City of God

by Paulo Lins

  Ari kept quiet; only his gaze wandered while his brother was talking. He thought everything was his fault. If he weren’t a faggot, his brother would be living with them. As soon as he’d started cross-dressing, Hellraiser had taken off. He liked him. Deep down, he sometimes believed his brother was fond of him, sometimes he didn’t. He hated sex at that moment, blaming it for all of his misfortune. A silence that implied a hug or handshake descended upon them, until Hellraiser sent him on his way.

  ‘Stay clear of the cops, OK? Look after yourself!’

  Ari stepped into the City of God night, where various other silences were piled up in each alley. The night spilled across his restless gaze. He had to steer clear of the police. Anything even remotely out of place in the night was suspicious. He looked around him. He decided to take off his heels so he could run a bit when he noticed a man standing on the next corner. He made sure the money and jewellery were secure, crossed over to the other side of the road, slowed his pace and visualised his pombagira. The man didn’t move, making Ari even more apprehensive. He’d wait until he was close to the corner, then take off running. Holding his purse in front of him and pretending to look for something, he got his pocket knife out of his knickers, opened it and held it in his right hand, mincing along for all he was worth in the hope that the man on the corner would believe he really was a woman. He thought about turning back to ask his brother for help, but was afraid Hellraiser would say he’d been cruising. His potential attacker was less than ten yards away and he thought about making a run for it. His heart was the noisiest thing at that moment.

  ‘Don’t worry ‘bout the swollen cunt and hairy arsehole, you just gotta ram your pole!’ said the man on the corner, revealing that he was completely drunk.

  Ari turned the last corner, walked to the end of the street and went into the Doorway to Heaven, where Neide and Milk were having a beer while they waited for him. Ari paid the bill, hurrying along his friends from the Red Light District. They got into Milk’s VW and headed for Estácio.

  The clanking of the milkman woke Hellraiser. It took him a few minutes to remember everything that had happened, then he splashed his face with water from the spout in the kitchen and went outside holding his gun, without checking to see if it was loaded. He wasn’t going to use it; he just wanted to intimidate the milkman.

  ‘Hey, man! Get over here so we can chew the fat.’

  ‘What’s up?’ said the milkman.

  ‘Reckon you can do us a favour?’

  ‘Course I can!’ he said nervously, trying not to look at the revolver or into Hellraiser’s eyes.

  ‘It’s like this: you’ve gotta carry a mattress, stove, sofa, wardrobe and radio down to Block Thirteen. I’m gonna get myself a squat down there, then in you go, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘How many trips you gonna make?’

  ‘From what you said, I reckon two.’

  ‘So this is how it works then: get yourself organised over here and I’ll get myself set up over there. I’ll pick a squat quickly and wait for you there, OK man?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Hellraiser picked two houses. One was for him and the other for Hammer.

  The milkman was quick. Hellraiser left the wardrobe in the house reserved for Hammer and the rest in his new house. He gave the milkman a watch, paced around the living room with his hands behind his back, thought about his father’s illness, his mother’s legs climbing the slopes of the favela … He felt a brief sadness and opened the window; a ray of sunlight invaded the Short-Stay House, motivating him to go out to get something to eat.

  Before entering Dummy’s Bar, he saw Black Carlos crossing Middle Street holding two bottles of beer. He called his friend over and quickly spun a lie. He said the police had blockaded his house during the night and that he was only alive because he hadn’t done anything rash. He could never go back again because he couldn’t afford to show up at a place the pigs were keeping an eye on.

  ‘Hurry up and grab yourself one of those empty houses, man!’

  ‘You think I haven’t already? … I’ve already moved, man!’

  They went to Black Carlos’s house. On the way, Hellraiser asked a boy to run an errand for him:

  ‘Go and get two bread rolls and a pound of mortadella … Take it to that house over there,’ he said, pointing at his friend’s house.

  The boy was quick. They ate, drank, smoked dope and cigarettes and made small talk until Black Carlos told his friend to take a nap, after seeing him yawn several times.

  ‘Good idea. I’ll reckon I’ll head home …’

  ‘You can catch a wink right where you are, man. I’m going out for a stroll, OK? You can stay as long as you like, no problems … This place is clean.’

  Before leaving, Black Carlos told his friend that Lúcia Maracanã would come fix a nice dinner for them. Hellraiser thought about taking a shower and even headed for the bathroom, but changed his mind when he felt his head spinning; he was out of it on beer and good shit. He lay down, still dressed in his T-shirt, jocks and tapered trousers.

  He woke up at around two in the afternoon to the sound of Lúcia and Berenice talking. He showered. When he left the bathroom he checked out the unknown woman’s legs. At first, the way he wouldn’t take his eyes off her made Berenice uneasy. But as the minutes passed, she crossed and uncrossed her legs as much as possible. Lúcia talked about her carnival costume as she cooked.

  ‘Did I tell you I’m gonna parade with the sambistas? I can’t be bothered with choreography, havin’ to rehearse every Wednesday, know what I mean? But not the sambistas. It’s every man for himself and God for all. And all I’m wearin’ is a little G-string, dance shoes, stockings and the top. This business of wearin’ lots of clothes just restricts your movements. I like to let my feet do the talkin’ – spinnin’ down the avenue like a turkey ain’t my thing … This year I’m gonna parade with São Carlos, Salgueiro and the school from here. I’m goin’ all in white so I can get into all three in the same costume,’ she said.

  Hellraiser was quiet, wondering if anyone had filed a report on his jobs. He regretted stirring things up within the estate itself. Niftyfeet was always saying you shouldn’t shit on your own doorstep. But come to think of it, there was no two ways about it – it would have been impossible to case out a good joint, then hold it up, knowing his ponce of a brother was in the area. Time was short. ‘They’ll probably do an identikit picture,’ he thought. Although he was worried, he admired Berenice’s body: her fleshy painted lips, a pair of tight little shorts showing off her round bum, her pointy, mouth-watering breasts, shapely legs, big eyes and soft voice … He got a hard-on.

  Lúcia announced that dinner was ready, got out some plates and cutlery, and helped herself to rice, beans, and ox-rib and potato stew. Berenice offered to serve Hellraiser. He gave her the thumbs-up with his right hand without taking his eyes off the house across the way. The clinking of plates and cutlery also came through the neighbouring window. Hellraiser watched an old woman cooking over a fire in her own living room for four grandchildren. Now they were eating beans and the smoke was making their eyes red. A sense of sadness sobered him, but Berenice’s hand on his shoulder made him smile. She handed him the plate. He ate slowly, with his mouth closed so as not to do anything embarrassing in front of the woman he had the hots for.

  Berenice was from the favela of Praia do Pinto, where she had been born and raised with nine brothers and sisters. When she was still a girl she had started stealing food from supermarket shelves in Leblon and Ipanema. Now she only stole from rich housewives at street markets in the South Zone. She was always inviting Lúcia to steal with her. She thought stealing food at the markets was child’s play. The thing was to filch money, gold chains and bracelets.

  ‘It’s a piece of cake!’ she repeated each time she and Lúcia talked about it.

  When their mother died, each of the children headed off in different directions. Berenice went to live with Jerry Adriane in
the favela of Esqueleto. She stayed with him until his body was found in São João de Meriti with fifty bullets in it and a sign hanging from his neck saying: ‘I won’t steal any more. Signed: White Hand.’ Berenice moved with her father to City of God, where he drank himself to death. Now she was alone, wanting to start life over. She was tired of cooking for herself, sleeping alone. She wanted to have children as quickly as possible because she already felt old. When she saw Hellraiser, she thought he was charming and allowed herself to be seduced by his words during that first meeting.

  ‘Chuck us a smoke!’ said Hellraiser, and after Lúcia handed him one he added, ‘You know, Lúcia’s always had some hot friends.’

  ‘So why haven’t you fixed yourself up with one?’ asked Berenice.

  ‘So far none of them have made my heart beat faster!’

  Lúcia sensed her friend’s intentions, said she was going to Madalena’s to score some weed and left the two of them alone.

  ‘Looks like you’re the choosy sort, then. Life’s a bit hard on people like that, don’t you reckon?’

  ‘To be honest, I reckon you’re right, you know. And you know what? I’m gonna give it to you straight – I think my heart’s chosen you. It’s our stupid hearts that do the choosin’, and when I saw you my heart took off like a racehorse,’ declaimed Hellraiser.

  ‘Yeah right, pull the other one … A gangster’s heart only beats in the soles of his feet and doesn’t take off anywhere – it’s always lyin’ low.’

  ‘C’mon, girl … Ain’t you ever heard of love at first sight?’

  ‘Gangsters don’t love, they lust,’ answered Berenice, laughing.

  ‘It’s a bit hard to talk like this …’

  ‘Gangsters don’t talk, they chew the fat!’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, you pick the shit out of everythin’ I say!’

  ‘Gangsters don’t say nothin’, they give it to you straight!’

  ‘I’m gonna stop wastin’ my breath on you.’

  ‘Gangsters don’t stop, they take five.’

  ‘Talkin’ ‘bout love with you ain’t easy.’

  ‘What’s this about love, man? You’re just bullshittin’!’

  ‘Gangsters are fools when they’re in love,’ insisted Hellraiser.

  ‘You’re gonna end up convincin’ me …’

  They hung around talking until Berenice promised to think about it. Lúcia arrived with a couple of beers, a bit of weed and three wraps of coke, to Hellraiser’s delight. They chatted for ages. Every time she gave him half a chance, Hellraiser tried to put the moves on Berenice. He knew you sometimes had to be persistent to win a woman over.

  The hot sun had almost gone, the children brought in their kites, workers arrived on crowded buses, people who had night classes headed for school, the few afternoon breadsellers headed home and workers filled corner bars for their sacred drink. Aluísio got off the bus in Main Square. He didn’t know what the story was with Hellraiser, but he didn’t care if he was the meanest gangster in the world because he was going to kick his arse – Aluísiowas hot shit with his fists too. He’d challenge Hellraiser to a fist fight if he had to. Real gangsters had to fight with their fists, otherwise they lost face, people looked down on them. He reckoned that if he wasn’t at the Bonfim he’d be Down Below. On the way he ran into Orange and Acerola smoking a joint.

  ‘What’s up, man? Everythin’ OK?’

  ‘So-so.’

  ‘Wanna puff, man?’ asked Acerola, joint in hand.

  ‘No, I don’t smoke, thanks anyway.’

  ‘That’s right, I completely forgot.’

  Aluísio took the chance to grumble to his friends. Acerola got angry when he heard what had happened. He said in an apprehensive voice that the gangsters had to respect the Boys. He said that if it were him, he’d beat the shit out of the guy to put some manners on him. He liked Aluísio, although he hadn’t known him for long. He believed you could tell from a man’s eyes if he was nice or not. He sensed sincerity in Aluísio’s eyes and always saw him talking to everyone, and buying beers for the cool guys. He was a man who never had problems with anyone, was always in the running for the best chicks in the area, and the guys he hung out with were top-notch. He decided to side with the one he considered a good guy. Orange backed his friend’s decision.

  They headed Down Below, as Orange had seen Hellraiser going into Black Carlos’s house in the morning. Before crossing the square where the City of God Prospectors carnival group rehearsed, they ran into Niftyfeet having a good time at a pool table with two workers, knocking back a drink or two between shots to whet their appetites. Acerola took it upon himself to tell Niftyfeet what had happened and, seeing him all worked up, Niftyfeet decided to intervene.

  ‘Let me have a word with him, but let’s not all go at once, ’cos he might think we’re gonna give him a hard time. You two wait for me here and I’ll go with him.’

  ‘Thanks!’ they answered.

  Niftyfeet advised Aluísio to tread lightly. He shouldn’t be afraid, because Hellraiser didn’t like that either, but if he came on too heavy the shit’d hit the fan.

  ‘I know how it is,’ said Aluísio, like someone who understood how things worked. He visualised Father Joaquim of the Promised Land of the Souls so everything would run smoothly. His protector never failed him in his hour of need.

  The matter was easily resolved. Aluísio behaved as Niftyfeet had expected. When he said he was a friend of Hammer, Orange and Acerola, he received double what had been taken from him, along with the gangster’s apologies.

  Night made itself king of the hill. Moths clustered around every other streetlamp. Up Top, a gang of kids asked Bahian Paulo where the gangsters were. They wanted to celebrate their successes with the masters. That day, their eager little hands had made old people, pregnant women and drunks in the city centre feel their vulnerability. They’d also begged and shined shoes in São Francisco Square. Pipsqueak, the one who always got the most money, was the leader of the gang. He lied to his friends to win their respect, saying he had already sent more than ten folk off to meet their maker in the hold-ups he’d done alone. He looked up to Hellraiser, but adored Big, who was top dog in the favela of Macedo Sobrinho. If he managed to be like Hellraiser, soon he’d be like Big too: desired by women and feared by all. He considered Slick and Sparrow his best friends. When Slick was behind bars at Padre Severino, there were few occasions when his mother didn’t take him money sent by Pipsqueak. When Slick got out of prison, Pipsqueak sung his friend’s praises, saying he was the wisest and toughest, the biggest gangster of them all.

  Bahian Paulo had only seen Hellraiser in the morning. As for Hammer and Squirt, he hadn’t seen them for some time.

  ‘Even the guy who grassed on them is showin’ his face in the area again,’ said the owner of the Bonfim, pointing at Francisco, who was drinking a peach cocktail at the other end of the bar.

  The children went to old Teresa’s to score four bundles of dope in the hope of finding a gangster to share it with.

  Then they headed down through the alleys. Night Owl went ahead, giving the rest of the gang the thumbs-up when all was clear around corners. If for some reason the police happened to appear, he’d continue on without signalling. Pipsqueak was the only one who carried a gun and he always kept it cocked.

  Hellraiser was playing pool with Pelé and Shorty at Dummy’s corner bar. When he saw Night Owl he shouted his name as if calling to a close friend. He was even happier when he saw the rest of the gang. He decided to greet each of them with a handshake and told them it was time for children to be in bed. He didn’t stop at shaking Pipsqueak’s hand and decided to hug him, slapping his shoulders not just in friendship, but also in admiration. After the reception, Pipsqueak said he’d come to let his friend in on a good one. He explained his plan. Hellraiser got excited and his excitement spread to Pelé and Shorty.

  ‘We can even do it today. We just need to get a car …’

  ‘No way, Pipsqueak!
Saturday’s better, ’cos there’s more people there. More dough for us, right?’

  They arranged to hit the jackpot late Saturday night. That Friday night, Pipsqueak would take Hellraiser and the others to case out the place they were going to hold up. They’d check the exits in case the pigs showed and choose the best place to park the car … The money would be divided equally between four. Pipsqueak would be included just for having tipped them off. The job would be carried out by Hellraiser, Pelé and Shorty. They celebrated the success of the operation in advance. Hellraiser said the thing was to think positively so everything would work out alright. Carrots, another kid in the gang, asked for a soft drink and three pool tokens. Out of habit, he accidentally called the bar owner ‘Bahian Paulo’, reminding Pipsqueak of the grass.

  ‘We just saw the guy who set the cops on you lot.’

  ‘No way!’ said Hellraiser.

  ‘Yes way, man! He was at the Bonfim drinkin’ piss.’

  Hellraiser dropped his pool cue, went to the hole where he’d stashed his gun, gave it a once-over and headed into the streets in the dark of the moonless night. He went down an alleyway, passed the nursery, crossed the Nut Cracker, passed Augusto Magne School and continued down the road along the right branch of the river. He slowed his pace at each corner so as not to get caught off guard. The police were nowhere to be seen. He was going to bump off the grass to set an example, because if he didn’t everyone might start grassing. This was perhaps the most important lesson he’d learned from other gangsters when he was a boy in the favela of São Carlos. Hellraiser was brimming with hatred as he passed the club. All he had to do was cross the Rec, cut through the church alley, turn right, go down Middle Street, and he’d be at the Bonfim.

  Francisco was not completely drunk. He was sipping his peach cocktail and listening to Bahian Paulo’s radio. He didn’t notice Hellraiser.

  Francisco had migrated from the northern state of Ceará to Rio de Janeiro with a job guaranteed. He worked on the construction of the Paulo de Frontin Bridge. He’d lived in the on-site accommodation during his first year in Rio, then managed to get a house in the estate with the help of one of the big-shot engineers working on the bridge. He’d sent a letter to his wife saying his brother was going to fetch her. His brother had gone by bus just the day before. The letter also talked about a good house with running water and a yard, and there was a school for the kids nearby, where, according to the neighbours, it was easy to enrol them. He had some money set aside for furniture. The only bad thing about Rio de Janeiro was that there were niggers everywhere, but he wanted her to come as quickly as possible because he was missing the kids terribly. When he’d arrived in Rio, Francisco had been mugged before he’d left the bus station, and again two months later, in the Red Light District. Both times by blacks. When he’d heard Squirt saying he was going to do a house down Anil way, he waited for him to move away and said in a loud voice that if he saw a policeman he’d turn in that thieving cunt on the spot. He knew where the others lived and pointed at Hammer’s house. Madalena, who had been drinking a beer at the other end of the bar, committed what he’d said to memory. The first chance she had, she told Maracanã what had happened. Francisco hadn’t been afraid to beckon to the police doing their rounds, to grass that very same night on which he had sworn to avenge himself on that fucking race. He said he’d never liked niggers and after he came to Rio he’d begun to feel angry towards them. He argued with his friends, saying blondes were the sons of God, whites God had begat, mulattos were bastard sons, and blacks the Devil had shat. Telling the police where Hammer lived was his great act of revenge against that bunch of golliwogs.