But he always remembered, in these lifts, the RK driver who could almost kill him once.
New Xavantina; The small India land, of the Indians of blue hair and strong smell.
A blessed land for receiving him and cursed for taking all his dreams away.
Marcelo in these wandering he could have two published books.
A policeman named "The Fifth Man”, where he’d gotten a good criticism and a bourgeois novel entitled “Claudia”.
In this small town he could have some people’s friendship and told them that he was a writer.
Some day he decided to visit a village.
That was the most stupid thing he’d done since then.
The followed a track which had already been a road, seeing that it had enough width for a car passing more or less.
In his Midway two huge Indians appeared. Both of them were carrying bows and arrows on their backs. They were wearing a soccer shorts and flip flops on their feet.
‘Where the young man thinks, you’re going?’ asked one of them.
‘I’d like to go to the village’ he said trying to hide his voice fearing.
While one talked to him the other bugre went walking and making a circle around him.
‘What are you going to do in the village’ wanted to the one who was questioning.
Marcelo was looking back to be sure of the other Indian’s attitude.
‘If possible I would like to know your lifestyle. I am a writer!’ he decided to lie, showing the notebook he was taking. He had already written but still missed too much be considered a “writer”. The two published books did not give him that title.
The Indian got the notebook and opened it. He feared that he might know how to read and find out that, it was just his simple personal diary. Yes, because the Funai was present in the region and he could, he’d seen in the town several little Indians going to school.
To his lucky this Indian could not read, because he handled his notebook back.
‘Come with I!’ said the bugre gesticulating to follow him.
He walked with them silently up to a clarity close to a stream.
During the walk many kids of the tribe came up to them.
Some touched Marcelo and pulled his backpack as if they wanted it for them. But after the Old Indian scolding them and be angry they left him alone.
‘Well, friend, you must be thinking that “it was just introducing yourself as a writer, that we would let you pass by?’
The truth is that things were not well in the region.
There was an agitation because of a suspicion of a rapping and murder in the town. They were saying that it was caused by an Indian.
However with nor concrete evidences and the police couldn’t do anything. Due to this fact, all the town residents looked at the bugres with other eyes.
Marcelo knew all about that and resolved to talk with the aboriginal to know their version of the story.
He got courage to that only after an Indian in the town had told when he wrote something under a mango tree and asked if he was a writer.
He hesitated in the beginning, but after with a little bit of warm ego, he said yes and asked why the question.
He old Indian said that the tribe needed of someone who was a writer that could write the truth about the facts. At this moment, we enter at the final line of our story.
Certain morning as he talked with the Lady’s Pension where Marcelo rented a room, the one told him how to reach up to the village. But she advised him to be very careful. The Indians were angry with the white people.
Before he left like a vulture sniffing carrion, the old lady asked if she could throw away the notebooks were he’d written his memories. Of course he said no!
But as he went back to the village, yeah, right at the entrance, before the paved floor and full of pestilential dogs the adventurer young man he saw crouching in the shade, the figure of the old Indian who he had met in the town.
He stood up in a jump and came up to Marcelo.
‘Thank you! Thanks to Tupã we got somebody for us!
Soon the other Indians came and surrounded him and he was the center of the attention to them all.
From a tent, or hut, whatever, a man came out who might have been the centenary. He was wearing a small tunic made of feathers and walked with difficulties. In his left hand he had a stick held upright. His hairs were plain white and long over his bent shoulders. His skin black as chocolate. His mouth had few teeth, but his eyes... seemed to be like flames.
‘White man!’ he shouted ‘Come with The Shaman!’
He spent three days with the Xavantes and then he knew of the true story.
The killer and rapist was a son of a powerful farmer in the region. The Indians knew about it, for in this farmer’s farm there was an Indian woman who had heard the old man father of the killer, talking to some farm laborer.
The one gave instructions to spread in the town the idea that it was an Indian’s blame. For that they chose among them, farm laborers, who could serve as eyewitness, however letting the idea that it was impossible the individual identification, because the act happened during the night.
And this witness could pretend saying that he was a hundred centimeters of distance watching the scene and could only see the guy’s back, identifying a feather and realizing that the man was on his bare feet and naked.
Without anybody’s support Marcelo went up to the Police officer and told him what he’s been told.
The Police Officer found that funny and said that the Indians were too clever; they were trying to mislead the young man for him to mislead the others.
He insisted on what he was saying to the Police officer and the one said, that was too many things for saying that.
Finally he had arrived in the town in a less than two weeks and no one knew anything about Marcelo.
But the Young man did not let himself to be convinced and said that as long as he arrived in the town went to look for the Police station exactly to get his backgrounds and rest to enjoy the place.
The Officer said goodbye to him and told him to go home.
He said that he’d call the witness once again for new testimony. But he would need of his presence there.
Happy for finally taking part in something important, he got back home smiling and looking up in the sky. The justice would be done.
The way from the police station to the pension could be six hundred meters at least. What was terrible is that there were few lamp posts on the road.
In a certain moment a trembling took hold of Marcelo. He turned his head in time to see two silhouettes following him at a certain distance. They were not Indians silhouettes. Something inside him awakened the surviving instinct.
T
en
He hastened the steps and could even starting a run on the dry lonely road, when a car turned up in front of him stopping suddenly raising the dust.
‘Hold down there fellow!’ said a man with the face of who had few friends aiming a rifle, from a jeep car.
Then two other boys who seemed to be his bodyguards, to be more correct, arrived up to where he was.
‘Get in there you, bustard!’ said one full-bodied man and with a revolver under his open shirt.
That was the end! He knew that only a miracle that would save him. In few days he was in the town he knew how people could sort his problems out there.
‘And then, you’re the bugres friend, right? Let’s find a way to sort it out. Step on there!’ they said to the jeep driver throwing Marcelo inside the vehicle.
They left singing, tires on the New Xavantina dark road.
Meanwhile inside the car they kicked him all the way. They were feet and boots coming from everywhere, from tip to toes. Butt-pierced and straight. A kick hit his testicles. He howled with pain. He tried to protect himself forming a ball with his body, but this was just impossible. A butt on his head and felt the blood running through, he started feeling dizzy.
&
nbsp; ‘Nobody here touches with the colonel, you fucking asshole! Who do you think you are? You think that you can come here and going out there seeking for trouble?’ here we got decent people, you naughty! And acting more, kicks and butts.
He did not know how long they drove with car being beaten and kicked. He fainted for twice or three times.
His body was a misshapen mass of blood and broken bones as they threw him into the sand.
They stopped the car and came to knock him down again.
And then, at a certain moment they decided to do the worst thing.
One of them went back to the jeep and got a piece of iron.
While one of them caught Marcelo from his feet and the other one on his arms and turned him on his stomach.
The first metal thump on his back might have broken some ribs, and then after that they hit him on his legs joints, on both knees, the pain was that much he fainted again.
In fact he thought to have died but here is Marcelo after two years the occurring fact.
It’s really true that he could not move. At least the neck and the left hand fingers they still control.
The miserable ones left him with the column broken and with legs immobile. All his body became useless. His kidneys got compromised and the lungs have been pierced by ones of broken ribs.
He did not die there because ones of the Indian had followed him there right when he had left from the village. He stayed outside the Police station waiting for him. When he saw that he’s been sequestrated by someone in a car, he ran up to the town telephone and called the shaman and Funai doctor.
They both arrived at the local and prevented those miserable from breaking Marcelo’s skull with iron bar.
With the Funai car noise arriving, the bandits ran away.
Marcelo’s luck is that the doctor acted quickly and got a single engine vehicle to take him into Mato Grosso capital hospital.
He owes his life to them.
Recently the police caught the aggressors and also the colonel’s son. They could not prove that those rascals who cut this life worked for the colonel.
As he left the coma, Marcelo realized that he had died.
What was the use of having eyes and couldn’t stand to go up to the Yard and see the life outside?
What was the use of having the noise without even feeling the soup smell he was given to have it?
No, he died, the body is still here, but he died.
Which woman will give him her affection, her love?
No, if anyone needs, that would be for pity. And what’s worse is the sensation of being nothing.
He suffers daily humiliation.
He feels himself a vegetable. Despite of moving his neck, his speech-language system went to cucuia.
To make his physiological needs a nurse comes up to here puts a tube in his ass, only like that he could make shit with no need to move and without her needing to hold the potty.
But even so, she still needs to use her hand to clean him.
He suffered an atrophy on his penis and was grafted a direct probe of the kidneys.
A very caring nurse helps him day after day.
His family who for a long time had never seen, he begs apologies for his selfishness.
I hear that. I think so that soon he’ll join his parents.
Of his friends I mentioned above, none of them will remember of him.
None will do something for Marcelo.
He’s invalid.
Quadriplegic.
If only you could know the difficulties he had to tell me his story. I write a word and have to stop. After few minutes it’s only that I could go forward, for it was difficult to understand what he spoke. He thanks me for letting him at least to make a picture with a pencil of how things happened.
The worst of all, is the consciousness!
Living to know that there’s nothing to be done to change the rest of his days. Day after day, night after night!
No woman would look at him again with desire, never again... so many things.
That will be an eternal agony. And he is still so young.
I listen to his cries. Comes the sun or moon, his requests is always the same.
‘Please! I want to die! I don’t want to prolong my life this way. Please!’ between moans and sobs, that’s what he says.
Dear readers, I am an humble nurse and decided to make this man’s last will who have been transferred one day in this hospital and without documents. We called him by Don Caramujo by the way he used to hide himself under sheets crawling.
I closed his shell! God forgives me, but I could not stand seeing him suffering in that way.
The fact you’ve finished reading is true, at least at what touches me and joining with all he told me (I got the patient’s notebook together with the hospital direction as none complained of them. They were together with his old ones he had brought from there at Mato Grosso) and I decided to have it published because of his big sister’s insistence.
As to my act, may the Earth judges judge me, for the heavenly One, as forgiven me, I am sure about that, because, one of these days I dreamed with Don Caramujo smiling at me and running through an extensive canavial.
Federal Police, CIA, FBI, Mossad and Interpol in a thrilling hunting for a killer in Brazilian lands..
A series of seemingly disconnected murders draws the attention of a Police officer just before the greatest Meeting of Mercosul, where the big Leaders and worldwide authorities will be present. There is someone to make this meeting fail.
What would be the consequences, whether the future north American President would be killed in Brazilian lands? Who would be the mysterious killer, the man behind the codename “Xstrange”? follow the Brazilian and international authorities in this thriller which in anything makes our mouth water at the best texts of this gender. This will be the forewarning of an unforgettable summer
http://www.amazon.com.br/gp/product/B00JSPXO2Y
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Moisés António was born on 7th July in 1985 at Ambriz Town/Bengo Province in North of Angola, where he lived during his childhood and made his first studies. In 1997 he moved in Luanda city with his mother, brother and sisters when his parents got divorced, where since then continued with his studies from primary, secondary school up to higher Education. He studied English and Literature in English Language at Agostinho Neto University – Faculty of Arts at Luanda, Angola.
Besides being a translator, he is also a Writer (Poet and Novelist).
In 2016 seeing that life was getting harder and harder, in his native country he decided to move to Brazil, where presently he’s living now, in Curitiba city, Paraná State - Brazil.
Since then he’s already three books published, an Anthology, a single poem book, and the 3rd is a Novel, a fictional African story based in true fact, published in Portuguese version “SHADOW- In Africa’s Mysterious heart” on Sale online by Editora Biblioteca 24 Horas . Seven Systems International.
Books translated from Portuguese into English:
Changing Tomorrow (Novel) by Silvio Kurzlop - Brazil.
The Enchanted forests of Vindravana (Poem book) by Decio Romano – Brazil.
Death in the Camping and other Non-death Tales (Tales) by Ivair A. Gomes – Brazil.
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independent book authors and translators together and distributes their books in multiple languages globally. The books you will find have been translated so that you can discover terrific reads in your language.
We are proud to bring you the world’s books.
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Your Review and Word-of-Mouth Recommendations Will Make a Difference
Reviews and word-of-mouth recommendations are crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review, even if it is only a line or two, and tell your friends about it. It will help the author bring you new books and allow others to also enjoy the book.
Your support is greatly appreciated!
Are You Looking For Other Great Reads?
Your Books, Your Language
Babelcube Books helps readers find great reads. It plays matchmaker, bringing you and your next book together.
Our collection is powered by books produced at Babelcube, a marketplace that brings independent book authors and translators together and distributes their books in multiple languages globally. The books you will find have been translated so that you can discover terrific reads in your language.
We are proud to bring you the world’s books.
If you want to learn more about our books, browse our catalog and join our newsletter to learn about our latest releases, visit us at our website:
www.babelcubebooks.com
Ivair Antonio Gomes Page 10