City of God

by Paulo Lins

  ‘So, tomorrow I’m gonna do the gas truck again. I don’t wanna stay skint, ’cos the pigs might show up and we ain’t got nothin’ to keep ’em quiet. Comin’ again?’ said Hellraiser.

  ‘Comin’,’ replied Squirt.

  Hammer said no. He thought doing jobs two days in a row was too risky.

  ‘The police are gonna be on the prowl,’ explained Hammer, ‘just waitin’ to bust no-goods. I’m lyin’ low.’

  ‘If today was Gasbrás day, tomorrow’s Minasgás day,’ said Squirt, ignoring his friend’s prediction.

  The night belonged to choruses of crickets and the wind that brought enough cold to make people desert the streets. A few boozers were drinking in the corner bars. Between one pool shot and another, they listened to a comedy programme on the radio. The gangsters fell asleep thinking about the hold-up the next day. The morning was not long in coming. The job went smoothly, but this time it was carried out by Pelé and Shorty. Squirt and Hellraiser arrived at the same time as the police, who shot at them. Squirt ran behind the clinic, through the cinema and up Middle Street. The police followed. Hellraiser headed down the right branch of the river. He even stopped along the way to take off his red T-shirt, leaving just the black one he had on underneath, to throw the police. He turned right past Augusto Magne School, trying to look as if he was running for another reason, and arrived Down Below, where Pelé and Shorty were squatting on the corner counting money:

  ‘Hey, man. Where’d you get all this shit?’

  ‘What’s it to …’

  ‘Hand it over, ’cos I saw you scoot it when the pigs showed up, and for your information, it was us that was gonna …’

  ‘Fuck off! You out of your mind?’ said Pelé, without missing a beat.

  ‘Don’t gimme any crap or blah-blah-blah. Hand it all over, or the shit’ll hit the fan!’

  ‘What’s up Hellraiser? What’s up Pelé? What’s the problem?’

  At the sound of Niftyfeet’s voice, Hellraiser lowered his gun and Pelé followed suit.

  ‘Just as well you lot haven’t crossed paths before. I knew sparks’d fly. Let’s head over there for a drink,’ said Niftyfeet.

  Up Top, Squirt was having a shootout with Boss of Us All. The policeman refused to give up trying to catch or kill Squirt. He had already loaded his two revolvers several times and swore when Squirt returned fire. No one was hit. Squirt took a man’s car, drove down Main Street and headed for Freguesia, where he dumped it. He returned to the estate through the bush to meet up with Hellraiser and the others.

  ‘Niftyfeet! Shit, man! I haven’t seen you for fuckin’ ages.’

  ‘Yeah, man … It’s been years. You been getting up to no good, man?’

  ‘So was it you that did the truck?’

  ‘No. It was them guys over there.’

  ‘Fuck! You know I almost got done ’cos of you guys.’

  ‘’Cos of us how come?’

  ‘If you hadn’t done the suckers, the cops wouldn’t’ve been there. You should’ve warned us …’

  ‘Did you warn us yesterday?’

  ‘Course not! We didn’t even know you …’

  ‘Right, man … You’re full of shit, you know that?’

  ‘Full of shit, my arse! If you say one more thing …’

  ‘Hey, cool it,’ interrupted Niftyfeet. ‘No one’s guilty of nothin’ and let’s cut this squabblin’, right? If you wanna stand around squabblin’ for nothin’, it’s the cops that’s gonna get lucky. There’s enough for everyone … I don’t want my friends feudin’, and I’m tellin’ you – you gotta be friends. If you start this business of feudin’, soon the area’ll be crawlin’ with pigs. I’ve already told you: I don’t want anyone feudin’!’ said Niftyfeet, with the authority of one who knew his order would be accepted. Everyone respected him; no one would ever oppose the Salgueiro Samba School’s best dancer. No one ever raised their voice to the best-known rogue in Rio’s favelas. Even Big, the most dangerous gangster in the city of Rio de Janeiro, respected him. They’d bow to any request Niftyfeet made. They stayed there, drinking beer. By mid afternoon they were acting like close friends, playing pool and heads-or-tails, and improvising sambas:

  Up on the hill,

  Where the playin’ is hard,

  Drinkin’ beer,

  Smokin’ weed,

  Playin’ rounds of cards.

  Families from several of Rio’s favelas arrived at the new council estate. The chance to own their own home and finally establish themselves was an enticement, but the distance and poor living conditions on offer led many to reconsider. While on the one hand workers had to wake before dawn and walk two miles to catch the bus at Freguesia Square, on the other, every child who arrived was guaranteed to fall in love with the place: if it wasn’t the guava trees, it was the avocado trees; if it wasn’t the Eucalypt Grove, it was the haunted mansions; if it wasn’t the pond, it was the lake; if it wasn’t the river, it was the big lake; if it wasn’t the swamp, it was the sea at Barra da Tijuca.

  Those who knew the estate well could walk from one end to the other without having to take the main streets. Squirt and Hellraiser liked to flash their guns at the police on patrol, then head into the alleys firing shots into the air. The police gave chase, but, unfamiliar with the twists and turns of the labyrinth, they got lost. When this happened they would often shoot at one another. The gangsters would double back and fire from another alley, making the police dizzy. They only did this when Boss of Us All wasn’t around. It was best to stay home the days he was on duty, because he was as cunning as the Devil and knew the estate well.

  Smaller houses were built in one area on The Other Side of the River. There were the Dread and Bastion pitches, where the football teams held matches and tournaments. On the same side, to the right, was New World, an old area of plots where there was a bakery that gave the kids bread on a sale-or-return basis to sell door to door in the estate. It was the breadsellers who woke the neighbourhood, shouting: ‘Bread for sale, bread for sale!’ Breadman Lolo and Paulo Cachaça, the only adult breadsellers, spent the mornings crying their wares:

  ‘From Copacabana I trudge, to sell bread in the city of sludge.’

  They both sold bread until eleven, then spent the rest of the day drunk.

  The milkmen also rose before dawn, clanging away, shouting that they had fresh milk for sale. The ice-lolly sellers only appeared when the morning was at its peak. The housewives watered plants; water was abundant. There was none of that tin-of-water-over-the-head business. They planted vegetable patches and gardens, and washed the kids and dogs down with hoses.

  Few gangsters circulated during the day; they preferred nights for playing cards, smoking joints, playing pool, singing sambas to the rattling of a box of matches, or even chatting with friends. Only Squirt, Hellraiser, Pelé and Shorty were seen during the day. Holding up gas trucks, smoking dope on street corners, flying kites with the kids, playing footy with the cool guys. Other thieves preferred to operate in the South Zone, where the rich were. They robbed tourists, shops, and wealthy-looking pedestrians.

  Up Top, old Teresa had set up a den to cater for the few dope smokers in the estate. Madalena already sold dope Out Front, but it was hard, as she didn’t have a good supplier. As a result she couldn’t stock enough weed to keep up with demand, even though it was small. On Middle Street, Bahian Paulo opened a bar: the Bonfim, open every night of the week. The gangsters played cards, smoked dope, drank Cinzano-and-cachaça and snorted the odd line of coke. They ate fried fish, chicken gizzards, crackling, sausages, hard-boiled eggs and bean soup prepared by Bahian Paulo’s wife. Couples swayed to the sound of the phonograph, and every so often trotted out some dance steps on the pavement.

  Out Front, Batman’s Bar was the hangout of the estate’s first dope smokers. This was where they met to chip in to buy weed to smoke in The Plots near the estate, in the bush, or even in the street when possible. Orange, Acerola, Jackfruit, Mango and Green Eyes’ favourite place fo
r smoking was The Plots. They enjoyed walking up and down the tree-covered slopes, hanging out in the bush telling each other funny stories, picking fruit from the trees. The Plots were not watched by the police, the houses were few and far between, and there were dozens of hiding places where they could have a smoke.

  A new community sprang up as a result of fights, football games, dances, daily bus rides, religious ceremonies and schools. The groups from the different favelas integrated within a new social network thrown together by circumstance. At first, a few groups tried to remain insular, but the tide of events soon led day-to-day life down new paths: the football teams, the estate’s samba school, the carnival groups were born … Everything worked to integrate the inhabitants of City of God, paving the way for friendships, disputes and romances between these people brought together by fate. Teenagers took advantage of the notoriety of the favelas they had lived in to intimidate one another in fights or when playing games, flying kites and competing for girls. The more dangerous their favela, the easier it was to command respect, but soon everyone knew who the suckers, con men, no-goods, workers, gangsters, junkies and cool guys were. Those least adapted to the new society were the gangsters. The only ones who integrated were those who had been lodged at Mario Filho Stadium as a result of the floods. This was the case with Squirt, Hellraiser and Hammer, and guys who had done time together.

  No favela had its entire population transferred to the estate. The random distribution of people between City of God, Vila Kennedy and Santa Aliança, the two other council estates built in Rio’s East Zone to take in the flood victims, tore apart families and old friendships. Many refused to move to City of God as they thought it too isolated. But the inhabitants of Ilha das Dragas and Parque Proletário da Gávea flocked to The Flats, where they adjusted more easily.

  On Saturdays there were dances at the club, where the gangsters, dope smokers, sluts and cool guys hung out. The bands played songs by Jorge Ben, Lincoln Olivetti, Wilson Simonal and others. The club directors managed the best football team in Jacarepaguá, made beef stew and feijoada on Sundays for members, and organised excursions, competitions and indoor football tournaments. The directors prepared dozens of bottles of caipirinha, nylon-knickers and jaguar-milk. They bought beer and snacks to sell during the dance, the most important social event around, although most residents did not attend because they didn’t think good things went on there.

  One Saturday, Hellraiser arrived at the dance in a rush, looking for Hammer. He wanted to tell him some good news. Squirt had got lucky in a robbery down Anil way. He’d landed two gold chains, a pair of wedding rings, a .38-calibre revolver, three pairs of Lee jeans and a leather jacket. Hellraiser went into the dance without paying, searched the entire dance floor, the bar, and the washroom, but was unable to find his friend. He thought it odd. Cleide had seen him there. He was already leaving when he bumped into Niftyfeet:

  ‘How’s it goin’, Niftyfeet? Seen Hammer around?’

  ‘He went home ’cos the pigs’re here. There’s a Detective Beelzebub around askin’ everyone if they know you, man. They’ve already been Out Front, Up Top, Down Below, they’ve been here … It’s this business of holdin’ up trucks in the area.’

  ‘Are they in a car or a van?’

  ‘A van.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three, I reckon.’

  Hellraiser scratched his head, visibly worried about the police. He thought about getting out of there, but doubted the cops would return to the club. He decided to relax and said:

  ‘Let’s go wet the whistle!’

  ‘Real men don’t wet the whistle, they have a drink!’ joked Niftyfeet. They were heading towards the club bar when Detective Beelzebub came in with two other police officers, dragging a sobbing Cleide. Hellraiser ran to the middle of the dance floor, bumped into couples dancing to the sound of the group Copa Sete, and knocked over chairs and tables. Beelzebub let go of Cleide and went after him. Niftyfeet strolled towards him, gave him a shove to slow him down, then apologised, saying it had been an accident, but Beelzebub tried to cuff him. Niftyfeet dodged him without much effort. The other police officers got involved in the fight, but Niftyfeet delivered a stingray-tail kick to Detective Carlão, a sweep to Officer Baldie and a half-moon to Beelzebub, then left, not in any great hurry, crossed the bridge over the right branch of the river, turned into an alley and disappeared downhill.

  ‘Got more than you reckoned for?’ shouted Lúcia Maracanã, laughing, to rile the detective even more.

  Hellraiser ran into the women’s washroom, climbed onto a toilet seat, scaled the low wall separating the cubicles, punched a hole in the asbestos ceiling and left the club. From the roof he saw Cleide making a beeline for the top of the hill. He followed Hammer’s wife. They ran past the church, reached the priest’s house, turned left, right, right again and threw themselves into the river near The Sludge. Old Teresa saw them go past and busied herself turning off lights and closing doors and windows, assuming the police were right behind them. Cleide and Hellraiser reached The Other Side of the River, crossed two dead-end streets, left the estate, reached New World and stopped to rest in a vacant lot.

  At the club, Detective Beelzebub was frothing at the mouth. He fired a shot into the air in an attempt to frighten Lúcia, who was still laughing on the dance floor.

  ‘Who’s this black slut that’s laughin’?’

  ‘It’s me, right? You gonna tell me I’m not allowed to laugh?’

  ‘Where’s your ID, you cheeky bitch?’

  ‘Here!’ answered Lúcia, holding out her ID.

  ‘I want workin’ papers, or I’ll stick you in the slammer – take you down to the station so the chief inspector can charge you with vagrancy.’

  ‘Gonna charge a woman with vagrancy? Why don’t you go after the guy that smashed your face in, you fuckwit?’

  Beelzebub flew at Lúcia, grabbed her left arm and dragged her across the dance floor. She swore, bit the detective, threw herself on the ground, thrashed about and demanded to know why she was being arrested. Beelzebub said nothing and just punched her before shoving her into his van. The music had stopped, and most of the dancers were leaving. The club president approached the detective, who was frisking some youths at the entrance.

  ‘Can I have a word with you, sir?’

  Beelzebub said nothing.

  ‘I’m the club president,’ he continued. ‘Perhaps I can help with something.’

  ‘Fine. Here’s the story: there’s been a few hold-ups in this jurisdiction and the chief inspector asked for somethin’ to be done about it, right? They’re even doin’ it out round Anil. A delivery truck can’t even stop here without them showin’ up. It’s some guys by the name of Squirt, Hellraiser and Hammer. I’ve already been given the full rundown. I’m gonna arrest or kill the lot!’

  ‘But you could lay off a little here at the dance. After all, this is just a club like any other …’

  ‘Bullshit. There’s only whores, gangsters and dope heads here. Decent people don’t come here.’

  ‘Yes they do. I’m a decent person and I’m here,’ interrupted Vanderley, going up to the detective. ‘I’m in the Army, I don’t smoke dope, I work for a livin’. I’m here havin’ a good time and then you turn up firin’ shots, arrestin’ women, causin’ a huge commotion …’

  ‘Where’re you from?’ asked Beelzebub.

  ‘I’m in the Parachute Regiment of the Brazilian Army and I’m a club director.’

  ‘Right, but don’t get in the way of my work or I’ll have a word with your captain and make life fuckin’ difficult for you.’

  ‘Watch your tongue with me, you don’t have to swear! I’m talkin’ to you nicely. I’m not lookin’ to get in the way of anyone’s work, but I don’t have to let the police in if I don’t want to. I’ll stand at the door in uniform and I’d like to see someone come and lay a hand on me!’

  ‘Look mate. You think you’re gonna be in the Army for ever? You think I�
�m afraid of a soldier?’ said Beelzebub, irritated.

  ‘I’m a soldier and you’re a dickhead! I can make it to president and choose your governor!’ said Vanderley.

  ‘I’ll beat the shit out of you!’

  ‘I’d only touch you with my foot, you fuckin’ pig!

  ‘Enough, enough!’ interrupted the club president. ‘We’re here to talk and find a solution for the problem. I want this to be a respectable place, a family place. I think we’d best head into the office to talk, without shouting,’ he said.

  They talked for an hour. The president explained to the detective that most people were decent, had jobs and their only leisure option was the dance. He was really keen to make it a family affair, and stressed that the club had good directors, people interested in the Jacarepaguá football team. Still tense, Beelzebub argued that he didn’t know who was who in that place and that was why he had to come down hard on everyone:

  ‘If I go soft on them, they go to town, know what I mean? Everyone here looks like a no-good, there ain’t hardly any whites. There’s just a bunch of mean-lookin’ blacks. I gotta keep my wits about me.’

  Nothing was resolved. Every so often, Beelzebub looked around, trying to keep his back to the wall and his revolver in his hand. Until another director came out with the final argument.

  ‘You can come and collect a bit of hush money during the dance. Just don’t ask for ID and don’t arrest anyone. You can walk round the club, listen to music and have a soft drink, no problems, but let the dance flow. Alright?’

  ‘Alright, deal!’ answered Beelzebub, a little calmer. He let Lúcia Maracanã go when he left.

  Over in New World, Hellraiser was listening to Cleide saying that Beelzebub had smashed in the door, fired shots in all directions and turned the entire house upside down. As he listened, he observed the way her dress, wet from the river, clung to her body. He imagined the taste of her thick red lips, and wanted to grab her and make her come right then and there, between the full moon and the bush. He’d screw her slowly, sucking her full breasts, then he’d move up to her mouth, running his tongue lightly across her neck; he’d lick her back, her thighs, her bum, her clit. He’d stick his tongue in her ear while increasing the movement of his steadily pumping hips so she’d call him horny, hot, dirty. And he’d have her from behind, from the front, the side, her on top, underneath. He wouldn’t even ask God’s help. ‘I bet she’d come loads of times,’ thought Hellraiser. But no, he shouldn’t be thinking those things; Cleide was his friend’s wife and, besides, she’d never given him the come-on. She was a nice chick, who did everyone favours, and Hammer was a good bloke, but if she gave him half a chance he wouldn’t think twice and wham!