The Slum (Library of Latin America) by Azevedo Aluisio

Author:Azevedo, Aluisio [Azevedo, Aluisio]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Oxford University Press
Published: 2000-03-13T05:00:00+00:00

XI

The sight of Marciana’s derangement had made Bruxa even crazier—so much so that she had tried to burn down São Romão.

While her neighbors were defending their homes tooth and nail, she had quietly piled up straw and kindling outside number twelve and set fire to it. Fortunately, the blaze was put out in time, but its consequences were as disastrous as if it had burned unabated, for although the houses were saved from the flames, they were devastated by the police. Some were completely destroyed. And things would have turned out worse had that providential downpour not also doused the policemen’s ardor. They retreated without a single prisoner: “If we take one, they’ll all follow us to the station. God preserve us!” Besides, what for? They had already accomplished their mission!

Despite all João Romão’s inquiries, no one could tell him who the arsonist had been, and only hours later did they finally go to sleep, taking stock of what they had salvaged from the onslaught. The sky cleared again at midnight. Many people were already up and about at daybreak, and João carefully inspected the courtyard, gloomily estimating his losses. From time to time he cursed. Apart from what the police had wrecked inside the houses, there were piles of smashed washtubs, broken poles, shattered lanterns, trampled vegetable patches. The front gate and the sign were nothing but splinters. To pay for the damage, he considered levying a tax on his tenants, raising their rents and the price of the food they bought at his store. He spent the whole day in a flurry of activity. He sent someone to buy new washtubs and to order new poles and fences. He put his own employees to work making a new gate and sign.

At midday he had to appear at police headquarters. He went just as he was, without a tie or jacket. Many of his tenants accompanied him, some out of comradeship and others out of curiosity.

The trip downtown turned into a regular party. It looked like a procession, a pilgrimage. Some of the women carried babies in their arms. A crowd of Italians marched in front, chattering away in a mixture of their own language and Portuguese, smoking pipes and in some cases singing. No one took a trolley, and throughout the trip they poked fun at everything they saw, roaring with laughter and arguing with each other while passers by stopped to stare at the mob of ragged ruffians.

The crowd filled the police station.

Although the questions were put to João Romão, everyone answered at once despite the interrogator’s useless threats and protests. Nothing was cleared up, and everyone complained about the police, exaggerating the damage done the night before.

In regard to how the fight had started and ended, João claimed not to know anything, since he had been away at the time. What he did know for sure was that the police had battered their way into his property, ravaging everything he had worked and slaved to construct.

“Of course!” the policeman bellowed.

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