“That’s what I am going to tell you. Patience is a virtue, always remember that, María. I learned to be patient the hard way, you know. I went to Brasília believing I could enlighten American readers to the hardships and injustices there. I thought I would need only a few months to find the pulse of the country’s poor, to monitor it with my sensitive fingers, and then a short while longer to write up the report. I thought that those who read my articles would be unable to remain calloused towards those outside of their limited experience and that the money and volunteer help would pour into the country. But I didn’t realize how calloused I, myself, was until the people, the children in particular, of Brasília wore away that thickened, protective coating around my feelings and captured my heart. Sure, I wanted to leave several times because I didn’t see any immediate results. But like I said, patience is a virtue.”

The nurse returned with a pitcher of water. She poured the water into cups for Carla and María. Carla thanked her and watched her go. She stared up at the ceiling and imagined she was in Brazil again. She remembered the day she saw butterflies in the garden behind the house where she lived after the hotel. Her house was just outside downtown Rio de Janeiro so she could escape the noises of the constant traffic and police sirens. It was a small house, only two rooms, but she had hot water, electricity, fans, a kitchen and a bathroom. Everything she needed for herself. She remembered how the neighborhood boys chased the butterflies with plastic bags tied to sticks and wished she could do the same with her thoughts. Now that the time had come to tell María of her life, she didn’t know how to begin.

María let her aunt lay quietly on her bed for a few minutes. She drank the ice water, relieved that it helped wash down the metallic taste in her mouth. It tasted like blood, she realized. Her aunt finally began talking to her again, just before María leaned over to nudge her and ask her to finish her story.

Carla told María about her house. She told her how she couldn’t stand living in the hotel any longer. Every night at the hotel she would hear off-key sirens. Sometimes she heard the gunshots. She was curious about the shootings and sirens and asked the maid one morning why she rarely saw information about either thing in the paper, especially after the chaos she had heard a few nights prior. The maid had told Carla that police sometimes got carried away by their passion for the law. Then she leaned closer to her and whispered that the noises she had heard the other night had flooded the city. Residents of one of Rio’s slums had rioted after the police massacred twenty-one of them for the crime of living in the same shantytown where some police officers had been killed.

Carla told María how she had run to her dirty bathroom and leaned her face over the toilet. “But I couldn’t throw up,” she said. “Hearing about that senseless brutality left me with a dizzying headache and the taste of bile in my mouth. I sat on the floor and cried. I wept for the men and women who were executed. They hadn’t even done anything wrong. I still can’t think of that horrific massacre without my eyes tearing. I didn’t understand how anyone could be so cruel. I decided at that moment that I would skip my usual schedule and visit the shantytown. It was only a ten minute taxi ride. Now, the Brazilian taxis were something else,” she added as a side note. “Picture New York taxis that turn right from the far left lane, that share your thin lane with you until they crowd you out and you have to drive behind them, that honk at any slight obstacle (imagined or actual) in their path. Now take away the crosswalks, the lines painted on maintained roads, and any respect for the police. Multiply the confusion by at least three, add a few stray dogs and children, and you have the streets of Rio de Janeiro. Every time I rode in a taxi, I felt as though I was giving my life into someone else’s hands. But I stomached that fear and made my way to the slum the maid mentioned. It was a dangerous place for me to be, especially since I was a foreign woman, but I needed to see the place first hand. I was aghast at the dirt and the stench of feces and burning rubber. The smell of the little neighborhood is what told me we were getting close. The shantytown, called Bom Jesus da Mata, was a combination of condemned buildings, uncompleted buildings, ‘houses’ with aluminum grating for roofs and thin wood walls. They burned tires to keep themselves warm during the cool nights. The taxi driver refused to drive me all the way into the town until I offered to pay him more than the fare we had already agreed on. A group of about five boys, who were probably seven or eight years old, ran up to the car once it slowed down. I quickly paid the driver and promised him double his usual wage if he came back to pick me up in a couple of hours. I did not want to be left in the town overnight. The boys clustered around me as soon as I left the car. They held out their grubby hands and asked for dulce, or candy, and money. One of the boys could only hold one hand in front of my face. His right arm was broken and he held it in a sling of muddy, bloodstained cloth. I asked him how he broke it. He didn’t answer, he only asked me for more money. I overheard the other boys taunting him, saying his Papá had broken it so he could beg for even more.”

María interjected. “You’re not serious. Weren’t you— I mean, isn’t that— How could someone do that to their own child?”

“Oh, María, they did much worse things to their children. He was lucky he still had a home to go to and his parents hadn’t completely thrown him out on the street to earn more money begging for himself and his family. I walked around the dirty town with the boys. I gave them money for being my pequeños protetores, my little protectors, and they proudly showed me their playing spots. I was glad they had time for play. Most children in their area were forced to work or beg for their large families. Many of them didn’t have fathers, only mothers who went from one amigo, or boyfriend, to another. Yet they still spoke fondly of their families.” Carla let a smile creep into her eyes. “After that day, I returned to da Mata at least twice a week. The group of boys who met me grew larger until I figured I had an entourage of at least twenty. Some brought along their little sisters who carried even younger siblings on their hips. When I would ask about their families, they would smile. I found out on another visit that many of them made their way into the city during the day to find money or food. Most of them, it turned out, stole. I asked why they begged or stole, or why they sometimes lived in the streets instead of coming home, and the poor children replied that they were doing it to help their mothers. Many shared their earnings with them,” Carla said. “Now, this is one of my favorite bits to tell.” She paused, again letting the smile drift onto her face. “Giomar, a cunning boy of about 10, told me in his raspy, boy-man voice that he shared ‘fifty-fifty.’ His nine-year-old friend piped up and said ‘Oh, ché! Since when did you ever give your mama more than a third!’”

María and Carla both laughed, but their laughter was the weak kind, the kind that begins with a smile and ends with sad tears and questions of goodness and justice.

“But why are you telling me all of this?” asked María. She felt uncomfortable, woozy, even, at the lives she was peeking at through her aunt’s storytelling. She felt the same sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, the same warm metal in her mouth, the same palpitating heart as her nightmare-affected mornings.

“I’m telling you this as a prelude to that newspaper article and the photo of me and the precious girl. I cut out the article nineteen years ago, about three weeks before this picture was taken. If you’ll hand me my reading glasses, I’ll translate it for you.”