8.04 A.M.
It took almost twenty minutes to get back to Esplanada in the morning heat. The Montero seemed to float over the tarmac, as if carried by a calm, swift-flowing river. The warm breeze came through the broken windshield. The twenty-minute drive felt as if it had taken thirty seconds as he turned right on to Serraria Road, once again entering that territory which, seen from above, might have comprised a kind of open map of his life, with captions for everything he’d felt and experienced in thirty years of existence, a neighbourhood which had once been the cosmos and was now a toy town that he drove through, stirring up old ghosts. The old stairs where they used to hold downhill races were still there, except that they looked about a third of the length and had been redone, with regular granite steps, green steel railings, and beds of daisies on both sides, replacing the hard dirt of times past. He parked at the top of the stairs, got out and sat on the first step. On his left was Police Hill, still intact and uninhabited due to its restricted access. On his right he saw the still-serene Guaíba River and Ipanema Beach, in a state of meditation before the tumult and noise of the Sunday afternoon, which would reverberate with bass notes from car sound systems and the nervous drone of jet skis. At eight o’clock in the morning, however, the relative silence was still sovereign, echoing the silence of that long-ago night when he and Bonobo had sat in that very spot, as they returned home on foot from a party. So many years later, he could still remember the feeling of wanting to be like Bonobo: awe-inspiring, tough, spontaneous – and respected, despite being ugly, uncouth, brutal, and at odds with the world. To spend time with him was to flirt with a world radically different from the inner world of his adolescence, and, for a short time, marked by their exchange that night at the top of the stairs, it had seemed possible to reconcile the two worlds, to belong to one but participate in the other often and with such confidence that life would expand beyond who he was, cheating boundaries in a promiscuous mingling of personalities, temperaments and outlooks. He had tried to get close to Bonobo in order to feel comfortable in his own skin, and it had worked. Not for long, but it had worked. Until the tragedy had taken place and the truth had imposed itself: he would never be anyone but himself, and to insist on being someone else was a waste of energy, not to mention a source of frustration, shame and regret. So many times in the intervening years he had stopped whatever he was doing to find a quiet corner, hunch his shoulders, clench his fists, punch walls and sometimes even shed a tear or two, wishing he could turn back time and defend Bonobo from being beaten to death, even if it meant getting himself killed, because it was the right thing to do, it was what the man he wished he was would have done in that situation, regardless of the consequences. There was nothing heroic about living, however. At thirty, life felt like an endless rehearsal for a heroic moment that never arrived. A permanent limbo between innocence and heroism, inhabited by ghostly projections of himself, distorted by what he wished he had been or wanted to become. He ran his eyes over the houses on the slope in front of him to the place where the neighbourhood levelled out. He tried to remember what Bonobo had said, where he’d pointed that night in the hours they’d spent at the top of the stairs. The plot of land was near Police Hill. There was a water tank. The old points of reference, such as trees and lamp posts, were useless in the new urban density. Off in the distance, he spied the water tank, the street corner, a colourful wall, and remembered what the boy had said at the hospital, about the day-care centre, the pictures on the wall. He assessed the distance, visualizing the streets he’d have to take to get there, then stood so quickly he almost lost his balance, and got in the car. He drove for a few minutes until he found the wall decorated with clumsy paintings of cartoon characters. That was where Bonobo would have built his house one day, if he’d lived long enough to work and save a little money, instead of being murdered semi-accidentally in Uruguay and his gang’s vindictive rampage. He parked, got out, and clapped his hands since there was no doorbell. It was early for a Sunday; no one answered. He clapped again. There was a closed iron gate set into the wall and a ten-foot path up to the front door. Next to the house, partially hidden from view, was a canvas swimming pool for children, a plastic slide and some scattered toys. He shook the gate, but it didn’t make much noise. He clapped for the third time and the front door opened. Naiara was about six inches taller. Her face was bonier, her nose pointier, her eyes deeper set. The dyed-red hair was the most striking difference between her and the image of the slender thirteen-year-old that was still branded in his memory. He, in turn, knew that he was almost identical to his fifteen-year-old self, not only physically, but in everything, which was why she recognized him immediately, not without some surprise in her eyes. ‘For some reason, I knew I’d see you again one day.’ ‘Hi, Naiara.’ ‘The guy who used to climb the stairs three at a time.’ She was wearing a loose-fitting blue blouse with white lace trim and a long white skirt. He couldn’t tell if she’d been woken by his clapping or if she was already up. She reached back into the house for a key ring and a packet of cigarettes. She pulled out a lighter and lit up. ‘Horse Hands. Exam Man.’ ‘My God, no one’s called me that in a long time.’ ‘First place in medicine at the Federal.’ ‘Horse Hands, that is.’ ‘What did you do to your forehead?’ ‘I got in a fight with about ten guys. You should have seen what I did to them.’ She laughed as they had so many years earlier, he, Bricky and their other friends, when they did voiceovers for everyday situations with lines from dubbed action movies. ‘Still falling off your bike, hey?’ she said, coming over to the gate. She selected one of the keys from the half-dozen on the plump, heart-shaped key ring, made out of some kind of red foam, and unlocked the gate. He stepped through. They sat facing one another at the kitchen table and drank bitter black coffee that Naiara reheated in a metal coffee pot. She must have been twenty-eight, he figured. They exchanged quick synopses of their lives, as old acquaintances do. She smoked a cigarette every ten minutes, letting the smoke waft aimlessly from her mouth and nose as she spoke. She hadn’t been able to have children of her own and had lived with two different men, but now she was on her own, sharing the house with a cousin who was also single. They both worked in the day-care centre next to the house. He told her he’d been married for five years, was a plastic surgeon and had a two-and-a-half-year-old daughter named Nara. ‘Nara?’ she asked with a wistful smile. He remembered a series of moments they’d shared, so long ago now, but enough to feel that they still had a special connection, theirs alone, in memories that were still retrievable, although they no longer had much bearing on the present. The cousin wandered into the kitchen in a nightgown. She apologized, Naiara introduced them, and the cousin left through the same door, saying she was going to put on something decent. They sat in silence for a time, not sure what else to say. Naiara filled a kettle with water and put it on to boil. The window was open and the sun was already blazing outside. She asked if he drank chimarrão, but he didn’t answer. He stood. It was time to go.
The Funeral
Esplanada was finally becoming a community. Within the imaginary boundaries that separated that set of streets from the rest of the city, the sons and daughters of the oldest residents had become couples, and some had married. Some of these had stayed on in the neighbourhood, taking out mortgages and having children of their own. Litters of cats and dogs had been shared among the locals, making the pet population increasingly dense and contributing to the frenzied barking that broke out at random late at night. There was a constant exchange of fresh spices, fruit and vegetables from private gardens, as well as seedlings, tools, construction materials, books, records, videotapes and every imaginable favour that a good neighbour could possibly do another: lifts to school, invitations to barbecues, exterminating snakes and spiders, and feeding dogs while the owners were away on vacation. Successive generations of childhood friends had grown up together, forming bonds that they sometimes believed would last for ever, each new phase of life resembling the last. There was pri
de and an authentic neighbourhood provincialism. What had been missing, and no one had noticed it before now, was tragedy. More specifically, a tragic death. And the fact that the first tragic death was that of Esplanada’s most disliked resident, the embodiment of delinquency and gratuitous aggression in a relatively peaceful part of town, only fuelled, to the perplexity of all, feelings of abandonment, insecurity and distress, which ended up irreversibly unifying that group of individuals who, more by chance than anything else, had settled next to one another.
Hermano was aware of this process when sobbing broke out at the sight of the coffin being carried into the parlour where the wake was to begin. They were all there that cold Sunday morning. Bricky, Pellet, Walrus, Mononucleosis, the Joker, Chrome Black, Isabela, Ingrid, and a lot of people that Hermano didn’t know very well but recognized as fellow residents. Entire families who had helped spread the bad news on the Saturday and had risen early on the Sunday, anxious to begin an initiation rite, pull on sober clothing and make their way to João XXIII Cemetery for the funeral of the young thug who had met with extraordinary violence at the hands of a gang that included another resident’s son – who had stolen his father’s motorbike that Friday night and was still on the run. Hermano’s parents had taken him to the emergency room, where he was given two stitches in his left eyebrow and another in his lower lip. After repeating the story three or four times, he’d locked himself in his room on Saturday morning. It was his father who told his story to Bonobo’s parents. On Saturday afternoon, he gave a statement to the police. Chrome Black, who knew Uruguay better, said he’d been talking for several days about teaching Bonobo a lesson because of the fight that had brought Isabela’s fifteenth birthday party to an end. No one could say for sure who the other members of the gang were.
After Bonobo’s family had completed the agonizing first cycle of bidding the body goodbye, few dared set foot in the parlour. Those who did went in alone. Bricky was one of the first. Hermano watched him from a distance to see what his reaction would be when he saw the body. Nothing. His face was unflinching as he stared at the corpse, and he left looking pensive. Hermano continued to watch his friend and saw him put his arm around a girl with red hair and very white, freckled skin. She was wearing a long skirt and a cropped jacket, both black, with a bright-red top under the jacket. He went over and congratulated them on the pregnancy. She smiled, and Bricky made a strange face, pressing his lips together and lowering his head a little, a mixture of disconcerted thanks and farewell, as if they were never going to see each other again.
Hanging in the air was a feeling shared by everyone, that few of them had had a chance to really get to know Bonobo. There were glimmers of regret when people looked at one another, perhaps a sense of guilt about having scorned, hated or feared that insolent, ugly youth who liked to beat people up and did it well. It was a feeling shared by Hermano. He knew, if he was honest with himself, that he hadn’t established a deep bond with Bonobo in those last few months and that his absence would be easily forgotten. What most moved Hermano now were the tears of some of Bonobo’s real friends. This sight made a tremendous impact. In front of him, Isabela leaned on Walrus’s shoulder, tired of holding back her tears, and he put his arm around her awkwardly. It was the only moment in which Hermano thought he wouldn’t be able to control the knot in his own throat. But he did.
Bonobo’s parents were named Emiliano and Marta. He was over sixty, while she couldn’t have been more than forty. They were sitting in the parlour, surrounded by a small group of relatives. Naiara was sitting on a bench, staring at her brother’s coffin. She was accompanied by two friends, who stroked her hair and whispered words of comfort and encouragement. He’d have to face them sooner or later, so he took a deep breath and entered the parlour, lit by candles and weak yellow light bulbs. Emiliano stood to shake his hand and accept his condolences. He looked like a tired man who drank more than he should and had been married three or four times. He was wearing a faded wool cap that emphasized his sickly appearance, but his handshake was vigorous and his posture firm. Naiara had once told Hermano that her father owned a small printer’s shop in the city centre where he produced stickers, notebooks and flyers. No matter how sick or alcoholic he looked, and Hermano wasn’t sure of either, he was a guy who would live to be at least ninety. His only words were disconcerting:
‘We’re glad you’re OK.’
Then he sat down again beside his wife, who was numb and a little out of orbit but thanked Hermano for coming and said she’d really like it if he paid them a visit in a few days’ time so that they could talk, maybe in the afternoon, for coffee and a snack.
A shocking, unbelievable idea occurred to Hermano: Bonobo’s parents saw him as a good influence on their son. If they knew what had really happened, they wouldn’t be treating him like that. It was comical, in a way.
‘What’re you laughing at?’
The frail, lovely Naiara was staring at him with eyes slightly red from crying. Her thin little face looked even leaner, her cold-chapped lips contracted into almost nothing.
‘Dunno.’
Hermano pulled her to him and hugged her as hard as he could, praying that in so doing he could let her know all the affection he felt for her and, at the same time, communicate his rejection. She sank her head into his neck as if she were immersing it in the water of a pool, holding her breath. Maybe if she were a little older, or prettier. He was always thinking about strong older women, as strong and mature as he felt himself to be. Naiara seemed so fragile. He couldn’t look at her now. Slowly releasing the hug, seeing Naiara leave with short backward steps and a confused smile, he knew for certain that it was to be a day of final decisions. He just needed to concentrate a little and be alone somewhere. Before that, however, there was one last thing that had to be done at the wake: look at Bonobo’s lifeless face.
His bones turned to jelly when he approached the coffin. The spray of flowers resting on the lid seemed like a provocation, designed to impress a contrast of life on the retinas of those who dared glance into the hole beside it. Bonobo’s face was probably covered. If memory served him, not much of it had been left intact. It had to be covered. He took a step forward and looked. The icy tremor lasted a few seconds, but he quickly recomposed himself. What he saw was a wax sculpture that looked more artificial than dead. Bonobo’s face was exposed, clearly reconstructed, prepared and made up. The cause of death had been cranial trauma. He remembered that he had already seen Bonobo dead, in fact, that night in the street. The image he had approached then, with short, terrified steps, was much grislier than this one, adapted for the ritual. But while that one had been uglier, this one was sadder and emphasized the absence of life even more. He’d read in a comic book that Buddhists believe that something of the person lingers in the body for a while after death. It isn’t easy to disconnect from the body. He didn’t believe in souls, but the Buddhist belief was in keeping with his impression that there was still something of Bonobo in the hole that was no longer there at the wake. He preferred to believe that what had been there before, and which was now absent from the white, subtly deformed face, was just blood. He concluded that death was a body drained of blood, and left the coffin.
The Shape of Bones Page 15