Proposta legislativa pró liberdade de opinião

 Não obstante nossa “total” liberdade de opinião, na imprensa e na internet, essa liberdade é teórica, fictícia — mesmo quando exercida sem abuso. Isso ocorre por causa de uma ameaçadora possível ação de “indenização por dano moral”, movida por quem errou, sabe que errou, continua errando mas pretende silenciar seus críticos — mesmo quando mentalmente honestos —, “usando” a Justiça para seu astuto objetivo. 

Espero que as entidades encarregadas da defesa da liberdade de expressão leiam este despretensioso texto, redigido em estilo coloquial, compreendendo que com a atual legislação — em um país atolado em milhões de processos demorados —, o receio de uma arrasadora condenação por “dano moral” paralisará a busca da verdade ou a tornará imensamente arriscada.

Friso que este artigo não ataca o demandante bem intencionado que realmente foi caluniado, ou difamado. Visa apenas os que utilizam o “medo financeiro” como forma de manter escondidos seus malfeitos.

Em toda ação judicial, deve estar presente a máxima genial de Voltaire que gosto de invocar: “A vantagem deve ser igual ao perigo”. Hoje, na ação por dano moral movida pelo poderoso contra o remediado — por exemplo um jornalista —, este pode perder todo o seu patrimônio, enquanto o risco patrimonial do poderoso é praticamente nenhum, “coisinhas”. Isso leva o poderoso a abusar de seu poder de intimidação econômica, forçando o jornalista a calar a boca porque, se não o fizer, poderá perder o pouco que tem.

O presente artigo sugere uma curta modificação legislativa, no processo civil, que funcionará como desestímulo para tais ações quando visam apenas intimidar o réu — jornal, jornalista, repórter, revista, rádio, televisão, blogs e opinião desfavorável de qualquer modo publicada. Ao mesmo tempo, essa lei, aqui sugerida, teria o bom efeito colateral de desestimular, na mídia, críticas desnecessariamente ácidas — até com obscenidades, dando uma péssima imagem do país, — com ofensas pessoais que aproveitam a oportunidade da crítica, talvez justa, para insultar e desmoralizar uma pessoa física ou jurídica. A tentação do abuso, tanto de um lado quanto do outro, é uma constante na história do Direito. 

O sofrimento apenas moral varia muito, conforme  a sensibilidade de cada um. Tais ações podem demorar vários anos — quanto mais, melhor para o autor, em certos casos, porque sua verdadeira intenção é calar o réu, que precisa ser silenciado “a qualquer custo!”. Um custo financeiro previsível para o autor da ação, mas imprevisível para o réu, pois não há uma tabela legal impondo limites máximos para indenizações por dano moral. A quantia em jogo é uma caixa misteriosa.

 Penso, até, que a legislação poderia fixar o limite máximo da condenação do réu nessas ações, mas com um parágrafo, de exceção, permitindo condenação indenizatória superior ao teto, se confirmado, nos autos, que o autor agiu com indiscutível má-fé, na certeza de que poderia insultar à vontade porque o juiz estaria impossibilitado de aplicar uma condenação alta, exemplar, acima da tabela. 

A propósito, diz a história, ou lenda, que na Roma antiga uma lei previa que um tapa da cara tinha como castigo uma pequena indenização de xis moedas de cobre, o sestércio. Apoiado nessa legislação, um ousado gaiato rico saía na rua, acompanhado de um escravo forte carregando um saco de moedas. Quando o excêntrico topava com alguma pessoa cuja cara não lhe agradava o maldoso a esbofeteava e seu escravo pagava, no ato, à própria vítima, a multa prevista em lei, que era modesta. Daí a minha sugestão de que se houver uma eventual fixação de teto para indenização do dano moral que a lei preveja também uma indenização alta, caso bem comprovado o permissivo abuso do poder econômico. 

Em algumas ações de indenização por dano moral, paradoxalmente — porque nas ações judiciais, é o autor quem tem pressa no término da demanda —, quanto mais tempo ela demorar, melhor para o criticado, autor, porque sua verdadeira intenção não é obter o dinheiro da indenização mas incutir medo paralisante — na alma e/ou no “bolso” — de quem apontou suas falhas. O réu sabe que o tema “dano moral” é, por natureza subjetivo, “escorregadio”, e os juízes variam muito na quantificação da dor moral. A sorte do réu vai depender, em muito, da distribuição do processo, ou do recurso.

É por causa da desigualdade de forças financeiras entre autor e réu que muitas investigações importantes, iniciadas por órgão de imprensa, somem do noticiário. A investigação, a “busca da verdade” contra um poderoso pode significar um pesadelo capaz de arruinar uma vida ou uma empresa.

Um “detalhezinho” jurídico-processual que facilita a intimidação de jornalistas e críticos em geral — mesmo quando mentalmente honestos — está na permissão de o Autor da ação dar à causa um valor mínimo, “simbólico”, como, por exemplo, R$1.000,00, frisando o Autor, na petição inicial, que deixa “a critério de Vossa Excelência” (o juiz cível) “fixar o valor da indenização”.  Esse “valor simbólico” representa uma enorme vantagem psicológica para o autor da ação, o criticado — quando mentalmente desonesto —, porque caso ele perca a demanda — algo bem previsível para ele —, sua condenação pela “sucumbência” (pagar honorários à parte contrária) será mínima, eis que a condenação dele não poderá exceder 20% do valor da causa. 20% de R$1.000,00 é R$200,00. Essa ridícula “condenação”, de duzentos reais em honorários, estimula sua prepotência, o uso “baratinho” da Justiça para silenciar, durante  muitos anos de demanda, quem revelou suas faltas.

Ocorre, no entanto, que como o valor da causa, dada pelo autor da ação, foi “simbólico”, esse baixo valor não proíbe o juiz — segundo a jurisprudência — de condenar o réu (o jornalista, p. ex.) a pagar uma altíssima indenização, sem valor previsível, caso entenda que a crítica ofendeu moralmente o autor. Enfim, o réu, mesmo ciente de que não fez nada errado, vê-se obrigado, por mera prudência, a sempre contestar a ação, mesmo com baixo “valor da causa”, contratando advogado e sofrendo um longo desgaste emocional. Nenhum jornalista previdente, p. ex., se absterá de contestar uma ação dessa natureza presumindo que, se condenado, a condenação será pequena. O juiz pode pensar diferente. Se o autor não contestar a ação será revel, “confesso”. Perde a ação por omissão.

É, portanto, de urgente necessidade moral e jurídica — tendo em vista que tais ações podem estender-se por muitos anos — que o legislador conceda ao réu — um jornalista, por exemplo — o direito de, quando citado em ação cobrando “danos morais’, apresentar “reconvenção”, pedindo contra o autor uma indenização, de igual valor ao pretendido pelo autor, também por dano moral, só pelo fato de estar sendo processado injustamente. Na sentença, o juiz decidirá, com base na prova, a boa e a má intenção do criticado e do crítico. Não tem cabimento, é injusto exigir que o jornalista seja obrigado a ser “fritado” vários anos, apenas se defendendo, aguardando o remoto trânsito em julgado de sua inocência para, só depois, poder processar quem o processou injustamente. Propõe-se aqui, em vez de duas ações, em sucessão, apenas uma, simultânea. 

Alguém poderá alegar que a lei agora proposta é desnecessária porque se o autor perder sua ação poderá ser condenado por “litigância de má-fé. Ocorre que os que frequentam o fórum sabem que, nessas ações, a condenação por “litigância de má-fé” do autor é raríssimamente aplicada tendo em vista que a sensibilidade moral é muito variável na sua ocorrência e medição. 

Se, com a legislação atual, um juiz admitir — por economia processual —, a utilização da reconvenção nessas ações de indenização por dano moral, essa decisão ensejará infindáveis e sutis discussões acadêmicas e judiciais, com o argumento de que a “mera” condição de Réu em ações desse tipo não representa um “sofrimento moral” já ocorrido, passado. “Seria necessário” — dirão os críticos da ideia — “um prolongado tempo de sofrimento do jornalista, após sua citação, para justificar o pedido do Réu”. Este teria — “tecnicamente” — que sofrer longamente para, só depois, muitos anos depois, transitada em julgado sua absolvição, ter o direito de pretender cobrar do Autor a mesma quantia pretendida pelo Autor que o intimidou financeiramente por longo período.

Ponha-se o leitor na pele de um jornalista que foi citado judicialmente para pagar, digamos, uma indenização de cinco milhões de reais, porque não comprovou uma falcatrua — ouvida de fonte confiável, em tese crível. Essa ameaça tira-lhe todo o estímulo para o jornalismo investigativo. E pode ocorrer que, devido a globalização, a ação por danos morais seja processada em país estrangeiro propenso a indenizações milionárias.

O jornalista Paulo Francis, por exemplo, na década de 1990, foi condenado, pela justiça americana, a pagar uma indenização de cem milhões de dólares por haver mencionado — em entrevista, divulgada também nos EUA —, que a diretoria de uma empresa estatal brasileira, teria desviado altas somas da empresa para contas particulares dos diretores, em banco suíço. Como Francis não comprovou em juízo esse desvio — o sigilo bancário era inviolável —, o jornalista foi condenado a pagar os cem milhões. Ele justificava-se, dizendo que ao fazer suas denúncias pensava que o governo brasileiro iria investigar o fato, supostamente ilícito, mas a investigação não ocorreu. Pelo que presumia a mídia, nos anos 1990, o enfarte do jornalista foi apressado com tal condenação.

 Não sei se Paulo Francis tinha, ou não, razão no que disse, mas de qualquer forma, é impossível escapar da insônia — do enfarte, ou do mesmo do câncer induzido por angústia — com tal espada sobre a nuca. Não tem cabimento impor tal sofrimento moral, por muitos anos, a qualquer réu que vive da escrita, para só depois de transitar em julgado sua absolvição ter ele, réu, o direito legal de requerer uma indenização por dano moral contra alguém que o processou sem razão, conforme reconhecida pela justiça. O dano moral, o sofrimento psíquico, começa a existir a partir do momento em que o jornalista é citado e prolonga-se enquanto o processo caminha lentamente, como uma máquina de moer neurônios, no processo de milhões em que só sofre o réu.

Por que não, repita-se, decidir as culpas recíprocas no mesmo processo? Se ficar provado, no conjunto da prova, que o jornalista abusou, que pague pelo abuso. Se ficou provado que não abusou, que receba do “ofendido” a mesma quantia que este lhe cobra. Justo, não? Quem ganhar, leva tudo. Se ambos erraram e também acertaram, que a justiça fixe a divisão da quantia em disputa, na medida e proporção do abuso de cada um. E tem mais: se o conflito em exame exigir dois processos, um após o outro, pode acontecer que a prova apresentada no segundo processo seja diferente da prova produzida no primeiro processo, acarretando uma contradição da justiça, abalando a confiança da comunidade.  

Há mais a ser modificado com essa futura lei. Ela exigirá que em toda ação de indenização por dano moral — seja qual for o motivo — o Autor será obrigado a mencionar expressamente, na petição inicial, o valor que pretende receber do Réu, não podendo deixar isso “o critério do juiz”, na sentença. Nada mais racional que cada ofendido quantifique, ele mesmo, monetariamente, o grau de seu sofrimento psíquico. Só ele é quem melhor pode revelar o grau de seu sentimento. Que assuma sua responsabilidade, e o risco processual da sucumbência. 

A menção obrigatória desse “quantum” pelo autor teria a vantagem de permitir a qualquer réu, quando demandado, abster-se de contestar a ação, quando o valor mencionado for mínimo, não justificando maiores gastos com sua defesa judicial. Como está hoje a legislação — ensejando ao Autor não quantificar o valor que pretende cobrar —, todo Réu sente-se forçado, por prudência, a contestar qualquer ação de danos morais, mesmo que a considere risível.

A lei a ser proposta também deveria ter a virtude “extra” de forçar maior urbanidade, ou compostura, nas críticas, impressas ou orais, antes e depois de proposta a ação, contra pessoas ou instituições. Isso porque, se os fatos criticados forem verdadeiros, mas o crítico aproveitou a oportunidade para enxovalhar, mesmo com algum  “brilhantismo”, a reputação do criticado e de sua família — muito além da intenção de apenas criticar um ato —, ele verá reduzida sua indenização.  Não pela sua crítica — na essência verdadeira —, mas pela forma abusiva, insultuosa, ou obscena, de se expressar.

Essa possível lei teria também um “efeito colateral” civilizador, educador. O direito de livre crítica, reconhecido mundialmente, foi concebido “para o bem”. Não como maldosa oportunidade para ofensas, verbais ou escritas, que estimulam imitadores, do pior nível imaginável, transformando a mídia em um bordel vocal, com insultos de baixíssimo calão, que estimularão novas ações judiciais, ou vinganças à bala. Quem insultar desnecessariamente a parte contrária, mesmo com o direito de receber uma indenização, ficará sabendo que o seu montante indenizatório será diminuído, na decisão, na proporção do exagero no insulto desnecessário. Analogamente, se a lei processual permite que o juiz, nas ações cíveis, pode mandar riscar, nos autos, os insultos incompatíveis com o decoro judicial, poderá também punir financeiramente os palavrões e ofensas equivalentes. Será útil, para a boa imagem do país no exterior, que políticos, economistas e “filósofos” de boca suja policiem seu linguajar, mesmo que façam isso só pensando no dinheiro, não por virtude.

Encerro, aqui, minha sugestão. Observo ao leitor que não escrevo para juristas, mas para pessoas em geral. Daí meu estilo coloquial.  Vou encaminhar esta proposta às entidades de defesa da liberdade de imprensa, as maiores interessadas no direito de informar o que ocorre no município, no estado, no país e no planeta. 

Desnecessário, de minha parte, apresentar agora um esboço de projeto de lei a respeito, pois há advogados e juristas do mais alto nível que podem fazer isso melhor do que eu, afastado que estou, há anos, da atividade forense.

FIM

Francisco Cesar Pinheiro Rodrigues
oripec@terra.com.br

Conheça meus livros na Amazon.com.br

Crimes, sovereignty and world government

 

 I have highly illustrious precursors, including Kant, when I never tire of insisting that, to an ever greater extent, nations need to renounce large portions of their sovereignty in favor of a global democratic federation, in order that the world may be less chaotic, unjust and self-destructive (see pollution). 

This is not “mere” idealism; utopian propensity; fanciful optimism (in the style of J. J. Rousseau, where man is born essentially good and subsequently corrupted by society); altruism and the like. Man is both good and evil, in varying proportions, according to genetic makeup, education (formal and informal), the cocktail of beatings and caresses received since childhood and assessment of the legal and social advantages or risks that surround his activities. If it is advantageous to be good, either here or in the afterlife, he is, even if basically not so. He dances according to the music being played. But that’s enough of generalizations; the reader has no time to waste. 

When a law student, I was highly impressed by the fact that a foreign citizen, duly sentenced by the courts of his country, was able to move freely about Brazil, make a Brazilian woman pregnant, father a son and, as a result, free himself from the threat of extradition and completing his sentence. It seemed to me to be the easiest and most enjoyable preventive “habeas corpus” in the world. At liberty thanks to a gratuitous, illiterate, but for all that extremely effective, unqualified attorney, the respected “Mr. Spermatozoid”. 

Ronald Biggs, an engaging Englishman, who took part in the multi-million pound Great Train Robbery of 1963, was one such case. After serving a few months of his prison sentence in the United Kingdom, he scaled the wall and fled to Australia. As he certainly did not feel safe in that country, which has strong ties with England, he ended up residing in Brazil, after becoming aware that several benevolent legal concessions exist here that are well-suited to his case. He became emotionally involved with a good-hearted nightclub dancer, made her pregnant and, as a result, guaranteed that he would be able to stay in the country. The British government sought his extradition, however, as Biggs’ son was his dependant (of course...), and no extradition treaty existed between the two countries (the old problem of sovereignties), the fugitive continued to live here for as long as he wanted. Free and (according the respective Wikipedia webpage) charging anyone who so desired sixty dollars to have lunch and a chat with a “celebrity”. According to information provided by the fugitive himself, his portion of the loot had been reduced to a minimal sum, as a result of attorney’s fees and other expenses related to his fight against returning to prison. Nevertheless, when his longing for his homeland became unsupportable, he returned to England and ended up being imprisoned. Now old, sick and debilitated, photos of him aroused compassion in those of a more sensitive disposition and inclined to pardon. 

What is interesting here (someone needs to write an academic thesis on this sociological phenomenon) is that a large portion of society, principally Rio society, even adulated him, considering his personal appeal and audacity for having participated in a robbery the current value of which is equivalent to more than one hundred million reals. “Success”, in any of its forms - political, economic, sporting, artistic or “congenially criminal” - legitimizes any kind of act. In the First World, male cinema artists, in order to reinforce their reputation as “tough guys”, liked to be seen at shows and restaurants in the company of high-ranking members of the Mafia. The affectation of adding an air of shadowy danger to their status. This occurred in the case of Frank Sinatra, Alain Delon and other inflamers of female hearts. A fictional English politician, feeling that he was being more than a little blackmailed by the person who was speaking to him, mentioned, wishing to impress, that he had contacts “in high places”. To which the other replied, with assurance, that he also had contacts, but “in low places”. This is something far more intimidating, as evil can be inflicted with the power and speed of a lightning bolt, without any bureaucratic hindrances. 

That which was mentioned regarding extradition only goes to show, in summary, that in the difficult harmonization of sovereignties, crime very often goes unpunished, or very nearly so. This, at least in theory, would not occur if there were a global federation or confederation, with worldwide jurisdiction. 

Another example facilitating impunity lies in the setbacks faced by state prosecutors when they are overruled or delayed in their attempts to recover large amounts of money deposited abroad. Given that the money can be transferred to another bank or even another country in a matter of seconds, with a simple mouse click on a computer, the diligent prosecutor almost always arrives too late with his petition for freezing deposits made by those availing themselves of public money. While the prosecutor studies the banking legislation of the country where the money is to be found - wrestling with a language in which he is not fluent - and once again prepares a request for its return, the money in question has already been sent to another bank. And so everything starts all over again. Even the private creditor of a millionaire debtor, who has financial resources scattered all over the world, cannot manage to make demands or even subpoena the important debtor, making his credit – even if judged to be without further recourse to appeal – a very nice sum without any real significance.

 Extraditions are subject to the influence of the international prestige of the countries involved. In the case of the Canadians who were arrested and sentenced for kidnapping a famous São Paulo businessman, the Canadian government managed to arrange that they be repatriated in order to serve their sentence in their own country, with probably benevolent consequences. If, however, a group of Brazilians were arrested, in Canada or the United States, after carrying out kidnappings, it is highly probable that the Brazilian government will not be able to extradite them. With Bush as president, it would certainly not be possible. 

Even horrendous homicides end up being almost unpunished as result of this “excess” of sovereignty, with each country living in its own isolated world – pure political schizophrenia. 

Look at the 1981 case of the Japanese Issei Sagawa, who, in Paris, killed and “raped” (in fact, he technically violated a corpse) an attractive female Dutch student, a colleague of his at Université Censier in the city. He did this because the Dutch girl (who assisted him with translations at the time, in his apartment), refused his advances full of passion and libido. Issei, who has the appearance of a somewhat developed dwarf with a large head (I’ve seen a photo of him), was 1.48 m tall and weighed 44 kilos, very much less than the Dutch girl. The girl, seeing him as only a colleague, ordered him to concentrate on the work they were doing. The Japanese got up, took a 0.22 caliber rifle out of a cupboard behind the girl, and shot her in the back of the neck. Following this, he had sex with the cadaver and then cut off the lips, nose, breasts and private parts, storing them in the freezer of his refrigerator for future consumption. And he actually ate a large part of this flesh prior to being arrested. He had this strange compulsion, associating the sex act with the act of eating. The case in question is briefly described in the book written by Canadian writer Max Haines, in Book V of his series entitled “True Crime Stories”. The story appears on page 121, in the chapter “Fantasies Turn to Cannibalism”. It’s a pity that this series has not been translated into Portuguese. 

After cutting up the girl’s body, the accused placed these mortal remains in two suitcases, which he transported by taxi. He intended to throw their macabre contents into a nearby lake. In the street, on leaving the taxi, he noted that people were looking with mistrust at that small Japanese figure dragging two suitcases that were much too heavy for him. Startled, he abandoned the suitcases on the sidewalk, thinking that there was no evidence of him being linked to the homicide. The police only found him because, on reading the newspaper headlines, the taxi driver remembered this strange oriental man and took the initiative of informing the authorities. 

Following the gathering of irrefutable evidence against him (found in his small apartment, principally in the refrigerator), Issei confessed to the crime but was considered to be crazy and not responsible for his actions, even though he was a cultured and intelligent man. He was fluent in German and French, present in France for his doctorate degree in Japanese influence on French literature. The judge determine that he be committed to a psychiatric institution. 

Issei was the son of a rich Japanese industrialist. After spending three years in an asylum, his father managed to arrange for his extradition to Japan, under the condition that he remain confined in a sanatorium for the mentally sick. However, following 15 months of internment, he was discharged. The Japanese doctors concluded that he was normal. France could do nothing as each country has its own sovereignty. And, after all, what does being “crazy” really signify? 

After his release (according to Max Haines), Issei Sagawa wrote several books on his favorite topic - cannibalism. It is likely that the victim’s family (whose name I will not mention here, out of respect for the suffering of others) does not have a very high opinion of either the seriousness of Psychiatry as a profession or those intimate with the pompous word “sovereignty”, generally pronounced in a solemn tone of voice. 

On the other hand, the family of Issei likely thought that everyone deserves a second chance. After all, the Japanese guy spent four and a half in asylums for the mentally sick as someone “normal” according to the psychiatrists of his country. In all certainty, there will be those that think Issei became crazy as a result of unrequited love. Someone once said that “Man is the fire, woman the tow, and the Devil comes and fans the flames.” 

Note: The present long tale
— or is it a short novel?
—is part of the e-boo 
“Tragedy on the Greek Island”
Marketed -  by Amazon.com

 

The cockroaches will inherit the Earth (a fable)

 

Written, in Portuguese, by Francisco C. P. Rodrigues, Brazilian author.

Two cockroaches a male and a female, a respected couple, talk in their language in the sewage, while they nibble rotten remains of food. His name is Glutof and hers is Kiti.

“Why such enthusiasm?” asks the husband, suspiciously. He is skeptical, solemn, hard-shelled, cult, repulsive, with the eyes of a serious-minded owl. A very well fed glutton, he resembles a dark and obese date, gifted with slim but sturdy and hairy legs – or whatever is the right name for its bristles. Fortunately, Glutof does not put on any weight on his small thighs, which allows him to spring at an incredible speed in moments of danger, particularly when hunted by the damned triad of men, rats and cats. The latter are revellers who kill just for fun, since they actually don’t chew their victims. They just feel too disgusted.

Glutof is proud of his brown, rather black brightness of his wings which he can frill with tremendous success, causing screaming and fainting amongst the opposite sex. Although fat he is a womanizer, or “cockroachizer”, a word he intends to include in the first dictionary of the language for cockroaches, still in its early stage and with him as a coordinator. He likes very much to philosophize and enjoys himself with the nonsense of his peers, almost all of them dumb, when compared to him. A genetic mutation had occurred, characterized by greater longevity and a larger size of the brain. But not all cockroaches have benefited with the increase of intelligence. By the way, this is also a human problem, though way older.

“You, critical and conceited as usual!” Kiti protests. “What a terrible obsession you have of diminishing me and spoiling all my fun! It isn’t enthusiasm, goddamn! I was simply dismayed or rather, horrified – is that good for you? – to watch the loathsome cleanliness of the new restaurant around the corner, that huge one. I managed to get in there only once, under the door, on the inauguration eve, and I peeped. Last night, after the inauguration, I tried to go back, to pinch a few things, sneaking through the corners, but I really got scared. Too busy. The only crack that could help me get in had already been closed. The measures taken by the scoundrels to keep us away were perfect. Entrance, only through the front door but with the risk of being squashed by the doorman’s shoe sole.”

“I still think you look rather euphoric, almost satisfied, unconsciously approving the abominable cleanliness”, insisted the husband, a theoretical much respected for his zeal in the protection of the everlasting values of filth. He interrupted the sequence of little sucks on the moldy bread and snapped his lips to sip from a little cup of mucus, dripped from a nursing home for elderly paupers.

“It’s just that I, although disapproving of course, any kind of cleanliness – what do you think I am, huh? – I like to see things well done. You know that I’ve always been a perfectionist…”

“Relatively”, interrupted the husband “at home, you take it easy. There are still many things to clean here and there… the cleanliness is becoming unbearable. You are not such a good housewife; pardon me for my frankness…”

“But you do not cooperate, either!”, she raised her squeaky voice indignantly, flapping her antennae. “You just stand there, in that old lawyer’s office, the landlord, nibbling old greasy books, bought in second-hand shops. You, my dear, you are addicted to salt and old human grease”.

“It’s you who can’t see an inch beyond your nose. It is not just gluttony, my dear. I study. My idleness is misleading. Well, indeed, it’s true that I also enjoy eating. However, I study as much as I eat. Oh! This is worth a pun”, he smiled, pleased with the finding: “And how I do read! (Exclamation). Above all, I relish slowly, tasting not only the grease from the fingers of Adam’s decadent offspring, but also the abstract side, the printed ideas themselves. This in order not to walk around speaking rubbish, as many of our hard-shelled and slender legged brothers. One day we will inherit the Earth…remember the prophecy? I have read that if a nuclear conflict takes place, only we will remain alive. We will be well protected down here, whereas the biped scoundrels toast up there, deservedly. Can you imagine the binge afterwards? Everything will be ours….from litter to computers…”

“Well, if there is time to run down here. If you are at the library when the ‘Big Boom’ happens – as you will probably be, since you are addicted to greasy books – then you won’t inherit anything at all! You will be just one more toasted date. Besides, to which atomic war do you refer? The only two giants that could do us a favour have patched it up! It is all demoralized now! The Russian chief, that blond heart-sufferer bear (she meant Boris Yeltsin) with Mongolian slanted eyes – his mother must have had a Japanese neighbour way more handsome than her own husband – has turned into a capitalist! Instead of using his plump fingers to push the missiles’ launching button, he has fun in pinching his secretary! It is disheartening…”

“Don’t lose your hope, Kiti”. She is gracious, with long eyelashes and with a brain full of crazy and right intuitions, all mixed up. A hottie, she is basically just pheromones and reproductive organs. She has the fame of being frivolous, but up to now no one has ever had the courage to bear witness against her, because she is influential and vengeful. The owl face intellectual, already on his fifth marriage proceeds, academically: “Parodying what an American businessman has already said, no one up to now, has ever lost money when betting on the stupidity of bragging state leaders. Or rather, in the stupidity of human species altogether without any exception, who claim to be so rational, spiritual. We, who know them well, and eat everything they throw away, we know what they really are deep inside. Especially deep inside…

He made a pause to nibble a piece of a rotten banana and continued erudite, pleased to hear the voice he knew so well how to modulate with so much authority:

“Fortunately, the so called emerging powers are just concerned with mastering the atom, scaring their neighbours. Therefore do not get disheartened. One day, they will be making atomic bombs in their backyard. Our turn will come, Kiti. I have always believed that our ideals of justice and supremacy will end up prevailing. The power of empires goes up and down, just like a seesaw. It is written in the history books that I lick – I mean – I read. Power shifts hands. I feel it in the air, especially in the polluted air – this pleasant and perfumed aerial garbage – the signs that our turn is coming! The current system of domination is utterly unfair! Any human being, smart or dumb, as soon as he sees us eat a meager crumb on the kitchen floor – even when we are on the verge of inanition – instantly opens his eyes wide like a mad exterminator and runs towards us, with his paws up. Why such prejudice? After all, we are cleaning their kitchens, without even charging! They would save up a lot without house maids! We could all get along so well, in harmony! At night, the humans would spread their dirty clothes on the floor, go to sleep naked, and we would invade the house, eating all the digestible dirtiness left on cups, bodies, dishes and cutlery. Clothes would be instantly “dry cleaned”. We would lick everyone in the house, sparing them the morning shower. Great savings! They would wake up thoroughly clean! But instead all the beasts do is crush us!”

“What if we set up an underwear “rodízio” (rodízio is a kind of Brazilian restaurant service, where the guest is served a new dish, as soon as he is done with the previous one)? We could make some money out of it…” Kiti proposes her eyes gleaming, always mindful to get some profit out of any idea. She considers herself a great entrepreneur.

“Well, you would be in charge of it. I do not enjoy involving myself with money issues…I feel as if I would lose my dignity.”

“It is all fine with these theories of yours. You know I don’t make a fuss about these readings. I personally only enjoy fast readings, but I would like to know how we are going to eat, in case a nuclear war breaks up. Wouldn’t the supplies be contaminated by radiation?”

“Oh, well…” he sounded surprised. He had never thought about that. He labeled his wife’s bouts of good sense as ‘sparks from the horseshoe’, as once a famous Brazilian critic had said. But he did not admit he was wrong. “Indeed, of course, hum, in fact, I had already thought about that… for a time, which our experts would determine, we would not eat what is on the surface. We have, in the sewage a gigantic and delicious natural supermarket stock, all of it ready and seasoned for our consumption. Therefore, we would only have to wait – it would be just a matter of waiting for a while in the sewage, until the level of radioactivity decreases”. He made a pause again to lick, snapping his lips, a kind of chocolate mousse extracted from a white piece of paper, square and of soft texture, and concluded:

“That would be the glory! As if we were now in Cambodia …”

“Why Cambodia?”

“Because there has been a succulent civil war in Cambodia, which lasted 25 years. During this period, between 6 and 10 million land mines were planted. The result is that now, every month, between two and three hundred people ‘go into the air’ in Cambodia; and not with airliners. It is the country that – though tiny – has the highest rate of amputations in the world. We must agree, it is an earthly paradise! If there were tourism amongst our species… wow, could you imagine that? Yummy….just the thought of it makes my mouth water! … And the flame-thrower? We could even choose between rare, medium and well done meat”

“There you go with your polyglot exhibitionism…”

“And the experts say it will be necessary about three hundred years to find and disarm all the mines.”

“Why did they plant so many bombs? Wouldn’t a more traditional kind of agriculture be possible?”

“Kiti…You need to read more carefully. No one plants bombs, my darling. They place explosives in the ground! Each rival group, while withdrawing, would spread the mines to … I mean, to wound (he did not approve of dirty language in the mouth of great leaders) his rival group. And since there were many comings and goings in the continuing skirmishes, losing and regaining territories, the result is that the country turned into a vast butcher’s shop, supplying legs, heads and arms in retail. To us, a paradise, because we are very light and we can walk over mines without detonating them. Our Cambodian cousins, those lucky ones, have blood and fresh meat at hand, at all times. It is even causing damage to their liver now, they say, due to excess of iron in their nutrition. It’s just like drunkenness; it gives you that big headache the next day. The ‘very intelligent’ humans, ha! ha!” He laughed, raising his eyebrows, frilling his wings in disdain. “Never thought that one day, the firing would end? Have they forgotten that old definition that they are ‘featherless bipeds’? Since they can’t fly, they tread…and as they tread, they fly.”

“I’ve heard that a horrible little English princess – I think her name was Lady Di– had been campaigning for the ban of land mines. Do you think this misfortune will come upon us as well?”

“Unfortunately she is dead now.”

“Unfortunately?” Kiti opened her wings, surprised. “What is wrong with you? It is a good thing that she died, because this disgusting campaign stopped.”

“You have no vision, Kiti…I say unfortunately because with her death the press started to venerate her, therefore strengthening what she had campaigned for. I’d rather have her alive, only pestering… Alive, she would be less threatening to our cause. They harassed the infamous princess for years and years, keeping an eye on her, taking pictures of her from a distance, criticizing and gossiping all the time. On account of her they had even wanted the fall of the monarchy. Now the wicked reformer died and there you go! They made her a goddess! And here lies the danger for us! Henceforth, in a crisis of consciousness – such a sickening thing among humans – and above all to sell more magazines, the media wants to put into practice her ideas. This is how it works with human beings. It is only after the person is dead – no longer arousing envy on others and also because she is rotting – she is given the right value. All I hope for is that the little English princess, uglier than hygiene – and I’ve heard humans saying seriously, the opposite – does not have posthumous success in her absurd campaign to ban land mines. But even if there isn’t a nuclear war, they will die anyway, only slower, cooked in the slow fire of the greenhouse effect or poisoned by carbonic gas. They are too dumb and ambitious to stop in time.”

“Will we be like that one day too, I mean, with these character flaws like the human beings?”

“Probably…” Glutof sighed. “I’m sorry to inform…But this is the price of civilization”. He felt proud of his statesman’s coldness. “Unless we create a new Ethic, on which I have been working for years, with the deepness everyone can see. To begin with, we need to invent a reinforcement of coercion, a cockroach-god in our image and similarity: hard-shelled, with large antennae, powerful and vengeful. To a chief, president or director, not everyone is bound to obey. But a cockroach-god, with real power over life and death, the planetary cockroaches will fear…and obey. I will talk in private to him – my own self, of course – once a week on the rooftop of a tall building”, he smiled, ironically, closing his owl’s eyes “and then I will transmit to our people the message that only I heard. What do you think about the idea?”

“And do you think our people will believe it, in this divine private colloquium? Our people are more suspicious than the humans, because they have suffered much…”

“They will believe, because it’s good for the soul to believe. One always believes in what one wants to.”

“But do you believe it yourself?”

“Of course not. However, no one will ever be able to prove that I don’t believe it. Unless you open your pretty little mouth, of course; but in that case you know what awaits you. I only sell a truly necessary product. Hope, as long as there is fear in the heart of the cockroaches. It’s mere business. And speaking of fear, the human race is sinking exactly by lack of fear. Their trend right now, the ‘must’, is the deep understanding of the motivation of human actions. The idiots want to ‘understand’, mind you…. Result: they have concluded for example, that it is of no use filling up jails, because jails recover no one. Of course it doesn’t! But does impunity recover him, by any chance? They walk around, like dizzy cockroaches – oops! I meant dizzy humans – not knowing what to do. And rascally they find a way of reconciling an old wish of drawing back from circulation the detestable thief, while at the same time they can praise themselves, saying that they are doing him a great favour, by ‘reeducating him’. Me, once I’m in command of this junk, I already know how I will solve the problem: immediate death penalty to all cockroaches who commit a serious crime. This will indeed be an example. We won’t spend money and time on processes, paper, prisons and specially food. For small infractions we torture the guy, by keeping him in a sickly clean place for a few days. To him it will be like death! He will never want to make any wrongdoing ever again. Otherwise he returns to the cleanliness.”

“My goodness! How much finesse! When you want it, you can be really mean… maybe it would be better to just kill all at once….But how would we kill the most perverted criminals, since we have neither weapons, nor teeth or even hands?”

“We would train rats. They are clever, but dumb. There is a great difference between cleverness and intelligence. All they think about is gnawing and fornication. Unless they also suffer a mutation like ours. Then we will be damned because they have a bigger brain…and teeth…. By the way, I have already instructed our staff to inform me about any radioactive material found in the sewage. We will immediately isolate the area because with radiation, anything could happen. If rats become like us, well, goodbye to our future millennium of glories! They would be the ones who will substitute men in the dominance of Earth.”

“But back to the new restaurant around the corner, you should see the cleanliness of the kitchen! All sparkling! Not even a little dirt capable of…”

“Stop it! Stop it!” He interrupted her, shouting, tapping, shaking, rude, crumbling and throwing away the chocolate-stained toilet paper. “I can’t stand this dirty talk of yours any longer, right at meal time! Do you want to make me throw up?”

“Geez…Did you need to yell like this? Are you disgusted by the cleanliness? What a delicate sensibility…you sound just like a little girl…”

“Hey, you watch your tongue”, his antennae were vibrating with indignation. He had never beaten his wife, but he was about to do it.

Kiti did not get intimidated: “By reading too many human books you’re throwing a poet’s tantrum, all too delicate, sensitive as an ivory tower. Watch out, huh…I know one that became a sissy…”

“What kind of books would you like me to read, you silly? Do cockroaches have publishing houses and printing industry? Now we are smart, of course – so much that the humans don’t even suspect, because we mask it up – but we have to, for the time being, draw the available culture, the one from the humans, until we can elaborate our own, which will be, of course much superior.”

“I said that to upset you….Because you were rude to me.” With her two big antennae, especially gracious on her, she stroke Glutof’s antennae, smoothing them, while at the same time she emitted pheromones that turned him on. But he controlled himself because he found it dangerous to have sex right after sumptuous meals.

“Sweetie…” she asked, tenderly, “why do you read so much? Don’t you think your exaggerate? It can damage your eyesight… And we don’t have yet ophthalmologists among us. Speaking of it, I think you would look neat wearing turtle glasses. A more intellectual look is just impossible. You’re my mouldy bread, my over a year expired ‘doce de coco’ (a kind of Brazilian coconut sweet). There are many hard-shelled scamps out there envying me, you think I don’t know it?”

“I read because in case of a global cataclysm I want to be prepared to organize our species toward the new millennium. We, cockroaches, will not repeat the same human mistakes.”

“What mistakes, my darling? Excuse me, but with or without mistakes, they are on top…They are millenniums ahead of us. Our genetic mutation - thanks to the blessed radioactive dirt that they throw anywhere – is too recent. Humans smash us left and right. Or poison us with those deadly spouts. The other day I almost died, I told you, didn’t I? You would be almost talking to a ghost now. I think I even have remaining sequels. I haven’t been the same; a weird sensation in my lower womb…The housewife, a promiscuous despicable – probably coming back from revelry since she had huge rings round her eyes – as soon as she turned on the kitchen’s light and saw me there, right in the middle, dizzy because of the brightness; she ran to fetch a tube of insecticide. The cruel woman didn’t want to mess her rich shoe sole. At this moment I shot in circles, like a busca-pé [busca = seek +pé = foot (a sort of firework in Brazil, which creeps between the feet, when ignited in a party)] until I remembered that the best would be to escape underneath the door that leads to the backyard. Meanwhile, the killer beast while panting, whirling, and afraid that I would climb on her, tapped a warrior dance, trying to spout the insecticide towards me. Fortunately, it barely hit me, but nevertheless, just with the fog, right away I felt terrible colic. I think I had an abortion…It came out all mixed up. They don’t make mistakes, my dear. The world is theirs; no matter what we do…Up to this day I still regret not having climbed up her legs, up to the end. I would give carefully give a little bite right there. I assure you that the vagabond would faint out of fear!”

“When I talk about making mistakes, Kiti, I’m referring to the human behaviour towards their own fellow humans. They will eliminate themselves, be it by bombing, pollution, or criminality in the streets. We do not need to interfere. One should only wait. In Algeria, some fanatics – who won but did not partake in an election – are beheading hundreds of people in the most remote villages. Victims, including children, who by no means have contributed to the political illegality. They also rape young women. And they kill with axes. Our Algerian cousins are the ones who delight themselves on these evil humans, our forerunners.

“Regarding us”, Glutof proceeded, as he felt specially inspired, “and also the rats, for example – these resistant scoundrels, very clever but short sighted, who also attack us when starving – they, the humans, are very efficient….Well, partly efficient, because I have heard that in the Pentagon building there once was a plague of thousands of American cockroaches, right there, face to face, excellent computer warriors, as they are. Yes humans know how to kill but, fortunately for us, they hate themselves mutually. They love each other during small intervals in life; but, once thwarted, they hate each other. One needs only to disagree and is right away damned. Father hates son and vice-versa. It is amazing.

“Excuse me, but I don’t find it quite so…”, Kiti felt a subtle pleasure every time she found a flaw in Glutof’s arguments. “Some human beings are not aggressive, not even with us. Last week, I and about fifty friends were down on the sewage system’s roof, gossiping, when a worker, from the public system, descended there through a small ladder. Seeing us, just a few centimeters away from his head, he shouted over to his colleagues, who were just above, at road level: ‘Everything is fine, guys! There’s no danger!’And he started working on the sewage pipe, without causing us any damage whatsoever. A saint, an exception. I was touched… I almost flew to his lips to give him a kiss…. Really, humans are astonishing… they are not always evil.”

Glutof smiled, amused with his partner’s candor. “So the pretty girl thought that the man spared you because he liked you? None of that, my darling. He let you alive because the fact that there are cockroaches in the sewage pipe means that there are no toxic gases around. Exactly when there are no cockroaches there lies the danger. If there are, they can work without fear. They only spare us when we’re useful, got it?”

“My God! They do nothing without a selfish motive.” Disconcerted, Kiti scratched her right armpit, as she always did, when she felt ridiculed. “How you know it all, sweetie… Why don’t you, with all this knowledge, organize a mass attack against humans? They are frightful. They eat a lot and have a calm life. I have seen a big man jump like a monkey, panicky, just because there were two cockroaches in his shirt, which he dressed in the dark. Or just because an innocent colleague of ours flew and casually got into an old man’s mouth. He was practicing respiratory exercises, making a deep inhalation movement. It was indeed the death kiss. The poor little thing was spat as if she was a disgusting thing and…crumbled! The scariest of all is that the old man afterwards went off to pray! Can you imagine that?”

“I know that humans are chickens, but they have the technology of death. In a war, we would be defeated. We would only win a few initial skirmishes, by giving them only a few frights. Flying, for example, into their eyes, or into their mouths, or hiding ourselves in the underwear of a few big shots, vibrating our wings near their …. you know where …but that would be all…frights, little things. At most a few infarcts, because these big shots, full of power, pizza, lasagna and ‘filet mignon’ (prime beef) have their tubes – what is the name of it, again? Oh yes, arteries! – Altogether full of fat. Nature was a stepmother for us. We do not even have stingers. If only a mutation towards this was possible….But they occur without any control. Now we do have intelligence, but you have noticed that not everyone has it. We are really far from being able to manipulate genetic engineering. Without hands, little beings that we are, what could we do meanwhile? Just think and organize ourselves. And hope they kill each other, which is almost certain.

 “But, my darling, some of them are terrorists, blow themselves up with bombs. They seem idealists.”

“Right, right…but only the silly ones…

“Darling, you talk so much that I get dizzy. I am worried with time…Don’t you think we should be going home right now? Soon the rats will wake up…

“Well, I am starting to feel tired. O. K. Let’s  go home.  

Entwined, they slowly walked towards the hole down the house’s sink in which they lived. They did not notice that two big famished rats, with evil eyes, were coming right behind them, on their tiptoes, their mouths already watering for the ‘dates’ which they considered as good as eaten.

Kiti, lighter and less greedy, miraculously escaped the attack, but lost two of her legs, an antenna and a wing. She cried, mourning the next day at her husband’s funeral. Or rather, at the two little hairy thighs and one wing’s funeral – all that was left from “Glutof, the Rescuer”, the great leader who had already joined history.

But she was pregnant, and soon, very soon, all those projects of heroes, still dormant in their eggs, would be born, replacing their father in the heroic creation of a new civilization.

(This fable was written some years ago. So it refers to Boris Yeltsin and other facts more mentioned at that time)

THE END

 

Autopsy

 

The alarm clock rang at five-fifteen in the morning. Roland, a criminalist by profession and some sort of a stunt writer switches on the reading lamp and glances at his wife, who had already woken up but lies motionless, her eyes closed. Suffering from insomnia lately, she usually sleeps until late.

She did not intend to get up while it’s still dark but vaguely remembering something her husband had said about waking up early, she asks: — Why are you are leaving so early?

— Witness an autopsy. It’s got to be today; it’s already been agreed. As I am a writer from the realism school, I want to see it in person. Imagination is not enough. I need it for my next chapter.

— Do you already know whom they are going to autopsy?

— No. I intend to see two dissections. One male and one female. I am still not sure whether in my story I'm going to dismember a male or female. — Roland sometimes, playfully uses dark humour, precisely because the wife does not approve his literary style and she makes it quite clear. She thinks he does not have to be so conspicuous to attract readers.

— Are you sure the public enjoys these barbarities?

— In general, the male audience likes it, but it is necessary to be stylish, injecting a bit of philosophy into the butcher shop.

— Wouldn't it be an emotional imbalance for these readers?

— Everyone is more or less imbalanced, dear. Some psychiatrists for example are much more ‘’nuts’’ than the regular person.  The danger lies in the fact that anyone who dares speak up can be framed in an academic abnormality. If, on the other hand, he is too reserved, there is something fishy... A “very straightforward” mate would reveal, for this reason alone, a condition to be investigated. 

An hour later Roland steps into the morgue. He asks an employee the whereabouts of Dr. Moraes' office, his friend and former client. Without his permission, he could not attend the examination. The authorization had already been granted. Minutes later the doctor shows up.

— Hey there, come in, come in… Our Brazilian Zola… — cries out Dr. Moraes, good-humoured, round face, stocky body, white metal glasses. — Watching the Academy, huh? Have you bought the uniform?

— The gown would get into my way; strip me from my freedom. I, to impress academics, must touch up everything I write — replied Roland shaking his hand. — How’s it? I am ready for the massacre.

— What kind of autopsy do you want to watch?

— What do you mean? Are there differences?

— Of course, it depends on the purpose. Well, if there is no specification, I choose. Well ... You will watch the necropsies of two people who died without medical assistance. These are usually people without resources. For burial purposes it is necessary to check the "causa mortis", when the cause of death is unknown. Whether it was violent, a suicide, a necropsy is also required.

— Any death will do for me. The whole body, of course. I need the details.

— Necropsies are made in another sector, not far from here.

— You do not say autopsy. You say necropsy. Is "autopsy" wrong?

— I think it is more appropriate to say necropsy. “Autopsy,” from the Greek, would strictly be a self-examination. Necropsy would be the examination of a body, but this issue of appropriate names is irrelevant.

Walking briskly trying to keep up with the doctor’s pace Roland smelled formalin and other odours he could not identify. He heard some yelps.

— Looks like dogs yelping. Am I right?

— Yeah. Medical students doing experiments.

— Painful? Asked Roland, penalized.

—Sometimes. They try to anesthetize first.

 They stopped in front of a glass door.

— "You mean you’ve never seen an autopsy?" Won't you feel bad, pass out?

— I don’t think so. I am a cold person. If I feel sick or noxious, I’ll step outside.

— Just a warning: once inside do not lean against anything. The corpses may have a contagious disease and you would take the pathogens along with you. I strongly advise you to stick your hands into your pockets.

Roland accepted the suggestion and they both stepped into the large room.

Next to the entrance, on the left side, there was a table and onto it three small bodies. Very young children. Two dark and one white. They had a huge cut from the neck down to the pubis, but the cut had already been sewn. Even if they were dressed and lying in a bed, they would not look like children sleeping. Death had left its mark on the eyes, albeit closed. The small bow legs were a sign of rickets. That itself would awaken a feeling of loss and abandonment.

To the right of the door is a row of tables with small wheels. On top of each table, a corpse. Some, with their faces covered. The closest to Roland, the face uncovered, is a dark-haired boy, twenty-five years old, bearded, with a narrow face, a thin body, thus presumed despite being covered with a sheet up to his neck. His face resembles the usual depiction of a light-skinned European Christ. Tall, his thin yellow feet protrude far beyond the sheet covering him, generally made for people of average height.

The neighbouring table is occupied by the corpse of a burly man in his 40s.  Puffy face and an angry man's expression.

           — Excuse me, asks a male nurse, standing between Roland and the corpse of the hard-faced man. He pushes the wheeled table until it is parallel to the autopsy table, which is about three meters long, more or less. On the side where the corpse feet are, there is a stainless steel sink built into the table itself. In this sink, the organs are washed, cut and sliced ​​for examination.

The corpse is transferred with some brutality - practical, routine - from the sliding table to the fixed table, without the slightest "deference" to the human being though dead, as if dealing with a large bag of potatoes. Since the man is very heavy, the two male nurses had to work hard, coordinated - “Let's go together: one, two, three, now!” - to transfer it from the table, one holding the feet and the other, stronger, taking charge of the trunk. Because of the removal effort, the heavy corpse was practically rolled onto the autopsy table, almost falling on the other side.

The dead man's arms were stiff and bent, as if in a defensive position, in a boxing game. In such position, it would be impossible for the nurse to work on the chest and head. It was therefore necessary to stretch the arms of the deceased combative mature man. Roland, always imaginative, involuntarily thought: - "Our white Mike Tyson would not agree ..."

Sure enough. Indeed, it was hard to ward the deceased off, due to the cadaverous rigidity. One of the nurses, the skinniest, tried to stretch his right arm, giving it a tug. With no success, he tries harder, his right hand holding the dead man's right hand. They seemed, for Roland, to be engaged in an "arm wrestling contest". The first result was an honourable draw for the deceased, who certainly had been a very strong man.

Not wanting to embarrass the visitor, the skinny nurse, as if guessing Roland's imagination, took a quick look at the writer and used both hands to stretch the stiff arm. Roland, an addict of fiction, immediately imagined the protest of the dead man: "That’s not fair! I'm going to bite this bastard's ear!" Whether or not fair, the living human throwing all his weight, almost suspended in mid-air, won the struggle stretching the dead man’s arm while the other nurse held on the other side of the corpse, preventing it from moving away from the right position.

Thus duly with the arms stretched out, the nurse who was in charge of the head tucked a block of wood, like a wedge, under the back of the corpse, who was standing now with the chest high and the head dropped back. Then he took a large kitchen knife and sharpened the blade on a long knife sharpener. He set the sharpener aside and began to cut into the scalp, starting the operation behind one ear. 

He made a very straight cut, cutting deep, with small movements of the knife back and forth, so that the blade edge reached the skull bone. He kept on working, until he reached behind the other ear. He dropped the knife and dug his nails into the cut. He gripped one of the sides tightly and started pulling the scalp towards his forehead.

The scalp was very tight; it did not come off easily. It popped up "tack, tack" in a row. When the resistance was stronger, the nurse helped cut the holding tissue with the knife, cutting the remaining links underneath. So, he did, until the scalp, inside out, reached the mouth of the deceased.

Thus, the sight became unbearable. Since the hair was not short, it looked as if the deceased was bearded — which was not the case — and had part of the face covered by a mask of raw flesh obviously covering the eyes.

Until that moment, Roland had managed to hold on. He was swallowing hard. His Adam's apple rose and fell. It was necessary to employ all his resistance when the nurse picked up a bow saw and started sawing horizontally the forehead producing a lid. The partially bare and bloody forehead, sawed without the least hesitation, was a view, which only did not make Roland vomit because he always had an enormous difficulty in vomiting.

The nurse sawed the skull completely, marking a large cap. Moreover, the brains, which were close to the skull, were cut.

After using the fine saw, the nurse tried to separate the cap with the unique movement of his hand. He dug his nails into the crevice of the bones, as he had done before with his scalp, but he did not succeed. Maybe because there was not room enough to insert his nails.

Everything was routine for the nurse. He picked up a chisel and hammer. He placed the chisel blade in the slit on the forehead and tapped the other end with the hammer, easily forcing the edges to separate. He put the chisel aside and, with his nails well positioned on the edge of the bone, separated the cap, which came out with a good portion of the brain.

Using both hands, the nurse carefully removed the viscous brain, which made "cloft, cloft", when detaching itself from the skull.

By then the other nurse had already opened the belly, from the breastbone to the pubis. Roland had not even seen him make the large longitudinal cut in the abdomen, so impressed he was with what was happening in the head of the corpse. When he looked away from the capless head, the chest was already open. The second nurse, equipped with special scissors, with short and curved blades, was busy cutting the protection bones of the chest in order to extract and examine the heart and other organs.

The same nurse — or was it another one? Roland was already a little groggy from the carnage — turned over the green intestines and pulled out the liver, which was placed near the sink, after which it was washed and sliced. The nurse cut and examined the colour of the slices, exchanging a few words with the doctor, who took notes.

Then he took the brain his colleague had given him and proceeded to cut it, also into slices.

While this nurse examined the slices of the organs, the other took a handful of sawdust, which was in an open bag, next to the table, and filled the void of the skull. He replaced the bone cap on his head and pulled the scalp back. The cranial bone was covered again, presentable.

— Now he has become "brainless" — joked the doctor who had lost all sensitivity to spectacles of this nature.

Roland, seeing the dead man's half-open mouth, asked:

— His tongue is very dark, don't you think? Does death darken the tongue?

— Eh? Muttered the nurse, curious. He forced the jaw down, opening the deceased's mouth wide. Not satisfied, wanting a better examination, he gripped the tongue tightly and pulled it out as far as he could.

— Ain’t nothing wrong - he concluded, examining it. - That's about it" he said, looking at the tongue, which almost resembled a cow's tongue, only less bulky. Satisfied with the inspection, he pushed the tongue back, shutting the mouth of the deceased. Then, he started sewing the scalp, using a kind of shoemaker's needle. In this job, he brusquely moved the head of the deceased, paying little attention to the indignant face of the bully who either in heaven or in purgatory — Roland wondered — would be boiling with such disrespect. At certain times according to the needs of his job he pushed the cheeks from one side to another. According to the position, the dead man's expression seemed even angrier at such insults, as if his face was being slapped.

The nurses, very experienced, were well synchronized in their tasks. While the one on the head was grotesquely sewing the scalp, the other was quickly removing blood by the ladle from the abdominal cavity and throwing the organs back — liver, intestines, pancreas, etc. The brain was also thrown into the belly. Roland could not help but imagine the amount of work that this citizen was inducing in Doomsday with the dead coming out of their tombs. To judge souls it would be necessary to examine their bellies. Like many people he knew.

The belly was also sewn quickly, with a little sawdust inside to absorb the remaining blood.

Roland, after the scene of macabre violence, found it necessary to rest a little. He asked to leave. In the corridor, he took a deep breath and then felt a deep need to smoke. He puffed and concluded that he knew little about life, in its deepest sense, despite his forty years.

— How’s it? — asked the doctor. — I thought you were going to faint. It would not be an unusual fact, for those watching for the first time.

— How many autopsies do you do every day?

— Forty on average.

— I was surprised that the corpse did not stink. At least not as much as I had expected.

— It's just that it came out of from the freezer. But you need to see when the power goes out for a day or two. It has already happened. Fifty corpses decomposing, no Christian can stand it.

— In such cases, how do you do it?

— With bad smell and everything!

— Watching an autopsy, we realize man is nothing. A precarious piece of meat, always about to decompose. A lesson in humility, the horrendous spectacle I have just witnessed... Are you a religious man, Dr. Moraes?

— I'm Catholic... Shall we continue? —   Shrugged the doctor. — At half past nine I have to attend a meeting.

Francisco Cesar Pinheiro Rodrigues
Desembargador aposentado
oripec@terra.com.br

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