Heliopolis

by James Scudamore

  People have taken me aside over the course of the afternoon and told me that they think this will be ‘an emotional occasion.’ What are they expecting? Starving children and humble women and their meek, respectful husbands, so bowled over by the generosity of this marginally cheaper supermarket that they weep quietly as a mark of their gratitude? However it has happened, the mood is charged. Oscar probably sent round a memo of motivation, demanding gravitas. But who are we fooling? It’s going to be a social occasion, with a few impoverished chancers bussed in to make everybody else feel better, and themselves just hoping for a decent meal and a good time. It will be undignified. It will be voyeuristic. It will be embarrassing.

  I had thought the dinner would somehow reflect the kind of food available in store, but instead, someone has taken on my half-joking suggestion that our largest clients should each sponsor a course. A printed menu is tacked to the wall. Tonight’s starter of beef rump with papaya salsa is brought to us by Limpia detergent. The main course of salt cod with its reduction of black beans comes courtesy of UltraBanco. There follows a cleansing sorbet of rain-forest fruits, offered by MaxiMarket itself, and a dessert of hot tiramisu in association with the BonBon chocolate company. Each course will be served buffet-style from the wing of the bomber while Oscar gives a brief audiovisual presentation outlining the campaign.

  Initially, it looks like nobody’s going to turn up. Excited agency people circle round one another in party dresses and pressed shirts, making half-hearted attempts to mingle with the members of the cleaning and security staff who congregate to the side in an uneasy group. I recognise the guard who denied me entry earlier in the day and raise a glass to him across the lobby. He raises his in return, looking nervous. I imagine most of them are wondering what the hell they are doing here. I wonder who’s supposed to be protecting the place if they’re all in here drinking with the rest of us. Then I remember that Zé is coming. Arrangements will have been made.

  And then I spot them—my adoptive parents. Zé is surrounded by a group of eager young acolytes, nodding and beaming with Rebecca to his side. He looks as tanned and healthy as ever, exuding control and good humour. Rebecca does not look so good. The halogen lighting of the office does not flatter her china complexion. Zé spots me and charges over, dragging his wife with him.

  ‘My boy,’ he says, embracing me. ‘I’m genuinely pleased to see you. It feels like an age. How are you keeping? I hear from Oscar that you’re doing well. And Melissa tells me that you two keep in touch.’

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you both,’ I say.

  ‘You look tired, Ludo,’ says Rebecca, who looks shattered. ‘And your chin—is that a bruise? Are you taking care of yourself?’ She kisses me on both cheeks, and I feel a brief flicker of childish comfort, remembering how she would emerge from the helicopter on Friday evenings, her arms outstretched, and envelop me in scent.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m better than I have been,’ she says. ‘Ernesto is doing a wonderful job of easing some of my burden with the Foundation. He seems to be taking to it well.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Well! This!’ I say, gesturing round at the lobby. ‘It’s a tremendous new direction. Bringing both of your worlds together. It’s very exciting.’

  ‘You don’t know how delighted I am to hear you say that,’ says Zé. ‘I’ve been having trouble persuading her that we’re doing it for anything other than profit. It is, as I keep saying, an evolution. It makes sense.’

  He looks triumphantly at me and back to his wife, who shrugs through a cloud of medication. She looks as though she’s finally given in to him, and I can’t say I blame her. It’s impossible to resist him for ever.

  ‘Of course,’ Zé continues, ‘not everybody sees it that way.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oscar tells me there could be violence tonight. Have you heard about this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The police went into a favela near here last night, and shot someone. Retaliating for something—I don’t even know what. But the mood is not good. We were even advised to call off the event, can you believe it? I refused point-blank. We’re not the police. We’re here to help them. They shouldn’t blame whatever happened on us.’

  ‘What does Oscar think about this?’

  Zé laughs. ‘He’s nervous about letting some of these kids run loose in his building, but I told him to just shut up and do it. He’s always been something of an old woman.’

  ‘That’s an absurd worry, given the history of this place.’

  ‘True—but you never know with these people. I’ve tried to make my peace with them, but they can be . . . volatile.’

  ‘How have you tried to make peace with them?’

  He gives me a conspiratorial smile. ‘You know how it is. You can’t get anything done in these communities without engaging with the gangs in some way.’

  ‘So what did you do?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ve heard of this outfit, the Shadow Command?’

  ‘What about them?’

  He takes a big gulp of the drink in his hand. ‘I offered them a percentage point of every sale we make in the MaxiBudget supermarkets.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Of course. Nothing would get done otherwise. Think of it as ground rent. You can’t own land in these places anyway, so this is the alternative—it means we shouldn’t get our windows shot out in the first week. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Shadow Command responded very violently to anyone jeopardising this project. It’s like having your own police force—but better!’

  ‘You’ve thought of everything,’ I say.

  ‘You have to,’ he says, putting an arm around my shoulder, which makes me wince with pain, though I try not to show it. ‘You have to be prepared. That’s why we’ve got tremendous security here tonight; rented from Angel Park. Just in case. I’ve even got a couple of snipers installed. If anyone starts causing trouble they can be taken out in seconds.’

  I stare at him. ‘Snipers? What sort of trouble are you expecting?’

  ‘None—although you can’t throw open the doors to everyone without a few unsavoury characters getting through. But I sincerely doubt there’ll be a problem after the deal I’ve struck. And Ernesto has been taking steps to keep everyone sweet.’

  ‘Very thorough.’

  ‘You know, that boy has come on tremendously in the last few years. I’m proud to have him as a son-in-law.’

  ‘He’s a good friend of mine, as you know.’

  ‘And I’m very proud of you too Ludo. I hope you know that. You’ve turned into a fine young man. I can see you running all of this one day.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  At this point Oscar dives into the conversation, surrounded by snapping shoals of colleagues who all want a dose of the Zé Generoso charm. I take it as my opportunity to move away before Zé has the chance to attempt further awkward compliments.

  Dennis is crossing the lobby with a beer in his hand. ‘What do you think?’ he says, gesturing around him.

  ‘Very impressive,’ I say. ‘Especially given how little time you had to put it together.’

  ‘And how little help I had,’ he says, pointedly.

  ‘I’m sorry about that. I’ve had an odd couple of days.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ he says, pausing and looking me in the eye. ‘Do you know what I did today? I finally got up the courage to ask the concierge at the Windsor Hotel if I’d had a call girl up to the room since I’d been in residence. He said the only person who’d been up there the whole time was you.’

  ‘You have to admire their discretion, don’t you? That kind of old-fashioned service is hard to come by these days.’

  ‘I guess it is,’ he says, looking puzzled.

  ‘Now, I don’t know about you, but I need a drink. Again—well done. It’s great to have you on the team.’

  I leave him as quickly as I can, and approach the bar.

>   Tonight it will be vodka on the rocks. Vodka is what reminds me of Melissa—of that glass beading with condensation in the tree house on her wedding night. It conjures her.

  I turn away from the bar with my drink, and as if on cue, there they are, arriving, having just got past the front-door security. It has been years since I saw them together, and I expected the sight to fill me with bile, but it doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. These are my friends, and they fit each other perfectly.

  They both smile and approach, and I embrace the two of them at once—Melissa, warm and loving; Ernesto, his great bear arm around my neck, forgiving me.

  ‘Are we going to be OK?’ I say to him.

  ‘We’re going to be fine. What the hell happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s nothing. So long as I’m forgiven.’

  ‘You’re forgiven,’ he says.

  I wonder what Melissa has been telling him about how screwed up I am that I should earn such swift absolution. Whatever it is, I’ll take it.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ they both say.

  They have brought me a gift, which I open. It’s a gold watch, with my initials engraved on the back.

  ‘I have never owned a watch.’ I realise this for the first time as the words come out.

  ‘We noticed,’ says Melissa.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t say anything. Just put it on.’

  The lobby starts to fill up with guests, all of whom have in common the fact that they are wondering how to behave. The smartly dressed are eating the food and chatting, but looking uneasy at the increasing swell of people they wouldn’t normally see except when they’re having their windscreen washed at the traffic lights. And these people, tentative at first, begin to dominate the event, drinking and eating, dancing to the music, until eventually they are enjoying it without reservation. The building seems to be evolving yet again, right before my eyes.

  Then the lights dim, the screen lights up, and the audiovisual presentation begins. Deep, sad string music plays against a scene of street poverty. Children cry and wail. The camera focuses in on a pathetic mound of rotting fruit peel topping off a rubbish heap buzzing with insects. We pan back on a dried-up river bed, clotted with plastic bags. Then, appearing like a sun over the horizon, the beaming contours of the MaxiBudget logo come into view, and the mournful strings are replaced by uptempo electronic music, and the children’s faces break into smiles as they find themselves in a Garden of Eden. Fresh fruit and vegetables are piled in abundant heaps. Calves and piglets run around green fields. And, in bold, coloured lettering, we are asked: MaxiBudget—What Have You Got To Lose?

  Oscar takes to the stage, his squat form lit by the final, joyous images of the presentation, a smug grin smeared on his face like the evidence of something eaten in secret.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! This is a special night—but it is only the beginning. So I won’t speak for long. I just want to welcome our esteemed guests this evening, in particular our patrons, Senhor Zé Fischer Carnicelli and his beautiful wife Rebecca, who are the architects of the MaxiBudget project, and to whom we are so grateful for the opportunity to communicate its benefits. It’s wonderful to have you here.’

  Looking around I notice that the majority of the guests are mystified by Oscar’s speech—they have no idea what this evening is for. All they know is that it’s a free party, with free food. After some initial interest, they start to talk over Oscar, but I can hear him.

  ‘I also want to thank Ludo dos Santos, whose unique insight into the issues facing the inhabitants of these communities, helped in part through his in-depth research with another of our employees,’ (he checks his piece of paper) ‘Flávia Pereira de Souza, have helped us to crack this project. Thanks to them, we have really got under the skin of our future consumers.’

  Hardly anyone is listening. The crowd is talking away, and the tide of people in the room seems to be getting larger and larger. A crush is developing at the door.

  ‘This venture,’ he goes on, lowering his voice to a hushed, reverential tone, ‘will break down walls. Will bring us closer together. Please—keep your voices down for a moment. Just for a moment, ladies and gentlemen!’ I see a flash in the darkness behind him as one of the snipers on the balcony adjusts the grip on his weapon.

  ‘And finally,’ says Oscar, ‘I wouldn’t normally advertise this, but I thought I would tell you, since nobody else will, that I am sixty years old today. So here’s to me.’ Laughter rolls around the room and into a smooth wave of applause. ‘Enjoy the evening,’ he says. ‘Eat! Drink!’

  The room, the crowd, the noise—all recede from my consciousness, as if I have taken a step backwards, into myself. I stand, staring at the empty stage, my hand frozen in front of me holding my drink, and I hear Ernesto’s and Melissa’s comments as if they are being phoned in from another world.

  (‘I never liked that guy,’ says Melissa. ‘Didn’t he use to try and feel up your mother back on the farm?’

  ‘He didn’t even mention me, the little worm,’ says Ernesto.

  ‘Did you know his birthday was the same as yours?’)

  A terrible realisation is taking root, and as much as I want to ignore it, the thought is growing fast, choking my brain like a weed. And though I am screaming in my head, telling my mind to STOP WORKING, it’s too late. The idea exists. It is expanding, feeding on the supporting evidence, gaining shape and substance.

  I see Oscar, a young man, in desperation, coming to his friend, the young and promising Zé Generoso, already a player even now, in his thirties . . .

  I have messed up, my friend.

  What’s the matter? says Zé.

  A girl. She says I knocked her up. What am I going to do?

  You idiot. You fool. OK—we’ll think of something. We’ll work it out. Don’t panic. Can she cook, this girl?

  Yes, she can cook. She cooks like a dream.

  OK. That’s good. We need someone on the farm. She can have the baby and come and live with us out there. We’ll take her on.

  You mean it?

  Of course. That way you can see the child when you like—make sure it’s doing well.

  Zé. I will owe you forever.

  As easy as that, I see it happening. Zé Generoso lives up to his name once more—and Oscar is in debt to him for life. He will work for nothing on every one of Zé’s projects, whatever it may be—even if it’s a grand, misguided venture designed to show his wife that he has a heart.

  And although Oscar will be so ashamed from then on that he hates me every time he looks at me, he will keep on looking.

  There was a reason that my mother panicked after she told me that I shared the same birthday as my father.

  That reason is that I might one day discover his identity.

  Because I know him. Because he’s the man I found with his hands on her in the kitchen.

  The news is blinding.

  Zé wasn’t the one keeping me in my job after all. It was my reluctant father. The one to whom I was smoothly passed on as soon as my mother had died, without even realising it.

  Oscar, who tells me to make him proud at the end of every meeting.

  Oscar, whose look of frustration when I fail him goes far beyond the disappointment of a boss.

  Oscar. Filthy, small-minded, foul-minded Oscar.

  No wonder I recognised the background to that photograph—it was taken in the kitchen on the farm. Not in any favela.

  With Oscar’s words, all the exotic fathers in my head, patient teachers whose love was transmitted to me through my mother over the years, wither and curl to nothing like photographs in a fire.

  I can picture the conversation that led to my adoption too:

  I am worried, Zé. The boy’s brain is turning to mush out here. He struggles to answer even basic questions. He gibbers like an idiot. What can I do about it?

  Let me talk to Rebecca. We might be able to come up with something.

  Z�
� Generoso. Once again, I am speechless.

  What other secret conversations and agreements did I miss? What pacts did Oscar make with my mother? What threats over her? How did they meet? Whatever mundane, disappointing truth lies here, I don’t want to know it yet.

  The sleight of hand of it: all of them in collusion, to lead me here, and for what? To shield me from the fact that I’m related to that poor little man? The fact that I was unintended, not born of love?

  Milton. Dennis. I’ve been lashing out at alternative versions of myself wherever I found them—but this is the only person I was ever going to be. I’ve been home all along. It’s like being a piece on a chessboard with only one square.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say, hearing the protests of Melissa and Ernesto like muffled sounds from another room.

  I cross the lobby in a daze, vaguely aware that the mood is becoming more frenetic, that a scuffle has broken out at the door. A couple of kids in basketball vests and shorts have taken the microphone from the stage and are expertly rapping over the music. Suddenly, against all the odds, it feels like a real party. I see Oscar trying to make conversation with some boys and being physically joshed around. He’s trying to make light of it but I can tell he’s nervous.

  I have to get home.

  When I finally make it through the crush at the door and out on to the street, I can hardly believe what I see. A riot is breaking out at the front of the building. So many people are trying to get in that it looks like a Carnival procession. A sound system has been set up on the pavement, and one enterprising man has set up a grill on which he is cooking enormous red sausages. The branches of the avocado tree are being shaken. Some people are dancing on cars. Two police vans are parked at the end of the street, warily surveying events. Already I can see that things will turn ugly.

  I walk away down the street, far enough that the noise begins to die down, and look back. The crowd at the front of the building surges back and forth like a storming battalion. Smoke rises from the hotdog stand. A huge bang rings out as someone lets off a firework, which lights up the bright green foliage of the avocado tree from inside as it detonates.