He continued his way along a dusty street surrounded by old buildings. Clothes hung out to dry from old decrepit windows. In Catumbi he found the market he’d been looking for. It had been almost all dismantled. There was a great confusion of crates, wood supports and sheets of waxed awnings. Shirtless men, sweaty, moved about, while others disconnected guy wires from their wood supports. Women and the elderly took care of repacking the vegetables. Street gutters were filled with left over cabbage leaves, lettuce, rotten tomatoes, pieces of watermelon and green bananas. In the middle of that chaotic atmosphere, poor old women and young boys, picked through the refuse placing their findings in bags. Dito approached a farmer who was having trouble with the wood supports of his stand and offered to help him. At first the guy distrusted Dito.
“I need to make some money. I’ll put all of this in the truck for you!”
The farmer finally smiled toothlessly and offered him ten bucks, “If you must have more than that, I’d prefer to do the job myself,” he added.
Dito took his jacket and shirt off, threw them over some crates. He then began to push the awning supports and table tops into the truck. The old man kept reminding him that the supports and the table tops should be piled up in one single place, in the truck, to ease the unloading. Dito repeated this recommendation to the men working in the truck, and, instead of saying anything, they just laughed about that man’s worries. One of them repeated everything as if he were mocking the orders.
“Let it be, grandaddy. We’ll make a pack and put a ribbon on it, for you.”
The others laughed. Dito couldn’t stay serious. The dismantling of the market lasted until three in the afternoon, when the first trucks began to leave, and the city garbage men arrived to clean up the street. Dito received his money, put on his shirt, but carried the jacket. It was too hot for clothes.
After wandering quite a bit, Dito arrived at the square where there was a monument whose back side cast a deep shade. He sat down on the monument’s steps, enjoyed the cool breeze he could feel, and read the bronze plaque, which spoke about the moral and social rebuilding of the nation. He opened up the jacket over one of the steps and lay down, looking at the cloudless sky, at the rare vultures crossing that infinite plane of blue. A very dirty man approached him. His pants were torn and almost nothing remained of his shirt. He carried a pack of newspapers with him. He wanted a cigarette. Dito told him he didn’t smoke. The man kept repeating senseless words in a low voice. He sat down close by and the smell he exuded was that of someone who hadn’t bathed in months. Dito remembered that he himself hadn’t seen clean water and soap for some time. At night, he decided, he would wash himself in the fountain in Paris Square, just like Encravado and Pin used to do. He could not let his foot be exposed to dirt. But before that he would go up the slum and try to find out something about Crystal. Doubtless he no longer expected Dito’s return. If you go to the prison farm, you don’t return. That’s what the fat man had told him before receiving the deathly blow. He was wrong. They didn’t know what they were talking about. There he was, to prove them all wrong. For some moments he observed the smelly tramp, who had gone crazy; the man unfolded some of the newspapers, said unconnected things and laughed. Dito couldn’t stand the noise, got his jacket and went away. He got into a trolley. The ticket man complained about the ten cruzeiros he handed him. Dito counted the coins received as change while the trolley moved and stopped, moved and stopped. At a certain point the the driver, sweaty faced, his knotted tie loosened at the chest, his hat pushed back, pulled the bell several times to warn the hangers-on of the truck parked on the right.
Dito got out, entered a narrow street of low houses, took a cut through the woods soon reaching the trail to the slum. He didn’t see any snitches, nor outlaws who charged a toll. A few young boys, a woman carrying a bundle of clothes and a tall thin man peddling aluminum pans were also climbing their way up. He saw the store from afar, the one whose he’d killed. A woman now kept the store. But the billiard table remained in the same place. There was no one playing. He felt like going in to try out his game. Perhaps Crystal would show up. What if he asked about Crystal? He went in and asked for a pack of cigarettes. The woman searched and searched, but it turned out the store didn’t have this brand. Then he saw a young black boy, who looked like Smokey. He called him over thinking of offering him some money.
“What other store is there around here?” he asked.
The boy appeared cautious at first, not willing to give any information. Dito then showed the money and the boy’s eyes sparkled.
“Over there, on the top of the hill. It belongs to Seu Tércio.”
“And what’s it like?”
“It’s OK. He does business only with the people from the slum.”
Dito saw the boy going away with the money and didn’t regret having given it. Perhaps Tércio might have something to say.
As he went up he passed by a shack where a woman was singing; another where a woman hung clothes out to dry; some chickens pecked on the washboard dirt road; barely dressed girls appeared in doorways. Dito went into the store. The counter was well arranged, the sweet desserts displayed were covered by clean, lacy doilies. Seu Tércio had high cheekbones, grey hair and a mustache. He had a firm stare and didn’t appear very talkative. He took care of an old woman with a white bandana covering her hair, giving her the merchandise, scribbling the accounts with a pencil stub and giving her the result. The woman opened her little purse, searched for the money she had folded up, and while the storekeeper waited for her, he turned to serve Dito.
“I’d like a piece of cake!”
The man took the lacy napkin from the cake, picked up a piece with the stainless steel tongs, placing the doily back to protect the cake from flies. Dito ate the first bite, said it was good and asked for a guarana’ soda. There were billiard tables in another room. Dito thought the best way to make this guy talk would be to appear as if he knew about Crystal’s life and about his business. He remembered Crystal liked cognac and thought that might be the way into the conversation. That’s would certainly be the easiest way, he thought. He finished eating and asked for another piece. He felt comfortable to talk now; the old woman was gone and the storekeeper had sat down on a stool.
“Do you have cognac for Crystal? Either tomorrow or the day after he’s gonna come here again. He wants to hustle a man in this slum who says he is better than Crystal in billiards.”
“We’ve plenty of cognac. But he isn’t always pleased with the brand we have.”
“Which brand do you have?”
“Dreher. It’s the most popular around here.”
“When he doesn’t find what he likes, I think he drinks any one.”
The storekeeper smiled. Dito drunk his soda, slowly. The beginning of the conversation pleased him. He never thought it might be so easy.
“Night before last he was here and lost big.”
He had more questions. He didn’t know Crystal had changed meeting places, that he changed constantly. So, that was it. Sometimes in the stores at Rocinha, sometimes in the ones closer in, sometimes in Seu Tércio’s. And in the other slums, how would he act? That’s what he was going to discover. This time he woudn’t escape. And he wasn’t going to finish him off with anger. That would be childish and, since the prison farm, he didn’t feel like a boy any more. When he learned to laugh while full of hatred, he knew he had become a man.
“Either today or tomorrow he’ll be around. He has to pick up a shirt with Dona Eufrosina,” the store keeper said.
This was a chance he couldn’t miss. “Do you think she makes pants?”
“I think so.”
Dito made sure to get her address. The storekeeper gave him directions and gave him the house number. Dito placed the soda bottle down on the counter, pulled the money out, got back a few coin in change, and departed in the direction he had just been given. The seamstress’ shack was painted in yellow and had a wooden plaque announcing that besid
es women’s clothes she also made men’s shirts, she fixed men’s pants and she darned. He knocked on the door and heard the sewing machine stop. An aging mulatto woman with unkempt hair showed up. She took off her glasses and asked what he wanted.
“I’m hoping to have a pair of pants made.”
The woman told him to come in, and explained that she would do it only if the pants were already cut or if he could wait for her to send it out to have it cut.
“I am afraid to cut and damage the fabric. I am used to working for women. In men’s clothing what I know how to do is shirts.”
Dito talked about Crystal, and the seamstress showed him a shirt already finished and another still in the making.
“Well. He’s a friend. I even have a package to deliver to him; the problem is that I can’t find his address.”
“Let me see if I have it here.”
She came back with a notebook with torn up pages , searched here and there for it, and put on her glasses. “It’s in Copacabana.”
Dito asked to write it down. “That’s great. I’ll be able to go by there today.”
The woman was not curious. She gave him a piece of paper, searched for a pen that was difficult to find, she opened a small drawer where she kept threads and bobbins and found the pencil stub. Dito asked her to tell him.
“Dias da Rocha Street 121, apartment 910.”
Dito folded the paper, put it in his pocket, and went back to the subject of the pants.
“Let’s do this. I’ll look for someone who can cut and then I’ll bring it to you. I am always coming around here.”
She smiled. Dito had nothing else to say. He couldn’t contain his happiness. He went down the hill, he met the boy he’d given the money, and he noticed two strange-looking men paying attention to his movements. He got to the point where snitches and criminals usually gathered and hurried up. His foot was hurting. He went back through the narrow street of low houses without fear, he was now sure no one could have imagined his intentions. He wished he could go to a bar and ask for a guarana’ soda, but he was running out of money. He barely had enough to take a bus to Copacabana. After he surprised Crystal, it would be different. At first he thought of taking a bus, but then decided for a trolley. It was cheaper and it would get there all the same.
He would get into the building at nightfall. If he could he would try to get in without being noticed by the porter. He would sit down in the stairway, waiting. He could also get a lockpick with Mother’s Scourge or Encravado. Then, he wouldn’t have to wait for so long. He woud force the lock, and would lock it from the inside, and he would wait for Crystal comfortably. That would be best. The greater the surprise the worse it would be for Crystal’s health. That’s the way he was used to dealing with the others. He would get what he deserved.
* * *
CHAPTER SIX
I
When they stopped listening to Brown Sugar’s story, silence reigned. Pin used his dirty nails to scratch his head, Mother’s Scourge sniffled and Encravado asked, “And you’re gonna to wait for them to catch you?”
Brown Sugar looked at the motorcycle parked nearby before answering, “I liked her. I must face the dance.”
“Pffh!” Pin exclaimed. “Will you tell the cops you fucked both of them?”
No one found that funny.
“What will happen if the cops prove you’re the one to finish off the girl?” Dito asked.
“I spent the entire morning fixing the fucking bike at the shop. The cop just needs to go to the shop and confirm it.”
“And what are you gonna do with the dude?” Mother’s Scourge wanted to know.
Brown Sugar felt dizzy.
“I dunno.”
“Why don’t you fence the bike and run away?” asked Pin.
“’Cause then they’ll think I did it, man!”
Silence took over the group.
“Did you like her?” Dito asked.
Brown Sugar nodded affirmatively, and his eyes teared up. He got up, leaving the others sitting. No one said a word. He got on the bike and rode away. Traffic in the streets was busy, but everywhere all he could see was the smiling face of Vera: her dimples, her perfect teeth. He didn’t know why Fla’vio had done that. He couldn’t believe Fla’vio might be such a cold criminal, but somehow he couldn’t feel angry with him. He got to the wide side walk at the beach and gazed at the sea. Hiding his pain from passersby he cried, loudly, as he should have done a long time ago.
When he felt better he tried to put his thoughts in order. He didn’t want to stay in the streets anymore, like the others. He would go the police station to tell them what he knew about the case. But he didn’t muster the courage do to it. He didn’t know what to say, how to begin. It would be better if they came looking for him. But where would they find him? He didn’t have a permanent place. The few months in his life he could have given out an address was when he stayed at Fla’vio’s apartment. But he would not return there; he didn’t want to see him again. He didn’t even want to keep that bike, which reminded him of so many umpleasant things. He should have stayed with Pin and Encravado and continued to wander about as they did. But his wish to improve his life had made him get into some serious complications. He wouldn’t go to the police. They would want to know details of his life, he would end up talking about his friends and about what they did. That was not his role. He didn’t have anything to explain. Fla’vio should tell what he knew.
At the door of the morgue a group of men approached him, without his noticing it. They showed their badges. “Come with us. You have a lot to tell us in Homicide.”
Brown Sugar wasn’t surprised.
“Don’t worry anymore about her.” — the short and strong man told him.
Brown Sugar looked at him gratefully, went into the car and observed a morgue employee take the bike to the patio.
“For how long did you fuck that fag?” one of the policeman asked him.
“We were only friends.”
“Don’t make me laugh. Gifts and gifts, all because you were friends?” argued the policeman.
Brown Sugar repeated what he had already said. The short and strong man reminded him, “If you liked the girl, you must say what you know.”
The car stopped in front of an old building, and they went up the stairs. Brown Sugar’s mind was absorbed with the distant day he met Vera. She had invited him to go swimming. It had been a beautiful, luminous morning and the sea appeared transparent. Each time he dove he saw her moving like a fish or a mermaid. He wasn’t paying attention when he sat down in front of the fat man in a suit. He couldn’t exactly understand what he wanted with so many questions.
II
“You see what happens when you get involved with women?” Encravado said.
“That’s not true. It’s just that Brown Sugar had always been a softie. If it was me, I wouldn’t have got into this mess,” said Mother’s Scourge.
“I only deal with them to diddle,” Pin said.
“And which one have you pluked?” Encravado asked making fun of him.
“I think what you really like is to beat your meat.” Dito said smiling.
Pin didn’t like the joke.
“I dunno. But I’m alive. It’s not gonna be any joy hole that’s gonna make me throw myself under a truck.”
“And who said he threw himself?” asked Encravado.
“The pigs plan one thousand and one tricks and it all stays the same: no one gets caught.”
“How come he jumped and the bike remained intact?”
Pin didn’t know what to say. He looked at the newspaper and passed it along to Mother’s Scourge, saying:
“I think that what’s in there is right.”
Mother’s Scourge began to read. He had a gloomy expression in his face, for having learned about the death of a friend.
“And what was he doing at Brazil Avenue?
“Who knows?” Encravado said, “Brown Sugar got himself involved in the big leagu
es. He would either climb mountains or end up the way he did.”
“It was better this way. No one can suspect he was the killer,” Dito said.
Pin talked senselessly for a while, remebering that life would go on, that he would meet with Sueli and Carla. Mother’s Scourge promised to go along with him. Pin had no maney, Dito lent him one half of what he had. He had been able to sell one of the guns, keeping only the 22 with which he had done Crystal in. But he didn’t talk about his deed. He didn’t like to open himself up to anyone. Different from the others, he was getting to an age when he didn’t need to talk anymore. He would spend hours listening to the others shoot the breeze, but only rarely did he make his opinions known. Pin invited him to go see Beth, but he said he wasn’t up to it; he would talk to her some other time. He went away along a very dark street, and thought of the days he used to see Brown Sugar regularly, the friendship he appeared to have for Smokey. He crossed the square with the water fountain already lit up and had a coffee in a bar. When the street car came by, he decided to go visit Mother Dolores, and stay there for some time, to see if she had news of Smokey or Manguito.
Her street was brightly lit. There were stands selling fruits and skewered meats and a greater number of men in front of the houses. Women appeared everywhere, in the windows, at the doors. As Dito walked along the sidewalk, a woman tried to hold on to him, showing her naked torso. He spoke of Mother Dolores and the woman began to laugh. Mother Dolores’ large house had the hallways crowded with people: there were couples coming in and out, almost all bedrooms had their doors shut. He could hear murmurs and laughter dwindling in the warm air of the night. When he knocked at a door, Mother Dolores showed up. She had red eyes and she was dressed in white. She didn’t answer Dito’s greeting. Her room was poorly lit. It held a profusion of old furniture, and two cats sprawled on the sofa.
“Is something wrong?” asked Dito.
She nodded, came into the bedroom, and Dito followed. He saw a small coffin, candles, and three seated women. Approaching the coffin Dito recognized Smokey. He looked at Mother Dolores as if he couldn’t understand. She rubbed a handkertchief on her face and said, “A friend of mine found him. They were going to bury him as an indigent. Then they remembered me. I agreed to do the wake for his soul. I was afraid you might not come.”
Childhood of the Dead Page 13