“Take me now, Renato, please.” My hands scrubbed my face washed with tears.
“I know these people, Emily. More than I’d like. They have many eyes all over the city, men, women, boys and girls, on every corner. They look non-stop for those they want to capture. They’re not a high-tech mob, but their tendency to follow people into narrow spaces compensates for whatever gadgets they don’t have.”
When Renato finished talking, I struggled to keep control over my body. There was a real risk of losing it all to insanity.
I gathered my strength. “And why the hell do they want to capture me?”
“I’m going to tell you everything, just as I’ve been doing. But I need you to stay calm. Get out of the car and follow me. Don’t ask any more questions. Our lives are at stake. Do you understand?”
I’d lost track of our surroundings. When I looked around, Renato had parked his car at a gas station on a populated street.
I expected he would drive me out of Rio as fast as he could. But not even stopping at the gas station only a few minutes away from Copacabana Palace worried me.
We were at the Gloria Santa slum—where drug dealers and violence were common—in the heart of Botafogo neighborhood. Slum houses stretched along the hillside, its streets slithering amid buildings that not even a master engineer could explain why they didn’t collapse. Only a miracle would keep these houses from falling apart.
The word Santa in the name—saint in Portuguese—seemed appropriate.
And I was about to enter it.
Chapter 11
I got out of the car and followed Renato to the crosswalk, on the same corner as the gas station. After crossing the street, we stepped onto a small park, right at the entrance of Gloria Santa slum. Kids were playing soccer on a cement field and a man was setting up his popcorn cart.
The ground on the park had cracks that sprawled all over. Mostly made of cement, a green coat painted over the soccer field was long gone. Only a few scarce chunks of old ink still clung to it.
That park had been built to last, so had all of its dullness.
I looked at my wrist, my watch had been spared by the Copacabana pickpockets. But instead of making me feel better, it sparked anger inside.
The clock was about to hit 3:00 p.m.
After all I’d been through, I could still think clearly. A question kept bouncing inside my mind: Why am I still following Renato?
I trailed his steps entering the slums of Gloria Santa, the houses clambered uphill. At that moment I might have swerved off the path to the left or right, and gone into a dead sprint along the street as any healthy, self-protective and desperate person would. I might have screamed at the top of my lungs, until someone finally took me on their arms and called the police—some real 911 kind of police—ending this nightmare.
But I didn’t swerve. I had no idea what kind of corruption officers Pinto and Rôla had woven in Rio, and the only person that could help walked ahead of me.
I did as Renato said. No questions asked. While we trudged up the path, Renato sent quick, anxious glances when the kids stopped playing their ball to stare at me. He did the same when the popcorn seller froze to glare, and when a woman, trailing down a slope, darted her bewildered eyes at me, followed by a scowling expression to Renato.
It was when we’d walked past the park on a street that winded uphill, that we stopped on the corner of a square.
“They know you’re not from here, Emily. But they’re good people, no need to worry,” he said.
“I don’t want to be here. Take me to the US Embassy, please,” I said, lips trembling. “I can see I shouldn’t be here by the way they look at me.”
“Stay calm, Emily. They are a simple people that had to bring mistrust into their lives for a matter of survival. Sometimes, they can’t even trust in the police. If you ever get to know them, you see they’re nice.”[GS1]
In two day’s time, I’d learned to not trust the Rio police. I didn’t like their attitudes, period. Being able to relate to this sense of distrust didn’t reduce the impact those unfriendly glares inside the slum had caused on my mood. I felt like bait waiting to be gnawed.
We climbed the slopes and stairs that led to the upper parts of Gloria Santa. I sensed the world shrinking, collapsing around me. I stopped walking, leaned against a street pole.
“It’s not the best time to stop, Emily. Those officers have eyes on the streets. We must take shelter for a couple of days. Then I’ll take you to the US Embassy. And, please, no talking anymore.”
I swallowed my panic, vision unsteady, and followed him.
The more we climbed, the more the streets narrowed. The buildings, two to three stories high at most, squeezed everyone who had the guts to walk between them.
Droplets of sweat clung to my skin, my thighs ached under the struggle of carrying my body, my heavy breathing out of control. Walking up the streets on the Gloria Santa slum felt like an uphill marathon. I was not used to such a challenge. After a couple of blocks I understood why Renato parked his car at the gas station: cars couldn’t go past the streets that started on the outskirts of the slum. Only motorbikes and pedestrians could trod inside its inner veins.
I might have asked why we had to go into this place, why we had to penetrate its inner walls and head towards ghettos that not even sun rays were
