City of God (16 page)

The next day she didn't leave home. She made herbal compresses for her bruises, conditioned her hair with avocado and egg yolk to make it behave, and plastered her face with honey and lemon. A good remedy for blotches, blackheads and pimples. The day passed slowly as she plotted the betrayal. Yes! She'd have it off with the fishmonger and it'd be easy, because men were like mice: all you had to do was show them the cheese and they came running. She could wear a red baby-doll nightie and pull him inside when he came to deliver fish, or follow him to a safe place so she could jump his bones. Perhaps a kid in the street could take him a note. It'd be easy if she knew his address; she'd turn up at his place before he went to work and catch him well rested, or if none of these things worked, she'd sidle up to him the next time she saw him and say: ‘C'mon, big boy, let me have it!'

Two days later, although scared, the fishmonger was giving it to the northerner from behind, with the warm banana firmly in place.

After work, her husband would go to Dummy's Bar to play pool and drink to each ball sunk in one of life's six holes. He took his time because a real man couldn't get home when he said he would; he had to arrive whenever he felt like it, smelling of a mixture of cachaça and the sweat of hard labour. He wished his wife were decent, as his mother had been. He didn't allow her to
hang around in the street chatting with the nigger girls, forbade her to wear tops with low necklines and short skirts, and only let her wear long trousers if they were really baggy and made of thick material, so no one could see the outline of her knickers.

She didn't neglect her domestic duties, but she no longer cared about her husband and merely went through the motions when it was time for their unvarying sex. On two occasions she pretended to be sick at the fateful hour. After a few days, she decided to treat her husband normally, on her neighbour's advice. She acted as if she regretted the indecent things she had proposed. Her husband felt victorious; his wife had finally understood he was right. He started arriving home early. The following Saturday, after the grocery shopping, he took her to the amusement park. They ate toffee apples and sweet popcorn, shot at targets, tossed rings and rode on the big wheel. All to please his wife, who now really did remind him of his mother. On the Sunday, instead of buying that damn pork that he loved and she hated, he chose chicken, her favourite dish. She continued to receive visits from the fishmonger every weekday.

One Monday, he arrived at work early as always, and had already changed clothes when he was told there would be no work that day. He had a drink with his friends before heading home.

The fishmonger had already taken his wife to orgasm three times and was resting up to start over again.

The husband got off the bus Out Front. He decided to buy a dozen limes so he could spend the day drinking caipirinhas and nibbling on fried sardines. His crazy wife had taken to eating fish like never before. If he felt like a bit of crackling or fried sausage he had to go to the bar. But that was fine, because after the belting he'd given her she'd become a respectable woman. He was happy.

Back at his house, his wife's lover was sliding and flicking his tongue across, into and out of her snatch. The first time she'd asked him to perform oral sex on her he'd protested. He imagined traces of her husband's spunk in there and leftover drops of piss. The second time, he went down on her more willingly, and even hurt her. The third time, he rubbed his nose in her, then got his whole face wet. From then on he did it hungrily.

The husband passed in front of the bakery, his legs casting shadows that expanded and shrank as he walked. He lit a cigarette when he got to the square on Block Twenty-Two. Before crossing the street to the Prospectors' rehearsal square, he stopped to chew the fat with some friends. He walked another block and caught sight of the wall around his house. He thought about inviting his wife to take a walk around Paquetá Island, but no, it'd be better to stay home and take his after-dinner nap in his own bed – he usually took it on a plank of wood at the construction site. He turned into his street and thought it odd that the radio wasn't on, because from that distance he could usually hear Cidinha Campos bellowing from the speakers, and his wife singing along. When he was two steps away from being enveloped by the shadow cast by the wall of his house he saw his damn neighbour peering at the unsuspecting street through a crack in her window. He fumbled about in his pocket for his keys, his fingers touched a box of matches, coins, a pocket knife and telephone tokens. He had trouble turning the key in the lock, then slowly pushed open the iron gate. The front window was closed, as were the bathroom door and window. The sand and stones he had bought were in the left-hand corner of the yard. In the pig pen, Margarida slept through the morning light which stretched from the skillet with no handle to the basin with a hole in it. The chickens were quiet on their perches, a sign that
they had been fed. In the small garden the sunflowers swayed in the breeze. The silence worried him; his wife wasn't one to sleep late. He went over to the left side of the yard looking at the ground. He lit another cigarette, walked to his front door, put the key in the keyhole, and this time had no trouble turning it. There were no dirty dishes in the kitchen. In the living room, a shaft of sunlight defied the window and lit up a line of dust floating in space. The statue of Father Cícero, facing the door, was uncomplaining. The noise of water trickling in the water tank was the only sound in the tidy house. The smell of fish jarred with the cleanness before his eyes. The worn blood-red rug wasn't in its usual place. He adjusted it mechanically with his feet. He went into the bedroom and saw his wife lying on top of the polyester trousers he'd asked her to mend, pretending to be fast asleep.

‘What's going on?' she asked after her husband had shaken her.

‘The boss gave us the day off. The engineer kicked the bucket,' answered her husband, who, instead of making himself a caipirinha, put on a pair of shorts and went into the yard to dig a hole in the ground.

‘For God's sake, you don't give yourself a rest, do you!' said his wife.

‘I'm gonna make a cistern on the side here. This water tank's too small for my likin'. If there's no water for a week we'll die of thirst.'

By about one o'clock in the afternoon, he had already dug a hole twelve feet deep. He decided to stop, have dinner and take a nap. His wife spent the day mending old clothes. Every now and then she thought: ‘Since I started cheatin' on him this man's become a lamb.' Night came quickly.

The next morning, a plump sun in the sky, she went to the gate to chat with her neighbour after watering the plants:

‘That was close, wasn't it?'

‘Ah … But God looks after his own, my friend!'

‘I reckon he smells somethin'. How many times has he come home like that without warnin'?'

‘Just once, when he had a pain here,' she said, pointing at her arm, ‘and a friend brought him home.'

‘God gave you a helpin' hand. If I hadn't seen him at the supermarket, he would've busted you … If I was you, I'd wanna make sure.'

‘How?'

‘Let's go to my sister-in-law's
terreiro
and have her call the
pombagira
for you.'

They left after dinner. They'd have to do everything quickly, because her husband sometimes got home before five.

‘Ahh, pretty girl! I already know wot this earthly daughter wants to know … Just leave me a present at the crossroads, and the more ya go with the other guy, the more he'll believe ya,' the
pombagira
assured her, then cackled. ‘So the banana thing worked then, girl?' continued the
pombagira
. ‘Feels good, don't it? Here on earth the best thing is to fuck yerself silly. Since the one at home don't do it nice, ya had to find it somewhere else, right girl?' she cackled. ‘Buy everythin' I tell ya to and leave it at the crossroads at midnight …'

‘But I can't go out at ni …'

‘Just give me apprentice the brass and he'll buy everythin' and make the offerin' fer ya,' finished the
pombagira
, cackling and sprinkling cachaça over her.

The next day, she waited less than half an hour after her husband had left for work and went after the fishmonger:

‘Let's go to my place. Now I feel safe. We were unlucky yesterday.'

At first the fishmonger protested, but after listening to her, he put her on the back of his bicycle and they took off for her place.

The street was full of children playing games and women having their morning gossip. The northerner was not the least bit shy about walking into her front yard leading the fishmonger by the hand. After she had opened her front door, the fishmonger grabbed her by the arm and gave her a hot kiss. Eagerly he stroked her private parts and she followed suit. Her lover was already unbuttoning her blouse when he received the blow that knocked him to the ground.

Before she could let out a cry of distress, she was gagged, then tied up and thrown into the hole her husband had dug the day before. He stabbed the fishmonger with his sharp fish knife and threw his body on top of his wife, who thrashed around in the bottom of the hole. He started covering them with earth. The gag came loose and she was about to cry out, but was stopped by a clod of earth that landed on her face. After covering them, the husband made a thick mixture of cement and black soil and threw it over the improvised grave. When the job was done, he grabbed his bag, checked his ticket and took off for his home state of Ceará, in the north.

Cosme didn't make it as far as the Eucalypt Grove. When he saw the fire truck parked in Block Fourteen he stopped and joined the other onlookers. He almost took off running when a police car arrived, its sirens wailing. When the fright wore off he thought about going closer, but instead he asked a young boy coming from the direction of the northerner's house what had happened.

‘There's two stiffs buried in that house there,' said the boy, without stopping.

Cosme thought it best to go home to bed and forget about selling coke and dope that creepy morning. He went back for his drugs and gun, then hurried home.

* * *

‘Gotta talk to ya.'

‘Make it quick 'cos I'm runnin' late.'

‘Well, girl, it's like this: I'm nuts about you. Know what I mean? I've just woken up and I had heaps of dreams about you. I've been meanin' to tell you for ages, but I haven't had a chance …'

‘What's this, my friend? What are you going on about? I don't get it …'

‘I ain't been able to get you off my mind for ages. Know what I mean? If yo leave Silva, I'll be your fella.'

‘You gangsters're all the same! My husband's own pal's got the nerve to come on to me!'

‘I don't wanna stab him in the back. I really like the guy, you know. But my heart's flipped for you. I'm gonna tell you something I've never told any girl, so you'll trust me.'

‘What?'

‘I love you!'

‘I'm only gonna think about another man when Silva's dead. While he's alive, this body's his. See ya!' she finished, waving for the bus to stop.

Cosme crossed Gabinal Road without taking his eyes off that hot black piece of arse. He watched her go through the turnstile with that cleavage of hers, which enchanted the conductor. He continued slowly along the edge of the road, down the stairs and through the blocks of flats with his eyes glued to the ground, his thoughts a jumble. He'd made a mistake. If she'd been interested everything would've been fine, but that heartless woman had been unmoved. What if she told Silva? He'd do him in for sure. This business of chatting up a friend's wife and not screwing her was much worse because, whether he screwed her or not, the friendship was up shit creek. He felt like a dickhead, because there was no such thing as a difficult woman, but there were poor
come-ons. He was so immersed in thought that his friend's voice made him start.

‘What's up, pal? Why ain't the den up and running?'

‘Haven't you heard? This morning was really freaky. The area was crawling with pigs. There were two more stiffs over in Fourteen. A kid told me, so I split fast. Hey, let's go have a smoke over on The Hill, then we can open the den.'

Over on The Hill, Silva cut the rolling paper while Cosme broke up the heads. Silva scrutinised one of the haunted mansions. He was about to suggest to his friend that they change the location of the den, but he never got to say a thing, because a bullet from Cosme's gun pierced his left lung. The other ripped through his heart. The third entered the forearm of his already lifeless body. The murderer picked up the keys and took the gun from his friend's waistband. He was sorry for wasting his friend, but if he hadn't, he'd have been the one to die. He glanced around, went down the right side of The Hill, threw himself into the river, deliberately scratching his body, then ran to where he could find a friend.

‘What's goin' on?' asked Flip-Flop when he saw the murderer in tattered clothes.

‘I was up on The Hill smokin' a joint with Silva, when the cops showed up out of the blue … More than five pigs, I had to run for it …'

‘What about Silva?'

‘He went the other way. I don't even know if he made it, you know. All I heard was loads of gunshots.' He imitated the sound of the shots. ‘Look, man. I'm getting off the street 'cos it's givin' me the creeps, know what I'm sayin'?'

While Cosme showered, he tried to think of a way for only Fernanda to know the truth. He'd already made plans to run away with her, have a load of kids and get a sucker's job. The
crime he'd just committed didn't weigh on his conscience; it was bound to happen sooner or later. He was tired of seeing Fernanda asking Silva to give up that life and Silva not giving a damn. He'd often seen his friend leave his wife at home to hang around playing cards on street corners, smoke dope on the stairs of the blocks of flats and every now and then screw some slut he'd picked up in the night. If it were him, he wouldn't swap Fernanda for any woman. He'd give up his life of crime right then and there. He knew how to lay a brick, build foundations and put up a wall. It wouldn't be difficult to find a job. He shaved carefully under the shower, slicked his hair back and headed for the flat of the woman he loved. When she found out he'd killed Silva just to be with her, she'd fall into his arms.