When I put the problem to Uncle Edmundo, he gave it some serious thought.
‘So that’s what’s you’re worried about?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid that when we move house, Luciano won’t come with us.’
‘Do you think this bat really likes you?’
‘Of course.’
‘From the bottom of his heart?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘Then you can be certain he’ll go. He might take a while to show up at the new place, but one day he’ll find the way.’
‘I’ve already told him the street name and number.’
‘Well, that makes it even easier. If he can’t go because he’s got other commitments, he’ll send a sibling, a cousin, a relative of some sort and you’ll never notice.’
But I still wasn’t convinced. What good was the street name and number if Luciano didn’t know how to read? Maybe he’d go along asking the birds, the praying mantis, the butterflies.
‘Don’t worry, Zezé. Bats are very good at finding their bearings.’
‘At finding what, Uncle?’
He explained what bearings meant and I was even more impressed by how much he knew.
With my problem solved, I went out to tell everyone what was in store for us: the move. Most grown-ups said cheerfully, ‘You’re moving, Zezé? How lovely! How wonderful! What a relief!’
The only one who didn’t bat an eyelid was Biriquinho.
‘Good thing it’s only a few streets over. You’ll be nearby. What about that thing I told you about?’
‘When is it?’
‘Tomorrow, at eight, at the door to the casino. Folks are saying the owner of the factory ordered in a truckload of toys. You going?’
‘Yep. I’m taking Luís. Do you think I’ll get something too?’
‘’Course. He’s a runt like you. Why? You think you’re too big?’
He came closer and I felt that I was still really small. Smaller than I’d thought.
‘Because if I’m going to get a present … But now I’ve got things to do. See you there.’
I went home and hovered around Glória.
‘What’s up, Zezé?’
‘It’d be so nice if you could take us to the casino tomorrow. There’s a truck from the city stuffed full of toys.’
‘Oh, Zezé. I have a pile of things to do. I have to iron, I have to help Jandira get things ready for the move, I have to keep an eye on the pots on the stove …’
‘A bunch of cadets from Realengo are going.’
Besides collecting pictures of Rudolph Valentino, who she called Rudy, and pasting them into a notebook, she had a thing for cadets.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me: cadets at eight o’clock in the morning? Pull the other leg! Run along and play, Zezé.’
But I didn’t go.
‘You know, Gló, it’s not for me. I promised Luís I’d take him. He’s so little. All children his age can think about is Christmas.’
‘Zezé, I already told you I’m not going. And that’s a fib: you’re the one who wants to go. You’ve got your whole life to get Christmas presents.’
‘But what if I die? What if I die without getting a present this Christmas?’
‘You’re not going to die so soon, my little old man. You’ll live twice as long as Uncle Edmundo or Seu Benedito. Now, enough of this. Go play.’
But I still didn’t go. I made sure she bumped into me everywhere she turned. She’d go to the chest of drawers to get something and she’d find me sitting on the rocking chair, begging her with my eyes. Begging with your eyes really got to her. She’d go to fetch water from the washtub and I’d be sitting in the doorway, looking at her. She’d go to the bedroom to get the clothes to be washed and I’d be sitting on the bed, chin in hands, looking …
She couldn’t take it.
‘Enough, Zezé. I’ve already told you that no means no. For heaven’s sake, don’t try my patience. Go play.’
But again I didn’t go. That is, I thought I wasn’t going. But she picked me up, carried me out the door and dumped me in the backyard. Then she went back inside and closed the doors to the kitchen and the living room. I didn’t give up. I sat outside every window she was going to pass, because now she was starting to dust and make the beds. She’d see me peeping at her and would shut the window. She ended up shutting up the whole house so she wouldn’t see me.
‘Meany! Evil witch! I hope you never marry a cadet! I hope you marry a private, the sort who can’t even afford to have his boots polished.’
When I saw that I was wasting my time, I headed for the street, fuming.
I ran into Nardinho playing. He was squatting, staring at something, oblivious to everything else. I went over. He had made a little wagon out of a matchbox and tied it to the biggest beetle I’d ever seen.
‘Wow!’
‘Big, innit?’
‘Wanna swap?’
‘Why?’
‘If you want some trading cards …’
‘How many?’
‘Two.’
‘You’re kidding. A beetle this big and you’ll only give me two?’
‘There’re heaps of beetles like that in the ditch behind Uncle Edmundo’s house.’
‘I’ll do it for three.’
‘Three, but you don’t get to pick.’
‘Nothing doing. I get to pick at least two.’
‘Fine.’
I gave him one of Laura La Plante that I had several of. And he picked one of Hoot Gibson and another of Patsy Ruth Miller. I put the beetle in my pocket and went on my way.
* * *
‘Quick, Luís. Glória’s gone to buy bread and Jandira’s reading in the rocking chair.’
We crept down the corridor to the toilet. I went to help him pee.
‘Make it a big one, ’cause we’re not allowed to go in the street during the day.’
Afterwards, I splashed water on his face in the washtub. I did the same to mine and we went back to the bedroom.
I dressed him without making any noise. I put his shoes on him. Goddam socks! They just get in the way is all they do. I buttoned up his little blue suit and looked for a comb. But his hair wouldn’t stay down. Something had to be done about it. I couldn’t find anything anywhere. No brilliantine, no oil. I went into the kitchen and came back with a little lard on my fingertips. I rubbed it on my palm and took a whiff first.
‘It doesn’t smell at all.’
Then I slapped it on Luís’s hair and started combing. His head full of ringlets was beautiful. He looked like Saint John with a lamb on his back.
‘Now, you stand over there, so you don’t get all wrinkled. I’m going to get dressed.’
As I pulled on my trousers and white shirt, I looked at my brother.
What a beautiful child he was! There was no one more beautiful in Bangu.
I pulled on my tennis shoes, which had to last until I went to school the next year. I kept looking at Luís.
All lovely and neat like that, he could have been mistaken for a slightly older Baby Jesus. I was sure he was going to get lots of presents. When they set eyes on him …
I shuddered. Glória had just come back and was putting the bread on the table. I could hear the paper bag rustling.
We went hand in hand and stood in front of her.
‘Doesn’t he look lovely, Gló? I dressed him myself.’
Instead of getting angry, she leaned on the door and looked up. When she lowered her head, her eyes were full of tears.
‘You look lovely too. Oh! Zezé!’
She kneeled down and held my head against her chest.
‘Good God! Why does life have to be so hard for some?’
She pulled herself together and started fixing our clothes.
‘I told you I couldn’t take you. I really can’t, Zezé. I have too much to do. First let’s have breakfast, while I think of something. Even if I wanted to, there isn’t enough time for me to get ready …’
She poured us our coffee and sliced the bread. She continued staring at us with a look of despair.
‘So much effort for a couple of lousy toys. But I guess there are too many poor people for them to give away really good things.’
She paused and then went on. ‘It might be your only chance. I’m not going to stop you going. But, my God, you’re too small …’
‘I’ll get him there safely. I’ll hold his hand the whole time, Gló. We don’t even need to cross the highway.’
‘Even so, it’s dangerous.’
‘No, it isn’t, and I’m good at finding my bearings.’
She laughed through her sadness.
‘Now, who taught you that?’
‘Uncle Edmundo. He said Luciano’s good at it, and if Luciano’s smaller than me, then I’ll be better …’
‘I’ll talk to Jandira.’
‘Why bother? She’ll say yes. All Jandira does is read novels and think about her boyfriends. She doesn’t care.’
‘Let’s do this: finish your breakfast and we’ll go to the gate. If we see someone we know who’s heading that way, I’ll ask them to go with you.’
I didn’t even want to eat any bread, so as not to waste time. We went to the gate.
Nothing passed except time. But that ended up passing too. Along came Seu Paixão, the postman. He waved to Glória, took off his cap and offered to accompany us.
Glória kissed Luís and kissed me. She asked with a teary smile, ‘What was that thing about a private and his boots?’
‘It’s not true. I didn’t mean it. You’re going to marry an aeroplane major with a bunch of stars on his shoulder.’
‘Why didn’t you go with Totoca?’
‘He said he wasn’t going. And that he wasn’t in the mood to go lugging “baggage” around.’
We set off. Seu Paixão told us to go on ahead and went along delivering letters to the houses. Then he would quicken his step and catch up with us. He did it over and over. When we reached the highway, he laughed and said, ‘Boys, I’ve got to speed up. You’re making me fall behind in my work. Now, you go that way. It’s not at all dangerous.’
He hurried off, with the bundle of letters and papers under his arm.
I thought angrily, ‘Coward! Abandoning two little children on the highway after promising Glória that he’d take us.’
I held Luís’s little hand even tighter and we kept walking. His tiredness was beginning to show. His steps were growing shorter and shorter.
‘C’mon, Luís. It’s close now. There’re lots of toys.’
He’d walk a little faster and then would go slower again.
‘Zezé, I’m tired.’
‘I’ll carry you a ways, OK?’
He stretched out his arms and I carried him a bit. Boy, was he heavy, a lead weight. When we reached Rua do Progresso, I was the one panting.
‘Now you walk a bit more.’
The church clock chimed eight o’clock.
‘Oh dear! We were supposed to be there at seven-thirty. But it’s OK, there are lots of people and plenty of toys to go around. A truckload.’
‘Zezé, my foot hurts.’
I knelt down.
‘I’m going to loosen your shoelaces a little and it’ll feel better.’
We were going slower and slower. It felt like we’d never get to the market. We still had to pass the school and turn right on the street of the Bangu Casino. And the worst part was that time was flying on purpose.
We arrived, dead on our feet. There was no one there. It didn’t even look like toys had been given out. But they had, because the street was littered with crumpled tissue paper. Torn scraps of coloured paper were strewn across the sand.
My heart began to race.
We walked up to the casino and found Seu Coquinho closing the doors.
‘Seu Coquinho, is it all over?’ I said in a fluster.
‘Yep, Zezé. You came too late. It was mayhem.’
He closed one side of the door and smiled kindly.
‘There’s nothing left. Not even for my nieces and nephews.’
He closed the other side of the door and stepped into the street.
‘Next year, you need to come earlier, you sleepyheads!’
‘It’s OK.’
It wasn’t. I was so sad and disappointed that I’d rather have died than have that happen.
‘Let’s sit down over there. We need to rest a little.’
‘I’m thirsty, Zezé.’
‘When we pass the pastry shop, we can ask Seu Rozemberg for a glass of water. That’s it for us today.’
It was only then that he understood the tragedy. He didn’t even speak, just looked at me, his bottom lip jutting out and eyes brimming.
‘Don’t worry, Luís. You know my little horse, Silver King? I’m going to ask Totoca to change his pole and give it to you for Christmas.’
He sniffled.
‘No, don’t do that. You’re a king. Father said he named you Luís because it was a king’s name. And a king can’t cry in the street, in front of other people.’
I leaned his head against my chest and stroked his curly hair.
‘When I grow up, I’m going to buy a beautiful car like Manuel Valadares’s. Remember, the Portuguese man who passed us once at the train station when we went to wave at the Mangaratiba Express? Well, I’m going to buy a beautiful big car like that, full of presents just for you … But don’t cry, ’cause kings don’t cry.’
My chest exploded with sorrow.
‘I swear I’m going to buy one. Even if I have to kill and steal …’
It wasn’t the little bird inside me saying that. It must have been my heart.
It was the only way. Why didn’t Jesus like me? He even liked the ox and the donkey in the manger. But not me. He was punishing me because I was the devil’s godson. He was punishing me by not giving my brother a present. But that wasn’t fair on Luís, because he was an angel. There couldn’t have been an angel in heaven that was better than him …
Cowardly tears began to roll down my face.
‘Zezé, you’re crying …’
‘It’ll pass soon. Besides, I’m not a king like you. I’m good for nothing. A naughty boy, really naughty … That’s all.’
* * *
‘Totoca, have you been to the new house?’
‘No. Have you?’
‘I pop over there whenever I can.’
‘But why?’
‘I want to see how Pinkie is.’
‘Who the heck is Pinkie?’
‘He’s my orange tree.’
‘You found a name that really suits him. You’re good at finding things.’
He laughed and continued whittling what was going to be Silver King’s new body.
‘He hasn’t grown at all.’
‘Nor will he if you keep watching him. What do you think? Is this how you wanted the pole?’
‘Yes. Totoca, how is it that you know how to do everything? You can make cages, chicken coops, nurseries, fences, gates …’
‘That’s because not everyone was born to be a poet in a bowtie. But if you really wanted to, you could learn.’
‘I don’t think so. One needs to have the “inclination” to do those things.’
He paused for a moment and looked at me, half laughing, half disapproving of the new word Uncle Edmundo had probably taught me.
Gran had come over and was in the kitchen making French toast soaked in wine for Christmas Eve supper. It was all there was.
I said to Totoca, ‘And some people don’t even have this much. Uncle Edmundo gave us the money for the wine and to buy things for the fruit salad for lunch tomorrow.’
Totoca was making the new pole for free because he’d heard about what had happened at Bangu Casino. At least Luís would get something. Something old and second-hand, but something very beautiful, which I liked a lot.
‘Totoca?’
‘What?’
‘Do you think we’re going to get nothing at all from Father Christmas?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Tell me the truth. Do you think I’m as naughty, as bad as everyone says?’
‘Not bad bad. It’s just that you’ve got the devil in your blood.’
‘When Christmas comes I really wish I didn’t! I hope that before I die, at least once in my life, the Baby Jesus will be born in my heart instead of the devil child.’
‘Maybe next year … Why don’t you learn from me and do what I do?’
‘What do you do?’
‘I don’t expect anything. That way I don’t get disappointed. Jesus isn’t as good as everyone says. ’Cause the priest says that even if the catechism says …’
He paused, unsure if he should go on.
‘Even if it says what?’
‘Well, let’s just say that you were really naughty and didn’t deserve a thing. But what about Luís?’
‘He’s an angel.’
‘And Glória?’
‘She is too.’
‘And me?’
‘Well, sometimes you … you … use my things, but you’re good.’
‘And Lalá?’
‘She hits hard, but she’s good. One day she’s going to sew me a bowtie.’
‘And Jandira?’
‘Jandira is Jandira, but she isn’t bad.’
‘And Mother?’
‘Mother’s very good; she feels sorry for me when she smacks me, and she does it gently.’
‘And Father?’
‘Hmm! I’m not sure about him. He never gets lucky. I think he must have been like me, the bad one of the family.’
‘Well, then. Everyone in the family is good. So why isn’t Jesus good to us? Now go to Dr Faulhaber’s house and see the size of the table, piled high. The Villas-Boas’s house, too. And Dr Adaucto Luz’s house, don’t even get me started …’
For the first time I saw that Totoca was almost crying.
‘That’s why I think Jesus Christ only wanted to be born poor to show off. Afterwards he saw that only the rich were any good … But let’s not talk about this any more. What I said might be a really big sin.’
He was so distraught that he didn’t even look up from the horse’s body that he was now stroking.
* * *
Supper that Christmas Eve was so sad that I didn’t even want to think. Everyone ate in silence and Father only had a little taste of the French toast. He hadn’t shaved or anything. No one went to mass. The worst thing was that no one said anything to anyone. It was more like the Baby Jesus’s funeral than his birth.
Father fetched his hat and went out. He left without saying goodbye or wishing anyone Merry Christmas, in his sandals. Gran pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes and asked Uncle Edmundo to take her home. Uncle Edmundo put five tostões in my hand and five in Totoca’s. Maybe he wanted to give us more but didn’t have enough. Maybe, instead of giving it to us, he wished he could be giving it to his own children in the city. That’s why I hugged him. I think it was the only hug of the evening. No one embraced or had anything nice to say. Mother went to her room. I’m sure it was to cry in secret. And everyone felt like doing the same. Lalá went to see off Uncle Edmundo and Gran at the gate and when they walked away ever so slowly, she said, ‘They look like they’re too old for life and tired of everything.’
The saddest thing was that the church bell filled the night with happy voices. And some rockets shot up to the heavens for God to see how happy people were.
When we went back inside, Glória and Jandira were washing the dirty dishes and Glória’s eyes were red as if she’d cried her heart out.
She tried to hide it and said to me and Totoca, ‘It’s time for children to go to bed.’
She looked at us as she said it. She knew that there were no more children there. We were all big – big and sad, supping on the same tattered sadness.
Maybe it was all the fault of the dull lamplight that had replaced the light that the power company had cut off. Maybe.
The only happy one was the little king, who was fast asleep with his thumb in his mouth. I stood the little horse next to his bed. I couldn’t resist gently stroking his hair. My voice was a vast river of tenderness.
‘Pipsqueak.’
When the whole house was dark, I said quietly, ‘The French toast was good, wasn’t it, Totoca?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t have any.’
‘Why not?’
‘I had something caught in my throat, nothing would go down … Let’s sleep. Sleep makes you forget everything.’
I started to get up and Totoca could hear me moving around on the bed.
‘Where’re you going, Zezé?’
‘I’m going to put my shoes outside the door.’
‘I’m going to. You never know, maybe a miracle will happen. You know, Totoca, I’d love a present. Just one. But something new, just for me …’
He rolled over and shoved his head under the pillow.
* * *
I called Totoca the minute I woke up.
‘Let’s go see! I say there is something.’
‘I wouldn’t bother.’
‘Well, I’m going to.’
I opened the bedroom door and, to my disappointment, my shoes were empty. Totoca came over, rubbing his eyes.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’
A mixture of everything welled up in my soul. It was loathing, anger and sadness. Unable to contain myself, I blurted out, ‘Having a poor father is awful!’
My eyes travelled from my shoes to a pair of sandals that were parked in front of me. Father was standing there looking at us. His eyes were enormous with sadness. It looked like his eyes had grown so big – so big that they’d occupy the entire Bangu Cinema screen. There was so much hurt in his eyes that he couldn’t have cried if he’d wanted to. He stood there looking at us for a minute that was endless, then walked past in silence. We stood there, frozen, unable to say a thing. He took his hat from the chest of drawers and left the house again. Only then did Totoca touch my arm.
‘You’re mean, Zezé. Mean as a snake. That’s why …’
His voice faltered and he stopped.
‘I didn’t see him there.’
‘Mean. Heartless. You know Father’s been unemployed for a long time. That’s why I couldn’t swallow yesterday, looking at his face. One day you’ll be a father and you’ll know how much it hurts at times like this.’
Any more and I’d cry.
‘But I didn’t see him, Totoca, I didn’t see …’
‘Get away from me. You really are good for nothing. Go!’
I felt like racing down the street and clinging to Father’s legs, crying. Telling him I’d been mean – really, really mean. But I just stood there, not knowing what to do. I sat on the bed. And from there I stared at my shoes, in the same corner, as empty as could be. As empty as my heart, careening out of control.
Good God, why did I do that? Today of all days. Why did I have to be even meaner when everything was already so sad? How will I look at him at lunchtime? I won’t even be able to swallow the fruit salad.
And in my mind his big eyes, like a cinema screen, were glued to me, staring. I closed my eyes and still saw his big, big eyes …
I tapped my shoeshine box with my heel and had an idea. Maybe I could make Father forgive me for being so mean.
I opened Totoca’s box and borrowed a tin of black shoe polish because mine was running out. I didn’t say a word to anyone. I walked sadly down the street, not feeling the weight of the box. It was as if I was walking over his eyes. Hurting inside his eyes.
It was very early and adults were probably still asleep because of mass and supper the night before. The street was full of children showing off and comparing their toys. It made me feel even worse. They were all good children. None of them would ever do what I’d done.
I stopped near the Misery and Hunger hoping to find a customer. The bar was open even on Christmas Day. It was no accident it had the nickname it did. People came in their pyjamas, in slippers, in sandals – but real shoes, never.
I hadn’t eaten breakfast and wasn’t at all hungry. My pain was much greater than any hunger. I walked to Rua do Progresso. I circled the market. I sat on the pavement outside Seu Rozemberg’s pastry shop and … nothing.
The hours ran into one another and I didn’t make a single tostão. But I had to. I had to.
It grew hotter and the strap was hurting my shoulder, so I had to change positions from time to time. I felt thirsty and went to get a drink at the fountain in the market.
I sat on the front step of the school, which I’d probably have to go to soon. I put down the box, discouraged. Leaning my head on my knees like a doll, I just sat there, feeling listless. Then I hid my face between my knees and covered it with my arms. Better to die than go home without getting what I wanted.
A shoe tapped on my box and I heard a familiar, friendly voice.
‘Hey, shoeshine, you won’t make any money sleeping on the job.’
I looked up, unable to believe it. It was Seu Coquinho, the doorman of the casino. He placed one shoe on the box and I wiped it with my rag first, then wet the shoe and dried it off. Then I started carefully rubbing in the shoe polish.
‘Could you please lift up your trouser leg, sir?’
He did as I asked.
‘Working today, Zezé?’
‘I’ve never needed to more.’
‘And how was Christmas?’
‘It was OK.’
I tapped the box with the brush and he changed feet. I repeated the steps and then began to polish. When I finished, I tapped the box and he took his shoe off it.
‘How much, Zezé?’
‘Two tostões.’
‘Why only two? Everyone else charges four.’
‘I’ll only be able to charge that much when I’m a really good shoeshine. But not now.’
He handed me five tostões.
‘Keep the change for Christmas. See you later.’
‘Merry Christmas, Seu Coquinho.’
Maybe he’d come to get his shoes polished because of what had happened three days earlier.
The money in my pocket lifted my spirits a little, but it didn’t last long. It was already after two in the afternoon, people were out and about, and still nothing. Not a single customer, not even to dust off their shoes and relieve themselves of a tostão.
I stood near a lamppost on the highway and shouted from time to time in my high-pitched voice: ‘Shoeshine, mister? Shoeshine, sir? Get a shoeshine and help the poor at Christmas!’
A rich man’s car stopped nearby. I took the opportunity to shout again, not at all hopeful.
‘A helping hand, sir? To help the poor at Christmas.’
The well-dressed woman and children in the back seat sat there staring and staring at me. The woman took pity on me.
‘Poor little thing, so small and so poor. Give him something, Artur.’
But the man was eyeing me suspiciously.
‘That one there’s a little delinquent, and a wily one at that. He’s taking advantage of his size and the day.’
‘Well, I’m going to give him something anyway. Come here, son.’
She opened her handbag and stuck her hand out the window.
‘No, ma’am, thank you. I’m not lying. You only work on Christmas if you really have to.’
I picked up my box, slung it over my shoulder and started walking slowly. I had no energy left to be angry.
But the car door opened and a little boy came running over to me.
‘Here, take this. Mother said to say she doesn’t think you’re lying.’
He shoved five tostões in my pocket and didn’t even wait for me to thank him … I just heard the noise of the car engine moving away.
Four hours had passed and Father’s eyes were still tormenting me.
I started to make my way home. Ten tostões wasn’t enough, but maybe the Misery and Hunger would give it to me for less or let me pay the difference another day.
Something caught my eye on the corner of a fence. It was a torn, black, woman’s stocking. I bent over and picked it up. I pulled it over my hand and the fabric became very thin. I put it in my box, thinking, ‘This’ll make a good snake.’ But I argued with myself. ‘Another day. Not today, no way …’
I came to the Villas-Boas family’s house. It had a large cemented-over front yard. Serginho was riding around the flower beds on a beautiful bicycle. I pressed my face against the fence to watch.
The bicycle was red with streaks of yellow and blue. The metal gleamed. Serginho saw me and began to show off. He went fast, sped around corners and braked so hard the wheels squealed. Then he came over.
‘Like it?’
‘It’s the most beautiful bike in the world.’
‘Come to the gate – you’ll be able to see better.’
Serginho was Totoca’s age and in his class.
I was ashamed of my bare feet because he was wearing shiny shoes, white socks and red braces. His shoes were so shiny they reflected everything. Even Father’s eyes began to stare out of the shine at me. I gulped.
‘S’up, Zezé? You’re acting weird.’
‘Nothing. It’s even more beautiful up close. You get it for Christmas?’
‘Yep.’
He climbed off the bike to talk and opened the gate.
‘I got lots of stuff. A gramophone, three suits, a heap of story-books, a huge box of coloured pencils. A box full of games, a plane with a propeller that moves. Two boats with white sails …’
I lowered my head and remembered Baby Jesus, who only liked rich people, just as Totoca had said.
‘What’s wrong, Zezé?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What about you? … Did you get lots of stuff?’
I shook my head, unable to reply.
‘Nothing? Nothing at all?’
‘This year we didn’t have Christmas at my place. Father’s still out of work.’
‘It’s not possible. Didn’t you have nuts, wine?’
‘Just French toast, which Gran made, and coffee.’
Serginho looked thoughtful.
‘Zezé, will you accept an invitation?’
I had a fair idea what it was. But even though my stomach was empty I didn’t feel like it.
‘Let’s go inside. Mother will fix you a plate. There’s so much food, so many sweets …’
I didn’t want to take the risk. I’d had a hard time of it the last few days. I’d heard someone say more than once, ‘I’ve told you before not to bring street kids into the house.’
‘No, thank you very much.’
‘OK. What if I ask Mother to make a packet of nuts and things for you to take to your little brother – will you take it?’
‘I can’t. I have to finish work.’
Only then did Serginho notice the shoeshine box that I was sitting on.
‘But no one gets their shoes shined on Christmas …’
‘I’ve been at it all day and I only made ten tostões, and half of it was people taking pity on me. I still need to make another two.’
‘What for, Zezé?’
‘I can’t say. But I really need it.’
He smiled and had a generous idea.
‘Want to shine mine? I’ll give you ten tostões.’
‘I can’t do that either. I don’t charge friends.’
‘Well, what if I give you, that is, lend you, the two tostões?’
‘Can I take a while to pay you back?’
‘Whatever you like. You can even pay me in marbles.’
‘Then, yes.’
He reached into his pocket and handed me the money.
‘Don’t worry about it, ’cause people gave me a lot of money. My piggy bank’s full.’
I ran my hand over the wheel of the bike.
‘When you’re bigger and learn how to ride, I’ll let you take it for a spin, OK?’
‘OK.’
* * *
I charged off to the Misery and Hunger, my shoeshine box jiggling.
I raced in like a hurricane, afraid it might be closing time.
‘Have you still got those expensive cigarettes?’
Seu Misery and Hunger got two packets down when he saw the money in my hand.
‘This isn’t for you, is it, Zezé?’
A voice behind him said, ‘Are you mad? A child that size!’
Without turning, he replied, ‘You don’t know this customer. This kid’s capable of anything.’
‘It’s for Father.’
I felt enormously happy as I turned the packets over in my hands.
‘This one or this one?’
‘It’s up to you.’
‘I spent the day working to buy this Christmas present for Father.’
‘Is that so, Zezé? And what did he give you?’
‘Nothing, the poor fellow. He’s still unemployed, you know.’
He was moved. No one at the bar spoke.
‘Which one would you like if it was you?’
‘Both are nice. And any father would like a present like this.’
‘Then wrap this one up for me, please, sir.’
He wrapped it up, but he looked a bit strange when he handed me the package, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t. I handed him the money and smiled.
‘Thanks, Zezé.’
‘Merry Christmas to you, sir!’
I ran home.
Night had fallen. Only the lantern in the kitchen was on. Everyone had gone out, but Father was sitting at the table staring vacantly at the wall, chin in hand, elbow on the table.
‘Father.’
‘What, son?’ There wasn’t a trace of resentment in his voice. ‘Where’ve you been all day?’
I showed him my shoeshine box. Then I set it on the floor and pulled the package out of my pocket.
‘Look, Father, I bought you something nice.’
He smiled, understanding how much it had cost.
‘Do you like it? It was the nicest one they had.’
He opened the packet and took a whiff of the cigarettes, smiling, but unable to say anything.
‘Smoke one, Father.’
I went to the stove to get a match. I struck it and held it close to the cigarette in his mouth.
I stepped back to watch him take his first drag. And something began to well up in me. I threw the burnt match on the floor, feeling that I was bursting. Erupting on the inside. That enormous pain that had been threatening to erupt all day.
I looked at Father. His unshaven face, his eyes.
‘Father … Father …’ was all I could say before tears and sobs got the better of my voice.
He spread his arms wide and hugged me tenderly.
‘Don’t cry, son. You’re going to have a lot to cry about in life, if you go on being so emotional …’
‘I didn’t mean to, Father … I didn’t mean to say … that.’
‘I know. I know. I wasn’t upset, because deep down you were right.’
He rocked me in his arms a little more. Then he lifted my face and dried it with a tea towel that was lying nearby.
‘That’s better.’
I raised my hands and stroked his face. I passed them lightly over his eyes, trying to put them back where they belonged, away from that big cinema screen. I was afraid that if I didn’t, those eyes were going to follow me for the rest of my life.
‘I’m going to finish off my cigarette.’
Still choked up, I spluttered, ‘You know, Father, when you want to beat me, I’ll never complain again. You just go ahead and do it …’
‘Hey, hey, Zezé.’
He put me and the rest of my sobs down and got a plate from the cupboard.
‘Glória saved a bit of fruit salad for you.’
I couldn’t swallow. He sat down and fed it to me in small spoonfuls.
‘It’s OK now, isn’t it, son?’
I nodded, but the first spoonfuls tasted salty. It was my last few tears, which were taking a long time to go away.