Childhood of the Dead (13 page)

The cat jumped off the chair when he saw Mother Dolores come in. Dito hurried to thank her for the coffee. She had combed her hair and changed clothes. She had on a colorful print dress and appeared as happy as usual. Instead of taking the tray away, she sat by his bed, “What about that foot. Is it still hurting?”

Dito shook his head, a couple more days and he would be fine.

“May God keep you, to protect you from the same fate as your friend's.”

“Smokey?”

“No. The one you came here trying to find out why they had taken him to jail.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He spent some days in jail, they placed him in the Reformatory. One day he ran away with a group of other boys. He ended up in Santa Teresa neighborhood where he killed a young man who was walking in the street with his fiancée. All the newspapers covered the story, last week. A corporal was here and said they had taken him to a prison farm. How old is that boy?”

“He's about fourteen. No more than that.”

She grabbed the tray and said, “Don't let them touch you, son. Things are getting worse every day. I know how it is. I was raised in the streets. I didn't die of hunger because God was with me and Yemanja protected me.”

When she went away Dito remembered the prison farm. He wondered if it had been the one he came from. Would Manguito have been one of the boys in the cells, who had nothing to eat or drink for over a week? Possibly. But the evil they had done to Manguito had been avenged. Would Manguito be able to return to the streets, just as in the days they had tried to make a living at the market? He didn't know what to think. It would be better if he didn't think about those things that made him waver in his goals. He was sure that just like Manguito, Smokey wouldn't return. That's why his route was the one he decided upon in the infirmary, when he had wanted a sip of water so much and the men came in placing the water jar in his field of vision but just out of reach. He wouldn't forget that for a long time. The ice floating on the water in the metal jar and his lips dry, his throat burning, all that for one lousy sip of water. After the men left he had to use all his luck and his wits not to end like the boys behind bars. And because they had shackled him on that bed, they must have had even worse objectives in mind. But he didn't give them time to go ahead with their plans, just as Crystal, the police chief Mauro, Big Purple and Caramel wouldn't have time. Neither would the guy from the cemetery who hit Pixote. He would forge cautiously his own destiny. With or without Armadillo's, Black Fly's or Zé Ina'cio's help. And who could say if Encravado, Pin and Mother's Scourge would not be interested in joining the group in Sao Paulo? He would look for them. He would talk to Figurinha and Brown Sugar. He wasn't going to give up that idea. So, it was good not to talk to anyone about it, above all Mother Dolores.

V

On a warm and sunny afternoon when the trees appeared luminously green, Dito told Mother Dolores he was ready to go. His foot was almost well, and he couldn't keep on using a room without paying. She listened and said nothing. She had very little to say. She couldn't even ask boy to stay on as an employee, because she'd have problems with the inspectors from the Agency of Protection to Minors. He had to go.

“Whenever you feel like showing up, don't be bashful.”

Dito knew that he could, “If I find Smokey I'll come back to tell you. I'll also come back if I am about to leave Rio.”

He then told her he was from Sao Paulo state. Born in the town of Bauru' at an early age moved to Sao Paulo city. His parents had left him in the care of an aunt. That's all he knew. He vaguely remembered a thin and pale woman, who had a very weak voice. One day she disappeared and he began to wander the streets. He no longer remembered how difficult the first months had been.

“If we didn't forget, son, we would all have already gone crazy,” Mother Dolores said.

Dito left through the hallway, paid attention to the last sounds of that big and pleasant home, got to the door where he saw the dark woman. She shook his hand as if he were about to take a long trip. In the wide street there were several groups of men. He passed by them looking down at his very dirty canvas shoes and realized the first money he got would go into a new pair of shoes. He checked his clothes and saw that the shirt and the blue sailcloth jacket were still in fair condition. He was able to put weight on his foot quite well, but knew he would have to be careful for another week to be completely recovered. That's what he would do. He would not risk trying to find Crystal before he had healed. He would first try to find Mother's Scourge, Encravado and Pin. The others he would find later. He went through the wide and narrow streets, crossed avenues, searching for an open market. There he would stay for a while. He would look for work, to get some money. Right now, that's what he needed the most. Mother Dolores had offered him some, but he lied, saying he had money owed him by a friend; he only needed to show up at his house. Now, he felt like laughing at this lie. His friends were just like him. No one knew where his closest relative lived.

He went by the Esta'cio Square, took a trolley to relax his legs and just before the stop, when the ticket man was approaching, he got out. The uniformed man, holding a purse with change, told him off. He wished to jump into the car again and beat him up. But what for?

He continued his way along a dusty street surrounded by old buildings. Clothes hung out to dry from old decrepit windows. In Catumbi he found the market he'd been looking for. It had been almost all dismantled. There was a great confusion of crates, wood supports and sheets of waxed awnings. Shirtless men, sweaty, moved about, while others disconnected guy wires from their wood supports. Women and the elderly took care of repacking the vegetables. Street gutters were filled with left over cabbage leaves, lettuce, rotten tomatoes, pieces of watermelon and green bananas. In the middle of that chaotic atmosphere, poor old women and young boys, picked through the refuse placing their findings in bags. Dito approached a farmer who was having trouble with the wood supports of his stand and offered to help him. At first the guy distrusted Dito.

“I need to make some money. I'll put all of this in the truck for you!”

The farmer finally smiled toothlessly and offered him ten bucks, “If you must have more than that, I'd prefer to do the job myself,” he added.

Dito took his jacket and shirt off, threw them over some crates. He then began to push the awning supports and table tops into the truck. The old man kept reminding him that the supports and the table tops should be piled up in one single place, in the truck, to ease the unloading. Dito repeated this recommendation to the men working in the truck, and, instead of saying anything, they just laughed about that man's worries. One of them repeated everything as if he were mocking the orders.

“Let it be, grandaddy. We'll make a pack and put a ribbon on it, for you.”

The others laughed. Dito couldn't stay serious. The dismantling of the market lasted until three in the afternoon, when the first trucks began to leave, and the city garbage men arrived to clean up the street. Dito received his money, put on his shirt, but carried the jacket. It was too hot for clothes.

After wandering quite a bit, Dito arrived at the square where there was a monument whose back side cast a deep shade. He sat down on the monument's steps, enjoyed the cool breeze he could feel, and read the bronze plaque, which spoke about the moral and social rebuilding of the nation. He opened up the jacket over one of the steps and lay down, looking at the cloudless sky, at the rare vultures crossing that infinite plane of blue. A very dirty man approached him. His pants were torn and almost nothing remained of his shirt. He carried a pack of newspapers with him. He wanted a cigarette. Dito told him he didn't smoke. The man kept repeating senseless words in a low voice. He sat down close by and the smell he exuded was that of someone who hadn't bathed in months. Dito remembered that he himself hadn't seen clean water and soap for some time. At night, he decided, he would wash himself in the fountain in Paris Square, just like Encravado and Pin used to do. He could not let his foot be exposed to dirt. But before that he would go up the slum and try to find out something about Crystal. Doubtless he no longer expected Dito's return. If you go to the prison farm, you don't return. That's what the fat man had told him before receiving the deathly blow. He was wrong. They didn't know what they were talking about. There he was, to prove them all wrong. For some moments he observed the smelly tramp, who had gone crazy; the man unfolded some of the newspapers, said unconnected things and laughed. Dito couldn't stand the noise, got his jacket and went away. He got into a trolley. The ticket man complained about the ten cruzeiros he handed him. Dito counted the coins received as change while the trolley moved and stopped, moved and stopped. At a certain point the the driver, sweaty faced, his knotted tie loosened at the chest, his hat pushed back, pulled the bell several times to warn the hangers-on of the truck parked on the right.

Dito got out, entered a narrow street of low houses, took a cut through the woods soon reaching the trail to the slum. He didn't see any snitches, nor outlaws who charged a toll. A few young boys, a woman carrying a bundle of clothes and a tall thin man peddling aluminum pans were also climbing their way up. He saw the store from afar, the one whose he'd killed. A woman now kept the store. But the billiard table remained in the same place. There was no one playing. He felt like going in to try out his game. Perhaps Crystal would show up. What if he asked about Crystal? He went in and asked for a pack of cigarettes. The woman searched and searched, but it turned out the store didn't have this brand. Then he saw a young black boy, who looked like Smokey. He called him over thinking of offering him some money.

“What other store is there around here?” he asked.

The boy appeared cautious at first, not willing to give any information. Dito then showed the money and the boy's eyes sparkled.

“Over there, on the top of the hill. It belongs to
Seu
Tércio.”

“And what's it like?”

“It's OK. He does business only with the people from the slum.”

Dito saw the boy going away with the money and didn't regret having given it. Perhaps Tércio might have something to say.

As he went up he passed by a shack where a woman was singing; another where a woman hung clothes out to dry; some chickens pecked on the washboard dirt road; barely dressed girls appeared in doorways. Dito went into the store. The counter was well arranged, the sweet desserts displayed were covered by clean, lacy doilies.
Seu
Tércio had high cheekbones, grey hair and a mustache. He had a firm stare and didn't appear very talkative. He took care of an old woman with a white bandana covering her hair, giving her the merchandise, scribbling the accounts with a pencil stub and giving her the result. The woman opened her little purse, searched for the money she had folded up, and while the storekeeper waited for her, he turned to serve Dito.

“I'd like a piece of cake!”

The man took the lacy napkin from the cake, picked up a piece with the stainless steel tongs, placing the doily back to protect the cake from flies. Dito ate the first bite, said it was good and asked for a
­guarana'
soda. There were billiard tables in another room. Dito thought the best way to make this guy talk would be to appear as if he knew about Crystal's life and about his business. He remembered Crystal liked cognac and thought that might be the way into the conversation. That's would certainly be the easiest way, he thought. He finished eating and asked for another piece. He felt comfortable to talk now; the old woman was gone and the storekeeper had sat down on a stool.

“Do you have cognac for Crystal? Either tomorrow or the day after he's gonna come here again. He wants to hustle a man in this slum who says he is better than Crystal in billiards.”

“We've plenty of cognac. But he isn't always pleased with the brand we have.”

“Which brand do you have?”

“Dreher. It's the most popular around here.”

“When he doesn't find what he likes, I think he drinks any one.”

The storekeeper smiled. Dito drunk his soda, slowly. The beginning of the conversation pleased him. He never thought it might be so easy.

“Night before last he was here and lost big.”

He had more questions. He didn't know Crystal had changed meeting places, that he changed constantly. So, that was it. Sometimes in the stores at Rocinha, sometimes in the ones closer in, sometimes in
Seu
Tércio's. And in the other slums, how would he act? That's what he was going to discover. This time he woudn't escape. And he wasn't going to finish him off with anger. That would be childish and, since the prison farm, he didn't feel like a boy any more. When he learned to laugh while full of hatred, he knew he had become a man.

“Either today or tomorrow he'll be around. He has to pick up a shirt with
Dona
Eufrosina,” the store keeper said.

This was a chance he couldn't miss. “Do you think she makes pants?”

“I think so.”

Dito made sure to get her address. The storekeeper gave him directions and gave him the house number. Dito placed the soda bottle down on the counter, pulled the money out, got back a few coin in change, and departed in the direction he had just been given. The seamstress' shack was painted in yellow and had a wooden plaque announcing that besides women's clothes she also made men's shirts, she fixed men's pants and she darned. He knocked on the door and heard the sewing machine stop. An aging mulatto woman with unkempt hair showed up. She took off her glasses and asked what he wanted.

“I'm hoping to have a pair of pants made.”