O Café do Inspector Moura

O Inspector Moura estava reformado há três anos, e o único crime que investigava ultimamente era quem andava a roubar os pacotes de açúcar da Tasquinha do Zé Manel, em Alfama. Tinha uma teoria. Era a Dona Glória, a senhora que entrava todos os dias às nove com o cão, o terço e uma mala de mão profundamente suspeita. Não tinha provas. Não precisava de provas. Estava reformado. As provas eram problema de outra pessoa agora. Sentou-se na mesa do costume — aquela junto à parede, debaixo da foto da Amália Rodrigues que ali estava desde 1974 — e bebeu a bica. A bica do Zé Manel era péssima. Bebia-a há vinte e dois anos. Não ia parar agora.

Inspector Moura had been retired for three years, and the only crime he investigated these days was who kept stealing the sugar packets from the Tasquinha do Zé Manel in Alfama. He had a theory. It was Dona Glória, the woman who came in every morning at nine with her dog and her rosary and her deeply suspicious handbag. He had no proof. He didn't need proof. He was retired. Proof was someone else's problem now. He sat at his usual table — the one by the wall, under the photo of Amália Rodrigues that had been there since 1974 — and drank his bica. The bica at Zé Manel's was terrible. He'd been drinking it for twenty-two years. He wasn't about to stop now.

O próprio Zé Manel estava atrás do balcão, a limpar copos que já estavam limpos, que é o que os donos de tasquinhas fazem quando estão a ouvir coisas que não deviam. A tasquinha era pequena — seis mesas, um balcão, uma televisão que só passava futebol ou funerais, e uma casa de banho que precisava de um diploma de engenharia para dar descarga. As paredes estavam cobertas de fotografias, cachecóis de futebol e uma carta emoldurada da Câmara Municipal a agradecer ao Zé Manel pelos "serviços prestados à comunidade", que significava que ele uma vez tinha deixado um vereador estacionar na zona de carga durante um ano sem se queixar. Era o tipo de sítio onde toda a gente conhecia toda a gente, toda a gente sabia tudo, e ninguém admitia saber nada.

Zé Manel himself was behind the counter, wiping glasses that were already clean, which is what bartenders do when they're listening to something they shouldn't be. The tasquinha was small — six tables, a counter, a television that only showed football or funerals, and a toilet that you needed a degree in engineering to flush. The walls were covered in photographs, football scarves, and a framed letter from the Câmara Municipal thanking Zé Manel for "services to the community," which meant he'd once let a councillor park in his loading bay for a year without complaining. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew everything, and nobody admitted to knowing anything.