THE MYSTERY OF THE VILA
IN MEMORY OF DONA MARIA DE LOURDES
After the rain had come down—right on schedule—to cool the sweltering night, Ruan, Thaís, and Matheus scurried back onto the street, wanting to feel the wind that had been absent since early summer. Deep in the vila where they met lives Dona Iara, who, as one of the oldest women on the block, witnessed three generations of her family come of age on the land she helped tame. It is her house that the smell of macumba comes from.
The three friends manage to break up a game of footie forming between two speed humps, challenging the gaggle of kids to see who could get closest to Dona Iara’s house, who could best catch the smell of macumba, hear loudest the ruckus of rats, bats, and bamboo creaking beyond the open sewer.
The children advance cautiously through the darkening vila. It barely resembles the vila it’s always been, where during the day they shoot marbles, spin tops, and play tag. When it’s macumba night, everything takes on an air of mystery: the babble of the bamboo grove, the running water, the shadows, the voices, the echoing of all things. The children shake with fear, and together savor every second of that early childhood terror.
Suddenly, one of the kids spooks and tears off. Then, the others run after; hearts race, smiles creep, they look at each other, conspirators, bursting with curiosity, wanting to discover the reason for the sudden dash.
“Y’all seen that, mané? A strange creature crawled outta the river. I saw this humongous shadow.”
“I think it was the spirit’s voice speaking.”
Following the explanation, there’s always at least one other kid who says that they saw or heard it, too, adding to the tension and pleasure of the adventure.
During the day, everybody greets Dona Iara, fetching her cigarettes or word on the bootleg lotto winner. Dona Iara is too old to be walking down to the corner, so she always sends a kid. Sometimes, she lets them keep the change or gives them a coin. On bright, sunny days, Dona Iara really does look like a saint: oh-so-black, oh-so-old, with honey-colored eyes. At night, she’s transformed, by the smells, the wind, everything creaking with life.
“My dad says macumba’s like weed: the devil’s work! First syllable wouldn’t rhyme with ‘bad’ if it was good.”
“My mom says people who do macumba can do good things and bad things.”
“My uncle got possessed by the spirit and ended up killing Magnus, his own dog! My aunt says they done macumba to him.”
When Dona Iara built her shack on the riverbank, it was a nameless place with no aspirations of becoming a street. With time, houses began popping up. Back then, her husband was still alive, his name was Jorge, and he was a pai-de-santo. He was the one who started holding meetings in the backyard of their house. Nearly all the neighbors took part in the gira, even Catholics who went to Sunday mass. But, with the passing of years, the number of attendants fell as the number of churches in the area grew. Dona Iara’s terreiro was slowly forgotten and soon started being disparaged by its former regulars, once they’d converted. It was a hard blow for Dona Iara. After she was widowed, she even considered leaving that place, selling her house, starting afresh someplace new. But it was too late for that. Her roots were bound to that land. And so, she leaned on her memories for consolation.
Once, she had prayed for Matheus, who was burning up with fever. Back then, nearly his entire family had become believers, but the boy wasn’t getting any better. The doctor couldn’t fix him, the pastor’s prayers couldn’t fix him, so they called on the old woman. As she prayed and rubbed fresh herbs on the boy, his band of relatives sang out: “Hallelujah!” “Praise the Lord!” “He is the one true God!” When she finished her prayer, Dona Iara took a sip of cachaça and told everyone to do the same. They did, and then she said the boy would be well. Matheus’s parents said yes, that God was with them, that it was only a scare. Once the old woman left, Matheus’s relatives, peppered throughout the corners of the room, spent a long while looking at each other, and made a silent pact to never speak on the streets of what had happened that night. Matheus spoke of it only to Ruan, who spoke of it to no one.
Another time, Ruan’s house was infested with ticks. All sorts of ticks, all over the place. They crawled up walls, the sofa, they even crept over the saints. Everyone was just waiting on the time when the dog would die, every last drop of its blood drained. Dona Iara went there, killed three of the parasites, placed them inside a matchbox, and told Ruan’s grandmother to cast it at a crossroads. The grandma left, taking the boy with her. Ruan spoke of it only to Matheus, who spoke of it to no one.
Thaís’s entire family are Jehovah’s Witnesses, except for her dad, who’s a drunk. She isn’t allowed to go to the corner to buy cigarettes, or to play bootleg lotto for Dona Iara, which is why she never gets to keep the change or get any coins. She can’t donate blood or eat sweets on the day of Saints Cosmas and Damian, she can’t even have a birthday party. What no one imagines is that, when she was inside her mama, struggling to enter the world on account of a knotty birth, it was Dona Iara who worked to unknot her mama’s belly. Thaís’s mother never breathed a word of it to a soul.
After the fright, the running, the smiles, the glances, the children are all drawn back to the danger. Creeping, gripping at the pebble-dash wall, hiding behind the mango tree and the empty water tank. With each step, their hearts beat harder, their breaths trip over each other. It’s a party. They know that in the end it’ll be a good story, the subject of spirited conversations shared outside Galo Cego bar.
One night, a loud noise cut through the din. It was the door. The children smiled desperately, waiting. Mílton, one of Dona Iara’s sons, ran through the vila, sweating, nervous, and didn’t even spy the children, hidden away, as he ran to the street. “He’s possessed,” they said. Through the open door, the smell of macumba gusted out stronger than ever. The children trembled, not daring to leave their hiding place.
Matheus’s uncle’s car stopped at the vila gate, Mílton ran back home, and the parked car sat waiting. The children looked on without understanding. Tucking themselves between curiosity and fear, they watched the scene unfold. Then the two sons walked out carrying their unconscious mother in their arms. Ruan and Thaís felt an intense urge to cry, and so hugged. The car flew off, carrying Dona Iara to the hospital.
None of the kids knew what to think or do. They stared down at the ground, their words labored.
“I think I saw Mílton crying.”
“Are we gonna leave the door open?”
One thing was true: that time, there’d be no lively conversations outside Galo Cego. The night had been cut short, suspended by a different fear, absent of pleasure. Ruan went over to shut the door; then, in silence, they all set off home.
On the following day, since Dona Iara’s sons had stayed in the hospital, it was Matheus who broke the news, relaying everything he’d heard from his uncle. It was a heart attack. Or a stroke, who knows. One of those things old people die from. “She’s been hospitalized. She nearly died.” This was what he knew.
Thaís spent all week praying to Jehovah for Dona Iara’s life and spoke of it to no one. She included the old woman in all her daily prayers; she even prayed for her at congregation and at their Sunday meeting, even though she didn’t know whether it might be a sin to pray for a macumbeira in the Lord’s house.
Ruan was glum, holed away at home, playing on his own, without a sound or a smile. His grandma, seeing the boy’s sadness, asked if he’d had a tiff with his friends.
“I don’t want Dona Iara to die, Grandma. Remember when she came over and chased away all those ticks? If she hadn’t helped, Máilon would be dead today, his blood all gone. I remember.”
Touched, his grandma suggested:
“Well, then pray to God for her, my boy. Or better yet, pray to a saint. If you have faith, he’ll help you with God. When saints ask, the Lord always answers.”
The boy stood facing the altar at home, staring
carefully at those icons, trying to believe they really could help. Ever since he was a young boy, he’d lived with those figurines, never asking them for a thing. Our Lady of Aparecida, Saint Francis of Assisi, and Saint George were all there. Ruan thought first of asking Aparecida, because she looked so like Dona Iara, but he soon gave up on that idea. He looked at her figure and the words just didn’t come out. He looked at Saint George, this time seeing his armor, the way he conquered that dragon, and was certain that if Saint George could slay a real-live dragon with just a horse and a sword, he could do anything in the world. Without realizing, words started pouring freely from him to the saint. He made his request and his promise, offered thanks in advance, and said his goodbyes.
Even after they returned to the street and to their games, Ruan and Thaís never once stopped praying. Matheus was the one who seemed not to care. When he shared news from the hospital, it was with pleasure, happy to be the object of so much attention. Until Ruan couldn’t handle his friend’s indifference any longer and spat out, in front of everyone:
“You don’t give a damn about Dona Iara, even after she prayed for you when you were sick with fever!”
Matheus looked at Ruan with spite, he couldn’t believe he’d exposed his family’s secret. Ruan clenched his fists. If Matheus denied it, he’d have at him. But Matheus didn’t say a word. He turned his back, leaving the game behind.
It was almost telenovela time when Dona Iara arrived by taxi with her two sons. The car stopped at the gate. She stepped out, propping herself up on both men, and they walked, their steps slow, into the vila. The children scattered home, eager to share the good news. They’d all seen her walk out of the cab.
The following morning, Ruan and Thaís went to Matheus’s house to apologize and invite him to visit Dona Iara with them. Matheus accepted their apologies, but said he’d rather stay home playing video games. Ruan said that, if that was the case, he could forget about the apology, that he needn’t bother ever looking him in the eyes again. Then, since they were best friends after all, Matheus paused his game and followed his friends into the vila.
When the children arrived, Dona Iara was lying in bed, dressed head-to-toe in white; she really did look like a saint. Ruan immediately spotted a flaming candle right above their heads, beside a glass of water, just like his grandma did every week. The whole house had an odd smell to it, pleasant but stuffy. The light was scarce, yet there was just enough to shine on Dona Iara, who glowed in bed, despite her tired eyes.
“Dona Iara, I prayed so much to Jehovah for you,” Thaís said, feeling she had to say something, then kissed the old woman’s head. She was very nervous about being there, inside that house.
“Thank you, my daughter. It’s thanks to God that I’m alive today.”
It was very strange to hear the macumbeira speak of God. Dona Iara saw the children’s wonder and spoke again. She spoke of how things had gone in the hospital, where she’d been more frightened of death than she’d ever imagined. Then she recounted stories from when she’d first arrived on the street where they live, the look of the trees and of the river before it became a sewer, its waters running clean and proper for bathing and fishing. The festival of Kings, Carnaval, São João. The children listened attentively to these words, picturing everything. Then she told the story of certain orishas, and it was all so exciting and action-packed that they felt as if they were all three watching a movie on TV. Next thing they knew, they had to go, the morning had flown past and it was time for lunch. Before they left, Ruan spoke of the promise he’d made to Saint George. Dona Iara laughed, content:
“My boy, I always did tell your grandma you were Ogum’s son!”
They hugged and kissed Dona Iara and left easily, as if they’d been in and out of that house many times before. On their way back, as they crossed the street, not one of the three children spoke of it.
After Dona Iara got better, they went back to playing on days that smelled of macumba. Everything was very much as it had been before, except for Ruan, who, as he played, feared having to lie. From then on, when the children scattered onto the street, Ruan would infiltrate the vila on his own, clinging to the walls and hiding in shadows until he reached the door, knocked, and entered to hear the many stories of the Sacred Warrior, his Protector, Ogum iê, his Father.
PADRE MIGUEL STATION
Back then, crack was outlawed in Vintém. Things had gotten out of control: tons of theft, brawling, disturbances. Crack’s fucked up. What it fetches in money, it fetches in trouble for the folks working the bocas. It’s even worse for locals, because for them it’s just perrengue, shame, worry. One thing’s for certain: no way would the traffickers stop selling, they’d gotten too used to the profits they got from the rock. The solution they hit on was to lay down a law banning crack use in the neighborhood. I can’t honestly remember if it covered the entire favela or if it was just around the train tracks, where shit was more chaotic.
On the train tracks, I’m sure it was off-limits. So much so there wasn’t a soul in sight when we got there. Only thing left of Cracolândia was the trash and the stench: Guaravita cups, rags, cigarette filters, human shit, empty lighters. We sat on the tracks, which are always cleaner than the walls that run the length of the train line to the station. Night had just fallen, which back when crack was legit used to be rush hour. People coming from work, from school, folks stepping off the train or camped out in the favela all gathered together. The night offered protection to anyone who didn’t want to explain their addiction. To those walking past outside in the dark, everybody on the train tracks was nameless, faceless—just a bunch of addicts.
I didn’t smoke there anymore. Besides the smell of filth, after a while that meeting of people hungering for rocks started making me feel queasy. I’d only go there when I had to take the train somewhere; I’d toke up quick, then walk straight up to the station. It’s funny, ’cause in the heyday of crack on the streets of Bangu, I made and laughed at crackhead jokes just like anybody else. But the truth is whenever I spent too long in Cracolândia, I’d start picturing their lives before the rock and feel like crying.
I’ll never forget this woman I met on the train. First, she tried selling me an umbrella, then she started telling me about how her whole family was from Alagoas, and that she’d left them all behind to come to Rio with her husband, to try to make a life for themselves, because it was tough for him to get a job up there. She also told me how, right after they got here, she gave birth to a daughter and that she’s nine years old today. She said sometimes he comes down to these tracks, takes her home, washes her, beats her, locks every door. But it’s no use, she always manages to run away from her family. Then she started crying. She bawled, her mouth open, snot running down her nose, not in the least embarrassed by my being there, watching her. As the woman sobbed, I scrutinized what teeth she had left, wondering if her story was true or if she was just trying extra hard to move me so I’d give her some money. “He’s a good man, he deserves a better woman than me,” she said, and then asked for a hug. The tears running down her cheeks looked real, and since I didn’t have any money in my back pocket, I gave in.
* * *
“This two-real bud’s always wack when it comes in this black baggie,” I said, as I started working on the weed.
“For real, the good stuff comes in yellow packs. Remember the time when you could roll two sweet blunts with a single baggie’s worth?” Rodrigo was always talking about that time, and I was always agreeing, even though I wasn’t sure I could in fact remember; the color of two-real baggies was always changing in Vila Vintém. Besides Rodrigo and me, there was also Felipe, Alan, and Thiago. Back then, we were attached by the hip and always went together, no matter the mission. I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do with my life, but knew whatever it was, it’d be with them.
The plan was to swing by Vintém, blaze, then take the train to Bangu to visit Léo’s new baby girl. Another one of our crew who’d gone and become a da
d. I remember how, mission-bound, that night was the first time I wondered whether the friendships we forged in our teenage years could survive adult life.
“This grass is a joke, for real. Check it, feel that ammonia burning your throat?” Alan said soon after rolling the blunt.
“Fucks you up sometimes, though. I’ve smoked this sort of bud loads, and at the end of the joint everybody’s always limp-faced. What matters is for it to get you fired up,” Thiago replied, chill as could be, slicking some spittle onto the joint so it burned slower.
It didn’t work. Even spittled and breezeless, the joint burned fast on account of the dry weed, didn’t even make it around the ring twice. And all of us still straight.
“We gotta roll another. We walked all the way here, I wanna get high,” Rodrigo said, prepping a napskin.
Felipe was the crew’s missionary. He took the train and went anywhere he needed to get good bud. In the time we’ve known each other, he’s been locked up near five times, and gone through some dark stuff. Even so, the numbers were in his favor; if he were to count all the times he’d chased weed far from his hood and got away with it, five times was nothing. He recited his usual spiel:
“That’s why I’m always saying we gotta get some cash together and buy our shit in Jaca, Mangueira, Juramento, Antares, I dunno, mano, good grass. That’s what I want. Smoking this stepped-on junk is rough.”
“You’re right, meu mano, I agree with you. But it’s gotta be for a sweet package. If we’re just buying ten reals’ worth of bud we should do it here, close to home,” Thiago said.
I’d heard that conversation a million times and was positive the next thing Felipe would say was:
“That’s what I’m saying, man. We each put down ten and buy ourselves a pack of fifty so we can lay back and chill.”
The Sun on My Head Page 6