by Paulo Lins
‘He’s not here,’ answered a child’s voice.
Mango took the same route back, hung around Batman’s Bar a while longer, strolled to Main Square, spent more than an hour watching the buses arrive and not one of his pals showed up to have a smoke with him. He rolled up the bottoms of his jeans, reopened his umbrella and hurried off to Teresa’s place.
‘She’s gotta sell me some dope on credit!’ he thought aloud.
Teresa was home alone; her daughters had gone to the dance at the club. She was packaging up the dope she’d bought in Curral das Éguas. She no longer had a supplier to bring the weed to her place, as Ercílio had done; he used to supply her as well as his mother. Teresa had begun dealing six months after her arrival in the estate. Before that only her husband had dealt, but he was always drunk and spent all the money he made getting trashed day after day. Always losing money and marijuana; sometimes he didn’t have anything to offer customers, so his wife and children had to go hungry. He was killed because he used to go around mugging whomever to show how tough he was, making a lot of enemies in no time at all. One day he mugged a gangster, who then shot him in the head six times with a .38.
The only asset he left his family was thirteen pounds of marijuana, which Teresa thought about giving to their friends, but her girlfriends advised her to sell it. She’d be silly to just give it away to the heads. All that weed was worth good money.
That was how she was initiated into her life of crime. Her den, now well run, yielded better fruit. She managed to extend her house, change her daughters’ rags for decent clothes and feed them better. She bought a sofa, wardrobe, fridge and had plans to buy a TV set. She had nothing to complain about; her life had improved considerably.
She was getting ready to go to bed when she heard Mango’s careful voice through the crack in the window. She said she’d be there straightaway, after seeing him at the gate through the partly-open door.
‘How many you want, son?’
‘I just want a bundle of weed, just one, but I’m a bit broke, you know? If you advance me one, I’ll bring you the dough tomorrow before noon.’
‘I don’t sell on credit, but if you want to have a smoke with me, come on in,’ said old Teresa.
In a flash her thoughts turned to seduction. For a long time her only sexual experiences had been solitary. Mango sat on the filthy sofa and looked around the room: Saint Cosmas, Do Um and Saint Damian lit by an oil lamp, an old crystal cabinet with a few coloured glasses, a tea set, the coffee table covered in knick-knacks, spider webs billowing in the slightest breeze. Old Teresa meticulously rolled a huge joint, aiming to get him off his face so he’d be easier to seduce. They lit the joint. Teresa said it was special weed. She offered him a shot of whisky and told him she had some coke for after their smoke. Mango loved the idea. He smoked quickly so he could get to the coke – so expensive and hard to find. Teresa suggested they go to her room, saying that one of her daughters might arrive home and she didn’t want them to see her snorting. She closed the curtains, sprinkled the coke on a warm plate, and got a razor down from the top of the wardrobe. As she chopped out a couple of lines, she told Mango that she didn’t know why she was so fond of him, that she had never snorted with any other customer, and that he was the first and only one. Whenever he wanted a snort or a smoke, all he had to do was let her know.
‘Why don’t you take off those wet trousers? Stick ’em behind the fridge. They’ll be dry in no time.’
‘Good idea!’ he said.
He took off his shirt too, egging the old woman on in her game. His white skin was lit by the glow from the oil lamp coming through the flimsy curtain. Teresa went to fetch more weed.
‘Let’s have another joint so that when we do the coke we’ll get really out of it?’
She asked Mango to skin up, while she chopped out ten lines of coke on the plate. While he smoked, she let her hand slide down his leg. She did this several times. Mango’s silence made her place her hand firmly on his right leg.
‘Your leg’s so hairy!’ she said in a soft voice.
Mango remained quiet. Old Teresa squeezed her fingers, moved her hand closer to his hard-on, and left it there. The joint was half-smoked. She slowly took hold of him through his jocks.
‘Mmm … you’ve got a stiffy!’
She squeezed his dick and ran her hand up and down it. Mango acted as if everything was completely normal. She knew he had the energy to give it to her good. ‘Isn’t life great!’ she thought as she made his cock spring from the clutches of his jocks. She took him straight into her mouth. Mango felt nauseous at first, but old Teresa’s appetite made him come quickly. When he’d recovered, he asked her to do it again. They forgot about the cocaine on the plate, the joint in the ashtray, the rain on the roof. He rammed his dick into her. He didn’t know why, but he remembered his mother, his girlfriend, his friends … He tried to stop, but couldn’t. He felt real pleasure acting out that scene. He slowly started to behave as if he were madly in love.
Teresa thrashed about the bed. Not even her daughters – who were young, didn’t have varicose veins and saggy breasts, and had teeth – had got themselves such a handsome young man. Perhaps one day she’d be able to walk down the street arm in arm with him, introduce him to her friends as her husband, but no, that’d be hoping for too much. It’d be great if things stayed as they were. She had several orgasms. When she felt that Mango was about to come – although she knew that with his eighteen years he’d quickly recover and go for it again – she slowed her movements so he’d spend as long as possible on top of her. When he came, she eagerly took him into her mouth. She was happy.
Saturday mornings belonged to the footy and pool players. The afternoons, like the mornings, brought no mysteries: the men either slept or stayed on in the bars, while the women – who had woken early, done the grocery shopping and cleaned the house – flocked to the beauty parlours after dinner. Saturday nights, which were always different, saw few things repeated, and unexpected twists and turns abounded because people wished things to be so. New experiences had to be sought at the right time and place. Saturday nights promised enchantments, new loves, the firming of relationships. Young people would hold potluck parties in their backyards, children would play until late and boyfriends and girlfriends would meet. The smokers knew which den had the best weed and which police officers were on duty, and kept a low profile when it was Boss of Us All and company.
The club was always the best option late at night, even for those who had serious girlfriends. They would go to the dance to find women to have sex with because, after all, men need an oil-change every week. Only dickheads were content just having a smooch with their girlfriends.
Lúcia Maracanã went to the dance alone. She had ended a fling the week before.
‘I’m not stayin’ at home cryin’ over no man,’ she told herself when she decided to go to the club.
The dance was in full swing by the time Lúcia entered the hall, where The Daydreams were playing. She looked around for friends. The half-lit hall concealed vows of love made to the music of slow songs. When the ballads came on, not everyone would risk asking a girl to dance – only those whose footwork and swing were up to scratch would head for the dance floor to strut their stuff. Lúcia paired up with Niftyfeet and took the opportunity to tell him the reasons for her break-up. Her friend gave her a supportive hug, making some other women jealous.
‘If them bitches keep lookin’ at me like whores without a John, their faces’ll feel the back of my hand!’ she exclaimed in his ear.
The music stopped and that’s exactly what happened: one of Niftyfeet’s admirers, pretending not to see her, spilled a glass of beer over her. The fight started in the corridor and moved into the entrance hall, by which time the admirer had already lost her blouse, and had cuts on her face and a bloody nose. Lúcia fought like a man; she liked to beat her enemy down to the ground. No one separated them because they wanted to see the other girl without her clothes
on. Niftyfeet put an end to the fight himself and took the jealous girl into the club office.
She was a tall brunette with green eyes and long hair. She worked at the Leão supermarket, lived in the New Short-Stay Houses, and was the oldest daughter in a family of five children. She had been at work the first time she saw Niftyfeet, and had been waiting for a chance to approach him ever since. After she had collected herself she said, without looking him in the face, that she had only done it out of jealousy. Niftyfeet smiled. Although he felt sorry for her, he was also proud. He invited her to go for a drink somewhere else, with the aim of having her that very night. They set out to find a bar that was open. They walked slowly, exchanging information about their lives until they reached a bar, where they had a beer.
It was already after two in the morning when Niftyfeet confessed he’d been really attracted to her since the moment he’d set eyes on her. He said he’d even thought of asking her to dance but was afraid she’d say no. He was lying. She pretended to believe him. He was already imagining himself making her come and her calling him hot and horny.
‘Let’s go to my place for a bite to eat. Know how to cook?’
‘Yeah.’
Niftyfeet’s house was tidy, as always. The girl cast her eyes over the nicely arranged new furniture in his living room. She examined his samba and football trophies. While he showered, she decided what to whip up with the ingredients in his well-stocked pantry.
The pea soup gave off a good smell late that rainy night. It was cold out.
Niftyfeet came out of the bathroom reeking of perfume, wrapped in a red and white robe.
‘Go and have a quick shower … The water’s nice and hot … It’s a good shower …’ said Niftyfeet.
After she’d showered, they ate, then Niftyfeet started by kissing her knees.
When the rain mixed with the morning light, he tried to go for it again. His lover complained:
‘I’ve got a headache.’
‘I’m not surprised, that crazy bitch really laid into you … Stay in bed here and I’ll go over to the pharmacy … I’ll be right back.’
The girl thought about the night she’d had; if it hadn’t been for that Lúcia Maracanã woman, it would have been perfect. ‘What a man!’ she sighed. As well as being good-looking, affectionate, polite and clean, he was good in bed. It looked as if he had a mother or wife to look after his clothes. She decided to make breakfast, but first she took a peek in his wardrobe to satisfy her curiosity. When breakfast was ready, she lay down. Niftyfeet was taking ages, but she didn’t dare wait for him in the street. It’d be too forward for their first date. It was already eight o’clock when a single repeated phrase was borne through the air on a wail:
‘Niftyfeet’s dead, Niftyfeet’s dead, Niftyfeet’s dead!!!’
A gash appeared in the morning, made by a phrase with an intransitive verb and a dead subject. There were tears on every street corner. Theories that his death was a lie slowly fizzled out.
The girl fainted in an old woman’s lap. Hellraiser, who had never been seen crying, let tears fall on his knees as he crouched in an alley. Lúcia Maracanã did not cry, nor did she utter a word. She suffered, frozen on her doorstep. Squirt, Black Carlos, Pelé and Shorty found out about their friend’s death at the Bonfim. The news flew like a stray bullet through City of God.
Out Front, Niftyfeet’s body was covered with a blue sheet and everyone who arrived lit a candle so that light, lots of light, would illuminate the mysteries of the path his soul had just embarked upon. It was the only way to help Niftyfeet, who had never let anyone down. He’d been the sort to turn up at bars and pay for everything; he’d treated everyone with respect, given money to the kids, and had always been in a good mood. In front of him no one had dared pick on those weaker than themselves.
‘Niftyfeet’s dead – long live the red and white of Salgueiro Samba School, Unidos do São Carlos, and the carnival group Dragon’s Breath,’ rose a voice in the crowd.
At the police station, the driver who had run him over was answering the officer’s questions:
‘How can you drive in reverse without lookin’ behind you!?’
‘But I did look!’
‘And how is it you didn’t see the guy?’ he asked again without getting an answer, while the mob outside shouted:
‘Lynch ‘im! Lynch ‘im! Lynch ‘im!’
People filled the street corners to discuss Niftyfeet’s life and death. Incensed by the facts – and going on information from a reliable source – Lúcia Maracanã broke down the door of a woman on Block Fourteen. A week after being dumped by Niftyfeet, the witch had been seen at the graveyard burying a toad with its mouth stitched up and reciting the prayer of death. ‘If I can’t have him, no one will,’ she’d told her friends. By the time Lúcia burst into her house, the woman had already fled through the backyard, never to return to the estate. That afternoon, the game between Unidos and Oberom for the Jacarepaguá Championship was suspended. Dodival, a friend of the sambista, went to break the news to the people at his favourite samba schools. The fine rain continued throughout his wake.
‘More than two thousand people at the funeral! His girls were all there, all hot little pieces of arse,’ Torquato told the drunks packed into the Bonfim that Monday. ‘Even the Bigwig of Ramos carnival group sent flowers!’ he finished.
‘Really?! Why didn’t you tell me earlier, man?’ said Beelzebub when he heard Armando’s story.
‘I been ringin’ you for fuckin’ ages and couldn’t find you.’
Beelzebub left Armando in the living room, got a rope from the garage and a rock from the backyard and put them in the boot of his car. He went back inside, got a gun, handed it to Armando and said:
‘Let’s go to City of God and get them shooters back now.’
Armando stuck the gun in his waistband without asking any questions. They headed for City of God, exchanging few words along the way. Armando thought it odd when the detective didn’t turn into the estate.
‘Where you goin’?’ he asked.
‘Let’s nip past Barra da Tijuca to pick up some more guys to help take out those piss-artist thieves.’
Before reaching the first bridge on Motorway Eleven, Beelzebub’s car started to splutter.
‘Fuckin’ hell! I’m gonna pull over to see what it is.’
He stopped the car at the river’s edge. Beelzebub was the first to get out. On the other side of the river, Torquato was strolling towards the big lake with a fishing net. He recognised the detective. Protected by the darkness, he stopped to see what he was up to. Armando got out while Beelzebub examined the car.
‘I’m gonna take a leak over there,’ said Armando. He took a few steps and his heart started pounding wildly when he heard the sound of his partner’s gun being cocked. He resisted the urge to turn, unzipped his fly, and a bullet pierced the back of his neck. The detective tied up his body, attached the other end of the rope to the rock, and sent it to the bottom of the river. He didn’t know if Armando had been telling him the truth, but he would have been eternally suspicious if he’d accepted his excuse. Every man he didn’t trust had to be killed. Now he had to kill Hellraiser and Squirt. He left the scene of the crime without noticing Torquato.
One hot afternoon Pelé and Shorty caught a bus at Barra da Tijuca. They sat at the back pretending not to know one another. They noticed the watches, rings, chains and bracelets worn by the other passengers. In the vicinity of Gardênia Azul, they cleaned out the passengers at the back, forcing them off the bus. Nearing The Flats, they did the same with those at the front. Just before the Prospectors’ rehearsal square they took the money from the conductor, then headed to the square to split the loot.
An Army sergeant, who had been on the bus, watched which way they went. Furious at having lost all his pay, he went home, got his gun, and was lucky enough to run into the Civil Police van along the way. After hearing his story, Beelzebub got out of the van. They walked off quickly, the sergeant le
ading the way.
Over at the rehearsal square, Pelé felt that they shouldn’t smoke a joint there, saying they’d better make themselves scarce. Shorty insisted that the police would head straight for the Bonfim, then Block Thirteen. It was safer where they were. His friend ended up agreeing.
Beelzebub caught sight of the duo as he turned the corner. He stepped back. He and the sergeant put together a plan to catch them, then he waited in ambush at the corner. The sergeant went around the block and turned into the alley leading to the square without being noticed by the gangsters. He walked slowly, his gun pointed.
The sunny afternoon was drawing to an end. Shorty was rolling a joint while Pelé recounted the money. A young boy, noticing the sergeant, jumped back, startling them. The sergeant fired and missed. The pair jumped the fence of a house and took two children hostage, making a chase impossible. The mother’s voice and the sound of her crying forced Beelzebub to start negotiating. He promised that if they turned themselves in they wouldn’t get a beating, much less be shot.
‘Fuck! I told you it wasn’t safe to stay here. Now we’re gonna have to jump the back wall,’ said Pelé.
‘No way, man! It must be crawlin’ with cops back there,’ answered his pal.
‘You’re better off comin’ out without a fuss, or the shit’s gonna hit the fan!’ said Beelzebub.
Shorty let the child go on an impulse, threw his gun over the fence, opened the gate and walked out.
‘Stand against the wall with your hands up. I’m a man of my word!’ said the detective.
At first Pelé thought his friend had done the wrong thing, but as he didn’t hear anyone getting a beating and after hearing the detective say that if they returned everything they’d be let off, he thought it best to turn himself in. Pelé came out with his hands in the air. Beelzebub held out his hand and Pelé handed him the gun. The sergeant went into the yard to recover the stolen goods. The detective’s smile hurt the gangsters.
‘Now start walkin’ side by side with your hands on your heads,’ he ordered.
