, Moscow, Naples, Tokyo, or Johannesburg. Anywhere people lived and breathed like that.
Out came the Cozido à Portuguesa, paired with vodka shots. Music to Russian ears. This group adored Portuguese cuisine, knew the best restaurants, from pricey to cheap. They’d drive kilometers if the best suckling pig was in Viseu, travel to Trás-os-Montes for that special roasted goat, or head to Aveiro just for a certain codfish dish at Costa Nova.
Tall and fair-haired Marat Andreichev took the lead. Him and the surly Xico Chino.
“Very good. Portuguese food very good.”
“This cook makes the best Cozido à Portuguesa in Lisbon and its surroundings.”
“Why Lisbon and its surroundings?”
“I’ve had better up north. Valpaços, one day I’ll take you there.”
“So, Valpaços has good Cozido. Stew with vodka, Valpaços?”
“Stew with anything you want.”
“Hahahahahahahaha!”
More laughter in unison. More vodka shots.
“Where’s Barbosa?” Andreichev asked.
“Barbosa’s handling his business.”
“Good money. Barbosa good money.”
“Barbosa’s playing businessman now. Did you see how he scams people with those fake companies? Then he puts it all in offshore accounts.”
“Barbosa, good money. Barbosa good money.”
“Good money, but all for himself. Barbosa doesn’t give a thing to anyone.”
“Then Barbosa biggest glutton at this table.”
“Hahahahahahahaha!”
More laughter in unison. More vodka shots.
“Little greedy… Maybe Barbosa little greedy”, Andreichev said.
Shrugging, Zacarias noted a certain bitterness in Chino. It was clear to everyone that Barbosa controlled too much and gave back too little. And with every vodka shot, the conversations grew bolder, confrontational, exaggerated. Like telling tales with embellishments, the tension grew. Zacarias couldn’t lag, had to keep up appearances, echoing the others. Drawing attention was key. At times, he resembled a Bolshevik conspirator.
“The day will come! The day will come!” Zacarias declared.
The noise in the room became deafening. The vodka flowed endlessly, enough for three, four, five lunches. Who could guess? Who could gauge enthusiasms or livers? Weakness wasn’t an option. Under Andreichev’s watchful gaze, it was better to collapse in an alcoholic coma than inconvenience the boss, Chino. Whatever the case, as long as the boss wanted to, everyone at the table, without exception, had to endure. Endure and more, for it was only by dinnertime that the feast and uproar finally ended, leaving everyone deafened, even to their own thoughts.
Zacarias was utterly wrecked by the time he had to return to Lisbon He could barely walk straight. Driving meant going very, very slowly, not across the bridge but straight to Cacilhas for the ferry. Even so, he needed three double espressos in a row, then another at the ferry terminal.
Next stop: Avenida José Malhoa, tenth floor, glass office with a view of the Tagus.
“Tell me everything,” said Barbosa.
“They’re getting worse. If you’d heard what they said about you…”
“I can imagine…”
“You were everyone’s punching bag. Even the Russians.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m sick of those people. Sick. Today it was the vodka. I hate vodka. Drinking vodka, dealing with Russians. I hate Russians. Hate them. And that Andreichev, watching, mocking us, seeing who could handle more vodka. And that bastard Chino laughing. Barely touched his drink, the animal. He was at ease, He was perfectly fine, the bastard…”
“Calm down, man. Don’t ruin everything. Patience. You’ve got to stay calm.”
“I know, I know. Patience. That’s all I do: be patient.”
“Come on… Look, I’ve got something for you.”
Barbosa handed him an envelope from the desk: three thousand euros in five-hundred-euro notes.
“Mamma mia. Thank you, boss.”
“You’ve earned it, Zacarias. You’ve earned it.”
Zacarias expressed his thanks with a firm handshake, more out of obedience than anything else. Exhausted, he could barely think anymore. All he could picture was being home: heating up some random leftovers in the microwave, sprawling on the couch, watching TV, drinking, belching, burping, crushing Coke cans, tossing them into a bin next to the TV stand. Then falling asleep on that long sofa.
No payphones. No Polícia Judiciária. No stolen car parts or envelopes of cash. No Xico Chino. No Russian mafia, no vodka, no Cozido à Portuguesa. No Barbosa. Just the couch. Just silence. Layers of exhaustion, fatigue compounding, piling up, though — just like those endless alarm clocks.
Translated from my 2018 book, Praia Lontano (Letras Paralelas). For more of my original work in Portuguese, please visit my website: Pedro Góis Nogueira.
