The Street Angel

by Robert Gollagher

  “Why not? You’re a beautiful lady.”

  “I don’t feel beautiful. I feel like a liar, like a fake.”

  “What are you lying about?” said Richards, lazily drinking his beer.

  “How happy I am. Trying to tell myself I’m really not happy with you at all, that really I’ve learned my lesson and that adultery’s just miserable.”

  “Are you going anywhere with this, Sue?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is this just idle conversation, or are you trying to say something?”

  “It’s not idle conversation. I’m trying to say something.”

  “Well, just say it.”

  Susan looked down for a moment, then reached across and took Richards’ hand again. She squeezed it seriously. “I’m trying to say that I don’t love Adrian. You know that, don’t you? I don’t love him.”

  Richards scanned her face for any sign of the significance of this bizarre comment. He came up blank. “Okay, you don’t love him. I believe you.”

  “I’m telling you, Bob,” Susan repeated. “I don’t love him. I don’t know why I’m still with him. I should have left him years ago. It’s just, I can’t get past what I believe. I just can’t get past it. It’s not right.”

  “Sue, why don’t you just stop beating yourself up and let it be?”

  Susan said nothing for a moment. “Because ... I love you.”

  Richards was shocked. He stared at Susan’s worried face. For a second his mind told him to admit the same in reply, but he suppressed the urge.

  “You mean more to me, Bob Richards, than Adrian ever did. Ever.”

  Before Richards could drum up something safe to say in reply, the boy from the beer stand appeared next to them, holding up two cold bottles.

  “You want more beer, Senhor. Senhora? It’s ice cold.”

  “No thanks,” said Richards.

  “No,” said Susan. The boy walked away.

  “Maybe we should get some lunch,” said Richards.

  “All right,” Susan replied. She could tell that Bob felt awkward about what she had said, but she was still glad she had said it. “I’m hungry.”

  “So am I. Starving.” Richards got up and offered Susan his hand.

  They walked slowly down the beach and along the dirt roads of the village until they reached his dilapidated beach house. It was a flat-roofed structure built from cheap bricks and shoddy plaster, with bare concrete floors. There was little furniture. Two comfortable hammocks were strung across the front porch, overlooking a small, grassy yard and a gas barbecue. Susan immediately went to take a shower, while Richards got the barbecue fired up. He was cooking a couple of succulent steaks when a barefoot man in shorts and an old T-shirt walked into the yard.

  “Good day, Senhor Hichards,” the man said in Portuguese.

  “Good day,” Richards replied. “How’s it going, my friend?”

  “All is well, boss. All is well.”

  “Knock it off, Rico. Stop calling me that.”

  “You own the house. I am the caretaker. Boss is what I call you.” Rico smiled. He was a big man, enormously strong, and his tanned face was covered in thick stubble. His perpetual smile revealed tobacco-stained teeth, and he nearly always seemed ready to break into raucous laughter. Until you got to know him, Richards knew, he seemed a little crazy.

  “Rico,” Richards replied as he turned the steaks, “when are you going to learn English? Then I could explain that you don’t have to call me boss. Somehow I just can’t make the point in Portuguese.”

  Rico shook his head. “No, no. The Senhor must know, you cannot teach an old dog new tricks. And this dog is getting old.”

  Richards laughed. “You’re thirty-five. A baby. Stop complaining.”

  “No, boss. Rico cannot read. I will not learn English.”

  “It didn’t stop you from learning Portuguese.”

  “Yes, boss, but that was taught to me by my mother while I was still on the breast, sucking for milk.”

  Richards ignored this absurd comment. “You want some lunch?”

  “No, boss. I saw you with the lady. You want to be alone.”

  “Look, Rico, I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t mean it. You want lunch?”

  Rico grinned. “I brought some cane. It is mighty sweet.”

  “I can see that,” said Richards, looking at the long pipe of freshly cut sugar cane that Rico was carrying under one arm. “Sit down, I’ll get another steak for you. And I’ll introduce you to the lady. Is that all right?”

  “All right,” said Rico, happy to have gotten himself invited to lunch.

  Richards went inside and got another steak out of the icebox. He found Susan drying her hair, dressed in jeans and a clean shirt.

  “Who are you talking to, Bob?” she asked.

  “Rico. The caretaker for this street. He’s staying for lunch. You wanna come out and meet him? He’s brought you a delicacy.”

  “He brought food?” Susan said incredulously. “For me?”

  “Sure. He saw us on the beach. I think he likes you. It’s his way of being hospitable. Obviously he approves.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Or does he do this for all your girls?”

  Richards frowned. “Just come outside and you’ll see.”

  Susan followed Richards out to the barbecue.

  Rico leapt up from his plastic chair when he saw Susan, took her hand and shook it vigorously. “Oh, Senhora. You are so beautiful, such a beautiful lady. You must be from Rio. The women in Rio, Senhora, they are beautiful. Are you from Copacabana?”

  Susan couldn’t help smiling. She was flattered, even if he was nearly crushing her fingers. “No, no. I’m not Brazilian.”

  Rico let go of her. “Then you must be French, Senhora. They are beautiful in Paris. Yes, you are from France.”

  Richards rolled his eyes. “Knock it off, Rico, for God’s sake. Susan’s from London, England.” Then, in English, he said, “Sorry. Rico has to try his charm routine on every woman he meets. Just ignore him.”

  “England, Senhora?” Rico chimed. “I have seen it on the television. You come from a beautiful country. A beautiful country, yes.”

  “Thank you,” said Susan, as she and Rico sat down while Richards finished cooking the steaks.

  “Yeah, so anyway,” said Richards in Portuguese, “Rico has brought you some sugar cane. You have to try it. It’s fantastic.”

  “You want some, Senhora?” Rico asked eagerly.

  “Yes, I’ll try some, if you say it’s good. Thank you.”

  “Ah, good, Senhora. You will not regret this. It is sweet, sweet.”

  Susan nearly fell over backwards in her chair when Rico reached around to the back of his shorts and pulled out an enormous machete which had been hidden under his baggy T-shirt. The fourteen-inch blade sparkled in the sun. Rico held it up to her and smiled. “I cut some for you, Senhora.”

  Susan watched nervously as Rico held the thick sugar cane in his left hand, then swung the blade down viciously and chopped off a six-inch piece. Rico’s grip on the cane was vice-like as he repeated the axing twice more, until there was a piece of cane for everyone. “Here you are, Senhora. Sweet, you understand. It is sweet.”

  Susan took the cane but had no idea what to do with it. It was rock hard, except for the exposed cut surface, which was firm, wet and spongy. She sat there, feeling foolish, looking at Rico’s smiling face. “Um ... thanks.”

  Rico laughed uproariously. “Boss, does she not know how to eat it?”

  “Of course not, Rico. How much sugar cane do you think they have in England? It’s cold in England. They have no cane.”

  “Okay, boss. Okay. I tell her how to eat it. Look, Senhora, you eat it like this, like this.” Rico stashed the machete down the back of his shorts again, then took his piece of cane and thrust the end of it into his mouth, sucking furiously. There was a loud slurping noise. Then Rico took the cane out of his mouth and smacked his lips. “Ai, my mo
ther, that is sweet!”

  Susan screwed up her brow in disgust, but she thought she had better be polite, so she took her own piece of cane and put it hesitantly to her lips. Then she sucked. She was rewarded with the wonderful, fresh, slightly fruity taste of sugar syrup. Susan was surprised by how good it was, so much so that she hardly minded the two men laughing at her.

  “I told you it was a delicacy,” Richards said in English.

  “Do you know, it’s really quite good.” Susan tried some more.

  “The Senhora likes it?” said Rico.

  “Yes, thank you,” Susan said in Portuguese. “I like it.”

  “Do you hear that, boss? She likes it. I knew she would like it.”

  Richards brought the steaks over to the plastic table and sat down next to Susan. “Enough sugar cane. Let’s eat some meat.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Richards brought out a bottle of beer. He handed a glass to Susan and then one to Rico. “You had any trouble lately, Rico?”

  “Yes, boss. I had some trouble last week. Big trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” said Susan, after taking a sip of her beer.

  “Ah, Senhora. I find some little rascals trying to steal from the houses. They come from time to time, push in the doors, steal from inside.”

  “Little rascals?” said Susan, not sure if she understood him correctly.

  “The children of the poor, Senhora. Sometimes they come here from the next town. Teenagers, mostly. They start to steal early. Last week there were four of them at the beach house of Senhor Santiago. Vandals.”

  “Four of them?” said Susan. “What were they doing?”

  “They were stealing clothes, and food from the icebox. Stealing from my street, Senhora. Everyone knows, no one steals from Rico’s street. It is my job to keep the houses safe. No one steals from here.”

  “So what happened?” said Richards.

  “Ai, boss. I caught them at it. When I see them, I bring out my shotgun and fire it in the air. That got their attention.”

  “Did he say shotgun?” Susan said in English.

  “Yeah. He’s got a sawed-off shotgun. Comes in handy.”

  Rico continued his story. “Yes, Senhora, I took out my little shotgun and fired both barrels in the air. Then I reload. The thieves come running out of the house of Senhor Santiago when they hear the gunshot. And I chase them.”

  “Did you catch them?” Susan asked.

  Rico turned his head and spat on the ground in disgust. “No, Senhora. Only one of them did Rico catch. Only one. The others got away.”

  Susan asked despite her fears, “What did you do with him?”

  “Ai, Senhora. I beat the little bastard. I beat him. I beat him good.”

  “You hit him?”

  “I tanned his hide, Senhora. I beat his bum black and blue. He will not sit down for a week. He will not steal again from my street, and neither will his friends. Unless they come back with guns.”

  “Did you call the police?” Susan asked hesitantly.

  At this, Rico grinned broadly. His brown teeth were grotesque. Then he burst into hilarious laughter. “Call the police, Senhora? No, no.”

  Richards couldn’t help laughing a little himself. “Come off it, Sue,” he said in English. “Of course he didn’t call the police. He didn’t want the kid to end up in some jail. Rico just made sure he wouldn’t steal again.”

  “Oh God,” said Susan. “You don’t mean he ... killed him?”

  Richards translated this into Portuguese. “Rico, she thinks you killed the boy. She wants to know if you killed him.”

  At this, Rico laughed even louder, until he had to wipe tears from his eyes. Finally he said, “No, no, Senhora. God forbid, I would not kill these children, these children of the poor. I just scare them away. Not more.”

  Susan relaxed and managed a little laugh herself. “Ha ha. Of course.”

  Rico looked her in the eye. “No, Senhora, I would not kill the children. They are too young. They deserve to learn. Not like the others.”

  Susan muttered under her breath in English. “Bob, what does he mean, not like the others?”

  “Just what it sounds like,” said Richards. “Rico’s had to shoot a few armed bandits in his time. He’s had a few close calls.”

  “He’s had to ... shoot people?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Rico grew impatient with all the English being spoken. “So, Senhora, enough about these things. Are you having a good holiday here?”

  Susan tried to put the matter out of her head. “Um ... yes. Thank you.”

  “I am happy to hear this, Senhora, because Brazil is a beautiful country, a beautiful country. The best in the world.” Rico smiled mischievously at Richards, looking for support in his claim. “The best in the world, yes, boss?”

  “The best in the world,” said Richards. “Well ... second best.”

  Rico laughed again. “And you, Senhora, do you like Brazil?” He stared expectantly at Susan, leaning his huge bulk forward menacingly in his plastic chair, waiting for her reply.

  “Uh, yes ... I do,” Susan muttered nervously.

  Rico laughed in satisfaction. “Ai, boss, she likes it!”

  Susan lay naked in Richards’ arms, her head resting on his chest. She breathed in the fresh ocean air that wafted through the open window. This time they slept in a double bed. Its old mattress was lumpy. There was nothing else in the room but a small chest of draws on the concrete floor. The builders had made a bad job of the plaster. There were cracks. Beach sand was sprinkled everywhere – no matter how carefully they washed their feet it followed them inside. Bob Richards’ beach house was not luxury, Susan thought, but it was paradise. It was definitely paradise.

  She couldn’t help thinking about Rico, about what he had said, about his machete and his shotgun, about the stark brutality of it all, and about his twisted sense of humour. Rico had scared her. She knew it was silly to feel scared. He had been nice to her, but he still scared her. Susan hated guns, hated knives, hated having to hear about it all.

  She remembered Rico’s question. Does the Senhora like Brazil? There had been a kind of crazy urgency about the question, as if she could answer nothing but yes if she wanted to escape with her life. Susan told herself she was being stupid, but it was how he made her feel.

  She thought about Bob, too. He had laughed as well, laughed about the beating, laughed about her question when she asked if Rico had killed the boy. What was funny about that? It made her like Bob a little less. But a little less than completely loving him was still being deeply in love with him. She was glad to be here with Bob. It was paradise. And the love they made together was like nothing else she had ever experienced.

  Whenever they made love, afterwards they would say nothing for a long time. They would just lie close to each other, as if it would be sacrilege to pollute the silence and contentment with mere words. They were happy together in silence, breathing in time with each other, their chests rising and falling gently, their hearts beating slowly. The calm after the storm.

  The minutes would pass and eventually one of them would speak, would bring them back to the reality of speech. That night it was Bob.

  “Are you glad you came up here for the weekend?”

  Susan did not lift her head from his chest, did not change her gaze from the window. “Yes. Very glad, Bob. Very glad.”

  “It’s a nice place.”

  “This is the best place of all, right here,” Susan whispered. “I wish we never had to leave this room. I wish we could stay here, as happy as this.”

  “I doubt that would work, somehow.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know. Me too.”

  “You didn’t answer me, Bob, at the beach. Why was that?”

  “When?” said Richards, stalling for time.

  “When I said I loved you,” Susan said simply.

  “The kid came with the beer, remember?”

  �
��I remember.”

  “It was time to go. We had to cook lunch.”

  “I know. But you still didn’t answer me.”

  “I know,” Richards said cryptically.

  “Well? Is it just going to hang out there forever, now that I’ve said it?” Susan’s voice was soft. She was not angry. “You never said a word about it.”

  “I didn’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything, except what you feel.”

  “Maybe I’m afraid to say that out loud.”

  “What do you mean, Bob?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to say what I feel out loud.”

  “You don’t have to, but it would be nice to have an answer.”

  Richards sighed. Susan’s head rose and fell with his breath. “After Emily, I promised myself I wasn’t going to tell anyone ... you know ... ‘I love you.’ What does it mean to say that, anyway?”

  “It means what it says, Bob. If it’s what you feel. And when you say it without feeling, it doesn’t mean a thing.” Susan thought of how many times she had said it to Adrian, long after the marriage had turned empty.

  “That’s what I mean. Emily ... I don’t know ... kind of spoiled it for me. Call me a cynic. I’m just not an ‘I love you’ kind of guy. Not any more.”

  “Then what are you?” said Susan softly.

  “Mixed up, I guess.”

  “You’re an honest man, Bob. That’s what I like about you.”

  “Me? An honest man? I’ve had to do more bent deals than you could count. I’ve been just as two-faced as the next guy, down here.”

  “Yes, but behind all that, you’re an honest man, a decent man.”

  “Maybe. Does it matter?”

  Susan lifted her head for a moment, looked at him and kissed him, then rested again on his chest. Eventually she whispered. “You don’t fool me, Bob. You don’t fool me at all. You know it matters. That’s why you’re a decent man. That’s why I love you. You really do know it matters.”

  “Yeah, maybe I do.”

  “You do,” Susan agreed. “So what about your answer?”

  “You don’t give up, do you?” Richards was only slightly annoyed.

  “I’ll give up if you want me to. Do you want me to?”

  “No,” Richards whispered. “Don’t give up.”