by Jorge Amado
Lollipop had been Father José Pedro’s great conquest among the Captains of the Sands. He had the reputation of being one of the evilest of the gang, they said that once he’d put a knife to the throat of a boy who didn’t want to loan him money and stuck it in slowly, without trembling, until blood began to flow and the other one gave him everything he wanted. But they also said that he took his switchblade and cut Chico Lardass when the mulatto was torturing a cat that had ventured into the warehouse in search of rats. On the day that Father José Pedro began to talk about God, heaven, Christ, kindness, and mercy, Lollipop began to change. God was calling him and he heard his powerful voice in the warehouse. He saw God in his dreams and he heard the call of God that Father José Pedro spoke about. And he turned completely around for God, heard God’s voice, prayed to pictures that Father José Pedro had given him. The first day they began to make fun of him in the warehouse. He smacked one of the younger ones and the rest fell silent. The next day the priest told him that he’d done a bad thing, that you had to suffer for God, and then Lollipop gave his switchblade, which was almost new, to the boy he had hit. And he didn’t hit anyone anymore, avoided fights, and if he didn’t avoid stealing it was because that was the means of life they had, they had no other way at all. Lollipop heard the call of God, which was intense, and he wanted to suffer for God. He would kneel for hours on end in the warehouse, sleep on the bare floor, pray even when sleep was trying to make him keel over, flee the black girls who offered him love on the hot waterfront sands. But then he was in love with God-pure-goodness and he suffered in order to pay for the suffering God had gone through on earth. Then came that revelation of the God of justice (God became vengeance for Lollipop) and the fear of God entered his heart and mingled with his love of God. His prayers were longer, the terrors of hell mingled with the beauty of God. He would fast all day long and his face became thin like a hermit’s. He had the eyes of a mystic and he thought he saw God in his dreams at night. For that reason he kept his eyes away from the buttocks and breasts of the black girls who walked along as though dancing before everybody’s eyes on the poor streets of the city. His hope was to be a priest of his God someday, to live only for his contemplation, to live only for him. The goodness of God made him hope to attain it. The fear of God’s taking vengeance for Lollipop’s sins made him despair.
And it’s that love and that fear that make Lollipop hesitate in front of the display that noon hour, full of beauty. The sun is soft and clear, the flowers are open in the park, there is peace and calm all around. But more beautiful than everything is the image of the Virgin of the Immaculate Conception and Child in the showcase of that shop with a single door. In the window are pictures of saints, prayer books with deluxe bindings, gold rosaries, silver reliquaries. But inside, right at the end of the display of silver that reaches the door, the image of the Virgin of the Immaculate Conception holds the Child out to Lollipop. Lollipop thinks that the Virgin is handing him God, God a child and naked, poor like Lollipop. The sculptor had made the Child thin and the Virgin sad over the thinness of her Child, showing him to men who were fat and rich. That’s why the image is there and not sold. The Child in images is always fat, the look of a rich child, a Rich God. There he’s a Poor God, a poor child, just like Lollipop, even more like the youngest member of the gang, exactly like a babe in arms a few months old who’d been abandoned on the street when his mother died of an attack while she was carrying him in her arms and Big João brought him to the warehouse where he stayed until nightfall (the children returned and peeped in and laughed at the Professor and the Big Fellow bustling about getting milk and water for the baby), when the mãe-de-santo Don’Aninha came and took him with her, nestling him on her breast. Except that he was a black child and the Child is white. In everything else the likeness is exact. The Child, thin and poor, even has a weepy face in the arms of the Virgin. And she’s offering him to Lollipop, to Lollipop’s caresses, to Lollipop’s love. Outside the day is beautiful and the sun is soft, the flowers are in bloom. Only the Child is hungry and cold on that day. Lollipop will take him to the warehouse of the Captains of the Sands. He will pray for him, take care of him, feed him with his love. Can’t they see that unlike all the other images he isn’t held in the Virgin’s arms, he’s loose in her hands, that she’s offering him to Lollipop’s love? He takes a step. Inside the store there’s only a young woman, waiting for customers and painting her lips with a new brand of lipstick. It would be quite easy to lift the Child. Lollipop takes another step, but the fear of God assaults him. And he stands still, thinking.
He’d sworn to God, in his fear, that he’d only steal to eat or when it was something commanded by the laws of the gang, a robbery where he’d been appointed by Pedro Bala. Because he thought that breaking the laws (they’d never been written down but they existed in the conscience of each one) of the Captains of the Sands was also a sin. And now he was going to steal only to have the Child with him, to feed it with his love. It was a sin, it wasn’t in order to eat, nor was it to fulfill the laws of the gang. He was going to steal in order to have the Child with him, to feed it with his love. It was a sin, it wasn’t in order to eat or to drive off the cold. God was just and he would punish him, he would give him the fire of hell. His flesh would burn, his hands, which had carried off the Child, would burn for a lifetime that never ended. The Child belonged to the owner of the store. But the owner of the store had so many and all fat and rosy, he wouldn’t miss just one, a skinny cold one! The others had their bellies wrapped in expensive diapers, always blue but made of rich material. This one was completely naked, his belly was cold, he was thin, not even the sculptor had had pity on him. And the Virgin was offering him to Lollipop, the Child was loose in her arms…The owner of the store had so many…How could he miss this one? Maybe he wouldn’t care, maybe he would even laugh when he found out that Child had been stolen, the one he’d never been able to sell, who was loose in the Virgin’s arms, before whom the church biddies who had come to buy things would say with horror:
“Not that one…It’s so ugly, God forgive me…And, besides, it’s not being held in the arms of Our Lady. If it falls to the floor that’s that. Not that one…”
And the Child remained there. The Virgin was offering him to the love of passersby, but no one wanted him. The church biddies didn’t want to take him to their altars where the Christ Childs wear golden sandals, with gold crowns on their heads. Only Lollipop saw that the Child was hungry and thirsty, he was cold too and he wanted to take him. But Lollipop had no money, nor was he in the habit of paying for things. Lollipop could take him with him, could give the Child something to eat, to drink, to wear, everything lifted because of his love of God. But if he did it God would punish him, hell’s fire would consume him, for a lifetime that never ended, his hands, which had taken the Child, his head, which had thought of taking the Child. Then Lollipop remembered that just thinking about it was a sin. That he was sinning by just thinking about committing the sin. The German monk had said that many times a person sinned with his thought. Lollipop was sinning, he felt that he was sinning, he was afraid of God and he started running so as not to go on sinning. But he didn’t run very far, he stopped on the corner, he couldn’t stay too far away from the image. He looked into other windows, in that way he wasn’t sinning. He put his hands into his pockets (he held his hands…), he turned his thoughts away. But now men returning to work after lunch were passing in front of him and a thought seized him: in a little while the other employees of the store would return and it would be impossible to take the Child. It would be impossible…And Lollipop went back to the store with religious objects.
There was the Child, and the Virgin was offering him to Lollipop. A clock struck one in the afternoon. The other employees wouldn’t be long in returning. How many of them were there? Even if only one, the shop was so small that it would be impossible to take the Child. The Virgin seems to be telling him that. It’s the Virgin who’s telling him that i
f he doesn’t take the Child now he won’t be able to take it again, she seems to be saying just that. And it must have been she, yes, it was she, who made the young woman go behind the curtain in the back of the store and leave it empty. Yes, it was the Virgin who is now holding the Child out to Lollipop as far as her arms can reach and calling to him in her sweet voice:
“Take him and take care of him…Take good care of him…”
Lollipop comes forward. He sees hell and God’s punishment, his hands and his head burn in a life that never ends. But he shakes his body as if tossing the vision far away from him, receives the Child that the Virgin hands him, holds it against his breast and disappears down the street.
He doesn’t look at the Child. But he feels that now, held tightly against his chest, the Child is smiling, he’s not hungry anymore, or thirsty, or cold. The Child is smiling the way the little black baby who was only a few months old smiled when he found himself in the warehouse and saw that Big João was giving him spoonfuls of milk with his enormous hands, while the Professor held him tight against the warmth of his chest.
That’s how the Child was smiling.
FAMILY
It was Good-Life who told Pedro Bala that in the house there in Graça they had enough gold things to scare you. The owner of the house, from the looks of it, was a collector, Good-Life had heard a drifter say that there was a room in the house filled to the brim with gold and silver objects that would fetch a fortune in a pawnshop. That afternoon Pedro Bala went to take a look at the house with Good-Life. It was a modern, elegant building with a garden in front and a garage in back, the spacious residence of rich people. Good-Life spat between his teeth, making a flower on the sidewalk with his spit, and he said:
“And they say only two old-timers live in all this, how about that?”
“A wild setup…” Pedro Bala commented.
A maid opened the front door and went out into the garden. In the hallway, which was in their sight, they spotted pictures on the wall, statuettes on tables. Pedro Bala laughed:
“If Professor could see this he’d go out of his mind…I never saw anyone so hung up on books and painting.”
“He’s going to paint a picture of me this big…” and Good-Life showed the size by spreading out his arms.
Pedro Bala looked at the house again, moved a little closer to the garden, whistling. The maid was picking flowers and her white breasts were showing as she leaned over. Pedro Bala took a peek. They were white breasts, ending in red tips. Good-Life sighed beside him:
“There’s gold in those hills, Bullet…”
“Shut up.”
But the maid had already seen them and was looking at them as if to ask what they wanted. Pedro Bala took off his cap and asked:
“Could you give us a mug of water, please? The sun’s knocking us out…” and he smiled, wiping his head with his cap as the sweat ran down. He was quite red in the sun, his long, blond hair hanging down over his ears in unkempt waves and the maid looked at him in a friendly way. Beside him Good-Life was smoking a cigar butt, with one foot on the garden fence. The maid first spoke to Good-Life with disdain:
“Get your foot off there…”
Then she smiled at Pedro Bala:
“I’ll go get some water…”
She came back with two glasses of water and they were glasses such as they had never seen before, they were so pretty. They drank the water. Pedro Bala thanked her:
“Thanks a lot…” and in a low voice…“beautiful.”
The maid also spoke in a low voice:
“Fresh kid…”
“What time do you get off work?”
“Watch your step. I’ve got my man. He waits for me at nine o’clock on that corner…”
“Well, tonight I’ll be on the other one…”
They went down the street, Good-Life smoking his cigar butt, fanning his face with the straw hat he wore. Pedro Bala commented:
“I really am nice…It’s all in the gab…”
Good-Life spat between his teeth again:
“With that female hair of yours too, all full of curls…”
Pedro Bala laughed and shook his fist at Good-Life:
“Don’t be jealous, you halfbreed loafer…”
Good-Life changed the subject:
“What about the pile of gold?”
“First it’s a job for Legless…Tomorrow he’ll try to get into the house and spend a few days living there. After he finds out where the things are we’ll come along, five or six of us, and get all the gold…”
“And you’ll lose your little dish?”
“The maid? Tonight, right off…At nine o’clock sharp I’ll be there…”
He turned around. He looked at the house. The maid was leaning over the fence. Pedro Bala waved. She answered. Good-Life spat:
“The damnedest luck, I’ve never seen the like of it.”
The next day, around eleven-thirty in the morning, Legless put in an appearance at the front of the house. When he rang the bell the maid must have been still thinking about the night she’d spent with Pedro Bala in her room in Graça because she didn’t hear the ringing. The boy rang again and in the window of a room on the second floor the gray head of a lady appeared as she squinted at Legless:
“What is it, son?”
“Lady, I’m a poor orphan…”
The lady signaled him to wait and in a few minutes she was at the door, not even listening to the maid’s excuses for why she hadn’t answered the bell:
“You can talk, son.” She was looking at Legless’s rags.
“Ma’am, I haven’t got any father, my mother was called to heaven just a few days ago.” He showed her a black ribbon on his arm, a ribbon he’d made from the band of Cat’s new hat and Cat had raised hell. “I haven’t got anybody in the world, I’m crippled, I can’t do much work, I haven’t set eyes on anything to eat for two days and I haven’t got a place to sleep.”
He looked as if he were about to cry. The lady watched him, very moved:
“Are you crippled, son?”
Legless showed her his lame leg, walked in front of her, exaggerating the defect. She looked at him with compassion:
“What did your mother die of?”
“I really don’t know. She got something funny, poor thing, a bad fever, she kicked off in five days. And she left me alone in the world…If I could handle work I’d find something. But with this bad leg only in some private house. Don’t you need a boy to run errands, help around the house? If you do, ma’am…”
And since Legless thought she was still undecided he finished it off cynically with a teary voice:
“If I wanted to I could join up with those boy bandits. With those Captains of the Sands as they’re called. But I’m not like that, what I want is work. Except I can’t take any heavy work. I’m a poor orphan, I’m hungry…”
But the lady wasn’t undecided. She was remembering her son who had died at the same age as that one and who, when he died, had killed all her joy and that of her husband. The latter still had his art collection, but all she had was the memory of that son who’d left her so early. That’s why she looked at ragged Legless with great warmth and when she spoke to him her voice had a sweetness different from her usual tone. There was something of a touch of joy in the softness of her voice that startled the servant:
“Come in, son. Let me find some work for you…” She put her thin aristocratic hand where a single stone flashed on Legless’s dirty head and spoke to the servant. “Maria José, fix up the room over the garage for this boy. Show him the bathroom, give him a robe of Raul’s, and then get him something to eat…”
“Before serving lunch, Dona Ester?”
“Before lunch, yes. He hasn’t eaten for two days, poor thing.”
Legless didn’t say anything, he only dried his fake tears with the back of his hand.
“Don’t cry…” the lady said, stroking the child’s face.
“You’re so good, ma’am. Go
d will repay you…”
Then she asked what his name was and Legless gave the first name that came into his head:
“Augusto…” and as he repeated the name to himself so he wouldn’t forget that his name was Augusto, at first he didn’t see the emotion produced in the lady as she murmured:
“Augusto, the same name…”
As Legless was looking at her face now, she said aloud with emotion:
“My son’s name was Augusto too…He died when he was just your size…But come in, son, go wash up for lunch.”
Dona Ester went with him, deeply moved. She saw to it that the servant showed Legless the bathroom, gave him a robe, and went to the room over the garage to clean it up (the chauffeur had quit, the room was empty). Dona Ester came closer, said to Legless, who had stopped at the door of the bathroom:
“You can throw those clothes away. Maria José will bring you some clothes later…”
Legless watched the lady as she went away now and he was angry, but he didn’t know whether at her or at himself.
Dona Ester sat down at her dressing-table, her eyes staring, anyone who saw her would have thought she was looking through the window at the sky. She really wasn’t looking at anything, however, she didn’t see anything. She was looking, yes, inside herself, at her memories of years ago and she saw a boy of Legless’s age dressed in a sailor suit running in the garden of the other house, which they had moved out of after he died. He was a boy full of life and happiness, he liked to laugh and play. When he was tired of running with the cat, climbing on the seesaw in the garden, throwing the rubber ball in the yard for the German shepherd to catch, he would come and put his arms around Dona Ester’s neck, kiss her cheek, and stay with her, looking at picture books, learning how to read and write the letters. In order to have him close to them for the longest time possible, Dona Ester and her husband had decided to teach their son his first lessons at home. One day (and Dona Ester’s eyes filled with tears) the fever came. Then the small coffin went out the door and she watched it with eyes of horror, unable to comprehend that her son had died. His picture, an enlargement, is in her room but still covered by a cloth because she doesn’t like looking at her son’s face again so as not to revive her anguish. The clothes he wore are also all put away in his small trunk and they’ll never be touched again. But now Dona Ester takes the keys out of her jewel box.