by Paulo Lins
Monday dawned with a hot sun in the sky. Boss of Us All arrived at the police station earlier than usual. He greeted everyone half-heartedly, changed into uniform, got the ‘snatch’ (as he called his machine gun), examined it, loaded it, got more ammunition from the cupboard and hurried into the streets. He’d had nightmares all night long. In his dreams he’d seen Hellraiser ordering him to the ground while holding a gun to his chest. He’d woken up before two in the morning and had been unable to get back to sleep. His determination to eliminate the gangster that day was much stronger, but he didn’t look about. He allowed his gaze to stretch out along the alleys, streets and lanes. He was sad; the nightmare had been a warning. Whenever he dreamed bad things, something shitty happened. His depression was not only due to his bad night. His wife had written to him saying she wasn’t coming back to Rio de Janeiro. She was tired of that life of deaths. She refused to sleep any longer beside a man whose weapon was an extension of his body. A man without peace of mind; a murderer. She didn’t want to wake up every night startled by the sounds of the world. That incurable ulcer had been caused by the fact that she could never be sure whether her husband would arrive home at the end of each day. Not being able to walk down the street without a worry had left her isolated, without any peace of mind. Being a policeman’s wife made it hard to make friends. She spent her life locked away at home. And if she complained too much she got a beating.
Boss of Us All was wrought with anger at her betrayal. His thoughts dwelt more on his wife than on Hellraiser. He walked along with his head down. Acerola, Mango and Green Eyes put out a joint and passed by him unnoticed. He turned into Middle Street and went behind the supermarket. Life in his home state of Ceará had always been hard. He’d gone hungry throughout his childhood. When he was still a child, he would wake up before dawn to work, and only had afternoons free to study at the one school in the region, more than twenty-four miles from home. His father’s death put the seal on his miserable life. He saw his mother have to start doing any work she could find to feed her children. He cut across a square and turned down the street that followed the right branch of the river. He might have been a carpenter like his youngest brother. He reached the river’s edge. Those born in the drought country don’t choose their profession, by virtue of their place of birth. He turned left and walked along with slow, steady steps. Deep down, he didn’t like being a policeman. Everyone feared him, and when they didn’t fear him they hated him. He lit a cigarette. But being a policeman was much better than dealing with drunks in a bar. He knew this from personal experience, as he’d worked in a bar in the city centre before joining the police force. He walked down the middle of the street, something he never did. He remembered the times he’d had to rummage for leftover food when he’d just arrived in Rio. He turned into an alley where a few kids were smoking a joint on the corner. He told them they were under arrest, which was a waste of time. It only sent them running. He couldn’t be bothered chasing anyone. He’d only get moving if Hellraiser appeared in front of him. His son had died of tuberculosis. He stopped at a bar and ordered a Cinzano-and-cachaça, then left without paying. The lieutenant who had got him into the Military Police force was always asking for favours, for him to kill someone or other. One day he’d blast his head off. He crossed another square. His wife had betrayed him. Another bar. He knocked back another Cinzano-and-cachaça. The biggest scar on his body had been made by his stepfather, who stole his mother from him and made him leave school so he could work the whole day. Another bar, where he drank another Cinzano-and-cachaça. The drought in the Ceará backlands had bleached the colour out of his deepest dreams in the full bloom of his youth. He passed the Bonfim. He had been married in the registry office as well as the church. He thought about going home. His mother had died of a snake bite. He sneezed. He’d killed more than thirty people, but most of them had been niggers. He coughed up phlegm. He wanted his wife to come back. He spat. He ate sausages. His father used to beat his mother. He continued down Middle Street. His stepfather had beaten her too. One day he’d catch a gangster with more than ten million in stolen money, take the jackpot and ask for a discharge. He arrived at the Two-Storey Houses. If he’d moved, his wife wouldn’t have left him. He walked through the New Short-Stay Houses. He’d never pay rent. A few gangsters took off running. He fired to kill. He’d had whores in the Red Light District. He took the road along the river’s edge and lit a cigarette. His uncle had been a policeman in Ceará. All the men in his family were tough as hell. He’d kill Hellraiser with more than fifty bullets. The sun was getting hot. He took the first left. He’d never been afraid of any man. His godfather was an important man in the Ceará backlands, a farmer with many heads of cattle. If he went home he’d be guaranteed a job, but come to think of it he could find himself another wife, and he still had it in him to have kids. He turned right. The sun hid itself behind a cloud. His wife had left him. He thought about going home where no one would see him to cry about the loss of his wife. The tears welling up in his eyes were his only defence. He wanted peace and quiet and then he died.
His murderer walked over slowly and fired a shot to put him out of his misery. He then ordered a cart driver to hand over his cart. Boss of Us All’s body was thrown roughly into the back. The killer fired a shot to frighten the horse, which galloped off through the streets of the estate then slowed to a trot, trailing blood through the stretches of the afternoon that had just caught fire. The residents followed the cart, thronging to see the corpse. Boss of Us All’s body was an endlessly gushing fountain. The horse kept stopping, but there was always someone to thump its hindquarters, making the spectacle continue. The procession turned into Main Street. A few gangsters shot at his body and blood spurted out, hastening the October dusk and turning it ruby-red. The mother of a dope smoker murdered by Boss of Us All took her chance to spit on his body. She was cheered. The cart turned into the road that ran along the right branch of the river. The crowd grew. A few thought they had lost a good policeman. Sting held up the procession looking for guns. He only got ten cruzeiros. The cart carried on. It turned the corner and arrived at Block Thirteen. The party took on a new dimension. People threw stones, emptied rubbish bins over the body, clubbed it. The afternoon was still.
The procession continued as far as Dummy’s Bar, where a police car arrived with two policemen, putting an end to the show.
Boss of Us All’s murderer had been on his way to hold up a hardware store when he had seen him shuffling along with his head down. The chance to kill his brother’s murderer had made him forget the hold-up. He crouched behind a car, took aim and blew the policeman’s brains out. He returned to Vila Sapê, where he lived, celebrating his revenge, and took the ‘snatch’.
Hellraiser heard about what had happened from his wife, but didn’t go out to see the body; he just smoked a joint and had a few beers at home to celebrate.
A week after Boss of Us All’s death, Rocket watched with a slightly sad expression as tractors and excavators worked in an uninhabited area behind the blocks of flats. It was the place he’d played in most. It was next to the haunted mansion with the pool, where the guava, jabuticaba and avocado trees were. The rain had returned and was crying for Rocket who, although he was watching the traces of his childhood being destroyed, was enchanted by the manoeuvres of the machines that bulldozed boldo trees, shame plants, rose moss, fennel and sunflowers. He was too young to realise how much of his childhood was being carried away by excavators. He offered the workers cold water and asked to ride on the tractors. His days were filled with these adventures.
On Monday, Stringy and Rocket were talking, leaning against the wall of a building, which protected them from the biting wind blowing in from Barra da Tijuca.
‘Jap said the Baron of Taquara and his wife appear every night at midnight in a coach over in the mansion on Gabinal Road,’ said a wide-eyed Stringy.
‘Bullshit! This stuff about souls from other worlds is a load of crap. Jap was just
bullshittin’.’
‘He’s not the first one to say it. Everyone says so. He appears in a coach all jazzed up, with a huge blue beard, takes a spin around the manor and when it starts gettin’ light he pisses off. I believe it!’ said Stringy.
‘I couldn’t care less about all that shit.’
‘Then let’s go there tonight at midnight!’ Stringy challenged him.
‘Yeah right. D’ya reckon my mum’ll let me go out at midnight?’
‘My mum doesn’t let me either, but I sneak out. You’re just scared, you big wimp!’
‘OK, I’ll go. I’ll be down here at quarter to twelve, right?’
‘I’ll have to see it to believe it!’
By 11.45 they had already crossed Gabinal Road and entered the grounds of the manor. They walked up the short cobbled path to the haunted mansion, peering into the nooks and crannies of the night. They sat down under a full moon that made its presence felt in the starry midnight sky. The silence was only interrupted by crickets, mosquitoes and the occasional car driving down the deserted Gabinal Road. They walked all over the manor. In a small, shaky voice, Rocket said that this story about hauntings was a load of balls.
They were about to leave when the moon became the midday sun, the houses and flats gave way to enormous fields, the other mansions looked new, the river became wider, with clean water and alligators along the edges. In both of their throats were strangled screams that wouldn’t come out. They saw the Negroes working on the sugar and coffee plantations. Whips stung their backsides. The Eucalypt Grove grew thicker; it now had an imperial air. Up around Main Square a fountain appeared, where dozens of Negro women washed clothes. In the mansion on Watermill Farm, they watched the hustle and bustle of Dolores’s kitchen during preparations for the Baron of Taquara’s wife’s birthday party.
Along came the Baron astride his chestnut steed, personally commanding the Negroes who were carrying a grand piano he had had sent from Paris as a present for his wife. There were forty Negroes carrying that beauty. While twenty carried the weight of the instrument, the others broke the lowest tree branches so it wouldn’t get scratched. People came running from all over the countryside to see the grand piano.
No one noticed the boys. In perplexed wonderment they discovered they could pass through walls, fly and see through things. It was a journey into the past of the haunted mansion by the light of a full moon.
They took off and flew over all of the Jacarepaguá Lowlands. They flew over the Pretos Forros Range, the big lake, the lake, the pond and the sea. Rocket, who had always dreamed of flying, was now a cloud breaker, National Kid, Superman, Super Goof. Every now and then he would swoop down close to the ground, then soar back into the sky.
They landed again at the mansion. They unwittingly arrived in the torture room, where preparations were being made to amputate the leg of a runaway slave. Eyes bulging at the sight of the operation now under way, both Stringy and Rocket let out the scream long suppressed in their throats, attracting the attention of one of the foremen, who was clairvoyant and able to touch them. The man let go of the slave and rushed at them, wielding a whip. They ran through the labyrinths of the mansion, passing through many rooms, running normally, forgetting that they could pass through walls and fly. They were losing ground when they got to the main entrance of the manor and ran out onto Gabinal Road, older now, in their first years of secondary school, smoking grass while cadavers floated down-river.
After a prayer had soothed his soul, Rocket got out of bed and opened his bedroom window. The world was still grey, but the rain had passed. He looked to his left and saw a crowd at the river’s edge. His depression continued – he had to do something to take his thoughts elsewhere. He went back into his room, still scared of everything. What kind of a miserable life was that? The ticking of the clock on the wall reminded him of a shootout. He headed for the living room. Perhaps his despondency would pass if he listened to music. He rummaged through his small record collection; Pepeu Gomes in the phenomenal ‘Malacaxeta’. Of all the Boys, he was the only one who liked Brazilian music. He put the record on the phonograph, lit a roach he had stashed in his shoe and relaxed.
He thought about his friends at Brazil Central High School, where he studied. He couldn’t wait to go camping with the kids from school. They were going to catch the train to Santa Cruz, then the Macaquinho, a train with wooden carriages which would take them to Ibicuí, a beach to the south of Rio de Janeiro. The train followed the shoreline, crossing that paradisiacal region known as the Green Coast. Among the passengers there were always guitarists playing Brazilian music. The crowd that was into Brazilian music, theatre and cinema was different to the crowd that enjoyed rock ‘n’ roll at the dances. As always, he’d take a tent just for him and his girlfriend Silvana to camp in, so he could snuggle up close to her during those days of fun. He’d also remember to take a roll of black and white film to record everything, tinned food and three bundles of weed. It was such a blast getting a campfire going at the water’s edge and getting wasted, shooting the breeze, singing songs and cuddling up with his girlfriend under the Ibicuí sky, which is full of stars because the absence of light brings the firmament down close to your eyes. Whenever he went camping, Rocket would lie on his back in the sand and make three thousand wishes on the thousand shooting stars that came to play within his field of vision …
He really did enjoy the company of his schoolfriends, but when he was with the Boys from the favela he also felt at home. He laughed his head off at the crap they came out with and loved hiding out in the bush to smoke dope with them. And what about the dance? The dance was fun, everyone wearing hipsters, Reng Teng shirts, dancing and chewing gum. The kids from school didn’t understand why Rocket got tattoos and bleached his hair.
Silvana was always asking him to change the way he dressed and stop using that favela slang, since he was nice-looking, studied, and hung around people from Méier, the neighbourhood where his school was. Rocket would come back at her with something and then change the subject, but deep down he agreed with his girlfriend, because the Boys were a little rough around the edges and hated Brazilian music. Most of them had never been to a rock concert, much less a play. They said the singers Caetano Veloso and Gilberto Gil were faggots, Chico Buarque was a communist, and Gal Costa and Maria Bethânia were dykes. It was just bullshit; they didn’t have the sensibility to understand the metaphors in their songs – they didn’t even know what a metaphor was. Once they had told him that Caetano kissed men on the mouth and Rocket had immediately responded that he was breaking taboos. One of the Boys had answered back (just to be an arsehole): ‘Taboo – fuck you!’
Stringy didn’t actually go inside; he started telling passers-by, then went back to the river’s edge with the crowd. They stood there staring at the corpses. Some people said they were all den owners, but most were silent, which was the best thing at times like that. The victims’ relatives arrived in desperation and tried to pull the bodies out of the river, which had swollen due to the rainy weather that had lasted more than a week. Stringy stood there for a while watching that miserable scene. Suddenly, he looked at the sky, guessed the rain wouldn’t come back, and took his wallet from his pocket. Counting his money, he saw he had enough to catch a bus to the beach, which is what he did. Nothing better than a swim to wash away the blues.
Within ten minutes his feet were leaving footprints in the wet sand by the sea at Barra da Tijuca. He went to the water’s edge, made a hole in the sand, rolled his wallet in his shirt, put it in the hole and covered it again. He did thirty press-ups, sixty sit-ups and stretched. Then he dived into the high tide, swam through the breaking waves, rested, checked the direction of the under-tow, and thought about swimming a hundred yards against the current. He took a deep breath before swimming into the purest blue of his dreams.
The best way not to get tired was to let your thoughts dwell on something that had nothing to do with the sea, breathing or distance. He did his best, but
was unsuccessful, because he remembered the public test for lifesavers that was coming up soon. Practise, practise – that’s what he had to do every day. His father had been a lifesaver, so had his brother, now his turn was approaching. He swam well in the waters of Iemanjá. He went further than he had planned without feeling tired, then returned to the sand. He went straight to the place he had buried his wallet and sat down. His thoughts returned to the river waters. He’d never die like that. Being murdered must be the worst death. He’d die in the sea … No, not in the sea! He’d die in his sleep when he was really old. He knew all the dead guys; they had sold marijuana and cocaine. There were even some who didn’t sell anything, but they hung around the dealers. He imagined the police had done a clean-up. Lucky he hadn’t been scoring anything when it happened. He fixed his eyes on a strip of blue close to the ocean. The rest was just clouds, although they were blown by a wind coming off the land, indicating that the rain was about to stop once and for all, and the Boys would no doubt hold a bodysurfing championship. He’d have fun practising, although he knew he’d always win – he was the best swimmer of the lot. He had to pass the test for lifesavers. If he passed, he’d have a good reason to stop studying. He couldn’t stand this business of memorising letters and numbers, but his mother insisted he remain in school. He felt like sitting there on the beach the whole day, despite being alone, despite the cold he felt. The ocean had become an extension of his existence. He’d had this love since he was a boy, not just for the sea, but also for rivers, lakes and waterfalls. It wasn’t for nothing that he was nicknamed Indian; as well as loving water, he was a straight-haired mulatto. He spent most of his time fishing and hunting, and to make some money he hung around near the seashore when the water was rough, collecting chains, watches and bracelets that bathers lost in the water and the sea threw back up.
