City of God (32 page)

She decided to hurry up and get to sleep – she didn't want to toss and turn in bed thinking about Short Arse all night long. That being the case, she'd have to smoke a joint and drink about four beers and two glasses of brandy, then collapse into bed so out of it that she wouldn't even dream. She looked under the mattress and realised she'd been robbed. She couldn't decide whether to go after Short Arse to teach him a lesson or wait for him to come back; she was convinced the bastard would come back for money – he didn't work, nor was he cut out to be a robber. She remained in doubt the whole time she sat on the bed staring into space. She decided to do what she had planned minutes before. She went into the living room, fished two tencruzeiro notes out of her purse, splashed water on her face, pulled on the first thing she found in her wardrobe and slowly walked
Up Top. She bought two bundles of dope and smoked the lot strolling through the alleys of the
favela
. Her depression returned, stronger this time, and she thought about going home and forgetting about everything once and for all by shooting herself in the head. But instead she went into the first bar she saw, ordered a beer and sipped it slowly, without noticing the looks of disgust from the men playing pool. She lit a filterless Continental. The ash fell on her leg, burning her a little, but she didn't change the position of her cigarette. That little pain was nothing – real pain was the pain that ran through her soul and covered her body in goosebumps. She thought about the presents, the money she'd given Short Arse during the time they'd lived under the same roof, the special food, bowls of porridge and sweets she'd made with so much love. And the bastard had actually had the gall to rob her. Her blood boiled, hatred gripped her soul – she got up and sprinted off. The bar owner had to shout for her to pay for her beer. She zigzagged through the
favela
towards Short Arse's mother's house.

The person running with a thirst for revenge wasn't Ana Flamengo; it was Ari, six foot four, used to taking on policemen with his bare fists after midnight in Lapa and the Red Light District. That's right, he wasn't the Marilyn Monroe of Estácio, he was the rogue from São Carlos – who fought like no one else with a razor, delivered a mean sweep kick, and fought back viciously when attacked – and he wanted his money back, not because he needed it, but because of the betrayal, the nerve.

She clapped loudly at the gate of her ex-husband's house. The second time, as well as clapping even louder, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted the traitor's name. No one answered, but the light in the living room was on, and the third time she sensed someone moving. Her hatred grew when she noticed Short Arse peering out from behind the curtain. She
warned him in a loud voice that she was coming in if he didn't come out with her money right away. Short Arse regretted having spent all of the money on drugs, put away the plate he was using to chop out coke, quickly tried to come up with a convincing lie, and went into a panic in the living room when he heard the gate creaking open, together with Ana Flamengo's voice saying she was on her way in. He went to the bedroom, opened the window and threw himself out. He fell on a pile of wood, making so much noise that he not only caught Ana Flamengo's attention, but also woke his parents. Ana Flamengo walked around the house and, no longer interested in explanations, attacked him violently. Short Arse tried to get away from Ana Flamengo, who called him a thief and a traitor at the top of her lungs, waking up the neighbours who came outside to watch the fight. Ana Flamengo knew how ashamed of her Short Arse was, so she dragged him into the street. She beat him and shouted:

‘You fucked me in the arse sayin' you loved me and now you've got the cheek to steal my money! You fuckin' cunt! You left me 'cos I didn't give it to you up the arse when you asked me to, you slut … You're as loose as I am …'

Short Arse's mother tried to intervene several times. Ana Flamengo said it was a fight between husband and wife and it was nobody else's business. She only stopped beating up Short Arse when she realised he'd passed out.

After that day, Ana Flamengo avoided walking through the
favela
for a good while. She stayed at home, bitter with regret for having lost her head with Short Arse. She shouldn't have done it; she might have lost her chances of reconciliation. Going back to living alone was the thing she least wanted in life, and it wasn't because of sex, since she did it professionally and there would
always be boys to deflower. All she wanted was a companion, but she'd have to get used to the idea of being alone; this was the second marriage that had ended in blows, in which she had been exploited and humiliated without being able to say a thing for fear of being abandoned.

Resignation, loneliness, hatred, fear. She gathered up the feelings locked in her room and tossed them out of the window, dressed provocatively, put on make-up and went to the market to buy a chicken.

After she'd shaken off the kids, she dropped in on some of the women in the shoplifting gang, to invite them to dinner.

‘Look, it's like this – I'm sick of workin' in rich bitches' houses to give them no-goods the lowdown. They always do well out of it and give us fuck all, then the rich bitches give our descriptions to the pigs … The business is supermarkets now, know what I mean? We gotta do good joints and get expensive stuff that sells quick,' said Nostalgic to her friends while chopping onions at Ana Flamengo's house.

‘This crap of doin' the street markets is also finished, you know. These days, the whities only carry grocery money and not a penny more. We stick our necks out for peanuts,' complained Joana.

‘I'm tellin' you, the business is supermarkets! There's this woman that sews these knickers with the bottom part stuck to your legs, know what I mean?'

‘How?'

‘They're sort of like bloomers, but you can tie 'em to your thighs and there's heaps of space. All you gotta do is wear a loose skirt, doll yourself up, buy somethin' so they won't suspect nothin' … take a kid with you to look the part and you're all set. You can even get through with a bottle of whisky …'

‘You girls've gotta do what I do: when I can't find a swinger to fuck in the arse, I grab a pocket-knife and off I go …'

‘But you're different, Ana Flamengo! You can turn into a man whenever you want,' argued Nostalgic, making everyone laugh.

‘Guess who I saw actin' all ladylike in the queue at the clinic? Lúcia Maracanã!' said Joana, answering her own question.

‘Who would have thought? She's really changed. All she says is hi when she goes past … She doesn't stop to chat any more. It's all home and husband now.'

‘One day I'm gettin' out of this life too, you know,' said Nostalgic, leaving a febrile silence in the air.

They returned to their discussion about new methods of stealing and came to the conclusion that Nostalgic was right, because supermarkets had the things everyone needed and it was much easier to steal there. It would put an end to the difficulty they had selling their loot.

They went to the seamstress's house that same day to get measured up and in less than a week they were operating in supermarkets in Barra da Tijuca, Jacarepaguá and the South Zone. They decided not to tell anyone else about their new business so it wouldn't catch on and start attracting attention. They were also careful to take turns in the supermarkets and work only on very busy days. A piece of cake, easy money. The women in the shoplifting gang were changed; they had enough money to live well above the breadline, without working in jobs that were bad for the body and soul.

They hated working as domestics – truth be told it was a life of contempt, drudgery and little money. Nostalgic always said she wasn't going to be the world's whipping boy just because she hadn't had everything a human being needed to make a decent life for herself. She wasn't the one who'd invented racism, marginalisation or any other type of social injustice, and it wasn't
her fault she'd given up her studies to polish the floors in rich bitches' houses. She wanted enough money to ensure a decent life for her kids, something she couldn't get by working, and so at the end of every month, like the other women, she hit supermarkets thirty to forty times, and was always successful. They had money to pay the doctor, the dentist, to buy food and their children's schoolbooks and stationery. All they wanted was a decent life, and so they added rooms onto their minuscule houses and replaced the furniture that had been carried away by the flood. They started dressing nicely, eating well, and using the cosmetics they'd dreamed of for so long … Their appearances changed, making their shoplifting, which went on for a long time, even easier.

‘Nothing better than a bit of pandemonium to chase away the blues,' thought Ana Flamengo as she sat on the sofa after they'd left. The dinner with her friends had given her back her enthusiasm for life and she decided to go back to work, which she'd abandoned since Short Arse had left her. She hadn't felt like doing anything for a long time, nor had she wanted to talk to anyone about it, and she knew her work friends would ask after that bastard Short Arse, as always.

At that moment, everything indicated that her rough patch was coming to an end. She got up from the sofa and went to bed, with the intention of waking up refreshed to see – in gaudy lipstick, tight little shorts, discreet perfume, heavy make-up and a long wig – that old, permanent, imperial smile working as a façade of the night.

‘Wow! Lookin' fantastic! Took some time out so you could come back better than ever, did ya?'

‘Ah girl, even Sandra Bréa can't hold a candle to me! And that's not all: I've put my price up, I don't give head no more, I
don't go to cheap motels and I only drink imported whisky. I'm back to knock 'em dead!' Ana Flamengo told her work friends.

‘I've got some great gossip for you, gorgeous! You know Magalhães?'

‘Yeah.'

‘He's been married to just about everyone here, hasn't he? And, if memory serves me right, he's even had the odd screw with you … Well, while you've been away, he's been goin' for it with Gorete, and believe it or not, he hasn't even asked her for any handouts. Then one cold night, he asked her in a low voice if she'd give him one …'

‘Speak of the Devil …'

‘I bet you're talkin' about me …' said Magalhães, who'd just arrived.

‘And I'm gonna keep talkin'. Um … now where was I?'

‘He asked her to do him!' said Ana Flamengo, making obscene gestures.

‘So then let me tell the story: she stuck that obscenity in slowly, and I felt my ring stretching, a bit of pain around the rim, then that smooth thing slipping in and out, my friend! I'm through with cunts – I just wanna get banged all day long!' finished off Magalhães, chortling along with those who heard him.

They stood around telling one another their news and laughing hard, until they decided to get to work and spread out after wishing one another good luck. As she'd been away, Ana Flamengo was allowed to take the best spot on the corner. She slid down her shorts and made erotic faces at the drivers, who went past slowly but didn't stop. Some swore, others cracked cruel jokes. Ana Flamengo felt the old desperation of having to steal something the next day if things didn't pick up, until a man
pulled over close to her, opened the door and gestured for her to get in.

‘I thought you were never coming back!' said the man, driving away quickly.

‘You know me?' asked Ana Flamengo.

‘I know you better than you could imagine, by sight, that is … I've had my eye on you for ages. I've been wanting to get to know you better, know about your life … Do you know a nice place where we can get comfortable?'

Ana Flamengo took him to a motel on Catonho Highway, the closest and most discreet place in Jacarepaguá, without taking her eyes off that man. He had a soft, slow, intense way of talking, and he spoke of discretion, understanding, his study of her and his desire. He didn't want anyone to know his name. He'd pay a monthly fee. He'd been watching her for a long time and was really turned on by her mouth. He wanted to have her body in every possible way.

At this, Ana Flamengo's jaw dropped.

They threw themselves at each other in the lift, went into the room groping one another and came in the bed, on the floor, in the shower, on the table, on the chair. It gave Ana Flamengo great pleasure to let that gorgeous man fuck her hard, and watching him howl each time he came was fascinating.

On the way back he reconfirmed everything he'd said on the way there, telling her emphatically that her disappearance had filled him with despair and that when he'd seen her again he hadn't wanted to miss his chance.

For two weeks the stranger returned to fill her with pleasure as no man had ever done and, above all, he was affectionate towards her. It was the first time she'd received a man's affection, the warmth of sleeping in each other's arms, breakfast in bed and long, passionate kisses; the happiness of receiving presents and making vows of eternal love.

But this happiness lasted only two weeks. Then it was just her eyes searching for her knight in shining armour in every car like his that drew close. She prayed for him to come back almost all day long. She'd never felt so distressed. She'd never thought she'd meet a man like that. A handsome, wealthy, polite man, who'd been wild with desire every time they made love. No, that happiness was nothing more than a dream. He would never have a relationship with someone like her – someone who'd committed and was yet to commit so many sins, someone who'd wanted to play with nature and in so doing had shamed her family. Her father had always said that it was better, much better, to have a son who was a gangster than a son who was a faggot. A faggot that everyone teased and beat up for no reason at all. That crazy man had only wanted to try something different, or perhaps it was revenge. Many men had told her that they were only having sex with her to get back at their wives. Yes, some men were like that; they liked to take their revenge in silence. Semi-revenge, since none of them would have the courage to tell their wives, fiancées, girlfriends or whoever. To be a woman – what she most wanted in life was to be a woman. And why hadn't she been born female, since she liked men so much? It was nature's fault – stupid, really stupid, and above all, unyielding. She wouldn't preserve her natural state because, while a single element felt a permanent and incurable pain, nothing in nature could be preserved. To love and be loved. That was all.