by Tim Wirkus
The young man looked around the car, allowing the drama—and the pungent rotting smell—to build for the few people who were paying attention.
“He said he could cure me with a simple surgery. My mother and friends were overjoyed. We made an appointment, I came in to his office, and he anesthetized me. When I woke up, several of my vital organs were dangling—yes, dangling—from a hole in my belly.”
The young man lifted up his shirt, revealing the source of the sharp rotting smell. A large plastic bag, its opening attached with duct tape to the young man’s abdomen, held what looked to be an assortment of organ meat floating in a yellowish liquid.
“This thief of a doctor, this demon from hell, said that until I raise two thousand reaís, he refuses to put my organs back inside my body where they belong.”
A man standing near the elders laughed and shook his head.
“This is serious,” said the young man. “A small contribution from each of you of just one real would put me that much closer to meeting this so-called doctor’s demands. As you can probably imagine, I don’t have much time.”
As he walked around the train car, a few people pressed coins and small bills into his hand, just to get him to move his stinking bag of meat away from them. He stopped in front of one woman who shook her head and told him to keep practicing—if she was going to pay for a show, it had better be well-performed. The train stopped and the doors of the car opened. The young man thanked everyone who contributed, and hopped off onto the platform.
“The lady’s right,” said Elder Toronto. “This kid was okay, but I’ve seen better. The first time I saw someone do that, the guy was so convincing that I bought the whole story for a few seconds. Until I thought about it, you know?”
Elder Schwartz nodded, relieved at the easy tone of the conversation. The doors closed and the train started moving again.
“You’re coming to Vila Barbosa at a good time,” said Elder Toronto. “We actually have a baptism scheduled for this Sunday. First one in a long time. The ward’s really excited.”
Elder Schwartz said that was great. He asked who was getting baptized.
“His name’s Marco Aurélio,” said Elder Toronto. “You’ll meet him later today. He’s a fascinating guy.”
Elder Toronto pointed out the window.
“This is where our area starts,” he said.
Elder Schwartz looked out the window at the rolling hills of houses built on houses built on houses, a vast landscape of red ceramic brick and corrugated tin, accented by a faded blue water tank here, a lonely stand of palm trees there. In the tobacco-colored sky above the hills of houses, little flecks of color jerked and darted—paper kites flown by earthbound boys of all ages. Occasionally, one of the kites fluttered out of the sky, cut down by the glass-coated string of one of the other kites.
Elder Schwartz looked away from this first sight of the neighborhood and closed his eyes. As long as he was on this train, he could put off the inevitable discomfort of getting to know a new area. On the train, he didn’t have to meet the local church members, who would squint at the missionary tag on his shirt pocket and tell him his name was completely unpronounceable and that they were sorry but they would just have to call him “Elder.” And then they would ask him where he was from, how big his family was, and when he answered their questions they would ask him to repeat himself. They would tell him his tongue was still too slow, too American, and they could hardly understand a word he said. They would say that this must be his first area, and that Portuguese was a difficult language but he’d get the hang of it soon. When he managed to communicate how long he had actually been out, how many other areas he’d served in, they would look at him with pity and say that it just takes some missionaries a little longer than others. And then they would avoid talking to him from that point on, put off by the awkwardness of having to ask him to repeat himself again and again, to no avail.
Here on the train, he could put off the constant feeling of disorientation; of walking down unfamiliar streets through unfamiliar neighborhoods; of knowing that if anything were to happen to Elder Toronto and he were forced to find his own way home that he would be completely at the mercy of strangers, asking for directions at every turn, loudly broadcasting the fact that he was a lost, confused foreigner with a growing sense of panic.
On the train, he could put off the unpleasant surprises that were sure to come with every moment spent in his new area—the attacks by stray dogs, the belligerent drunks, the tripping and falling over broken sidewalks, the irate pastors, the freak rain storms—surprises that were bound to be exacerbated by the fact that this was Vila Barbosa. So he gripped his luggage, eyes closed, dreading the coming hours and days.
“Here we are,” said Elder Toronto, and as the train slowed to a stop, Elder Schwartz opened his eyes.
• • •
Later that afternoon, after hauling his luggage across the hilly streets of Vila Barbosa and settling into the musty downstairs apartment he’d now call home, Elder Schwartz met Marco Aurélio for the first time. The two missionaries met up with him at a little lanchonete tucked into an alleyway at the edge of the neighborhood’s business district. He sat reading a newspaper on one of the tall stools at the counter, so intent on what he was reading that he didn’t notice at first when the two elders walked in.
“Marco Aurélio,” said Elder Toronto.
He looked up from his newspaper.
“Hey,” he said.
He folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm as he got down from the stool. He wore khaki slacks and a plaid button-down shirt that had both seen better days. His dark hair was thinning at the temples and crown, and the beginnings of wrinkles bracketed his eyes. Later that day, Elder Schwartz would have trouble remembering Marco Aurélio’s face. In fact, every time he saw Marco Aurélio after that, Elder Schwartz would think, Right, that’s what he looks like. There was just something indistinct about his features. His eyes, nose, mouth, ears, jawline—they were all nearly impossible to commit to memory.
“Let’s sit at that table,” he said, pointing with the newspaper.
They sat down in the corner at a metal folding table with a beer logo printed across its top. Marco Aurélio reached out and shook Elder Schwartz’s hand.
“You must be the new missionary,” he said. “I’m Marco Aurélio.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” said Elder Schwartz. “I look forward to getting to know you.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that,” said Marco Aurélio. “One more time?”
“You really can’t speak Portuguese, can you?” said Elder Toronto, staring in wonder at Elder Schwartz.
“Hey!” said Marco Aurélio, his eyebrows furrowed. “What kind of thing is that to say to your new partner?”
“Well, am I wrong?” said Elder Toronto.
Marco Aurélio turned back to Elder Schwartz.
He said, “One more time, please. You said it fine. It’s just noisy in here.”
“I said, ‘It’s nice to meet you,’” he said.
“Likewise,” said Marco Aurélio. “And your name?”
“I’m Elder Schwartz.”
“Schwartz?” said Marco Aurélio.
“Yes,” said Elder Schwartz.
“Is that German?”
“Yes,” said Elder Schwartz.
“But you’re another American, right?”
Elder Schwartz said that was right. Marco Aurélio nodded. He rolled back the fraying cuffs of his shirt and asked the elders if they’d eaten lunch yet. Elder Toronto said they hadn’t.
“What’ll you have?” said Marco Aurélio.
Elder Toronto said that they could take care of their own orders. Marco Aurélio shook his head. He said lunch was on him today. The elders thanked him and told him what they wanted. Marco Aurélio got up from the table.
The woman behind the counter—who had been watching their table with a more-than-businesslike interest—looked at Marco Aurélio
warily and asked if he was ready to order. She looked to be somewhere in her forties, wiry and tough. She acted like she owned the place, which they later found out she did. In her interactions with the other patrons of her lanchonete, she eschewed the eager, polite subservience demonstrated by so many in customer service positions. There was no illusion between her and her customers that theirs was anything but a business transaction, that she got any pleasure from the exchange. They would give her money, she would give them food, and that was that.
Marco Aurélio approached the counter and she flipped her little notebook to a fresh page. He said they wanted two x-calabresas and a misto quente. Also a passionfruit juice, a guaraná, and a papaya vitamina. She wrote the order down on her notepad and asked if that would be everything. He said it would and handed her a few bills. She gave him his change and said that the drinks would be right out. As she turned away, Marco Aurélio leaned over the counter and said something the two elders couldn’t quite make out. Whatever he said, the woman didn’t acknowledge it. She handed the slip of paper with the order on it to the young man cooking at the grill. Marco Aurélio waited for a response to whatever it was he had said to the woman, but she kept her back to him and after a moment, he sat back down at the table.
“Do you know her?” said Elder Toronto.
Marco Aurélio shook his head. “I wish I did.”
He smiled.
Elder Toronto said, “I talked to Elder J. da Silva, and he said that they’re free tonight at seven-thirty.”
“Over at the church?” said Marco Aurélio.
“Yeah,” said Elder Toronto.
“And remind me what he’ll be asking me.”
Elder Toronto told him not to worry too much about the interview. Elder J. da Silva would ask him if he believed in God and Jesus Christ, if he believed that they restored their church through Joseph Smith, if Marco Aurélio was willing to obey the principles he had learned in the missionary lessons—keeping the Word of Wisdom, obeying the law of chastity, things like that. Elder J. da Silva would ask if he felt like he had repented of all past sins, if he had ever committed a serious crime, and if he felt ready to be baptized. It was all stuff they had talked about before.
Over behind the counter, the woman turned on a pair of blenders, bringing the conversation to a temporary halt. When the blenders stopped, they sat in silence for a moment until the woman brought their drinks over on a tray and said their sandwiches would be right out. Marco Aurélio flashed her a smile, but she returned it with a chilly stare—the intensity surprising—before walking back behind the counter.
“What did you say to her earlier, when you were ordering?” said Elder Toronto.
“What do you mean?” said Marco Aurélio.
“To offend her? She looked furious just now. What did you say?”
“I just gave her our order. I’m not sure what her problem is.”
“No,” said Elder Toronto, “after she took your order, you said something, and it looked like it really upset her.”
“You must have misheard,” said Marco Aurélio.
“No, I didn’t hear it, I saw it,” said Elder Toronto. “She took your order and then you said something else to her.”
Marco Aurélio shook his head, a look of confusion on his face. Elder Toronto looked to Elder Schwartz for confirmation.
“I saw it, too,” he said.
Marco Aurélio either didn’t understand, or pretended not to.
“How was your train ride this morning?” he asked.
Elder Toronto played along, dropping his line of questioning to presumably pick it up again at a more opportune moment.
“Fine,” he said. He told Marco Aurélio about the guy with the bag of organ meat strapped to his torso.
“That act is getting old,” said Marco Aurélio. “There used to be a guy—maybe three, four years ago—who had mastered it. You’d listen to him talk and you knew it was all completely ridiculous—you know, the corrupt doctor, the organs hanging out of his body, all that—but you completely bought it. He was just that good. It’s a shame—now the kids who do it practically play the whole thing for laughs.”
“At a park once, I saw a guy do a pretty good job of it,” said Elder Toronto.
“With an act like that, pretty good isn’t good enough,” said Marco Aurélio. “The people have to really believe.”
The woman who owned the lanchonete called out their order number and Marco Aurélio got up to retrieve their sandwiches from the counter. He brought them back to the table—a misto quente for Elder Toronto and an x-calabresa each for himself and Elder Schwartz—and the three of them began to eat.
Between bites, Elder Toronto asked how the job hunt was going. Marco Aurélio shrugged.
“Same as always,” he said.
Elder Toronto told him he should talk to Bishop Claudemir, see if he knew of any good opportunities. Marco Aurélio said that would probably be a good idea. Elder Toronto said he was sure he’d find something soon. Like many people in the neighborhood, Marco Aurélio hadn’t been able to find regular work in months.
“How are you liking Vila Barbosa so far?” said Marco Aurélio to Elder Schwartz.
“Good,” said Elder Schwartz.
“You should have seen him on the train,” said Elder Toronto, and launched into an exaggerated account of Elder Schwartz’s struggle with his bags—the awkward crouching; the dirty looks from other passengers; the tumble to the floor; the sweaty, panicked expression on Elder Schwartz’s face. If Elder Toronto had told the same embarrassing story ten minutes earlier, Elder Schwartz may have stood up from his chair and punched his companion in the face, or at least considered it, but the x-calabresa sandwich and the papaya vitamina were having a soothing, almost redemptive effect on his general state of mind, a warm pleasantness spreading from his mouth, to his legs, to his arms, to his head. It spread to his mouth and he laughed, jumping into the telling of the story and adding his account—in his garbled Portuguese—of the perilous trek over the hills of Vila Barbosa from the train station to the apartment. By the time he finished, all three of them were laughing, their plates empty, their stomachs full.
Elder Toronto said, “The food here’s really good. Do you come here a lot?”
Marco Aurélio, who had been watching the woman behind the counter as she took the order of another customer, turned back to Elder Toronto.
“My first time,” he said. “Apparently it’s one of the neighborhood’s best-kept secrets.”
Elder Toronto said he had walked right by it dozens of times without ever noticing it was there—they ought to move it to someplace a little less tucked away and they’d probably do much better business. Marco Aurélio agreed. Elder Toronto looked up at the clock on the wall. He said they should get going so Elder Schwartz would have time to unpack before they started working tonight. The three of them stood up and the two missionaries thanked Marco Aurélio for the meal. He shook his head and told them it was a small token of his great appreciation for everything they had done for him.
On their way out of the lanchonete, Marco Aurélio stopped and said he had left his newspaper at the table. He said he’d be right back—they could go on without him and he’d catch up in a minute. The missionaries stepped outside of the lanchonete and then paused, looking back. They saw Marco Aurélio standing at the counter, talking to the woman who ran the place. He gestured dramatically with his hands and she looked like she was trying not to get upset. She shook her head and walked to the other end of the counter. The missionaries moved out of the entryway and walked quickly through the alley to the connecting street.
Marco Aurélio joined them a few seconds later. He said that someone must have thrown his paper away, it wasn’t in there anymore. Elder Toronto said that was too bad, and then they started walking. As the three of them made their way through the sweaty chaos of the street—the honking, stinking cars; the shouting street vendors; the skittering stray dogs—the pleasantness of lunch dissipated out
into the thick, brown smog that covered the city.
CHAPTER 5
Fueled by the shock of finding the dead man in the shack, the two missionaries ran and ran until they came to a payphone several blocks away. Elder Schwartz would have kept running, but Elder Toronto grabbed his arm, stopping him, and said they needed to call the police. Elder Toronto ducked his head under the cracked, yellow dome of the payphone and told Elder Schwartz to keep an eye out. Elder Schwartz nodded, panting. He looked around the dark street. A group of old men played dominoes in the lighted entryway of a bar. A few doors down from there, a young man sat against a wall, strumming a guitar absent-mindedly. Two middle-aged women walked by carrying two-liter soda bottles filled with homemade cleaning solution. The sounds of a telenovela echoed from an open window somewhere.
Elder Schwartz’s ears began to buzz and his vision clouded with the overexertion of his sprint from the little shack. He sat down on the curb next to the payphone and put his head between his knees. At the phone, Elder Toronto dialed the emergency number and said he had a murder to report. As he described their location and explained what had happened, Elder Schwartz leaned forward and vomited, trying not to get any on his shoes. A nearby dog trotted over to investigate. Its yellow hide was mangy and scabbed, its shoulders and ribs visible through the skin. The dog sniffed at the puddle of vomit and then began to lap it up. Elder Schwartz vomited again, the dog stepping back in momentary alarm before returning to its task.
Elder Schwartz stood back up and stepped away from the puddle of vomit. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his watery eyes and running nose. Elder Toronto hung up the phone. He said that the police had never heard of the address where the man was murdered, so they were going to come here so the missionaries could show them where it was. Elder Toronto looked at the dog, the puddle of vomit, and Elder Schwartz.
“Why did you do that?” said Elder Toronto.
“What do you mean?” said Elder Schwartz.
