Rat had no intention of returning the following night to give the cop half his earnings from the month before. But neither did he plan to go on hanging around Cinelândia or Lapa. He never had the calling to be a laboratory rat. The only solution was to disappear. Taking with him half the money collected in the last month — the other half Rat put in a thick brown envelope, taped it shut, and gave it to his partner — Rat became a fugitive, at least to his way of thinking. He wasn’t wanted “dead or alive” by the police in the city, but the mere existence of that gorilla and his accomplices sufficed to make him vanish like smoke.
The next day, at dawn, it was still dark when he left his felt hat on the bench where he usually sat in Floriano Square in Cinelândia. A souvenir from Rat for those who remained.
The day had brightened by the time he left the Siqueira Campos subway station in Copacabana, the only district he knew as well as the downtown area, though he had no acquaintances there. Like a rat, he knew the geography of the district, not exactly its surface and its daytime inhabitants but the underground geography and some of its nocturnal dwellers. As a precaution and from fear of the cop and his team, he started moving solely in the actual underworld of Copacabana. His small stature and his skinniness facilitated his rapid disappearance and displacement in the rainwater networks of the Copacabana subsoil. To do this he had to rid himself of the suit and shoes — all that he took in his flight — and arrange for some secondhand clothing of a municipal worker. The next step was to rent a room in a fifth-rate boardinghouse on the Tabajaras slope. In reality, not a room but half a room divided down the middle by a sheet of plywood. In each half there was space for only a single bed and, underneath it, a small chest with a padlock for storing the tenant’s clothes and belongings.
The plywood dividing the room didn’t reach the ceiling, only the top of the door, where it forked, allowing entrance to the two halves of the room. But for someone who spent the early part of the day at the rainwater networks, that half a room was at least a one-star hotel.
Two months went by without news of the cop and his team. Rat figured that they must not operate in the South Zone. Fortunately, he had yet to be noticed by any of them. True, during the day he wore the overalls of a city worker. And his current fear was being stopped by some municipal car and being asked for his ID. He of course had no work papers from the city. Before he could arrange an identity, which would cost some money, he needed to enlarge his crew. He had two women who took care of him and he took care of them, the same setup as Cinelândia, and he also had some boys who brought in a bit of change from objects boosted from foreign tourists, objects that he passed along to fences. Two months’ rent was paid in advance, and he didn’t go hungry. That’s how Rat is, he thought. The Chinese horoscope says that the rat always does well in the labyrinths of life. He didn’t know if this was exactly what it said, but it was something like that.
One night when he had taken off the municipal overalls, showered, and put on his nocturnal suit, the two girls who already worked with him brought a third. Young like them. She had the look of someone experienced enough to have written on her face and body that this was no choir girl. She was of the same height as he, which was rare, a shapely body despite some signs of having been around the block a few times, eyes that were alert, expressive, and intelligent. When she spoke to him, her voice became melodious.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rat,” she said when she was introduced.
“My dear, anyone called Rat can’t go by Mister or Doctor or Sir. Call me Rat. That’s what everybody calls me. And you, what’s your name?”
“Rita.”
“Rita! Just think, Rita and Rat. Made for each other.”
Rita smiled. Standing next to each other they looked like a brother-and-sister circus act: the same height, same physical type, same hair color, only their features showed no resemblance. Rita didn’t have a ratlike face.
Four more months went by — six all told since he had left Cinelândia — and Rita never left Rat’s side. She was observant, alert about those she approached, and possessed an intelligence that surprised Rat daily. Without his asking, Rita began to take care of him, not only emotionally but also physically, despite not having the stature of a bodyguard, though her two friends assured him that Rita knew tactics of attack and defense should they prove necessary.
Rat wanted Rita to become acquainted with downtown. He himself was beginning to miss the square, Lapa, the friends who had stayed behind without his having had time to say goodbye. The cop no doubt continued controlling the area; it was how he made money and maintained his tough-guy reputation. Rat was certain that if he were caught, one of two things would happen: either his body would be discovered floating in the Bay of Guanabara or he would wake up locked in a cell after spending the night in a hospital. One thing he was sure of: the cop wouldn’t forget him, and he had a face easy to remember. Before risking his life by showing up in Cinelândia, it was best to get in contact with Japa to find out how things were.
On Wednesday night, good weather, nice temperature, he arrived in Lapa through the busiest street, in Rita’s clothes and with light makeup to hide the shadow of his beard, wearing a feminine hat with a brim, prescription glasses, and sneakers. It wasn’t enough to attract attention as a woman, but the important thing was not to attract attention as a man. He called Japa from the street. The phone rang until it disconnected automatically. He went to the bar he used to frequent and asked a waiter whom he knew where he could find Japa.
The waiter paused a bit before answering: “From what I hear, in the cemetery, Rat.”
“Killed?”
“That’s what they say.”
“Who did it?”
“All I know is they killed him. How or who it was, I don’t know.”
“When was it?”
“Right after you disappeared. We thought that you too—”
“Make sure they go on thinking that.” He gave the waiter a generous tip and went about disappearing from the area.
To avoid any risk of bumping into the cop, he walked to the Glória station instead of catching the subway in Cinelândia, only a block from where he was.
He arrived at the boardinghouse well before he expected. He removed Rita’s dress and accessories, put on the city worker overalls, and waited for Rita to return, something that depended on luck and her ability of seduction in her work on Avenida Atlântica. He had learned over time to live with that conflict-laden waiting, and he began to understand why pimps frequently beat their women. It wasn’t because they didn’t like them, but because they did. These thoughts ran through his mind at the same time as the memories of Japa. A supercool guy, intelligent, a friend... The cop must have beaten Japa badly to find out where he was. And not even Rat himself would be able to say... He wasn’t anywhere, or rather, he was in a non-place. That son-of-a-bitch cop had killed Japa. If Rat hadn’t run away, though he had alerted his friend, the cop would have had no reason to do what he did. But an outlaw’s life is like that. Rat was sure the cop had decreed an end to his own life on earth. From that day on, he could be killed without further notice.