Nowhere People

Then he makes her some tea to have with the aspirins and runs his fingers through her hair until she sleeps. Now it’s two in the morning and he isn’t sleepy. The chronic discomfort that begins, and focuses, in his back, above his lumbar region, gradually spreads. He gets out of bed and leaves the room carrying his clothes with him, very careful not to wake her. He pulls the bedroom door to, trying to do it fast enough for the hinges not to creak. He puts on his trousers, his shirt, his socks. He does the washing up that had been left in the kitchen sink. He puts on his trainers, his jacket, sits on the sofa, waits. He can’t remember what he did at the beginning of the week, the only thing he can remember without any difficulty is walking for hours through the city’s suburbs, boarding buses at random and getting off in the most unlikely places, trying to get to know it, to learn it by heart. He doesn’t always manage to learn it. Identical streets, identical houses, only the full mailboxes to tell them apart, the curtainless windows showing the empty rooms, curtains that are never opened, lights that are left on day and night, lights that are never turned on, lawns and flowers, bushes in gardens and unpruned trees. Hours he spends lying down listening to the same track on a CD. The time that never stops. The growing inattention, the growing impulse towards explosion and robbery. He cries and he can barely breathe for the guilt. Rener is patient enough to let him pretend. The words he has said to Rener, the conversations, were what remained of his dream. The future of Brazil never troubled him as much as it did this afternoon. He feels old (and Passo Fundo is no longer nearby to feel old with him). He wants the life that the Indian girl on the side of the road re-awoke. He couldn’t quite stomach it, and he still can’t.

Half past five in the morning. The dawn cold sharpens. Paulo gets up from the sofa, opens the apartment door, leaves. He walks to the Elephant and Castle Shopping Centre, waits for the bus that will take him to Camberwell. Before six he arrives at the house of the two people who usually help him with the occupations; he knocks on the door till they wake up. He offers each of them two hundred pounds, saying he needs back-up on a collection visit that he needs to pay before ten o’clock. They accept his proposition, Paulo says he will be back at eight, they go back to sleep. Paulo stops in at a 7-Eleven, picks up a Twix and a Mars drink. He takes the bus out to the squat in Chelsea that he broke into two months ago to be his permanent residence, his private place, his perfect place; quality carpet, central heating, excellent paintwork on the walls, the type of luxury few people have. Life doesn’t get any better is what goes through his head, it’s in the nature of this strategy to feel as though he’s playing the game, to be crazier than his opponents. (Deep down he’s just the same and he doesn’t notice.) He goes into his flat. He puts the Public Enemy cassette into the tape deck, presses play. He turns the volume up to four (never annoy your neighbours). He changes. He gets his workmen’s boots with the steel toe-caps, the knuckleduster he received as a recent part-payment, a cap and his shades. He puts guaraná powder in what’s left of his chocolate drink. He covers it, shakes it, drinks. He consults the cheap watch that he bought in Brixton, similar to the one he gave Maína. He puts the watch in his pocket. He gets two oversized plastic laundry bags. He goes out. He walks along the Thames as far as the Tate Gallery, takes the bus back to Camberwell. He arrives half an hour before the agreed time. He buys a Twix in the little shop opposite the bus stop. He looks at the newspaper headlines as he eats it. Nothing about Brazil. He goes back out onto the pavement, walks to the nearest public payphone. He calls his parents’ house. The telephone rings until the answering machine kicks in. ‘Hi … It’s Paulo. You ok? I was calling to find out about the elections … And to say my holiday here is going great … ’ He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. ‘Just to say I’m fine, I don’t need anything … ’ and remains silent until the recording comes to an end and, a moment later, the line goes dead.