Fragments from "The Troubadour" (2013, In English)

    THE TROUBADOUR

a historical detective novel by

RODRIGO GARCIA LOPES

 

  

    An enigmatic Provençal word is at the center of this brilliant debut novel by Brazilian writer Rodrigo Garcia Lopes. Found in the mouth of one of the victims of a series of murders in southern Brazil, the word scrawled on a piece of paper also appears in a strange poem sent to Edward VIII, King of England. The task of investigating the connection between poem and crime is up to Adam Blake, a translator and interpreter sent to the origin of the clue: a British land company that operates in northern Paraná.

      Led to Londrina by the hands of Lord Lovat, Her Majesty’s associate in the lands held by the Parana Plantations Limited, under the auspices of the Inspector Hugh Sinclair and Sir Winston Churchill in person, diligent Mr. Blake faces a city where immigrants (Germans, Japanese, Russians, Spaniards and Brits) fight for survival.

     Besides the mix of Babel, Eldorado and Western represented by Londrina at the beginning of its timber and coffee exploration in 1936 — a setting as crucial to the plot as its characters — Blake also finds a solvable puzzle only by an amateur philologist.

      Initially revealing a murder appearing to have stemmed from a love triangle between German company employees, the investigation advances to unveil the identity of the ruthless killer called The Troubadour. Who was he and why would a person with talent for language appeal to murder as one of the fine arts?

     Everything is surprising in this novel, from the accuracy in applying the rules of American and English detective novels of the 1930s, to his rigorous historical research. However, nothing beats the aptness of the author in creating his detective: just like Adam Blake, Rodrigo Garcia Lopes is an accomplished poet and translator. Subverting the famous motto "translator, traitor", this narrative delivers to the reader everything but treason. Adam Blake came to Brazil to stay.

JOCA REINERS TERRON, Brazilian critic and writer

 

Excerpt from the historical crime novel 'The Troubadour' (Record, 2013). Set in 1936, the story follows two Scots: the famous Lord Lovat, leader of the Lovat clan, a forest engineer, and president of Paraná Plantations, and Adam Blake, a translator-interpreter. They journey from London to remote Londrina in the Brazilian southern forest to unravel the mysterious disappearance of four German employees, notably the accountant Eric Nussbaum. King Edward VIII is a silent partner in the enterprise, which plays a crucial role in the plot. Upon awakening and catching their first glimpse of the city, they initiate their investigation by interviewing Nilson Garden, the mayor of Londrina.

NIGHT SHOTS

        The headquarters of Paraná Plantations, known simply as the 'land company' to the locals, occupied a large plot on Paraná Avenue, the main street of the city. It was a long, unpainted wooden structure with clay tiles. Originally designed as the British real estate venture's headquarters and center for colonization operations in the burgeoning towns, a sign proudly proclaimed it to be THE LARGEST COLONIZATION COMPANY IN SOUTH AMERICA. The city was growing visibly. With over 30,000 inhabitants, there was an influx of pensions, small industries, shops, commercial houses, dry goods and grocery stores, ice cream parlors, and bars. Despite the setbacks caused by the crisis that began in 1929, the diplomatic efforts and advertising of Paraná Plantations were proving effective: a growing human contingent was moving to the region. The company's compelling propaganda attracted not only honest workers and distinguished immigrants seeking a fresh start, but also swindlers, thugs, charlatans, and those with dubious pasts. They all sought the land where, as the saying went, “money grew on trees.” Natural challenges abounded for a city set in the forest, a place that just a decade earlier was a primitive collection of huts. Basic sanitation remained rudimentary, and on hot days, the scent of the city slaughterhouse lingered in the air. The annual homicide rate had jumped from five in 1933 to twenty in 1936. Furthermore, people carried guns in the streets like combs. As business and the cities under its purview grew by the day, the last thing the company wanted was negative publicity affecting its venture and driving away potential buyers.

      In front of Casas Pernambucanas, a hesitant couple navigated the muddy street, relying on flimsy wooden fences and slipping in the red mud, much to the amusement of patrons at nearby bars. The more cautious had embraced the local custom of wearing horseshoes — small chains affixed to their shoes that allowed for surefootedness on the devilishly slippery streets during and after rain. The sounds of sawmills and men, Brazilians and foreigners, constructing houses filled the young city's mornings. In the center, the last plots were being bought: 'datas' or 'datchas,' as the Russian Razgulaeff had named them. On certain days, an ash

rain fell over the red city, a consequence of controlled burnings. In his room, Lord Lovat tied his tie as he heard the church bell chime. He glanced at the clock on the dresser: seven o'clock. Still groggy, he opened the guillotine window. He watched as a truck laden with logs made a loud noise and stopped in the middle

of the street, blocking a few horse-drawn carriages behind it. The man sitting on three massive peroba-rosa logs secured with thick chains agilely leapt down to see what was happening. The Japanese peddler, now blocked by the truck's cargo bed, was loudly protesting to the driver, who was responding with a barrage of curses. People arrived at the entrance, engaging in the ritual of scraping the mud from their boots on the “cry-Paulista,” as the locals had dubbed the rake placed at the entry of houses and shops. This nickname had emerged because the mud was so thick it brought tears to the eyes of pioneers and immigrants coming from São Paulo. Lovat also saw Garden arriving, wearing his safari hat and greeting Ukrainian pilot Boliek, who was chatting with two railway workers leaning against a brand-new Citroën.

      On the other side of the avenue, in the cramped bus station, an overcrowded ‘jardineira” bus struggled to park. Its roof was laden with suitcases. It was a 1929 Ford truck whose bed had been converted to accommodate passengers. Italian, Japanese, German, Brazilian, and Spanish settlers began to gather in a chaotic crowd amid chickens, cages with birds, and other wild animals. Brokers and office workers, wearing ties, were arriving for another day of work. Some were more distracted, others only to check out the newcomers. This was the routine of mornings in the new Eldorado.

     After finishing their breakfast of bacon, free-range eggs, and cake served by Glória, the cook, a generous and corpulent black woman, the men entered the meeting room. Garden stood, greeted Lovat, and sat beside the table. Blake sat in a corner, perusing a local newspaper, the Paraná-Norte. The four-page tabloid was the primary piece of promotion for the venture. Below the title PARANÁ PLANTATIONS — NORTH PARANÁ LAND COMPANY were the words AGENTS EVERYWHERE.

     The cook left a water pitcher and three glasses on a tray. She exchanged a few words with Lovat, who treated her with courtesy, inquiring about her children, husband, and health. Then Glória excused herself and closed the door. Garden secured his safari hat on his lap and examined some documents. He appeared uneasy.

     — Well, what happened? — Lovat asked, getting straight to the point.

     — We're still trying to understand. It was a harsh blow for us. Nussbaum and the Müller couple were highly regarded

individuals, excellent employees, — Garden said, adjusting himself in his chair. — According to the police investigation, on August 1st, Müller allegedly caught Nussbaum with Magdalene in his bed. Neighbors heard gunshots and shouting coming from the house that night.

 — Where did they live?

 — In a small farmhouse on Heimtal Street.

 — I don't recall the Müller couple.

 — They were good doctors. The couple spoke multiple languages, which greatly facilitated their medical practice. You know, apart from malaria, we've had many accidents in the forest during the clearings. The doctor and his companion, Assistant Dr. Magdalene, were recommended by Eckstein.

  — Yes, I remember that.

  — They were doing good work, as we have a shortage of doctors in the city. It was a tragedy what happened, — Garden took a sip of water and wiped the sweat that was dripping down his face. — Today, I regret not taking the rumors seriously that Nussbaum was having an affair with Dr. Magdalene, right under her husband's nose. A week earlier, at a party, employees witnessed the doctor threatening to kill Nussbaum if he didn't stay away from his wife. 'If I kill you, no one will find you,' he said. Something more serious didn't happen right there because Müller was restrained, — Garden continued, exhaling air from his lungs. — I should've transferred Nussbaum to São Paulo temporarily.

 — When did you last see Nussbaum? — the lord asked.

 — On the night of the incident, just before going home. I returned from the city hall around nine o'clock and decided to pick up

some papers at the company. I saw the lights on and noticed he was still working. It was common for him to stay late at the office. You knew him; he would get engrossed in his work and be oblivious to the world when he had a deadline to meet. Nussbaum was very dedicated.

 — Yes, very dedicated, — Lovat nodded. — Did you talk to him before leaving?

 — Briefly. He only asked me to lock the front door as he had a spare key. I locked it from the outside, then I left for my house.

      Blake looked up at the mayor. Garden was rigid in his chair, arms close to his body.

   — When did you realize the chief accountant was missing, Mr. Garden? — Blake interjected into the conversation.

   Garden briefly glanced at Blake before turning his eyes back to the lord.

   — Well, first we noticed the doctors were missing; they usually came to work together. The morning after the incident, around eight o'clock, patients complained that the Müllers hadn't shown up at the hospital. Shortly after, we learned that Nussbaum hadn't shown up for work either. We found it strange since it was extremely rare for him to be absent. He would always have someone notify us if he couldn't make it. I asked them to go to his house, but he wasn't there. We immediately went to the police chief, who was already returning from the Müllers' residence.

 — Was the police chief the first to arrive at the scene? — Lovat inquired.

 — Yes. Early in the morning, one neighbor reached out to him. Besides hearing the shouting and the gunshots, two neighbors saw the couple inside the car, leaving the residence. [...]

 

 

A fragment from the novel The Troubadour (406 pages, Record publishing house, 2014) by Rodrigo Garcia Lopes. Translated into English by Marco Alexandre Oliveira

 

SHOTS IN THE DARK

 

 

            After finishing breakfast with bacon, country eggs and cake, served by Gloria, the cook, a corpulent black woman with a generous smile, the men went into the meeting room. Garden stood up, greeted Lovat and took a seat next to the table. Blake sat in a corner and started to leaf through an edition of the local newspaper, the Paraná-Norte. The four-page tabloid was the enterprise's main piece of propaganda. Underneath the title PARANÁ PLANTATIONS — NORTH PARANÁ LAND COMPANY came the words AGENTS EVERYWHERE.         

            The cook entered and left a jar of water and three glasses on a tray. She exchanged a few words with Lovat, who treated her courteously, asking about her children, her husband, and her health. Then Gloria excused herself and closed the door. Garden held his safari hat over his lap and examined a few documents. He was restless.   

            "So, what happened?" Lovat asked, without beating around the bush.

            "We're still trying to understand. It was a huge blow for us. Nussbaum and the Müllers were people of the highest order, excellent employees," Garden said, shifting in his chair." According to the sheriff's report, on August 1 Müller caught Nussbaum and Magdalene in his bed. The neighbors heard gunshots and screaming coming from the house that night."   

            "Where did they live?"

            "In a small house on Heimtal St."

            "I believe I don't remember the Müllers."

            "They were good doctors. They spoke several languages, which made the house calls easier. You know, besides malaria, we've been having lots of accidents in the forest, during the clearcutting. The doctor along with his partner and assistant, Dr. Magdalene, were recommended by Eckstein."

            "Yes, I remember that."

            "They were doing a good job, since we don't have enough doctors in the city. It was a tragedy what happened." Garden took a sip of water and then wiped the sweat that ran in streams down his face. "Today I feel sorry for not having taken seriously the rumors that Nussbaum was having an affair with Dr. Magdalene, and right under his nose. A week before, at a party, employees witnessed the doctor threaten to kill him if he didn't stay away from his wife. 'And if I kill you, nobody'll find you,' he said. Something more serious only didn't happen right there and then because Müller was held back," Garden continued, breathing the air out of his lungs. "We should've transferred Nussbaum to São Paulo for a while."

            "When did you last see Nussbaum?" the lord asked.

            "On the night of the incident, right before going home. I had just returned from city hall around nine o'clock and I decided to get some papers at the company. I saw lights on and noticed that he was still working. It was common for him to stay until late at the office. You knew him, you know that when he had some deadline to meet, his spirit would become attached to work and aloof from the world. Nussbaum was very dedicated."

            "Yes, very dedicated", Lovat said. "Did you speak to him before leaving?"

            "Quickly. He only asked me to lock the front door, since he had a copy of the key. I went back, locked it from the outside and went home."

            Blake raised his eyes to the mayor. Garden sat rigid in his chair, arms by his side.

            "When did you notice the chief accountant was missing?", Blake wanted to know, intruding on the conversation."

            Garden glanced at Blake and then looked at the lord again.

            "Well, first we missed the doctors, who usually came to work together. On the morning following the incident, around eight o'clock, patients came to complain that the Müllers hadn't shown up at the hospital. A little later we found out that Nussbaum also hadn't come to work. We thought it was strange, since it was extremely rare for him to miss work, it wasn't like him. He always asked someone to tell us when he couldn't show up. I asked some men to go to his house, but he wasn't there. I immediately went after the sheriff, who was already coming back from the Müllers' house."       

            "The sheriff was the first to arrive at the scene?," Lovat asked.

            "Yes. Early in the morning he had gone looking for one of the neighbors. Besides hearing the screams and the shots, two neighbors saw the couple inside the car, leaving the residence."

            "What time was that?"

            "Around eleven-thirty at night."

            Garden took a sip of water. Lovat signaled for the company director and city mayor to continue.

            "There was nobody at the house. The door had no sign of being forced open. The accountant's automobile was there, but not Müller's. There was a lot of blood and bullet holes at the scene. I could see it for myself. He'll be able to tell you all of the details.

            Lovat stroked his moustache and then asked:

            "Do you have any theory about what happened?"

            Garden blinked his eyes a little and continued:

            "To speak frankly, sir, crimes of passion are common around here. Let's say that there is an imbalance between the sexes. There aren't enough women in the city. Müller had reasons to be jealous of his wife. Beatings were constant. For me, he committed the crime to save his honor. He returned from the house call to a farm earlier than expected, so he caught his wife with Nussbaum. He killed him and ran away with his wife."

            Lovat stared at Garden for a moment, without saying anything. Garden flexed his mouth muscles in an attempt to smile.

            "I know you're worried, but I must say that we have already replaced the three employees. I assure you that this incident has not affected business operations at all. Our lot sales have not been compromised and..."

            The lord slammed his fist on the table. Blake was startled.

            "Are you telling me that a crime happens at the company, involving important employees, and everything is alright?," Lovat yelled. "Why didn't anyone tell me about this?"

            Garden dried the sweat on his face with a handkerchief. His jaw constricted.

            "It wasn't our mistake, but that of the branch in São Paulo. They were the ones who were responsible for breaking the news to the office in London. It's strange that Mr. Eckstein didn't let you know."

            Lovat shook his head, making an impatient face. He looked out the window and saw the street, the rivers of mud stubbornly refusing to dry. He turned to Garden and said:

            "Nilson, you're in charge here. How did you let things get to this point? We've got to set the example. This is terrible for business!"

            He then stood up, crossed his hands behind his back and started walking around the room, causing the floorboards to creak. Garden bit his lips under his little moustache while he followed Lovat's silent pacing. The lord sat down again, took a sip of water and asked, with his voice a little calmer:

            "What else do you know about Nussbaum's last steps?"

            "What I know is that on that night he stopped by the Eldorado bar. He was drunk, it seems... He was distressed, and muttered incoherent things. They reported that he stayed only a little while, said good-bye and mentioned that he was going to solve a problem."

            "A problem," Lovat murmured. "Did he say what it was?"

            "No, he only said he wasn't feeling well. He said he needed medical care, and left. I suggest you talk to Günther and Razgulaeff. They were at the bar and were some of the last people to see him."

            Lovat agreed and made a vague gesture. Blake finished jotting down the names in his notebook and raised his head to Lovat.

            "What was the Müllers' routine like?," the lord asked.

            "They didn't go out much."

            "And?"

            "I believe the doctor didn't like to show off his wife outside the workplace, except for, every once and a while, at company dances. They were quite reserved. So much so that they didn't even have servants."

            "Nothing relevant was found, not even a clue?"

            "If so, the sheriff's got it. He's the one who did the investigation at the scene. The Müllers' house has been abandoned since then, until his family in Germany decides what to do with the property. Now in his office I assure you nothing was touched," Garden said.

            "And where is Nussbaum's house located?" Lovat asked, turning his eyes again to Garden.

            "He lived alone, on Higienópolis, a new avenue that Razgulaeff planned, but since the incident a family has been living there. We've been facing a serious housing problem for newly arrived buyers. The property belonged to the company. Nussbaum intended to move soon to the house he was building."

            "What happened to the accountant's belongings, his personal objects?"

            Garden gulped, and tightened his lips. After a few seconds, he said:

            "After the incident, his bags, his clothes and the rest of his personal objects were donated, his little furniture was auctioned and what was left, burned."

            Lovat and Blake looked at each other. The lord snorted and scratched his face.

            "And may I know who had such an awful idea?"

            "A negligent employee, sir."

            "Where is he?"

            Garden took his eyes off Lovat for a few seconds, then stared at him again.

            "Mr. Francisco died last month, while he was helping our men cut down a forest to clear new lots. Yeah, we've been seeing many accidents like this."

            Lovat breathed out through his nose. He shook his head for a moment, his face stern. He glanced sidelong at the newspaper in the chair next to the translator and turned to the mayor:

            "What's the circulation of the Paraná-Norte?"

            "Two thousand copies."

            "Increase it to four thousand. Put an ad in the front, offering a generous reward to whoever provides any clues that can take us to their whereabouts. Make posters and spread them in all the train cars from Rolândia to Ourinhos. Surely there are photographs of them on their contract forms."

 

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