City of God

by Paulo Lins

  Acerola and Green Eyes collected money for one of the heads’ mothers to take down to the station. Boss of Us All had said they could leave the money with the sergeant. He’d let them go. They had already raised half the money from friends; now all they had to do was go to Madalena’s to ask her for help, because their friends had bought the dope at her den.

  ‘Hey, you know those guys that bought some dope here yesterday? They got busted. Boss of Us All wants two thousand to let them go. We’ve already got a thousand. If you could help us out with the rest …’

  ‘What guys? There were so many people here yesterday.’

  ‘A white guy, he was wearin’ blue shorts, Bamba trainers. The other …’

  ‘Ah! I know – it’s Mango, who lives over on Blonde Square,’ said Madalena.

  ‘That’s the one!’

  ‘Don’t you reckon they might grass on me?’

  ‘If they were gonna grass, they’d’ve already done it. The cops bashed the shit out of them all the way from Prospectors’ square to the station and didn’t stop until Mango’s mum got there,’ said Acerola.

  Madalena gave them the difference after warning them that if they were lying their lives would be on the line, because she had the protection of the gangsters. Acerola and Green Eyes laughed sincerely. They’d never do such a thing. According to their rules, swindling people in their own neighbourhood was a serious offence. A cause for disrespect and even death, depending on the case. They knew the gangsters would never forgive them, especially Ercílio, the dealer’s own son, a gangster himself. It wasn’t that they feared them, because if they were in the right they’d stand up to any gangster in the estate. They were only concerned about stirring up trouble for no reason, losing people’s respect or snuffing it for real. They gave the money to Mango’s mother.

  Hellraiser stayed home all day on the lookout. Whenever he heard a car or unusual activity he’d check the street through a crack in the window with his gun cocked. Pelé and Shorty went to The Other Side of the River to fly kites with the kids. They hung around there until nightfall. Berenice left home early to get some money. She went to steal from the rich housewives in the South Zone street markets. She’d already decided to accept Hellraiser’s offer. She wanted to have children, a family, her own place and a man by her side. She didn’t think he was messing around; he really did want to move in with her. She’d look for him as soon as she got back. She arrived in Leblon at around eight o’clock, prayed that everything would work out alright, and walked through the streets without noticing the people who passed her. She was practically at a snail’s pace when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘What’s up, man?’ said Berenice when she turned around.

  ‘Everythin’ alright?’ asked her friend.

  Berenice didn’t spend long with the taxi driver, an old neighbour from the favela of Esqueleto. She told him what she was going to do. He offered her a getaway ride to the neighbourhood of Gávea.

  She entered the market with a razor hidden in her hand and chose the busiest stands, where she could cut open handbags and remove purses. She was successful all three times. The first woman she robbed only realised what had happened when Berenice was already getting into her friend’s taxi to go eat at a bar in Gávea.

  ‘Everyone quiet or I’ll shoot!’ said Hellraiser to the occupants of a Chevrolet Opala parked in Taquara Square.

  ‘Get out very slowly with your hands in the air!’ said Black Carlos, pointing the .38 at the couple, who quickly obeyed.

  On Friday, Pipsqueak, Hellraiser, Pelé and Shorty had gone to case the motel. It was a three-storey building with two gates, a garage, colourful blinking lights everywhere, porcelain dwarves by the fountain in the garden and, on the right-hand side, the reception area, where a telephonist, manager, receptionist and two security guards worked. That was all they had observed the previous day. They knew there would also be cooks, waiters, chambermaids, and cleaning and storeroom staff. They’d thought it best to take another man on the job.

  They’d all go into the reception area together. They’d overpower the suckers easily, then lock them in a bathroom or somewhere. They’d give the building a going-over to get the other staff members out of the way and would then go through the rooms and suites. If the pigs showed up, they’d make their getaway through the back, where there was a large area of bush, on the outer limits of the estate itself. They’d only shoot to save their lives. If everything went well, they’d head for the neighbourhood of Salgueiro, where they’d lie low for twenty-four hours.

  They shook hands several times, made toasts with rounds of beer and kitchen-sink cocktails, shared a joint and snorted with the same straw, celebrating the opportunity to land a lot of money.

  Pipsqueak was allowed to go only at the last minute; he was so insistent that his friends agreed to let a kid participate in a man’s job. Although he knew he’d receive an equal part in the division of profits just for having cased the joint, what really made him happy was being able to go with his pals. Black Carlos thanked them for inviting him to take part in the hold-up.

  ‘It’s times like this that you know who your real friends are. Some guys try to pull a job off alone when they think they’re onto the jackpot … I was thinkin’ about havin’ a quick one with my chick, but I’m gonna hang around a bit to show you all my appreciation, know what I’m sayin’, fellas?’

  Hellraiser took the steering wheel of the Opala. He told the owners that if they went to the police they’d chase them all the way to hell if they had to. He also told them that they’d dump the car over in the Grajaú Range after three days. His intention was to get them to say, in the event that they went to the police, that the gangsters were heading for the Grajaú Range. They took the Bandeirantes Motorway, with Hellraiser reminding everyone that they’d agreed not to kill anyone. If anyone tried to resist, all they had to do was club them on the nose with the butt of a gun and the dickhead would take a snooze on the spot.

  It was after midnight on that full-moon night on the Bandeirantes Motorway, and the others were crouched low in the car. Hellraiser kept looking into the rear-view mirror. The eloquence of the silence that spread beyond the roar of the car engine made him ask Black Carlos to check the shooters; he didn’t like silence at moments like this. He told Pipsqueak again that his job was to stay outside keeping an eye on the comings and goings. If the pigs showed up, all he had to do was go into the motel, shoot at the first window he saw and get out of there.

  They entered through the back gate. At reception, there was only the telephonist, who was so drowsy her head nodded up and down as if bouncing in the very air. She offered little resistance.

  ‘How many people work in this shithole, bitch?’ Hellraiser asked her, his left arm around her neck and his right hand pressing the barrel of his .38 into her head.

  ‘Twelve,’ she answered in a barely audible voice.

  ‘How many’ve got guns?’

  ‘The two guards and the manager.’

  ‘Anyone upstairs?’

  ‘Three chambermaids.’

  ‘In the kitchen?’

  ‘Four people work in the kitchen … Please don’t kill anyone!’ she begged.

  ‘Where’s the guards?

  ‘Everyone’s in the kitchen. It’s supper time.’

  ‘If you’re lyin’ I’ll blast your face off! What’re those two doors there?’

  ‘Office and washroom.’

  ‘So, lock her in the washroom,’ said Hellraiser.

  Then they all burst into the kitchen at once.

  ‘OK, the shit’s goin’ down now!’

  Hellraiser assured them that if they were all good boys and girls nobody would get hurt. Black Carlos took the guns from the security guards and manager. He, Pelé and Shorty tied up all the employees with nylon string. They knocked them out with punches and kicks, then locked them in the bathroom, where there were no windows. ‘It’s never been easier!’ thought Hellraiser, who had been worried abou
t the time it would take to overpower them if they were all in different places. They’d got the lot in one fell swoop.

  Hellraiser and Carlos headed for the second floor. In the office, Pelé and Shorty got the daily takings and valuables and took the phone off the hook as Hellraiser had told them to.

  Outside, the night passed slowly for Pipsqueak. He wasn’t nervous; in fact he never was. He really wanted to hear a shot inside the motel so he could emerge as a trump card in the plot of that game. He liked being a gangster. One of life’s wounds in his soul had given him a thirst for revenge; he wanted to kill loads of people as soon as possible to get famous and be respected like Big over in Macedo Sobrinho. His hand glided across his revolver as the words of the most precise premise, glide over lips; the one capable of silencing anyone who listens. He was wild, had a sixth sense and could shoot with both hands. He never lost a fistfight. He enjoyed provoking pain in others just for a laugh, since nothing weighed on his conscience. He was the despair of the storms condensed in the irises of each victim, the pain of bullets, death’s prelude, a shiver down the spine, the cause of last breaths – and there he was, a mere lookout, feeling like a guard dog.

  Hellraiser opened the door to 201 dressed as a waiter. He had demanded that the manager give him copies of the keys, as he’d planned the previous night before falling asleep. This son of Ogum, of Estácio and of the desire to get lots of money, was quick-thinking and calm. He had to hit the jackpot. The couple didn’t notice the robbers come in. Hellraiser hit the man over the head with the butt of his gun and Black Carlos covered the woman’s mouth.

  ‘We don’t wanna hurt no one, but if anyone tries to get smart we’ll kill ’em, got it?’ said Carlos, his voice wavering not only because hold-ups made him nervous, but also because he found it difficult to contain himself while holding a naked woman. They tied the couple up in the bathroom with sheets and cleaned them out. They got two hundred cruzeiros, two watches and a gold chain, and even went back to the bathroom to get the woman’s earrings.

  They entered 202. The couple were asleep. A brunette lying with her legs open filled Black Carlos’s gaze; he’d never had such a sexy woman. Hellraiser was completely focused. He wanted to be as quick as possible. He noted a half-empty bottle of whisky in a corner of the bed.

  ‘They won’t be wakin’ up so soon!’ he said.

  He ordered Carlos to lock the door and chill out. He took two hundred dollars and a few cruzeiros from the man’s wallet. From the woman’s purse, just a cheque book and forty cruzeiros. He slipped the gold ring off her finger. There wasn’t a single blemish on her body. She had a tattoo above her right breast, emphasising its beauty. Black Carlos bit his lower lip and let one of his hands slide softly down her leg. She remained immobile. Hellraiser signalled his disapproval. They met Pelé and Shorty in the corridor.

  ‘Everythin’ OK?’

  ‘Everythin’ OK,’ answered Pelé and Shorty.

  ‘Right, then it’s like this: gimme what you got downstairs, take the keys and go up to the third floor to make sure there isn’t anyone else there … That bitch might be setting us up. Then you can do the rooms. Only shoot to save your life!’ ordered Hellraiser, his eyes glued to the door of 203. In they went. The couple sensed the key turning in the door.

  ‘Here’s a drink on the house.’

  ‘You should’ve buzzed first! You can’t come in just like that!’

  Hellraiser didn’t utter a word, positioned himself in front of the man, removed the towel covering his revolver on the tray and said in a low voice:

  ‘The shit’s goin’ down, man!’

  The woman screamed. Black Carlos hit her in the nose with the butt of his gun. The man tried to fight back, but Hellraiser punched him, then stuck the barrel of his gun in the man’s mouth.

  ‘Wanna die, cunt?’

  He removed the barrel from the man’s mouth and gave him two blows with the butt of the gun to knock him out. They cleaned them out. As well as money and jewellery, they got a .32-calibre revolver. Everything was going as planned. He had to stay calm, work faster and continue getting lucky when surprising their victims, even the ones who were awake.

  Pelé and Shorty didn’t find a single staff member on the third floor. They glanced around nervously, afraid of being surprised. They stopped in front of one room and thought it better to do a different one. Their indecision scrambled the seconds. They decided to go by the numbers. They didn’t know how to read, but counting was a piece of cake for them. They went into 301. Pelé and Shorty went for the occupants’ noses, hitting them several times with the butts of their guns. They drenched the sperm-soaked sheet in blood. Two deaths splattered across the room.

  They tied up the bodies and threw them in the bathroom. They took the man’s taxi money from his wallet. There was nothing in the woman’s purse. They thought it was a good amount. They forgot to take their rings, the woman’s earrings and the gold chain around the man’s neck. When they were about to enter the next room, they remembered they’d left the door open and went back to lock it. Nothing could go wrong. They went into 302. This time they found the couple sleeping. Just to be sure, they decided to bust their noses. They didn’t take any lives this time. They tied up the couple and when they were about to clean them out, they heard a shot and the sound of breaking glass. They jumped through the window at the same moment as Hellraiser and Black Carlos and took off running together.

  Over in City of God, a gangster looked at the creature moving with difficulty on the bed. He got up from the chair reeling. He hadn’t eaten in three days. He examined the knives he had in the house, chose the largest, sharpened it on the edge of the sink, and lit a cigarette on the butt of the one he was smoking. He felt like having another shot and downed a glass of cachaça without tipping out a little for his saint. He smoked his cigarette compulsively, letting the ash fall on the hard cement floor. He ran his eyes across the rickety chairs, the spider webs on the ceiling; the sound of water dripping from the broken spout into the sink was as familiar as the broken lamp on the bedside table, a survivor of two floods. The fridge, propped up on a rock and two blocks of wood, shuddered, then went quiet forever. His emotions were a cauldron swinging back and forth between the two sides of his heart. For a second he considered not going ahead with it, but his determination to make his wife suffer had solid foundations, for since the day he had first set eyes on that disgusting creature, a desire for revenge had possessed his deepest thoughts; it had grown bitterly, multiplied itself unchecked and irreversibly installed itself in his heart. He knew the idea of letting things run their course would return, but he also knew it would leave, as his peace of mind had done. Women who fucked other men should rot in hell for all eternity. That bitch had to pay dearly. Although he’d never tell her, he loved her like a devoted dog – but now he hated her just as much. He’d become a mad dog.

  ‘Why? Why?’ he asked himself.

  She hadn’t had a penny to her name when he’d met her. He’d set up house for her, bought her clothes, sent her to a beauty parlour to do something about that unkempt frizz and the bitch had gone and screwed another man. He thought about the affection he’d given that slut who couldn’t find anyone to bring home the bacon, the nights he had gone out looking for sausages to cater to her pregnant woman’s cravings, the times he’d placed his ear against her belly trying to hear the foetus. He imagined his wife running her tongue across the head of some white bastard’s dick, spreading her cunt open for a white man’s or a northerner’s cock. She’d always liked whites. That’s why she never took her eyes off the television during the soaps, where you never saw blacks. Whenever that Francisco Cuoco guy appeared on TV, she almost came.

  The desperation of imagining his wife coming with someone else made him seek within himself the cruellest revenge. He ran his eyes around the room again, but this time he saw nothing. His fury had the same dimensions as his fever; he felt shivers and cold in that three-dimensional heat. He was thinking so fast he c
ouldn’t remember what he’d thought just a minute before.

  Several times in dreams he’d seen himself meticulously carrying out his revenge. The fatalities were so specific, he didn’t realise he was dreaming. When he awoke he had to look at that little shit again to be sure of what had really happened. When he came to grips with reality, that tumour, destroyed in his dream, recomposed itself more homogeneously.

  He drank another glass of cachaça at leisure, a cruel smile on his face. His saint was forgotten again. He seized the knife with the speed of the Devil. Something had always told him that one had to begin certain deeds in a great hurry, otherwise they don’t work, they have no effect. He placed the newborn on the table. At first the baby behaved as if it were going to be picked up. He held its right arm with his left hand and started sawing at the forearm. The baby thrashed about. He had to place his left knee on its torso. The baby’s tears poured out as if trying to wash away its retinas, in an inhuman sobbing.

  The murderer’s spirit waged battle with itself, but he didn’t allow himself to consider stopping his undertaking. He felt the pleasure of revenge and laughed just thinking about his wife’s reaction. He didn’t know who he hated more, the baby or his wife. His actions were automatic, as if he were grease, sucked in by the force of a set of gears.

  Revenge determined the crime and the crime would bear, by its very nature, the mark of a red-blooded man’s wounded pride.

  He had a hard time getting through the bone, so he grabbed the hammer under the kitchen sink and, with two blows on the knife, finished the first scene of his act. The severed arm did not fall from the table; it stayed there within eyeshot of the avenger. The baby kicked as much as it could, its cries a voiceless prayer without a God to hear them. Then it could cry out loud no longer, and its only reaction was a contorted face, the bright red that threatened to spring from its pores, and the kicking of its tiny legs. He cut the other arm slowly. That little white shit had to feel lots of pain. It occurred to him not to use the hammer any more – the baby would suffer more if he cut the hardest parts slowly. The sound of the knife severing the bone was soft music to his ears. The baby floundered in its slow death. Its two legs were cut off with a little more work and the help of the hammer. The murderer raised the knife above his head to bring it down and split its defenceless heart in two. He knew that if he went to prison his cellmates would inevitably give it to him up the arse, because inmates loathe child murderers. But he wouldn’t let anyone near his arsehole. He could die, but become a faggot, never. That would be redemption for the traitor, and she only deserved eternal torment. No, he couldn’t let that happen, he wouldn’t be unlucky enough to get caught – he’d take off right away for some backwater.