by Ed Siegle
‘Relationship?’
‘You’re not even upset!’ said Jackie, rising from the table.
‘I am upset!’
‘So why don’t you show it?’ she said with a stamp of her foot.
‘You don’t have a right to demand anything!’ Tony moved away from the counter and folded his arms.
‘He stirs at last!’ she said. She stepped closer, so that she stood a foot away. Hands on hips, she looked up into his face. He was looking to the side slightly, at the ground. ‘I don’t want it to finish,’ said Jackie, moving a hand towards his cheek.
‘Well, I bloody well do,’ he said, and stopped her hand.
Jackie held his hand for a second, before he pulled it free.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I should have told you about bloody Carlo. It was over between us, because of you, though I admit it was foolish of me not to tell him quicker.’
‘Foolish!’ said Tony and moved away. ‘Christ!’
‘I’ve never been very good at ending things.’
‘Can’t say no – is that it?’
‘Not to you,’ said Jackie.
‘Now you’re sounding corny! I preferred it when you were merely devious.’
‘Tell me you don’t feel anything for me and I’ll go.’
‘That old chestnut!’
‘Tell me I’m a bitch and you hate me.’
‘You’re really something, Jackie – I’ll give you that!’
‘Tell me something, can’t you? Tell me to piss off or drop dead. Tell me you never want to see me again. You can’t just give me a shoebox and show me the door.’
‘I can do it however I bloody well like.’
‘Well, do it, then!’
Tony coughed and put down his mug. ‘I think you should leave now.’
‘Tell me it’s over.’
‘It’s over.’
‘You’re making a mistake,’ she said. ‘I’ve made a mess of it, I know, and for that I’m very sorry. But we have something that could keep us spinning along for the rest of our days.’
‘Well, we’ll just have to do our best without it.’
‘Don’t you want a bit more than that?’
‘I’m fine, thank you very much.’
‘Liar.’
Jackie refused a taxi or a lift. It would feel good to walk for a while, she thought. Maybe she’d head for the sea.
‘Your box!’ he said as she reached the door.
‘Burn it,’ she said.
Joel left Liam’s flat and hailed a cab, which took him to a bar on a corner with a black and red sign that read ‘Bar do Paulo’. Zemané shook his hand and Nelson clasped him in a hug. He sat on a free stool and ordered beers. Paulo slopped them down and eyed him as he wiped the counter.
Nelson put his arm round Joel’s shoulder and said, ‘How about a little race?’
‘I’m up for that,’ said Joel. ‘Whatever “that” may be.’
‘Find yourself a speedy ant, my friend. The best are not too big and not too small – watch for the ones that seem most true to their course. Like a sort of English ant – that’s the kind you want – that gets from A to B without much messing around. Avoid the twitchy ones which tend to bump into other ants and dance around and forget entirely what they came for. Be careful when you pick up your little racer – let him come to you, don’t force him – those legs are fragile and he’ll need all six of them.’
Joel scampered out on to the pavement, enjoying the feel of Carioca asphalt on his palms, and he thought how strange but wonderful it was to be scrabbling in the street with the smell of Brazil in his nose. For a moment, the indolence of traditional holidays struck him as absurd: perhaps everyone should travel with a mission – leading to red-herring bus rides to colonial towns, and insect races against scheming local guides. He selected an ant he thought looked suitably alert but which also appeared to have an eccentric streak – tending to turn in a circle before sprinting at double speed. If my ant is going to win, thought Joel, he must have unusual qualities – attributes which might win or lose a race, but which at least will give him a chance.
The ants of Nelson and Joel were studied by the referee – Zemané. A man from Florianópolis once won with an ant-like spider. Six legs were the minimum and maximum allowed. Joel’s ant was larger than Nelson’s and a touch more brown. Nelson’s was slim and jet-black. Zemané approved the ants and placed them under a shot glass on the counter, from where they had a view of the golden pastries below. Hands reached into pockets, wallets flapped open, bills were plucked from the side of cigarette packets. The regulars waved reais at Paulo, who took them and scribbled down bets. The majority put their money on Nelson’s ant, though Zemané was one of a minority with faith in Joel’s.
‘Are you ready?’ said Zemané, placing his hand on the glass.
The patrons closed on the counter, pressing against Nelson and Joel, whose eyes were on the shot glass in which the ants were running around.
‘Pronto, à postos… Vamos!’ said Zemané and lifted the glass.
Joel felt the crowd surge and braced himself, keeping his eyes on the ants. Joel’s ant turned a half-circle and darted across the glass at right angles to the finish. Nelson’s loitered for a while, apparently in no hurry, then sprinted towards the line, stopping short to inspect a stray crumb.
‘Nooooo!’ cried Nelson.
Joel’s ant turned and sprinted in the right direction, overtaking his distracted rival. When Joel’s reached the line the majority let out a groan, while the minority whooped and Joel laughed into the air. He slapped hands with winning punters, counted his money, then proclaimed he was buying everybody a beer. This seemed to draw new patrons from the very tarmac, though Joel cared little as he stretched to pay. The regulars crowded round, asking how an Englishman who looked so like a Brazilian could end up in their bar, so Joel told them about his dad and the news clip, which started them arguing about the hijack again. Joel was enjoying the friendly conflict when he felt Nelson grip his arm. The voices around them slowly went quiet.
Adolfo and Vasco stood in the middle of the road. A black car sat nearby with its boot open and engine idling. With his hands in the pockets of his slacks, Adolfo raised his eyebrows before saying to Nelson, ‘I have eyes everywhere, malandro.’
‘Only God has eyes everywhere,’ said Nelson.
‘Then it’s a shame he’s not looking out for you.’
Vasco looked at his boss, taking his cue to walk towards the crowd in front of the bar. He reached beneath his Vasco da Gama shirt, into a pocket of his baggy shorts, and pulled out a reel of gaffer tape. Nelson started to climb off his stool but Zemané put a hand on his shoulder and pressed him down.
‘Nobody is taking a friend from my bar,’ Zemané said.
‘We had an arrangement,’ said Adolfo. ‘He broke it.’
‘He’s going to pay you back, tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow is my least favourite day.’
‘I’m getting the money tomorrow, I swear,’ said Nelson.
‘If I have to wait another day,’ said Adolfo, ‘then I’ll need a little blood to keep me happy.’
‘I like my blood where it is,’ said Nelson.
‘I can’t take yours. How can you pay me tomorrow if you’re dead?’
‘Then you’ll have to wait,’ said Zemané. ‘He’ll pay tomorrow, like he says.’
‘Take your pick,’ said Adolfo to Zemané. ‘Your choice, you made the deal. I can kill anyone you like.’
‘There’s no need to kill anybody,’ said Zemané. ‘You’ll get your money.’
‘Anyone you like: what about Paulo? He’s a grumpy son of a bitch. How about him?’
‘No!’ said Zemané.
‘He’s been working for me – did you know that? Keeping tabs on Nelson… didn’t do a very good job, mind you – the cockroach kept scuttling away. Want me to kill Paulo? I don’t need him any more, he’s a real snake and he takes up a lot of space.’
‘I
don’t want you to take anyone.’
‘Paulo it is, if you can’t come up with another name.’
‘I’m not going to name anybody,’ said Zemané.
‘How about the foreigner? Don’t think we ever killed an English guy. The foreigner or Paulo – the choice is yours.’
‘If you kill Joel, you won’t get your money,’ said Zemané.
‘OK, then, Paulo it is.’
Adolfo nodded at Vasco, who grinned and approached the bar. A couple of regulars moved to block his path, so he reached into another pocket and took out a knife. The patrons parted. Vasco waggled the knife at Paulo, who came out from behind the bar. Vasco pushed him to the floor, kneeled on his back, severed a length of tape with his teeth, bound the screaming man’s hands, then wound the reel round and round his head until his eyes were obscured and his cries muffled. Vasco pulled him to his feet and led him to the car. He took a truncheon from the boot and hit Paulo on the side of the head, which made a frightening cracking sound. He caught Paulo’s body as it fell and heaved it into the boot.
Vasco closed the boot, turned and said, ‘I’ll be back for you, Flamengo, same time tomorrow.’
The regulars watched as the car drove off.
There was silence.
Zemané said, ‘I’m closing up,’ and everyone drifted away.
Joel felt frozen. He’d seen abduction in a hundred gangster films, but to see a man bound, coshed and taken before his eyes left him questioning his own vision. Was a man really being taken away to be killed? Yet here he was still sitting on his stool surrounded by silent regulars. He couldn’t help but think of the image of his father being pushed into the back of a van all those years ago – except that wasn’t the story here, it wasn’t about him and his dad, but about Fat Paulo, a bit of a grumpy bastard but surely not a man who deserved to be killed – killed! He was going to die tonight – Joel couldn’t believe it – and worse than that, worse than anything, Nelson might die tomorrow. Whether Gilberto was alive or dead, whether they found him or not, Joel couldn’t let that happen.
‘We have to talk,’ said Joel. ‘You need to tell me what’s going on.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about, my friend,’ said Nelson. ‘I’ll meet you at Tiffany’s at noon.’
‘I need more than that,’ said Joel. ‘Tell me about the trouble you’re in, the money… I can help you, cara. I want to help.’
‘Let’s take a walk,’ said Nelson.
‘Where to?’ said Joel.
‘I want to show you something.’
Joel followed Nelson down the street, through a square where old men drank on the benches and children slept in the shadows. They strode into Lapa, along Avenida Mem de Sá and under the arches of the viaduct to where a crowd was swelling up the slope in front of the arches and down Rua Joaquim Silva. Nelson went to buy two drinks from a vendor, but Joel stopped him.
‘What are they going to do to him?’ Joel asked, agitated.
‘Who?’ replied Nelson.
‘Who do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t give me that!’
‘Do I need to spell it out?’
Nelson dived into the crowd, with Joel following, until they came to a bar where an ensemble of assorted men with instruments was sitting at a table, swinging a tune into a rhythm. Nelson stood for a while, in a trance, then started to move a little, but Joel hadn’t finished.
‘Why don’t we do something?’ said Joel.
‘About what?’
‘To help Paulo!’
Nelson stopped moving and turned to Joel. ‘Like what? Call the police?’
‘Why not?’
Nelson laughed.
‘It’s not funny. Jesus! There must be something we can do. Don’t you even care?’
‘I’d give more of a damn if he hadn’t tried to get me killed. Tomorrow Adolfo might just grant his wish.’
‘How much do you owe him?’
‘Two thousand. Same as you owe me… is it starting to make sense?’
‘What if we don’t find my father? What if I don’t pay you?’
‘We’ll find him,’ said Nelson.
‘What if we don’t?’
‘We’ll all be dead one day.’
Nelson was starting to dance as he spoke – in fact, Joel was the only one who wasn’t moving at least a little.
‘How can you dance when you might die tomorrow?’ pleaded Joel.
‘Can you think of a better reason?’
‘Nelson, come on, talk to me, stop.’
‘I can’t tell you any more than I have,’ said Nelson, shrugging.
‘I need to know what to do.’
‘There’s nothing else to be done.’
‘What if I give you the money now?’ said Joel. ‘I’ll give you it now, tonight, and you can find Adolfo and make everything all right.’
‘What about your father?’
‘You can still take me there tomorrow. If we find him, we find him. If we don’t, we don’t.’
Nelson came to a halt. He wondered what Zila would say. On the one hand she would probably encourage him to keep to his agreement. On the other she’d want him to save his skin.
‘Do you have the money here?’ asked Nelson.
‘Shit! No. I was going to go to the bank tomorrow morning. Damn!’
‘Perhaps it’s for the best. I’m not sure where to find Adolfo, and I’m not sure I want to see him any sooner than I have to. He might just kill me tonight and then you’d have lost the money and not know where to find your father either.’
‘You could tell me now and I’ll give you the money in the morning.’
‘And miss out on taking you to him? No way, cara!’
‘Fuck!’
‘Let’s stick to the plan. I’ll give him the money tomorrow night and it’ll probably turn out fine.’
‘Turn out fine? Jesus! It’s just total madness!’
‘Come on,’ said Nelson. ‘There is something I want to show you.’
They squeezed through the flowing masses, rounded a corner and took off across the Largo da Lapa, leaving the crowds and the viaduct behind. They reached Avenida Rio Branco, where high-rise blocks stretched towards the distant bay. There were people leaving bars or arriving at clubs, and the odd foreign businessman hurrying nervously towards a taxi rank. Joel saw kids curled sleeping in a doorway, a woman in rags sitting on cardboard against a wall. After a while they turned down a narrow street to the right, where Nelson stopped in front of an office block.
Nelson and Joel stared at the entrance to the building. A security guard was watching television. An empty soft-drink can and three cigarette butts lay on the step.
‘If I die tomorrow,’ said Nelson, ‘remember this place for me.’
They looked at the spot for a while. There was no chance Joel would forget the place, that much was certain, though it was hard to absorb the fact that here someone had died. Perhaps there are spots like this all over the city, Joel thought, and he tried to imagine a world pocked with black marks where all the dead had fallen. Except that this girl hadn’t fallen, but had died asleep, without a chance. And she wasn’t any victim, but Nelson’s sister. Lord only knows what he must feel, thought Joel.
After a few minutes sitting on the step, Nelson said he wanted to head off. They found a cab, and Joel offered Nelson a lift, but he refused. Through the back window he watched Nelson walk back down the narrow street and wondered where he would go that night. Joel watched the city slide by. Kids slept under trees in the park as the cab rode red lights for fear of hold-ups. The taxi slid past deserted beaches and silent high-rises, dead kiosks and frozen palm trees, shooting Joel towards his bed with visions of Mariana on his mind. And Joel realised that he felt angry – angry for Mariana, mainly, but for Nelson and Paulo too, for a day containing so many tales of violence. And it made him think of his father’s violent side again, though he didn’t want to, and it made him feel ashamed to have a vio
lent dad, and ashamed that he found it hard to be honest about the fact. And he wondered about himself. There were things he shared with his father and things he didn’t. Perhaps it was just genetics, but was there something else? Part of his failure to understand the possibility – OK, the fact – that his father was a violent man came from the fact that there wasn’t a violent streak in Joel. Joel had never really been in a fight, and, although he could think of plenty of people in the world he’d like to punch, he simply couldn’t conceive of hitting Debbie – even if she did throw snow globes. How could his father hit his mother? What made someone drop a paving stone on a sleeping girl?
Perhaps his father could answer. There had to be some kind of reason – not an excuse, there was no excuse – but some explanation as to why? He wanted to ask his dad about that darker side. When had it started? Had he always felt that there was rage in him? Prison must have lanced the boil of it all over them, but was it as simple as that? Were there no earlier traces? Had he hit another woman, another man, in earlier days? There were always stories of frustrated men, or addicts, or men with secrets being unable to control themselves. Of drink prising them apart and shattering them into violence. The Bests of the world got too much sympathy, Joel thought. Any sympathy was too much. Joel wanted to hear his father’s side: to listen to him talk about the cause, or trigger, or catalyst. He dreamed of him saying sorry.
Perhaps nothing could explain it. Perhaps it was intrinsic, just the way he was, the same way that he could sing or had a gap in his teeth. It hadn’t come over him at all; it simply was him. Or, worst of all, perhaps it flashed one day like lightning on a sunny day, without storm clouds to warn, just forking into their lives, then vanishing. A flash like that would worry Joel. What if the same spark hid in him? What if another man lurked, like the man his mother said she’d seen sometimes, hiding behind Gilberto’s eyes, mocking her almost, waiting for his chance to spring into her life with fury? Could Joel be sure this man would not emerge? Perhaps he was sleeping now, or watching, waiting – plotting the right time. What if he leapt out once Joel became a father? It was hard to believe that such a beautiful event could trigger something quite so ugly, but it did make Joel wonder about a darker side of himself. He thought about the white beauty of his car crash, and he wondered if violence could look white to him, as death had that night, when it had shone before his eyes and seemed the most beautiful light.