Heliopolis (24 page)

‘Good for him. They’re under strict instructions not to let anyone in without one.’

‘As I told you—I got mugged. They took my wallet. I don’t look very good.’

Oscar sighs. ‘You really are hopeless, Ludo. If it wasn’t for your father . . . I’ll send someone down.’

The guy waiting behind the gates—one of Oscar’s minions, an up and coming executive—is smirking before I even reach the door.

‘Good morning Ludo—the boss told me you had a heavy night last night, but my God! You look as bad as I’ve ever seen you. Is that vomit? What happened to your face?’

‘Thank you,’ I murmur, tripping on the step as I am buzzed in through the gates.

My glare is met with silence from behind the smoked glass.

The receptionist looks up in alarm, ready to press her panic button, until she recognises me.

‘Wow, Ludo. I can’t wait to hear about this one,’ she says. ‘Did you get into a fight?’

‘I’ll tell you all about it as soon as I’ve had a shower.’

I had hoped to make it through the corridors relatively unscathed, but obviously Oscar has been doing the rounds, and the route to my office is lined with people who have come out to witness this supposedly catastrophic hangover—there are even cheers and applause as I walk towards my office door.

The building seems lighter than usual, the graffiti art more vivid than ever. The wave of good humour and hilarity slumps as I pass by and those thronging the corridors are able to smell me. I get through as quickly as I can, and close the door on a crowd whose mood is rapidly curdling from one of amusement to one of quiet disgust.

The message light is flashing on my phone.

I push the button, and listen as I peel off my stiff, congealed shirt, bunch it and throw it in the bin.

Message One: Oscar, yesterday.
Where the fuck are you? Listen, this party’s happening. We’ve got all the food and drink lined up and we’ve leafletted the whole favela. I think it could be good, and I want you to throw yourself into it. Come and find me the second you get this
.

Message Two: Melissa, today.
Good morning! I wanted to get you nice and early so that I could be the first to say: Happy Birthday!

Call me. I’m going to be seeing you at this party tonight. As it’s Ernesto’s job as well as my parents’ shining new project, not to mention your office, I suppose I’m going to have to be there several times over.

Also, listen: I know you told Ernesto the truth about . . . things. And I wanted to tell you that it was brave of you to do that. And that it helped. I think we’re going to be fine.

Anyway, call me. I love you.

Christ. It’s my birthday.

I
am twenty-seven.

No, I am twenty-eight.

My God, has it been that long?

I take a long shower, then I hide in my office for an hour, licking my wounds. Finally I venture outside, naked from the waist up, to buy a cold Coke. The vending machine sits in an alcove that, beneath its fixing resin, bears the blood spray of a heroin injection administered during the building’s previous existence. I collect a fresh shirt from the company stockpile and return to my office, then pour Coke in a glass and dilute it with
cachaça
, drinking enough to take myself one step back from recent experience. Barring what was fed to me in the favela I haven’t eaten since yesterday lunchtime, but for some reason my hunger has died. I remove the foul shirt from its plastic wrapping and put it on, and after some more drink and a couple of strong painkillers I start to feel better. Even with my attendance record I would be justified in taking the afternoon off today, but there’s no point in going home only to have to come back again later.

Tonight is the night. The agency is buzzing with it.

We often hold parties in celebration of the acquisition of new pieces of business, but this one is different. We have never opened our doors like this. Tonight, everyone comes together, those who will work on the project, those who have developed it, and those who will benefit from it.

I am looking over some concepts Oscar has left in my office, getting to grips with the work and squirming against the office shirt, when Flávia’s head appears in my doorway. She’s not wearing her shapeless smock, but a cream-coloured dress that must be her Sunday best. Mindful of our last conversation, I steel myself for a frosty encounter, but her mind seems to be elsewhere. She looks exhausted—which is not surprising given what happened in her home last night.

‘You look smart,’ I say.

‘You look terrible,’ she says. ‘I thought I had a bad night.’

‘What happened to you?’

‘You don’t want to know. My useless, good-for-nothing son. His first night home after the shooting, and he gets into a fight with some bad-boy gang member. He can’t help it. It’s like he wants to destroy himself, just like his father. What happened to you?’

‘Nothing I didn’t deserve.’

As I’m speaking, she plucks my rubbish bin from the floor to empty it into her sack, and stares in horror at the solid lump of shirt it contains.

‘Lord Almighty. This is not what I’m paid to clean up. Didn’t I tell you to stop drinking? This is just the sort of crap that killed my husband.’

‘I haven’t been drinking. I got attacked.’

‘You have to be so careful in this city,’ she says, shaking the bin several times until the shirt drops like concrete into her sack. ‘It’s a war zone out there. Who did this to you?’

‘Don’t be too hard on your boy,’ I say, wincing with the pain in my chest as I lean back in my chair. ‘These situations happen without anybody wanting them to. You can’t control it. You get drawn in.’

‘Then you have to fight to get away!’ she says, raising her voice and gesticulating with the bin. ‘Swim against the tide, rather than letting it take you. Don’t be lazy. That’s what I say to Milton, not that it makes any difference.’

‘It’s good advice. I’m sure he will heed it one day.’

She makes a face that is both disgusted and very sad. ‘I don’t want to talk about him. Stupid boy. I want to look forward to my party. I haven’t been to a party in ages.’

Amazingly, in spite of what has happened, she still seems to be in a good mood, animated at the prospect of attending an office event for once rather than cleaning up after it.

‘That girl I met when I came to the favela. She’s your daughter?’

‘No. She has the same father as Milton, but a different mother. I take care of her.’ She pauses in the middle of setting the bin back down, and looks at me. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘No reason. Just interested.’

‘It’s not more survey stuff? I warned you about that.’

‘Of course not. It’s just friendly interest.’

‘OK then. See you at the party. If you’re lucky I might even dance with you.’

She giggles at her own remark in a way that makes me beam at her big, retreating back. My jaw hurts.

It’s Friday night. A beautiful pollution sunset bathes the city in pinks and reds and oranges that glint in shards off the skyscraper glass. Helicopters take to the air like fat flies, shuttling the rich to their weekend homes. But one helicopter won’t be heading out of town tonight, not yet, at least. It has a social obligation first, here in the city. Tonight, my twenty-eighth birthday will be celebrated at a party launching a new subsidised supermarket scheme for the poor. Zé Generoso, its architect, will be there, as will its inspiration, his wife, Rebecca. Flávia will be there, representing the grassroots of the project, its target. There is every possibility that her son Milton will also be in attendance. Oscar will be there, trying to impress Zé. Ernesto will be there, fretting about any one of twenty things. Melissa will be there.

Lighting rigs and a backlit stage lend shallow glitz to the reception area, which has also been decked out with the preliminary executions of the new campaign printed on large plastic boards. Our aeroplane-wing reception desk has been decorated to resemble a chrome supermarket shelf, doubling as part of a long buffet bar. Women totter on heels and men preen in suits, waiting to put on a show. Zé Generoso himself is coming. And as usual, his generosity will know no bounds. Anyone from the local favela is invited to come in and have a drink and something to eat, so that they can be briefed about this thing that is coming to change their lives.

People have taken me aside over the course of the afternoon and told me that they think this will be ‘an emotional occasion.’ What are they expecting? Starving children and humble women and their meek, respectful husbands, so bowled over by the generosity of this marginally cheaper supermarket that they weep quietly as a mark of their gratitude? However it has happened, the mood is charged. Oscar probably sent round a memo of motivation, demanding gravitas. But who are we fooling? It’s going to be a social occasion, with a few impoverished chancers bussed in to make everybody else feel better, and themselves just hoping for a decent meal and a good time. It will be undignified. It will be voyeuristic. It will be embarrassing.

I had thought the dinner would somehow reflect the kind of food available in store, but instead, someone has taken on my half-joking suggestion that our largest clients should each sponsor a course. A printed menu is tacked to the wall. Tonight’s starter of beef rump with papaya salsa is brought to us by Limpia detergent. The main course of salt cod with its reduction of black beans comes courtesy of UltraBanco. There follows a cleansing sorbet of rain-forest fruits, offered by MaxiMarket itself, and a dessert of hot tiramisu in association with the BonBon chocolate company. Each course will be served buffet-style from the wing of the bomber while Oscar gives a brief audiovisual presentation outlining the campaign.

Initially, it looks like nobody’s going to turn up. Excited agency people circle round one another in party dresses and pressed shirts, making half-hearted attempts to mingle with the members of the cleaning and security staff who congregate to the side in an uneasy group. I recognise the guard who denied me entry earlier in the day and raise a glass to him across the lobby. He raises his in return, looking nervous. I imagine most of them are wondering what the hell they are doing here. I wonder who’s supposed to be protecting the place if they’re all in here drinking with the rest of us. Then I remember that Zé is coming. Arrangements will have been made.

And then I spot them—my adoptive parents. Zé is surrounded by a group of eager young acolytes, nodding and beaming with Rebecca to his side. He looks as tanned and healthy as ever, exuding control and good humour. Rebecca does not look so good. The halogen lighting of the office does not flatter her china complexion. Zé spots me and charges over, dragging his wife with him.

‘My boy,’ he says, embracing me. ‘I’m genuinely pleased to see you. It feels like an age. How are you keeping? I hear from Oscar that you’re doing well. And Melissa tells me that you two keep in touch.’

‘It’s wonderful to see you both,’ I say.

‘You look tired, Ludo,’ says Rebecca, who looks shattered. ‘And your chin—is that a bruise? Are you taking care of yourself?’ She kisses me on both cheeks, and I feel a brief flicker of childish comfort, remembering how she would emerge from the helicopter on Friday evenings, her arms outstretched, and envelop me in scent.

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m better than I have been,’ she says. ‘Ernesto is doing a wonderful job of easing some of my burden with the Foundation. He seems to be taking to it well.’

‘Glad to hear it. Well! This!’ I say, gesturing round at the lobby. ‘It’s a tremendous new direction. Bringing both of your worlds together. It’s very exciting.’

‘You don’t know how delighted I am to hear you say that,’ says Zé. ‘I’ve been having trouble persuading her that we’re doing it for anything other than profit. It is, as I keep saying, an evolution. It makes sense.’

He looks triumphantly at me and back to his wife, who shrugs through a cloud of medication. She looks as though she’s finally given in to him, and I can’t say I blame her. It’s impossible to resist him for ever.

‘Of course,’ Zé continues, ‘not everybody sees it that way.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oscar tells me there could be violence tonight. Have you heard about this?’

‘No.’

‘The police went into a favela near here last night, and shot someone. Retaliating for something—I don’t even know what. But the mood is not good. We were even advised to call off the event, can you believe it? I refused point-blank. We’re not the police. We’re here to help them. They shouldn’t blame whatever happened on us.’

‘What does Oscar think about this?’

Zé laughs. ‘He’s nervous about letting some of these kids run loose in his building, but I told him to just shut up and do it. He’s always been something of an old woman.’

‘That’s an absurd worry, given the history of this place.’

‘True—but you never know with these people. I’ve tried to make my peace with them, but they can be . . . volatile.’

‘How have you tried to make peace with them?’

He gives me a conspiratorial smile. ‘You know how it is. You can’t get anything done in these communities without engaging with the gangs in some way.’

‘So what did you do?’ I ask.

‘You’ve heard of this outfit, the Shadow Command?’

‘What about them?’

He takes a big gulp of the drink in his hand. ‘I offered them a percentage point of every sale we make in the MaxiBudget supermarkets.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Of course. Nothing would get done otherwise. Think of it as ground rent. You can’t own land in these places anyway, so this is the alternative—it means we shouldn’t get our windows shot out in the first week. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Shadow Command responded very violently to anyone jeopardising this project. It’s like having your own police force—but better!’

‘You’ve thought of everything,’ I say.

‘You
have
to,’ he says, putting an arm around my shoulder, which makes me wince with pain, though I try not to show it. ‘You have to be prepared. That’s why we’ve got tremendous security here tonight; rented from Angel Park. Just in case. I’ve even got a couple of snipers installed. If anyone starts causing trouble they can be taken out in seconds.’

I stare at him. ‘Snipers? What sort of trouble are you expecting?’

‘None—although you can’t throw open the doors to everyone without a few unsavoury characters getting through. But I sincerely doubt there’ll be a problem after the deal I’ve struck. And Ernesto has been taking steps to keep everyone sweet.’

‘Very thorough.’

‘You know, that boy has come on tremendously in the last few years. I’m proud to have him as a son-in-law.’

‘He’s a good friend of mine, as you know.’

‘And I’m very proud of you too Ludo. I hope you know that. You’ve turned into a fine young man. I can see you running all of this one day.’

‘Thank you.’

At this point Oscar dives into the conversation, surrounded by snapping shoals of colleagues who all want a dose of the Zé Generoso charm. I take it as my opportunity to move away before Zé has the chance to attempt further awkward compliments.

Dennis is crossing the lobby with a beer in his hand. ‘What do you think?’ he says, gesturing around him.

‘Very impressive,’ I say. ‘Especially given how little time you had to put it together.’

‘And how little help I had,’ he says, pointedly.

‘I’m sorry about that. I’ve had an odd couple of days.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ he says, pausing and looking me in the eye. ‘Do you know what I did today? I finally got up the courage to ask the concierge at the Windsor Hotel if I’d had a call girl up to the room since I’d been in residence. He said the only person who’d been up there the whole time was you.’

‘You have to admire their discretion, don’t you? That kind of old-fashioned service is hard to come by these days.’

‘I guess it is,’ he says, looking puzzled.

‘Now, I don’t know about you, but I need a drink. Again—well done. It’s great to have you on the team.’

I leave him as quickly as I can, and approach the bar.

Tonight it will be vodka on the rocks. Vodka is what reminds me of Melissa—of that glass beading with condensation in the tree house on her wedding night. It conjures her.

I turn away from the bar with my drink, and as if on cue, there they are, arriving, having just got past the front-door security. It has been years since I saw them together, and I expected the sight to fill me with bile, but it doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. These are my friends, and they fit each other perfectly.

They both smile and approach, and I embrace the two of them at once—Melissa, warm and loving; Ernesto, his great bear arm around my neck, forgiving me.