São Paulo Noir

by Tony Bellotto

  * * *

  Mr. Expedito leaves me at the pharmacy and goes back to his corner. The pharmacist examines me and says I need to go to the first aid station. I can’t take aspirin or anything because he suspects it’s dengue. I would go, get a taxi and go, but what about Miranda?

  * * *

  I take off my jacket, stick it in the pickup’s gas tank, soak it with gasoline, and spread it over the bags. I open two more and see they’re also full of money, douse them a little more, spread more gasoline around, the smell is making me nauseous, confused. Suddenly it doesn’t make sense to burn money—the fire will produce smoke and pollute the air. The world will turn black and it’ll be my fault. The armed boy isn’t there, I think he went into the warehouse too. I drag a sack to the outside of the gate, which is ajar, and leave it next to a pile of boxes of cardboard and old newspapers for recycling. I take a second bag, and when I’m in the middle of the path the boy yells from the warehouse door, “She’s taking the money!” Without thinking, I return to the pickup and flick the lighter near the bags. The explosion throws me backward. Flame licks my shirt and I catch on fire.

  * * *

  I leave the pharmacy not knowing what to do—the three-lane street looks to be kilometers long. It’s empty and that’s the only reason I’m not run over despite crossing it so slowly. Where is Miranda? If I go to a first aid station they’ll put me in a hospital, and I can’t let that happen. But where to start? I can barely breathe, I’m exhausted. I collapse onto the bench at the bus stop, in the center of Panamericana Square, and feel like I’m in the middle of a desert, no one will ever find me here, I’m in the heart of a true desert of sand and high winds. I’ve been alone for years. Miranda has disappeared, slipped through my fingers, and no one will ever find me again, no one will save me. I need to find Miranda. I black out.

  * * *

  The door to the house is open. Aunt Flora isn’t anywhere. Mr. Expedito tells me he left her at the pharmacy. The fog in my head has lifted; I see the entire world, the sun is coming up. I find Aunt Flora shivering on the bench at the Panamericana bus stop. That’s so sad, so lonely. Without anything, without anybody. My aunt all alone. If only I could walk . . . If only I really had the Force . . .

  * * *

  I wake up two days later. Miranda is at the foot of my bed, reading a newspaper and laughing about an article saying that people at a recycling center found a garbage bag with more than 100,000 reais. No one has been able to explain where the money came from.

  Miranda tells me about her adventure.

  “And what happened when you were blown backward?”

  “When I was falling, Diego left the warehouse and saw me. We looked at each other. He ran toward me to save me, but then he changed his mind and went to the truck to try and get the money out. I pulled off my shirt and used it to put out the fire. A force took care of me. Diego was in the truck bed with a couple of other men, thrashing their hands on the bills to extinguish the fire. I jumped onto him and pushed his head into the fire, I wanted him to suffocate in the money and burn to death. Later he stopped having any importance for me. All I could think about was you by yourself, here at home, and I wanted to return right away. I left while they were still burning their hands.”

  “You were courageous to do that—is it all true?”

  “All true, except the part where I killed Diego. I made that up. I think I made it up.”

  Flow

  by Ferréz

  Itapecerica da Serra

  The Itapecerica da Serra Highway, a long highway that crosses the Capão Redondo and passes through the town of Itapecerica, which has the famous S hill where at rush hour buses are just like trains, stops and waits for a phantom driver to free up traffic—the driver who, through magic, pauses every day at the same hour.

  The highway ascends in the direction of Valo Velho, a district piled with houses and people who, coming from all the pretty places, now try at any cost to color their rough walls the same noble green of their home regions, far-off places where cigarettes are a rarity. Bahia, Piauí, Pernambuco, and today cigarettes from Paraguay with strange and generic names, are resting in their pockets.

  * * *

  Only a few shacks finished, dirt streets, the sun begins to set. She dries her tears, she spent hours watching the television news, the death of MC Daleste will provoke much more clamor. Leaving the shack that today is her home, she speaks the words of the assassinated singer, verses that seemed to be written directly for her, as well as for millions of young people in the periphery. “When I started out, I went through a lotta hardship, and there at home it was unreal, it’s revoltin’, I know, I felt the taste of poison, we never had a bathroom till I was thirteen.” Pride keeps her from looking at the neighbors, she doesn’t like the rabble, a proud person doesn’t comment, doesn’t conspire, doesn’t boast.

  Waiting at the bus stop, she takes the tiny mirror from her purse, retouches her lipstick, a van passes by, a jitney bus, and a driver who whistles; she looks sidelong and reads the bumper sticker: Preto Ghóez Lives Forever. She understands it as a homage to someone newly deceased, maybe a van driver, maybe one of those has-been rappers who older guys play in bars.

  * * *

  She loves it when dominoes clack onto the table, the aluminum ones have the best sounds, followed by a shout—“Take that, fool!!!”—so loud that instead of offending, it makes everybody laugh.

  Cards are silent, flattering like the poor who love the rich people closest to them, whether because they have a better job or because they once had one.

  The unemployed from large firms are more valued than the employed at midsized or small companies, she knows that very well from her mother, always coming home lifeless, her legs swollen.

  She feels good among those potbellied men who have done well with their robberies, or, as they put it, their businesses.

  Some of them dress well, calling it business casual, sneakers, long-sleeved shirts, the most up-to-date dress pants, a sporty watch that clashes with everything, and gel in their hair, the less fortunate trying to stay closer to the lucky ones.

  They all follow the games, nodding as if all four players are going to win.

  The plastic chairs, the table with garish beer ads, none of it sounds like the old days, the noise is no longer muted, the dominoes are bone, an uninteresting clap of one dull plastic on another, beer in an aluminum can, what has become of the sweating bottles, the cloth on the shoulder or at the waist of the bartender to wipe away the sweat, to dry what drips from the bottle onto the table, where is the delicacy of serving the beer—no foam, please.

  And before, there were the raids, hands against the wall, explain why you have two cell phones, where do you work, nowadays everyone is afraid of hoodies and covered faces, of gunshots and meaningless questions, of rage and massacre.

  And all of that reminds her of her father, and embraces, and chocolate she received at the edge of the counter.

  * * *

  On the corner of the avenue, where like a river it feeds lesser streets, just beyond the new Skol Pit Stop—a franchising trend that has caught on in recent months in the outlying hillsides.

  “Jão, you come in with sixty thousand, and they do the rest, you just find the place, they set everything up.”

  “But isn’t it just a kiosk?”

  “Yeah, like a trailer, there you sell everything of theirs cheap, people come and buy.”

  “You get 1.8 reais a bottle and there’s the fuckin’ special beer that goes for nine.”

  “Like an opium den, except for beer?”

  “Right. And totally legal.”

  “But you can’t drink and drive, and Pit Stop can?”

  “You can, easy.”

  * * *

  Excess of conversation, loud noise, the conversation trying to override the noise, the smell of beer, meat on skewers, barbecue, mayonnaise, urine, counterfeit perfume, hair cream, sweat. Everything merges and everything confuses his thoughts,
for an instant he wonders whether he ought to be at home with his children, with his wife and her endless no’s, his quiet masturbation in the double bed, without a lot of movement so she won’t notice, coming in his hand, cleaning up quietly in the bathroom.

  Every day the same, at five in the morning, Odílio wakes up and looks at the clock, always ten minutes before the alarm goes off. (Why do old people wake up so early?)

  Half an hour later he leaves for the bar, where he always has a cup of coffee and milk. He sits at the seat on the right and picks up the newspaper to read all about real estate and cars.

  In a few minutes he is ready to go into action, walking down the street, looking at the same houses, sparser and sparser, disdaining the buildings and their colorless residents.

  In twenty minutes he arrives at the gas station, greets Claudia, his manager, then shakes the hand of all the employees, goes to the cash register, and begins entering the cash and credit cards from the night before.

  * * *

  Dimenó, a nickname dating back to childhood because of his short stature and his easygoing looks, sticks the nozzle of the hose into the tank, wearing his favorite work sneakers, taking extreme care not to get them dirty, he enjoys looking at license plates, coming from a tumultuous life, la vida loca, he tells everyone that he was saved by rap, a rhythm of the outlying districts, with poetry, always with a social message, which led him to read revolutionaries like Malcolm X and Nelson Mandela. From his old life, what remains is the habit of memorizing the initials, because he doesn’t remember the model or the color of cars where the enemies he has acquired surely are.

  CTO. No, not an enemy.

  DCD. Might be, something like DC cut me off on the Marginal.

  He surveys the faces of everyone in the car, the bearded driver, yes, him. He cut Dimenó off on the Marginal, DCD beyond a doubt.

  The guy with the beard pays and leaves, Dimenó stares, the guy doesn’t understand but watches through the rearview mirror.

  The cell phone rings, Dimenó picks it up, the face that appears causes him to smile shyly, it’s her, he prepares his soft voice, not believing that he ever met such a beautiful girl, and she doesn’t have any kids even though she’s already sixteen.

  * * *

  She manages to get on the bus, the sleepy-eyed fare collector is listening to the boy beside him, fifteen years old at most, short hair, talking.

  “The way we roll is by making waves, man, ya feel me? Pow-pow, bikes revvin’ like crazy, don’t matter if the pigs show up, they give us heat, we give them hell.”

  She passes through the turnstile, sits beside a lady eating boiled corn on a small plastic plate, the entire bus smells of corn and butter.

  Her friend’s house is nearby, she pulls the cord, some guy looks at her legs, she pretends not to notice, she gets out and enters through the alleyway, in a few minutes she’s in the home of Cleide, her friend and the sister she never had.

  Amid talk about creams, cell phones, the best dance, MC Fininho’s new album, they plan the day’s activities.

  The sun disappears with impressive speed, the poorly lit streets take on a somber tone, at night the only ones who go out are those who can or who think they’re going to survive, the evening drizzle will soon fall, brightening the pavement and making the city more sinister.

  The spot is getting crowded, they arrive in the middle of the flow, Cleide quickly finds her partner, Dimenó is waiting for his girl, they kiss passionately. Cínthia says goodbye to her friend, she’s going to circulate.

  She passes by several circles of people talking.

  “The house is real cool, bro, it’s got a pool, bathtub, of course we gonna split the take, right? But it’s cool, five grand, divided, it’s cool.”

  “Except it can’t be like Cleiton, who rented it and the owner showed up saying he’d just loaned it to that girl.”

  “But Cleiton proved it, even had a contract, you shoulda seen all the people, the place was packed.”

  Cínthia walks a bit farther and stops at the corner, her iPhone 5 at her groin, minishorts frayed at the edges, a tiny black top that displays her belly and her piercing.

  “It’s like that here, lots of rookies, see? After ten at night the Pit closes, then it’s the spot and the motels, you just show up and take your pick, it’s all ours.”

  “Favela dance, favela dance, and young guys ready to fuck if they get the chance.”

  The cars go by, bringing more throbbing to the heavy beat, erotic poses, the cars go by slowly, attentive gazes, every girl or woman is inspected, the observing eyes blazed.

  Odílio wears glasses but not when there is a night, now it’s vida loca, a gold bracelet, platinum chain, an open polo shirt to show the chain, a Tag Heuer watch, loudspeakers at full blast.

  “You’re crazy—hey, boozehound, you can c’mon in, it’s all ours.”

  * * *

  Odílio has glasses on, a buttoned dress shirt, carries a binder filled with papers, heading to his next meeting, one more gas station will be open, his son calling and wanting to know about swimming classes. No, he can’t take the boy today, he had to leave everything ready, inform his wife, very busy, he had to pick up his watch at the repair shop, is the guy gonna replace the mechanism? These days that’s how it is, the watch’ll come back with a Chinese mechanism, for God’s sake.

  Odílio and his chrome wheels.

  Odílio and his meeting till later.

  Small businessman—no, entrepreneur. Conservative but out of shape, CDs in the car, polo shirt in the trunk, friends his own age. “Shit, you’re not dead, you’re pushin’ fifty, you gotta live life, you could die tomorrow, your wife’ll find someone else right away, put your dick to use, Odílio, find yourself some dynamite pussy.”

  She is in the flow, in the middle of all the others, the face of a victim.

  Odílio stops, his lips trembling, but he pulls himself together. “Get in, baby, wanna go for a ride?”

  She gets in, smiles timidly, he kisses her on the cheek.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Cínthia.”

  “Man, you’re beautiful.”

  The car tears away, its chrome wheels, its tires screeching, the people at the Pit Stop shouting, “That one’s heading for a cock-lashing.”

  He is going to a hotel on the avenue, she places her hand on his leg, “Are we going to Cheiro do Campo?” With that sweet face, anything’s possible.

  “Sure, Cheiro do Campo.”

  Odílio glances at his cell phone, answers his wife, she doesn’t kiss on the lips, they haven’t gotten it on for months, she doesn’t even touch him with affection, she doesn’t give blow jobs, she’s always tired, the kids’ classes, the house, shopping, her mother who’s always sick, old, washing clothes, taking care of the house, the grandchildren’s birthdays, the stepdaughter’s wedding.

  “Look, love, I’m going to the meeting but I’ll be home soon.” Little hearts in WhatsApp, nowadays hypocrisy via icons, preestablished sentiments. All you gotta do is choose.

  Cínthia enters the bedroom. “Wow, there’s a tub!”

  She quickly gets a Red Bull, he gets a beer, takes off his shirt, she looks at his hairy chest, his white hair, the platinum crucifix shines more than anything, he sits down rather awkwardly, he’s panting, long flights of stairs, poor circulation, a precarious life, always grabbing a bite to eat, not much salad, he saw the doctor, he’d have to cut down on meat, greasy food, fried things, not to mention soft drinks.

  Cínthia’s tiny shorts, Cínthia’s legs, she lets down her dark hair onto her bare shoulders, it brushes his chest while she gives him a peck on the cheek.

  “You smell good, love. What’s your name?”

  “Odílio, princess. Is everything gonna happen today?”

  She sticks out her lower lip and forcefully grabs him on top of his pants, he puts his hand in his pocket, takes out two blue pills, and swallows them without her seeing.

  Cínthia removes her top,
her breasts hard, the blue piercing hits his eyes, the fine hairs below her navel.

  Odílio gets up, approaches her, kisses her on the lips, vigorously sucks her tongue, she finds it strange, he’s thirsty, he grabs, runs his hand over her ass, vigorously, then looks at her face, steps back a little, still with her taste in his mouth, and slaps her.

  “What’s this?” She’s flustered, speaks in a low voice.

  “With me that’s how it is, you’re gonna get hit in the face, you little whore!”

  “Not in my face, love. I don’t like it.”

  “You gotta like it? Keep quiet and take off your shorts.” She lowers her head, feels something hot on her breast: spit. Odílio didn’t even pucker up, it seemed more like hawking, she dries it with her hand, wipes it on her shorts, examines her hair, takes out her iPhone 5, it isn’t the S but the regular one, touches the screen twice.

  Odílio takes off his pants, now in white undershorts, the platinum crucifix, the girl unbuttoning her shorts, him on his third beer. There’s a knock on the door.

  “Who can that be?”

  “Who is it?”

  The knock grows louder, he opens the door quickly, she lifts her head and stops unbuttoning her shorts. Two men come in, black T-shirts, pistols in hand, one bearded, the other quite young.

  Odílio leans against the wall, the men close the door, the bearded guy takes out a cell phone.

  “It might stick. It’s the rapist we was lookin’ for.”

  Odílio a rapist? Odílio hadn’t taken his son to swim class, his daughter of sixteen hadn’t asked him for a new cell phone, she hadn’t seen her father, all day at a meeting.