That evening, it hit Patrick again.
For the past two weeks, he had done nothing but work. He wasn’t even sure whether it was because he enjoyed it so much or because he simply had nothing else to do. The latter was certainly true. Eventually, he convinced himself of the former. He had gotten used to it. And so, immersed in his work, he left the house only to buy food. But even that annoyed him, because it too had become routine.
To break that tedious pattern somehow, he skipped shopping twice, postponed lunch three times, and once even decided to go hungry. He made himself a sausage and later made up for it with paçoca. He justified it by telling himself that he had too much work that absolutely needed to be finished.
But tonight was exactly the kind of evening when, in his case, all possible escapes had been exhausted. And so the old familiar thought returned:
If only I had some friends. Just one person I could talk to right now. That would be nice. I’d get it off my chest. I’d forget for a while. But I have nobody...
Sometimes he even told himself that if he died, only his mother would notice.
Now he paced around his room, wondering what to do. It was already past ten at night. He had started wondering sometime around six in the evening, though he had managed to interrupt it with one last quick task.
At least go to the beach. Stop sitting inside all the time.
Finally, he went out. The wind was blowing, and he was afraid it was going to rain again. In fact, maybe the weather was to blame for everything. The sun hadn’t come out for a week. If the weather had been nicer, he surely would have found the courage to do something.
Then he noticed a man who had spotted him first. The man almost stopped beside a street sign, as if he was hiding himself behind it, but kept his eyes fixed on Patrick. He said something. He looked afraid.
“Sir, please, do you have ten reais?”
“What?” Patrick asked, noticing the man’s dirty pants and T-shirt. In his hands, he held, almost clutched, a construction helmet. He must have just gotten off work.
“Ten reais. I was robbed,” the man said, then added something else. But Patrick no longer understood. He was a foreigner.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t have any money on me.”
Patrick started walking away and glanced back once more. The man was young. He almost whimpered and looked around helplessly, as if he didn’t know where to go or what to do.
Patrick kept walking.
This guy looked like he maybe really needed help…
It’s terrible. People don’t help anyone anymore…
Anyway, who knows who he is? You can’t trust anyone in this world…
Patrick walked almost all the way to the water. The waves had carried away so much sand that they had formed a half-meter-high ridge. He sat on it, his legs dangling in the air. As he was preparing a playlist on his phone, he also kept an eye on the waves. Every now and then, one reached too high.
Tonight’s songs were meant to be rather melancholic. He could already see himself feeling sorry for himself again. Yet, for some reason, he found a certain beauty in that. Perhaps because, sooner or later, he always ended up reconciling himself to his situation. He knew it had to be that way.
He already had the right earbud in. He was putting the left one in when the same man approached him cautiously from the side.
“Sir,” he began, clasping his hands together and saying something. Maybe if the wind hadn’t been so strong, Patrick would have understood.
“Listen!” Patrick snapped. “I wasn’t lying to you. I told you I don’t have any—” The man’s face twisted, and he buried it in his hands. “—but I’ll go home and get some money and give it to you,” Patrick said as he watched him and stood up. “How much do you need? Ten reais?”
“Yes. Ten reais.”
“And what happened?”
“I was robbed. Robbed.”
Once again, he buried his face in his hands and began to cry.
“Easy.” Patrick reached out and squeezed the man’s shoulder firmly. He couldn’t remember the last time he had done something like that, if he ever had. He had simply sensed that it was probably the right thing to do. He was surprised by himself. Perhaps even pleased.
They were back on the sidewalk now.
“You work in that big building they’re constructing over there?”
“Yes.”
“And what did they steal?”
“My phone. My ID. My money.”
“How did it happen? Did you go to the police?”
“The police… Sir, I just want to go home. I don’t want anything except to go home.”
Again, it looked as though he was about to cry. But he couldn’t anymore. He only wiped away the old tears and looked at his fingers.
“So what’s the work like there?” Patrick asked.
“Better not to do anything,” the man replied. “You touch anything and there’s trouble. Better just help.”
Patrick looked at him. He was about twenty-five, maybe older.
“They took two hundred reais from me. I want to go home. I just want a moto-taxi and to go home.”
Moto-taxi. Suddenly, an idea occurred to Patrick. It almost made him happy. But first, he needed to make sure.
“Were you in that restaurant over there? Didn’t you tell them anything?”
“No. I didn’t talk to them.”
“And where do you live?”
“Far away. Very far.”
“You can’t walk?”
“Oh no. The buses aren’t running anymore. And Uber costs twenty. I talked to a driver. Only a moto-taxi…”
Patrick almost smiled again.
“And you’re a gringo?” the man asked.
“What?” Patrick disliked that word.
The man took his reaction as a yes.
They reached the gate of Patrick’s building. “Wait here,” Patrik said.
“Okay.”
Patrick went upstairs to his apartment. He grabbed his wallet, his keys, and finally a helmet. Then he came back down and opened the gate. “I’ll take you home,” he said.
“But… it’s far away,” the man replied.
“Where is it?”
“Benedito Bentes.”
“That’s fine.”
“But it’s dangerous,” the man said.
Then we’ll die, Patrick thought to himself as he went to start the motorcycle.
“Can you close the gate?” he asked once he had pulled onto the street.
“Yes.” The man carefully shut the gate and climbed behind Patrick.
“Just tell me where to go, okay?”
“Yes. I will.”
And off they went.
Back at the beach, several scenarios had crossed Patrick’s mind. The man might simply have had a nice story and in his backpack, a knife, or even a gun. Maybe someone was waiting for him somewhere, perhaps at the very end of the journey they were now taking, a place from which there might be no return.
But then he remembered the first moment he had seen him. And especially the crying. One can trust no-one. Still, that man would have to be a very good actor.
But what does it matter? We’ll see. At least I’ll get a ride.
And so they rode.
“I told you, sir, that it was far away. See?” the man said.
Patrick merely mumbled something that was meant to say everything was fine.
They kept going. The face of the city changed. Dark, empty, ugly streets lined with dirty houses. Here and there, a few people were still walking home from work. Those who weren’t going anywhere were homeless. Some of them were children.
This is the Brazil you wanted to live in…
No. This is Brazil, and I can’t change it...
I like it anyway...
Patrick wondered whether they might invite him inside for a while, just to talk. After all, he was a foreigner. Maybe the two of them could become friends. He became so lost in thoughts that he failed to notice a speed bump. In Brazil, that is very easy. They are often placed every hundred meters, and many times there isn’t even a warning sign. Patrick braked at the last second, and the man behind him bounced into the air.
Incidentally, he coughed every five or ten minutes.
Probably from the cement.
Patrick looked around again.
But these people… It’s terrible that they have to live like this. Why?
Eventually, they turned into a narrow alley. It was full of mud and potholes. Patrick was afraid they might fall. It would have been embarrassing—and a stain on his good deed.
“Here,” the man said.
Patrick stopped.
“Thank you,” the man said as he climbed off.
“Okay,” Patrick muttered.
The man walked to a small gate and called out to someone. Patrick needed to turn the motorcycle around. As he backed up, he glanced at the man, as if waiting for something.
“Thank you,” the man said again, raising a hand with his thumb up.
Patrick returned home. He parked the motorcycle, swapped his helmet for a cap, and returned to the beach.
He sat there and thought.
Strange… Why me?
But really, it was rather nice.
For a little while.
Then he started the playlist he had prepared.
He stared at the sea, into the darkness. The waves rolled over one another, hissing and rumbling.
He was sad again.
But still, he lived the way he wanted.