Maker Messiah

by Ed Miracle

  They turned a corner and arrived at an open plaza on which three lanes converged, muddy spokes that dumped congestion from the slum onto this hub of raw concrete. Tiny businesses, obscured by flapping canvas, rimmed two sides of the plaza. One establishment had customers. The square also bridged the creek, thus joining favela Xavier to an asphalt road on the opposite side. This highway, as Otavio called it, looped past the plaza before bending south into the non-muddy city. At pavement’s edge squatted a two-story colonial-era hotel, the Baluarte, long abandoned, its ponderous walls blistered with handbills and tattooed with graffiti.

  On the nearest corner of the square stood a plywood stage complete with microphone, amplifier, and speakers. A small Maker and a quad motorcycle were parked beside it. The quad was hitched to a trailer containing a Powerpod and a rack of cone segments—a portable Maker kit. Opposite the stage, in the far corner, three women in Health Department caps and smocks were administering free vaccinations from a folding table. One of them was Dr. Jacqueline de Bier.

  Odd that the Belgian doctor would wear a Brazilian nurse’s uniform, but two men in Powerpods Company blazers rushed to Otavio. They reported in anxious tones, gestured to the road, to the stage, and to the muddy favela. Apparently, the large cones they needed to copy the quad and its Maker Kit had been impounded at an Army roadblock. Food and other gifts were stuck in traffic. Also missing were the DJ and his music, which they needed to draw a crowd, plus the camera crew to broadcast everything to the rest of Brazil.

  Otavio apologized. “It will be all right,” he said to Philip. “You will see.” He instructed the men to hang a banner over the stage, and then he stepped away to make phone calls.

  Free food, music, and jewelry were supposed to entice the people emerging from favela Xavier in search of work. The party atmosphere would relax them, and Otavio would give away as many free quad-and-Maker-kits as he could. The idea was to send dozens of kits up into the favela before police or the local bullies could react. But circumstances had diverted half of Otavio’s preparations. Last night Philip spent an hour writing a speech he hoped would inspire the favelados, but now . . .

  Endless gray clouds offered only sour suggestions. The cowl of his Brazilia hoodie seemed to block every choice except those directly before him: this place, these people, and his own bare hands. Art Buddha’s manifesto had pounded a single, loud drum—radical sharing—but how would that fare in this foreign land? He gave Tanner his satchel and told him to copy it. “Then do some cone segments,” he said. Meanwhile, he searched the people’s faces for clues that might help him.

  Above the stage, Otavio’s men unfurled a banner. Maquina que cria = Somos gente. The machine that creates means we are gente, we are people. Crude as it was, Otavio assured them the slogan would appeal more deeply than gifts. What the favelados want, he said, is to be somebody rather than nobody. To be recognized, not shunned. “That’s what it means to be gente,” he said. “And respect flows between equals, therefore we are gente.”

  Philip approached a gaggle of preteen boys, street thieves most likely, illiterate probably, as they drifted across the plaza to inspect the stage equipment. He nodded to them and made eye contact.

  “Somos gente,” he said, which could also mean we are family. He indicated the banner.

  They circled him warily. One wagged his bottom in Philip’s direction. “Somos gente,” he squeaked. They whooped and scattered, regrouping a few yards away, still chattering but also on guard.

  Tanner returned with a bulging satchel and held it open. From it, Philip scooped a handful of jewelry. He draped five necklaces over his left sleeve and tugged six bangles onto his hand. He approached the vaccination table, stood patiently at a young mother’s side until she noticed him. He offered her a diamond-studded torus of gold. The woman backed into the table, but not before the infant in her arms snared the ornament and tried to ingest it.

  Philip peeled back his hood. He did not smile, which could only look false to her. He nodded solemnly and offered a necklace. “Somos gente.”

  She slapped it away, plucked the bangle from her baby’s mouth and shook it at him, accusing and scolding. Until she stopped. Across the street, a television camera appeared at an open, second-floor window of Hotel Baluarte, and the banter at the vaccination table fell silent.

  Women whispered right and left. Philip tugged his hood back over his head, but this only intensified their interest. They pointed and nodded. The infant shrieked for her lost treasure, while her mother stared at Philip and returned the bangle to her baby’s mouth. Hoping she might accept another, Philip angled another bracelet to reveal its inscription.

  “Somos gente,” she read aloud, and a rush of intrigue passed through the others.

  Philip proceeded slowly, so as not to alarm the in-welling inspectors, each one seeking a glimpse of his face. He offered his hands, one bare and one bejeweled. The mother touched him but recoiled. Others touched his fingers, his wrist, his scar. But not the swag. He shrugged the worthless gold onto the table, left it there, and waded into the crowd, their curiosity giving him permission to continue. He nodded to each person he encountered and touched their hands. Their warmth flowed into him. Never before had he felt such a connection outside his family. His hood forced them to step intimately close, to confirm his face, to seek the favor of his famous gray eyes. Children quit playing to follow the hooded man.

  The people were not afraid. Their interest and excitement displaced all suspicion. They pressed closer. One man removed his hat; a woman curtseyed. Their conspicuous deference attracted more passersby and more interest. The crowd seemed to marvel that he was here, among them, bestowing nods and touches, and saying this odd thing, somos gente.

  Their delight seemed less due to his notoriety or his motives than the mere fact of his presence. They must feel this way about every curious happenstance. Someone or something drops unannounced into their lives, and Philip Machen must be no more to them than this week’s casual miracle, appearing briefly before passing away, leaving no lasting effect. They hungered not for him or his cause, but for the transcendence they gleaned from him. Transient flickers of something magical beyond their daily struggles. With no expectation of personal gain, they gladly settled for a glimpse of his fabled life, so rich, so foreign, so impossible to them.

  Music erupted, loud and pulsing. The DJ had arrived along with three taxis filled with food, clothing, and tools, to be copied and dispensed. Tanner waded into the crowd, bestowing a fresh baguette on every taker, and grinning at their responses. In his wake, Otavio’s men distributed tins of salt pork and mackerel.

  Otavio bounded to the stage. His amplified voice beckoned everyone and welcomed them to the dance, to the free food, and to the Maker giveaways. But the commotion around Philip sapped their attention.

  “Celebridade,” Otavio called. “Our celebrity.” He motioned for Philip to join him.

  On his way to the stage, Philip acknowledged by touch each person he encountered. They blessed him with stares and tears. They chanted, “Celebridade.” He had come to empower these people, yet it was their strength that flowed toward him. Never before had he experienced such mutual, reflective gratitude.

  When he took his place beside Otavio, the music stopped. The chanting died. And absorbed in the burden of so many expectations, Philip knew what he must do. Otavio introduced him effusively without saying his name. Then he handed over the microphone.

  “Ola,” Philip said and doffed his hood.

  The whispers flashed into applause. “Filipe Machen,” someone cried. Others shouted words he couldn’t understand. Across the square, from the safety of a second-floor window, an unblinking lens fixed on his face. Last year, a TV Globo crew was beheaded for daring to record videos inside this favela.

  Philip addressed the people in halting phrases translated by Otavio.

  “Last month,” he said, “two kinds of criminosos infected Sao Paulo. Those with guns to make demands, and those with money t
o make demands. Today, the money men can no longer force us to yield. Soon, the gun thugs will learn that they, too, are out of business. The way to rid ourselves of gun thugs and money thugs is to share our Makers and create a new community, Cidade Xavier. No longer a slum but a shining new city. With Makers, you will build Cidade Xavier. With Makers you will earn respect. Makers will make everyone gente.”

  Bang!

  A gunshot jerked everyone’s attention to three young men who swaggered onto the square, their bare arms oozing blue tattoos. One brandished a pistol, the other two, assault rifles. The oldest couldn’t be more than twenty. People cringed or scurried. Mothers rushed their children across the vacant highway or up into the favela. Dr. de Beir cowered at her table but calmed the nurses.

  “Traficantes,” Otavio muttered. He greeted the intruders over the loudspeakers as if they were friends. Playing the gregarious host, he invited them, explained to them, cajoled them. The pistolero strolled to the stage, took the microphone from his hand, and shot him. Otavio twisted and clutched his hip as he fell.

  The pistol swung toward Philip and Tanner while Otavio squirmed at their feet. They raised their hands.

  “Dispersar,” demanded the gunman. Disperse. Then he commanded the favelados, his amplified words ricocheting up the canyon. “Ir para casa.” Go home. He threw the microphone at their retreating backs.

  On stage, Otavio crawled with one leg, grunted into a gap between the equipment. His helpers, shielded only by the speakers, seized his wrists and dragged him out of sight.

  The pistolero ignored them. He watched his riflemen encourage stragglers to depart, then turned to the Americans.

  Philip’s fingers went numb. He couldn’t let these goons erase everything. He had to stop them or find a way around them.

  “Otavio made a deal,” he said, “with Kojo.” He licked his lips to lubricate the lie.

  The keen-eyed pistolero squinted. His weapon segued to Philip’s stomach.

  “Como?”

  “I can help.” Jacqueline de Beir hailed them from the table, where one of the riflemen restrained her. She called again in Portuguese, offered her empty hands and a look of stricken availability. “I can translate.”

  The pistolero hesitated. Dr. de Beir addressed him, no longer shouting.

  Opposite her, the street kids were stealing the quad motorcycle and its Maker kit. They got it running, blasted across the square, and roared between the two riflemen, into favela Xavier.

  As those weapons veered, Tanner jumped the pistolero, toppled him away from the stage and skidded on the punk’s acne-marred face. By the time the riflemen noticed the scuffle, Tanner had rolled his captive into a headlock and shoved the punk’s .40 caliber bravery hard against his right ear.

  The riflemen took aim. They shouted but did not fire. The pistolero squawked, and they shut up, widened the space between them.

  Philip stepped carefully from the stage, fingers splayed to show he was not threatening or trying to escape. He took one deliberate step after another toward Dr. de Beir. She approached him as well, and they met at the center of the square. Rifle barrels flicked back and forth between them and Tanner.

  “Take us to Kojo,” Philip said. It was the only way.

  Dr. de Beir gripped his arm and searched his eyes, ignoring the banana peel of mistrust between them.

  “Take us to Kojo,” she said in Portuguese. She said it three times.

  Tanner propped up his wriggling hostage, hugged him by the neck.

  “Not a great idea, Boss.”

  The riflemen protested also.

  “Take us to Kojo,” Philip said. He drew Dr. de Beir by the hand toward Tanner. She freed herself but joined them.

  “What makes you think they won’t kill us?” Tanner said.

  Philip indicated the hotel where TV Globo continued to stare.

  “Whatever they do,” he said, “there’s going to be a million witnesses.”

  Dr. de Beir conveyed as much to the riflemen, who glanced over their shoulders and switched to whispers.

  While the gunmen conferred, Tanner grunted his pet thug upward to a standing position. Tightening his hold, he danced the little monster onto his lizard leather toes, making him gag. Then he extended the pistol in a neutral direction and released its ammunition clip. When the magazine skidded clear, he tossed the pistol over his head into the creek. His newly unconscious amigo, he released.

  “This had better work,” he said.

  THIRTY

  They marched single file between the two riflemen, up into favela Xavier. The mists turned to drizzle, and Philip’s blond hair gradually soaked to transparency over his scalp. The fleece hoodie clung to him like a poultice. At least Dr. de Beir had her nurse’s cap and a cheap poncho.

  They turned a corner and came beneath an extended canopy of corrugated plastic, shiny new and translucent green, supported on sapwood sticks. They entered an arcade of steps and corners—dry but dim—until people appeared as if the coffee-brown walls were percolating them from the soil. People clotted their path, curious or suspicious, though not hostile.

  Mothers watched them from open doorways as the parade route steepened. Dogs and children darted through the procession, oblivious to the guns, to the Health Service uniform, even to the pale Americanos. Behind them, the city lay smeared in the misty gaps between shanties.

  They negotiated an alley and discovered a courtyard where a lone acacia tree jutted skyward. Across the hump of the yard, they came to a whitewashed building taller and wider than the others. A low, shadowy entrance blemished it like a birthmark. The lead gunman approached this cavity and knocked. The dogs and children disappeared.

  Through a door of rough planks, a man spoke. The gunman returned, approached Dr. de Beir, and mumbled to her.

  “Kojo is not here,” she translated.

  Philip shook his head. “Tell him, take us to Kojo.”

  Dr. de Beir jabbered until the gunman grunted.

  “He curses me,” she said.

  “Tell him I will slit his throat unless he takes us to Kojo.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Tell him.”

  She glanced from thug-to-thug, then crossed herself, apologized in Portuguese, and translated his threat.

  The leader lunged at Philip, raised his rifle, and fired. Three punishing rounds boomed past Philip’s scalp and down the alley. Shell casings tinkled off the man’s shoulders, rattled on the stone pavers. The other gunman aimed at Philip’s chest.

  Philip dismissed them with a sweep of his hand. To Dr. de Beir, who was cringing and plugging her ears, he said, “Tell him again.”

  From the shadows of the doorway, a man shouted in English, “He is not here.” Then he gave orders in Portuguese.

  The gunmen shoved the captives to their knees, prostrated them, and searched their wet clothing. They turned out pockets and dumped the doctor’s rucksack. One hundred single-dose syringes fell in a tangle of wrappers. When this was done, the unseen man stepped out from his lair, a man Philip had never seen the likes of before. The solemn brown dermis of his face was tattooed or painted with scores of oily black leeches. His neck below the jawline glared rooster red, while coarse dreadlocks drooped to a prizefighter’s shoulders.

  “Amadors! Turistas! If Kojo were here, he would kill you.” The painted man turned and disappeared inside.

  Silently, the riflemen trussed the visitors by their wrists and hoisted them to their feet. Their wallets, watches, and Cambiars were left behind. Gun muzzles prodded them through the door and down a wooden chute from which they stumbled onto a dusty oval of hard-packed earth. Tiered on corroded scaffolds around them, bare wooden planks marched upward. Dry rot or vandals had claimed a third of the seats, leaving random gaps. The arena stank of sawdust and poultry. The opposite wall—either damaged or unfinished—stood open to a panorama of flat roofs decorated with bright blue cisterns. Through this hole, and from an equal one in the roof, a grim light suffused upon a wooden cra
te and the painted man.

  “Kojo,” Philip called to him.

  A rifle butt doubled him.

  “Kojo is not here.”

  Rough hands shoved Philip to a chair and forced him to sit facing the crate. No sooner was a heavy wooden table dragged before him than a whistling steel blade struck it. Its ringing crash panicked a roost of pigeons, who escaped through the roof. The leech-painted man grinned, bent to his machete with both hands, and jerked it free. Behind him, Philip’s companions were shoved onto benches and made to sit.

  The crate made a thump.

  “What do you want, Turista?”

  Philip swallowed. “We bring the vaccine, and we came for Mariela.”

  Again, the machete crashed to the table, splintering it.

  “Kojo would take your head, but I am merciful.” He strolled behind Philip and sawed the yoke of his shirt with the flat of his blade. “Kojo does not have Mariela,” he said.

  “Is that why he covered the streets with plastic? So the Army can’t see him take little girls?”

  Quivering steel stroked Philip’s neck.

  “You are the hunted one, Yankee. Kojo should take your head for the price it will bring.”

  Philip cleared his throat.

  “Kojo’s old ways are dead, senhor. His drugs and his money are worthless. He can’t hide in his mansion or leave the favela because the police and the Army are hunting him. He can’t enjoy his Mercedes because favela Xavier has no streets. Today, every treasure he owns is worth no more than a loaf of bread. If Kojo refuses our vaccine, dengue fever will kill him in a few days. Or the Army will.”

  The machete levitated.

  “Unless he releases Mariela.” Philip wriggled against the strap binding his wrists.

  “The Yankee messiah offers salvation. We have heard about you, ateu—atheist.”

  “These vaccines will save you and your people.”

  The machete whistled from above and cleaved a corner of the table. “Liar!”

  It whistled again but did not strike. The impenetrable stare circled him.