by Paulo Lins
‘I wanna have a snort too, but we’ve gotta have a decent amount, know what I mean? It’s gotta be a good high. Like in that Gilberto Gil song: “The more glitter, the better”.’
‘Gil’s the biggest head, ain’t he? He was arrested down south with a shitload of weed on him …’
‘It wasn’t just him! Caetano, Bethânia and Gal too … Those women’re huge heads too …’
‘Seen the film?’
‘Sweet Barbarians?’
‘Yeah.’
‘No.’
‘Rocket’s seen it and he said Gil takes the piss out of the chief inspector, big time.’
‘Does the film show him getting thrown in the slammer?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Ah … Then it’s just for publicity.’
‘What d’you mean publicity, man? You tellin’ me that Gil, Gal, all them guys from Bahia don’t smoke? Gil’s the biggest head. But I dunno … I don’t like his music that much. I reckon it’s a bit …’
‘Rocket loves it.’
‘Did he get the tent?’
‘Hey! Rocket said there’s a shitload of rich kids at his school that smoke dope at the theatre, at concerts – whenever those guys do a concert, everyone smokes their heads off.’
‘Janis Joplin died of an overdose, didn’t she?’
‘So did Jimi Hendrix … Remember when the teachers handed out that flyer with their pictures saying they’d died of an other-dose.’
‘Not other-dose! It’s o-ver-dose, you fuckwit!’
‘That’s when everyone got curious and started doin’ it.’
‘It was even on Fantástico, man!’
‘It’s fantastic, cunt of plastic, cock of elastic, the show of li-iife, it’s fantastic.’
They’d always heard that rock ‘n’ roll was a way of life, not just a type of music, so for that very reason they got out of it on dope, coke, needles and tea during the seventy-two hours of round-the-clock rock ‘n’ roll that rollicked along in Magé. They saw huge colourful beasts, lost all notion of time, didn’t eat, went around wearing only Bermuda shorts during the three nights of intense cold, did handstands, did somersaults at the waterfall, and danced for five or six hours on end. Some had sex until their genitals bled, they clapped at the beginning of songs and forgot to applaud at the ends of shows, went for hours on end without uttering a single word, danced naked, emptied their bowels in the river they drank from, had the constant impression that they were the happiest people in the world, lost tents, clothes, gas lamps, pots and pans, basically everything they had taken with them.
Rodrigo woke up three days later in the main square of a town he’d never seen before, next to two girls he didn’t know, nor did they know him. Marisol only showed up two days after the festival was over, covered in scratches, with a broken tooth. Gabriel and Tonho found themselves locked up at Leblon police station without the slightest idea of how they’d got there. Over the following days, memories of the festival flashed through the Boys’ minds. The next rock festival was going be in Miguel Pereira and none of them could wait. It was going to be wild.
After getting rid of the six people as planned and giving Carrots his orders, Tiny celebrated the success of the operation by firing a hail of bullets into the air in front of Building Seven, where he did the dealing himself until midday. He then sent his men on their way and went to lie low in the flat of his youngest brother, who was away with his wife. He spent the whole afternoon locked away trying to sleep, but his thoughts were quick, making any kind of rest impossible, because no matter what he thought about, his mind kept skipping back to Sparrow. How was he? Would he come back with that permanent smile of his, singing, always singing those funny little songs, those old sambas, walking quickly by his side and making him feel confident in the way that only he knew how? Yes, Sparrow was the only person he considered a friend, the only one who deserved his trust, even though he couldn’t even explain to himself why he liked him so much, why he was so fond of him. But if Sparrow didn’t make it, his death had already been avenged, and if he lived, he’d get two more dens Up Top, maybe even three. The truth was, he hadn’t killed the six purely for revenge; he’d used the incident involving Sparrow so he could do something he’d been planning for some time. He’d taken advantage of the situation so he wouldn’t have to convince his pals of the need for the operation. He thought it was better like that, because he wouldn’t have to share anything with anyone in any of the dens that were now his and Sparrow’s. That was why he’d decided not to tell anyone that he was going to kill the dealers from Up Top all in one go, nor to let anyone else kill them. He was certain his friends would believe that revenge was the reason behind the bloodbath, because real friends have to avenge one another.
His dream of being the boss of City of God was there, alive, completely alive, achieved, extremely healthy, beside him on the sofa. He knew his own men were afraid of him and that was the way they should stay, so they’d never try to get smart on him and would always obey him. The thing to do now was to put good, cheap dope in his dens and always have coke on hand for whoever wanted it, because even though he didn’t sell much, cocaine was expensive and it was a nice little earner. He thought about Ari Rafael, who’d managed to make himself a decent amount of dough in a short time with just two dens in São Carlos.
Dealing, that’s where it was at, that’s where the money was. He now remembered Jelly, manager of the illegal lottery in São Carlos, saying it was dealing that was keeping the lottery men from going under, because things had been looking down for them ever since the Military Police had started patrolling the streets (previously the responsibility of the Civil Police), because most of the Military Police wanted protection money from the lottery men, who, although they sent a lot of money to the police colonels, had no more peace. As well as the Military Police, the Civil Police detectives and inspectors also continued to demand hush money. Jelly nostalgically remembered the times when things were organised; all the lottery men had to do was send a decent amount to one police station and everything ran without a hitch. They didn’t have to buy coffee for the boys on the beat and beer for the foot police of each district, who, in turn, said that only the colonels made good money. The detectives said the same thing about the inspectors. Things were already bad for the lottery men and got a lot worse when the sports lottery appeared, taking more than eighty per cent of the bets and forcing the lottery men into the drugs business, which was starting to look promising, so as not to lose their income. It occurred to Tiny to send a wad of cash to the local lottery man, but he figured it wouldn’t be necessary. He knew there was no den in the area that belonged to a lottery man; in fact, he didn’t even know if the lottery men were still involved in drugs. What he did have to do was have a little talk with the suppliers so they’d bring him good weed and coke whenever he wanted, and ban thieving in the area so as not to attract the police.
His thoughts came back to run through the streets of the estate; they went through the alleys imperiously and stopped to pose on street corners. Because they were his, that’s right, he was boss of the streets, king of the streets, there, alive in the cards of that game, the game of guns, of danger, of anger. At the limits of violence, it was all so natural for him, so easy, and he tried to get to sleep, as if killing six people in one go was normal. Truth to tell, he was nervous, but this state of mind was due to the fact that Sparrow might die. Sparrow, his friend, together with whom he would be the boss of the streets of the estate … ‘Estate my arse! This is a favela! That’s right, a favela, and one hell of a favela at that! The only thing that’s changed is the shacks, which didn’t have electricity or running water, and here it’s all houses and flats, but the people, the people are like the people in Macedo Sobrinho, like the people in São Carlos. If favelas’ve got dens and a shitload of no-goods, blacks and poor bastards, then this is also a favela – Tiny’s favela.’
He got up from the sofa, walked slowly over to the mirror on the other side
of the room, and noticed his gun wasn’t in his waistband. He hurried back to the shelves of mugs from beer festivals, a statue of Saint George, a few crystal glasses and some comic books. He put his gun in its rightful place, went back to the mirror and started muttering. At times he grew serious, as if he were firing at some dickhead or other; at others he let out a slow, obscure laugh.
He went back to the sofa, lay his gun on the floor and tried to get comfortable, but he tossed and turned in that tiny space until he pulled up a stool, plumped up a cushion and leaned back on the sofa with his feet on the stool. He got up again, this time to light a cigarette, tasted cocaine in his mouth and ground his teeth. He thought about Sparrow again. He was the only reason Tiny hadn’t put Carrots six feet under. He knew his friend wouldn’t have been happy about it, but if Carrots’ den started making lots of money he’d use his first step out of line as an excuse to do the bastard in. He remembered the den on the Other Side of the River and was ashamed to realise he was afraid of its boss, because he knew that Leaky Tap was a gangster respected all over town and wild as a dog; he had the contacts to put together a gang whenever he wanted and take The Flats. And another thing; if he killed Leaky Tap and was unlucky enough to get caught, he’d definitely be killed in any prison he went to.
Leaky Tap’s den wasn’t actually all that great; it only sold dope to the heads in the favela. The den at The Flats was the best of the bunch, so much so that even rich kids from the South Zone came to buy drugs there. It was almost on the edge of the road and at the start of Motorway Eleven, which connected the favela to Barra da Tijuca. Tiny’s den probably had the best location in the whole city, as it not only supplied the South Zone, but also the West Zone, the North Zone and the inner-city districts. He was certain he’d get rich in no time and this certainty was without doubt the biggest he’d ever felt. He’d buy a car, a shitload of houses, the coolest trainers, some smart gear, a launch, a colour TV, a telephone, an air conditioner and gold, lots of gold to set himself up for life.
He felt like changing positions and needed to go the toilet at the same time. He got up with his leg asleep, limped to the bathroom, urinated and took a long shower. Then he went into the messy bedroom, with no doors on the wardrobe and dirty clothes scattered all around. Before lying down he took a peek out of the window and saw five military policemen heading towards the block he was in. He went back to the living room, cocked his gun, quickly made a rope out of his brother’s sheets, tied it to the foot of the bed and went back to the window: three of the policemen were frisking a boy in the square of The Flats, while the others were still heading his way. Tip-off. Some rat had squealed on him. He wasn’t going to get arrested; he’d pull the trigger on that Officer Portuguese, and Runt too, those fucking bastards everyone was afraid of. He stood there watching the police and visualising Street Keeper of the Land of the Souls to get his heartbeat back to normal. When he saw them cross the small bridge over the left branch of the river and disappear at Red Hill, he lit another cigarette and put his gun under his pillow, before lying down and falling asleep until the next day.
‘Go to Sparrow’s place. Go find out what the story is with that knife he got in the stomach. Go take this money to his brother. Be quick, OK?’ said Tiny to Otávio at around eight o’clock the next morning. The boy went and came back with all the speed of his eight years of age.
‘He’s asleep. His mum wouldn’t let us wake him up and she said she didn’t want no money.’
‘Is he OK? Fuck! Whew … Sparrow’s OK! I knew it, I knew it. Hey, get us a car,’ he said to the rogues sitting next to him behind Building Seven. ‘We gotta get a car to bring Sparrow over to my place. We can’t leave him there – no way, the pigs’ll go there, they’ll go there if they find out he’s restin’ up at home. He’s gotta watch his back!’
He went around the building, saw a car coming his way and threw himself in front of it. The driver slammed on the brakes. Cocking and uncocking his gun, he said:
‘Gimme a quick lend of your car and I’ll give you some money, gimme a lend, c’mon, c’mon, get out, get out of the car, out of the car, quick, quick …’
Then he looked at Beep-Beep and said:
‘What’s up, Beep-Beep? Off you go, off you go … First call his brother and tell ’im Sparrow can’t stay there. Tell ’im to wake ’im up and tell ’im to come quickly. Off you go, off you go …’
Beep-Beep put his foot down on the accelerator. Zigzagging down the main street of The Flats, he crunched the first three gears, then the fourth, which he used unnecessarily, since he’d have to brake to turn onto the bridge. The car owner put his head down and buried his face in his hands, only looking when he heard the brakes squealing. He was relieved when he saw his car drive off the other side of the bridge. Tiny watched him with a benevolent chuckle, gave him the equivalent of two tanks of fuel and promised that if Beep-Beep crashed it he’d give him another car in less than a week.
Sparrow arrived lying in the back seat with his gun cocked and a smile on his face. Fly, his girlfriend, was in the front seat. Tiny thanked God for delivering them alive to The Flats, the car owner crossed himself, and Beep-Beep said naïvely:
‘Wow! Your engine’s hot shit, ain’t it?’
Sparrow got out of the car and hobbled over to the entrance to the building where Tiny had spent the night. They had to carry him up to the fourth floor, where he then listened to Tiny’s compulsive chatter about recent events. Tiny sat on the edge of the bed for a while making plans, then said he had to go meet a supplier. Before leaving, he gave Fly some money for groceries and medicine in case they needed it.
* * *
‘A chick buying a chook!’ said Ana Flamengo, ending a short conversation with the stallholder who had just sold her a chicken at the Sunday street market. Then on she went, buying the ingredients for dinner with a wide, permanent smile, blowing kisses to the men, looking down her nose at the women, and talking loudly at the stalls she stopped at. She was followed by a group of boys who took the piss, grabbed her arse and tried to pull her wig off. From time to time Ana Flamengo scowled, charged at them, swore and flashed a flick-knife, but her smile was imperial when she came back to parade through the market in her teensy-weensy shorts, with silicone breasts, fancy flip-flops, gold necklaces, toned, shapely thighs that really looked like they belonged to a woman, the beauty mark on her white face, large earrings and scarlet-red nails.
Days after her brother had been killed by Detective Beelzebub, Ari, who now answered to the name Ana Flamengo, started living in the favela like any other resident. Before that, she’d only gone there to sleep from time to time. Not any more. She no longer went to the Red Light District or Lapa Square; she plied her trade at the foot of the Grajaú Range with other transvestites and prostitutes. When things weren’t going so well, she went shoplifting with a gang of women who met in the Alley to plan their operations and sell stolen goods.
Ana Flamengo was choosy about who she slept with; she liked pre-teens, who would queue in her living room to have her in the bedroom for a few minutes. But when she fell in love for real, Ana Flamengo belonged to just one man. She provided for Short Arse very well and gave him expensive presents in order to hold on to him. She was also affectionate, understanding and a good housewife. Her few friends who knew about her relationship with Short Arse said that if she were one of those young girls, she wouldn’t be treating her husband with so much dedication and love. They were happy together for a year and nine months, but after having the piss relentlessly taken out of him by his friends, who one by one found out about his secret love affair, Short Arse decided to leave Ana Flamengo, who couldn’t accept that it was over. She tried everything she could think of to save her relationship: she started bringing him presents every day instead of once a week, lavished food on him, was more affectionate, and in the bedroom she gave him only the blow jobs he was so fond of so there was no need for penetration, which he’d begun to avoid. But there was no way she could maintain th
e relationship; it had been so secret in the beginning, but little by little word had got around. It was hard to hold on to him with so many people in the favela giving him sidelong glances, nudging one another whenever he was around, cracking little jokes. Even the friends he’d shared his secret with made mean wisecracks. He just couldn’t keep it going.
On a rainy Monday he waited until Ana Flamengo had left the house, packed his things, took all the money stashed under the mattress and wrote on the paper the bread had come wrapped in: ‘It’s over, sorry bout everything. Yours, Short Arse.’ When Ana Flamengo read it, she felt cold: the cold of sleeping alone in the coming winter nights; the cold of no longer having a husband to kill the cockroaches that so frightened and disgusted her; the cold of having to cook for herself; the cold of not having anyone to bring presents to. The cold of loneliness. She paced through the rooms of the house with her head down, looked at the place in the wardrobe where Short Arse had kept his things: empty. Her tears washed away the powder on her sad-clown face, and she threw herself on the bed, sniffling in silence – the overwhelming silence that always accompanied that life of scorn and discrimination, in which she was always concealing herself, arriving when everything was over, receiving looks of disgust, and getting beaten up by the police. It all flooded into her mind at once.
She got up, slowly took off her wig in front of the mirror and ran her hand over her face, mixing mucus, face powder, lipstick and tears. She undressed, running her hands over her private parts. An erotic scene; perhaps she’d feel pleasure acting out that scene, because all the actresses did it in films and on TV. She was an actress: Glória Menezes missing Tarcísio Meira! Even better, she was Marilyn Monroe looking at the perfect body Short Arse had cast aside. Sometimes she stopped, flexed her muscles. She was a man, she was a woman, but sad, very sad for most of her life. Why did her desire have to be treated like something dirty, secret and embarrassing? Her serious face, looking at herself, asked:
