City of God

by Paulo Lins

  ‘Look at the bag of myrtle berries I got!’

  ‘I’ve already picked mangos and jabuticabas. Now I’m gonna get some sugarcane from The Other Side of the River!’

  The children discovered marbles, and themselves in the process:

  ‘Bags I go last … if I getcha I’m king!’

  ‘Everythin’ goes!’

  ‘On four fingers!’

  ‘I’m throwin’ it!’

  ‘Clear the way!’

  ‘It moved! You’re dead!’

  ‘I’m next to the triangle!’

  ‘Obstacle … go round!’

  ‘Nothin’ goes!’

  Flying kites:

  ‘Don’t go, your line’s too short.’

  ‘I’m gonna try and tangle him.’

  ‘No way! Go for his tail and line.’

  ‘I can’t. The glass on my line’s not sharp enough.’

  ‘You’ve gotta pull him up.’

  ‘I’m gonna drag him.’

  ‘He’ll hitch you up.’

  ‘Here goes!’

  Playing games:

  ‘One hit, ’cos there’s a new It!’

  ‘One hit!’

  ‘I hit him and everyone else does too!’

  ‘I hit him but no one else does!’

  ‘Jump the graveyard wall!’

  ‘The graveyard’s on fire!’

  ‘Every monkey on his branch!’

  ‘Send a letter to your girlfriend.’

  ‘Out of ink!’

  ‘Freeze!’

  ‘One hit, ’cos there’s a new It!’

  ‘One hit!’

  They found one another in hide-and-seek and tig, had castor-bean wars on The Other Side of the River, swam in the pond and played boats and Journey to the Bottom of the Sea. They headed into the fields, competing for ground with snakes, toads and cavies.

  ‘Wanna go to Red Hill?’ asked Rocket.

  ‘Where’s that?’ asked Stringy, holding a bucket of water.

  ‘Down where you were, near the spring. We can climb up and run down like in cowboy films.’

  ‘OK!’

  They headed off from behind The Flats, having invited a couple of friends. Rocket’s brother, seeing the kids getting ready for a new adventure, thought about putting his bike away to go with them, but then decided to take it at his pals’ insistence. They crossed an area of dense bush, where new blocks of flats were later to be built, and found themselves at the left branch of the river.

  ‘I’m goin’ for a swim!’ said Stringy.

  ‘Let’s go straight to Red Hill. We can swim later!’ said Rocket.

  ‘We’re better off swimmin’ now, ’cos our clothes’ll dry and our mums won’t know we were in the river,’ argued Stringy.

  ‘Scared of mummy?’ asked Rocket.

  Without listening, Stringy threw himself into the water and his friends followed suit. They waded out to a certain point and swam back with the current. Stringy wouldn’t come out of the river, and swam into and out of the current. They dunked one another and played American submarine and Captain Hurricane. The morning had reached its peak, invading the branches of the guava trees and bringing in its wake a land wind that swept away the rain clouds one by one. The finches sang.

  It was as if they had moved to a large farm. As well as buying fresh milk, picking vegetables in the garden and collecting fruit in the wild, they were also able to ride horses through the low hills along Gabinal Road. They hated night-time, because there was still no electricity and mothers forbade their children to play outside after dark. Mornings were cool: they caught fish, hunted cavies, played football, killed sparrows to barbecue and broke into the haunted mansions.

  ‘Let’s get a move on and go to Red Hill!’ insisted Rocket’s brother, already on his bike.

  They didn’t take Moisés Street in case they bumped into one of their mothers fetching water from the spring; instead they went behind the houses and scrambled up the hill.

  Red Hill had been mutilated by excavators and tractors when the houses and first blocks of flats were being built. The clay taken from the hill was used to landfill part of the marsh and to roughcast the first houses. When it was still untouched, the hill had stopped very close to the riverbank. It now ended at one end of the council estate, where some of the Short-Stay Houses were, on the road connecting the blocks of flats to Main Square. From the top, one could see the big lake, the lake, the pond, the river and its two branches, the church, the Leão supermarket, the club, the Rec, the two schools and the nursery. You could even see the clinic from that distance.

  ‘I’m goin’ down on my bike!’ announced Rocket’s brother.

  ‘You crazy? Can’t you see you’re gonna smash yourself up down there?!’ warned Stringy.

  ‘Don’t worry, man, I’m a pro!’

  He got on his bike, leaned over the handlebars and took off down the hill. After a while he stood on the rear brake, put one of his feet on the ground and spun the bike. His friends clapped and shouted:

  ‘Cool, cool!’

  He repeated the feat several times, to the spectators’ delight. His eyes watered with the speed, but he didn’t stop showing off. He got so carried away that he took off downhill once more, pedalling ten times to pick up speed. It went wrong. He hit a hole, lost control and came tumbling off: bloody nose, body skidding across the ground, dust in his eyes … But the subject here is crime – that’s why I’m here …

  Poetry, my teacher: light the certainties of men and the tone of my words. You see, I risk speech even with bullets piercing phonemes. It is the word – that which is larger than its size – that speaks, does and happens. Here it reels, riddled with bullets. Uttered by toothless mouths in alleyway conspiracies, in deadly decisions. Sands stir on ocean floors. The absence of sunlight really does darken forests. The strawberry liquid of ice cream makes hands sticky. Words are born in thought; leaving lips, they acquire soul in the ears, yet sometimes this auditory magic does not make it as far as the mouth because it is swallowed dry. Massacred in the stomach along with rice and beans, these almost-words are excreted rather than spoken.

  Words balk. Bullets talk.

  Squirt, Hellraiser and Hammer ran through the Rec, went into Blonde Square and came out in front of Batman’s Bar, where the gas delivery truck was parked.

  ‘Everyone quiet or I shoot!’ ordered Squirt, holding two revolvers.

  Hellraiser positioned himself on the left of the truck, Squirt on the opposite side. Hammer went to the corner to keep an eye out for the police. Passers-by sidled off; when they got further away they quickened their step. Only the two old ladies who had gone to buy gas at that exact moment did not budge. They looked as if they were glued to the spot, trembling, saying the Creed.

  The delivery men put their hands up and said the money was on the driver, who at that very moment was trying in vain to hide it. Hellraiser watched him. He ordered him to lie down with his arms out, frisked him, took the money, and gave him a kick in the face so he’d never again try anything smart.

  Hammer told everyone the gas was on him and they didn’t need to bring empty gas bottles to exchange for full ones. The truck was empty in minutes.

  ‘C’mon, let’s head up this way,’ suggested Squirt.

  ‘No, let’s go through the Rec – it’s more open. Then we can see everyone … and let’s get Cleide to take the shooters,’ said Hammer.

  ‘Noway, man!’ answered Squirt. ‘Real gangsters’ve gotta stay tooled up. I’m not going round without nothin’. You never know if someone’s gonna show up and try to grab our money. We don’t know who’s who round here, man! You think we’re the only gangsters in this place? Everyone here’s from the favelas! There’s even guys from out of town holed up round here. And what if the pigs show up? How you gonna deal with them? Fists ain’t gonna do the job!’ concluded Squirt without slowing his pace.

  Cleide, who was at Batman’s Bar at the time of the hold-up, decided to follow them at a distance.<
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  Hellraiser didn’t say a thing. Something made him remember his family. His dad, that piece of shit, was always drunk on the slopes of São Carlos, his mum was a pro in the Red Light District, and his brother was a faggot. His slut of a mother was OK. She was known for her strong personality, didn’t take any crap, kept her word and was respected in Estácio. Nor was his dad his biggest problem, because when he was sober the kids didn’t draw on his face with chalk or take his shoes and, in spite of everything, he was good with his fists and a lead drummer in the samba school. But his brother … that was really fucked … Having a faggot for a brother was a huge tragedy in his life. He imagined Ari sucking off migrant labourers down in the Red Light District, taking it up the bum from the guys in São Carlos, wanking off sailors and gringos in Mauá Square and fucking rich arses in the Lapa fleapits. He couldn’t accept that his brother wore lipstick, women’s clothes, wigs and high-heeled shoes. He also remembered the fire, when those bastards had arrived with hessian bags soaked in kerosene, setting fire to the shacks and taking potshots in all directions. That was the day his God-fearing grandmother, old Benedita, had burned to death. She was already bedridden because of an illness that kept her flat on her back all the time. ‘If I hadn’t been such a little squirt,’ thought Hellraiser, ‘I would’ve got her out of there on time and maybe she’d still be here with me. Maybe I’d have been a sucker with packed lunches and all that shit, but she’s not here, right? I’m here to kill and die.’ A day after the fire, Hellraiser was taken to his aunt’s employer’s house. Aunt Carmen had worked as a maid at the same house for years. Hellraiser stayed with his mum’s sister until his dad built a new shack in the favela. He hung around between the sink and the wash tank the whole time and that was where he was when he saw, through the half-open door, the man on TV saying that the fire had been accidental. He felt like killing all those white bastards who had phones, cars, fridges, ate good food and didn’t live in shacks without running water or toilets. Nor did any of the men in that house look like faggots, like Ari did. He thought about cleaning the whities out, even their lying TV and colourful blender.

  When they passed in front of the Leão supermarket, Hellraiser noticed some boys playing footy on a dirt pitch and turned to his friends:

  ‘Hey, there might be some crazy bastards over there. And they might even be as crazy as me, but more than me, no way, know what I’m sayin’? I don’t take shit from no one. If a guy gives me a hard time, I fill ’im with lead. C’mon, dare me to give those dickheads over there a hard time.’

  ‘Dare ya!’ said Squirt and Hammer.

  They went over to the clinic. To their left were the boys playing football.

  ‘Hey, stop that ball and send it over this way, ’cos now it’s mine. If you don’t the shit’ll hit the fan,’ threatened Hellraiser with his gun cocked.

  A startled youth brought him the ball. Hellraiser played keepy-up, controlling the ball with both feet, tossing it up onto his chest, from his chest to his left thigh, then his head.

  ‘The guy’s good – he’s got talent!’ said Hammer.

  After making the ball dance for several minutes, Hellraiser finally kicked it high into the air. It would have landed square in the middle of his chest – but like hell it would! He pulled the trigger and it fell, lifeless. Hammer and Squirt fell about laughing, but Hellraiser remained serious, looking around with an irate expression that gave continuity to the sound of the gunshot. He imposed silence, glaring quickly into each face as if they were all responsible for his miserable life. After a few seconds he turned his back on them. His friends followed him.

  Niftyfeet, Shorty and Pelé were smoking a joint down by the river’s edge.

  ‘They let them sell almost everythin’ and then caught up with them Out Front. They made some good dough, gave everyone gas, then took the piss out of those guys that play footy down at Blood-n-Sand. Pass the joint, man!’ said Pelé, enthused by the prospect of also holding up the gas truck.

  ‘Where’s Blood-n-Sand?’ asked Niftyfeet.

  ‘That little dirt pitch near the supermarket.’

  ‘Who’re these no-goods workin’ the area?’ asked Shorty, handing the joint to Pelé.

  ‘It’s Squirt, Hellraiser and Hammer. I know Hellraiser from São Carlos, Squirt’s from round Cachoeirinha way, and Hammer – if he’s the one I think he is – is from Escondidinho,’ replied Niftyfeet.

  ‘All I can say is the next truck’s mine, right? There’s enough to go round, so long as no one gets greedy!’ warned Pelé.

  ‘Careful, ’cos Hellraiser’s a handful. If you cross him, you gotta have attitude or the shit’ll hit the fan, man! But if you mention my name, he’ll talk to you …’

  ‘It don’t work like that with me, man!’ interrupted Pelé. I’m not scared of no barkin’ dog. I’m not lookin’ to pick a fight with no one, but if someone comes along throwin’ their weight around, there won’t be any talkin’. I’ll give him what he’s got comin’!’

  ‘Everyone’s gotta respect each other. We’ve all gotta feel that the enemy’s the police, know what I mean? I don’t wanna see my friends fightin’,’ warned Niftyfeet.

  ‘Pigs!’ said a voice from an alley between the Block Thirteen Short-Stay Houses.

  Niftyfeet took off over the State Water Department bridge, doubling round the left side of the lake with Pelé and Shorty in his wake. They reached the part of the marsh that had survived the landfills. Their running startled a snake, but it went unnoticed by all three. They headed for the haunted fig tree where they could smoke another joint in its branches and watch the police inspecting the Short-Stay Houses.

  The milkmen had already passed. The children were watching National Kid. Those who didn’t have television sets went to their neighbours’ windows to follow the adventures of the Japanese superhero. The sun had already distanced itself from the Grajaú Range and an angry wind held up the kites zigzagging through the sky. Small clouds of red dust were born and died along the streets of beaten earth, children in uniform going home from school filled the landscape. It was already midday.

  Up Top, at Hammer’s house, the gang split the money while Cleide made vegetable soup, saying:

  ‘The driver went from white to red. I’m surprised he didn’t shit himself … I felt sorry for him, you know. But it was funny. I felt really sorry for those old ladies, the poor things were shakin’ like leaves. I’m surprised they didn’t have a stroke.’

  ‘But I didn’t even point the shooters at ’em!’ said Squirt.

  ‘So what? Just seein’ the shooters, they could’ve kicked the bucket right then and there.’

  ‘But they liked it when it was time to get the gas,’ said Squirt.

  ‘No they didn’t. When everyone started crowdin’ around, they hotfooted it out of there,’ said Cleide.

  Squirt moved away from his friends. He thought about going into the bathroom, but then decided to go outside. A sadness accompanied his steps; he wasn’t listening to what his friends were saying. He shivered, went to the back of the yard, sat with his head against the wall of the house and allowed the tears to roll from his eyes. It wasn’t the old ladies that had made him sad; they had just made him remember another occasion, when he had gone to hold up the gas delivery truck alone and the police had appeared at the same time. There was no way he could run without shooting and that was what he had done. One of the bullets from his gun hit a baby in the head. He saw it reel in its mother’s arms and they both fell to the ground with the impact of the shot. In an effort to relieve his guilt he told himself over and over that the crime had been an accident, but he was filled with desperation at having killed a baby every time he remembered it. He knew he could repent of his crime and go to heaven, but even so, that was a really big crime. He had always heard his parents talking about mortal sins. There was nothing he could do, he was going to rot in hell. He looked at the sky, then at the ground, and concluded that God was far away. Planes flew high and didn’t get anywhere near
heaven. The Apollo 11 had only gone to the moon. To get to heaven you had to pass through all of the stars, and the stars were really fucking far away. If hell was below ground, it was much closer. He feared God’s wrath, but was keen to meet the Devil; he’d make a pact with him to have everything on Earth. When he felt death was near, he’d repent of all his sins and come up trumps on both sides. It’d suck if he died suddenly. He decided to stop thinking shit and headed back to his friends.

  Squirt had been brought up in the hillside favela of Cachoeirinha. He had wanted to be a gangster so he’d be feared by all, like the gangsters where he lived. They were so feared that his chicken of a father didn’t even dare look them in the eye. He liked the way they spoke, the way they dressed. Whenever he went out to buy something, he prayed for someone to be playing samba at the corner bar so he could hear the gangsters improvising lyrics. Until he was fifteen, he had been forced to attend the Assembly of God Church. He always told his parents he didn’t like that life of endless prayers, and having to attend service with them. He hated it when their house was the setting for religious gatherings and meetings of people from their Church. He wanted to be like other kids in the favela. He wanted to take part in the June festivities, eat Saint Cosmas and Saint Damian sweets and get Christmas presents. He wanted to parade with the percussion section of a samba school, but none of this was allowed in his religion. They said Carnival was the Devil’s party. The Devil was the one who understood things. One day Squirt decided to abandon the Church. He tore up his Bible, did the same with the pamphlets and confronted his parents, who insisted he remain in the faith. As time went on, Squirt began to smoke dope on the slopes of the favela. His first thefts were in his own home, then at the supermarket, until he got involved in armed robberies. The neighbours commented among themselves that Squirt wasn’t ugly, he was treated well at home, his father didn’t drink, and went from home to work and back home again, and there was that son of his looking like a rabid dog. He was trigger-happy, mugged locals and raped the neighbourhood girls. He was a real bastard.