by Paulo Lins
From the chief’s tone of voice Slick realised the shit was about to hit the fan. He got ready for a fight.
‘Got any money?’ continued the man, who was wearing a Flamengo Football Club T-shirt, while the others continued playing as if nothing was happening.
‘No.’
‘How is it that you show up in the slammer and go for ages without findin’ out who the chief is? You don’t talk to no one, you don’t share nothin’ with no one. If you’re skint, how come you’ve got smokes? You’re gettin’ off on the wrong foot! Look, there’s these guys over in City of God that did this thing once, you know?’ lied the chief. ‘And it’s you that’s gonna pay their debt, know what I’m sayin’?’
He was quiet for a moment, then continued:
‘From now on, you’re gonna be Bernadete, and you’re my girl!’ he finished in a voice loud enough to wake all the inmates in the corridor.
Slick flew at the chief, who dodged and stuck out his foot, tripping him up and making him hit his head on the bars of a cell. Dazed, he was kicked and punched for a considerable time, then, covered in blood and without the energy to pick himself up, he was carried back to his cell, where he stayed for a week. He received cigarettes, toothpaste and food brought in from outside the prison while he was recovering, and imagined that some friend had recognised him and was helping him out because he wasn’t well. On the seventh day, however, he also received a bouquet of flowers that made him leap out of bed in a fury. He threw the roses on the ground and asked who the bastard was that was fucking him around.
‘How come you accept everythin’, then freak out when the flowers come?’ answered the chief from the end of the corridor.
Slick positioned his still-aching body in the middle of the corridor. With his hands he signalled that he was ready to fight the chief, who gave him another flogging. After beating him, he ordered the other inmates to take him to his bed.
‘Take ‘is clothes off!’
While three held him down, another inmate pulled down his trousers without much effort, despite Slick’s attempts to stop him. The chief saw that he’d soiled his jocks and ordered them to let him go. With a knife at his neck, Slick washed and, without drying himself, was placed belly-down on the bed. He still tried to resist, but stopped struggling after he received a cut on his neck. The inmates held him down again so the chief himself could shave the hairs off his legs and buttocks before inserting his penis into Slick’s anus.
From that day on, Slick had sex with the chief on a regular basis and behaved like a prison wife: he washed his jocks, folded his sheet every morning and set out the food from a cafeteria near the prison for them to eat together. Whenever he said or did something the chief didn’t like, he was beaten. As time passed, he saw he wasn’t the only one in his situation; other inmates belonged to the chief’s friends, who were in fact a gang that dominated the whole row. Suffering is more bearable when you’re not alone, and this eased his hatred somewhat, but he swore one day he’d get revenge. Life as the chief’s woman guaranteed him good food, cocaine, sheets, a pillow, blankets, drinks, dope and chilled water. On visiting days, he was allowed to dress as a man to receive his family. In day-to-day prison life, however, he went around in red knickers – red was the chief’s favourite colour – and had to wear lipstick and earrings. The first time he had diarrhoea in prison he was forced to use menstrual pads.
‘A faggot’s diarrhoea is his period!’ they said.
When he was released, he was much more hardened, and pissed off at life. He remembered many occasions when he’d been woken by a slop bucket being tipped over his face, or the prison guards’ truncheons thumping his arse for no reason. When the chief didn’t have enough money for meals from the outside, Bernadete had to eat the prison’s watery beans, rancid rice and unseasoned, dirty slabs of lard. When the chief lost interest in having sex with Slick, life went downhill, as he no longer had the perks of being a prison wife. All he had to eat and drink was prison food and dirty water. As for drugs – he only got them when a visitor smuggled them into the prison in their arse or snatch. The flu that settled into his body lasted the whole time he was there and his body was often oblivious to his head’s commands.
But he was lucky to be alive and in full possession of his faculties, unlike Prawn, his cellmate. Prawn had never committed a crime until one day, tired of watching his family starve, he decided to steal a hunk of cheese at the supermarket, was caught red-handed by security guards and handed over to the Civil Police, who tortured him until he signed documents confessing to a number of crimes. Prawn was tried and found guilty, and did time in the same prison as Slick, where he lost the sight in his left eye as a result of a beating he received for resisting rape. His body was a parchment bearing many scars, stricken with tuberculosis. After a long period of beatings and illnesses, Prawn lost all notion of things and was first abandoned by legal aid, then by his family, as he had lost his sanity. When he was released, he took to begging in the city centre. After six months he died in broad daylight without help or compassion.
Slick was afraid of going mad as he witnessed several cases of insanity, leprosy in the bodies of some of the inmates and venereal diseases that spread throughout the prison. The many faces of death that kept vigil even in his dreams. He hated the guards who brought drugs for some prisoners to sell, because in addition to charging extortionate prices, they also wanted to take commission. He was shocked when he heard the chiefs say that that place was their home. They were going to take holidays when they were released, but that was home. That was where they felt good. And those prisoners who didn’t receive visitors, and consequently didn’t even have the money to buy toothpaste or a fork to eat with, found themselves obliged to work for those who lent them these most basic items: they poured water over them so they could wash at leisure, cleaned their cells and, if they had smooth legs and tight buttocks like Slick, they had oral and anal sex with the chiefs. Slick had visitors who brought him money and his own toiletries, but the fact that he hadn’t tried to find out who the chief was as soon as he got there had made him a prison wife.
As he passed through the last gate on his way out of the prison, he thanked his pombagira for not letting him get caught using drugs, or dealing at the chief’s orders. He knew that paying a guard so you could deal in peace was not entirely safe, because sometimes he would turn you in anyway, or send another guard to confiscate the drugs and sell them to someone else. He knew inmates whose sentences had been extended because of it.
Slick arrived in the favela worried that someone might know what had happened to him in prison, so before going to see his friends, he sent Black Valter, his middle brother, to make sure there was no gossip about him. Luckily, his friends said they had missed him and didn’t comment on his sex life in prison. Sparrow sent him a decent amount of money, thinking he was still locked up. Tiny ordered Black Valter to pass by Carrots’ den to pick up three hundred cruzeiros to take to Slick; since Slick had been caught doing a job they were in together, he deserved a helping hand from Carrots. Tiny knew Carrots sent money to Luís Sting, so it was no skin off his nose to send some to Slick as well. Carrots only gave him half. He said he’d send the rest later, and Slick stayed in hiding for another day.
He showed up at The Flats after midnight and heard from Tiny’s own mouth what he’d been up to in the favela, confirming and giving a blow-by-blow account of everything he already knew. He said a dry no when Tiny asked him if he’d been given a hard time in prison. Sparrow gave Otávio money to get several pizzas from a restaurant in Freguesia and lots of beer at the nearest bar to celebrate their friend’s freedom.
‘Slick’s out! Slick’s out!’ shouted Sparrow, hugging him.
Tiny said he had to have his own den. He said he was going to talk to Carrots and promised that he’d agree to cut him in. Several times that night Slick talked about doing hold-ups, but Tiny was disapproving, saying that dealing was the way to go.
Out of Sparrow’s ears
hot, Tiny made up a few lies about Carrots and suggested that he take over Carrots’ den; if necessary he’d send three of his men with Slick to help him take Carrots out fast. Enemies had to be got rid of.
Slick accepted his suggestion, but decided to tell Sparrow, who begged him not to kill Carrots. Tiny agreed, against his will. Everything was decided before dawn on that sunny day; Carrots would only have peace when he came up with the rest of the money to send to Slick, who he believed was still in jail.
Instead of sending two of his men, Tiny showed up out of nowhere in front of Carrots, with Slick in tow. He told him it was bad form to have to be reminded to send help to a friend who’d been caught doing something they’d both been involved in. Carrots sensed something wild in Tiny’s gaze, that gaze he knew so well. He didn’t question him and silently handed over the money to Slick who, after counting it, politely asked him to hand over his entire stash of dope as well, and to find a place far from the favela to sell drugs because he’d no longer be able to deal there.
Tiny prayed for Carrots to lash out so he could pull the trigger on him, but Carrots appeared as cunningly calm as Slick. He had an ironic smile on his face and, without looking at Tiny, said he’d been thinking of giving him the den all along because they were friends and that’s what friends were for. Even though their conversation was discreet, people passing the dealers quickened their step, worried there might be a shootout.
Over in the prison on Grande Island everything was set. The bleeders, those who killed, and the bleater, the man who went to the Angra dos Reis Police Station to take responsibility for murders, had already been chosen, warned, and were ready for action. Both the bleeders and the bleaters were chosen by the heads of the organisation for different reasons. There were those who were chosen merely because they had very long sentences, and one more murder wouldn’t change their sentence – everyone knew that in Brazil no one served more than thirty years. There were those who killed or took responsibility for murders so they wouldn’t be killed for committing rape, going out with women whose husbands were behind bars, or mugging residents in their own neighbourhoods. In short, they knew that if they arrived at that prison having breached the organisation’s code of ethics, they had three options: kill, be killed or assume responsibility for murders. Everything would happen when the samba started. The plan had been laid down during several brief meetings of the leaders of the newly formed faction, whose motto was: ‘Peace, justice and freedom.’
The inmates in that prison who raped others, grassed when they were arrested, robbed, forced weaker inmates to pour water over them while they bathed, in other words, all those who subjected others to any kind of humiliation, were going to die.
Sting was first on the list, because he’d arrived terrorising people as he’d done in the favela, where he’d raped women, mugged workers, always kept the largest portion of the loot from robberies, and every now and then had killed people he didn’t like and thrown them into the river.
He’d been arrested, completely drunk, by police officers from the Warehouse the morning after doing two hold-ups and killing his victims with a .38. That same morning, Tiny broke into his house, took the rifle he kept behind the refrigerator, and hid it in a place not even Sparrow knew about.
Sting was proud of having rammed Cruel – his nickname for his penis – up the arses of many inmates. He took their money, cigarettes, the food their families sent, and their blankets when it was cold; he said he was the boss of that shithole. Sting lay down on a blanket by the left wall of the courtyard. He ordered the first guy who went past to wank him off, and the inmate obeyed without blinking. In a few minutes the entire courtyard became a single voice:
Portela parades its Carnival
down this colourful avenue.
The legends and mysteries of the Amazon
we sing in this samba just for you.
They say the heavenly bodies were in love
but their marriage wasn’t allowed to be.
The love-stricken moon cried so hard
that her tears gave birth to the river, the sea …
As the samba ended, thirteen bodies lay bleeding in the courtyard. When he heard the first line of the samba, the man who’d been giving Sting a handjob pulled a knife from his waistband with his left hand, and slit Sting’s scrotum in two in a single slash, cut off part of his penis, then stabbed him in the stomach, eyes and arms, his body writhing egocentrically, while the other prisoners drummed on anything they could, quickening the samba.
There was a momentary silence, soon cut short by the clinking of a knife on bars. One inmate, just one inmate, ran his knife across the bars and shouted that he’d killed thirteen bastards. The only reason this prisoner didn’t die was because he took responsibility for the thirteen murders. He was the bleater.
Sparrow wasn’t in the den in Building Seven when Tiny and Slick celebrated taking over Carrots’ den. He’d borrowed Russian Mouse’s bicycle and pedalled off in no particular direction. He was now following Daniel at a distance, admiring his style, his good looks enhanced by the sun. He was envious when he stopped to greet the most beautiful girls in the favela with kisses. He went out of his way not to be noticed following him. He wanted to be good-looking, dress like one of the Boys, and go out with the girls who hung around with them, who seemed as happy as the rich: tanned skin, sleek hair, tattooed bodies. He continued to follow Daniel down Main Street, trying to work out what was written on his trainers, T-shirt and shorts. Only Russian Mouse’s Caloi 10 bicycle was the same as Daniel’s.
They turned into Middle Street, and rode a few metres. Sparrow pulled even with Daniel and, out of the blue, challenged him to a race. The starting line would be the second bridge over the right branch of the river; they’d race to the New Short-Stay Houses and return to the starting line. Sparrow knew he’d lose, as he was still weak from his injuries, but even so he pedalled hard and, to his surprise, kept the lead the whole time. He was as strong as Daniel, who was always at the beach and worked out all the time. He waited for him to arrive with a wide smile.
‘D’ya reckon I’d be easy?’
‘You’re fuckin’ good!’
‘Hey, where’d you get them trainers?’
‘I bought ’em over in Madureira, but any shoe shop’ll have ’em.’
‘What about your shirt?’
‘In the South Zone.’
‘And your shorts?’
‘South Zone too. They’re all top brands. The trainers are Adidas, the shorts are Pier and the T-shirt’s Hang Ten.’
‘Hey, if I give you the money, can you buy me some?’
‘Sure.’
‘Let’s nip over to my place.’
Sparrow pulled a wad of cash from a plastic bag bulging with money and, without counting it, handed it to Daniel, who thought it was too much. Sparrow told him to go ahead and buy a shitload of size 7 trainers, shorts and T-shirts, and also gave him the money to go and come back by taxi. He told him to take it all to Building Seven.
Daniel said goodbye, surprised at how nice Sparrow had been, and felt that he wouldn’t even have had to let him win the race to be treated well by him. Sparrow watched him ride off. Daniel waved, then turned the corner and pedalled hard to Patrícia Katanazaka’s place to pick up a Raul Seixas record she had promised to lend him. He didn’t stay long, and headed off to do what Sparrow had asked.
* * *
It was already late when Sparrow finished trying on the dozens of shorts, T-shirts and pairs of trainers that Daniel had brought to Building Seven earlier that evening. Now the only thing missing was a pair of hipsters. The three packages were so big that he’d had to take them to his mother’s place in the same taxi. Even he admitted that the amount of things he’d bought was ludicrous, but that’s how the rich live. The game was to spend money, have fun, enjoy life. He gave Daniel a bag of unpackaged weed and more money than he’d ever had in his wallet. There was enough to buy a surfboard, or even an imported skateboard.
‘I’m a playboy!’ said Sparrow to everyone who commented on his new attire. He had an enormous dragon breathing yellow and red flames tattooed on his arm, and Fly curled his slightly frizzy hair. Now he definitely felt like a rich kid because he was dressed like one. He got Fly to go and buy him a Caloi 10 bicycle so he could go to the beach every morning. Rich people rode bikes too. He’d start hanging around Pepino Beach as soon as he’d picked up their lingo. Everything in life was just a question of getting the jargon right. Some of the gangsters tried to take the piss out of his new look, but he put his hand on his gun, saying he was no clown. Even Tiny suppressed a laugh when he saw him dressed like a playboy from the South Zone.
The generally home-made object made of fine paper glued together in a number of different shapes, launched into the air during the traditional June celebrations, and propelled upwards by hot air produced inside it by fuses tied to one or more wire burners, is called a balloon.
There is the Japanese balloon, the smallest of them all, whose ascent and descent are instantaneous; the box-balloon, so named for its shape; the kiss-balloon, pure hot air designed as a short cut to romantic encounters; the tangerine-balloon; the hammer … The balloon only stays in the air while its fuse is burning.
The name ‘balloon’ is also given to the worker who slaves away every day of the week, then on pay day, before going home, goes to settle his monthly account at the local watering hole, and while he’s there gets more sloshed than usual, because the poor bastard thinks his pocket’s bulging with money. The alcohol is the fuse causing him to puff up, up, up with hot air, rise, rise, rise, then come down, down, down, completely burned out. This is when the kids show up to pilfer his belongings and the rest of his money.
This activity, not only popular with juvenile delinquents but also among the kids from the Alley, was called spent-ballooning. It was banned by Tiny to stop people filing complaints down at the police station (thus reducing the number of police raids, making it look like City of God had become a peaceful place), and to gain the respect of the local barflies. The kids from Block Thirteen were flat broke, however, and woke up early on that Friday preceded by a full moon. They attacked all the newsstands armed with sticks and stones, then the shops on Freguesia Square armed with a penknife and a .22-calibre revolver, and spent-ballooned every drunk that didn’t look familiar that night.
