Never Stop Walking_A Memoir of Finding Home Across the World

by Christina Rickardsson

  “Marina, open up. Please, open the door!” She kept pounding.

  “Camile, he’s coming!” I screamed at her.

  “Marina, open up!”

  I had no idea who Marina was, but if Camile trusted her, that was good enough for me. The door opened, and Camile and I ran inside and slammed it shut.

  “What happened? Camile, what happened?” the woman in the room asked, looking very concerned.

  “A man . . . he’s . . . after . . . us . . . ,” Camile responded in between gasps for breath.

  There was a pounding on the door. “Let me in! I know you’re in there, you little whores!”

  “Quick, hide!” the woman whispered.

  Marina’s little shack, like most of the places in the slums, had only one room. We hid behind some kind of counter, and Marina opened the door. She didn’t even have a chance to say anything before the man pushed his way into the room past her.

  “Where are those little devils?” he hollered drunkenly.

  “Which ones? If you mean those girls, they’re gone now.”

  “The hell they are! You’re hiding them. Look what they did to me!”

  Camile and I looked at each other. When a man was this angry, it never ended well. We exchanged frightened looks. It was only a matter of time until he found us.

  “You’re not interested in a couple of little girls when there’s a full-grown woman in front of you, are you?” Marina’s voice had changed and suddenly sounded much gentler, more appealing. Camile and I looked at each other, knowing that it was our fault that this was happening and that Marina would suffer for it.

  “Take off your clothes!” the man ordered.

  Both Camile and I put our hands over our ears, but the disgusting moans from the man and the degrading words he said to Marina forced their way through our hands. No matter how hard I tried to close my eyes and imagine something else, I heard him. When he was done, Camile and I thought we’d finally be able to leave our hiding spot, but he didn’t leave. After a few hours, we heard Marina scream and then the man’s voice.

  “You women are nothing but whores!”

  We sat there, pressing our hands over our ears and squeezing our eyes shut. He finally left. Camile and I sat quietly. We looked at each other, wondering what we should do. After a while, Marina said we could come out. She’d put on her clothes, made the bed, and was acting like nothing had happened, but we could see that she was sad. Her cheek was swollen, and we saw how her hands trembled as she tried to put all the things back where they’d been.

  “I’m going to make some coffee. Would you girls like some?”

  “Yes, please,” Camile replied quietly, timidly.

  While Marina made the coffee, I looked around the room. On a little table in one corner stood a statue of the Virgin Mary. Her head was bowed, and her arms were outstretched in a welcoming embrace. Her heart was visible: it was red, and a ring of thorny branches formed a circle around it. There were several candles in front of the statue, and Marina had hung a rosary around it.

  I didn’t know anyone in the slums who wasn’t a believer. At least they all claimed they were. I assume you’ve got to believe in something when no one believes in themselves. Maybe people just need to find a way to get through the day. I didn’t think before I spoke and just blurted out, “Why do you hurt us like this, God?” Camile gave me a stern look. Shut up. I turned around, and Marina was looking at me.

  “God doesn’t want us to be happy. He wants us to survive. One day, you’ll understand!” When my eyes met Marina’s, I saw something there, or rather, I saw something that wasn’t there. She was one step closer to becoming a ghost, like my mother had told me. And what had happened today was Camile’s and my fault.

  Marina turned away and got out three cups. We all sat in silence and drank coffee, as if nothing had happened, as if this were just part of everyday life.

  The Boy Santos

  The slum is like an independent state within the state, kind of like the Vatican but with God missing. It’s downright ironic, I sometimes think, because the slums are where people’s faith in God is the greatest.

  There aren’t very many people inside the slum who care what happens outside the slum, just like how most people who live outside the slum don’t care that the slum exists. It’s hard for some people who were born in the slum to advance and get anywhere in life. “Advancement” in the slum is becoming a gang leader, which often results in a short life.

  I remember getting chills every time I came up against gang members or their leaders. It was pretty much only guys who joined the gangs. Sometimes you saw a girl who was in one, and everyone knew why she was there. Girl gang members shared more or less the same background: no parents, no family, no money, and nowhere to live. It was incredibly hard to protect yourself against boys and men if you didn’t have an adult or a gang looking out for you. Being raped, over and over, by men who didn’t care what kind of violence they used was significantly more dangerous than letting some of the guys in the gang have sex with you. Or being one of their girlfriends. This way, the girls were mostly “protected” from the rest of the street.

  Life could be terrible even for those who did have a grown-up around. A grown-up wasn’t at all a guarantee of protection. I remember one little girl who was somewhere between seven and nine. She was wearing a dirty dark-red dress that was too big for her. She was sitting on a chair outside a shack in the slum. Her hair, cut short, about to her ears, was sticking out in every direction. She was barefoot and had dark eyes. I don’t know why she’s stuck in my memory. Maybe it was the contrast between her small body and that big, dirty red dress, or between her vacant stare and her cute face. There was something special about her, because I can still picture her. I never talked to her, and our eyes only met one time. On a table in front of her was a white pack of cigarettes, and between her fingers she was holding a lit one. She sat with one leg on the chair, and the dress revealed the breasts she didn’t have. It wasn’t that unusual for us kids to run around without clothes on. But on her, it seemed so wrong to see her naked torso.

  Seated cross-legged, I was leaning against the shack across from her, waiting for Camile, when a man opened the door behind the girl. He came out in just underpants and seemed drunk. He looked at the girl, grabbed her by the hair, pulled her up off the chair, and yanked her into the shack. She didn’t scream or cry. You could tell she was used to being treated that way. It was always awful to see someone in the slums who’d become a ghost, who was no longer responsive, who didn’t feel anything, who merely existed but didn’t really live.

  I know that I sat there thinking about whether what I’d just seen was what I could expect out of life. I must have looked sad, because when Camile came back, she asked how I was doing. I just stood up and said I’d seen a ghost. She nodded in understanding, and we wandered off. Camile understood right away what I’d seen.

  One night, I was sitting with Camile, Santos, Angelo, and Javier around a fire pit. We were sharing a barbecued chicken. Angelo and Javier were brothers, about seven and five years old, and they lived near Santos. What I remember about these two boys is that they wanted to be cool. They were very funny and imaginative. They asked Camile to tell them a story. Every time we met up with them, as soon as they were around her, they wanted to hear a story.

  It had been a good day that had ended with Santos’s mother making us dinner. Javier and Angelo started nagging Camile, who just smiled. It didn’t take long before Santos and I also chimed in, asking Camile to tell us a story.

  “OK! What kind of story do you want?” Camile said, pretending to feel put-upon.

  “A scary story!” Javier exclaimed.

  “Then you’ll just get scared and have nightmares,” Angelo teased his little brother.

  “I will not!”

  “You will, too!”

  “OK, I’ll tell you a story that’s also a riddle, but only if you two promise to be quiet the whole time,” Camile said, giving
the brothers a stern but amused look.

  Santos’s and my eyes met, and we smiled. It was hard not to laugh whenever the brothers, Javier and Angelo, started arguing.

  “Are you ready?” Camile asked. “It’s pretty tricky.”

  “Yes!” we all responded in unison.

  “Once upon a time, there were two brothers, Paulo and Pedro. Paulo always did the right thing. He was nice and helpful, but he always had an ulterior motive for what he did. Pedro, on the other hand, was naughty. He never helped anyone, he grabbed stuff for himself, and he hit people. But he was always sorry afterward. Now, my question to you is, Which was the bad one, Paulo or Pedro?”

  “Pedro,” Javier and Angelo agreed.

  Camile looked at Santos and me. “And what do you guys think?”

  “It’s obvious. It’s not hard at all,” Santos replied. “Paulo must be the bad one!”

  “What do you say?” Camile asked me.

  “Hmm . . . ,” I said, eyeing Camile. I knew it wasn’t as easy as it sounded. It never was with Camile’s riddles. “I think both the brothers are equally bad and equally good. Paulo behaves well, but in his heart, he’s bad. Pedro hurts people, but he doesn’t actually want to hurt them.”

  When I was done, it was quiet for a moment. Everyone was looking at me, and I got the sense that I’d solved the riddle. That sense didn’t last long, though, because Santos started laughing, and then Javier and Angelo joined in. We were sitting in front of the fire pit in the nighttime darkness. Santos threw a chicken bone at me, and we all started laughing. Santos said something about how I was always being different and that I was wrong.

  I looked at Camile, who blew me a kiss and smiled. Then I knew I had solved the riddle.

  If the others hadn’t also been able to see Camile, I’d have thought she was an angel come down from heaven to be my friend.

  That night we slept content, all together, our bellies full.

  In the morning, a noise from the shack where Santos lived woke us up. We could hear things breaking and a scream from inside. Camile had slept in the hammock with the brothers, and Santos and I slept along the outside wall with some blankets over us.

  I sat up and pulled my legs in against my body. I looked at Santos and saw him press his head against the wall and close his eyes. Each time something broke or when we heard his mother get hit, his body jerked.

  I looked at Camile. She had gotten up and had her arms around Angelo and Javier. Camile looked at me, and none of us knew what to do.

  “Santos, I’m sorry . . . ,” I began.

  “Leave it!” His voice sounded hard.

  Camile sat down next to him and put her arm around him.

  Santos shook her off and stood up. “He’s a fucking idiot! He can’t do anything right. All he does is hit her. I hate him!”

  “Santos, should we go somewhere else?” I asked a little hesitantly. The argument was heating up, and I found it tough to listen to. How hard must it have been for Santos?

  “I’m not going anywhere except in there!” He started walking toward the door, but Camile stopped him.

  “You can’t go in there. He’ll kill you! He’s drunk. I’m sure he’ll fall asleep soon.”

  Santos shoved Camile aside. “If he kills me, then he’s doing me a favor!” Santos opened the door to the shack, walked in, and slammed it hard behind himself.

  Camile, Angelo, Javier, and I remained outside, and we realized that no good could come of this. Santos would probably be beaten so badly that he wouldn’t be able to move for a good long while. His mother would definitely be punished for having given birth to a son like him and maybe be forced to kick him out. Camile looked at me. We were all feeling helpless.

  What had presumably driven Santos into the shack was that his mother was getting hit over and over. It became too much for him. This had been going on for a long time. His stepfather hit his mother, and Santos himself was always covered in bruises. He used to say that the only reason he stuck around home was that he didn’t want to leave his mother alone with that idiot. Maybe he felt guilty about not having done anything about it; he definitely felt powerless. Anyhow, I know that’s how we all felt as we stood there hearing it all. We wanted to help him, but we didn’t know how. After all, we were just kids. We could have all run in there together and attacked the man, but then what? How would that improve anything for Santos and his mother? So we did the only thing we could—we just stood there and listened. We stuck around in case Santos needed us. We didn’t want to abandon him; he was one of us, a part of the family. Suddenly, we heard a man’s voice.

  “And just what do you think you’re going to do with that, you son of bitch? You’re not man enough to even hold something like that, and you’re definitely not man enough to use it.”

  Silence followed, and then there was a sound, a sound we all knew well. It made us all jump, and our hearts beat faster. There was no doubt about it: it was a gunshot. I looked at Camile in horror, and the look on her face must have mirrored mine. The silence was broken by a woman’s scream. Camile, the brothers, and I instinctively backed away from the shack.

  “Santos,” I whispered to Camile, and she just stared at me. She didn’t know whether he was alive, either. Neither of us dared say any more.

  The door opened, and out came Santos. He looked at us in fear, determination in his eyes, and then he turned around and ran.

  “What have you done? What have you done, Santos?” his mother screamed. She was sobbing hysterically, and it was scary to hear and see an adult act in such a weird and crazy way. People had started flocking toward the shack, and we kids realized it was time for us to get out of there. We knew what had happened.

  What had started as a magical night ended in a new day that reminded us of our reality.

  Santos was ten years old when he killed a man. I remember wondering whether Camile and I would ever do anything so horrible. I was about seven when that happened.

  We tried to find Santos. We searched for several days, but no one seemed to know where he’d gone. He had just disappeared. I’ve always wondered how he’s living his life today, if he’s living at all. I wish he’d let us be there for him, but he chose to disappear and there was nothing we could do. I liked Santos, and I used to tell him we should get married when we grew up. He would hug me and say, “Sure, whatever you want!” and then he usually gave me a big smile.

  I’ve always wondered what would be written on Santos’s tombstone: Santos, ten-year-old boy, killed the man who beat him and his mother, fled, disappeared. Murderer.

  Or: Santos, ten-year-old boy, loved airplanes, wanted to be the best soccer player in the world. Missed. Hero.

  The Plane Touches Down Gently

  SÃO PAULO, 2015

  Finally, we’ve landed at Guarulhos International Airport in São Paulo. Rivia and I are standing by the baggage claim carousel, waiting for our bags. The trip went well, and the plane touched down gently. My fear of flying peaks at landing, so I sent a grateful thought to the pilots. Rivia, who has a Brazilian passport, took the short line into the country while I waited in the incredibly long line that didn’t seem to move forward at all. Standing in line is not my thing. And this particular line twisted and turned like the Great Wall of China through what felt like the whole airport. Wide and thick and impenetrable. Apparently, Swedes have a very advanced line-waiting culture. Swedish people are some of the best in the world at waiting in line, and over the years, I have learned to wait in lines. But it’s hard for me. My early years in Brazil left their mark on me, and mostly I want to do this jeitinho brasileiro—the Brazilian way—which would probably look something like this: I would go up to whoever’s at the front of the line and tell them a white lie about how I’m late for an appointment and ask if they might let me go ahead of them. I’m not proud to admit this, but as a kid I sometimes did that to avoid having to wait in line. As an adult, I clench my teeth and wait, realizing that everyone waiting in this line wishes they, too, wer
e doing something else.

  I’m tired. Outside the airport, the sun is just rising over São Paulo. I look around. I watch the people standing in the line and hear various languages. I get out my Swedish passport and look at my picture. After what feels like an eternity, it’s my turn to step forward to one of the glass booths and show my passport to a dumpy woman who seems extremely bored. I smile and say hi in Portuguese, “Oi,” as I hand her my passport. She looks at the passport and then looks at me, at the passport again and back at me. She seems a little surprised and asks me something in Portuguese that I don’t understand. I respond, “Eu não falo português, fala inglês?” She shakes her head, no, she doesn’t speak English, and stamps my passport. Finally, I’m let into the country.

  I see Rivia standing on the far side of the baggage carousel, and I start walking toward her. I bump into an elderly woman and want to apologize, but I don’t know how to say that in Portuguese, so I say it in English. Already, I’m frustrated that I can’t speak the language and embarrassed that I haven’t taken the time to learn it. When I reach Rivia, I ask her how to say excuse me in Portuguese. “Desculpe,” she replies. Our bags come rolling out onto the carousel. Rivia picks up her light-green bag, while I awkwardly heave mine out backward, half stumbling. Rivia smiles. We wander out of the airport toward the taxis. Rivia arranges a car. We climb into the backseat and give the driver the address of the hotel where we’re staying. It’s in the Jardins neighborhood. As we get out onto the road, I start to recognize the vegetation, the bushes and trees, and even the smells and the traffic itself. Immediately I feel split in half. After twenty-four years, suddenly I’m back, as if no time has passed. And yet, so many years have gone by. An odd sensation slips over me, and I try to figure out what I’m really feeling.