The Truth and Lies of Ella Black

by Emily Barr

  I like this. I can actually help someone. I can help him with his picture, and I can help him with his English. Everything I have is focused on him right now. Not being focused on myself makes the whole world feel lighter.

  I look around again and see that Ben is watching me now.

  The boy grins broadly. He has a white birthmark down the side of his face, and it changes shape when he smiles.

  ‘Thank you, Teacher Jo,’ he says. His smile vanishes as he turns his attention back to his work, frowning, using my sketch as a basis and filling in every face, every expression. His spectators are happy, shocked, sad, bored. They become real people – rudimentary ones, but real.

  I leave him to it and wander around the room. Dark heads are bent over work, and I look at a cluster of houses all crammed in beside each other, an empty beach, a family holding hands. I stop beside each child in turn and show them how to use perspective to make a house look more realistic, how to sketch out a face, how to fill the rest of a blank page. I do something different for every child. I concentrate completely on each of them in turn.

  ‘Talk in English,’ says Jasmine. She is walking around helping people too.

  A girl raises her hand and I go over and look at her picture, which shows a girl sitting on a doorstep with her chin in her hands, looking grumpy.

  ‘She’s not happy,’ I say. ‘Is she you?’

  The girl nods. ‘Yes,’ she says, and she giggles, looking at my head.

  I smile back and stroke it with my hand. I help her out with the rest of the picture, showing her with rough lines where she can put other houses, the rest of the street, any other people. I add light perspective lines. She nods and starts drawing in a shop next door.

  If I was properly in charge here, I would teach them how to actually draw. Today they are doing what they like, and no one is ever going to critique these pictures properly because, I imagine, the point is that they are sitting in a room working hard, speaking in English, and concentrating on a task. I think they might as well learn to draw while they’re at it.

  I would get them to draw an object that was in front of them, or draw each other. I would show them a Frida Kahlo self-portrait and encourage them to do something like it. I would show them how to shade and, if possible, give them the right sorts of pencils. I would teach perspective and vanishing points. We would do silhouettes, and clay pots, and Jackson Pollocks. I would get brightly coloured paints and show them abstract art. I would take them up the hill to paint the view. I would do everything I could to inspire them, to get them to express themselves, to let them lose themselves in art. Art makes life exciting.

  For now, however, I walk around the room helping them out one by one. I show a girl shedding tears of frustration how she can draw a face that won’t look so childish, and she nods and gets down to work.

  I would quite like Mrs Browning to see me now.

  They are only here for an hour, and when Jasmine claps her hands to bring the class to an end I want to cancel the rules, to make them stay all day, to carry on and on with it. I’d managed to put Ben out of my mind, but he has been lurking there the whole time. Now, as Jasmine gets them to chant, ‘Goodbye, Teacher Jasmine. Goodbye, Teacher Jo,’ he stands up. The moment the children start to leave the room, chatting in Portuguese and showing each other their pictures, he is at my side.

  ‘That was interesting,’ he says, and I cannot interpret his tone. ‘You’re an artist?’

  ‘Not a professional one.’ I feel stupid immediately. He didn’t suggest I was a professional artist. Of course I’m not. I am filled with excitement now. I loved that class. I’m longing to do it again.

  ‘A capable one. How would you teach art class, if it were up to you?’

  ‘I know they’re here for English, but I’d teach them art too. I’d rearrange the desks into a semicircle and get the group working on the same things, and show them techniques. If you could get other types of pencils I’d give them softer ones. If there was paint we’d be able to do all kinds of things. If there was clay we could do sculpture and pots.’ I keep talking, surprised by the words that are coming out, surprised at Bella for making me strong without making me mean. I am also aware that while I’m speaking Ben cannot tell me to go away. In the end, however, I have to stop because it is not an infinite topic.

  ‘Thanks, Jo,’ he says. ‘Look, I’ll need to think about this and talk it over with Maria. You can stick around and help the girls clean the place up if you like, but that’s it; we have to safeguard the kids and I can’t let you stay until I’ve talked it over. Come back tomorrow at twelve.’

  ‘Can I stay now? Please? I’ll do anything. I’ll clean your floors. I’ll cook. I’ll do … anything. Just anything. Absolutely anything at all.’

  The hand on my ankle, pulling my body.

  I need a door.

  I need a roof.

  Ben is unmoved.

  11

  26 Days

  I wake up to someone shaking my shoulder. My hand is in a fist, ready to fight and scream and hurt and run.

  Jasmine steps back.

  I stare into her face. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Sorry, Jasmine. I didn’t mean to –’

  ‘Oh, you’re OK,’ she says quickly. ‘I thought it was you. Jo. Look, you can’t be sleeping out here. You’ve been here all night? Come on inside, for goodness’ sake. You should have said. I’d have got you in.’

  I stretch my legs out and stand with difficulty. Jasmine helps me up and I grasp her hand tightly. I like the feeling of her hand in mine.

  The sky is light and drizzle is still falling. It is early. I can hear engines on the main street. People are heading off to work. I stretch as many muscles as I can, reaching up for the sky. My back is not happy. Neither are my arms. I wonder whether Jasmine would let me lie on her bed for a while.

  ‘Ben told me to come at midday,’ I say. ‘He wouldn’t want you bringing me inside now.’

  ‘Well, he’s not here so he won’t know, will he? Come on.’

  I wonder whether Jasmine knows that I chose that spot because I knew she could be summoned with a scream. I wonder if she knows that she is my only friend in the southern hemisphere. I think of Lily and Jack, longing for them both with all my heart.

  It’s a quarter past six. Jasmine makes me coffee and gives me a glass of water, and I am spectacularly grateful. We sit in a little kitchen that I didn’t see before, and she hands me two bananas and a piece of bread and jam. I do my best to eat them slowly.

  ‘You’re up early,’ I say.

  She smiles. ‘I always am. What can I say? I just like the early morning. But, Jo – you’ve been sleeping rough?’

  ‘Oh, Jasmine. It’s so awful. I can’t begin to tell you –’ I stop. I can’t break down.

  ‘What is it that …?’ Her voice tails off. Jasmine is a nice teenager, and I can see that she doesn’t quite want to ask me for my story in case I don’t want to tell her. I am grateful for that. All the same I don’t want her trying to look me up online so I’d better say something.

  ‘I was travelling –’ I try to tell it in a way that will be compatible with the version I gave Ben – ‘and it went wrong. I’ve done some teaching in Venezuela. I know I look like I’m ill but I’m not. I shaved my head because I dyed my hair and it looked awful. Then my stuff got stolen, and my relationship broke down.’ That is true at least. My relationship with my adoptive parents has definitely broken down. My relationship with Christian burned brightly, and then I ran away. ‘I can’t go home because things aren’t good for me there. It would be worse. So I’ve been here for a while, and all I need is to get back on my feet by doing … the kind of thing you’re doing really.’

  I cannot tell her what I did to the café man. I will carry that secret with me until it catches up.

  ‘You’re so strong.’

  I don’t feel strong; however, now that I’m telling another human that I’ve been sleeping on the streets I can see that it makes me sound tou
gh.

  ‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘Or if I am, it’s because I’ve had to be.’

  ‘Jo, you were an amazing teacher yesterday. I was, like, totally in awe of you. You’re so good at talking to the kids. I feel a bit shy when it’s not the little tiny ones. You really were far better than any of the rest of us. Ben kind of despairs because we’re a bit shit, but he says he just has to train us on the job. He knows he’s taking most of us straight out of school and we’re paying him to be here and getting a tiny salary back, and that’s just how it works. Professional teachers won’t pay to work, and the people we teach can’t pay for lessons, and we’re all native English speakers and we have to get on with it. You should have seen him watching you. He thought you were epic. That’s why he’s changing his mind.’

  I smile at her. ‘That is the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.’ I replay her words in my mind: You’re so good at talking to the kids. He thought you were epic. I’ve never done anything like that before, and I did it and it worked.

  I use the shower again, and by the time the other volunteers get up for breakfast I am in Jasmine’s bed, hiding until midday. Her room is basic, with a metal-framed bed, a shelf for clothes and a little table which has a pile of books on it.

  I gaze at them. Books are a luxury; another world for when you need to lose yourself. If I had a supply of books, living rough wouldn’t be quite so bad. I’d be able to shut reality out much more effectively.

  I pick one up. It’s a children’s book, A Little Princess, and it has clearly been read many times. I remember it from when I was little. I start to read.

  At midday I am still woozy from the mingled sleep and tiredness, but I am standing in front of Ben, wearing my own clothes, which I’ve washed in non-salt water and dried on the windowsill in the strong sun. The doors and windows are open, and the schoolroom smells of hot earth after rain.

  ‘You came back,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah. I did.’

  ‘Have a seat, Jo.’

  I follow him, and we both sit on little tables in a smaller classroom. His face gives nothing away. My plan B is casual theft on tourist beaches. I will try to amass enough money that way to buy myself a ticket to the north of Brazil and a new life. Someone in northern Brazil might want me to teach them English. It seems to be the only skill I have, and as I don’t have a passport I can’t leave the country.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Maria,’ Ben says. ‘She wanted to come and meet you but she’s teaching all day over in Vidigal, so she can’t. Look, Jo. This is unorthodox, and you must understand why we’re hesitant.’

  I close my eyes. He’s going to tell me to go away. I know he is.

  ‘However, you did a good job yesterday, and we’d like you to try teaching art with us, just temporarily, one day at a time. You can also help with the other classes.’ He takes a few pieces of paper out of his bag and pushes them towards me. ‘I’ll need you to fill all this in – passport number and references and so on – and then we need to talk about money.’

  I want to hug him. I want to kiss him. I manage not to.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, trying to be prim, trying not to allow my feelings into my voice. My emotions escape as tears fill my eyes, and I blink them away though I know he sees.

  ‘We can’t pay you – as you know, you need to pay us. However, we can feed you with the rest of the volunteers. You clearly need shelter, and I’ve just spoken to Jasmine and she’s happy to share with you, so we’ll put a mattress on her floor. I’m sensing that would be acceptable to you.’

  ‘That would be amazing. I mean it. The most –’

  I have to stop talking because I am choked up. I screw my eyes shut for a moment and try to take deep breaths. I must not fall apart now that I have a lifeline. I must not. I could ruin it all. I take the pieces of paper. I’ll fill them in with rubbish and hope for the best.

  A roof over my head. A place to sleep. Food. I am swaying, and there is a ringing sound in my ears, but it’s not Bella. Bella has kept me going through the past few days. Bella has been working with me, not against me, and the ringing in my ears is just exhaustion and relief.

  ‘Take a moment.’ I feel Ben’s hand on my shoulder and keep my eyes closed as he holds me steady. I don’t speak for a long time. I can’t.

  ‘I’ll do anything,’ I say when I pull myself together. ‘I’ll do everything. I’m a terrible cook, but I’ll learn. I’ll clean. I’m just so grateful. I’ll be the best teacher you’ve ever had.’

  He nods and stands up. ‘I hope so.’

  I fill the paperwork in carefully, calling myself Josephine Marsh and inventing a passport number, and help with every class for the rest of the day. I make drinks for everyone. I want to cook, but they won’t let me because some volunteers called Scott and Clara are on the rota, and I can see I’m annoying them by asking for something to do.

  In the end I go for a walk because I don’t want them to get sick of me before I’ve properly arrived. I expect they need space to talk about me, as there are ten volunteers living there, and nine of them have only just met me. I walk to the main street, the Estrada de Gávea, and spend an hour wandering the pathways. It feels different now that I have a purpose, a home, a job.

  I end up in the juice bar at the bottom of the hill, the first place I ever visited in Rocinha. I want to go back to the me who stepped out of that taxi with her cash concealed all around her body, and tell her to do it differently. I want to send her straight to the English school, to hand her cash directly to Ben and apply to join the programme properly.

  I have enough money for a juice, and so I order the first one I had here before, the pink one with strawberries and watermelon. I sit at a table and prepare to make it last.

  While I drink, I watch people coming and going. There is a man selling goat carcasses, hung up around a doorway. Another is the same street barber who shaved off my hair: he sees me looking and raises a hand in greeting. I can see someone welding, someone selling brightly coloured clothes. Buses pull in, and people get on and off them. Power lines cluster overhead. Taxis pull up. Motorbikes buzz around. A family at the next table are having an argument, but they don’t seem to be properly angry. I like sitting and observing. I like sipping my juice through its straw, and knowing that it is full of vitamins, that it will sustain me.

  I like knowing that I have a place to sleep tonight, that I have work to do, that I will be part of a community. The relief is so overwhelming that I have to make a conscious effort not to collapse.

  I watch a taxi pulling up. A man gets out. He is wearing a suit even though he must be hot, and he is half bald, with black hair combed over. He pays the driver through the window and strides off up the hill, clearly with a place to be.

  A police car goes slowly by. I look down at the table. They might still be looking for me and I still don’t want to be seen. I don’t think I look like my old self at all: I have lost weight and I feel utterly different with my bare head. All the same, I am the person they’ve been looking for.

  The next taxi to pull in disgorges a white woman with long tangled hair. She is wearing a lime-green dress and sandals. I watch her pay her driver and set off up the hill, swinging a small backpack. I’ve seen her before. A little way up she meets another woman – the fat one, who is definitely local – and they walk together, deep in conversation.

  The next taxi brings three men in their twenties, who pile out laughing and come in here and sit at a nearby table, pushing each other and talking loudly. I shrink away: the last thing I want now is attention from anyone at all.

  I finish the juice quickly and walk back towards the English school. Home. It feels odd to call it that, but it is my home more than anywhere else is at the moment.

  Home is a strange concept. I wonder if I actually need one.

  12

  20 Days

  I wake up early (I cannot imagine sleeping in ever again) and make my bed quietly so I don’t disturb Jasmine, who is fast asleep wit
h her hair fanned out all over the pillow. My bed is a mattress on the floor, and it’s the best thing ever. I’ve been here six days now, and while Jasmine gets up early and does stretches and writes her diary with a coffee at her side, I tend to get up earlier still.

  Before I went to sleep I was reading To Kill a Mockingbird. Ben is right: the books collection here is random, but there are some legitimate classics and I’m going to make my way through them one by one. When I leave the room I take the book with me and creep downstairs, where I unlock the door and sit on the doorstep looking out at the alley. I slept out here six nights ago, and now I sleep just a few metres away, but it’s a different universe.

  This is the only part of my day that’s not busy. The sun shines down on the alleyway, and although it doesn’t reach my face I stretch my bare feet out into its warmth. Today I am going to be teaching some classes of kids; cooking; showing some of the other volunteers how to do some art things; sorting through a box of picture books that have arrived from a former volunteer. I like my quiet dawn coffees, but I like the packed days more. I need to be such a part of life here that no one will ever be able to manage without me. I’ve told Ben and Maria, who has long grey hair and a kind face, that I don’t want any time off.

  ‘I want to work all day every day until I can pay you what I owe,’ I told her. I will get the money from home at some point, when I dare. I will have to.

  ‘You have to have at least one day off a week, sweetie,’ she said, but I work through it anyway.

  Life is Technicolor and I appreciate every single moment. When there is food I eat slowly and savour it. That is a habit I want to hold on to. When I get into my bed on Jasmine’s floor I stretch out and close my eyes and feel intensely thankful for the luxury of a place to sleep, and walls and a roof and a door.

  I see now why people go to church, why they pray. You don’t have to believe in any god to feel the need to stop from time to time and thank the universe for the fact that you are all right. Life is fragile, and to be safe and fed and busy is an incredible piece of luck. I stare down the quiet alley, where a feral cat is pacing about looking for scraps, and take a deep breath. I thank the world for sending me here. I feel safe. No doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.