Trash

  At last I slowed to a walk, and at the far end of the street I saw a landmark I knew. I didn’t know its name, but I knew it was in the city business district. The landmark was the statue of a soldier, raised up high. He had a drawn sword, ready for some charge in some war. I had passed him before, yelling something to his comrades, fighting for freedom! I walked right up to him and looked up, and I said, ‘They let me go. I did not give it up.’

  I could not believe they had let me go, and the statue just carried on yelling.

  There was a surge of rain and the kind of breeze I’d felt up on the dumpsite, in from the sea – a typhoon breeze, though this was not the typhoon season. I looked at the soldier and thought, So, am I garbage? And I laughed, because it occurred to me – there and then – that the garbage boy had just lied his way out from under the noses of those clever men. A little garbage boy had sat there shaking, saying, ‘I don’t have the bag,’ when all the time I knew exactly where it was and what had been in it. We’d caught the train and we’d found the locker. We had the letter – and OK, we did not know what it all meant yet. But the garbage boys were way ahead of the garbage police, and I had said nothing to those men.

  I walked on.

  It would take two or three hours to reach Behala, and I was so happy walking – I knew which direction to take. I passed an old man and two little kids with a cart. They were night sweepers, shovelling trash. I asked the man if he had a cigarette, and he looked at me strangely. I had forgotten that my face was covered in blood.

  He gave me a little bit of a cigarette, and I sat and smoked with him. The kids stood and looked at me, and I was stinking, but nobody seemed to care much. The little girl was about five, and the other – maybe a girl, maybe a boy – looked about seven. The seven-year-old got a bottle of water out of the cart, and I splashed some over my nose and mouth. Then I said goodbye and started running again.

  Let me tell you something else – I think I will tell it now.

  On that computer we had found out about José – the man whose bag it was. José Angelico, God rest his poor soul, was a dead man. His name had been in the news. Gardo had said, ‘What if he’s a killer?’ – but it turned out the poor man had been killed.

  Guess where he had died?

  He had died in a police station. The newspaper said that he had died while police were interrogating him. In the same police station as me? I wondered. In the same room?

  Had they dropped him from the window on purpose? By mistake?

  I was passing a little park, and I ducked into it for a moment and sat on the grass. The rain was so light and cool. I guess I was in deep shock, so I just sat for a while, and I thought more about poor José Angelico.

  He had been arrested on suspicion of a major, major crime – it had made all the papers. After the computer, we had gone to the papers – one thing there’s a lot of on the dumpsite is old news papers. It didn’t take us long to find the right ones, and we sat there like three little old men, me reading it all out to Rat, who nodded and stared. The police had arrested José Angelico for robbery.

  Six million dollars.

  We sat back and tried to imagine what even a thousand dollars looks like. Gardo tried to translate it into pesos and got a headache so bad he had to lie down. We were laughing, trying to imagine how you walk with all those million dollars in your pocket, and then we stopped laughing.

  José Angelico had died in a police station, they said, and that’s why I stuck to the lie, even as they held me out of that window – for the sake of José Angelico and his serious-faced little girl. I also think José was with me, because I know the dead come back.

  The crime he was accused of was robbing a government man – the vice-president – of six million dollars, and maybe he’d done it and the money was waiting somewhere. He must have put that bag in the trash before they got him – I think perhaps they made him confess to it, and that’s when they came looking.

  One newspaper told us a little bit about him. It said that he had been an orphan, but had been adopted by a man called Dante Jerome Olondriz, son of Gabriel Olondriz. That was the name on the letter we’d found – Gabriel Olondriz, the man in Colva Prison. José Angelico, it said, had worked as a houseboy for the vice-president for eighteen years. It said that José Angelico had an eight-year-old daughter and no other family. That was why he was writing to Gabriel Olondriz.

  I sat shaking in the rain, and I knew for sure now that we would have to go to Colva Prison and deliver the letter.

  4

  My name is Grace and you will hear only one thing from me.

  Father Juilliard has asked me to say what kind of a man José Angelico was, as I worked closely with him. I am a maid to Senator Zapanta – the vice-president who was robbed. I have been his maid for four years, so I knew the senior houseboy well. I can say that José was kind, gentle, trustworthy and honest. He had a very quiet voice. He didn’t smoke. He took a little brandy at the weekend, but not so much. His wife had died before I knew him, and he was paying for his daughter to go to school. Her name was Pia Dante, but she could not live with her father. José was live-in staff, and the senator’s house is a long way from schools. He boarded her with a family near to her school, and they saw each other once a week. He had also had a son, but the little boy had died very young.

  I don’t know what else to say.

  I was very, very upset when I heard about it, and like everyone, I said it was impossible. José Angelico was the most trustworthy man, and he did not seem brave. As soon as I could – after he had been taken – I went to find his daughter. But when I found the house, I was told she had gone. I asked where, I asked when, and I honestly tried to find a way of looking for her – but the family that had boarded her were not helpful. I don’t know what happened to the little girl. There are many boys and girls on the streets, as everybody knows.

  José Angelico was a good man, whatever he did – and I won’t forget him.

  PART THREE

  1

  I’m Olivia Weston, and I was what they call a ‘temporary house-mother’ at Behala’s Mission School. I also have one part of the story. The boys and Father Juilliard have asked that I write it down carefully, so that is what I will do.

  I’m twenty-two, and I was taking time after university to see some of the world. I came to the city intending to stay in it for a few days, get over my jet-lag, and then fly on to meet up with friends for a month or so of swimming and surfing.

  I visited the Behala dumpsite, though, and my plans changed.

  I did go swimming and surfing – I did have a holiday. But I found lying on the beach was good for a week, and then I started to feel restless and useless. Behala had hit me hard, and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I’d gone there to deliver some sponsorship money for my parents, who had a friend who’d worked there. My father works in the Foreign Office, and had paid my airfare (and a bit more) in the hope I’d get something educational out of the trip. Sure enough, before I knew it, Father Juilliard had suggested I teach reading and writing to the little ones. Then I got involved in a water-sanitation project they have going. Then I was doing very basic first aid, because the kids are always getting scratched or bitten, and things go septic fast – and then I got the title ‘temporary house-mother’ – which means you agree to do daytime shifts helping out wherever you can.

  I fell in love.

  I fell in love with the eyes looking at me, and the smiles. I think charity work is the most seductive thing in the world, and I’d never done it before. For the first time in your life you’re surrounded by people who tell you you’re making a difference. The Behala children are beautiful, and to see them on the rubbish tips all day can break your heart. If you come to this country, do the tourist things. But come to Behala too and see the mountains of trash, and the children who pick over them. It is a thing to change your life.

  I knew Jun – the little boy they called Rat. Jun would not call me Olivia – it was always ‘Sister
’, and then it became ‘Mother’. I am stupidly soft-hearted – I will drip tears over a stray cat back in England. Little Jun had me wrapped round his finger in about two days, and I was forever giving him little bits of food, and little bits of money. I don’t know how else a boy like that survives.

  We have a rest room in the school, where people can go when it all gets too much, and just lie down under a fan. We’ve got a small fridge in there too – and the housemothers use it as a base. Jun got into the habit of visiting me and trying to make things tidy, and I got into the habit of giving him things. So when he brought his two friends to see me, it was a nice surprise but I had no idea what I was getting involved in.

  They asked if we could talk, and I assumed it was about what had happened the night before. Father Juilliard was resting, and I didn’t want to disturb him – he’d been up most of the night trying to find out where Raphael had been taken, and I think he was still badly shaken – the police had not been helpful. Then, of course, the child had simply come walking back to Behala, walking in as the sun rose. I wasn’t there, but I’d heard all about it – and I could see how badly he’d been beaten. His auntie had held him and held him, and wouldn’t let him go. The whole neighbourhood came out, apparently. Father Juilliard says the people here are like that. When one of their number is hurt, everyone feels the wound.

  Now he smiled shyly at me, pulling back his hair. The bruising was terrible, and I remember wondering how an adult could possibly strike such a child. He saw me staring, and moved behind his friend. Gardo – the bald boy – put his hand very gently on his arm before turning back to me.

  Jun said, ‘We don’t know what to do, Mother. We’ve got a big problem. You know Gardo, yes?’

  Gardo sat down, looking at his knees. I could see that he had tried to dress up clean – he looked scrubbed and his T-shirt was fresh. He tried to smile, but he just looked nervous. I was jumping to the conclusion, of course, that he was about to ask for money – and I was bracing myself to refuse. One of Father Juilliard’s rules was that we did not give money away as gifts. The odd ten or twenty, yes – everyone did a little bit of that now and then. But I knew Gardo was building up to ask for a big sum. I was surprised, then – and a bit ashamed – when he said, ‘My grandfather’s in prison, ma’am, and I want to go and see him.’

  I said, ‘I’m so sorry. Which prison?’

  He told me the name, and as I knew nothing about the city’s prisons it didn’t mean much and I wondered why I’d asked the question.

  ‘Why is he in prison?’ I said.

  Gardo looked away, and the bruised boy – Raphael – put his arm round his shoulders and said something in his own language. I realized I had touched on something personal, but I could hardly back-track now – and in any case, it was one of the logical questions.

  ‘They say he beat up someone,’ said Jun softly, ‘but it’s not true. It’s all corruption because there’s some men who want his house.’

  Gardo, I saw, had started to cry. He wiped his eyes and said: ‘They’re trying to get him out of his house! They file a charge. They pay the police, the police arrest him. Now they’ve got his house.’

  Gardo wiped tears away again. Raphael hugged him harder, and said something again – something reassuring, I assumed – in his own language.

  Then he said to me: ‘Gardo needs to see him, Sister.’ The boy’s mouth was swollen, and his speech was awkward. ‘Can you help us get to the prison?’

  I took a gulp of water, and Jun topped up my glass.

  It was dawning on me that I had been right: this was going to be a request for money. They needed bus fares, or bribe money. I was surprised again, therefore, when Gardo said: ‘We need you to go with me, Sister. Please?’

  ‘Me?’

  They all nodded.

  ‘You want me to go and see your grandfather?’ I said.

  Gardo nodded.

  ‘How?’ I said. I was completely bewildered. ‘Why do I need to see him?’

  ‘We’ve got to get some information to him,’ said Gardo. ‘The police were asking questions about him – that’s why they beat my friend. Maybe they come for me next time!’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s a difficult situation, Mother,’ said Jun. I’d never seen him so grave. ‘The old man needs to know what is going on here. We need some information too, to help him. Or he loses the house.’

  ‘But your family, perhaps – your mother …’

  Gardo shook his head. ‘No mother.’

  ‘Your grandfather must have sons,’ I said. ‘And there must be visiting times – why can’t somebody just … visit? I’m not sure what good I can do, that’s the problem.’

  Gardo said, ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘The prisons here,’ said Jun. ‘A visit once a month. Mother, they’re going to lose their house – that’s everything here. You lose your house, you’ve got nothing. And you – you’re a social worker …’

  Gardo said: ‘You take your passport. You sign your name. They let you inside.’

  I was silent. At last we’d got to the bottom of it.

  The boy said something I didn’t hear, and put his head in his hands. Jun put his hand on mine and said, ‘We ask you because it is so important and no one else can help.’

  ‘You’re the only foreigner we know,’ said Raphael. ‘And the prisons out here … they do what they want.’

  ‘You say you’re a social worker,’ said Jun. ‘You say you just want to see him for half an hour. They may keep you waiting, OK? They may say no at first. But in the end, if you just sit there … There’s a chance, yes?’

  Gardo looked at me, and his eyes were still full of tears.

  Jun said, ‘You’re the nicest, kindest mother we ever had here. He’s only asking because, without this, they maybe gonna lose the house.’

  ‘They beat me,’ said Raphael. ‘They think I got some papers, but I don’t have them.’

  ‘Please, Mother?’

  * * *

  That was how I found myself in a taxi heading for Colva Prison.

  Vanity and stupidity, and the fact that three little boys could break my heart one minute and flatter me the next, all the time lying and lying. I took just Gardo with me, and the first thing we did was stop at a big store to get him some new clothes. He’d cleaned himself up, as I said, but his shorts and shirt were ingrained with so many months’ dirt they were stiff on his body.

  The looks I got walking him into the boys’ clothing department were something I’ll never forget. And the time it took him to choose was also something I remember. I’d asked the taxi to wait, thinking, Shorts and a shirt – five minutes of shopping. Unfortunately it wasn’t like that. Gardo wanted to take his time, and he was the most intent, careful shopper I’d ever seen. He wanted jeans, and he wanted the most expensive kind. I could not pay western prices for something that I knew was probably made for peanuts in this very city, so I managed to talk him down to a cheaper pair. Then he wanted a long basketball shirt, which I thought was totally wrong for the impression we were hoping to create. I took him to a rack with formal shirts on it, and he turned his nose up at all of them. I was beginning to get flustered by now, so again we compromised. We chose a T-shirt, which he insisted must be too big. Then we chose a more formal shirt with a collar, to wear over the top.

  He tried it all on, and we went to the checkout – or I thought we were heading that way, but suddenly I was in the shoe section, and he was looking at trainers. Again, the prices stunned me, but I had to admit that a smartly dressed boy with bare feet – dirty bare feet – is not going to be convincing.

  We chose a medium-priced pair, and when we got to the checkout I put it all on my credit card. The reward, of course, was that I had never seen a boy so happy in my life, and – I have to say – so handsome. He emerged from the changing room, and he was simply no longer a Behala dumpsite boy! He was taller
, he was bursting with confidence and smiles … he was even walking differently. I could not resist kissing him, which made the shop assistants howl with laughter.

  We got to the taxi. I gulped when I saw the meter. And on we went.

  2

  Father Juilliard.

  I feel I ought to say that had I known what Olivia had agreed to do, I would have intervened and prevented it. I would have seen it for the scam that it was. The problem is, you never see them coming, and six years here in Behala have taught me that some of our children are the best liars in the world. I guess it is survival. It’s awful to say it, but … trust. You just shouldn’t put yourself in a position where trust could be betrayed.

  I am the worst, though. While they were working on Olivia, they had very special plans for me.

  Raphael and Gardo were smart. But little Jun … Rat. What he did took my breath away.

  Things were about to get very dangerous indeed.

  3

  Olivia. And yes, I know. It was stupid.

  The taxi took me into a part of the city that was more squalid than I’d ever seen. You may say that’s strange, coming from someone who works in Behala, but it’s not. Behala is a huge, monstrous, filthy, steaming rubbish dump and you cannot believe human beings are allowed to work there, let alone live there. Rubbish and shacks – it’s extreme, it’s horrible and I will never forget the stink.

  Behala also makes you want to weep, because it looks so like an awful punishment that will never end – and if you have any imagination, you can see the child and what he is doomed to do for the rest of his life. When you see the old man, too weak to work, propped in a chair outside his shack, you think, That is Raphael in forty years. What could possibly change? These children are doomed to breathe the stink all day, all night, sifting the effluent of the city. Rats and children, children and rats, and you sometimes think they have pretty much the same life.