JOHNNY GONE DOWN by Karan Bajaj Page B

one.
    ‘Alex.’
    ‘Re.’
    ‘Jesse.’
    ‘Maki.’
    They seemed like a walking advertisement for Brazilian diversity. One was blonde, one was brown, one was Oriental, one was black. No one looked at my arm.
    ‘You speak Portuguese like a foreigner but you don’t look like a tourist. Didn’t anyone warn you about the favelas of Rio? If you go around dressed like a joker, someone will mug you or shoot you sooner or later, men,’ said Marco.
    ‘I’ve been in worse spots,’ I told him.
    He stared at me. ‘Why are you here?’
    I hesitated for a moment. ‘I need a job,’ I replied.
    ‘But why in this favela?’
    ‘It’s a long story.’
    He laughed. ‘Let’s hear it back home, men. You don’t have any place to go, right?’
    I shook my head. He put his arm around me and began to lead me out.
    ‘Donos, should we go after Baz?’ Alex asked.
    ‘Another time,’ said Marco. ‘Today is for new friends.’
    I hesitated. Although the gang had an easy frat boy air about them, the significance of the big gunsin their hands, the attempt on his life, and the casual ease with which Marco had shot the café owner weren’t lost on me.
    ‘Come on, men,’ Marco said. ‘You aren’t afraid of us, are you?’
    I shook my head. Fear was the last thing on my mind. But it just didn’t seem right to join a street gang on the day I left the monastery.
    ‘You don’t understand, men,’ he said, patting his revolver lovingly. ‘Out here, this is a necessity.’
    The Buddha had taught me not to judge people and situations. If he could accept Angulimal, the serial killer who wore a garland of human fingers, who was I to judge a man who had almost been killed?
    We began walking through the narrow streets, Marco and I, followed by four men openly toting guns. No one seemed to pay much attention to our odd procession as we made our way through a maze of streets and alleys. People went about their business despite the noisy shootout, as though encounters like this occurred every day. But everyone greeted Marco with a tone of hushed deference and I finally understood the meaning of ‘Donos’.
    Unwittingly, I had saved the life of a Brazilian slumlord, a smalltime Don. My only exposure to the mafia thus far had been the Godfather movies, but this setup didn’t seem as majestic. Instead of protecting the defenceless damsel-in-distress Lucia,Marco had shot her in the feet; the expensive suits of the movie Don’s henchmen had given way to tattoos, crosses and chains; and Marlon Brando’s meaningful pauses had been replaced with Marco’s wild laughter. The only thing I was sure of was that if I tried to escape, they would make me an ‘offer I couldn’t refuse’, and I didn’t particularly feel the desire to negotiate terms just now.
    We stopped in front of a large brick building that stood incongruously amidst several small wooden huts. The building’s façade was covered with colourful, arresting images of crying children, pregnant women and young men snorting drugs.
    ‘All done by the local favela artists,’ said Marco with a measure of pride.
    We entered the two-storied house and I was immediately struck by its contrast to the world outside. Fully air-conditioned, with elegant furniture, a variety of electronics, and tasteful art lining the walls.
    ‘You live here alone?’ I asked.
    Marco nodded. ‘Yes, but this whole street is ours. You don’t have a place, right?’
    I shook my head.
    ‘Many strange creatures come here but I don’t think I’ve seen a stranger one,’ he said, more to himself than to me. ‘What work do you do, men?’
    ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I told you, I don’t have a job.’
    He laughed. ‘You have no house, no job, no shoes,no suitcase, not even an arm, men. Yet, you don’t look broke. You seem like a guy who should be living in an expensive apartment facing the Copacabana beach, but you wander around barefoot in Rio’s most feared favela, wearing circus clothes. You are not from