Black Lies, Red Blood

Thirty-five

Twenty-three murders in the course of forty-eight hours. Anders Brant read the headline in A Tarde, let his eyes run over the photographs of the murder victims-among them a local politician, two shopkeepers, a coconut vendor, three teenage boys, a young mother and her two-year-old son. A gallery of young men and women, famous for a day.

All of them looked serious in the photos, as if they were aware that they would meet a violent death. Who would I vote for, thought Brant.

No picture of any perpetrators. He skimmed through the text. No, no one had been arrested.

With those figures it was not particularly surprising that the jails were overcrowded, even though many of the crimes of the past few days would remain unsolved. He was also convinced that more murders had been committed, deeds that would never be reported, either in the statistics or in the mass media. People simply disappeared, were buried, thrown into the bay, or incinerated.

Perhaps a few of those pictured had been victims of police bullets, not policemen in service, but moonlighters, earning an extra buck by taking the lives of criminals and homeless youth. Contract jobs, where the payment was settled when the victim had his picture printed in the newspaper. A newspaper the victims seldom if ever read themselves.

He pushed the paper aside. He was not surprised at the sensational headlines. He was aware of the Brazilian reality, but could never get used to the ever-present violence. Once he had a taste of it himself, but got away with only a scare, and a scar. It was during an outdoor concert at Farol da Barra. He had walked around the lighthouse to find a place to relieve himself. On the slope down toward the sea a couple was necking, a few others were sleeping off a bender. The sea, which had gathered momentum all the way from Senegal, was whipping its white cascades against the rocks.

Out of nowhere a gang of boys and young men suddenly appeared. They came toward him on the narrow cast-iron passageway. He sensed the danger and stepped aside, looking around. It was dark, there was no one nearby, the loud music would drown out all calls for help. The group surrounded him. There was no hesitation in their movements, this was not the first time. No pardon would be given.

Immediately, without a word having been spoken, he took a blow to the back of his head and fell forward, was caught up by a swipe that hit above the eyebrow. He felt the pain and the blood, and now felt really afraid. Someone laughed, it sounded like glass cracking.

He had a rather slender build and knew that he would never escape by muscular strength, but he was agile and limber and that was his only chance. Blinking away the blood in his eyes he saw a gap between two of the attackers, feinted to the right but threw himself to the left.

His experience from bandy helped him. He knew, as he slipped between two bodies, vainly grasping arms that reached out a tenth of a second too late, that he would escape. A feeling of triumph made him let out a howl. With blood running down his face he ran crouching like a rugby player around the lighthouse, and was soon surrounded by people.

A group of policemen took care of him, and at the Portugal Hospital he got seven stitches. The scar, a white line right above his left eyebrow, was the only evidence of what he had experienced.

He had never told anyone about his experience. Even if it was a true picture of Brazilian reality, it felt like a betrayal of the country to brag about the incident behind the lighthouse. He could tell about anything else-the landless, the poverty, the homeless, the struggle for justice, the corruption, but what people would remember was that he had been assaulted.

He had not seen Ivaldo Assis since they visited Vincente in the jail. The neighboring building, or what was left of it, was silent. Brant peered through the window several times a day. The scene was deserted, as was the alley. The dark stain on the cobblestones was the only evidence of what had happened. The trash along the wall had been removed and nothing new had been collected. The carts with which the Assis family gathered rags and boxes were quietly parked with their shafts in the air. Perhaps the Assis family had gone away?

There was no peace and quiet, and he accepted that in the time until his departure not much would be accomplished. He could only wait. The problem was that things were not going very well. It was not just the murder and his false testimony that worried him, but above all, thoughts of Vanessa and his own life.

The day before he had decided to go back to Itaberaba, took a taxi to the bus terminal, bought a ticket, but then never got on the bus. Instead he remained sitting on the bench and watched it disappear in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

The 10,000 reais he should have given her were now rolled up in a sock hidden under the sink. What should he do with the money? In a few days he would be going home. He could exchange them again, at a significant loss, or save them for the next trip, but he sensed it would be a while before he returned to Brazil, if he ever did.

The material he had collected was more than enough-statistics, a hundred interviews with homeless people, politicians, public officials and others, and thousands of photos. He was perhaps the Swedish journalist who best knew the conditions of the most marginalized in Brazil, the smiling country, the country with the samba and Carnival, but also the devastation of nature, especially to produce agrofuel.

And a Brazil with a woman he had betrayed in a degrading manner.

He dreamed about Vanessa, devoting nights as well as days to the settling of accounts. He was out of the running, waiting for a flight that could take him out of the country; for a policeman at his door, who would give him a summons; for Ivaldo Assis.

The cowardice, the lies, and betrayal haunted him. The boundaries of his personal life were becoming blurry, everything was being mixed into a bitter concoction that he was forced to swallow over and over again.

He put on his shorts and a linen shirt, left the apartment and went out, strolling aimlessly, headed up toward the lighthouse, took September Seven Avenue north, stood for a long time by the wall above the little beach by the harbor and studied the bathers, thought he saw Vanessa several times, strolled over to the small square, sat at the outdoor café, and ordered a beer. He had always liked the little square by Barra’s harbor, even though it was a haunt for a number of shady characters. Various drug deals were settled around the pay phone; the fences, pimps, and whores wandered around. Others picked up cans or begged.

He took several sips of beer, rejected a few offers of getting a massage, and studied the people. Some faces he recognized from previous years. The waiter was the same, always equally furious at Lula and the other politicians, “bandits” he called them. It struck him that this was where he felt at home, in this swarm of contrasts.

It was as if he was seeing himself for the first time, as the person he really was. He was bursting with knowledge of Salvador and Brazil, but also almost completely isolated. He had experienced that before, the dilemma of the temporary visitor and passive observer of a reality that he would never be a part of. Until now he had managed to keep that feeling in check, handled it; he was a journalist, and could temporarily dampen the discomfort and alienation with alcohol. After that he had again plucked up courage, dutifully continued to record and industriously gathered material. Then he went home, simply to depart once again, apparently tirelessly curious.

It was his duty to tell the truth, how things really were. That’s how he had viewed his work.

The new insight that slipped up on him was that he was also isolated in Sweden. He only existed as the eternal activist, but without roots.

He had been given a chance with Vanessa to become part of the Brazilian reality. He could have bought a house, married her, had children, and settled down, but he had chickened out.

I’m too much of a European to feel at home here, he thought. Perhaps that was the ultimate reason for his flight from Itaberaba. Or was it? Yes, that’s how it is, he continued his monologue-now on his second beer-I love her, or in any case what I think is love, she loved me, but I put my tail between my legs and ran.

I miss Europe… Sweden. It’s that simple. But what is in Sweden? A little Spartan two-room apartment in Uppsala, a number of contacts with newspaper and magazine offices, where I have a fair reputation, a few friends I’ve neglected over the years, a mother I haven’t seen in two years. That’s it.

And then Ann Lindell. Is she what’s different from before? Do I love her? Can I imagine a life with a policewoman? What would that be like?

What exactly it was about Ann that made him so deeply attached he did not really understand. Maybe it was an unspoken wish for a kind of normalcy, just to be part of a context, build something lasting with a completely normal woman.

She was bright, pleasant to be around, her son seemed to be a good kid and would certainly not create any problems, they’d had an amazing time in bed. Ann seemed to be starved for love and affection, and she had made up for that with a vengeance. He had probably never experienced such intensity.

They had widely disparate backgrounds and experiences. He was a politically oriented journalist and, from what he understood, she was a politically indifferent police detective, but that no longer worried him.

He was facing a choice, perhaps the most significant in his life, and he had no answer. Soon he would go home to Sweden. The distance to Vanessa would become, if not insurmountable, then considerable. And perhaps she never wanted to see him again, or even hear from him. He had burned his ships and there was no point in going ashore and searching. But if… if he changed his mind, would she want him back, despite his treachery? The question tormented him. He hated making the wrong choice.

He thought about Vanessa’s amazing body, got excited there at the outdoor café. She was a true Brazilian mix-a little white, a little red, and a lot of black. Her mother came from south Bahia and had half-Indian blood in her veins. Her grandfather was an Italian engineer from the southern part of the country, while the other relatives were descendants of African slaves from Benin and Senegal.

There was nothing to match Vanessa’s beauty. She attracted attention wherever she went, especially during her visit in Sweden, and he had often been proud to walk by her side.

During her stay in Sweden they did not spend many days in Uppsala. For a week and a half they stayed in a borrowed cabin outside Ludvika. The cabin was completely isolated by a small lake. Vanessa had watched in amazement as he threw himself into the water from the wobbly pier. She never got in more than up to her thighs. For a week they did Stockholm, acting like real tourists, stayed at a hotel and ate at nice restaurants every night. He wanted to spoil her, but sensed that she had been most at home in the simple cabin in Dalarna, taking care of themselves and with nature at their doorstep.

He lost himself in memories, ordered a third beer, and built on the painful feeling of loss, longing, and guilt.

When they separated at Arlanda, she was sure he would soon follow her to Brazil, where the mutual promises would be fulfilled and plans for the future take more substantial form. Doubt had started to gnaw in him, but he kept up appearances. After his return home he started brooding, sat in his apartment, and got nothing done.

Her visit had clearly shown that she would have a hard time adapting to Sweden, which she had also expressed in her careful way. But could he imagine living in Brazil?

Only a few days after her departure, he called Ann. He was ashamed afterward of his faithless initiative and how their first encounter immediately developed into a violent, uninhibited sex orgy.

He had a hard time admitting to himself that he called and asked Ann out because he had been attracted to her at Görel’s dinner, which took place only a few days before Vanessa showed up. Yet until he was standing in front of her, with her wrapped in a bathrobe, he convinced himself that it was only about dinner, some nice conversation, and nothing else. Deep down he knew differently.

Now he was torn between two women. And he didn’t know what love was.

The third beer was finished. The proposals for massage came more often, quickly whispered invitations, and he decided it was time to get up and make his way homeward.

On the other side of the square, right where September Seven Avenue begins its climb up toward Vitória, a young woman was standing, with one hand against a railing, one leg raised and crossed over the other. With the other hand she was adjusting the heel strap of her shoe. Their eyes met.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

Instead of answering dutifully with the same phrase, he shook his head.

“No, an inferno,” he said, and stopped.

As if by silent agreement they left the square and without exchanging a word along the way they went to a small hotel on the beach promenade.

The desk clerk looked bored as they stepped into the cramped, dirty lobby. An unbelievably large grandfather clock stood ticking in one corner, a Portuguese product, Brant saw on the face of the clock. The clock was wrong, almost exactly five hours slow. It showed Swedish time.

For 25 reais they got a room to use for an hour, and a condom. The woman took the key and he the condom. She led the way up the stairs; he plodded behind, stumbled, laughed.

The air was stifling and still. The woman, who introduced herself as Monica, seemed to be familiar with the room, because she went up to the window at once and opened it. The breeze of the trade wind immediately came in with an odor of sea and rotting garbage. A threadbare curtain billowed listlessly. She fastened the curtain to a nail, turned her head, and smiled.

Anders Brant had the feeling that she was buying a little time, that she wanted a moment with the view over the Atlantic. He went up and stood beside her.

On the other side of the bay was Itaparica, the island where he had stayed so many times. For a few moments they stood together as if they were a couple who had just arrived on vacation to a charming beach hotel and were taking in their first impressions, not wanting to say anything before they each formed an impression of the place and tried to judge whether they would like it.

His eyes spanned the coastline south of Mar Grande and tried to work out on which beach he had stayed.

Monica slipped out of her dress with minimal movement. She had a white lace bra and matching tanga, which shone against her dark skin. Afterward he wished they had frozen the scene there. She could have leaned her head against his shoulder, he could have put his arm around her waist, told about Itaparica, about the fishermen who pulled their nets and about the carnival where the men dressed up like women.

She would tell him something about her family, about where she came from, what she dreamed about, perhaps lie a little, but he would be treated to a story, something personal, testimony that he could store along with all the others.

Without having said more than perhaps ten words to each other she kneeled before him and loosened his belt, pulled down his fly, and then his shorts and underwear. She did it slowly, carefully, and patiently, careful not to scratch him with her long, red-painted nails, as if he were a little boy being lovingly undressed by his mother at bedtime.

He observed her pale belly and her blackness, which in the folds around her armpits took on a bluish-black hue. He was leaning against the windowsill, she was on her knees.

She sucked him off while he tried to remember the names of the villages on Itaparica, from Mar Grande all the way down to Cacha Pregos. It went fine, he could remember almost all of them.

Monica disappeared into the bathroom, he heard the gushing of the shower. When she came back a minute or two later she was naked. On her belly a few water drops glistened like pearls.

She lay down on the dirty-brown, stained bedcover, and looked at him with what seemed to him a peculiar smile, perhaps critical, taunting in an elusive way, perhaps conditioned by boredom or fatigue, probably both. She turned indolently onto her belly, thrust up her ass, but changed her mind almost immediately and rolled over on her back again. Her eyes were warmer now, he wanted her to say something that reconciled them, something forgiving, but he was not able to meet them in earnest to see. Instead he inspected her body, she was very beautiful, the light ruptures across her breasts and crotch revealed that she had a child. A child who could be his grandchild.

“What does it cost?” he asked, regretting it at once, but it was too late.

The illusion that they had come together because life was an inferno could no longer be maintained.

A drop of sperm fell from his shriveled sex to the floor. He happened to think of the desk clerk who would have to mop up after him. Or certainly there was some woman who had to clean, the man in the lobby appeared to be stuck behind his counter, and he too was probably always five hours too late.

He lay down beside her and pushed his head into her dark hair.

When Anders Brant came home to the pension, Ivaldo Assis and his nephew Vincente were sitting outside the gate. Between them on the sidewalk was a bottle of Primus beer.

On Ivaldo’s face Brant saw for the first time a hint of a smile, relief, that made him years younger, while the darkness from the jail still rested heavily over Vincente’s facial features.

Brant opened the gate, signaled with his hand that they should wait, went up to the apartment and returned after half a minute. The two men had gotten up, there was something guardedly compliant about them. In his hand Brant was holding a sock, stuffed like a sausage. Without a word he handed it over to Ivaldo.

“Obrigado,” said Vincente.

“De nada,” Brant replied, who did not want to be thanked, actually did not want to hear anything from anyone.

A group of schoolchildren came running on the sidewalk, their uniform T-shirts, white with a blue line across the chest, made them look like a soccer team. Brant backed up a step out into the street to give the noisy youngsters free passage, happened to see Ivaldo’s gesture, the outstretched arm, before the right side of his face was hit by the side mirror on a bus. He fell headlong to the ground and struck the sidewalk face first.