His name is Mário. I gathered this piece of information from watching him closely as he greeted acquaintances on the street near his place of work. He had two young daughters, one around seven or eight years old, the other four, five at the most. I didn’t catch their names, because, whenever he was with his family, I followed them from a distance, so as not to raise suspicion. In the end, I christened the eldest daughter Maria Eduarda and the youngest, Valentina. Names that suited their babyish, well-fed faces. His wife, I called Sophia. From where I stood, they seemed happy. On the day they went for a picnic at the Botanical Gardens, they played, ate cake, sweets, and looked at plants together. A bona fide butter commercial, with the exception of the nanny, who walked a short distance behind them, dressed entirely in white.
For the first month, I often orchestrated our encounters. During some of these, he felt intimidated by my presence, in others he appeared not to realize or care. I kept wondering when he’d register my existence. Three months. Until the day I saw in his eyes the horror of his realization. A lot changed after that moment. Mário became another person altogether. Always worried, looking over his shoulder. I watched. Sometimes I stalked him in plain sight, watching his tension grow until he was nearly bursting. Then I stopped, stepped into some establishment, acted natural.
Which brings us to the present. I spent a few days wandering the streets by his house. Once a privilege, living so close to work had become one of his greatest concerns. He’d try losing me by walking down different blocks, but his efforts were in vain; I’d known for a while where his apartment was located. Those were complicated days for both parties. I felt I was taking a definitive step forward but was unsure where this path would lead me. Until we arrived at the final round. I started stalking him, as usual, from a place close to his home. This time he didn’t try to lose me, though. Instead, he took the fastest route back to his apartment. He sweated down the street, red-faced. I trembled at the thought of the many possible outcomes.
He entered his building, robotically greeted the doorman, went upstairs. A window. That’s all I could see of his apartment from my line of sight. I fixed my eyes on that point, this time without hiding; if I saw him, he’d see me, too. A few minutes later, Mário appeared, a wild look in his eyes and an automatic pistol in his hand. I smiled at him, in that moment realizing that if I wanted to keep playing this game, I’d need a firearm, too.
RUSSIAN ROULETTE
When he got to the street, they were all piled up in a circle, scrambling over each other. They paid no mind to the sun beating down on their heads and, instead of bickering over the scant shade under the acerola tree, fought for the best position from which to look at the porno photo comics that Oatmeal had found at home while rifling through his missing cousin’s things. Paulo joined the gang, though he wasn’t much interested in the magazine. It’s not that he didn’t like porn or quasi-porn, he was actually one of the boys who most lost his head when he saw women in bikinis getting all rubbed up in Gugu’s pool over a bar of soap, or when he watched Aventuras da Tiazinha, in which a lingerie-clad heroine with a whip blows up bad guys, or by Feiticeira’s dances on Luciano Huck’s show. It’s just that this time his world was turning differently.
“Damn. Check out blondie’s tits. Look, look at the pussy on her. If I tapped a girl like that…”
“Outta the way, man. You got phimosis.”
“Hell no I don’t, show you my cock if you want.”
“Whoa! Not only he got parachute-dick, he’s a fag, too! Wants to show his dick to another guy!”
“What you on about, huh? Your sister can’t even take a dump, that fatso’s gonna blow any minute now!”
“Dude, I’m talkin’ about you, you feel? About you, not your family. Motherfucker!”
“Mother what now? Say it again if you think you man enough!”
“Mother. Fuck. Er.”
As he watched the scene unfold, Paulo had the impression he’d experienced moments like these before. He felt like he was seeing himself from a distance, anticipating every blast of sound on the street, every motion made by those piled-up bodies, every word that left their lips, even going so far as to anticipate that the coveted magazine would fall to the ground, abandoned in the face of the fascination the gun’s presence had inspired in everyone.
It wasn’t the first time Paulo played with his dad’s gun. Every morning, as soon as he returns from the bathroom, he takes the iron out of the third drawer in the dresser under the TV. He likes to feel the gun’s weight, to scrutinize its every component, to picture it in action. He can’t quite make out how he feels about the adrenaline rush he gets from handling the weapon right in front of his dad, asleep on the bed beside him, whether it’s good or bad. In that moment it’s like all the air has suddenly been sucked out of the world, his whole body shivers, his heart races, his dad seems to shift and stir in slow motion, the slightest movement lasting an average of two to three lifetimes. The boy, unbreathing, weapon in hand. The man whose eyes might open at any moment. This is how their mornings go.
It was no secret there was a gun in the house. It would’ve been impossible, in that single room with a bathroom where they’d gone to live, to keep anything from the boy’s prying eyes. When he accepted the job as a security guard and started carrying a .38, Almir decided to talk to Paulo. Man-to-man, he said, even though the boy had just turned ten. He said he needed the job, that it would make things better for the both of them, he’d make much more money than he did at the gas station. He said he trusted the boy with all his heart, which is why he didn’t think twice before accepting the position and bringing the gun home.
Suspicious of relationships governed by fear, Almir often says he prefers to win his son over with respect. He repeats this to anyone and everyone, whenever he’s asked about the challenges of raising a kid without a mother. In his attempt not to use physical force as the foundation of his son’s education, he plays with the boy. He uses guilt and remorse to mold the kid’s personality, his conscience light. For his part, Paulo doesn’t know where respect, fear, shame, and the admiration he feels for his father begin or end.
For a while now, whenever Almir seems a bit more aloof in one of their father-son talks, Paulo wonders if he’s figured out that he’s been playing with his gun, if maybe he spotted him some morning, or if he realized that the drawer wasn’t exactly as he’d left it. In these moments, cold sweat runs down his entire body and he wants to vanish forever.
Paulo often considers never touching the gun again, not causing a ruckus in the classroom anymore, or talking back to old folks on the street. All so as not to disappoint his dad. Only he knows what a pain Almir can be when he’s disappointed. He always wants to talk for hours on end—about responsibility, and a bunch of other crap. Whenever he gets carried away by his words, Almir is like a preacher, and the feeling of being given a tongue-lashing is the boy’s own personal hell. There are times when Paulo even thinks he’d be better off just getting smacked a half-dozen times and then sitting quietly in a corner, just like everyone else. But when it comes to living alone with his dad, the worst thing of all, the thing that makes the ground drop beneath his feet, is when his old man starts to cry. When that happens, he never knows what to do—if he should comfort him or pretend not to notice—and then he feels his face growing hotter, hotter until finally he also breaks into tears, often without understanding why. And so they both sit there, crying like a couple of bozos.
This time, Almir didn’t head back to bed after lunch to sleep until his shift started. As soon as he finished smoking his palate cleanser, he went into the bathroom to get ready. And it had seemed weird to Paulo that his dad had showered before lunch instead of waiting until the usual time, since he only does so when he’s about to go out. He never showers right after a meal, because it’s bad for you, just like they say it’s bad to mix mango with milk. Not just like, but worse. Because that’s the kind of thing people die from.
The boy watched his fathe
r as he moved around the room. He put on his shoes, tidied his mustache, and buttoned his shirt, just like any other day, except this time he didn’t take the gun. As Almir was about to walk out the door, Paulo felt the urge to warn his dad he was forgetting his weapon. Just then, he thought saying so might help raise him up in his dad’s eyes; but on second thought, he was scared of seeming like he couldn’t get the iron out of his head. He asked:
“Not going to work today, sir?”
“I’ll be back in a bit.”
As soon as he heard the gate to the vila close shut, Paulo ran to the door and locked it, leaving the key in the lock in such a way that it’d be impossible to open from the outside. Then he went to the drawer and reached for the gun. They were alone now for the first time.
The boy’s imagination was soaring in the distance when it occurred to him that this might be another one of his dad’s trust tests. The thought filled Paulo with remorse for all the crap he was always pulling, until he began to feel angry at himself. He couldn’t understand why he had to be like that. Whenever his dad told him how he should behave, it seemed so easy. He’d fall asleep with the peace of knowing that tomorrow would be different. But next thing he knew, he was making the same mistakes, finding new ways to get into trouble. That swift and forceful wave of regret hit him just as he was feeling happy. And yet, the boy was so thrilled by the feat that he was soon able to pass through it, clinging to the certainty that never, not for anything in the world, would he be found out.
Everything was incredible, like in a dream, but it just wouldn’t be enough, not unless he took the weapon out onto the street, not unless he showed it off to his pals. The trouble was that right then his friends were all holed up at home watching afternoon cartoons. Except for the kite junkies. There wasn’t any point trying to show them anything, though, they never took their eyes off the sky, not even when the wind blew the kites so they were backlit by the sun.
The battle against the alien robots in the Japanese cartoon on TV just couldn’t hold his attention. Throughout the episode, Paulo loaded and unloaded the gun again and again, pretending he was training for war. When he couldn’t wait any longer, he pressed the iron’s cool muzzle to his chest and dragged it down to his belly button, then pictured what it’d feel like to be shot right there, his entire stomach clenching at the image of the bullet piercing his flesh. He took the gun farther and farther down, until it reached his cock, and then moved it around in circles, savoring the hot-and-cold sensation of that encounter. Feeling himself go hard, he blushed with shame and quickly removed the .38 from his pants. Finally, he loaded it again while singing along with the TV to the cartoon’s closing tune.
“They’re blanks. The bullets.”
“So? Blanks can kill, too. That’s how Bruce Lee died.”
“Huh, how?”
“He was making a movie and then they shot at him with blanks, ’cause that’s what they do in movies, except he died. My uncle said he read it in a magazine. I think they shot him from real close.”
* * *
Paulo had to unload the gun before they could start playing cops and robbers. Everybody wanted to be on his team, which was a nice way to be. When his turn came to choose a side, he hesitated. Usually, Paulo liked to fight on the robbers’ team, because chasing people all the time can be a real snooze. What he really enjoys is fleeing, making his body swerve, flaunting his agility, taunting his adversary. But this time he decided to side with the cops; he wanted to chase all of his friends down, every single one, to point the gun right at their heads, to press the trigger and use his mouth to simulate the sound of bullets breaching the barrel to chase after their destiny.
“.38s are badass ’cause when the bullet goes in it makes a tiny hole, but when it comes out, it leaves a huge crater on the other side.”
“You’re crazy, man. What you’re talking ’bout is a boomstick. I saw it in that movie The Sixth Sense, when that kid turns ’round and there’s this gigantic hole in his head. In the back. That was from a 12-gauge, for sure.”
“I watched that movie, too, you mope. Everybody did. That shot was from a Special. You wanna know more than I do, but my brother’s in the army.”
“Y’all can go on about Specials and boomsticks, but me, I’m all about the Golden Gun. A single shot anywhere, even your foot, you drop dead. Anyplace a bullet goes in, finds its way to the heart.”
“My brother said those guns only exist in 007.”
“And what does your brother know, punk? He’s just a grunt.”
It’d been a long time since they’d played cops and robbers. The craze at the moment was playing for stakes. Nine-ball, ringer, marbles, flipping for trading cards, tazos. What mattered was that it was worth something. Which is why chasing games, Paulo’s favorite, were being left behind. Except during birthday parties on the street, ’cause on those days everybody wanted to run about and play all kinds of tag. Thinking back on those afternoon games, Paulo felt that’s what life was really about, a party.
* * *
“Y’all remember when that guy died right in front of Dona Margarida’s place?”
“Yeah, I saw when the police rolled up.”
“It’s weird ’cause all they did was kill him. They left everything behind, the car, the money, everything. They were probably cleaning house.”
“Yeah, that’s what my aunt said, that they were cleaning house. She went to have a peek.”
“What corpse does your aunt not peek at? My dad said she reads one of them if-it-bleeds-it-leads papers.”
“Not anymore. She’s scared that one day she’ll open it and see a photo of my missing cousin.”
All he wanted was for this to last forever. The awe in his friends’ eyes, the attention he got no matter what he did. How awesome would it be if it were like this at school, too, he wondered. It’s rough not standing out from the other boys in anything you do. Paulo wasn’t the best at soccer, nor at playing marbles, nor flying kites. He wasn’t one of the funniest or any good at brawling. Sometimes he felt that if he were to suddenly disappear, no one on his street or from his school would miss him. And yet, deep down he felt he had something very special inside, something unique that he couldn’t reveal just yet, but that as soon as he did, everything would be different.
“I’m gonna tell you guys something, but it’s a secret. My dad killed somebody with that gun.”
“Quit telling tales, man, your dad’s real chill.”
“Sure, he’s chill, until somebody messes with him. Just like me!”
“And how do you know this, huh, did you see it, did he tell you?”
“I heard him talking ’bout it with a friend, it was really early in the morning, and I was pretending to sleep so I could listen to them talk. They were both nervous as hell. I remember there were other guns on the table, too.”
“You were dreaming, man.”
“Oh, look, the guys are putting the goalposts away. Let’s see if we can use them for a quick match.”
Paulo was knocked back by that information. For the older kids to be calling off the match it had to mean it was getting dark and they were on their way home to shower so that, later, they could hang out by the gates to their girlfriends’ houses, which meant it was almost around the time his dad left work. He hightailed it out of there, without a care to what his friends might think. He was filled with such despair he couldn’t even cook up a defense strategy, like he usually did whenever he was heading home knowing he’d messed up. And, to make his anxiety worse, on his way back he was assaulted by the sad certainty that it was all just a trap laid out by his dad to see if he could trust him. He hated the fact that he’d been so dumb, and he felt sorry for his pops, too, for having a son like him. Though as he approached their house, his feelings seesawed—at times he felt he hated his dad, then he felt sorry for himself—but this spinning wheel of emotions didn’t matter; it was all a steaming pile of shit no matter how you sliced it.
He spotted his old man’s s
hoes at the door as soon as he walked through the vila gate and picked up the smell of his cigarettes. He was sure he was done for. He couldn’t imagine what his life would be like after that day. He walked in, trying not to make a sound, as if such care could save him from finding his dad inside the room. He trembled just picturing how he would look, sitting on the bed, wanting to talk about what had happened. If there was a talk at all; he knew he’d gone too far this time. Luckily, when he finally got up the courage to walk through the door, he saw that the shower was on and Almir was beneath a stream of water. Paulo immediately put the gun back in the drawer and sat down to await whatever came next. This time, he was the one whose eyes filled with water. He clenched his fists to drive away an oncoming sob, said to himself “I’m a man,” and decided that as soon as his dad came out of the bathroom, he’d confess to everything, before he even had the chance to ask any questions.
Some more time passed, and during this time, he remained certain that his best option was to make the first move. But the shower ran on, opening up room for so many more possibilities. If this time he got off scot-free, he’d never behave like that again, he swore this with the same truthfulness as he had in the past. He really wished the world would end before the shower did, but it didn’t. Paulo heard Almir turn off the sounds of the drizzling water, rub the towel over his body, clonk his Prestobarba down on the sink, and then, finally, open the door.
The Sun on My Head Page 2