by Susan Lewis
Chapter 21
THE SMELL OF the favela was so overpoweringly noxious that it alone was enough to keep strangers out. The houses, if they could even be described as that, were put together from scraps of frayed and rotting wood, rusting sheets of corrugated iron, broken gates or fences, slabs of polystyrene and even cardboard. Some were made from the kind of brick that would crumble if crushed underfoot, while others were no more than makeshift tents put together from worn-out sheets and blankets that, like the rest of the materials, had been recycled from the rubbish dump at the foot of the hill.
The main street that Michelle and Antônio were now climbing, rose steeply into the heart of the favela. Either side of them, hidden alley-ways and tunnels snaked through the ghetto connecting one miserable ruin of a street to another. The gutters were clogged with rotting garbage, the air was so hot and humid that the stench of raw sewage clung to her nostrils and tainted her throat. Flies were everywhere, around the gutters, the garbage, the dogs and the children. The voice of Madonna singing ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’ blared from a radio; the traffic below was a fading roar, and when finally they turned from the main street and began to climb through a maze of dwellings that were stacked on the hillside like old lumber left to rot in the sun the views of Rio and the ocean disappeared.
All around them, faces were peering from broken shutters and doorways, while a small gang of children in ragged T-shirts and bare feet followed them up the precipitous steps. The guide, Aldo, had already warned them that the eyes and ears of the drug dealers were among the kids behind them, but no harm should come to them as long as they had no drugs or weapons themselves.
Feeling a tug on the hem of her shirt, Michelle turned round and smiled as the children ducked behind a wall.
‘Are you all right?’ Antônio asked, turning back to check.
‘Fine,’ she answered and took his hand as he helped her over a pile of twisted metal. The squalor and debris were so dense now that in some cases is was hard to tell the dwellings from the garbage, and the stench of human waste was so thick and putrid, as it oozed in a grey-brown sludge down the side of the steps, that it was becoming difficult to breathe.
At last, Aldo came to a halt near the top of the hill outside a crude brick house that had no door or shutters, just the ubiquitous graffiti that were all over the favelas. Its roof was fashioned from scraps of hardboard and lino, its backdrop was a rising forest of lush green vegetation.
Using an already sodden handkerchief to wipe the sweat from her face and still panting from the climb, Michelle looked up at Antônio who was standing in the dusty yard at the front of the house. Beside him was a free-standing stone sink where washing was soaking in grey soapy water, at his feet a handful of scrawny chickens was pecking the dirt among old plastic bottles and worn-out shoes.
‘Cláudio!’ their guide shouted. ‘Antônio is here. The gringa is with him.’
An old man appeared in the doorway, his thin, gnarled frame held as upright as he could manage. From where she was standing Michelle couldn’t quite hear what he and Aldo were saying, but when, after greeting Antônio, his lucid brown eyes moved to hers and he held out his hand in welcome, she found herself moving towards him as though to greet someone she knew well. He reminded her, she realized, of her grandfather, such was the kindliness of his manner and ready warmth in his smile.
‘You are very welcome to my house,’ he told her in his tobacco-roughened voice. ‘I thank you for coming.’
Michelle smiled and shook his hand warmly. ‘Thank you for inviting me,’ she replied.
A humorous light was glimmering in his eyes and chuckling, he said something she didn’t quite understand. Looking to Antônio for translation into simpler Portuguese, she laughed too as she learnt what he’d said.
‘I imagine plenty of beautiful women have accepted your invitations in the past,’ she countered.
Appearing delighted with her answer he said, ‘I am Cláudio Miguel, Márcio’s uncle. You met my wife when she brought the baby to the shelter.’
Michelle nodded and hoped he wasn’t going to ask if she’d agreed to adopt the baby, as the last thing she wanted was to have to tell him she couldn’t.
‘We have much to discuss,’ he said, ‘so, please, come inside.’
By favela standards his two-roomed house was surprisingly neat, by most other standards in the world it was a slum. Though the walls were constructed mainly of brick, there were several patches of wood and sheet polythene blocking up holes where the bricks had failed. The floor was black, compressed earth, cleanly swept and with a few pieces of threadbare carpet strewn about. The furniture consisted of a black vinyl three-piece suite with a faded pink-and-white pattern and dull-yellow foam sprouting from the tears and against the far wall, as with most favela houses, there was a smart-looking cabinet containing a brand-new TV and video. It would probably take Cláudio the rest of his life to pay off the credit, for it was the only way he, and those like him, could ever afford such luxuries. The electricity had been appropriated from the street lighting below and was carried into the favela by a tangle of overhead wires and lethal junctions. Perhaps the real tragedy of it, though, was their addiction to the sumptuous Brazilian soap operas, in which they got to. see everything they could ever aspire to and knew they would never have.
After inviting her and Antônio to sit down, Cláudio lit a cigarette, then, putting an overflowing ashtray on the arm of a chair he sat down too. ‘I know what a risk you’ve taken in coming here,’ he told Michelle. ‘Indeed, it’s a risk for us all. But my wife said you spoke to her at the shelter and told her you wanted to help.’
‘That’s right,’ Michelle confirmed, refusing to think of Tom and Cavan, who were away in the north of the country right now, so had no idea she was here. Indeed, since they’d got wind that there was someone in this favela who might be willing to talk about Pastillano, Tom had actually forbidden her to go there. And she really wouldn’t have defied him except for the fact that Márcio’s aunt had sent word to Antônio to bring the woman and only the woman. Antônio hadn’t been at all happy about that, as he was very aware of Chambers’s insistence that Michelle be kept out of danger at all costs. So Michelle had lied and told Antônio that she had discussed it with Chambers on the phone and Chambers had agreed she should go. The consequence of that was something she would deal with later.
The old man blinked and looked down at his cigarette. Then, bringing his gentle eyes back to hers he said, ‘Are you taking care of the baby?’
Michelle’s heart sank and swallowing before she spoke she said, ‘Not personally, no. But he’s in very good hands.’
Claudio nodded. ‘We didn’t expect you to take him as your own …’
‘Only because I can’t,’ she interrupted. ‘If I could, believe me, he’s so adorable, I would. But we’ve registered him with an American agency and we’ve already heard of five couples who are interested.’
‘Thank you,’ Cláudio said. Then, getting to his feet, he gestured for Michelle to follow him.
Glancing at Antônio, who nodded for her to go ahead, she crossed to where the old man had disappeared through a doorway at the back of the room and found herself in a kind of lean-to kitchen, where a rusty iron stove, caked with old food and black spotted grime stood in a puddle of rank, greasy water. There was an old, slime-covered sink unit, dented metal pots soiled with burnt food and a pile of old bottles and canisters stacked up in a corner. Michelle was ashamed of the way her stomach reacted, but the smell and the filth were too overpowering for her to stop it.
Once out the other side, he took her further up the hill to where the beautiful Tijuca forest grew more densely and more colourfully than anywhere she’d seen, until they were on a small, elevated clearing looking down over the tragic chaos of the favela.
‘Do you see the river?’ he asked, pointing to a twisting black line way below them.
Michelle nodded. They had passed it on their way here, so she kne
w that it was about ten feet wide and four feet deep, and carried a foul, viscous flow of untreated sewage.
‘Four nights ago,’ Cláudio said, ‘the police came and made eight children jump into the canal. They did it for fun. One of the little girls almost died.’
From long experience Michelle knew that to try to respond to these situations in words was futile, and besides, she was so horrified by what he’d said she couldn’t even find any words.
‘You have saved Márcio’s son from that,’ he told her. ‘And much worse,’ then, taking her back to the house, he sat down again and was about to speak when several loud explosions echoed up over the hill.
‘Isn’t that a warning to say the police are on their way?’ Michelle said, when no one else spoke.
Cláudio nodded.
Michelle looked at Antônio.
‘Do you think they know we’re here?’ Antônio asked Cláudio.
‘It is very possible,’ Cláudio responded. ‘You must remember, there are many in the favelas who are prepared to do anything to make a few reais, including spy for the people who torture and kill us. I expect someone sent word the moment you arrived.’
‘So what do we do?’ Michelle asked, feeling herself tense, despite her determination to stay.
Cláudio smiled. ‘We keep calm,’ he answered and, raising a hand, he shouted in a dialect Michelle didn’t understand. Almost immediately his wife came into the room. She was a short woman, with a thin, angular body and a face that bore all the troubles of her fifty-five years. In her arms was a wide-eyed four-year-old boy who, the minute he saw Cláudio, held out his arms to go to him.
‘My grandson, Paulo,’ Claudio told them, taking the boy and shaking him playfully, before depositing him in the chair behind him. Michelle grinned as the little boy shoved his head under his grandfather’s arm and peered out. Clearly amused, Cláudio swung the child on to his lap and treated him to a fond telling-off. From the bottom of her heart Michelle wished that the so-called upper classes of Rio, who were so afraid of the poverty and crime they were perpetuating, could see this man with his grandson now, for surely they would have to realize then that the poor loved their families every bit as much as the rich; maybe, in some cases, even more.
‘Will you take coffee?’ Cláudio offered.
Michelle thought of the kitchen and longed to say no, but it would be a snub she could never forgive herself. The irony was she had no liking for the thick, sweet coffee they served here in Rio, but in this instance she was going to make herself drink it. Unless the police got there first, of course.
‘Aren’t you concerned about us being found here?’ she said, addressing herself to both Antônio and Cláudio.
Cláudio’s tranquil brown eyes watched her for a moment, then setting his grandson on the floor, he said, ‘They won’t come. They are just letting us know that they are aware of what is going on. In a few minutes we will no doubt hear the signal telling us they have gone.’
‘But if they know you’re speaking to me,’ Michelle protested, ‘doesn’t that put you in danger?’
‘Probably. But I am an old man, I shall die soon anyway. It is Luiz I am more concerned about.’
‘Luiz?’ Michelle repeated, feeling a beat of excitement in her heart. ‘Do you mean the boy who was held at the Inferno? Is he here?’
Cláudio’s expression was grave as he said, ‘The police who have just entered the favela are almost certainly working for Pastillano. They are looking for Luiz. They know there’s a chance he might talk and you being here is persuading them that he is hiding out here.’
‘Is he?’ Michelle asked.
Cláudio nodded. ‘But only for the time you are here. You provide a certain security for him – they can’t kill him while you’re here, unless they kill you too. And they’re not stupid enough to kill an American.’
‘Actually, I’m British,’ she told him.
‘Same thing,’ he said and, taking another cigarette from the pack he lit it and exhaled two lines of smoke from his nostrils. ‘If it happens it won’t be an act of stupidity,’ he warned her, ‘it will be an act of desperation, so beware.’
Michelle’s eyes were on his as she registered his warning and waited for him to go on.
‘We live in so much fear,’ he said sadly, ‘that even to pray has become a risk, because for that a man must close his eyes.’
The poignancy of his words sent a rush of emotion to Michelle’s heart and her eyes wandered to the plastic crucifix stuck to the wall with candle wax. She thought of the thirty-metre statue on the peak of Corcovada, Jesus Christ the Redeemer, towering up there so far above the city, resplendent in its misery, superior in its aloofness as it stretched out its arms to the heavens and stared past the blighted flock at its feet.
Cláudio started to speak again and as she listened she was as surprised by his articulacy as she was moved by his words. ‘The military régime is over,’ he said, ‘but I think someone has forgotten to tell the police and men like Pedro Pastillano, who wishes to become our new governor. If that happens, and it looks very possible, there will be nothing short of genocide on these hillsides, for the false imprisonment, torture and extermination of our young men will only become more widespread under a régime that is already allowed to act with impunity. I can give you many names of those in high places who not only approve of what Pedro Pastillano is doing, but who actually take part in the sadistic rituals at the private prison he has created. These are men you will see every day in the newspapers and on your TV screens. Businessmen, politicians, policemen, journalists, celebrities – people with influence and power. Have you ever asked yourself who supplies the traffickers in the favelas with their drugs?’
Michelle looked at him, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it from him.
‘It is the men I have just told you about,’ he said. ‘The men who run our city. They control the police, they also control the crime. In other words, no one is safe and no one can be trusted. In the case of Pedro Pastillano, he puts on a very good show of donating thousands of reais to the poor, or giving us good terms for finance so we can shop in his stores and buy his televisions and VCRs and hi-fis. He brings us waste food from his restaurants and gives us many promises of good things for when he is governor; he will install sewers, increase the water supply, reduce bus fares, all things that will help the favelados. He does this because he wants our vote and there are many who are so desperate they are prepared to believe him, even though they know that behind the public image he is an evil man whose death squad has killed many of their friends and loved ones. This death squad, which is right now in the favela as a means of intimidation, is made up of policemen and security guards. Its main purpose is either to kill or torture, often both. To exterminate us is as necessary as to exterminate rats. They are almost never brought to justice, which is something, in his own circles, Pastillano laughs and boasts about, just like he laughs and boasts about his prison and the terrible things he does there. Luiz will tell you about that. You will not only find it inhuman, you will find it so repellent that you will not want to believe it.’
‘But I will believe it,’ Michelle assured him.
He smiled. ‘It is why I am talking to you,’ he said. ‘Márcio believed in you enough to give you his son. My wife trusts you too. Have you found a prosecutor here in Rio who will help you?’
Michelle nodded. ‘Carlos Camillo,’ she answered. ‘He’s a decent and honest man who is prepared to do anything, including lay his own life on the line, to prevent Pastillano’s reign of terror going any further than it already has.’
Cláudio nodded. ‘I have heard of him,’ he said, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘He is a good man. Do you know of Judge da Silva?’
‘I’ve met her on several occasions,’ Michelle said, wishing she could tell him that da Silva was the judge Tom Chambers had singled out to be as fearless and incorruptible as a human being could get.
‘She is a good person,�
� Cláudio said. ‘In her court the poor receive justice and even mercy. In most other courts there is little chance of us receiving either. Now I will allow you to speak to Luiz. He has no mother and father, no family at all that we can find. All he knows is that his name is Luiz and that he is around fourteen years old. We know him through Márcio because they were of the same gang. There is not a very good chance of him living much longer, not now that he has spent some time at the Inferno, which is why we have persuaded him to talk to you. If he dies, you must take the truth to the world and see that his murderers are caught. People like you are our only hope.’ He stopped as three more explosions resounded through the favela.
‘The signal to say the police have gone,’ he informed them. ‘But they will be back, so I want you to give me your word that once Luiz has spoken to you you will do everything you can to protect him.’
Michelle’s hand went to her heart. ‘I swear it,’ she promised.
‘He can give you the names of at least two officers of the death squad. He can tell you what happens at the prison and he can also tell you about other boys who have been held there and are still alive to tell the tale. It is doubtful those boys will talk to you, but some have given Luiz permission to tell you their stories,’ He looked up as his wife came in with a tray of smeary glasses that contained an inch of sticky sweet coffee in each.
Michelle smiled as she was handed a glass, then looked down at the grandson who was watching her from between his grandfather’s feet. Holding out a hand to encourage him closer, she listened as Antônio told the old lady what was happening to the baby she had taken to the shelter. Then her heart contracted with sadness as the old lady explained how much she’d wanted to keep the child, but with nine of them already living in the house, she’d really had little choice but to do as Márcio asked.
As she wiped a tear from the papery skin beneath her eyes, Michelle’s throat tightened with emotion at the thought of one day having to say goodbye to a child she loved too. Indeed, with Cara’s imminent departure that day was coming closer all the time, but now wasn’t the time to start dealing with that.