The Marketmaker

by Michael Ridpath

  I held out my hand to her. ‘Tudo bem?’ I said, using up fifty per cent of my Portuguese vocabulary. Maria’s grin somehow widened further, and she regaled me with a torrent of Portuguese. I settled on ‘Obrigado’ or ‘Thank you’ as an answer, which sent her into hysterics.

  Luís looked on in amusement. ‘Can I get you a drink? Have you tried a caipirinha yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well, then, you must try one now.’ He spoke quickly to another maid who was hovering at the door, and she disappeared.

  Luís led us out on to the balcony. Although the table and chairs were in the shade, the glare of the midday sun reflecting off the nearby white buildings hurt my eyes. We could look over them, to Ipanema Bay, an astonishing blue, dotted with lush green islands. Brightly coloured tropical flowers spilled out of tubs on the terrace, and a bougainvillaea, in full purple bloom, framed the view. The gentle murmur of traffic, sea and people drifted up to us on the breeze. Directly beneath us were a couple of tennis courts and a swimming pool in a green compound. A private club, presumably.

  The maid returned with the drinks. The caipirinha turned out to be some kind of coarse rum in lime juice. The sweetness of rum, the sourness of lime juice, the coldness of the ice, and the kick of alcohol created a delicious mix of sensations.

  Luís was watching me and smiled. ‘How do you like it?’

  ‘It goes down very well.’

  ‘Be careful,’ said Isabel. ‘You should always treat a caipirinha with respect.’

  Luís chuckled.

  ‘It must be hard to take London after this,’ I said to Isabel, with another look out at the bay.

  She laughed. ‘It’s true. As a Brazilian, you need courage to get through a London winter.’

  ‘Isabel tells me you work with her at Dekker Ward,’ said Luís.

  ‘That’s right. I have nearly one week’s experience in banking. But you’re a banker yourself, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. My family were landowners in the state of São Paulo. Through the generations they have shown a consistent ability to turn a large fortune into a smaller one. I suppose you could say I’ve changed that record.’ He glanced at Isabel. ‘In fact, it looks as if banking is now firmly in the blood.’

  Isabel flushed. ‘Papai, I enjoy it, OK? I have a good job, I do it well.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ said Luís, with just the barest hint of condescension. Isabel noticed it and scowled. ‘Isabel tells me you used to teach Russian.’

  ‘That’s right. At the School of Russian Studies in London.’

  ‘Ah, I wish I could speak the language. I have read many Russian novels, all the greats, but I think it would be wonderful to read them in the original.’

  ‘It is,’ I said. ‘Russian prose is a marvellous thing. It seems almost like poetry. The sounds, the resonance, the nuances which writers like Tolstoy and Dostoevsky can achieve are extraordinary. Beautiful.’

  ‘And who is your favourite?’

  ‘Oh, Pushkin, undoubtedly, for just that reason. He does things with the language that no one has managed before or since. And he tells a good story.’

  ‘I often think Brazil is a little like Russia,’ said Luís.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Both countries are vast. Both peoples seem to live for the present. We’re both used to poverty, corruption, great potential that is always just beyond our reach. You know, they say about Brazil that it is the country of the future and it always will be.’ He chuckled. ‘But we don’t give up. We have a drink, a dance, we enjoy ourselves, and perhaps the next day we die.’

  I thought about what he had said. He had described exactly the strange mixture of exuberant good humour and melancholy that had attracted me to Russian literature in the first place. ‘Perhaps you’re right. I’m afraid I don’t know enough about Brazil. But I suspect the climate’s better.’

  Luís laughed. ‘That’s true. It makes enjoying life easier.’

  ‘It’s a fascinating country. I’d love to find out more about it.’

  Luís took my arm. ‘Do you know Tolstoy’s story, “Master and Man”?’

  I smiled. ‘I was teaching it just three weeks ago.’

  ‘That could apply perfectly to Brazil.’

  ‘What’s that, Papai?’ Isabel asked.

  ‘You tell her,’ Luís said to me.

  ‘A nobleman and his servant are stranded in a snowstorm. The nobleman rides off to safety with their only horse, leaving his servant to walk. After a while the nobleman is thrown off his horse. As he trudges through the snow, he reflects on the uselessness of his life, and probably his death, spent alone and in selfishness. So he returns to find his servant lying freezing in the snow. The nobleman spreads himself on the servant like a cloak. In the morning, when the storm has blown over, they are discovered. The servant survives, but the nobleman is dead.’

  Isabel’s large dark eyes were watching me, following every word. ‘That’s beautiful.’

  ‘It expressed Tolstoy’s beliefs in the obligations of the nobility,’ I said.

  ‘Beliefs that we would do well to heed in Brazil,’ said Luís.

  ‘Unfortunately not many of Tolstoy’s contemporaries took much notice either. Forty years later there was a revolution.’

  ‘We won’t have another revolution here. Just anarchy, violence and poverty.’

  ‘Has Isabel told you what we’re doing here?’ I asked.

  Isabel looked embarrassed.

  ‘My daughter doesn’t like to talk to me much about her work,’ he said. ‘My bank and hers often find ourselves rivals, so it’s probably best that way.’

  I wasn’t sure whether I was about to give away a trade secret, so I glanced at Isabel. She shrugged. So I told him about the favela deal. He listened intently, glancing occasionally at Isabel who avoided his eyes.

  There was silence when I had finished. Finally, he asked a question. ‘When do you say the bond issue will be launched?’

  ‘In two weeks, we hope,’ answered Isabel.

  ‘Well, have your people give me a call. I will make sure that the bank buys some.’

  ‘But, Papai, you never deal with Dekker!’

  ‘I know. But this is different. I think it’s important for Banco Horizonte to support initiatives like this.’

  Isabel’s mouth hung open.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, my darling.’

  ‘Papai, you’re not doing this just to humour me, are you?’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s a good idea. It deserves support. I’m glad to see you are doing so well. Ah, here’s lunch.’

  We sat down as a maid brought us some steak and salad. The meat was tender, with a much stronger taste than its British counterpart. The salad included all kinds of vegetables I had never seen before. It looked very good.

  There was silence as we set about our food. Then Luís broke it. ‘Isabel, I’ve been thinking. Would you like to come and work at the bank?’

  Isabel looked at me anxiously, then at her father. ‘Doing what, exactly?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure we could find you something. You have lots of experience now. You could be very useful doing lots of things.’

  ‘Papai– ’

  ‘It would be good for you. You could come back to Rio. Settle down – ’

  ‘Papai!’ Isabel glanced quickly at me and then glared at her father. She launched into a torrent of angry Portuguese. Luís tried to protest, but was cut off. Finally, they both lapsed into silence.

  I cut my steak slowly and with great concentration. Luís began to speak. ‘I must apologize for my daughter – ’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘There’s no point in having a family if you can’t have a lively discussion every now and then. I was wondering,’ I continued quickly, ‘would it be possible to see a favela?’

  I said it for something to say, a way of breaking the tension. And I was intrigued by these communities that I had heard so much about, but had not yet
actually seen.

  ‘You could take him to see Cordelia,’ said Luís.

  Isabel was still sulking, but she stirred herself. ‘Yes, we could do that if you want.’

  I coughed. ‘Good,’ I said. Then, ‘Who’s Cordelia?’

  ‘Oh, Cordelia’s my sister. She helps run a shelter for street children in one of the favelas. She should be working there this afternoon. We can go after lunch.’

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  ‘By the way, Cordelia has some news,’ said Luís to Isabel.

  Isabel thought a moment, and then looked at her father. ‘She’s not pregnant, is she?’ The corners of her mouth twitched upwards.

  Luís shrugged, but couldn’t suppress a smile. ‘You’ll have to ask her yourself.’

  Isabel grinned broadly. ‘That’s wonderful news! She must be so happy. You must be so happy. I think I can see you as a grandfather.’

  Luís beamed. It was clearly a role he was relishing.

  ‘Well, we definitely have to see her this afternoon,’ Isabel said to me.

  ‘I don’t want to interfere in anything. Perhaps you should go by yourself.’

  ‘No. I’d like you to meet her,’ said Isabel. This caught me a little by surprise. Why should she care whether I met her sister? ‘I mean, it would be good for you to see the shelter.’

  ‘That’s fine, then. I’ll come.’

  6

  I was sweating like a pig as I trudged up the dusty path under the mid-afternoon sun. I panted hard, each breath pulling in the foul smell of human waste, sweetened occasionally by the aroma of stale food or alcohol. In England I would be described as tall, dark and thin. Here, clambering up this hill of dirt and slime, I felt like a big, white, fat, rich man.

  We had left Luís’s car and driver well behind to begin the ascent of the hill. Most of the favelas are on hills, land too steep to build real houses. Makeshift dwellings crowded together on either side of the path. They were constructed from all kinds of different materials, although brick and plywood seemed to predominate. Small holes in the walls served for windows, and occasionally I heard a mysterious rustle of movement from the darkness within. Washing hanging from window ledges added splashes of colour to the red-brick or grey-plastered walls. There were children everywhere, most of the boys wearing nothing but shorts. One group was playing with a hoop; another was kicking a football, a difficult business on this slope. A two-year-old staggered in front of us crying, his hair a shock of yellow. A black woman trotted after him and picked him up.

  We passed a small row of stalls selling vegetables and fruit. Behind one of them, a nut-brown man sported a yellow T-shirt proclaiming in English, Who dies with the most toys wins. Where the hell did he get that, I wondered.

  A group of older kids eyed us with cold, proud eyes as we climbed past. They were passing round a bag: each one breathed deeply from it with an air of solemn concentration.

  ‘Are you sure it’s not dangerous here?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said Isabel, puffing a few steps ahead.

  ‘So it is dangerous?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  It hadn’t rained for a couple of days, but every now and then the ground underfoot changed from dust to mud. An open sewer ran along the side of the path. I tried not to think what I was stepping in.

  Eventually we came to a small plateau, which supported a tiny white makeshift church, and a larger rectangular structure, decorated with brightly coloured murals. I turned and paused for breath. Beneath me was one of the most spectacular views I had ever seen. The white buildings of the city snaked between green-clad hills down to the sea glistening in the distance. I looked for the statue of Christ, visible from almost anywhere in Rio, but it was lost in a cloud that clung to the mountains behind.

  ‘You would think someone would pay a lot for this location,’ I said.

  ‘Believe me, you pay to live here. And with more than just cash.’

  We approached the entrance of the building, stepping carefully through a small but well-kept garden. The splashes of red, blue, yellow and white were a welcome relief from the reddish-brown dirt.

  The door opened, and a woman rushed out, hugging Isabel. There was a family resemblance, although Cordelia was heavier, older and tougher. Her face was lined, marks of both compassion and strength.

  We shook hands.

  ‘Cordelia, this is a colleague of mine, Nick Elliot,’ Isabel said in English. ‘I’ve brought him along to show him what you do here. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Cordelia, with a warm smile. ‘The more people who see, the better.’

  Isabel glanced towards Cordelia’s stomach, and asked her something in Portuguese. Cordelia’s smile widened and Isabel gave a cry and flung her arms round her sister’s neck. They chatted excitedly for a couple of minutes, and then turned to me, both beaming.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Nick,’ said Isabel.

  ‘That’s OK. I think I got the general idea,’ I said, smiling myself. It was impossible not to be infected with their excitement. I nodded to Cordelia. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘So has Isabel told you what we do here?’ Her English was slow and precise, her accent much more pronounced than her sister’s.

  ‘Not really. Something about running a shelter for street children?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s a place for them to come to get a proper meal, to talk to someone, to feel that they belong somewhere.’

  ‘Do they stay the night?’

  ‘We only have room for a few. Those children who are genuinely afraid for their lives.’

  ‘Who are they afraid of?’

  ‘The police, mostly. Or the death squads. Groups of men who promise the shopkeepers they will keep the children off the streets. They beat them up or kill them.’ Cordelia said this without emotion.

  ‘Why? What have they done?’

  ‘All kinds of things. Stealing, mostly. Although it doesn’t even have to be that. A nine-year-old boy called Patrício used to come here. Last month he was killed, strangled. His body was found on the beach with a note: “I killed you because you didn’t go to school and had no future.” ’

  I recoiled. I looked closely at Cordelia’s face. I could hardly believe what she was saying. In a way I didn’t want to believe her. I looked for signs of exaggeration. But her face was blank. She was stating fact.

  ‘How do they get away with it? Don’t the police do anything?’

  ‘It’s the police who do most of the killing. Either in uniform or out of it.’

  ‘But what about ordinary people? How do they put up with it?’

  ‘They ignore it. They pretend it doesn’t happen. Or they even praise the police for clearing up the streets.’

  I grimaced. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  She shrugged. ‘Do you want to see some of the children?’

  She led us into the building. It was dark, cool and clean, after the chaotic dust and heat of the favela. We walked along a long corridor, dodging children of all shapes and sizes. Paintings in bright unsteady colours covered the walls. We entered a kind of classroom where a number of children were playing, talking, or just sitting silently, staring.

  ‘Don’t these children have parents?’ I asked.

  ‘Many don’t know their fathers. They might have a dozen brothers and sisters who all live together in one of those shacks down there, in one dark room. They’re beaten and abused by stepfathers. Often the mothers spend their days in a drunken stupor. For these kids life on the street is better. They go down into the city during the day to work or beg or steal, and in the evening they stay down there if they can, or come up here.’

  We came to another room where a group of boys were talking to a teacher. I wasn’t sure if it was a lesson, or just a conversation. One kid, about twelve, saw me.

  ‘Hey, meester,’ he said. ‘You got a dollar?’

  I looked quickly at Cordelia, who gave a tiny shake
of her head. ‘No, sorry,’ I said.

  ‘What your name?’

  The boy had a big smile, but his eyes were hard. They rested on me for a couple of seconds, and then darted about the room, as if he was expecting danger to appear at any moment from a window or a corner. Sores ran up the side of his left leg. His chin was lifted aggressively towards me.

  ‘Nick,’ I replied. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Euclides. You have a gun, meester?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I have a gun,’ and with that he burst into a cackle of laughter. The other kids joined in.

  We left the room. ‘Was that true?’ I asked Cordelia.

  ‘We don’t allow guns or knives here. Euclides is hiding here, he says the police are going to kill him. He says he stole a chicken. But now we don’t think that’s true. Suzane, there, thinks that he might have shot someone, for money.’

  ‘A twelve-year-old hit-man?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘We’ll keep him here. These children need to know that we will shelter them whatever they have done, otherwise they won’t trust us. Anyway, the police will get him one day. I’d like to pretend that these children are all angels, but they are not. What we are trying to do here is break a circle of brutality.’

  Cordelia sighed, for the first time letting the emotion show. ‘Do you know what Euclides wants to be when he grows up?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘A policeman.’

  By the time we reached the car, I was hot, sweaty, dirty and tired. I was also profoundly dispirited. I felt sick.

  ‘You know your favela deal isn’t going to change that,’ I said. ‘A few roads and a lick of paint won’t help those kids.’

  Isabel sighed. ‘I know. But it’s a start. And we have to start somewhere.’ She looked back up the hillside through the smoked windows of the car. ‘Deep inside the soul of this country, there is a disease. It’s some kind of brutality. It’s like a virus. It replicates itself through generations, from child to drug dealer to policeman to child. Cordelia deals with its symptoms. I’d like to think that something like the Favela Bairro project deals with its causes. But after seeing kids like Euclides I just feel like giving up. Sometimes I wonder why I shouldn’t just ignore the problem like everyone else. But we have to try. We absolutely have to try.’