City of God

by Paulo Lins

  ‘C’mon, Hellraiser! Give it a bit more time, man. Things haven’t cooled off yet! The cops’ll be around!’ insisted Pipsqueak.

  ‘If the guy wants to go, let him go!’ Sting intervened.

  ‘Fuck! You’re really pigheaded, aren’t you? You’ve forgotten that we done two big jobs, man? Have you forgotten that the job on Gabinal Road’ll be hittin’ the papers today? You’re actin’ like you don’t know nothin’. The papers make the pigs all nervy, man! And they wanna bust someone no matter what. It’s not worth the risk!’

  ‘You’re just scared I’ll grass if they bust me. Don’t worry, man – I won’t grass!’ said Hellraiser with a half-hearted laugh.

  He got up, brushed the dirt off the back of his shorts, stuffed the money into his jocks, waved at his friends and left, his gun in his waistband.

  ‘Stay here, man!’ said Pipsqueak.

  Hellraiser crossed the street and considered going straight down Motorway Eleven, but decided it was better to take Gabinal Road, enter the estate through The Flats and head for Red Hill. A cold breeze covered his body in goosebumps. The quiet of the streets terrified him. He liked activity, because things that are too calm suddenly get whipped up. Man is like that, like the sea, the sky, the earth itself and everything on it. He was afraid that something might whip up against him. Pipsqueak’s words echoed in his ears. The morning was very calm and produced little noise. Hellraiser couldn’t hear a thing. He was a character in a silent film. The rows of sunflowers in gardens, spinning tops in children’s hands, cars going past on Edgar Werneck Avenue, the milk carts, the late May sun and the right branch of the river were all so familiar, so why was he so nervous? Why did he want to go back to his friends? A feeling of emptiness made him uneasy, sent shivers down his spine. He checked his gun and patted the money with shaky hands. He’d had that feeling many times, but only during shoot-outs, getaways and jobs. There was also absolute calm on Middle Street, causing his dread to grow, dread of nothing. And what was nothing? Nothing was sparrows darting from electric wires to rooftops, from rooftops to branches, from branches to walls, from walls to the ground and from the ground to out of the way of the footsteps of the people going past without noticing him in the alley he turned down on his way to Teresa’s place. He could have given up on the idea of having a smoke, but a force was tugging him in that direction. From time to time, he felt as if his whole body was being punched and kicked. It occurred to him to draw his gun and kill the innocence the sun was spilling into the square on Block Fifteen, all the calm it offered him. He didn’t know why, but tiny fragments of his life were suddenly flashing before him. The most vivid colours of the day became laden with much deeper meanings, scrambling his vision. The wind was more nervous, the sun hotter, his footsteps heavier, the sparrows so far from the people, the silence useless, tops spinning, sunflowers swaying, cars going faster and Beelzebub’s voice whipping everything up:

  ‘Hit the ground, arsehole!’

  Hellraiser didn’t react. Contrary to what Beelzebub had expected, an inexplicable calm filled his consciousness, an almost abstract smile revealed the peace he had never known, a peace he had always sought in the things money could provide, because he hadn’t, in fact, noticed the most normal things in life. And what is normal in life? The peace that means one thing to some and something completely different to others? The peace that everyone seeks even though they don’t know how to decipher it in all its plenitude? What is peace? What really is good in life? He’d always been unsure about these things. But no one can say there is no peace in a beer at the Bonfim, in playing the tambourine in samba school rehearsals, in Berenice’s laughter, in joints smoked with friends and Saturday afternoon kickabouts. Perhaps he had gone too far looking for something that had always been right beside him. But can there really be true peace for one whose life had always meant floundering in the depths of poverty? He had been looking for something that was always so close, so close and so good, but the fear that a few drops of rain might suddenly become a storm had made him what he was – blind to peace, which had now come to stay.

  Perhaps peace was in the flight of the birds, in the subtlety of the sunflowers swaying in people’s gardens, in the spinning tops on the ground, in the branch of the river always leaving and always returning, in the mild autumn cold and the breeze blowing in. But there was always the chance that things might get whipped up in some undefined way, lash out at him and end up in the path of his revolver. But can one actually see beauty with eyes blurred by the lack of almost everything a human being needs? Perhaps he had never looked for anything, or even thought about it; all he could do was live the life he lived without any reason to be poetic in a world written in such cursed lines.

  He lay down very slowly, without even feeling his movements. He felt an overwhelming certainty that he wouldn’t feel the pain of the bullets. He was an already yellowing photograph with an unfaltering smile and the hope that death really did mean rest for one who had been obliged to make peace a systematic declaration of war. Beelzebub’s questions were met with silence and an expression of melancholic joy remained in his coffin.

  Sparrow’s Story

  The early 1970s

  After Silva died and Cosme fled the Old Flats, Miguel dealt for more than six years without too many worries. Since few gangsters were into dealing, and because The Flats were quiet compared to the houses, there were only a small number of gangsters and few operated in the area. Miguel watched the new blocks of flats going up, the arrival of the population of the favela Macedo Sobrinho, and the brutal institution of community living. Because the new residents all came from the same place, there was an existing network of friendships, and this gave them attitudes that segregated them from and irked the old residents.

  Fighting broke out between groups of youths from the flats and the houses. They fought over kites, marbles, football, girlfriends … The residents of the New and Old Flats weren’t on hostile terms, however, perhaps by virtue of their proximity. People often said the New and Old Flats were all the same thing. The gangsters who had just arrived didn’t steal there. But they did set up a den in Building Seven of the New Flats the very day they arrived.

  The den belonged to Sérgio Nineteen, also known as Big, a gangster famed throughout Rio de Janeiro for being dangerous and fierce, and for the pleasure he took in killing policemen. Big had also been a resident of the now extinct Macedo Sobrinho, but he hadn’t moved to City of God, as he’d figured it would be too easy for the police to find him there. He liked living on the slopes, where he could watch everything from up high. He’d been in hiding almost everywhere in Rio de Janeiro, from the South Zone favelas all the way up to the North Zone, but the police had tracked him down in all of them. That was why he’d arrived in the favela of Juramento in the neighbourhood of Leopoldina, shooting at every gangster in sight, kicking down shacks and shouting that the one in charge now was Big: the Big who had taken over most of the dens in the favelas of the South Zone; the almost-six-foot-five Big, willing to take on five or six men at once with his bare hands; the Big who had a machine gun he’d got in a fight with a marine on duty in Mauá Square; the Big who’d been cold-blooded enough to cut off his own little toe and hang it from a chain around his neck; the Big who killed policemen because he thought they were the biggest bastards of all – that lot that served the whites, a bunch of poor guys defending the rights of the rich. He enjoyed killing whites, because whites had stolen his ancestors from Africa to work for nothing, whites had made favelas and stuck blacks there tolive in them, whites had created the police in order to beat up, arrest and kill blacks. Absolutely everything that was good belonged to the whites. The president of Brazil was white, the doctor was white, bosses were white, the grandpa-glimpsed-the-grape in school books was white, the rich were white, dolls were white and the fucking niggers that became policemen or went into the Army deserved to die just like every other white in the world.

  Big left the den in Building Seven in the hands
of his good friend Napoleon, who was on friendly terms with Miguel. They both sold their weed without worrying about whether the next man was selling more. The true test of friendship came when Miguel went to prison. Napoleon could have taken over his den, but he left Flip-Flop at the helm, precisely because he was the one who’d been Silva, Cosme and Miguel’s errand boy. He’d grown up in the den, had earned the right to be the boss and Napoleon wasn’t going to be the one to take it away from him. Flip-Flop was schooled enough in the running of a den and, although he’d grown up in the company of gangsters, was discreet and polite. He didn’t feel the need to stir up trouble like most gangsters, he rarely went about armed and treated customers from all over the estate well. The Saint Cosmas and Damian sweets he handed out were top notch. Besides the sweets, he gave away clothes, children’s books, toys and school supplies, and was always buying football boots, socks and shirts for the Oberom Football Club, a team from right there in the Old Flats. That was how he won over the residents. His den was discreet. To keep things low-profile, he didn’t have a bunch of gangsters doing the packaging, and he had no partners so there’d be no back-stabbing. He had no enemies. He was always sending a few bundles of weed over to the local gangsters and the cool guys. He was well liked.

  The day the population of the favela of Macedo Sobrinho started being relocated to City of God, Pipsqueak left his godmother’s house and went to live in The Flats. No sooner had the government representatives inaugurated the New Flats than he started squatting in one. He hung around the square greeting his childhood friends as they arrived. He made a point of shaking hands with the workers, slapping the veteran gangsters on the back, and feeling up the sluts. It had been ages since he’d seen those people, who’d known him back when he was still learning how to spin tops, play marbles and fly kites. He asked after a few people, rolled joints for the cool guys and introduced Sparrow, Night Owl and Carrots to the new residents. This made him feel good.

  A few days after the inauguration of the New Flats, Pipsqueak decided to celebrate his eighteenth birthday in Building Seven with a barbecue and beer for his friends.

  His oldest brother, Israel, who was squatting in another flat, arranged for the members of his samba group to play at his eighteenth. Pipsqueak got drunk and told the den to supply his friends and anyone else who went to buy drugs that day, because it was all on him. He’d come of age, having chalked up ten murders and fifty armed robberies. He owned thirty revolvers of every calibre and was respected by all the gangsters in the area. His ability to lead came not only from the fact that he was dangerous; it came from his guts, his desire to be the biggest, as Ari Rafael was in São Carlos and Big had been in Macedo Sobrinho. On his birthday, he gave revolvers to his childhood friends Bicky, Russian Mouse and Sharky, saying he knew where the jackpot was and that they were going to get it with him.

  The night exceeded all limits, and the party was still going at daybreak. More meat, more dope, more coke and beer in the morning that dawned to the rhythm of samba. Since real no-goods have to have money to spend down to the last penny, and then, when the money runs out, pay for whatever they want in gold, Pipsqueak traded gold chains for meat and gold watches and bracelets for cocaine.

  Before the party was over, Pipsqueak slipped away in the company of Sparrow. They went into a flat where everything had been prepared for their arrival. Candles were lit to Oxalá and Xangô, because Oxalá was the great father and Xangô was the orixá of Father Joaquim of the Cross of the Promised Land of the Souls, who came down from the spiritual plane to start the ceremony. But he wasn’t the one with whom Pipsqueak was to speak. Father Joaquim soon went back up; he’d only come down to start the ceremony, greet the children of the earth, send a message to the medium and give the apprentice orders. He didn’t work with no-goods. The one who worked with no-goods was the exu Street Keeper of the Land of the Souls, who came down after squabbling with other exus for the right to do so. He arrived cackling loudly, driving away bad energy, and drew a cross on the ground before greeting the children of the earth. He sprinkled cachaça on the ground, ate a candle flame, ordered the apprentice to roll up the cuffs of his trousers, and touched shoulders with the apprentice, first on one side, then the other, because the exu had to greet the apprentice first. It was the apprentice who looked after him, left presents at crossroads, bought cachaça and candles for the sessions, left offerings at Calunga Grande Cemetery and made sacrifices. He then touched shoulders with all the children of the earth present.

  ‘Don’t mess with exus, exus are not to be messed with,’ sang Street Keeper of the Land of the Souls, hopping up and down.

  Pipsqueak listened in silence to the chant the exu had started, which the devotees sang along with. First the exu granted the apprentice a consultation, asked for a sacrifice and a present at the crossroads, told him his path was clear, and passed on messages for the medium. He then called Pipsqueak over for a consultation.

  ‘I’m the Devil, kid! I’m the Devil! If ya want I can get ya outta this hole, I can, set ya up really nice, but if yer lookin’ fer trouble, yer’ve come to the right place. I’ll protect ya from snipers’ bullets, I will, I’ll save ya from Black Boots’ claws, I will, I’ll put brass in yer pocket and show ya the enemy, I will. Ain’t that wot ya came to ask for? Well then … But don’t get smart on me, or I’ll fuck things up fer ya, I’ll stick a fig tree up your arse, I will … I’ll stick ya in a wooden overcoat, I will! All I want is a bottle of booze and a candle stub …’

  Pipsqueak opened his mouth to speak, but Street Keeper of the Land of the Souls continued:

  ‘Ya don’t ‘ave to speak, ya don’t – think about wot ya want.’

  Pipsqueak closed his eyes and lowered his head. He felt the power of the exu – who didn’t mess around because he wasn’t to be messed with – trying to take over his every thought. Pipsqueak was unusually calm and Sparrow cast him a worried look. Standing there, Pipsqueak strolled through light and darkness, through the centre and around the edges, above and below, inside and out, straight and sinuous, through the lies and the truth of things. He could choose the world he wanted to be in; all he had to do was choose the lane he wanted to run along, the game he wanted to play; he could get out of that hole or dig it even deeper; he’d win any game under the protection of the exu – who didn’t mess around because he wasn’t to be messed with. It was there that a chosen fate truly took shape, a fate in which doubt would not exist. It was, in fact, a fate that life had drawn for him and that he now glimpsed through a harness, with his eyes closed and faith burning like the flame of the candle flickering in the wind that blew into the living room of the flat; burning like the tip of the exu’s cigar, casting its gyrating light on Pipsqueak.

  When the exu started speaking again, telling him facts about his life that only he knew, he opened his eyes, then drank the cachaça the exu offered him and memorised the prayer the exu taught him. The others present couldn’t understand a single word. He touched shoulders with the exu and left in silence. Sparrow accompanied him.

  The hold-ups in Barra da Tijuca and Jacarepaguá made Pipsqueak enough money to live life without limits, to which he had become accustomed. But Napoleon and Flip-Flop squandered much more money than he did: it pained him to see the parties, the sweets they handed out during the festivities for the saints Cosmas and Damian, and the money they gave the Crown carnival group so it could parade for the first time in the fifth division. He saw that Up Top the dealers sold drugs as if they were selling sweets to children. They threw parties that lasted for two or three days at a time and were open to everyone, and yet they did next to nothing themselves – they didn’t leave the estate, nor did they hang around the dens – because they had suppliers to deliver and assistants to sell the drugs. Nevertheless – although he was the one who planned large-scale hold-ups, who cased joints to find out the best time to do jobs and subsequently got a larger cut when dividing up the loot, who went out alone and came back with valuable objects from the
houses he robbed – he didn’t have enough to make him, besides the most feared, the richest. He noticed that the number of dope smokers was growing by the day. So what was he waiting for, then, to take over Napoleon and Flip-Flop’s dens? What was stopping him from taking over The Flats, since it was his area? Because if he presented a good plan to his partners in hold-ups, he’d have their immediate support.

  He thought about taking over Napoleon’s den when he heard that Big had died in a shootout with the police in the favela of Juramento, but luckily he was prudent enough to spare him while he waited for the right moment to convince his friends. Napoleon had been well liked by people since back in Macedo Sobrinho and, shortly after Big’s death, the Fifth Sector police kidnapped him, killed him and got rid of the body.

  They actually did the job for him. Beto assumed control of the den in Building Seven because he was Big’s brother, but from the moment he took over things went downhill. Beto squandered money without a thought for replenishing stocks. He had to do hold-ups to buy drugs. Pipsqueak said the den in Building Seven was a mess. He said that if the den were under his command the local junkies wouldn’t have anything to complain about. He talked to the cool guys about his intention to pull the trigger on Beto.

  He started buying large amounts of drugs on credit at Beto’s den and never paid. He also borrowed money from him and didn’t pay him back so he could pick fights and kill him without falling out with the cool guys. But Beto never complained. On the contrary, he treated him with respect, leading Pipsqueak to conclude he was afraid of him.

  ‘Hey, Beto took a lend of my shooter, then said he wasn’t givin’ it back,’ Russian Mouse told Pipsqueak.

  Pipsqueak waited until his friends were all together to say that Russian Mouse was a good guy and Beto was fucking him around just because he was a kid. He was too close a friend of Russian Mouse’s to let the matter go and he was going to take it up with Beto if he didn’t return the gun.