City of God

by Paulo Lins

  When he heard classes were about to start again, Groover began to miss the days when he used to study. He remembered teaching his school friends to dance, the potluck parties and girlfriends. Granted, he hadn’t been the best of students, but he’d been sure he’d finish primary school, go on to secondary school and try to get in to do PE at university. But that bastard Tiny had spoiled his dream when he killed his younger brother in one of his attacks, just for the sport of it.

  When he thought about Tiny his face twisted once again into a scowl. He got up, opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, drank half of it in three gulps and ran his eyes over the two-bedroom Short-Stay House: his mother sleeping, the empty place where his brother used to sleep. The hatred he felt at that moment gave way to compassion. He looked on top of the wardrobe and decided to have a read through his old school-books.

  He flicked through them slowly, went over lessons, notes from test days, messages from girlfriends forgotten between the pages, a heart with an arrow through it dripping blood into a chalice. He picked up another textbook which contained only questions:

  What song has marked your life?

  Who would you take to a desert island?

  Who was the first person you ever kissed?

  Do you have a weakness?

  What kind of girl are you attracted to?

  He found a pen and set about answering the questions. He wrote something down, scratched it out … He tried in every way possible to pass that test; yes, it was a test, perhaps the most difficult he’d ever taken. If he managed to answer the questions he could imagine he was still a person who had something healthy about him, but absolutely nothing came to mind; his eyes just welled with tears. He threw himself onto the bed, on top of the book, and cried himself softly to sleep.

  He woke up early, thinking himself the biggest idiot on the face of the earth for having joined the war, because if he’d asked to change schools and disappeared from the street, Earthquake and his friends would surely have forgotten him. He’d been stupid. If there hadn’t already been a war he would never have got involved in one of his own accord. He walked through his tiny house to the stove, where he found a piece of buttered bread, a cup of white coffee and a note, saying: ‘Son, take the money from the top drawer in the wardrobe and go somewhere far from here.’

  All of a sudden it occurred to him to go to his school. He’d ask his teacher to get him a place somewhere else. He’d get out of there, study every day and, who knows, he might even get a job. He washed, dressed and headed for his school just as Slick and Night Owl were leaving Block Thirteen, intending to kill enemies.

  Groover crossed the Rec without noticing anything unusual. Not even his friends were in the street. Poking half his face around a corner, Night Owl watched his footsteps, cocked his gun, and hid as Groover crossed the bridge. He assumed he was going to take the street along the left branch of the river to attack Block Thirteen alone, which he’d been doing of late. He waited long enough for Groover to come close and stepped out into full view, ready to fire. He didn’t see him and, thinking he’d gone around the block, ran to wait on the next corner.

  ‘I heard what’s been going on with you, son … How awful! I was even thinking about coming to talk to you, but your own friends said it’d be dangerous.’

  ‘Just as well you didn’t come, what with the stray bullets and all …’

  ‘Why haven’t you got out of here? This business of taking justice into your own hands is nonsense.’

  ‘It’s only just sunk in and I’ve come to see if you could help get me into another school!’

  ‘That’s no problem, but how’re you going to live here now with all these enemies?’

  ‘I’ll leave … I’m even thinkin’ about gettin’ a job …’

  ‘Why don’t you try getting into technical school? They’ve got technical courses and the students study all day long. I’ll talk to a friend of mine. Come back and see me and I’ll let you know what she said.’

  They talked a little longer, then Paulo Groover left, taking care not to let his teacher see the .38 in the back of his waistband.

  Groover decided to head back past Leão supermarket, cross Middle Street, cut through Blonde Square to Penguin’s bar and head up through the alleys.

  His enemies followed his steps with their eyes and this time didn’t wait for Groover to come closer before firing at him again and again. One bullet grazed his leg, and another went through his abdomen. Even so, Groover had the strength to draw his gun, shoot Night Owl in the arm and Slick in the leg, and run back into the school.

  Slick and Night Owl followed him: they continued the chase despite the fact that they’d been shot and tried to break into the school, but Groover’s teacher confronted her fear and nervousness, and the gangsters themselves. She argued that the school was official government grounds and as such the police wouldn’t give them peace until they’d caught them. Slick called her every swear word under the sun and fired his gun into the air. The principal called the police while the argument grew heated outside. In the toilets, Groover’s bladder emptied itself when he heard the sound of the sirens.

  The teacher, calmer now, talked to the police, but only told them that the gangsters had tried to invade the school. Then, with the help of other teachers, she hid Groover in her car and drove him to a hospital.

  A rumour went around that Knockout had gone off the deep end since Antunes’ death. He didn’t eat, didn’t sleep and had taken to snorting too much cocaine. His determination to kill Tiny grew with every passing second. When he heard that another pawn had been shot by Night Owl, he had a nervous breakdown and was taken to a clinic, where he spent three days before escaping from his room. When he got back to City of God, he was immediately involved in a shootout with several gangsters from Block Thirteen, who had gone Up Top to launch an attack. He killed one and was hit by a bullet in almost the same place where Tiny had hit him before.

  The day Knockout got out of hospital, his enemies were still hopeful that he might die, so Tiny’s gang relaxed a little. They were gathered behind The Hill, now inhabited by hundreds of new residents, indulging in beer, whisky and cocaine. Joking around in a loud voice, Tiny said that Night Owl’s game was to kill loads of pawns so he could call himself a killer. This riled Slick, who was actually the one who did the killing; Night Owl only covered him and put his victims out of their misery. Tiny wanted to put Slick down in front of his men because he’d noticed that most of the gangsters had been hanging around him lately, which made him afraid that he might lose his leadership.

  Bicky stayed quiet, watching Slick’s every move, thinking that Tiny might have ordered Slick to kill him. Slick, equally quiet, expected Tiny to betray him at any moment. Russian Mouse was sitting in a corner, laughing at everything Tiny said. Marcelo was giving Beep-Beep the full rundown of the sex he’d had with some slut the day before. He gesticulated and made faces. Good Life motioned to Leonardo, then told Tiny he was going to meet a supplier to receive a load of cocaine. Leonardo went with him and Good Life suggested they go for a swim at the beach. Alone in another corner, Otávio was flicking through a pocket Bible his mother had given him the last time he’d gone home. Tiny got tired of joking around with Night Owl, looked at a pawn known as Marine – he’d earned this nickname for deserting the Marine Corps to join the war and snort coke to his heart’s content – and, with a serious expression on his face, asked:

  ‘You’re goin’ out with that hot piece of arse from Block Eight, ain’t ya?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘She’s really hot, ain’t she? When you’re about to fuck her, d’you kiss her snatch?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he answered, embarrassed.

  ‘Do you really? So you’re kissin’ cocks and all, then,’ he finished and laughed wildly. His men joined him.

  * * *

  Knockout arrived Up Top at around midday, to the joy of his men. There was much celebrating, with several rounds of shots fired into the air by t
he addict who said he’d been given a hard time by Tiny. He was now living in the favela in the house of a gangster who’d been arrested, and his job was to look after the guns and ammunition. On the corner of Block Fifteen, Knockout shook the hand of each soldier with a sad smile on his tired face. Thin and anaemic, he moved with difficulty. He went to Carrots’ house, where fifty of his men were milling about.

  The news that Knockout was back in the favela spread quickly Up Top. Several residents sent him food and juices to help his recovery. His parents were taken to Carrots’ house for a short visit, but they kneeled on the living-room floor and prayed for almost two hours without even touching their son. In silence, Knockout looked at his mother all in black and thin as a rake; he’d never seen a greater expression of bitterness. Tears spilled from his eyes, his body shook. The gangsters were also silent outside, with that sad, mute prayer inside.

  ‘You need to get those wounds blessed, then have someone work some magic to protect you,’ advised Carrots after Knockout’s parents had gone. Knockout said nothing.

  When the news reached Tiny, he was still behind The Hill. He started pacing back and forth, and laughed his quick, shrill little laugh, cutting the silence, which was so intense it seemed old. He looked at Night Owl and bellowed:

  ‘Didn’t you kill a heap of pawns? So go kill ’im then, go on!’

  An apprehensive silence was resumed for a short time.

  ‘Leave it to me – I’ll kill ’im!’ growled Slick, who now wore a red and black top hat. Where and when he’d started wearing it, no one could say for sure.

  This time the silence was not cut by Tiny’s laughter. With bulging eyes, he left without saying where he was going.

  A beverages truck was making a delivery at the shops at around eight o’clock at night. Part of the gang was drinking beer there. Slick held his revolver to the driver’s head, said something to him, then climbed into the back and called Night Owl, who also clambered up. As soon as his helper returned to the vehicle, the driver manoeuvred the truck in the square and turned left. The gangsters watched in silence as the truck drove away. It headed down the street along the right branch of the river, turned left again, crossed the bridge, and followed the river’s edge to Block Thirteen. Slick climbed down, talked to Butterfly and went back to the truck, which then turned slowly into Middle Street. Under the tarpaulin, Slick and Night Owl watched everything through two holes they’d made on the way there with a piece of metal they’d found in the truck, which now turned into a street adjacent to Block Fifteen. It drove all the way down the street, turned, drove back and stopped at the entrance to the square.

  ‘Let’s take a walk. It’s too hot here!’

  ‘Yeah, I’m boilin’!’

  ‘Stay put, man! You’re not well!’ said Carrots.

  ‘You guys smoke too much. Fresh air’s good for you.’

  After his parents had left, and confused at the path his life had taken, Knockout went overboard snorting coke and smoked one joint after another. Then, always calm and polite with his friends, he said he was just going to stretch his legs and that he’d come right back to lie down. He tooled up and headed out with his pals to the square on Block Fifteen, where his friends usually hung around.

  Knockout stayed at one end of the square talking with the cool guys from Up Top. He said he’d never expected the war would assume such proportions, and repeated that he had nothing against most of the guys in Tiny’s gang; his wrath was reserved specifically for Tiny himself. The driver and his helper got out of the truck unnoticed.

  Butterfly divided seventy men into seven groups of ten, decided where each group was to attack from and headed Up Top. Earthquake, My Man, Butterfly, Tiger, Moth and Cererê were carrying machine guns and five of the pawns carried sawn-off shotguns. They had orders to keep firing, even if only into the air, to split up the enemy gang.

  The first shots were fired at the river’s edge, then gunfire was heard in a number of places. Knockout’s men were disorientated, and ran in all directions, firing at random. Although debilitated, Knockout cocked his gun and headed for the middle of the square. On the back of the lorry, Slick and Night Owl waited for the right moment. More than one hundred shots were fired at the same time. Knockout shouted at the top of his lungs that he didn’t need protection, and that each man should fend for himself. He ordered his men to split up, then decided to leave the square and head for enemy territory, imagining he’d catch some bastard returning to Block Thirteen. He ran with difficulty towards the truck, the addict following behind. He was the only one who decided to cover him.

  Over in The Flats, Tiny was talking with Bicky in his flat. He said Slick had to be killed as soon as possible because even though he didn’t believe in macumba any more (after Sparrow’s death, he’d stopped going to the terreiro to talk to Street Keeper, and he no longer recited the prayer he’d taught him or lit candles), he had a bad feeling about this business of him wearing an exu’s top hat. He’d set him up in the next attack Up Top.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll get ’im when he least expects it, man! When the bullets are flyin’, know what I mean? I’ll just wait til his back’s turned and pull the trigger. I’ve already taken out about five like that … Bernardo, Giovani, Alligator …’

  ‘Fuck! Was that you? What for?’

  ‘I had a feelin’ they were up to no good, know what I mean? They were givin’ me the evil eye. When I feel someone’s got it in for me, I get ’em quickly … But hey: no one knows, OK? Keep it to yourself.’

  Slick nudged Night Owl and said in a low voice that he didn’t even need to shoot Knockout. Since he’d knocked back a few that afternoon, however, Night Owl understood that it was time to shoot Knockout and suddenly lifted up the canvas to fire, shouting:

  ‘Nooooow!’

  Dumbfounded, it took Slick a few minutes to work out what was going on. Knockout was also taken by surprise, but still he was quicker and fired three shots, although he didn’t take aim. The pair jumped from the truck and ran. Without much agility or speed, Knockout went after them firing his gun, not giving them time to shoot back. Slick and Night Owl zigzagged back and forth as they ran. The addict looked behind him, then to both sides and, not seeing anyone, shot Knockout three times in the back. Knockout still managed to turn and point his revolver in an attempt to kill him. The addict shot him once more.

  Knockout fell.

  And along came the wind to make little dust whirls on the dry ground, to carry the sound of the gunfire to more distant places, to destroy poorly made birds’ nests, to tug at kites caught on wires, to weave its way through the alleys, to creep under roof tiles, to make a kind of inspection of the tiniest cracks in that hour, to nudge along the blood running from Knockout’s mouth, and along came the rain with heavy raindrops ricocheting on the rooftops, flooding the streets, increasing the volume of water in the river and its two branches. It was so heavy that some thought it was trying to drench the course of time forever, from that moment on.

  ‘Get someone to bring an ox, I want an ox … find a good cook and have her make some ox-tail stew, get another to make cow-heel soup, and another to chop up the meat for the barbecue … Nip over to the butcher and tell ’im to bring us everythin’, quick … Hey, you there, start rolling joints … The stuff’s on the house at the den … just dope, not coke, the coke’s only on the house for the gang,’ said Tiny, his left arm draped around Slick’s shoulder and his right hand holding his dog’s collar. ‘I knew you were gonna kill ’im, I knew it! When you said it, I knew you meant it!’

  ‘I was facin’ ’im like this, right? Firin’ away … So was Night Owl. I sunk the first one in his balls. Night Owl was also shootin’, right? We had more than twenty of his men shootin’ at us, so we got out of there …’

  The party to celebrate Knockout’s death went on for three days, while Up Top everything was silent, the streets were deserted, and bars and shops were closed. A wake was held for Knockout in his own home, without
any gang members present. In numbers his funeral surpassed Sparrow’s and Niftyfeet’s.

  The day after Knockout’s death, the addict asked Tiny’s men, who were gathered in the square on Block Fifteen, for the gang’s two best weapons. He said he was going to give them a going over to keep them in good nick, walked off as if heading towards the house where he was staying, then turned down an alley, crossed Middle Street, pointed a pistol at the first car he saw, ordered the driver out, got in, put the two guns in the back seat and took off. He took Edgar Werneck Avenue at high speed heading towards Barra da Tijuca, happier than ever because he’d finally taken out the man who, while trying to kill Slick and Skinny, had killed his brother in Cruzada de São Sebastião.

  ‘Footy, my brother, I got ’em back for you!’ he thought aloud.

  Near Jacarepaguaá Lake the motor began to splutter, and a little further along it cut out completely, even though it was travelling at high speed. The addict turned the key back and forth in the ignition, but the car kept starting, then cutting out. He began to get nervous and pulled the car over onto the hard shoulder, without noticing a police patrol car drawing near. He was about to get out when he saw the police car and tried again to get the car to start. The police officers, who had only intended to give him a helping hand, noticed his desperation and told him he was under arrest. First they frisked him, then they searched the car, where they found the guns. They started beating him up right then and there. Down at the station, he told them everything he knew about Knockout’s gang.