Childhood of the Dead (21 page)

The boys began to get out and enter the station. The fat policeman helped and so did the police chief. At first all of them stayed in the small front room.

“First, I want to know your story. How did you end up here?”

Dito was the first one to speak. He explained how police chief Mauro had made the prisoners play a game, about those who were going to stay in prison and those who were going to be expelled. He told him about the guys from the other cell at the end of the gallery who had come to fight them, with kicks and blows, for a guaranteed of lunch and dinner for a month. He talked about Uncle Zé and Gabriel. Then, he told them about the meeting in the prison patio, where he met the boys he had never seen before, and about being placed in the bus with policemen and trained dogs. He described the bus travelling through the darkness and the thunderstorm, and the final beating.

“It was then,” he said, “that they broke the arms of this boy and dislocated the other one's.”

The black boy didn't forget the details adding:

“A policeman picked up the six-year-old, the little one, and threw him against the others, inside the bus. His spine broke when he landed.”

Joao Domingo was surprised with the tale, and the fat policeman didn't believe one word they were saying.

“They've got to be lying with such a story!”

The police chief continued to ask questions to each one of the boys. He asked for the wounded ones to be set aside, and he counted fifteen needing medical attention. The smallest one had a dog's bite on his right thigh.

“I need a list of names. Let's begin by the oldest ones.”He began taking notes. Each boy gave his full name and stepped aside. The fat policeman kept order among the boys. Only at that point did the truck driver decide to go away. He interrupted this process to bid farewell to the police chief, who smiled at him and thanked him for his help. He left wrapped in his waterproof cape, still wet.

When the list was completed, the police chief counted fifty- two boys. The youngest was six and the oldest seventeen.

“The wounded will come with us to the hospital. The others must stay at the jail, while we get clothing and food.”

The boys were not opposed to this idea. Not even Dito appeared to mind. They went to the hallway where they entered into the cell, whose door Joao Domingo kept open. In the meantime the fat policeman tried to pull from the corner some old mattresses with the help of some of the boys.

“Also get some newspapers,” the chief said, reminding them that it got pretty cold at that time of the year.

The wounded boys were taken away. The one with broken arms and the one with dislocated arms were seated in the front seat. They no longer had energy even to moan.

V

The only nurse on call at the health center did not know whether the doctor would be in. The police chief didn't say anything, he just listened to the excuses.

“It's too early for the doctor to be in. If he's in town.”

“Who's on call in his place?”

The police chief knew only too well as not to pin his hopes on the answer. The nurse shrugged his shoulders, twisted his mouth and said:

“You know how it is....”

He knew it. He would have to go along with Joao Domingo's suggestion to set the boy's arms back in place, cold blooded.

The boys who only needed light dressing or bandaging of cuts and scratches went right into the infirmary. While speaking, the nurse, opened up iodine, mercurochrome and alcohol bottles; he picked up cotton balls, wet them in mercurochrome for the light scrathes, and in iodine for the dog bites.

“This really deserves a vaccine!” he said, as the little blond boy kicked and cried everytime the man touched his dog bite with the cotton soaked in iodine.

“Be strong!” the police chief said.

The nurse put a bandage over the cut on a boy's face, excusing himself:

“I can't do this for everyone because my supplies are running low. I've already ordered some more, but they haven't arrived yet. I can see that the chief is very concerned with this situation...”.

The police chief had nothing to say. The boys got back to the car, squeezing themselves as much as possible to fit in.

“If you'd like, we can stop at the doctor's home, which is on that corner!”

The police chief was already too angry. He didn't want to wait for any other excuses. He looked at the little boy, at his swollen chest, and he decided he wouldn't go to the doctor's house. Let him sleep while the health department didn't send supllies to the health center, he thought.

At the station the fat policeman received the chief with a smile. “Did you find the doctor?”

“Joao Domingo will take care of the boy. Call him up.”

The fat policeman walked down the hallway, calling for his colleague. “We'll have to pop the boy's arms back in place,” he announced.

The round faced mulatto only listened. The police chief explained, then, they would have to act fast.

“Or,” he continued, “the boy won't last.”

“He'll survive,” Domingo said, “but he may faint.”

The fat policeman found that funny, while the police chief asked them to prepare the bench. Joao Domingo was in charge.

“We must put him lying down on his back. Then, I'll raise his arms and pull them. I had a brother to whom this happened.”Joao Domingo showed off his abilities. After all, this was his moment. Usually at work, only his colleague would be called to do things; he was always in the background. Now it was his turn, and the police chief would see that he was also capable of resolving some cases.

The police chief called the fat policeman by his nickname:

“That's not the way, Twenty-Five, he has to lie down on his back!”

The boy was scared, shrinking away to protect himself from Joao Domingo.

“It's for your own good,” the policeman said. “It'll hurt, but the pain will go away in a second!”

The police chief and Twenty-Five bent over the bench to hold the boy down. Joao Domingo had picked up several old newspapers, folded them and piled them under the boy's shoulders, who laid down, his eyes wide-open in fear.

“Hold him, Twenty-Five,” Joao Domingo said.

Then, he held the boy's hands and began to raise his arms. The boy started to cry, shouting, trying to get out of there. The police chief held his legs in place with strength, while Twenty-Five held down the rest of the body. The boy's screams were louder and louder, alarming all of those who were in the next room. But the boys behind bars were the ones even more frightened, not knowing what was going on. The left arm was the first one to be set back in place. The other one was more difficult. Joao Domingo had to stretch it again along the boy's body and then raise it again. The boy ended up fainting, his head falling to the side.

“Let's do it now,” the police chief said. “When he comes to, he'll be fine.

Joao Domingo pulled the arm forcefully, squeezing with his large hand the shoulder articulation, and said happily, “It went in!”

“Get some cold water, Twenty-Five,” the delegate asked.

The policeman got moving. He had not expected Joao Domingo's ability. He noticed also that the chief treated Domingo with greater respect, after all, he did something quickly that not every doctor could have done so well. He came back with the water, more relaxed, sure that in other aspects of the profession, Joao Domingo was no good. The police chief would find himself at a loss, if Domingo were to answer the phone. He remembered the time the Secretary General decided to call the station at an odd hour, looking for the chief. Joao Domingo had answered the phone, and though it was only four in the afternoon, he almost said that the chief was asleep. The police chief knew the mistakes Joao Domingo was capable of. It wasn't going to be that little deed, this morning, that was going to put him above the fame he had earned in his many years of service for Dr. Joao Emiliano. Whenever they left the station, and when by chance the car broke down on the way, that's when Domingo usually demonstrated all of his stupidity. But he, Twenty-Five, was always asked to do tasks. The police chief knew he was an asset and wasn't going to mistake him for the other.

He brought the water bowl and the police chief soaked a rag, placing it on the boy's forehead and face. Joao Domingo tapped the boy's cheeks and legs lightly. The boy moved his body, cried, opened his eyes and sat up.

“Raise your arms,” the police chief said.

Crying, the boy obeyed. And, still crying, tears mixed with drooling, he smiled widely.

“Didn't I tell you it would hurt?” Joao Domingo said in a friendly way.

The police chief asked Twenty-Five to take the boys to the cell.

“We'll get them food and clothing. For all.”

Twenty-Five answered the phone. He pushed it aside and said, “It's a newspaper man from Sao Paulo.”

The police chief told him to say he wasn't there and Twenty- Five answered the call as he could.

“We don't know anything. Right now, everything here is quiet.”

“Someone called the press. Either the truck driver or the workers at the gas station.”

The police chief was for the moment concerned with his list:

“I don't know how I'll get so many things.”

“Let's go around asking,” Twenty-Five said.

“Go first to the ladies of Parochial Assistance!”

VI

The fat policeman wore his raincoat open, showing beneath it his print shirt of green leaves and the handle of his gun in the holster. His beard needed trimming, and his eyes were red, as if he were permanently sleepy. It was still raining, drizzling, and it was cold, intensely cold. The entire town appeared introverted.

He knocked twice at the door. The hinges scraped and the door opened on an old woman with a kind look and grey hair. “Good morning,
Dona
Chiquinha.”

Before she answered, she made him come in and sit down. It was a large room, filled with old furnishings. The ceiling was very high, tongue and groove wood, painted white. On the walls, there are images of saints and two large oval portraits, one of a young man with a mustache and high collar, the other of a young woman smiling. That had been
Dona
Chiquinha years ago.

“The police chief needs your help, Ma'am.”

The woman sat on the sofa and arranged a small pillow behind her back.

“How can I help Dr. Emiliano?”

Twenty-Five explained. He said that since five in the morning they had been trying to solve a problem which was out of Camanducaia's jurisdiction. The old woman asked brief questions, and he went on, without broaching the main subject.

“That's how the police station got filled with boys, now. There are fifty-two of them.

“All naked!”
Dona
Chiquinha repeated, with a sorrowful look, “ and with this weather...”.

“You can't imagine it. When we went to get them, it must have been 42 degrees, outside.”

“Oh, my God!”

“That's right,” Twenty-Five continued, “now we have the following problem: the police chief has to find clothing and food for the boys.”

Dona
Chiquinha adjusted the pillow again behind her back. The policeman sniffed, looking at his dirty soaking boots, and noticed the wide planks of the wooden floor.

“And how is he going to do that?”

Twenty-Five had not counted on that kind of question.

“If you could see if the people of parochial assistance could chip in, you would be of great help to us.”

“The only problem is that the priest is not in town. He went to Belo Horizonte, yesterday.”

“What about the other people?”

“Well, I can always talk to them. In a little while I'll look for Engra'cia and Maria Quitéria. They are two people with golden hearts.”

“They boys are technically naked,” the policeman reminded her.

“Poor things. I hope God is looking after them!”

The conversation didn't seem to get well off the ground; it got practical. Twenty-Five didn't know what else to say. He stood up, adjusted the gun in its holster.
Dona
Chiquinha followed him to the door.

“Please, tell Dr. Emiliano that I am very shocked Tabout the fate of these boys. Later on in the day, I'll go there looking for him. I hope we can do something for them.”

Twenty-five was nervous. He sniffed several times, rubbed a handkerchief over his face, sat down on the bench in front of the police chief, and said, “I think nothing will come of it.”

The police chief stopped writing and looked at him worried, “What did she say?”

“A bunch of things, but nothing substantial. She'll talk to someone, then someone else; they will make an effort; we must have faith in God.”

The police chief was irritated with
Dona
Chiquinha's lack of concern, “Old hag. When she wants a donation, she asks so many times, night and day...”

“That's right,” Twenty-Five said; “it looked as if she didn't want to get involved.”

The police chief sat down again, throwing a black book to Twenty-Five.

“Look up the Secretary-General's phone number. Call his office. Let's see what he can do.”

The policeman looked through the pages with his thick fingers going down the lines. Finding the number he called and waited, then he passed the phone to the chief. “He's coming.”

The chief greeted the Secretary-general. They talk about several pending subjects, of delays in weapons delivery; of the police car in need of repair, and of new tires. The Secretary- general promised to see to these things. Then, the chief mentioned the boys.

“What boys?”

The chief explained, always repeating the number: fifty-two, as if to impress it on his superior's mind.

“Our problem is to be able to get them food and clothing.”

The Secretary told him to make an effort within the town, while he called on the State of Sao Paulo authorities.