Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [26]
The group may have argued about racism, but they all agreed on police and violence. The streets were considered dangerous in general, but the people these capoeiristas most dreaded and disliked were the police. It seemed that nearly every day in Pelourinho, I saw police beating residents. One night, as my capoeira friends walked me to my bus, we saw a group of police smashing a man’s head against a wall.
Gradually, over conversations with the capoeiristas and others, particularly those who lived in the slums, I gained more insight into this brutality. I learned that during the Brazilian military dictatorship, from 1964 to about 1984, citizens were “disappeared” and tortured. Much of the torturing was done by police, many of whom came from economically impoverished backgrounds. In the early 1990s, many of the same police officers still held their original jobs. Being forced to torture their fellow citizens had brutalized them. I began to understand that in torture, the tortured was not the only victim. Those forced to perform the acts were damaged forever as well.
The men in the capoeira group always watched over my safety. For the first six months or so, two or three walked with me everywhere. They later relaxed somewhat, but when we went to the bars, they sat me beside the wall, sitting themselves protectively on the outside of the table. Angela, the teacher’s “public girlfriend” or amante, was often the only other woman who went out with us, but she wasn’t protected at all. It was apparently assumed she could take care of herself. (Our teacher was married. Most of the capoeira teachers had several girlfriends: one who accompanied them publicly and others with whom they had passing affairs.)
One night as we sat at the bar, a man came in, drunk and muttering swear words under his breath to no one in particular. He went to the bar and ordered a pingau. All the men in my group moved so none had his back to him.
“Off duty policeman,” Jorge said to me in a low voice. Marcos walked in, also drunk, making his usual jokes. He accidentally bumped the policeman. In a second, the men at my table and Angela were up and out a side door I never knew existed. They dragged me beside them, running up the street. I heard the shot seconds after I was outside. Then I heard the fighting start. More shots. We continued to run.
“Did you see his gun?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Jorge said. “He had it in his pants.”
When we returned to the bar the next night, it was closed. Later, Jorge told me the policeman had somehow missed Marcos, but had pistol-whipped him and smashed his leg. The stories about Marcos were confused: he was in the hospital. No one seemed to know if he would live or not.
“He won’t play capoeira anymore,” our teacher said.
Away from the capoeira group, I spent increasing amounts of time alone, exploring, talking with people I didn’t know. I learned a great deal about Salvador this way. I learned which drugs the prostitutes liked best, the way the kids sniffed glue. One night, very late, I was walking home and passed a group of about seven kids sleeping on the street. One moved in front of me and demanded money. I laughed while I watched for a knife. The street boys knew they could die any day and would easily slit your stomach if they thought you were preventing them from getting money for food or for glue, which made them crazy but stilled the hunger pains.
“I don’t have any money,” I said to the boy. “If I did, do you think I’d be walking? I’d be taking a taxi!”
To my surprise, the boy paused and slid back into his pocket what I now saw clearly as a knife. “You’re right,” he said.
The next night I was walking along the same street at about the same time of night. I had been drinking. It was São João, a harvest festival, and I’d been drinking genipapo liquor