The Sun on My Head

by Geovani Martins

  THE CASE OF THE BUTTERFLY

  “Nobody’s born a butterfly,” Breno thought. Then he whispered: “A butterfly is a gift from time.” Out there, she, the butterfly, didn’t think this. She was busy fluttering through the night from tree to tree. She was blue and without a doubt had once been a caterpillar. Breno was nine years old and a kid. The caterpillar was like a kid-butterfly. Except when Breno grew up he’d be a man, not a butterfly, and men didn’t fly. Breno dreamed of flying, as a pilot or a soccer player. As a butterfly, well, that was something Breno had never considered. He may have been nine, but he knew he was a boy, not a caterpillar. Breno’s grandma was always saying: “Caterpillars munch on plants and burn your little fingers, but they grow up to be butterflies. Nobody’s born a butterfly.” Now the boy thought, as he watched the butterfly on the window, “This morning, I saw a bunch of little holes on the leaves.” Someone had once explained to him: “It’s those caterpillars.” The holes in the acerolas and guavas were because of those birds. But no one had had to explain this to him, because he was always seeing the birds pecking at fruit, except for hummingbirds, who were always lapping at the water in the flower-cup that hung off the guava tree. “I wonder what caterpillars eat. Do hummingbirds only drink water?” He contemplated this at length and then felt hungry. He walked to the kitchen.

  His grandma was napping in front of the seven o’clock telenovela. The one she most liked napping through. Breno knew this and didn’t want to wake her to ask for food. The kitchen window was open. It was an enormous window that looked out onto their backyard. Breno had sometimes heard people talking about how funny that kitchen window was. His grandma would explain that before being a kitchen, it had been a room, which was why it had a window. Breno thought it was normal. Ever since he could remember, this had been the kitchen and the kitchen had a window and he loved it very much. While his grandma made lunch, he looked out at the world. People who didn’t have windows were the unlucky ones.

  Breno decided the best thing to eat right then was a cookie. “I hope we’ve got some. If not, I want eggs.” He knew how to cook them: all he had to do was light the flame by pressing the button, place the frying pan over the flame, break the egg on the frying pan, and keep scrambling it with a fork. Now that he was nine he didn’t need a chair to reach the stove anymore. He opened the fridge and there were three eggs. He closed the fridge and went off in search of a cookie. A butterfly flitted into the kitchen. It was bigger and prettier than the last one. She seemed desperate, knocking into one wall after another until she became trapped by the closed door. Breno went to the door and opened it so she could leave, and she flew from that end to the other end of the kitchen, where the stove and window were. Breno followed her with his eyes and hoped she’d be able to fly out through the window. An uncovered pan filled with oil (they’d had fries for lunch) sat on the stovetop, the butterfly flitted toward the stove and, just as she was hovering above the pan, plopped into the oil as if it were pulling her in, just like when Breno would pull coins with his magnet.

  He ran to see the butterfly, slowly swimming through the oil. He wanted to take her out but had never put his hand in oil before. It only burned when the flame was on, he was almost sure of it. He ran to the paper towel roll, then plucked the butterfly from inside the pan. He looked at her carefully, all covered in oil. Every single part of her insect body. As he walked, her wings dripped oil across the kitchen. He was certain now: it only burned when the flame was on. The butterfly fluttered about a lot. He tried to set her on top of the window.

  He took the cookie and walked to his room. He started eating. The cookie was chocolate and yummy. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the butterfly swimming in the oil. Her entire body submerged in it. He soon started picturing what it would feel like if he were the one dunked in oil in a gigantic pot big enough to hold children. He pictured his hair drenched in oil, his eyes, ears, mouth, nose. Eating his cookie, he imagined. He licked the finger he’d stuck in the pan so he could better picture his body in the oil. He didn’t like picturing this, but he couldn’t help it. It was like when you go and sniff your smelly hand, or something like that. He licked it and it tasted yucky. Much worse than a chocolate cookie. He remembered his grandma saying that if you get butterfly dust in your eye you’ll go blind. He was scared he’d get sick. Besides oil, the finger he’d just licked probably had some of that dust on it, too. He ran to the kitchen to look at the butterfly. She was stiff, dead. He felt sorry for her, wanted to bury her. He decided butterflies would be his favorite animal—if he didn’t get sick from licking his finger. He would have to tell his grandma not to fry any more potatoes in that pan. He would leave the butterfly on the kitchen window, while the sun was still down. On his way back to his room, he saw that his grandma was still napping. He got into bed and dipped his head in the oil for the last couple of times. He didn’t want to get sick from the butterfly dust, it was all he could think of. Nobody’s born a butterfly. The boy felt fear and something or other in his tummy, was frightened by the thought that the feeling was from the dust that blinds you when it gets in your eyes, and then fell asleep.

  THE TALE OF PARAKEET AND APE

  When the UPP invaded the hill, buying any kinda shit was rough. The spot was sketch; no one wanting to show their faces to sling, nobody but kids pushing drugs. Eight-, nine-year-old shorties. Times I even felt sorry for those kids, seeing them like that. Thing is, we get used to all kinds of dark shit, and sorry’s a feeling you get and lose quick; folks kept on buying drugs.

  Best thing you ever did, meu mano, my dude, was head up to Ceará back then, straight up. Shit got wild, with cops comin’ down hard, breaking into houses, chewin’ out locals for any old crap. You know what they like. Specially with the papers closin’ in on them, you had to see it. Dudes find a gun, half a dozen walkie-talkies and bam, it’s front-page news, with fools thinking they gonna put an end to this trade. You gotta be real fucking thick. Go on, ask how many rifles they found, how many fat packages, how many big-cheese thugs they locked up. Blows my mind whenever I go out for a spin on the blacktop and realize nobody knows what’s goin’ on up here.

  Not long till shit went sideways. Parás settling their troubles with blades, junkies swiping bars, locals, fools even broke into Ricardo Eletro. When hoods holed up so cops could roll in, shit was like no-man’s-land, menó. On top of that, hill’s top dogs had all split to other, chiller favelas. Us locals the ones who got screwed, as usual. Cops always stoppin’ us on the street asking where we goin’, what we doin’. Tell me, goddamn, motherfuckin’ bullshit, we born and raised in this crap just to keep pleasing the brass? Everybody already brimming with hate.

  Soon as trade kicked up again, guns were dug up, folks got put to work, and pushers and lookouts scattered for real, so they could get back to making dough. It was rough goin’ in the early days, with slugs flying steady. Been years since so many shots fired in Rocinha. Almost an everyday kinda thing, you’d wake up in the morning just waiting on the salvo to sing. At first, it was just to scare the cops, show them nobody jokin’ ’round here. But before long folks started dropping on both sides.

  After a while, fools got tired of being at it 24/7, and each kept to their own corners. Cops on one side, hoods on the other, shit started going back to normal. Could even fire up on the street—on the down-low, but you could. What blew was the bud seemed to be getting worse by the day. Get this: couple days after the UPP rolled in, you could buy stuff again, but by then it’s a different kind of bud. Never got that shit. Remember benga, was that slung back in your day? Right, well, y’know how it was dead stale but still fried your dome? I remember like it was yesterday, mano, last day before the police crept up the hill. Vibe was real tense, nobody sure what might go down. One gang thought no way players gonna hand over the hill, that they’d shoot till they couldn’t, then wait for it to make news so the governor would put a stop to it all. Word was the hill was huge, that folks could fan out and keep the pigs from com
in’ in. Shootin’ had to stop at some point, though, on account of the locals. Another gang thought they’d hand the hill over quick, then take it back, no point in them just firin’ at each other, they’d call in the military for sure, just like they did in Alemão. But nobody knew nothing for certain, that’s what’s rough. Worst part’s always picturing shit you know will go down but don’t know how. Right, so that day, the day before they invaded, I went to buy a joint on Via Ápia ’cause at the time I was living in a small room on Travessa Kátia; rolling in, I peeped Renatim, a buddy from back in the day who’d gone to school with me and shit. Didn’t even know he was back in the boca, dealing. Last time we met he was working at a drugstore in São Conrado ’cause he had a baby girl on the way. In the boca, folks acting like stuff was chill, but you could tell something was off. I’m telling you all this ’cause I remember I bought some benga there then—that was the last time. After the cops came in, they started sellin’ that old, dry, stepped-on junk we’re all smoking now.

  Just as folks thinking the worst had come and gone, Ape Face comes into the picture. A son-of-a-bitch lieutenant who rolled up looking for a fight. What really hacked me off was brasshead didn’t give a crap about catching any drug traffickers. His beef was with junkies. Said traffickers only exist ’cause junkies do. Fucking hell, menó, blows my mind. I was back in Cachopa back then, and that was his beat. He blew in savage every day, always at a different time; if he caught anybody smoking or snorting, or if he got it into his dome some fool was on his way to buy drugs, he chewed them out hard. Motherfucker had no mercy, straight up, made the first junkie he caught sniffin’ snow in the boca snort the entire eight-ball right in front of him, all in one blow. At one p.m., the sun blistering. Then he started banging coker’s head against the wall, fool’s face got all mashed up.

  Another time, now this was fucked up, Ape Face drove Neguinho into the ditch. Kid was smokin’ grass on the slope up to Vila Verde when he peeped the cops coming at him and threw his joint in the ditch. What for, menó. Ape Face went savage on him. Shoved his gun in the kid’s face, asked where he got hold of the bud. Neguinho said he bought it at Parque União, that folks was buying stuff down that way ’cause the hill was dry. Ape Face pistol-whipped Neguinho on the dome, and stoner went down on the double. Ape Face asked him again, said he’d put a bullet in his head if he didn’t spill, or he could go and throw himself in the ditch. Neguinho didn’t think twice and jumped. Now folks say he’s got lectospirosis, that bug that’s in rat piss.

  But shit started for real when Ape Face got his hands on a playboy coming down Cachopa slope. Player was carrying weed, cola, pills, lança-perfume, and all that junk in his pack. Sushi’d brought him over for his monthly run. Ape Face started railing on the playboy right there on Estrada da Gávea, in front of everybody. Said that then he goes and gets himself shot, and there’s no use complaining ’cause he’s the one giving money to the guys buying guns. These po-po are a fucking joke, for real, when they spout that kinda crap, almost makes it seem like they ain’t the ones selling the motherfucking guns on the hills. But there’s a twist to the story. See, playboy didn’t wimp out, nah, instead he started arguing with the brasshead, rising and rising. Pretty soon, Ape Face starts backpedaling. Player just had to be connected to pull a stunt like that. And he was, kid’s daddy was a big-shot judge or somethin’, one of them heavyweights who make cops crap their pants.

  Ape Face went straight-up apeshit. Word is he cleared outta there frothing at the mouth like a dog and rolled up the slope hungering to harm. Lookouts clocked and scrammed, dropping warnings to folks on the street. That’s when Ape Face spotted Buiú toking up on the terrace with Limão. Except, like, back then a bunch o’ cops had sent word that if we were gonna smoke grass, we gotta do it on the terraces. Specially since they don’t even know how to get up there, so it’s always been the quietest part of the hood. Ape Face hid ’round there till shorties climbed down. Then, he pussyfooted up to the two boys and rung ’em. But he ain’t done nothing out on the street, not like other times. Instead, he took the kids up to Mestre’s joint, that was already their base back then, and started wailin’ on them. Word was he thrashed the shorties all night long. Folks say they even shoved a carrot up the boys’ butts, some real trifling shit.

  What Ape Face didn’t know was that Buiú was like a blood brother to Pistol Parakeet. And you know, right, Pistol’s batshit, no joke. Specially if you take into account that for a brother who talks soft—even if it’s ’cause of a throat thing—only way to get respect in the boca is to be boss in a shoot-out. Fool made a name for himself back when bullets flew steady, came to be the kingpin’s right hand and stuff. So, Parakeet, who was already hating on those Cachopa cops, flipped his shit after that Buiú nonsense. Went on and on ’bout how he was gonna avenge his brother. At first, folks thought he was saying all that crap ’cause he had to, that it would stop there. After a while, though, people started believing he was for real, even tried to get him to give up on that bunk, to let it go, that there’d be trouble for everybody if he killed that pig.

  No stoppin’ him, though. No brother who’s a man lets a fool mess with his family. I feel him on that. Trouble was Ape Face always made his rounds with four, five other brassheads, and pumpin’ lead on your lonesome against a whole crew just won’t cut it, it don’t fly. Parakeet wasn’t even sleeping no more. He burned through night after night snorting dust and plotting revenge, till the day finally came when his mind cleared and he struck gold.

  What he needed to get the plan rolling was a hot young thing, and, all modesty aside, that’s something we got no shortage of in Cachopa. She couldn’t just be fine, though, she had to be freaky, too, a shrewd-ass cookie. That’s when he thought of Vanessa. How come? First of all ’cause she’s fine as hell, second ’cause she’d been turning tricks for a while now, so she had the chops and the cool to do shit the way he wanted it done.

  Plan was for her to take Ape Face to a shack Parakeet had rented just for the purpose. Dead easy. Vanessa called him aside, like she was an X9, saying she’s got something important to share. So he went, right, who wouldn’t? She says to him that men in uniform get her all hot and bothered, that she keeps on dreaming of him and waking up all wet, speakin’ in the kind of voice that gets any fool hard in a hot minute. The other cops wanted to go with him, thinkin’ they’d have a bacchanal, but she said her want was with him only, and Ape Face liked that—fool must of never boned a girl like her without paying—and that’s when he sends all them other bums back to the base.

  Parakeet was waiting inside the bathroom for Ape Face, an M16 zeroed at the door. Plan was for Vanessa to step into the bathroom and then, if everything seemed cool, send Ape Face in to face the bulletstorm. But, soon as they stepped into the shack, brasshead started pulling Vanessa’s clothes off and, being no fool, she let him, even pretended to like it. She got his vest off, his uniform, then both of them ended up naked in bed. She tried to get up and go to the bathroom, but he wouldn’t let her. That’s when she started moaning real loud, so Parakeet could hear her for real in there. He crept out on the sly, and by the time Ape Face clocked, the muzzle was kissing him. Vanessa shook loose from the pig and spat on that ape-faced motherfucker.

  Couple kids helped Parakeet carry the body into the bush where he set the cop ablaze. Then he hotfooted off the hill. He’d been warned shit would fly if he killed the dude, and shit did. Raid after raid followed on account of that business. But after a month or so, everything was easy again ’round Cachopa.

  After they couldn’t find Ape Face’s body no way, they printed a picture of him in the paper that said: “Lieutenant Roberto de Souza’s children cry at their father’s symbolic burial.” For real, even I—and I hate them cops—felt a bit sorry in that moment, seeing those kids like that.

  BATHROOM BLONDE

  When the school year ended, André wouldn’t even let his classmates sign his shirt. It was his last day there and he was fed up with the place, the teach
er, the students, everything. On top of that, every time a hottie asked him where he went to school and he had to say Antônio Austregésilo, he died of embarrassment. “Shit,” he’d think, “is that any kinda name for a school or, worse, a person?” Even so, when it came to names, he was comforted by the fact that some of his friends went to much-worse-sounding places that, said aloud, invited immediate ribbing, leading to refrains such as: “Ubaldo de Oliveira, entra burro e sai caveira,” go in a dummy, come out a mummy. Or the classic: “Djalma Maranhão, entra burro e sai ladrão,” go in a deadbeat, come out a cheat. At least Austregésilo didn’t rhyme with anything, it just had the rotten luck of being real ugly. On top of all that, there was the fact that André was a repeater in a primary school—in other words, in a school full of seven- and eight-year-olds. Soon enough, he’d be twelve, basically a teenager.

  Everything would change once he was at Henrique. André was sure of it, certain he’d lucked out. Knowing everybody respected his future school ’cause the kids there were badass, he dreamed of being badass, too, and taking advantage of the weekly bouts against the Getúlio crew to make a name for himself. Around there, the only school that clashed head-on with Getúlio in a punch-up was Henrique. Their quarrel was part of a rivalry passed down through generations—one whose beginning no one could explain and its end much less predict—a conflict that held a series of thrilling tales that were performed at no set time on the streets of Bangu.

  André was always spacing out. In class, at mass, during family lunches. He was always someplace else, fantasizing about everything with the same passion and the same sense of urgency. Only on vacation did he feel he didn’t have to daydream. He preferred to keep his feet planted on the ground, to run lightning-fast, to feel the loud beating of his heart. Except, this time, he couldn’t stop picturing his debut at the new school. Even with kites, marbles, and spinning tops rolling during the day, and friendly soccer matches bringing everybody together at nightfall, he’d always find a little nook in his thoughts in which to dream of the not-too-distant future.