City of God

by Paulo Lins

  Zé Maria, who lived in Building Eight, liked to drink in Main Square. There, while chewing on chicken gizzards and sipping his firewater, he eyed up the women and gave his verdict on who was hot and who wasn’t. He was drinking more voraciously because he’d received severance pay after six years of work. At the counter of Tom Zé’s Bar, the kids were drinking soft drinks and watching Zé Maria sip his cachaça, nibble on gizzards and wash it all down with beer. Tom Zé had asked them not to rob anyone in the vicinity, offering them soft drinks in return.

  Zé Maria staggered out into the already late night and the boys followed, waiting for him to get to a deserted place where they could jump on him. The inevitable happened before he got to the Short-Stay Houses at Red Hill. Zé Maria tried in vain to shake off the kids from Block Thirteen.

  The next morning his stomach hurt and his head pounded, but nevertheless he decided to get up, wash his face and brush his teeth. He left home without answering his wife, who had asked him if he wanted breakfast, and went looking for Tiny. He didn’t find him at the den and complained instead to Bicky and Russian Mouse, who promised to get his money back to him as quickly as possible.

  ‘Yesterday I saw them kids from Thirteen all heading off together. They started actin’ all weird when they saw me, know what I’m sayin’? It must’ve been them,’ said Russian Mouse.

  ‘C’mon then, off we go!’ said Bicky.

  ‘We’d better talk to Slick first, man. He’s the boss over in Thirteen,’ Russian Mouse warned him.

  ‘No way, man! It’s us that’s gotta sort things out! They know they’re not s’posed to go spent-balloonin’ in the favela, don’t they?’ said Bicky.

  ‘True.’

  ‘So, c’mon then.’

  They headed off on their bicycles through the alleys of Red Hill, crossed Edgar Werneck Avenue and turned into Miracle Street as calmly as if they were going for a morning ride. The kids were gathered in the first alley running off Miracle Street, trying to get their kites airborne with the glee of those with money in their pockets.

  ‘Where’d you get the money to buy this string?’ asked Bicky.

  ‘None of your business, man!’ answered Two-Wheeler, who glanced at him without raising his head, all the while tying fine paper ribbons to his kite-strings.

  ‘Hey, kid! You think you’re all grown up, don’t ya? Everyone against the wall! Frisk ’em!’ ordered Bicky, brandishing a 9 mm.

  Russian Mouse frisked them looking for weapons and money, and gave Two-Wheeler and Toothpick a shove when they refused to lean against the wall. Their defiance made them hard to frisk properly, which is why he missed part of the money in Toothpick’s pocket.

  Bicky asked them several times if they were the ones who’d spent-ballooned Zé Maria. After each question they all remained silent. Two-Wheeler slowly sidled over to the drainpipe where his gun was hidden. Extremely thin, with bare feet, a runny nose and no shirt, he scowled at the dealers, who were threatening to take them to talk to Tiny. They stood there negotiating for a few more minutes until Russian Mouse convinced Bicky to let them go, and warned that they’d kill them if they caught wind of them spent-ballooning anyone else in the favela.

  When they returned to The Flats they found a still sleepy Tiny and, dispensing with greetings, launched straight into an account of what had happened. Their boss, who wasn’t in the mood for talking, listened to everything without interrupting them, then said incisively:

  ‘Only fools get spent-ballooned. Nobody forced him to drink … Forget about them kids! How much did they take?’

  ‘Six hundred.’

  ‘Give the old guy the money and tell ’im that if he gets drunk again he’s gonna get another beating.’

  Marisol stepped back and tried to persuade Thiago to talk things through. He wanted to explain that he’d only told Adriana what he felt for her after he’d heard they weren’t together any more. Thiago refused to listen. With clenched fists he darted back and forth, danced about, swore, and pretended to lunge at Marisol, who pulled out his derringer, cocked it and pointed it at Thiago saying he was going to kill him. Thiago ran no more than fifty yards, stopped behind a post and ordered his enemy to fire. Although he was holding a gun, Marisol tried to talk. He told him that if he wanted, he’d put away the gun so they could chew the fat. Thiago replied that he was going to get his hands on a gun and kill him mercilessly, at which point Marisol fired. A thin smoke covered his face. The bullets began to lose momentum before they’d travelled twenty yards and fell to the ground.

  The time it took Marisol to load the derringer was long enough for Thiago to try to attack him; Marisol would run while loading his gun, then fire two shots at Thiago, his tongue showing in the left corner of his mouth. Thiago would back off just twenty yards, wait for the two shots, then dash at his enemy. They spent the entire afternoon engrossed in this activity. A crowd gathered to laugh and egg them on. When Marisol fired the gun everyone ran, then onlookers would applaud Thiago’s offensive. They ranged through the entire favela drawing a crowd until the ammunition ran out. Finally they locked horns in a fight. Everyone watching thought it was a draw.

  Thiago and Marisol’s fights went on for another two weeks, in the widest variety of places. The Boys persuaded Marisol not to use the gun against Thiago, since he was their friend. They also tried to convince Thiago to chill out, saying that the one who had to chose was Adriana, and she’d already chosen. Thiago wouldn’t listen to his friends, saying the world was too small for the two of them and that Adriana was only with Marisol to make him jealous.

  One Friday night, Sparrow fired two shots into the air in the Rec to separate them. Brandishing his gun, he threatened to kill them if they kept fighting and made them shake hands.

  Everything had been arranged ahead of time with Sparrow, who’d become good friends with the Boys through Daniel and had started sending them dope morning, afternoon and night, every day of the week, as well as buying them ice creams, cakes and soft drinks at the Del Rei Bakery, where he always found the group hanging out together.

  To celebrate the end of the dispute, he took everyone to a steak house, saying they could eat and drink whatever and as much as they wanted. He told them he’d pay for everything and that’s what he did, always with a sincere smile on his face.

  Now he was looking good too. The most beautiful girls in the favela greeted him with kisses on both cheeks. He went to the dances, messed around on the bus on the way there, and learned to bodysurf like no one else … He liked his new life.

  The next day Peanut, the den assistant, said in front of the other gang members: ‘The Boys give it like a girl.’ Everyone laughed, including Tiny. At first Sparrow thought it was funny, but then he felt silly in front of his men, suddenly drew his gun and told everyone to run. At first they did nothing; it was only after the first shot that they all took off, running between the buildings. Sparrow went after them firing one shot after another. Tiny ran too, laughing like most of the gangsters, and Sparrow fired away with a serious look on his face, reloaded his gun, swore and dared the gangsters to shoot him. Although he was angry, he didn’t actually want to hit anyone. His tone of voice was serious, however, and he chased his pals for some time before heading for the shops, where he had a soft drink and some cakes.

  Within a few minutes he was telling jokes to the barflies, clowning around and singing rock ‘n’ roll. Gingerly, his friends started to arrive. Sparrow treated them as if nothing had happened. He asked Peanut to roll him a joint and smoked it while leaning against Tiny, who showed him a scratch on his leg from where he’d fallen while running. Sparrow bought a Band-Aid and put it on his friend’s little scratch. It had all been no more than an elaborate game of tig.

  That evening, Sparrow told Tiny in private that he’d decided to get married. He’d been going out with Fly for a long time and was convinced that she should be the mother of his children. She was affectionate, understanding, she’d stopped stealing and smoking dope on street corners l
ike a man, she was a good cook and knew how to keep house like no one, his family liked her, and so on. He begged Tiny not to tell anyone, because he wanted to keep screwing the sluts and the pretty girls, who’d also started flirting with him.

  ‘When’re you gonna tie the knot?’

  ‘Today!’

  ‘Ain’t you gonna buy a beer for the boys …’

  ‘Since when do gangsters have weddin’ parties, man?’

  Sparrow had taken over the house of a dealer Tiny had killed. That very night, he sent Beep-Beep to buy his supper at the steak house and deliver it to his place at around midnight. The day before, he’d taken two men to paint and clean the house, and Night Owl had fixed up the masonry and plumbing, and assembled the wardrobe. The house was ready for the newlyweds.

  As soon as he’d finished talking with Tiny, Sparrow said goodbye to his friends, got on his bicycle and went to the place where he’d arranged to meet Fly.

  The night seemed empty after Sparrow had gone. Tiny felt like having a snort, but decided to smoke another joint to get to sleep. He rolled the joint himself and smoked it alone in the entrance of a building. The next day the whole gang was gathered near Building Seven when Bicky came down the street along the left branch of the river with two boys tied up with rope. Every now and then he clouted them over their already bloody heads with the butt of his gun. The boys had held up a number 690 bus full of residents from The Flats.

  ‘You can’t rob the buses that come through the favela! We’ve already warned you! You’re goin’ down the Polish corridor!’

  The gangsters stood in two rows and made the thieves pass between them three times, hitting them brutally with the butts of their guns. Nine-year-old Bigolinha blacked out. Tiny thought it was just a trick to escape the beating and continued kicking and hitting him. Then, guffawing, he unloaded his 9 mm into the boy’s body. He ordered Russian Mouse to shoot the other thief in the foot, then took another revolver, pointed it at the boy and ordered him to leave without looking back, otherwise he’d die.

  The boy limped away using the side of the building for support. Tiny could fire at any moment, but if he walked a little further away from the building, Tiny wouldn’t be able to use the wall to take aim. He tried to move away, but couldn’t walk without support and returned to the wall. If he got out of this one alive, he’d never steal in the favela again. His mother’s voice shouting at him to rustle up some money recomposed itself in his ears. Miserable, his life was really miserable; he was going to be shot in the back. There were three metres left before the end of the building. He quickened his step and turned the corner with a relief that made him stop, breathe and look at his wound. He peered around the corner of the building to see if anyone was following him and got a bullet in the middle of his forehead, fired by Tiny, who’d had his gun pointed the whole time as he followed the building and kept it pointed after he’d rounded the corner, without changing position.

  ‘Hey, Marcelo, get a car and dump the dickheads over in Saci Alley.’

  Then, as if nothing had happened, he continued talking with his men, without looking at Sparrow, who called him a madman, his eyes brimming with water.

  Two days later, a newspaper ran photos of the two dead boys saying it had been a heinous crime. Tiny listened as Sparrow read the article and asked him what heinous meant. Sparrow didn’t know, but Daniel, who was there to collect five bundles of weed that were a present from Sparrow, explained the meaning of the word to everyone.

  In the streets, the boys who studied in the mornings were spinning tops near their houses, while the girls played house in their backyards and on the stairs of their buildings. People’s faces were calm. The river and its two branches ran slowly, since the dry season had settled in more than a month before. In the Rec, the Boys were talking about the latest fight at the dance; in the bars, the barflies were playing silly games, discussing football and telling old jokes.

  It was a normal Monday, with the neighbourhood women immersed in their afternoon gossip, people collecting bottles to sell for recycling, others looking for iron and copper wire to strip and sell at the scrapyard. There were those who still hadn’t had a meal that day. Some thieves had already gone about their work, muggers had already mugged and killed someone outside the favela, and the beggars who lived there were arriving back on buses.

  Over in Block Thirteen, a woman checked the temperature of the water she had put on the stove to boil, having made two visits to the bar to call her husband, who was getting drunk with his friends. She’d thought about dropping the idea during the day, but when she saw him getting drunk she decided to go ahead with her plan to be happy forever. She’d made her husband take out life insurance the week before, and now she’d kill him in cold blood.

  Over in The Flats, a group of boys with the average age of seven had gathered on the stairs of Building Eight. They were known as the Angels, because they had all been born in City of God, and also as the Empty Pockets, as they didn’t have money like the gangsters in Tiny’s gang, who pulled off large-scale robberies and hold-ups. Starving, they were devouring three chickens they’d got holding up a luncheonette on Taquara Square, where they’d arrived armed to the teeth with hunger.

  With his mouth full, Highwayman said he’d never again do a job in order to eat. He swore he was going to rustle up something big so he wouldn’t have to risk getting caught every day. He’d follow the example of Bicky and Marcelo, who only robbed houses and brought home gold, American dollars and guns. This game of sticking their hands into their waistbands pretending to be armed could backfire one day. It was time to get guns to stick in the suckers’ faces and order them to lay everything on the ground. It was humiliating doing favours for the gangsters in return for a bit of loose change, leftover food and dope.

  Otávio was the one who enjoyed running errands for the dealers. He said he wanted to be a dealer when he grew up, but it took ages to get in with the dealers so you could become an assistant, then security, until you made it to manager. To head up a den you had to wait for the old guns to die or get locked up, or kill everyone as Tiny had done. No, they’d have to pull off big jobs so they could wallow in money.

  That was what the boys decided as they fought to see who’d take the leftovers of the stolen chickens home.

  Highwayman arrived home on tiptoes so as not to wake up his mother and stepfather. But his stepfather was awake, waiting to see if the boy had brought any money. Highwayman only offered him a chicken drumstick and got a beating, because his stepfather was no fool and wasn’t going to support someone else’s kid – he wasn’t there so a layabout could sponge off him. Highwayman’s mother interfered, and got a beating as well.

  The stepfather didn’t say so, but he thought she was siding with that bastard because he reminded her of his father; she was so loving with him because this was a way of loving the other guy. One day he’d beat him to death so he wouldn’t have to live with the traces of his wife’s first husband. After the beating, Highwayman went to bed without spilling a single tear, because everyone knew and it could never be stressed enough that real men don’t cry.

  ‘When your wife starts henpeckin’ like that, the thing to do is fart, fart and fart at her all day long.’

  ‘How?’ asked the husband.

  ‘Buy five pounds of oxtail, five pounds of potatoes and some watercress, get the bitch to cook it up and come to the bar to get sloshed. Then you go home, eat all that shit with red chillies and you’ll fart sittin’ down, standin’ up, squattin’, kneelin’, awake or asleep. You’ll do phooo farts, macaw farts, silent farts, whistling farts, bubbly farts, whining farts, exploding farts, runny farts and the works …’

  ‘Today I felt like fartin’ in the bitch’s face … Why’re women like that? Fuckin’ hell! I work my balls off all day long, I don’t buy nothin’ for myself so we’re never short of anythin’ at home, I’m not the aggressive sort, I don’t hit her or the kids, I don’t bother no one … What’s it to her if I have a
cold one or a shot of cachaça before dinner? She can stick it up her arse, you know. Hey, give us another shot of catuaba with that cachaça from Minas Gerais!’

  ‘Why don’t you fart today? If you eat some cracklin’ it’ll do the same thing.’

  ‘Hey, Down There, give us some cracklin’.’

  ‘Down There is where a snake’s arse is, man!’ answered the bar owner before serving him.

  The crabby husband ate five pieces of crackling, drank another three shots of Cinzano-and-cachaça, washed it all down with a beer and staggered home. He opened the gate with some difficulty, feeling a real need to relieve his bladder, and hurried for the toilet, but the urine poured down his leg, wetting the living-room rug. He showered without taking his clothes off, thinking it odd that his wife was so quiet in the kitchen. He thought about saying something, but decided to keep quiet so as not to spark off a fight. He pulled off his dirty, sopping clothes, stuffed them under the bathroom counter and went to lie down after putting on a pair of jocks. In a few minutes he was snoring loudly. His wife dragged him into the kitchen and poured the boiling water over his head.

  She was convicted of murder of the first degree and didn’t get the insurance money.

  ‘I wanna sell pizza, soft drinks, juices and that’s it, got it?’

  ‘You gotta have beer, man! Everyone drinks beer …’

  ‘No, no, no … I don’t want to put up with barflies. I’ve already got an industrial oven, two blenders, an orange-juicer, glasses and the fuckin’ works! Everythin’s all set – all I need is a nice little shop to get started, know what I mean? So, what d’ya say? I get fifty per cent and the other fifty’s for you and the head cook. But the money’ll only start comin’ in when I finish payin’ off what I owe. OK by you?’