Winning the Game and Other Stories by Rubem Fonseca Page B

but there was nothing to worry about, Bernard was very respectful.
    I asked if I could see a little of the class.
    â€œJust a tiny bit,” the blonde said, getting up. She was my height, with a willowy body, small breasts, really solid.
    â€œDo you work out too?”
    â€œNot me, this is the body God gave me. But it could be Bernard’s work; he can perform miracles.”
    She glided in front of me till she came to a door with a mirror on it, which she opened slightly.
    The women were following the pounding rhythm of music from speakers spread around the floor. In quick succession they bent their trunks forward, their heads down, stuck their hands backwards between their knees, then straightened their bodies, raised their arms again, and began to repeat the entire process.
    There were about fifteen women, in leotards. Most were blue but there was also red, pink, and green. In the middle of the room stood Bernard, also in a leotard, holding a swagger stick. He must have been a ballet dancer; he was certainly proud enough of his firm buttocks.
    â€œDon’t bend your knees, Pia Azambuja! Pull in your buttocks, Ana Maria Melo!”
    Smack! The swagger stick rapped Ana Maria Melo’s fanny.
    â€œFollow the rhythm, Eve Cavalcante Meier! Don’t stop, Renata Albuquerque Lins!” Bernard used the students’ full names; they were the names of important fathers and husbands.
    The receptionist closed the door.
    â€œYou’ve seen everything, haven’t you?”
    â€œDoes he always hit the students?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s just a tap, it doesn’t hurt a bit. They don’t mind. They even like it. Bernard is marvelous. When they come here the students are full of cellulite, flabby, have bad posture, awful skin, and Bernard gives them the body of a beauty queen.”
    We filled out my wife’s card.
    â€œPearl White?”
    â€œMy wife’s an American. Pearl means Pérola.”
    I don’t know what I see in making jokes nobody gets, but I do it all the time.
    I paced back and forth in front of the Fiat, playing White, controlling the center: K3, Q3, KB4, K4, Q4, QB4, KB5, K5, Q5, QB5, K6, and Q6 . Power and focus of action. Gioco Piano. Sicilian. Nimzo-Indian.
    Eve came out with her hair wet, wearing long cotton pants and a knit blouse, her arms bare. She carried a large handbag.
    â€œHello.” I planted myself in her path.
    â€œDo I know you?” she asked coldly.
    â€œFrom your father’s house. He hired me as his lawyer.”
    â€œOh … ?”
    â€œBut he already fired me.”
    â€œOh … ?” She spoke brusquely but made no move to leave. She wanted to hear what I had to say. Women are curious as cats. (Men are like cats too. Whatever.)
    â€œSomeone was trying to involve him in the death of Marly Moreira, the girl they found in the Barra with a bullet in her head.”
    â€œIs that it?”
    â€œA blackmailer named Márcio claims he has papers that incriminate your father.”
    â€œAnything else?”
    â€œThe police suspect him. I have more to say, but not here in the street.”
    When the waiter came she ordered mineral water. God, Bernard, and Strict Dieting had created that marvel. I ordered Faísca. We sat there in silence.
    â€œIf my father is in danger, you should speak to him. I don’t see what good it does to talk to me.”
    â€œYour father released me from his service.”
    â€œHe must have had some reason.”
    I told her of the interviews I’d had with Cavalcante Meier, my trip to Gordon’s, the meeting between her cousin Lilly and Márcio the biker. Her expression remained unreadable.
    â€œDo you think my father killed that girl?” A scornful smile.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œMy father has a lot of shortcomings. He’s vain and weak, and worse, but he’s not a murderer. Anybody can take one look at him and see I’m right.”
    I mentally