‘Chop chop, Zezé, or you’ll be late for school!’
I was sitting at the table, drinking a cup of coffee and chewing a piece of bread without any hurry. As always, I had my elbow on the table and was staring at the piece of paper on the wall.
Glória always got flustered. She couldn’t wait for us to disappear for the morning and leave her in peace with the housework.
‘Get a move on, you little rascal. You haven’t even combed your hair! You should follow Totoca’s example – he’s always ready on time.’
She fetched a comb and ran it through my blond fringe.
‘Not that there’s anything to comb on this little goldilocks.’
She made me stand and then looked me up and down to see if my shirt and trousers were decent.
‘Now let’s go, Zezé.’
Totoca and I slung our satchels over our shoulders. Just textbooks, notebooks and pencils inside. No snacks – they were for other children.
Glória patted the bottom of my satchel, felt the marbles and smiled. We carried our tennis shoes in our hands to put on when we got to the market, near school.
The minute we were outside, Totoca would bolt off, leaving me to amble along on my own. That’s when my inner imp would begin to wake up. I actually liked it when Totoca went on ahead so that I could do my thing in peace. I was fascinated with the highway. A piggyback. Definitely a piggyback. To cling to the back of a car and feel the highway blowing wind in your face, whooshing and whistling. It was the best thing in the world. We all did it. Totoca had taught me, telling me over and over to hold on tight, because the cars behind us were dangerous. We slowly learned to overcome our fear, and our sense of adventure prompted us to attempt even more difficult piggybacks. I was getting so bold that I’d even piggybacked on Seu Ladislau’s car. The only one I hadn’t been on was the Portuguese’s beautiful vehicle. What a fine, well-kept car that was. The tyres always brand new. The metal so shiny you could see your reflection in it. I loved the sound of the horn: a gravely moo, like a cow in a field. The Portuguese would drive past sitting stiffly in his seat, master of all that beauty, wearing the biggest scowl in the world. No one dared piggyback on his back wheel. They said he beat people up, killed them, and even threatened to cut off their balls before he killed them. None of the boys from school had dared to, until now.
When I was talking about it with Pinkie, he said, ‘No one at all, Zezé?’
‘No one at all. They don’t dare.’
I sensed that Pinkie was laughing, and he could tell what I was thinking.
‘But you’re just dying to do it, aren’t you?’
‘To be honest, I am. I think …’
‘What do you think?’
Now I was the one laughing.
‘C’mon, tell me.’
‘You’re so nosy.’
‘You always tell me – you always end up telling me. You can’t help yourself.’
‘Hey, Pinkie. I leave home at seven o’clock in the morning, right? When I get to the corner it’s five past seven. Then, at ten past seven, the Portuguese stops his car at the corner outside the Misery and Hunger and goes in to buy a packet of cigarettes … One of these days I’m going to pluck up the courage and wait for him to get back into the car and pow!’
‘You don’t dare.’
‘Don’t I, Pinkie? I’ll show you.’
Now my heart was thumping. The car stopped, the Portuguese got out. Pinkie’s challenge played on my fear and my courage; I didn’t want to, but pride made me quicken my step. I walked around the bar and hid behind the corner, stuffing my shoes in my satchel while I was there. My heart was beating so fast I was afraid they’d hear it in the bar. The Portuguese came back out without even noticing me. I heard the door open …
‘It’s now or never, Pinkie!’ I whispered.
I jumped onto the tyre and clung to it with all my strength fuelled by my fear. I knew it was a long way to the school. I could already see the look on my classmates’ faces when they learned of my prowess …
I cried out so loudly that people raced to the door of the bar to see who had been run over.
I was suspended two feet above the ground, wriggling and writhing. My ears were burning like red-hot coals. My plan had gone wrong somehow. In my haste, I’d forgotten to listen for the engine to start.
The Portuguese’s scowl looked even bigger than usual. His eyes were shooting sparks.
‘Well, well, toerag. So, it’s you, huh? You’ve got a lot of cheek for such a little squirt!’
He allowed my feet to touch the ground, let go of one of my ears and threatened me with his burly arm.
‘Do you think I didn’t see you checking out my car every day, toerag? I’m going to make sure you never try that again.’
The humiliation hurt more than the physical pain. All I wanted to do was fire off a volley of swear words at the brute. But he wouldn’t let go of me and, as if reading my mind, shook his free fist in my face and growled, ‘Say something then, toerag! Swear! Why don’t you say anything?’
My eyes filled with tears; it was the pain, the humiliation, the sniggering onlookers.
The Portuguese carried on shouting.
‘Why don’t you swear at me, toerag?’
A cruel fury rose up in my chest and I managed to splutter angrily, ‘I might not be saying anything, but I’m thinking it. And when I grow up I’m going to kill you.’
He laughed, followed by everyone standing around us.
‘Well, grow up, then, toerag. I’ll be waiting for you. But first I’m going to teach you a lesson.’
He quickly let go of my ear and bent me over his thigh. He walloped me only once, but so hard it felt like he’d sent my back-side through my stomach. Only then did he let me go.
I staggered away with the roar of the crowd ringing in my ears. It was only when I got to the other side of the highway, which I crossed without seeing a thing, that I was able to rub my stinging rump. The bastard! I’d show him. I swore I’d get even. I swore that … but the pain eased off as I put distance between myself and those sons of bitches. It’d be worse when the kids at school found out. And what was I going to tell Pinkie? For a week, whenever I passed the Misery and Hunger they’d be laughing at me, in all their grown-up cowardice. I’d have to leave earlier and cross the highway further down …
I approached the market with these thoughts running through my mind. I washed my feet in the fountain and put on my shoes. Totoca was waiting for me anxiously. I wasn’t going to breathe a word about my humiliation.
‘Zezé, you’ve gotta help me.’
‘What’ve you done?’
‘Remember Bié?’
‘That big kid from Rua Barão de Capanema?’
‘That’s the one. He’s going to get me at the gate after school. Can you fight him for me?’
‘But he’ll kill me.’
‘No, he won’t, and anyway, you’re brave and a good fighter.’
‘Alright. At the gate?’
‘At the gate.’
Totoca always did that. He’d get in a fight and then he’d have me sort it out. But it was a good thing. I would take out all my anger at the Portuguese on Bié.
But that day I took such a beating that I came out with a black eye and my arms all scratched up. Totoca knelt on the ground with the others, cheering me on, a pile of books on his knees: mine and his. He also shouted instructions.
‘Headbutt him in the belly, Zezé. Bite him, dig in your nails – he’s all lard. Kick him in the balls.’
But even with all the cheering and instructions, if it weren’t for Seu Rozemberg, Bié would have made mincemeat of me. He came out from behind the counter, grabbed Bié by the collar of his shirt and knocked him around a bit.
‘Have you no shame? A child your size beating up a little kid.’
Everyone at home said that Seu Rozemberg had a secret crush on my sister Lalá. He knew us and whenever she was with us, he’d hand out pastries and sweets with the biggest of smiles dotted with several gold teeth.
* * *
I couldn’t help myself and ended up telling Pinkie about my humiliation. I could hardly hide it with that puffy black eye. Besides, when Father had seen me like that, he’d given me a few raps on the head and Totoca a dressing-down. Father never hit Totoca, but he did me, because I was as bad as it got.
Pinkie must have heard every word, so how could I not tell him? He listened, indignant, and only when I finished did he say angrily, ‘What a coward!’
‘The fight was nothing. You should have seen …’
Blow by blow, I relayed everything that had happened with the piggyback. Pinkie was amazed at how brave I’d been and said, ‘One day you’ll get even.’
‘Yes, I will. I’m going to borrow Tom Mix’s revolver and Fred Thompson’s Silver King and I’ll ambush him with the Comanche Indians. One day I’ll bring home his scalp, flapping in the wind on a bamboo stick.’
But my anger quickly wore off and soon we were talking about other things.
‘Sweetie, guess what? Remember how last week I won that book The Magic Rose for being a good pupil?’
Pinkie liked it when I called him Sweetie; it let him know that I really loved him.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’ve already read it. It’s a story about a prince who is given a red and white rose by a fairy. The lucky fellow rides a handsome steed “all festooned with gold” – that’s what it says in the book. And on the steed all festooned with gold he goes off in search of adventure. Whenever he’s in danger he shakes the magic rose and a big cloud of smoke appears so the prince can escape. To be honest, Pinkie, I think the story’s a bit silly, you know? It’s not like the adventures that I want to have in my life. Tom Mix and Buck Jones have real adventures. And Fred Thompson and Richard Talmadge. Because they know how to fight, to shoot, to throw punches … If they had to pull out a magic rose every time they found themselves in danger, it’d be no fun at all. What do you think?’
‘Yeah, that’d be no fun.’
‘But that isn’t what I want to know. I want to know if you believe a rose can do magic like that.’
‘It does sound pretty weird.’
‘People tell stories and think children believe everything.’
‘True.’
We heard a noise. It was Luís coming over. My little brother was becoming more and more beautiful. He wasn’t a cry baby or the sort to throw tantrums. Even when I had to look after him, most of the time I did so willingly.
I told Pinkie, ‘Let’s change the subject, because I’m going to tell him the story and he’s going to love it. We shouldn’t ruin a child’s illusions.’
‘Zezé, let’s play?’
‘I’m already playing. What do you want to play?’
‘I want to go to the zoo.’
I looked at the chicken coop with the black hen and her two new chicks, without enthusiasm.
‘It’s too late. The lions are already asleep and the Bengal tigers too. It’ll be closed by now. They won’t let us in.’
‘Then let’s travel around Europe.’
The bright spark learned and repeated everything he heard perfectly. But, to be honest, I wasn’t in the mood to travel around Europe either. What I really wanted was to hang out with Pinkie. Pinkie didn’t tease me or make fun of my puffy eye.
I sat beside my little brother and spoke calmly.
‘Just wait a second. I’ll think of something for us to play.’
Presently, the fairy of innocence flew past on a white cloud that ruffled the leaves on the trees, the grasses in the ditch and Pinkie’s leaves. A smile lit up my battered face.
‘Was that you, Pinkie?’
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘Oh, goody, then it’s the windy season coming.’
On our street there were all kinds of seasons. The marble season. The spinning top season. The season to collect movie-star trading cards. The kite season was the most beautiful of them all. The skies would fill with kites of every colour. Beautiful kites of every shape and size. It was war in the air. Headlong collisions, battles, lassoing and line cutting.
Razors would cut strings and kites would go wheeling through space, out of kilter, tangling bridles and tails; it was all beautiful. The world belonged to the kids in the street. In all the streets of Bangu. Then there’d be kite skeletons tangled in the electric wires, and we’d all run away from the power company truck. The men would come and angrily pull down the dead kites. The wind … the wind …
With the wind came the idea.
‘Let’s play hunting, Luís.’
‘I can’t ride the horse.’
‘Soon you’ll be big enough and you’ll be able to. You sit there and watch how it’s done.’
Suddenly Pinkie became the most beautiful horse in the world, the wind blew stronger, and the scraggy grasses in the ditch became vast, lush plains. My cowboy outfit was festooned with gold. A sheriff’s star flashed on my chest.
‘Let’s go, little horse, go. Run, run …’
Thubalup-thubalup-thubalup! I was back with Tom Mix and Fred Thompson. Buck Jones hadn’t wanted to come this time and Richard Talmadge was working on another film.
‘Go, go, little horse. Run, run. Here come our Apache friends churning up dust as they ride.’
Thubalup-thubalup-thubalup! The Indians’ horses were making a racket.
‘Run, run, little horse, the plains are full of bison and buffalo. Let’s shoot, folks. Bang, bang, bang! Pow, pow, pow!’
‘Phwoo, Phwoo, Phwoo!’ whistled the arrows.
The wind, the speed, the wild gallop, the clouds of dust and Luís’s voice almost shouting.
I slowly reined in my horse and jumped down, flushed from the ride.
‘What’s the matter? Did a buffalo come your way?’
‘No. Let’s play something else. There are lots of Indians and I’m scared.’
‘But these are Apaches. They’re our friends.’
‘But I’m scared. There are lots of them.’