Carioca Fletch

A hard kick in the stomach lifted him off his feet. He came down hard on his left foot. He kept moving forward, through the muscular bare backs shining with sweat, the wildly flailing legs, balancing arms. Without air or the ability to breathe, he felt he was drowning in an ocean of churning arms and legs. The sound of the drums, the sound of the men singing in short, practiced phrases, rushed in his ears. He was being kicked and kicked. Even the gray pavement of the parade route was heaving beneath his feet.

He didn’t see the foot that came up from the pavement and kicked him in his face. A cracking noise blasted his ears as his head snapped up and back.

A firm hand against his waist ejected him from the parade.

There was hard-packed earth beneath his feet. The capoeiristas were now a meter behind him.

Blood was on his hands. From his nose and ears and mouth blood was pouring down inside and outside his white shirt. It disappeared into his red sash.

He turned, half-conscious, to see if he could spot whoever had pushed him into the capoeira troupe.

The Ala das Baianas was passing by. A few of the tall black women in long white robes saw him, grimaced at his bloody appearance as they sambaed to the edge of the pavement and turned back.

His eyes wanted to close. He knew he had to go to ground somewhere.

Clutching his ribs, he turned toward the stands. A few people were pointing to him. Most were moving their heads, their shoulders to look beyond him, at the parade.

He staggered, fell toward the stands.

People he approached on the bottom tiers of seats stood up in horror at his appearance, to get away from him. Maybe one or two women were screaming. A few men were shouting at him, angrily, pointing at him. He could not hear the women screaming or the men shouting. He could only see their mouths move.

He knelt down and put his head and shoulders between the second and third tiers of seats. Whoever had pushed him into the capoeiristas had intended murder. Perhaps he had succeeded. Chances were good he would follow his quarry until he was sure he had killed him. His head under the seats, Fletch reached out, grabbed a couple of metal uprights and pulled himself through.

Fletch crawled beneath the stands.

He lay on his back on the dirt, the bottoms of the seats, the bottoms of the spectators just above him. He had been kicked in the stomach so many times he could not breathe.

Vomiting turned him over, got him up on his knees, got him gagging, breathing again. Blood from his nose and lips joined the more forceful stream of vomit.

On his knees, he backed away from his mess.

Stomach muscles quivering from the blows, arms and legs shaking, he remained on hands and knees coughing, trying to clear his throat of vomit and blood.

A meter ahead of him, the people who had risen from their seats, allowing him to crawl under the stands, were sitting in their seats again, pounding their feet like pistons again in rhythm to the drums, cheering on the biggest and most amazing human spectacle in the world except war. Fletch knew they could not hear him retching and choking. He could not hear himself. He was sure his appearance to them was as unreal as the rest of the spectacle they were watching.

After a while he crawled backward farther to give himself more headroom, more air.

Sitting cross-legged then, he put his head back to try to stop the bleeding from his nose. He remembered the crack he had heard when he got that final kick in the face. He did not think his neck was broken, nor his back, nor his head.

Above him rose, as far as he could see, the undersides of the stands. Pieces of skirts, the undersides of thighs, a few dangling feet. A sandwich wrapper floated down and landed near him in the dirt.

The light under the stands was weird. It was midnight. There was no illumination under the stands. The powerful light from the parade route filtered under the stands through the densely packed bodies above. Nodes of light, apparently sourceless, quivered in midair.

Streams of light wavered at odd angles to each other.

His crotch hurt, his stomach hurt, his ribs. His head had been hit from every direction.

Fighting the temptation, his body’s demand to stretch out, to go to sleep, become unconscious, he lifted himself to his feet. It took him three tries to become upright.

He fell foward, and caught himself. A chope can fell from the stands and landed near his foot. He put one foot forward and fell on it. Maintaining upright balance seemed important to him. One hand rubbed an ear; the other tightly held his ribs. He gasped.

Later, he supposed he had moments of unconsciousness as he stood there.

He saw a man walking along under the stands. About to wave to him, make some gesture he needed help, Fletch noticed how oddly the man walked. Fletch looked more closely. The man’s steps were short, high, fast. He landed first on his toes and then his feet rolled forward to his heels.

The man’s feet were backward. His toes were behind his legs.

The hand pressing against his ribs Fletch lowered to press against his stomach.

He blinked blood from his eyes.

A headless mule cantered out of the dark under the stands, slowly turned, and cantered away.

Fletch fell forward on his feet several steps. Now truly he was the walking North American, falling forward. Each step, his feet barely prevented his falling on his face.

Out of the dark at Fletch’s left appeared another man, walking, bouncing slowly. He was to cross in front of Fletch.

As he passed Fletch, the man’s head, backward on his shoulders, turned and smiled. His eyes and teeth shone even in that light.

In an impossible angle from his head, one of his arms raised. He pointed to Fletch’s right.

Standing very close to Fletch was an old man in an oversized coat. The man’s hair was thin and gray. His eyes were sad.

He raised his arms toward Fletch.

Fletch backed away.

Only hair came out of the old man’s sleeves, not hands or wrists.

Again, Fletch’s head snapped.

Someone kicked him hard, on the muscle of the upper left side of his back.

Brushing away the old man with hair for hands, Fletch spun slowly on the hard-packed earth.

He saw the second blow coming at his chest. He did not know how to avoid such a blow from the foot. He could not duck it. Moving sideways, slowly, stupidly, he still caught the full force of the blow.

His feet caught him as he fell backward.

A man, a wiry old man, was kick-dancing in front of him. Groggy, Fletch admired the perfectly executed pirouette.

And as the man’s face turned to him, a beam of light through the stands shone fully on the face of a goat. Through the mask’s eye-holes gleamed steady brown eyes.

The man’s instep hit Fletch hard on the side of the head.

Fletch’s head felt it was traveling through space by itself.

Reeling, Fletch saw the small boy standing not too far away on his wooden leg.

“Janio!” Fletch yelled. Blood bubbled from his throat to his lips.

In all that noise, he could not even hear his own voice.

His shoulders pumping unnaturally, the small boy ran away.

The capoeirista was real. He was in front of Fletch, behind him, all around him. The blows from his feet were real.

The man behind the goat mask was kicking Fletch to death.

Fletch tried to keep his legs together, yet not fall over. He tried to keep his back to the man, which was impossible. Hunkered down, he tried to keep his hands over his head, his elbows protecting his ribs. Falling this way, that, he tried to get away. The capoeirista was on all sides of him at once. Each