Heliopolis

by James Scudamore

He sighs. ‘It’s not easy, helping some of these people. They’re proud. They think that only someone who was born and suffered there with them is genuine. They don’t trust me for a second, and they don’t even know where I grew up. Can you imagine if I told them about Angel Park?’

  ‘None of this is helping me to understand why you suddenly decided to work for Zé.’

  ‘I wanted some muscle behind me. If you’re going up against an organisation like the Shadow Command then it doesn’t hurt to have Zé Generoso on your side.’

  ‘I don’t get it. “Muscle”? This doesn’t sound like you at all. I thought your point was always that progress depended on trust.’

  He sighs. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘So what changed your mind?’

  ‘You mean who changed it.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘He came to see me at the university. You know when he does that thing of phoning, and asking , “Where will you be in ten minutes’ time?” and then you feel the walls vibrate?’

  ‘I know it well.’

  ‘The university campus isn’t exactly geared up for helicopters, but you know him. He landed on the recreation ground outside my office, barged right in and said he had a proposal for me.’

  ‘What kind of proposal?’

  ‘You can imagine it. He can’t bear anyone being too independent of him. He’d had enough of his son-in-law struggling along as a university professor, and working on these little youth projects. I don’t know how much you know about what I’m going to say—’

  ‘I told you, my lips are sealed.’

  ‘For a while now, Rebecca hasn’t been well. She’s been on antidepressants, and I think she might be drinking.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I don’t know how serious it is, or how much Zé was talking up the problem to make me feel bad, but he said that Rebecca had basically given up. That the work was taking too much out of her because she cared about it so much—and that he was trying to persuade her to step back from it and hand over the running of the foundation to somebody else. “Who better than you,” he said, “to take it on? You’ll have free reign to take it in whichever direction you want. I know you’re more than qualified. That way, Melissa needn’t know what a state her mother is in, and you can amalgamate your existing projects with the work of the foundation, and put some serious money behind them—carry on your good work with a decent budget. And best of all, you’re family. But, if none of those reasons persuades you,” he said, “then do it as a favour to the father-in-law who values you greatly and believes you are the only person who is in a position to help him in this hour of need.”’

  ‘He got you through emotional blackmail?’ I say. ‘He’s no fool.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘But it’s not such a bad place to earn a living. And what he says about integrating it with your work is true.’

  ‘It’s true up to a point, yes. And MaxiBudget isn’t such a bad idea. That part of it is fine.’

  ‘Then I don’t see the problem. Just have the humility to admit to Melissa that you’ve changed your mind about working for her father—that there is a reason now that you can accept. Be the filho de papai, and don’t beat yourself up about it. You’ve been stupidly proud about not working for the family until now.’

  ‘That would be fine, except . . . ’

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘Except that it’s freaking me out,’ he says, suddenly raising his voice in a way that is very out of character.

  I smirk a salmon egg down my front. Ernesto gazes out at the view, looking desolate.

  ‘This isn’t a joke. I’m in serious trouble, Ludo.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh.’ I pick the orange bead off my shirt gingerly so it doesn’t burst and toss it to the back of my mouth, trying to look contrite. ‘Tell me about it.’

  He sighs. ‘You need to understand how things work in these communities. You need to understand that the idea that their lives can somehow be changed for the better by some external initiative is simply ridiculous to these people. It is laughable.’

  ‘OK . . . ’

  ‘The Foundation’s basic principle is that their lives can be changed—that they can be uprooted—but that concept is alien to the residents themselves. Beyond the one-in-a-million stories of footballers playing their way to riches, or the odd politician or musician, there’s no evidence to suggest that their lives can be any different, because nothing ever changes for them.’

  ‘I am a rare exception, but we’ll overlook that.’

  ‘Rare? You’re unique.’

  ‘I know that. Go on.’

  ‘What’s more, many of them don’t want to live outside the favelas. It’s where all their friends and family are. You can live well these days, and there’s a freedom from rules that is attractive.’

  ‘That’s romanticising things a little, in my opinion, but carry on.’

  ‘The point is that every one of them has been brought up to believe that nobody is going to change his destiny but him or herself. It’s what they are told, and what every experience they’ve ever had has taught them. The idea that someone might walk into their lives one day and offer help in exchange for nothing at all is just a fairy tale. It’s not going to happen. There will be a catch.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘So. Starting any kind of charitable initiative in this situation would be difficult enough, but then you hit another problem, which is that every single favela is controlled by one gang or another. They fund the municipal services. They pay the bills. And nothing happens without their say.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘But you don’t realise the extent of it. If you want to do anything for these communities, whatever you do for them has to be converted into a benefit that the gangs can feel straight away. It’s not enough just to offer education for their kids or to teach their people new skills. What you offer them needs to be in a currency that they can spend, otherwise the dialogue never even gets started. You’re expelled, or worse, you’re dead.’

  ‘What currency are you talking about?’

  ‘The situation is so mixed up,’ he goes on, ‘that there are no good and bad sides. Two weeks ago in Paraisópolis the police got so fed up with how little control they had over the community that they held up the bank. It was the traficantes who defended it.’

  ‘That’s very funny. But it’s not entirely surprising.’

  ‘My point is that I have spent a long time gaining the trust of the people I work with, something that MaxiBudget and Zé just don’t have the time to do. He likes to build quick alliances through grand gestures and incentives.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That part of my remit for MaxiBudget involves a guarantee that I will do certain . . . extra business deals for key figures in the community, in order to ensure the security and success of the stores.’

  I get it. ‘They want you to sell drugs? Where?’

  ‘Angel Park. My parents are still there, so I can get in without any problems.’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Marijuana. Cocaine. I drew the line at crack. And believe me, there’s no shortage of demand.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Amazing. Does Zé know?’

  ‘He knows everything that goes on in his businesses. But he would think it was . . . uncouth of me to bring it up. He would just want me to do it, discreetly, like all the nasty things I’m sure he’s done over the years. And I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Don’t, then.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’ He sighs, and his arms hit the table like felled trees, causing the remaining tempura vegetables to jump in their dish.

  ‘How do you even know this is expected of you?’ I ask.

  ‘There’s a guy. A gang member. Part of a gang called the Shadow Command.’

  ‘I know them. Their tags are all over our office.’

  ‘You and your frozen ghetto. Anyway, this guy, he’s known as Jeitinho. He’s not th
e leader, but he seems to be high up.’ ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Powerful. Calm. He’s younger than us—no more than twenty-two—but you can tell he’s seen a lot, that there’s not much he wouldn’t do. And he carries a machine gun.’

  ‘Difficult to refuse someone like that.’

  ‘I don’t think the leader is ever far away, either—my guy gets instructions from him all the time by phone.’

  ‘And he wants you to do these deals for him?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all set up for me. All I have to do is make the drops.’

  ‘Why can’t they get someone else to do the legwork?’

  ‘They could. They don’t need me—there are hundreds of little foot soldiers they could send to do it—but it’s about complicity. They want something on me, so I’m controllable.’

  ‘And have you done it?’

  ‘Twice,’ he says, miserably. ‘Please, don’t say anything.’ He holds up a hand. ‘There’s no name you can call me that I haven’t already called myself.’

  I know him well enough to know how much he will have been punishing himself for this. No wonder he’s only just got round to noticing my hairs in his bed.

  ‘So you’re a drug dealer. This is quite something.’ I can’t help breaking into a smile.

  ‘It’s not funny. I could get killed. What should I do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, truthfully. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

  I gaze out across the city, at a helicopter that flits from building to building like a mechanised bee after pollen. The rich nectar of blackmail mixes on my tongue with the salty oil of salmon roe. Finally, I’ve got something on him.

  ‘You’re going to think I’m being ridiculous,’ he says, ‘but initially I thought that I could help by doing what I’ve been doing. By keeping them separate. The street kids don’t have to brave the security of somewhere like Angel Park, and the rich kids don’t have to get shot in the favelas trying to score. I thought, the buyers and the sellers are going to find each other anyway, so why can’t I just make that process as free from confrontation as possible and concentrate on solving the bigger problem?’

  ‘Do I have to tell you what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘But thank you for not saying anything judgemental. I know what you must be thinking.’

  ‘You might be surprised.’

  I call over the waitress and ask for a portion of uni.

  ‘What have you ordered?’ he says. ‘Nothing more for me.’

  ‘This is special. It will calm you down. It’s something so good that it can only take your mind off what you’re telling me.’

  ‘Nothing could possibly do that.’

  ‘Wait and see. Now then, let’s talk about this. You feel guilty because you’re supplying the rich kids with their drugs?’

  ‘Not particularly. They could get the stuff anywhere they wanted. But by dealing for the gangs to gain their trust I’m cancelling out all the good that trust is supposed to buy me.’

  ‘What happens to the money you make in these deals?’

  ‘Half of it goes straight to prison—to people you can’t imagine and will never see, who run half the city from their cells. The other half goes to the traficantes, and from them, filters back into the community. It puts people through school. It pays doctor’s bills. It covers sewers.’

  ‘So in the end, you’re helping,’ I say. ‘The gang leaders can choose what to do with their money just as much as the rich kids can. You should stop worrying about it.’

  A dish of three sea urchins, accompanied by carefully sculpted shards of daikon, is placed before us. An involuntary sigh escapes me, they’re so beautiful. The spiky blue-black shells in which they have been served resemble perfect miniature bird’s nests. The gloopy yellow pods inside quiver as they are set down—jellied gold. I’m reminded of how the central cavity of a crab is known in some languages as the ‘purse.’

  ‘You’re oversimplifying things,’ says Ernesto, seeming not to notice what’s been put before us. ‘What I have been doing is weak—an easy way to win their favour so I could look as if I was doing my job when in reality all I have done is undermine it.’

  ‘I do that every day of the week. Stop talking for a while and try this. It’s uni, sea-urchin roe. It’s delicious.’

  He reaches forlornly over the carnage of his previous efforts for the dreaded chopsticks.

  ‘Don’t bother with that. Here.’

  Not leaving anything to chance, I reach down, lightly holding the spiky shell, and collect one pad of roe with my chopsticks to deliver it to his lips. Nothing transforms the mouth like that delicate flavour: a taste that breaks in a creamy, briney wave over your tongue. For ten seconds, the expression on his face is blissful, as the uni washes through him and spirits him away to the sea.

  ‘Amazing,’ he manages, his voice coming from a different place.

  ‘The Japanese consider it a great aphrodisiac,’ I say. ‘Partly because it contains high levels of naturally occurring cannabinoids.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. So my advice is that you stop worrying about all this, eat these urchins and get home quickly so you can bang your wife.’

  I am genuinely trying to make him feel better, but by bringing up cannabis and Melissa in the same breath I have undone the transformative good work of the sea urchin. He pays the spectacular bill mechanically, in a trance-like state brought on by all that resurgent stress.

  ‘Send her my love,’ I say as we part.

  Reflecting on these developments, I take a taxi back to the office, the dull thud of too much sake behind my eyes. Ernesto the drug dealer, would you believe it. At least he’s doing something real with his life, which is more than I can say for his wife, or her lover. Not that I’m technically her lover, given how infrequently we’ve actually consummated the relationship. As for that side of things, my adventures in Melissa’s bed will end permanently if Ernesto goes in for any more detective work. I’m just lucky that he’s so well-intentioned that the idea of him divining the true origin of those hairs in his bed is simply unthinkable. Not unless somebody spells it right out for him, anyway.

  CALF’S LIVER

  I sometimes want to run away from this life to which I have been promoted, and live in a small town on the coast, where there are horses tethered on every street corner, where the dirt roads have numbers instead of names, where the local shop sells nothing but Fanta and outboard motors. But then I think of where I might be if it wasn’t for Zé and Rebecca. Would I be a scavenging catador, running between the traffic pulling a trailer full of scrap metal? A barefoot sweet-seller, wandering the park with a tree of candy floss? Watching over parked cars, or bagging produce at the MaxiMarket? And my mother: would she now be the hag with the caved-in mouth, setting sail through the traffic with her cart of rubbish, and sleeping in a lean-to shelter under a bridge, or behind an advertising billboard? Would we be just two more of those wrecks that rage on street corners?

  Rebecca and Zé were our salvation. But am I at least allowed to wonder what might have happened if we hadn’t been saved? I believe that my mother was strong enough to see us through anything the favela could have thrown at us—and that had we not been rescued, she would have made it through with her pride intact. Of all the ways in which I hurt my mother, I look back on my failure to snuff out her conviction that she wasn’t the person best qualified to raise me as the most shameful. She took the outstretched hand that was offered to her, but then she felt she owed it everything, making a mockery of her self-sufficiency. It’s a pan-American story: when she had nothing but a handful of beans to her name, the tough nugget of pride at her core sustained her. Then along came Zé and Rebecca, and took away that pride, replacing it with impotent gratitude. Like the mythological pelican slashing open her breast to sustain her young, my mother fed me her blood, and she took a mortal blow for me in the process.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you we’d go off and live in a t
ower together?’ says Melissa. She’s eating mango with a knife and fork, her coffee-cream legs topped off by the briefest pair of white shorts and a baggy old sweatshirt of her father’s. I am seventeen.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You remember. Down at the pool, when you first moved?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m eighteen next month.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I’m getting an apartment for my birthday, and there’s no way I’ll be allowed to live in it alone. You’ll have to come and take care of me.’

  In this way I discovered where the next act of my life was to play itself out: the penthouse of a brand new, cylindrical block; the same penthouse that has lately become the scene of all this unbecoming cuckoldry and incest.

  It was still possible at this stage to think of my time in the city as an excursion, a lengthy but finite deviation from my ultimate destiny back on the farm. I had changed a lot in three years, but life on the farm had not, and I remained convinced that I would one day return there, whatever the city was doing for my intellectual and social ‘development.’ What’s more, in spite of her newfound happiness with Silvio—which was genuine, and welcomed by me—my mother had started to sound frail on the telephone. I had also overheard an abruptly terminated conversation about her health between Zé and Rebecca that worried me. But once again, events were out of my hands.

  It was billed as Zé’s ingenious compromise solution. Melissa wanted to leave home, and Zé was concerned for her safety in the city, but he knew better than to smother her. In a plan with all the latent horror of a fairy tale, the princess would live high above the streets, and the king could drop in on her any time to make sure that all was well.

  As is so often the case with Zé, the extent to which this was all calculated in advance is impossible to assess. He was so clinical with his forward planning that I could even believe he knew when he chose to adopt me that Melissa would be striking out from him before too long, and wanted to send a trained member of staff along to watch over her.

  So, I wasn’t always an interloper in the tower. I had a ringside seat as Melissa and Ernesto’s relationship developed beyond the friendly childhood stuff, and got serious. People rationalise it now. They are even referred to as childhood sweethearts. That’s bullshit. It’s just what people like Zé and Rebecca and Gaspar and Olinda want to believe. It happened in the penthouse. I saw it.