City of God

by Paulo Lins

  When Silva and Cosme returned to The Flats, they found a couple of gangsters waiting for them:

  ‘What’s up, guys? Is the coast clear?’

  ‘Yeah, but the pigs took your whole stash.’

  ‘What you talkin’ about? They came after us!’

  ‘That Iran guy didn’t go after you, man! You split and he came along and swiped the lot,’ said one of the gangsters.

  Neither Silva nor Cosme believed them. Finding the whole story pretty fishy, they went to Silva’s place to make up for lost time. There were eight pounds of dope and three ounces of coke to package up. They invited the two to help them with the packaging.

  ‘Hey, let’s send the kid for some whisky,’ said Silva, already inside the flat.

  ‘Good idea!’ said Cosme.

  Silva stuck his head out of the window and motioned to Flip-Flop. The boy came running – he always worked for the gangsters like that. There were other errand boys, but Flip-Flop was the fastest and smartest, always ready for any task.

  ‘Go and buy us a bottle of Royal Label and be quick about it!’

  In the living room, they cut up the weed with scissors, bundled it up in sports lottery tickets and put them in a plastic bag. In the kitchen, Cosme and Silva were packaging the cocaine. They set some aside to snort while they worked.

  At the entrance to the building, Flip-Flop was intercepted by another two gangsters:

  ‘What’s up, Blackie? Where you goin’ with that whisky?’

  ‘You know it’s for the packagin’, man!’ answered Flip-Flop rudely.

  ‘If the dope’s already packed up, send ten bundles down here for us.’

  Flip-Flop ran up to the fifth floor taking four steps at a time. As soon as Silva opened the door, he said:

  ‘The guys want us to send ten bundles of shit down for them, OK?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Silva.

  ‘Same ones as always,’ the boy answered.

  ‘Hey! Those guys are the biggest spongers, and they always get pushy whenever we’re packagin’. You reckon they can afford ten bundles just like that? … They’re a bunch of clowns!’ Silva concluded.

  ‘Send ’em up so we can see what the story is,’ said Cosme.

  The gangsters were on edge when they arrived and shook everyone’s hands as if they hadn’t seen them in a long time. One sat on the floor in the living room, while the other took the only free place on the sofa.

  ‘Who is it that wants ten bundles?’ asked Silva.

  The one on the sofa said it was him, but he’d still have to go home to get the money. He didn’t budge. Cosme and Silva looked at one another, said nothing and continued packaging up the cocaine. The visitors said the police raid only happened because someone had grassed, and made a point of reaffirming that the policeman had taken the whole stash. They were the only two who spoke in that tense atmosphere. The dope packagers rolled joints from time to time. Everyone had a smoke, although the cocaine was reserved for the four working. The gangster sitting on the floor suddenly said goodbye to everyone and left.

  ‘Chop us out a line, man,’ said the visitor as soon as his pal had gone and Cosme had locked the door.

  Cosme told him to wait until he chopped out lines for everyone at the same time. The visitor asked for a shot of whisky instead. Silva told him to help himself. The bastard filled his cup to overflowing. He downed it in two gulps, while everyone else looked at him in disapproval for his arrogance. They acted as if nothing had happened. After smoking another joint, Silva chopped out five lines, snorted his and passed the plate to the visitor along with the straw made from a five-cruzeiro note. The visitor’s drunken hands let the plate slip to the ground. A deadly mistake among gangsters. Cosme was about to fly at him, but Silva stopped him.

  ‘C’mon, man, you gonna lay into the guy over a bit of coke? If it fell it fell, man … Forget about it. Let’s have a beer downstairs to wash it all down.’

  Flip-Flop was the first to go downstairs to see if the coast was clear. He checked the area, then waved to his friends. The five went down quickly, and headed towards the bar on Block Nine. It was a hundred yards away. They walked in silence past children playing hide-and-seek, cars on the road and first-floor windows. People were eating dinner and watching the evening soaps. Silva went ahead to see what lay in wait for them around corners. His eyes saw only the night stretching out along a poorly-lit alley. He turned to those following him. The visitor had time to see the full moon of Ogum hide behind a thin cloud a second before he received a bullet in the chest from Silva’s gun. He spun and fell slowly, face down. Cosme searched him but found only a bit of loose change. The body lay sprawled on the cold grass. Silva grew uneasy about the way the visitor’s body had fallen after the shot. Those who fall face down want revenge.

  They returned to the murderer’s flat saying that someone who drops a plate of cocaine is asking to die. This argument relieved Silva of his distress at having killed a man, but deep down his real reason for eliminating the visitor was a different one: he believed he had pilfered their stash of dope. It had been obvious when the guy had wanted to buy ten bundles in one go, no doubt so he could show up with dope in the streets at any time without arousing suspicion.

  Silva went to the kitchen, got the coke and told his friend he was going to prepare a bit more to snort. He chopped out the lines himself, and again put forward his argument about the visitor’s attitude. Real gangsters had to know how to come and go, and had to wait for the right time to make their moves. This thing of bumming other people’s coke was for dickheads. Maybe he’d dropped the coke on the ground for a laugh, so he could go around saying he’d paid them a visit, had a drink, a smoke, a snort and then thrown out the fuckwits’ coke too. He’d had his eye on that dickhead for ages; he was always bumming coke and dope off people. Silva spoke in a didactic tone without taking his eyes off Flip-Flop. The boy nodded his head as though he understood what he was being taught. The murderer’s conclusion was that the visitor had deserved to die.

  After doing the coke, Silva got up and poured another shot of whisky for each of them, making it clear he wanted to be left alone. Cosme was the first to say goodbye, but his pal asked him to stay and help tidy up the flat. Flip-Flop told the packagers it would be better for them to leave one at a time, because the police were probably already at the scene of the crime. They took his advice.

  Silva was in a hurry as his wife had told him she’d be home early that Saturday. She knew her husband was mixed up in dodgy business, but she refused to receive gangsters in her house; she didn’t like their talk and she was afraid the police might pay them a surprise visit. Silva, in turn, only accepted his wife’s arguments after making her swear – with her feet together and without crossing her fingers behind her back – that no one would ever find out that she was a prostitute and that she would never tell him how her night had been. But whenever she arrived home with lots of money he felt a pang in his heart, and when she brought him presents or looked tired he lost it – at times he wanted too much sex, while at others he wouldn’t even look at her, picking fights over nothing. He tried to make her give up the night, but she said she’d only do it if he left his life of crime and got himself a decent job. She wouldn’t mind struggling to make ends meet if she could live a peaceful life. Silva didn’t give in. His wife, even less.

  Cosme opened a wrap of coke to buy time. He wanted to see his pal’s wife arrive home. That black chick with her ample arse, strong thighs, almond eyes, shapely feet, hands with long, fine fingers, fleshy lips … One day he’d tell her how much he wanted her. He prayed the couple would have a fight so he could comfort his friend and put him off women for once and for all. After all, all women were worthless. He had been smart not to tie the knot with anyone; he was going to stay single his whole life. As long as his friend’s wife wasn’t his, he made do just looking at her, seeing her in a pair of tight little shorts and T-shirt with no bra underneath. He loved the way she talked, ate, laughed, used her ey
es, lay on the sofa … Fernanda soon arrived, as expected. But she looked tired, which irritated her husband.

  ‘Work hard?’ he asked with a certain sarcasm.

  Fernanda didn’t answer. She just greeted Cosme then headed for the bathroom, where she counted her money, set some aside, hid it behind the cupboard and jumped into the shower.

  They had already finished cleaning and tidying the flat. Fernanda’s secret admirer strategically opened another wrap so he could see her come out of the bathroom in her tight little shorts, although her breasts were protected from his gaze by a T-shirt and bra.

  She threw herself onto the sofa. Cosme chopped out six lines and passed the plate to his friend. When Silva lowered his head to snort, Cosme looked at Fernanda’s foot, then ran his eyes up her body to her eyes, where he allowed his gaze to rest as if to say: ‘I love you, I want you!’

  Fernanda showed no sign of understanding the message in her husband’s friend’s eyes. After they had snorted, they had a shot of whisky, lit cigarettes and said goodbye. Silva didn’t talk to his wife and went to bed without a shower.

  Cosme shuddered when he saw the mother hugging her son’s body. He turned, lengthened his steps towards the left branch of the river, and hid the drugs and gun near the riverbank. He knew he’d toss and turn in bed if he tried to sleep and decided to walk until he felt sleepy. He couldn’t get the image of the old woman clutching the stiff out of his mind, but fuck it – dickheads deserved to kick the bucket. He crossed the bridge, wandering aimlessly. He prayed for daybreak to arrive so he could go ahead and open the den. He thought about Fernanda. If only she’d fall in love with him and suggest they get together. He’d run far away with her, somewhere where he could give up this life of crime, have kids and get a sucker’s job to make her happy. He walked around with his head down for several hours. The sun rose. Suddenly he remembered he shouldn’t be roaming around at a loose end at that hour because he’d already been busted by the pigs. That stiff in the dew would attract the police and he was reeking of dope. He headed towards the Eucalypt Grove. He’d be safe there. A few breadsellers were crying their wares. The suckers were starting to head out for the daily grind.

  A month earlier, two neighbours were chatting over on Block Fourteen:

  ‘Don’t your fella lick you out? Ah, girl … you’re missing the good things in life. Before mine fucks me, he’s gotta go down on me for about half an hour. And what about up the arse? You don’t let him, do you. You don’t know what you’re missin’. It hurts the first few times, but afterwards it just slips right in. What you do is you get a banana, warm it up a little, stick it in your snatch and tell him to stick it in behind. It’ll blow your mind. Ever tried a merry-go-round? Corkscrew? Choo-choo? Funnel? Finger? Sixty-nine? Bottle-stopper? Roly-poly? Traffic jam? Wet whistle …?

  The northerner decided that when her husband got home, she’d suggest they try the pleasures of the flesh. But it didn’t work. Not only did he not want to know about disgusting acts but he also gave her a flogging so she’d stop thinking filth. Certain of the origin of these shameless ideas, he also forbade her to talk to the neighbouring women. While he beat her, she thought about finding herself a man who’d indulge her. She’d get back at her husband by feeling real pleasure – but it’d have to be with a black man, because her neighbour had assured her that all blacks had big dicks. The more he beat her, the more she imagined a well-hung black giving it to her from behind and a warm banana in front.

  The next day she didn’t leave home. She made herbal compresses for her bruises, conditioned her hair with avocado and egg yolk to make it behave, and plastered her face with honey and lemon. A good remedy for blotches, blackheads and pimples. The day passed slowly as she plotted the betrayal. Yes! She’d have it off with the fishmonger and it’d be easy, because men were like mice: all you had to do was show them the cheese and they came running. She could wear a red baby-doll nightie and pull him inside when he came to deliver fish, or follow him to a safe place so she could jump his bones. Perhaps a kid in the street could take him a note. It’d be easy if she knew his address; she’d turn up at his place before he went to work and catch him well rested, or if none of these things worked, she’d sidle up to him the next time she saw him and say: ‘C’mon, big boy, let me have it!’

  Two days later, although scared, the fishmonger was giving it to the northerner from behind, with the warm banana firmly in place.

  After work, her husband would go to Dummy’s Bar to play pool and drink to each ball sunk in one of life’s six holes. He took his time because a real man couldn’t get home when he said he would; he had to arrive whenever he felt like it, smelling of a mixture of cachaça and the sweat of hard labour. He wished his wife were decent, as his mother had been. He didn’t allow her to hang around in the street chatting with the nigger girls, forbade her to wear tops with low necklines and short skirts, and only let her wear long trousers if they were really baggy and made of thick material, so no one could see the outline of her knickers.

  She didn’t neglect her domestic duties, but she no longer cared about her husband and merely went through the motions when it was time for their unvarying sex. On two occasions she pretended to be sick at the fateful hour. After a few days, she decided to treat her husband normally, on her neighbour’s advice. She acted as if she regretted the indecent things she had proposed. Her husband felt victorious; his wife had finally understood he was right. He started arriving home early. The following Saturday, after the grocery shopping, he took her to the amusement park. They ate toffee apples and sweet popcorn, shot at targets, tossed rings and rode on the big wheel. All to please his wife, who now really did remind him of his mother. On the Sunday, instead of buying that damn pork that he loved and she hated, he chose chicken, her favourite dish. She continued to receive visits from the fishmonger every weekday.

  One Monday, he arrived at work early as always, and had already changed clothes when he was told there would be no work that day. He had a drink with his friends before heading home.

  The fishmonger had already taken his wife to orgasm three times and was resting up to start over again.

  The husband got off the bus Out Front. He decided to buy a dozen limes so he could spend the day drinking caipirinhas and nibbling on fried sardines. His crazy wife had taken to eating fish like never before. If he felt like a bit of crackling or fried sausage he had to go to the bar. But that was fine, because after the belting he’d given her she’d become a respectable woman. He was happy.

  Back at his house, his wife’s lover was sliding and flicking his tongue across, into and out of her snatch. The first time she’d asked him to perform oral sex on her he’d protested. He imagined traces of her husband’s spunk in there and leftover drops of piss. The second time, he went down on her more willingly, and even hurt her. The third time, he rubbed his nose in her, then got his whole face wet. From then on he did it hungrily.

  The husband passed in front of the bakery, his legs casting shadows that expanded and shrank as he walked. He lit a cigarette when he got to the square on Block Twenty-Two. Before crossing the street to the Prospectors’ rehearsal square, he stopped to chew the fat with some friends. He walked another block and caught sight of the wall around his house. He thought about inviting his wife to take a walk around Paquetá Island, but no, it’d be better to stay home and take his after-dinner nap in his own bed – he usually took it on a plank of wood at the construction site. He turned into his street and thought it odd that the radio wasn’t on, because from that distance he could usually hear Cidinha Campos bellowing from the speakers, and his wife singing along. When he was two steps away from being enveloped by the shadow cast by the wall of his house he saw his damn neighbour peering at the unsuspecting street through a crack in her window. He fumbled about in his pocket for his keys, his fingers touched a box of matches, coins, a pocket knife and telephone tokens. He had trouble turning the key in the lock, then slowly pushed open the iron gate. The front
window was closed, as were the bathroom door and window. The sand and stones he had bought were in the left-hand corner of the yard. In the pig pen, Margarida slept through the morning light which stretched from the skillet with no handle to the basin with a hole in it. The chickens were quiet on their perches, a sign that they had been fed. In the small garden the sunflowers swayed in the breeze. The silence worried him; his wife wasn’t one to sleep late. He went over to the left side of the yard looking at the ground. He lit another cigarette, walked to his front door, put the key in the keyhole, and this time had no trouble turning it. There were no dirty dishes in the kitchen. In the living room, a shaft of sunlight defied the window and lit up a line of dust floating in space. The statue of Father Cícero, facing the door, was uncomplaining. The noise of water trickling in the water tank was the only sound in the tidy house. The smell of fish jarred with the cleanness before his eyes. The worn blood-red rug wasn’t in its usual place. He adjusted it mechanically with his feet. He went into the bedroom and saw his wife lying on top of the polyester trousers he’d asked her to mend, pretending to be fast asleep.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked after her husband had shaken her.

  ‘The boss gave us the day off. The engineer kicked the bucket,’ answered her husband, who, instead of making himself a caipirinha, put on a pair of shorts and went into the yard to dig a hole in the ground.

  ‘For God’s sake, you don’t give yourself a rest, do you!’ said his wife.

  ‘I’m gonna make a cistern on the side here. This water tank’s too small for my likin’. If there’s no water for a week we’ll die of thirst.’

  By about one o’clock in the afternoon, he had already dug a hole twelve feet deep. He decided to stop, have dinner and take a nap. His wife spent the day mending old clothes. Every now and then she thought: ‘Since I started cheatin’ on him this man’s become a lamb.’ Night came quickly.