SimplíssimoA dead man on my bed

A dead man on my bed

A Brazilian tragicomedy

Por Gilmar Duarte Rocha

R$ 16 - Livro digital, formato ePub2 (0.8 MB)


A Brazilian yuppie, called Maxwell da Silva, woke up on a nice day, after having slept completely stoned the previous night and saw a strange man laid on his bed.The man was simply dead.
The defunct was a politician apparently involved with suspicious businesses in Brasília, capital of Brazil and a place where successive scandals implicating congressmen, businessmen – mainly builders, bankers and admen -, political party representatives and workers unions always happen.
Paradoxically, Maxwell did not worry about this delicate matter. He got preoccupied with gossips “what people would say about it? Me, involved with an old and strange man? Probably, they will say that I am a closeted man. My reputation, etc”
Then, he took the wrong decision of burying the dead man. Thence, odd, jumbled, weird, funny things started to happen. Comings and goings. Too manymistakes. Putting it shortly, he did not get to bury this man. He… died, after a car crash. So, something unexpected happened…
An ellipse.
The dead man unexpectedly revived. Yes, the dead politician acquired the life again and acquired a new friend too. Maxwell, now, is the dead man of the story. “What to do with this deceased?” First question shot by the reborn fat disgusting unbearable despicable man, who starts to act in similar way of his ancestor adding that bad character, with predisposition to swindle, cheat, trick and others politically improper verbs. Mindful of bribes, the opulent politician begins to take – indiscriminately – actions to set himself free of that encumbrance. Bucks, confusions and fumbles flooded on the story thenceforth.
The final is apparently predictable. Apparently! The smart reader will not think this way.
A Brazilian story, of course. Unpredictable.

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Dados do Livro

  • Publicado em 04/04/2017
  • ISBN: 9788582454435
  • Língua: EN
  • Páginas: 65
  • Formato: ePub2
  • Tamanho: 0.8 MB

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Maxwell woke up that Saturday morning still sleepy. He looked at the clock on top of the nightstand and frightened when he saw that it was a quarter to ten.

The wedding of his best friend, Plutarch, the groom he would be godfather, would happen in a little while and he was still in that appearance: fainted, broken, hangover, the head weighing a ton, completely sweaty. He needed, urgently, to take a bath.

He looked at the window, the curtains half-open, and saw cloudy weather. Imminent clue of hard storm.

Before lifting it, he tried to pull the bathrobe under his body. Touching the sheet, he noticed that the bathrobe did not move. Still sleepy and lazy, he tried once more to pull the bathrobe sleeve, now with more intensity.

Nothing! The bathrobe was still stuck to the bed.

– It is not possible! – cried out these words, preceded and succeeded by bad words.

Angry, he decided to turn around. Something different glimpsed in front of him. He gave a sudden leap out of the bed and shouted:

  • What the hell is this?

What he had seen, surprisingly, was a man laid on his bed with an apparent aspect of being dead.

The citizen was purple, with closed eyes and open mouth. He was dressed up as if he were for a ceremony: suit, tie, socks, shoes… He had never seen him in no fuck place.

The man was huge; got an enormous belly, neat mustache and short curly hair.

Maxwell began to despair and started walking from one side to another side of the room. Sweated in torrents and felt panting, he started to touch his hand on his head constantly. The neck stiffened; the mouth was dry and his stomach began to wrap.             He went to the bathroom and forced the vomit. Vomit did not come. His head began to spin; vision to darken. When he felt he was going to faint, he tried to be strong and reacted: “I can’t weaken!”            Then, he decided to take some air in the window, trying to calm down a little bit.             He lit a cigarette with trembling hands. A swirl of thoughts rattled his brain.            Shortly after, feeling cool, he turned his eyes to the inert body and looked for if there was a hole in the body (bullet or stab marks). There was not. There were not even blood spots, both on the bed and on the bedroom floor.            He noticed then that the man’s face was quite purple.            “Had he have a heart attack? Or had he died asphyxiated?”             However, the cause of death did not matter at that time. What mattered was that he had a dead on his bed and he would have to take an urgent action.            Thence, he checked out if there was any identification on the man’s pockets. There were! Besides his ID, there were many dollars. His name: Eliseu Rios Tavares. Occupation: among a pocket papers had a letter from a congressman addressed to the mayor of Almada City. Yes, that fat man was a politician, a mayor.              After a brief period of deadlock, he decided to call the police.            “Police… no?” He hesitated. “To Plutarch, my best friend”. Plutarch? My God! At this time he may already be on the altar. ”             He returned to be upset. The phone rang. “Who could it be?” His friends in the church claiming his presence? Yes, must be them.            “To answer or not to answer?”            That’s the question.  He hesitated one more time. He decided not to answer the call.             He also decided not going to call the police and not looking for help.             There should be another way out. A more discreet and less traumatic solution. Imagine if that fact got out to the press, even though he is not the guilty.            The antipathy he felt for advertising! Phobia of police newspapers headlines! What tennis club friends would think about all Kafkaesque situation?             “A maniac closeted – we have always imagined that he was a very strange guy”, probably they will imagine it.            Each detail, every little thing, weighed and hammered his head.            Hardworking, he managed to pull the dead out of the room. Dragged him to the service area, adjacent to the small kitchen. Sweating enough due to the weight of the body, he used an ironing board as lever and straightened the man’s body to the corner of the area, in order of the body couldn’t be seen by other people who perhaps enter in his apartment.            Then his thoughts turned again to slay him:            “After the wedding, Genaro and Capistrano, two tennis partners, jokers and playful guys, certainly will come to my home. I have to get out of here quickly and thinking on a plausible excuse for   not attending the wedding. ”            Then, he dresses new pants, shirt and blazer that he would wear in church; took the house key; and… noticed that the room door had not been locked.            “Did I forget to close the door last night? Uh! Maybe a neighbor killed this strange man and, seeing his door was open, brought him to my apartment “, he inferred.            “That is it. It must have been it. They killed the guy by strangulation “, he concluded.            Then his stubborn thoughts recalled to the last night, more precisely to Plutarch’s bachelor party, held at Capistrano house, a mansion located on the North Lake district, in Brasilia.             The bash flowed until early in the morning. Despite being alcohol adept, Maxwell recalled that, last night, surrendered to the dangerous pleasure of white powder, maybe it was the reason of that complete and insane state of amnesia.             He would not remember what time the party was over, how he managed to get home and what time he went to bed. He just remembered that he had vomited a lot. The bathroom was quite dirty and that proved it.

He also remembered that had spent a lot of time squatting in front of the toilet puking up his guts.

Finally, he decided to leave home. He would go to the nearby pub to have a drink. Maybe a chilled scotch would refresh his memory.

He closed the door and walked to the elevator. When he was entering the elevator, he saw that the door of another elevator was opening.

“Who could it be?”

He waited a minute. It was Irene, the maid, who had come to the usual cleaning on Saturdays.

– Good morning, Mr. Maxwell! Take it easy, I will let your house quite clean today – said it with an open smile on his face and walking right to the 514 apartment.

She had a spare key.

– Nice, Irene! Go ahead – he said it with head distant, lost in other thoughts.

– Housecleaning? No! Irene! Wait… – half-breathless, he ran toward the employee who was already opening the door:

– Irene! Uh! I do want you to do housecleaning today, no. Leave it for Monday – stammered.

– But, sir, today is the best day for cleaning – argued the housekeeper.

– Okay… No, not today … I’ll get a visitor. You know how it is…

– I know, Mr. Maxwell. An unexpected female visit. I understand – she threw a mischievous chuckle.

– Exactly. Woman visit – the handy woman saved him from the difficult task of finding out an excuse.

– Okay, I’ll be back on Monday – she said that and took the way back. Maxwell sighed in relief.