Later on, the reporter got out a cigarette pack and offered Twenty-Five one. Since the photographer took one, Twenty-Five felt he couldn’t refuse it and they began talking.
“What’s the story on these boys?”
“All we know is that from the moment they showed up at the gas station, they made a big mess. It’s been said they were disposed of by the State of Sao Paulo police.”
“How many are there?” the photographer asked.
“Fifty-two. Two or three of the bigger boys claim there were about one hundred of them in the bus, and then all were thrown off the cliff.
“Can we talk to them?”
The policeman was a little embarrassed.
“Yes, you can. But it would be better if you asked the chief, first.
The reporter understood it was a matter of hierarchy. And he didn’t want to put the policeman in a bad situation.
“What about the others?”
“What others?” Twenty-Five answered a bit absent-mindedly.
“Well, if the boys say there were one hundred of them in the bus. We’re missing forty-eight.”
The policeman shifted positions in his chair, and shook his hands impatiently. “This matter I don’t know. This is a problem for the people in Sao Paulo. When you get there you ask them. Here, we are taking care of fifty-two.”
When Dr. Emiliano showed up, reporter and photographer stood up, telling the chief the name of the newspaper they worked for.
“What are you going to do with all of these boys?”
“I’ve already called the Secretary-General and he gave me authorization to take any measures I see fit. I’ve called the Minor’s Department of Sao Paulo, and things will be resolved. They might be going back tomorrow morning.”
“Why do think this disposal happened?”
“This is an old problem,” the police chief said patiently, “when things get too tough in certain centers, this is their way out. The thing is that in my case, the boys will be sent back. In Sao Paulo they can decide whatever they want, but they can’t cross the state line to mess up my jurisdiction.
“Have you been to the place where they were discarded?”
“Not yet. I intend to go, as soon as possible. First I’m trying to get them some clothing. We’ve already got food, and later in the day we’ll have a good dinner. Tomorrow I’ll go down to bottom of the cliff.
“Can we see the boys?”
The police chief stood up and went to the cell, followed by the reporter and the photographer. Some of the boys were lying on the mattress; others had their feet wrapped in newspaper; most were playing quietly or were telling each other jokes.
The police chief asked Joao Domingo to open the door. The reporter pointed to two or three boys with whom he would like to talk. Dito was among the boys brought out. The group went back to the chief’s office, where the boys sat down on a long bench. Joao Domingo leaned against the wall, while Twenty-Five stretched his legs forward from his chair. The police chief began taking care of paperwork, while the reporter questioned Dito.
“How did you get into the bus?”
“I’ve already told him,” Dito said, pointing to the police chief.
“The reporter would like for you to repeat the story,” the chief said harshly.
Dito didn’t like that.
“OK. I was in a police station jail. And the police chief took me out of there. Me and some others. Uncle Zé and Gabriel, for instance.”
“What do you mean, for instance?”
“Only Gabriel and I ended up in the bus. The others, I don’t know.”
“Where was the bus?”
“I don’t know. We changed cells. The change was made during the day, but we had to wait until night time. Then the guys showed up and took us: Gabriel and I. The bus was in a very large courtyard. There were lots of policemen. Some had trained dogs. It looked as if there were police cars coming from other places. I saw a bunch of kids come out of a police van. All very small. Then they told us to get into the bus. It was raining when we left Sao Paulo. We couldn’t open the window curtains. I tried to calculate the time it was taking us, but I couldn’t. Then I got lost. When they threw us out of the bus, I had no idea where we were.”
“What did they do to you in the bus?”
“They beat us, they broke one boy’s spine, and they put the dogs on us. Then, they took our clothes off, and ordered us to jump. Those, who didn’t want to do it, were thrown off with a kick. I rolled down the cliff. I got all scratched,” he said showing his arms and legs.
“From what height did you fall?”
“Three hundred feet.”
The reporter also talked with the other boys. All repeated the same story. The black boy with reddened eyes, had only one worry.
“Yes, you’ll go back,” the reporter said, “but this time it’ll be for the Minor’s Department.”
“And what’s the difference?” Dito asked smirking.
The reporter didn’t know what to say. Twenty-Five smiled. The police chief made as if he had not heard it, saying:
“Take another group of children to Usina Street, Joao Domingo.”
X
It was dark, when the rain came back. Camanducaia had a different aspect: in the streets there were numerous people with opened umbrellas and several news cars had parked in front of the police station. The stores which would usually close their doors and windows earlier in the day were still open and lit by low voltage lights. In the bar pinkish and toothless men, drinking cachac,a, talked about the children and about the help given to the boys by the women from Usina Street. They would have another round and expound as they could the town’s gossip. They weren’t sure about the number of dead at the bottom of the cliff, but rumors were that in the morning, there had been cars taking the corpses away. The oldest man said a truck driver had told him the story, “He saw them pulling out the bodies.”
The others appeared worried with that story and the subject went back to the boys in the station’s cell. Joao Domingo who had been drinking there with them, confirmed the number at fifty- two.
“Virgin Mary!” was heard all over.
The bar owner refilled the glasses with cachac,a and the guys gossiped and kept on drinking.
At the same time, in another part of town, Dona Chiquinha had visited Engra’cia, meeting there Maria Quitéria who had just arrived.
“It was a tiresome day,” said Dona Chiquinha.
“Just to know about the boys made me sick. Things are really crazy all over. God help us!” Maria Quitéria said.
“I think we can only give the police chief spiritual help,” Engra’cia said while serving coffee her maid had brought out for the guests.
“I thought of taking apart some underskirts to make a few shirts, but who can sew like that at a moment’s notice?” Dona Chiquinha considered.
“I collected a bunch of postcards with the image of Jesus Christ as a child, which I am sending to the police chief. We shouldn’t only think about material things.” Maria Quitéria said.
“But people nowadays don’t understand that. I think they will not be satisfied,” Dona Chiquinha added.
“If the priest was here, he could to the police station and celebrate a mass there!” Maria Quitéria suggested.
“Well,” Engra’cia said. “We can also pray, but instead of going there, we could do it right here.”
The three women knelt in front of the small home altar where the images of several saints could be found, including the image of St. Sebastian pierced with arrows. They all mumbled something in silence, only her lips moving. Their prayers went on for about twenty minutes. When they finished, Engra’cia called her maid and asked for more coffee.
Dona Chiquinha got on the phone to the police chief .
“Look, Dr. Emiliano, only now have I been able to gather my friends to help you out. But our help can’t be material. We are praying for the kids, for all the wrongs they have suffered and for their futures.
I am sure God will listen to us.”The police chief listened to Dona Chiquinha while straightening out some papers on his desk. The reporter who was interviewing him was impatient because the woman never stopped talking. She told the chief about their prayers, told him the stories of saint’s sacrifices and especially that of Saint Sebastian, of whom she was a personal devotee.
Dr. Emiliano thanked her for her good intentions and told her the women of Usina Street had helped him solve the problem. Many clothes had been made and others were being finished as they talked. Dona Chiquinha shut up. The police chief smiled and told the reporter they could continue their interview, after he hang up.
Dona Chiquinha, straightened up her hair, immediately after hanging up, saying “Insolent man, this Dr. Emiliano! When he showed up here, he was always bothering everyone asking for this or that. Now he’s showing his claws.”
Engra’cia wanted to know what happened. Maria Quitéria, who was still drinking her coffee, was also curious.
“What an arrogant manner,” Dona Chiquinha said, “the police chief has just informed me that those tramps of Usina Street were solving the children’s problem. It’s really a pity the priest is not in town. We can’t let those lost women contaminate those children’s lives.”
“They are always ready to do something, just to show they can be nice people,” Maria Quitéria said.
“I think we should go to the police station and have a talk with Dr. Emiliano. After all, above him, in this town, is Judge Galdiano. And we cannot allow them to shame us in this manner,” Dona Chiquinha suggested.
Engra’cia, who was much heavier than the others, who had a calm expression in the eyes, and greying hair, had no intention of making that kind of a sacrifice, of leaving her house now that the rain had began again.
“What if we just make a representation and wait for the priest to come back?”, she suggested.
Dona Chiquinha thought about it for a while and was convinced that a representation was indeed the best thing, for to get to the police station they would have to cross several streets, go over mud puddles, wet their feet. And what for? To explain themselves to a poor police chief, nothing more than a simple lawyer. Never! They would talk to the judge, the greatest authority around.
“And we can use this occasion to straighten a number of things. The limits those sinful women must observe, for instance. At first they could only be at Usina Street. This police chief was appointed, got here, and look, they have advanced up to Tiradentes Street. Now, I’ve even found some of them occasionally, in the Church Square.”
“Oh!” Maria Quitéria exclaimed, desolate.
“The police chief cannot change the habits of the people in town. We must worry about taking the tramps out of the streets, and keep order around. This, he doesn’t do.” Engra’cia added.
“I never liked him very much.” Dona Chiquinha said.”Once, I saw him at Jacira’s home and thought he was obnoxious,” said Maria Quitéria from the pulpit of her thirty- eight years of spinsterhood.
Dona Chiquinha was angry. Her eyes were moving fast from corner to corner, her usually slow gestures had disappeared. She picked up the phone, searched for the judge’s phone number and made her call. The judge she was told, was not at home. He hadn’t arrived home yet.
“I don’t know where this judge goes when we need him the most!”
The rain increased. They could hear thunder, and lightning illuminated the room. The lights flickered, threatening to go out. Engra’cia asked the maid to make sure they have candles available, just in case.
“We must do the represenation.” Dona Chiquinha concluded.
* * *
CHAPTER EIGHT
I
Close to midnight Elizena and her friends had finished their task: clothes had been sewn by machine or by hand and some were barely basted, but Twenty-Five had been able to pick up the order, taking the chief’s car filled with shirts and pants. Elizena was happy for having helped the boys. Maria de Jesus, Ofélia and Dina felt the same. They hadn’t occupied themselves with men this evening.
“I wish I could see them all dressed up,” Edna de Oliveira said.
“If you want, we can stop by the police station,” Nilva Barbosa suggested.
Elizena arranged her dress and washed her face as the others changed. Dina even put on a new blouse. In a few minutes they were at the police station. The chief had left but Joao Domingo was on call.
“We want to see the boys dressed up.”
He laughed and said: “They are not here anymore. A bus from Sao Paulo took them away, as soon as they’d put their clothes on. The police chief went with them to the outskirts of town.”
“How did they look?” Nilva Barbosa wanted to know.
“They looked like nobility,” said the policeman winking at Edna.
“It was a pity we came, then.” Elizena said.
“No. Stay a little longer until the police chief gets back.”
But they didn’t like Joao Domingo and so returned home. The rain had stopped but the streets were still covered with plenty of puddles. Dina walked carefully to keep her sandals clean, while Ofélia held her skirt away from wet walls.
“One of these days I’m gonna slap the face of that man,” she said referring to Joao Domingo. “Every time he sees me he wants to squeeze my ass.”
The others laughed.
“He looks stupid.”
At the time they arrived at Usina street and turned on the lights in their homes, in the outskirts of town the Sao Paulo bus passed by the gas station where the boys had first been found, in the wet and cold wee hours of the day just ending. Dito didn’t feel like talking. He was travelling in a seat by himself. There were only two policemen overlooking the boys. He thought about the things he had done, rehearsed in his mind once again the supermarket assault. He remembered Mother’s Scourge holding on to his belly and falling, and Encravado jumping out of the VW bus and being hit in the head. He could not understand Encravado’s obstinacy. He knew they would kill him and he jumped anyway. Dito, on the other hand, had kept quiet, raising his arms above his head, when the policemen opened the bus’s doors. They would have killed at the slightest movement, but he had not wanted to die then. He still had much to resolve. They covered him with beatings and here he was, reborn from the ashes. How much further would they let him go? He didn’t know and didn’t want to worry about it. The important thing was to return to Rio and look for Pin and Figurinha. Perhaps they had been able to save their asses. He would like to find them. There was no point in staying in that bus. He would run away before they got put back in jail. As soon as they arrived in the city, he would find a way of escaping. At the first sign, in a close turn, he would leap out. The boys who were able to get to the Juvenile Division would end up in other prisons. They would never have peace. Never. Other problems would appear, and they would be each time more and more involved in them. He didn’t belong with that group. He didn’t know anyone. The only one who had become his friend had stayed at the bottom of the cliff, with his weak voice, and his veins opened at the wrist.
He read several times the white with red letters: Emergency exit. In case of accident, pull the lever upward. He only needed to know if it worked. The trip continued. Some of the boys were making great noise, singing and laughing, as if they were returning from a picnic. He didn’t see anymore the one who had had his arms dislocated, nor the one with broken arms. One of the policeman asked them to be quiet. For more than half an hour the bus kept going at very high speed. Dito now realized how far they had been taken. He adjusted his pants and noticed he had no pockets. First thing he had to do was to get better clothes. He remembered the gun he had lost in the supermarket and the money the policemen had taken from him in prison. He was clean, not a nickel. After he got clothes, he would have to get money. After that he would go to Rio, probably by train, as he had already done several times, or, perhaps hitchhiking, helping some truck driver? He would try. The important thing was to get to
town, pull that lever and run. He would let the naive boys be happy going back to jail.
He relaxed against the seat. The night was very dark and the few cars that met them on the road passed at high speed. A little after that the city’s mercury vapor street lights began to show up, and in the distance, more lanes also well lit appeared. They went over an overpass, and then he recognized the beginning of the city proper. He looked at the policeman talking, and at the other who had sat in the back seat and napped.
He pulled the lever, as the sign indicated, and there was a noise at the door. He felt it was open but stayed seated, holding on to the lever. This was not the best time to get out. The bus went through an avenue, turned right, turned left, went up a steep hill, slowly. At an intersection there were several cars and a garbage truck stopped. That was the opportunity he had been waiting for. He pushed the door open and jumped out. He ran in front of the garbage truck, got up a narrow street, ended up in a little square, took the underground street crossing, and got out close to a church, where he hid himself. He made himself comfortable in the church’s stairway. Later on, when he discovered a niche in the wall close to a side door, he realized he could stay there safely. He sat down, leaned against the wall and fell asleep.
He woke up with sun already up, hearing the noise of cars passing by. The church bells tolled a few times, and he thought it was time to go. He walked through the streets, one after another until he reached a square where there were some fruit stands established. People were going back and forth buying fruits, carrying bags with their purchases inside. He walked a little further to the heart of the open market, approached some vendors, offering his help. But some of them didn’t even answer him. Then he got hold of an old basket and walked behind shopping housewives. One of them, who appeared angry, accepted his help. She had a discussion with the fresh fish vendor and with the tomato man; she spent ten minutes deciding between two lettuces and complained with the man who sold her lard. Dito would pick up the purchases and put them in the basket he was carrying. The woman also asked him to hold on to the cart she had brought, whose wheel had come loose.
Childhood of the Dead Page 21
