He walked limping through the building which had laundry rooms in the front. He entered a gallery and turned on the light. There he saw the first girls. Some were bone thin and naked. Others offered themselves, hoping not to be punished. The vast majority had demented laughter, with eyes lost in some distant point. He turned the key in the first keyhole, in the second, the doors opened noisily but the girls remained in their corners as if they couldn’t absorb what was happening. Some wanted to run away but were afraid of the consequences. Dito shouted:
“You can leave. I am releasing you. Be careful when you get to the bridge. Try not to go over it.”
He exited into the patio, hurrying to reach the boy’s building. He would do the same there. At least for some moments they would have the feeling they could run away. He opened the first door. The boy he had given food to had fallen on the ground, having been hit on the head. The others had also been massacred. Dito’s eyes got red. He felt his ears hot. He knew it would be useless to open the doors, but he went ahead with his task. A superior force pushed him to do it. He squatted exhausted at the end of the corridor, and looked back at the boys who continued to sleep, indifferent to the freedom he had given them. He cried and left supporting himself on a wooden stick. He went though the woods up to the wall. He heard girls’ shouts and the barking of dogs. The shouts became louder and louder almost hysterical. He knew well what was going on, but he had no energy to go there. Nor enough strength to defend them. But it would be better for them to die that night, than to dry up behind the doors, without food or water.
The bushes scratched his legs but he barely noticed it. His eyes were fixed on the wall and the concertina wire. It would be very difficult for him to escape if he tried to do it like the girls. He would try to keep as far away as possible from the bridge; he would open a hole in the wall. The wires were obviously electrified. That’s why there were no guards around. Just like in the Reformatory. But he wouldn’t fall for such a trap. He had been trapped many times before, but that one wouldn’t work with him. He didn’t even need to try. He felt the wall with his hands up to the place where the trash was deposited. There, he searched for some kind of scrap iron bar with which he could open a cut in the wall. Even if he had to spend the entire early morning hours doing it, it would be better than to risk the bridge. He had a lot to do. He would look for Zé Ina’cio, Armadillo, and Black Fly. He would gather a gang who demanded respect. Even the pigs wouldn’t want to face them. And if by chance these guys were not up to getting into heavy trouble, he would look for others, more willing. The fact is, he would stop being a pick pocket, of the type the pigs catch and drag into the police station. Things would be different for him. They would have to think twice before trying to arrest him. Manguito was right. This is what he decided to do, to be ruthless. He should have thought about this beforehand. But he kept on, weakening, it had been crazy to put the boys working, to earn money honestly. How could anyone be honest when people like Crystal, the police chief Mauro, Big Purple and Caramel existed? They killed Zebra; did away with Pixote; Smokey and Manguito had disappeared. He hoped Zé Ina’cio and Black Fly would agree. If Armadillo didn’t want to chance it, he should find some other group. He was sure that at least those two would be by his side. Now, he knew exactly what he wanted and how to proceed. No crazy plans, no off the wall ideas, such as living in a cave, at the edge of the sea. He had to impose himself for the pigs to feel who he was. “I have a wife and kids and don’t want to be in this crazy dog’s track.” That’s what the pigs would say any time they had to find him. He would have fun with that. Let those who doubt him just try to get him!
He rummaged through the trash as much as he could, and the only iron object he could find was a lock. If he were not able to find anything else, that what have to do. But later on, in another part of the pile, he found a short piece of a train track, eaten out by rust. That was the instrument he needed. He went close to the wall and began to beat at it. At each blow he looked around to make sure there was no one around. The electric wire on top was his guarantee that the guards should be having a good time with the girls they were able to catch, before the dogs. He beat strongly. He knew it would take him at least three hours until he was able to open a big enough hole. The wall was made out of mortar and stones, resistant to the blows. But he was patient. He didn’t despair easily. That was one of his traits. He could have stayed one full night and one full day there, standing, behind the armoire, to catch the Inspector General. Fortunately everything turned out easier than he imagined. It was not this wall that would disturb him, and much less to make him change his course. Everything was determined. It had been planned in that prison farm, among the dark buildings and barely lit patios. His hopes increased when when one of the stones crushed and behind it he saw bricks, which were much easier to break.
He kept beating strongly with the track, his hands were hurting, the repeated blows applied regularly, saved him as much energy as possible. He would still have a long stretch to go, after the hole was made. He would have to be cautious for the swampy area fell between the prison farm and the river. But he would find a way of conquering it. He would go up-river and away from the bridge, until he was able to throw himself in the water, holding to a tree trunk. He would be able to get to the other shore far from the bridge with its sentinel guards and their trained dogs. He bent over to take the earth from the hole that was getting deeper, his hands were dirty and pained. However, he saw the work was going faster than he imagined. A little more and he would be seeing the other side. A couple more firm blows and the hole would widen easily. That would be the moment to pass through, to observe the landscape and to run away, always through the bushes.
IV
Dito reclined on the bed as Mother Dolores brought warm water in a basin, gauze, cotton and adhesive tape. A dark and heavily made up woman had offered to help her.
“First we have to take the plaster off. It’s too dirty.”
While she said that, she tried cut through the plaster with a pair of scissors.
“Where have you been, God’s child?”
The question was not to be answered. Dito knew it. What he said was of no importance either. He wouldn’t make clear any of the things he had done.
“Neither Smokey or Manguito showed up?”
Mother Dolores shook her head. The dark woman said the leg was emitting a foul smell. Dito looked at the serene face of the black woman. He noticed her nervousness at the sight of his grossly swollen foot.
“Virgin Mary! How could you stand something like this, my boy?”
She didn’t have to say anything else. He understood the wound was an ugly one.
“If you take off the plaster it will help a lot,” the dark woman said.
“You will have to rest for about three days,” said Mother Dolores.
Dito felt relieved when they finished taking off the plaster. But he was soon in pain when the cotton with hot water touched his skin.
“Hold on! This is the only way to care for this swelling!”
Mother Dolores told the woman to run to the pharmacy to buy a tube of cream. As the dark woman went away, she closed her eyes and prayed over the sore. While she prayed Dito admired her serene face and her kindness. How could a person like that exist, in a dirty underworld filled with women showing themselves off? When he finished praying, she took out a candle from the chest of drawers, she lit it up, and placed it behind the door.
“Make an offer to Yemanja, son. She will save you!”
“I’ve already made one, Mother Dolores.”
The black woman smiled, her eyes appeared even more sad.
“With the first money I get I will have a small boat made and will release it on her feastday. If I am in Rio, I’ll release it here. Otherwise, it will be in Praia Grande or in Santos.”
Mother Dolores was still smiling, “She likes you.”
Dito didn’t know how to answer. So he said, “That’s how come I was able to get out of on
e of the worst places ever. There was almost no one else alive, where I’m coming from. Those who didn’t die of hunger or thirst were cut open by dogs.
The woman was surprised, “And where was this place?”
“I don’t know this area well enough to place it. But it was a prison farm.”
While Dito spoke, as if remembering his own adventures, Mother Dolores knelt in front of her devotional saints and began praying. She lit up more candles, and placed them in front of the image of Saint George.
“All the roads will be favorable to you,” she said standing up and coming close to the bed. “But it’s important to get well as soon as possible. When Magda gets here, we will put on the cream. Tomorrow or the day after you will be fine.”
“But I need to go, Mother Dolores.”
“I won’t hear of it. You’ll stay until you’re somewhat better.”
Dito smiled. It had been such a long time since he felt like laughing without being overcome immediately by rage. Mother Dolores laughed along with him. Then Magda showed up with the cream. The black woman took the lid off, took a portion of the cream with her finger and applied it over the sore. She then put on some cotton and gauze.
“There is no point in wrapping it tight, it should be able to breathe. It’s enough to protect it from flies.”
The dark woman wanted to know who Dito was in relation to Mother Dolores. She answered without taking her eyes off the dressing and didn’t appear surprised with the question, either.
“He’s my son. My adoptive son. He has been in Sao Paulo, trying to make a living there.”
Dito was overcome with gratitude, his eyes were filled with tears, and he felt a knot in his throat as if he were about to cry. He remembered the first day he saw her— when he had come with Smokey — and the other day when they came back. It was a pity the boy was not there to see how close he had become to Mother Dolores. Smokey would certainly have liked it.
The women went away, Dito stayed in bed, looking at the ceiling, listening to street noises and to the women in the doorways and at the windows, waiting for customers. Some would chat loudly, others only laughed. Once in a while he would hear steps in the hallway, followed by whispers behind the plank wood walls and short giggles. He looked at the candle burning behind the door, already well reduced in size, and noticed that the afternoon was ending; in other parts of the house lights had been turned on. He had no fear of staying there. He didn’t doubt Mother Dolores once. If policemen showed up to catch him, she would never give him up. Neither she, nor the women who saw him go in.
In the early hours of the morning, when the house had become totally silent, he woke up with the presence of the dark woman by his bed. She placed her hand on his forehead and said he was running a fever. Mother Dolores showed up with ice cold water, where she sunk a handkerchief to wet his forehead. Mother Dolores then left, leaving the other one in the room. She would look at him and smile without saying a word. She had a youthful face, with long hair and very sad-looking eyes. Dito couldn’t remember seeing her leave. When the fever went down he fell asleep.
He woke up with the sun invading part of the room. Only then could he see the room Mother Dolores had given him. It was spacious, had many images of saints on the walls, heavy and old furniture, a writing table, and a lot of odd junk in the corner. A cat rested on a chair, sunbathing. Mother Dolores came in wishing him good morning and placed a tray with coffee, milk and bread on a chair near the bed. He asked her where the bathroom was and she showed him the corridor. He dragged himself to it, passing through several bedrooms, which showed through their open doors, bed spreads and linens in disorder. When he returned she was gone. He drank his coffee and ate half of the bread. He wasn’t hungry. His mouth felt bitter; he missed his companions. When Mother Dolores came back again, he would ask her about Manguito.
He lay down and tried to follow the sun light moving away. He looked at the cat stretching his paws, and heard the first noises of the women arriving and going to the kitchen. Mother Dolores served coffee to some of them.
The cat jumped off the chair when he saw Mother Dolores come in. Dito hurried to thank her for the coffee. She had combed her hair and changed clothes. She had on a colorful print dress and appeared as happy as usual. Instead of taking the tray away, she sat by his bed, “What about that foot. Is it still hurting?”
Dito shook his head, a couple more days and he would be fine.
“May God keep you, to protect you from the same fate as your friend’s.”
“Smokey?”
“No. The one you came here trying to find out why they had taken him to jail.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He spent some days in jail, they placed him in the Reformatory. One day he ran away with a group of other boys. He ended up in Santa Teresa neighborhood where he killed a young man who was walking in the street with his fiancée. All the newspapers covered the story, last week. A corporal was here and said they had taken him to a prison farm. How old is that boy?”
“He’s about fourteen. No more than that.”
She grabbed the tray and said, “Don’t let them touch you, son. Things are getting worse every day. I know how it is. I was raised in the streets. I didn’t die of hunger because God was with me and Yemanja protected me.”
When she went away Dito remembered the prison farm. He wondered if it had been the one he came from. Would Manguito have been one of the boys in the cells, who had nothing to eat or drink for over a week? Possibly. But the evil they had done to Manguito had been avenged. Would Manguito be able to return to the streets, just as in the days they had tried to make a living at the market? He didn’t know what to think. It would be better if he didn’t think about those things that made him waver in his goals. He was sure that just like Manguito, Smokey wouldn’t return. That’s why his route was the one he decided upon in the infirmary, when he had wanted a sip of water so much and the men came in placing the water jar in his field of vision but just out of reach. He wouldn’t forget that for a long time. The ice floating on the water in the metal jar and his lips dry, his throat burning, all that for one lousy sip of water. After the men left he had to use all his luck and his wits not to end like the boys behind bars. And because they had shackled him on that bed, they must have had even worse objectives in mind. But he didn’t give them time to go ahead with their plans, just as Crystal, the police chief Mauro, Big Purple and Caramel wouldn’t have time. Neither would the guy from the cemetery who hit Pixote. He would forge cautiously his own destiny. With or without Armadillo’s, Black Fly’s or Zé Ina’cio’s help. And who could say if Encravado, Pin and Mother’s Scourge would not be interested in joining the group in Sao Paulo? He would look for them. He would talk to Figurinha and Brown Sugar. He wasn’t going to give up that idea. So, it was good not to talk to anyone about it, above all Mother Dolores.
V
On a warm and sunny afternoon when the trees appeared luminously green, Dito told Mother Dolores he was ready to go. His foot was almost well, and he couldn’t keep on using a room without paying. She listened and said nothing. She had very little to say. She couldn’t even ask boy to stay on as an employee, because she’d have problems with the inspectors from the Agency of Protection to Minors. He had to go.
“Whenever you feel like showing up, don’t be bashful.”
Dito knew that he could, “If I find Smokey I’ll come back to tell you. I’ll also come back if I am about to leave Rio.”
He then told her he was from Sao Paulo state. Born in the town of Bauru’ at an early age moved to Sao Paulo city. His parents had left him in the care of an aunt. That’s all he knew. He vaguely remembered a thin and pale woman, who had a very weak voice. One day she disappeared and he began to wander the streets. He no longer remembered how difficult the first months had been.
“If we didn’t forget, son, we would all have already gone crazy,” Mother Dolores said.
Dito left through the hallway, paid atte
ntion to the last sounds of that big and pleasant home, got to the door where he saw the dark woman. She shook his hand as if he were about to take a long trip. In the wide street there were several groups of men. He passed by them looking down at his very dirty canvas shoes and realized the first money he got would go into a new pair of shoes. He checked his clothes and saw that the shirt and the blue sailcloth jacket were still in fair condition. He was able to put weight on his foot quite well, but knew he would have to be careful for another week to be completely recovered. That’s what he would do. He would not risk trying to find Crystal before he had healed. He would first try to find Mother’s Scourge, Encravado and Pin. The others he would find later. He went through the wide and narrow streets, crossed avenues, searching for an open market. There he would stay for a while. He would look for work, to get some money. Right now, that’s what he needed the most. Mother Dolores had offered him some, but he lied, saying he had money owed him by a friend; he only needed to show up at his house. Now, he felt like laughing at this lie. His friends were just like him. No one knew where his closest relative lived.
He went by the Esta’cio Square, took a trolley to relax his legs and just before the stop, when the ticket man was approaching, he got out. The uniformed man, holding a purse with change, told him off. He wished to jump into the car again and beat him up. But what for?
Childhood of the Dead Page 12
