Rubem Fonseca - Winning the Game and Other Stories

It is ten in the morning and the sun casts luminous rays between the black, opaque monolith of the Cândido Mendes skyscraper and the turret of the church with the image of Our Lady of Carmona, she standing up as Our Ladies usually do, a circle of iron, or copper, over her head pretending to be a halo. Ana Paula is giving the naked girl a sunbath; she has already changed her diaper, washed the dirty one in a bucket of water she got from a chicken restaurant, hung it on a wire clothesline that she puts up only on weekends by attaching one end to an iron post with a metal sign that reads TurisRio—9 parking places and another to an iron post with an advertising sign. Besides the diapers, Augusto sees Bermudas, T-shirts, jeans, and pieces of clothing that he can’t identify, out of consideration, so as not to appear nosey.

Kelly remains on the corner, unwilling to approach the small shack where Ana Paula is taking care of Marcela. Ana Paula has gentle eyes, has a narrow, calm face, delicate gestures, slim arms, a very pretty mouth, despite the cavities in her front teeth.

“Kelly, come see what a pretty baby Marcelinha is,” Augusto says.

At that instant, Benevides, the head of the clan, a black man who’s always drunk, comes out from one of the cardboard boxes, followed by the two adolescents Zé Ricardo and Alexandre, the latter the most likable of them all, and also Dona Tina, the matriarch, accompanied by some eight children. There used to be twelve minors in the family, but four had left and no one knew of their whereabouts; they were known to be part of a juvenile gang that operated in the city’s South Zone, acting in large bands to rob the elegant stores, well-dressed people, tourists, and on Sundays the patsies tanning on the beach.

One of the children asks Augusto for money and gets a cuff from Benevides.

“We’re not beggars, you brat.”

“It wasn’t charity,” says Augusto.

“The other day some guy came by saying he was organizing beggars in a group called Beggars United. I told him to shove it. We’re no beggars.”

“Who is the guy? Where does he hang out?”

“On Jogo da Bola Street.”

“How do you get to that street?”

“From here? You go in a straight line to Candelária Church, once you’re there you take Rio Branco, from there you go to Visconde de Inhaúma Street, picking it up on the left side, go to Santa Rita Square where it ends and Marechal Floriano starts, that’s Larga Street, and you go down Larga until you come to Andradas, on the right-hand side, cross Leandro Martins, get onto Júlia Lopes de Almeida, go left to Conceição Street, follow it till Senador Pompeu, take a right onto Colonel something-or-other, and stay to the right till you get to Jogo da Bola Street. Ask for him, his name’s Chicken Zé. A black guy with green eyes, all the time surrounded by suck-ups. He’s gonna end up on the city council.”

“Thanks, Benevides. How’s business?”

“We’ve hauled in twenty tons of paper this month,” says Alexandre.

“Shut up,” says Benevides.

A truck comes by periodically to pick up the paper that’s been collected. Today it came early and took away everything.

Dona Tina says something that Augusto doesn’t understand.

“Shit, ma, keep your mouth shut. Shit,” shouts Benevides, furious.

His mother moves away and goes to put some pans over a dismountable stove made of bricks, in the Banco Mercantil’s doorway. Ricardo combs his thick hair using a comb with long steel teeth.

“Who’s the babe?” Benevides points to Kelly, in the distance, at the street corner. Kelly looks like a princess of Monaco, in the midst of the Gonçalves family.

“A friend of mine.”

“Why doesn’t she come any closer?”

“She must be afraid of you, of your shouts.”

“I have to shout. I’m the only one here with a head on his shoulders … Sometimes I’m even suspicious of you …”

“That’s silly.”

“At first I thought you were from the police. Then from the Leo XIII, then somebody from the bank, but the manager’s a good guy and knows we’re workers and wouldn’t send some spy to rat on us. We’ve been here for two years, and I plan to die here, which may not be that long, ’cause I’ve got this pain in the side of my belly … You know this bank’s never been robbed? Only one in the whole area.”

“Your presence keeps robbers away.”

“I’m suspicious of you.”

“Don’t waste your time on that.”

“What do you want here? Last Saturday you didn’t want to have some soup with us.”

“I told you. I want to talk. And you only have to tell me what you want to. And I only like green-colored soups, and your soups are yellow.”

“It’s the squash,” says Dona Tina, who is listening to the conversation.

“Shut up, ma. Look here, man, the city’s not the same anymore. There’s too many people, too many beggars in the city, picking up paper, fighting with us over territory, a whole lot of people living under overhangs; we’re all the time throwing out bums from outside, and there’s even fake beggars fighting us for our paper. All the paper thrown away on this part of Cândido Mendes is mine, but there’s guys trying to grab it.”

Benevides says that the man on the truck pays more for white paper than for newsprint or scrap paper, dirty paper, colored paper, torn paper. The paper he collects on Cândido Mendes is white. “There’s a lot of continuous computer forms, reports, things like that.”

“What about glass? It can also be recycled. Have you thought about selling bottles?”

“Bottle men have to be Portuguese. We’re black. And bottles are giving out, everything’s plastic. The only bottle man who works these parts is Mané da Boina, and he came by the other day to have some soup with us. He eats yellow soup. He’s in deep shit.”

Kelly spreads her arms, displays an impatient expression, at the corner across the street. Augusto says good-bye, embracing everyone. Benevides pulls Augusto to his naked torso, bringing his alcoholic mouth close to the other man’s, and looks at him closely, curiously, shrewdly. “They’re saying there’s going to be a big convention of foreigners and that they’re going to try to hide us from the gringos. I don’t want to leave here,” he murmurs menacingly. “I live beside a bank, there’s safety, no crazy man’s going try to set us on fire like they did with Maílson, behind the museum. And I’ve been here for two years, which means nobody’s going to try and mess with our home; it’s part of the atmosphere, you understand?” Augusto, who was born and raised in the downtown area, although in a more lustrous era when the stores’ facades sported their names in glowing twisted glass tubes filled with red, blue, and green gases, understands completely what Benevides is telling him with his endless embrace; he too wouldn’t leave downtown for anything, and he nods, involuntarily brushing his face against the face of the black man. When they finally separate, Augusto manages to slip the clever little black boy a bill, without Benevides seeing it. He goes to Ana Paula and says good-bye to her, to Marcelo and to little Marcela, who is now wearing a pair of floral-patterned overalls.

“Let’s go,” says Augusto, taking Kelly by the arm. Kelly pulls her arm away. “Don’t touch me; those beggars probably have the mange. You’ll have to take a bath before going to bed with me.”

They walk to the used-book store behind the Carmo church, while Kelly spins her theory that beggars, in hot places like Rio, where they walk around half-naked, are even poorer; a shirtless beggar, wearing old, dirty, torn pants that show a piece of his butt is more of a beggar than a beggar in a cold place dressed in rags. She saw beggars when she went to São Paulo one winter, and they were wearing wool overcoats and caps; they had a decent look to them.