Captains of the Sands (11 page)

“Did it belong to the church, Father?” and he covered his mouth, angry at himself.

The others understood. Lollipop thought that it would have been a great sin but felt that the priest’s goodness was greater than the sin. Then Legless came over limping more than usual as if fighting with himself and almost shouted first, then lowering his voice:

“We can stick it back where it was…It’s duck soup for us. Don’t be sad…” and he smiled.

And Legless’s smile and the friendship that the priest read in the eyes of all of them (could those have been tears in João’s eyes?) restored his calm, serenity, and confidence in his act and in his God. He said in a natural voice:

“An old widow gave five hundred
milreis
for candles. I took out fifty so you people could ride on the carrousel. God will judge whether or not I did the right thing. Now I’ll just buy candles.”

Pedro Bala felt that he had a debt to pay the priest. He wanted the priest to know that they understood. And since there was nothing else at hand he was ready to skip the work they could have done that afternoon and invited the priest:

“We’re going to the carrousel to see Dry Gulch and Legless this afternoon. Do you want to come with us, Father?”

Father José Pedro said he did because he knew that was another step forward in his intimacy with the Captains of the Sands. And a group went to the square with the priest. Several didn’t go, including Cat, who went to see Dalva. But those who went looked like a group of good little boys coming from catechism. If they’d been better dressed and cleaned up they could have passed for schoolboys, they were going along in such an orderly fashion. On the square they went around everything with the priest. With pride they showed Dry Gulch imitating animals, dressed like a
cangaceiro
, Legless making the carrousel run all by himself because Nhôzinho França had gone off to have a beer in a bar. It was a shame that in the afternoon the lights of the carrousel weren’t turned on. It wasn’t as pretty as at night, the lights spinning in all colors. But they were proud of Dry Gulch imitating animals, of Legless running the carrousel,
having the children get on, having the children get off. The Professor, with a pencil stub and a box cover, sketched Dry Gulch dressed as a bandit. He had a special skill for drawing and sometimes he picked up money sketching on the sidewalk men who were passing, young ladies with their boyfriends. These would stop for a minute, laugh at the still imprecise drawing, the girls would say:

“It’s a good likeness…”

He would pick up some coins and then he would set about fixing up the sketch done in chalk, broadening it, putting in men from the waterfront and women of the demi-monde, until a policeman chased him off the sidewalk. Sometimes he already had a large group watching and someone would say:

“That boy’s got promise. It’s a shame the government doesn’t take note of these vocations…” and he recalled cases of street urchins who, aided by families, were great poets, singers, and painters.

The Professor finished the sketch (in which he put the carrousel and Nhôzinho França falling down drunk) and gave it to the priest. They were all in a tight group looking at the drawing that the priest was praising when they heard:

“Why, it’s Father José Pedro…”

And the skinny old woman’s lorgnette fell upon the group like a weapon of war. Father José Pedro was half-despondent, the boys looked with curiosity at the bones and the neck and the breast of the old woman where a very expensive barrette sparkled in the sunlight. There was a moment in which they all remained silent until Father José Pedro got up his courage and said:

“Good afternoon, Dona Margarida.”

But the widow Margarida Santos raised her gold lorgnette again.

“Aren’t you ashamed to be seen in this company, Father? A priest of the Lord? A man of responsibility in the midst of this rabble…”

“They’re children, ma’am.”

The old woman gave a haughty look and had a sneer of disdain on her mouth. The priest went on:

“Christ said: suffer the little children to come unto me…”

“Little children…Little children…” the old woman spat out.

“Woe unto him who does harm unto a child, the Lord said,” and Father José Pedro raised his voice above the disdain of the old woman.

“These aren’t children, they’re thieves. Rascals and thieves. These aren’t children. They might even be the Captains of the Sands…Thieves,” she repeated with disgust.

The boys were looking at her with curiosity. Only Legless, who had come from the carrousel since Nhôzinho França had now returned, was looking at her with rage. Pedro Bala took a step forward, tried to explain:

“Father was only trying to be…”

But the old woman gave him a shove and stepped back:

“Don’t come close to me, don’t come close to me, you filth. If it weren’t for Father I’d call a policeman.”

Pedro Bala gave a scandalous laugh there, thinking that if it weren’t for Father the old woman would no longer have her barrette or her lorgnette either. The old woman withdrew with an air of great superiority, not without first saying to Father José Pedro:

“You won’t go far that way, Father. You have to be more careful about whom you associate with.”

Pedro Bala was laughing even harder and the priest laughed too, if he did feel sorry for the old woman, for the old woman’s lack of understanding. But the carrousel was spinning with well-dressed children and in a short time the eyes of the Captains of the Sands turned toward it and they were full of the desire to ride the horses, spin with the lights. “They were children, yes,” the priest thought.

At nightfall there was a downpour. The black clouds then disappeared from the sky and the stars shone, the full moon was also shining. In the small hours of the morning the Captains of the Sands arrived. Legless started up the engine. And they forgot that they weren’t like other children, they forgot that they had no home, no father or mother, that they lived by stealing,
like men, that they were feared in the city as thieves. They forgot the words of the old woman with the lorgnette. They forgot everything and they were equal to all children, riding the mounts on the carrousel, spinning with the lights. The stars were shining, the full moon shone. But more than anything in the Bahia night the blue, green, yellow, and red lights of the Great Japanese Carrousel were shining.

Pedro Bala bounced his four-hundred
reis
coin off the wall of the Customhouse, it fell in front of Good-Life’s. Then Lollipop threw his, the coin landed between Good-Life’s and Pedro Bala’s. Good-Life was squatting, watching closely. He took the cigarette out of his mouth:

“That’s the way it goes. If you start off bad…”

And they continued the game, but Good-Life and Lollipop lost their four-hundred pieces, which Pedro Bala put in his pocket:

“I’m luck itself.”

Opposite them the sloops were anchored. Men and women were coming out of the market. That afternoon they were waiting for God’s-Love’s sloop. The
capoeira
fighter was out fishing, as he was a fisherman by profession. They continued their penny-pitching until Pedro Bala cleaned the other two out. The scar on his face was gleaming. He liked to win like that, in a clean game, especially when his fellow-players were as good as Lollipop (who’d been the champion of the gang for a long time) and Good-Life. When they were finished Good-Life turned his pockets inside-out.

“You’ve got to lend me something, even if it’s only one coin. I’m wiped out.”

Then he looked at the sea, the sloops at anchor:

“God’s-Love is late. Do you want to go to the docks?”

Lollipop said he’d stay and wait for God’s-Love, but Pedro Bala went to the docks with Good-Life. They went through the waterfront streets, their feet sinking into the sand. A ship was casting off from Warehouse 5, there was the movement of people coming and going. Pedro Bala asked Good-Life:

“Did you ever want to be a sailor?”

“You can see…I like it here. I’ve got no urge to ship out.”

“Well, I have. It’s nice climbing up a mast. And how about a storm? Do you remember that story that the Professor read us? The one where there was a storm? Wild…”

“Terrific, yeah.”

Pedro Bala remembered the story. Good-Life thought it would be foolish to leave Bahia when he grew up, it would be so nice to live the easy life of a drifter, a switchblade in his pocket, a guitar under his arm, a dark girl to fall onto the sand with. It was the life he wanted when he became a full-fledged man.

They reached the doorway to Warehouse 7. João de Adão, a husky black stevedore, an old striker, feared and loved all up and down the waterfront, was sitting on a crate. He was smoking a pipe and his muscles showed under his shirt. When he saw the boys he greeted them:

“Look at my friend Good-Life. And Captain Pedro.”

He always called Pedro “Captain Pedro” and he liked to chat with them. He offered Pedro Bala an edge of the crate. Good-Life squatted in front of them. In a corner an old black woman was selling oranges and coconut candy, wearing a chintz skirt and a blouse that let her breasts show, still firm in spite of her age. Good-Life kept looking at the woman’s breasts while he peeled an orange he’d picked from her stand.

“You still got a pretty good pair, eh, aunty?”

The black woman smiled:

“These kids today have no respect for their elders, friend João de Adão. Where’d you ever hear tell of a fresh kid like this talking about breasts with a worn-out old woman like me?”

“Come off it, aunty. You can still make it…”

The black woman laughed good-humoredly:

“I’ve shut the gates, Good-Life. I’m beyond the age. Ask this one…” She pointed to João de Adão. “
I saw when almost a boy like you he led the first strike here on the docks. In those days nobody knew what the devil a strike was. Do you remember, old friend?”

João de Adão nodded yes, closed his eyes remembering the faraway times of the first strike he’d led on the docks. He was one of the oldest dockhands, even though nobody thought he was as old as he was.

Pedro Bala spoke:

“Black skin, white hair, three times thirty-three.”

The woman showed her completely white tuft of hair. She’d taken off the kerchief that covered her head and Good-Life joshed:

“That’s why you go around with that bandana, black woman full of proudfoot bull…”

João de Adão asked:

“Do you remember Raimundo, friend Luísa?”

“The ‘Blond,’ the one who died in the strike? How couldn’t I remember. He was somebody who’d pass by every afternoon to have a few words with me. He liked to fool around…”

“They killed him right here that day when the cavalry charged the people.” He looked at Pedro Bala. “Did you ever hear tell of him, Captain?”

“No.”

“You were four years old. After that you went from one person’s house to another for a year until you ran away. Then people only got to hear about you when you became the leader of the Captains of the Sands. But people knew that you’d take care of yourself. How old are you now?”

Pedro was trying to figure and João de Adão interrupted him himself:

“You’re round about fifteen. Isn’t that so, friend?”

The woman nodded. João de Adão went on:

“Any time you want you’ve got a place here on the docks. We’ve kept a place for you.”

“Why?” Good-Life asked, since Pedro Bala was only looking with surprise.

“Because his father was Raimundo and he died right here
fighting for the people, for the people’s rights. He was quite a man. He was worth ten of the kind you find around here.”

“My father?” Pedro Bala asked. He’d only heard vague rumors about those stories.

“He was your father. People called him the Blond. When the strike happened he talked to the people, he didn’t look like a stevedore. He was caught by a bullet. But there’s a place for you on the docks.”

Pedro Bala was scratching the asphalt with a stick. He looked at João de Adão:

“Why didn’t you ever tell me this?”

“You were too small to understand. Now you’re getting to be a man,” and he laughed with satisfaction.

Pedro Bala laughed too. He was happy to know the story of his father because he’d been a brave man. But he asked slowly:

“And did you know my mother?”

João de Adão thought for a moment:

“I don’t know anything. When I met the Blond he didn’t have a woman. But you were living with him.”

“I knew her.” It was the black woman speaking. “A slip of a woman. There was a story going around that your father had stolen her away from home, that she came from a rich family up there above,” and she pointed to the upper city. “She died when you weren’t even six months old. In those days Raimundo was working in the cigarette factory in Itapagipe. He came to the waterfront later on.”

João de Adão repeated:

“Any time you want…”

Pedro Bala nodded. Then he asked:

“It was a wild thing, the strike, wasn’t it?”

And they stayed there listening to João de Adão tell about the strike. When he finished Pedro Bala said:

“I’d like to make a strike. It must be great.”