Jean-Marie Blas De Robles - Where Tigers Are at Home

The loss of his savings left him cold. Not for one moment did he think who might have taken them; he was looking for a sign, now he had it. Someone had made the decision for him and sealed his fate to that of Moreira. The possibility of recovering his money never occurred to him. The extreme weariness that had crept into the farthest recesses of his being told him it would be too hard to start all over again. It was as if the Colonel had come in person to take away his wheelchair, depriving him — after his father — of the only reason he had left for living. He would go to the rally, do his duty as a son and that would be that.

Check the hammer was working while it was unloaded, clean the bullets again and again … His night was like a vigil of arms dedicated to the thousand deaths of the governor.

THE NEXT MORNING Nelson headed off for the beira-mar . Standing by the roadside, he got a lift on a truck that dropped him on the first part of the beach. That was where he met Lauro, who had climbed up the dunes to wait for Dadá Cotinha. Fortunately no one had arrived yet. The very thought of meeting Uncle Zé or Moéma made him break out in a cold sweat. He was afraid the old man’s look would make him lose his nerve, afraid of seeing in Moéma’s the confession he dreaded. He gave evasive answers to Lauro’s questions and found another vehicle for the next part of his journey.

When he reached the placards announcing the governor’s rally he was still a half mile away from the platform. Making his way toward it, he didn’t take his eyes off it so as to make his route as short as possible. Then it was the crowd and the jungle of legs blocking his view. He pushed his way through slowly, all the time asking people to let him through, out of fear of being trodden on. One or two would move aside and then he’d have to go through the process again. The most difficult part was not to yield to the temptation to warn people by touching their calves; that provoked an instinctive reaction of alarm that resulted in an immediate kick. Nelson took his direction from the powerful loudspeakers playing sambas before the party leaders made their speeches. He had let his football shirt hang loose, à la Platini , to avoid arousing suspicion that he might have a gun. Stuck in between his skin and the elastic of his shorts, the pistol bit into his flesh every time he crawled a bit farther forward. The coldness of the metal, its weight, like a tumescent organ, anesthetised even the pain of being alive.

The crowd around him started to dance, threatening to crush him. Never having been in such a throng, Nelson panicked. The music seemed to be coming from all sides at once, legs bumped into him, he was breathing in sand. Stepping back, a fat woman tumbled down on his chest, almost crushing his ribs. “Where are you off to like that?” said a swaggering black man with biceps the size of his head.

“To the rally,” Nelson managed to reply, panting. “I want to go to the rally.”

“Up you get, then. I’ll take you there, to the rally.”

The man lifted Nelson up and held him in his arms as easily as if he were a shirt he’d picked up from the dry cleaner’s. “And what are you going to do over there? Don’t you know all politicians are liars? Surely you’re not going to vote for those bastards?”

“No,” Nelson protested, “I just want a T-shirt … They also said there’d be something to eat.”

“I’ll see to it,” the negro said, shaking his head with a sympathetic look. “You’ll get your T-shirt, as sure as I’m called Walmir da Silva.”

Using his elbows and shoulders, Walmir quickly got to the foot of the platform. It was huge and they’d put up one of those marquees the well-to-do hire for their wedding receptions on it. Placed on either side, gigantic speakers were vibrating with the pounding of the music. There was also a microphone on a stand, flowers and banners repeating the name of the governor. In the tent a group of campaign organizers were busying themselves round a pile of cardboard boxes. They were all dressed in white and sported T-shirts bearing the name of Edson Barbosa, Jr. At the front of the podium four strapping men forming the security team were keeping an eye on the area round the platform and the wooden stairs leading up to it. You could tell they were uneasy, already sensing the flood of the destitute, who were demanding that the things they’d been promised should be distributed, might be too much for them.

With his body strength, Walmir elbowed his way to the stairs and ran up with a few lithe steps. Putting Nelson down behind him, he turned to face the security guards who had dashed over to confront him.

“It’s forbidden to come up here. Come on, clear off. We’ll tell you when it’s time.”

“The kid wants a T-shirt and his share of the grub,” Walmir said calmly. “If he stays down there he’ll get crushed.”

Walmir was a good eight inches taller than the others; his hand was resting negligently on a long knife stuck through his belt.

“Go and tell the boss,” one of the guards said, foreseeing a fight in which he wasn’t sure the security team would come out on top. “Be reasonable, compadre . Just go down from the platform or there’ll be trouble.”

“Leave it,” Nelson said, “I just want to watch. I’ll wait at the bottom, no problem.”

“You going to do as you’re told?” another guard said, going up to Walmir in a threatening manner.

The negro just let out a terrible cry, a real roar that stopped the other in his tracks.

“Now let’s all calm down, please, let’s all calm down. What’s going on?” said the half-pint who came over with swift little steps, a bald-headed man in a suit and vest with the clammy skin and flushed look of a pizza cook when his pizzas are about to burn.

It took the boss just a second, while Walmir was succinctly explaining again what he wanted, to size up the situation: he saw the knife, his men’s anxious looks, and realized that the cripple could help his employer’s image. “We can sort this out,” he said in friendly tones and one of those smiles that experience can make almost believable. “Tonho, go and get two T-shirts … What’s your name, son?”

“Nelson.”

“Right, now listen to me, Nelson: I can’t touch the food baskets just at the moment. If you got one and all the rest didn’t, there’s be a riot. You can see that, can’t you? But I give you my word that you’ll get one. I’ll put it on one side — per-son-all-y … No, better than that,” he said, his face lighting up at the idea that had just occurred to him, “it’s the governor himself who’ll give it to you. What about that, eh? The governor himself!”

Tonho had returned with the T-shirts. “Look, here’s your T-shirt. Put it on and sit over there, by the loudspeakers. If you promise to stay still, no one’ll bother you and you’ll be in the front row.”

“As for you,” he said giving the other T-shirt to Walmir, “there’s two hundred cruzeiros in it for you if you stay here and stop people climbing up onto the platform. Is it a deal?”

Without even bothering to reply, Walmir placed the second T-shirt at Nelson’s feet and ruffled his hair. “So long, kid, see you around.”

The campaign manager shrugged his shoulders as he went down the stairs and was lost in the crowd. “Come on then, come on then! Back to work,” he said angrily to his hired men. “And if another of these assholes gets up on this rostrum, you can say goodbye to your money, I can tell you!”

1 After that but because of that.

2 In truth, this worthy gentleman is richer than you!

3 I will fall asleep if I sit down.

4 I like to write books as well …

5 The song of the swallow!