City of God (37 page)

‘When your wife starts henpeckin' like that, the thing to do is fart, fart and fart at her all day long.'

‘How?' asked the husband.

‘Buy five pounds of oxtail, five pounds of potatoes and some watercress, get the bitch to cook it up and come to the bar to get sloshed. Then you go home, eat all that shit with red chillies and you'll fart sittin' down, standin' up, squattin', kneelin', awake or asleep. You'll do
phooo
farts, macaw farts, silent farts, whistling farts, bubbly farts, whining farts, exploding farts, runny farts and the works …'

‘Today I felt like fartin' in the bitch's face … Why're women like that? Fuckin' hell! I work my balls off all day long, I don't buy nothin' for myself so we're never short of anythin' at home, I'm not the aggressive sort, I don't hit her or the kids, I don't
bother no one … What's it to her if I have a cold one or a shot of cachaça before dinner? She can stick it up her arse, you know. Hey, give us another shot of
catuaba
with that cachaça from Minas Gerais!'

‘Why don't you fart today? If you eat some cracklin' it'll do the same thing.'

‘Hey, Down There, give us some cracklin'.'

‘Down There is where a snake's arse is, man!' answered the bar owner before serving him.

The crabby husband ate five pieces of crackling, drank another three shots of Cinzano-and-cachaça, washed it all down with a beer and staggered home. He opened the gate with some difficulty, feeling a real need to relieve his bladder, and hurried for the toilet, but the urine poured down his leg, wetting the living-room rug. He showered without taking his clothes off, thinking it odd that his wife was so quiet in the kitchen. He thought about saying something, but decided to keep quiet so as not to spark off a fight. He pulled off his dirty, sopping clothes, stuffed them under the bathroom counter and went to lie down after putting on a pair of jocks. In a few minutes he was snoring loudly. His wife dragged him into the kitchen and poured the boiling water over his head.

She was convicted of murder of the first degree and didn't get the insurance money.

‘I wanna sell pizza, soft drinks, juices and that's it, got it?'

‘You gotta have beer, man! Everyone drinks beer …'

‘No, no, no … I don't want to put up with barflies. I've already got an industrial oven, two blenders, an orange-juicer, glasses and the fuckin' works! Everythin's all set – all I need is a nice little shop to get started, know what I mean? So, what d'ya say? I get fifty per cent and the other fifty's for you and the head
cook. But the money'll only start comin' in when I finish payin' off what I owe. OK by you?'

‘Fine by me!' said Rocket with a gigantic smile on his face, holding his arm out to shake hands with Álvaro Katanazaka, with whom he had already tried to set up a kitchen utensils shop.

They'd never had an actual shop, as they'd intended to start by selling from door to door. Later they'd open a little shop in the
favela
and, if they were hard-working and thought positively, they'd soon be opening other branches, hiring employees. However, not even with the little prospectus Katanazaka had put together, saying the profits would be directed to an orphanage, did they manage to make more than one and a half times the minimum wages between them in their first month. Their progress at school was affected, they traipsed about the
favela
and other districts all day long, sunk money into buying merchandise at the Madureira Markets and only earned a pittance, half of which they had to set aside in order to restock their goods.

‘We can't let anyone know, OK? Otherwise people'll be envious and that'll jinx the business,' warned Katanazaka.

‘We've gotta buy a horseshoe and hang it in the joint the first day.'

They chatted a little longer. Ideas for the new undertaking arose at random, between drags on the joint they were smoking. When they'd finished, Rocket said goodbye and left Katanazaka's place, while his friend sprayed air freshener around the living room to get rid of the smell of marijuana; his parents would be arriving soon. Rocket took his Caloi 10, the bicycle every boy worth his salt wanted to own, pedalled five hundred yards, then suddenly did an about-turn and rode even faster back to his partner's house.

‘You know that shop over in Araújo?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Well, the guy's renting the joint out! I was already in front of it when I remembered. My girl's dad was thinkin' about rentin' it and all.'

‘You reckon the guys're there today?'

‘Might be …'

‘Shall we go?'

‘Why not!'

Katanazaka got his bike and they rode down the street along the left branch of the river.

‘You need to have a guarantor or pay a bond, and both the tenant and guarantor have to earn three times more than the value of the rent. Where do you live?'

‘In City of God.'

‘Are you the ones who want to rent it?' asked the landlord distrustfully, when Rocket told him where he lived.

‘No. It's my dad.'

They left the shop enthusiastic about the possibility of renting it. The rent was a bit steep, but with their contacts and the good advertising they'd put out, they'd make that amount each month, no sweat. All they had to do was forge Katanazaka's dad's payslip, and this was a job for Rocket who, as well as being a photographer, had turned out to be a very good artist. The bond money was already guaranteed; it would come from the severance pay Katanazaka was to receive that Monday, as he'd been fired from his job.

Braga, Álvaro Katanazaka's father, didn't hesitate; he did everything his son asked him to, not because he was indulgent with his children, but because he saw the prototype of a successful businessman in his son and knew he'd earn a lot of money – money that he himself had never known how to make. This didn't stop him from being a sensitive father or loving Álvaro with all his heart. His son would be what he
hadn't been, and for this reason, he'd help him as much as he could.

Rocket accepted the invitation to have dinner at Katanazaka's house. It would be necessary and a pleasure. Necessary because he'd get started on the forgery, and a pleasure because Tereza Katanazaka's cooking was the best he'd tasted in his entire life.

‘We've gotta fix up his last three payslips,' Katanazaka reminded him.

‘Good point. Got a razor, glue and a typewriter? You'll have to make some doctored-up photocopies and everythin', right?'

‘We'll manage.'

Everything went as Rocket had planned. All they had to do was present Braga's ID and the three forged payslips in order to rent the shop.

Before three o'clock, Braga shaved carefully, combed his hair, clipped his nails, put on the old suit he'd worn at his wedding, put on Tereza's glasses, and went with Rocket and Katanazaka to rent the shop. It went off without a hitch.

‘You gotta dress like a waiter, man!'

‘Look, man, I'm not wearin' no waiter's uniform, OK? What's the big deal? You know they're gonna take the piss!'

‘Then you'll have to wear a white shirt so you look nice and clean, know what I'm sayin'? All bars are like that!'

‘Not bar. Pizzeria,' said Rocket, correcting him.

‘We gotta get there early tomorrow, OK? To give it the finishing touches. Tell everyone there'll be an opening-day special, but hey – only tomorrow.'

‘What's the special?'

‘Whoever pays the all-you-can-eat price gets two soft drinks,' agreed Rocket and Katanazaka a month after renting the shop.

‘Take some records down there – Milton Nascimento, Caetano Veloso, Gal …' Katanazaka continued.

‘You reckon people're gonna like that kinda music?'

‘Ah, who knows. But I'll take some rock ‘n' roll records too. We can change the music depending on the customers.'

‘Good idea,' agreed Rocket.

They considered the opening a success. Sparrow arrived early and insisted on paying for all of the tables. Rocket managed just fine, the pizza was tasty, and the soft drinks were cold.

‘You gotta put beer on the menu!' said Sparrow with his mouth full.

‘I will, OK? It's just that I ain't got the bottles,' said Katanazaka with a pen tucked behind his left ear, giving him the air of a shop owner.

It was a rainy summer night. Rocket insisted on playing Caetano Veloso for the Boys, who laughed at silly jokes and always used the same jargon when they talked.

It was Friday, the day Tiny and Sparrow's dens sold much more than on any other. Good Life was now helping out with the management and Israel played samba in nightclubs, but had started going around carrying a gun and beating up no-goods who stole within the
favela
. Israel was almost as powerful as Tiny and Sparrow. Every so often he'd swing by the den to pick up some money, but told the women he met that he didn't need to sell drugs to make a living. He was an artist.

Around midnight, Sparrow showed up at the shops with almost all of the Boys, and found Tiny and the rest of the gang there.

‘Hey, these guys are my friends, they're all cool! I don't want no one givin' 'em a hard time, right? No one. Anyone who gives 'em a hard time'll get a bullet in the arse, got it? Hey, grab yourself twenty bundles of weed. Go on, it's OK!'

Tiny carefully examined the face of each of the Boys so he'd never forget them; if they were Sparrow's friends, they'd be his too. Some he'd seen around the
favela
, others he'd known since he was a kid, as in the case of Leonardo, who lived in The Flats, as well as Pedro and Rocket. He stared intently. Suddenly, he asked the bar owner to open a crate of Coca-Cola and left.

‘Hey, man, there was only one bundle there.'

‘We're out of weed! Who's gonna do the packagin'?' Sparrow fell silent for a few minutes, then continued. ‘Go to Carlos Roberto's house, get three pounds of dope and take it to my place. I'm gonna do the packagin' with my pals. And I don't want no gangsters comin' lookin' for me, right? Comin' to do the packagin'? Comin'?' Sparrow asked the Boys.

At Sparrow's place the Boys wrapped the dope in sports lottery tickets, each puffing on a huge joint. Gabriel went to the bakery to buy cakes and soft drinks, Sir Paulo Carneiro went to the den Up Top to get cocaine, but soon came back saying that Teresa wouldn't give him the thirty wraps.

‘Here, take this and go back. Show her this and she'll give it to you!' said Sparrow, handing over his thick gold chain with a picture of Saint George the warrior, also in gold, to Sir Paulo Carneiro, who was successful this time.

Rocket put a Raul Seixas album on the record player and said it would be better if they ate first, then had a snort. They hung around listening to music, snorting coke, smoking and packaging dope until Fly arrived home with her sister.

‘What the fuck are these playboys doing here, Sparrow? Don't they have a home to go to? They come round to get off their faces, eat my food … Get out! Out! Fuck! Fuck! Fuckin' hell!'

Laughing, Sparrow signalled for the Boys to leave. The morning was dawning behind Gávea Rock. The cocaine they'd snorted had chased sleep away. They waited in silence for
Sparrow to come out in swimming trunks, with a towel around his neck and dark sunglasses.

‘Everyone to the beach. Meet me over at The Flats, 'cos I'm gonna drop off the bundles and we can leave from there. Don't be long.'

As Sparrow closed the gate, Fly ranted and raved out of the window:

‘You're not settin' foot in here today, you bastard! My mum's sick and all you wanna do is party. All you can think about is hangin' out with them fuckin' playboys! You cunt! Bastard!'

Sparrow laughed and headed off with the Boys under a cloudless blue sky. The sun blazed alone in a stupendous summer sky.

It was a busy Saturday at the beach, with big waves, surfers cutting the water, propeller planes trailing banners through the air, people selling iced tea, passion fruit juice, ice lollies and suntan oil, people playing volleyball, others playing football and the Boys from the
favela
having bodysurfing races, accompanied by Stringy, who surfed every wave he caught with elegant competence.

For those who stay up all night snorting coke, the best thing to do the next day is smoke loads of dope to bring on hunger and sleep, which cocaine suppresses, and drink loads of coconut water to protect the stomach. Sparrow had already learned this lesson from the Boys, which is why he took some weed to the beach and loads of money to buy coconut water and sandwiches for the gang, as well as Adriana, Patrícia Katanazaka and the other girls, who were already on the beach when he arrived with his friends. He was rich.

On his way back from the beach, Sparrow got off on Gabinal Road with the others who lived in The Flats, while most of the Boys continued on the bus. They arrived in The Flats singing
rock ‘n' roll. Sparrow said he wasn't going to bed. He was going to get some more wraps so he could get out of it, but first he was going to swing by old Aunt Vincentina's building. He knew that every Saturday she served a delicious meal, always accompanied by percussion and samba. He'd eat as much as he could, then snort some coke for a pick-me-up.

‘Wanna come?' asked Sparrow.

‘Yeah!' answered Leonardo and Rocket almost simultaneously.

Tiny, Slick, Bicky and Russian Mouse were eating dinner with their .38s in their waistbands. They spoke with their mouths full, letting bits of food covered in saliva fall from their mouths in their haste, and discussed the beating they were going to have to give Hit-and-Miss, because it was the third time someone had accused him of rape since he'd been released from prison. OK, so he was a veteran among the gangsters, but he couldn't go around stirring up trouble in the area and terrorising the residents, and if they didn't do something about it, the workers and junkies would think less of them.