"What you told him, it's important, isn't it?"
The boy didn't look up. He swallowed again, nodded again.
"And you know that I love you and that Anton loved you and that nothing could ever change that, no matter what you've done?"
The boy searched the old priest's eyes.
"Yes," he said. "I know that."
"Remember how proud you were of Anton? About how brave he was?"
Another nod.
"Don't you think he'd be proud of you if you were to be brave now?"
The answer was some time in coming. When it did, it was only a single, strangled word: "Yes."
"Well, then," Father Angelo said, as if it was all settled, as if the boy had just agreed to speak.
And, after a good ten seconds of silence, he did.
Chapter Forty-one
It had rained that night, a persistent, steady downpour that cut visibility to no more than fifty meters and kept most of the kids off the street. But Edson was broke, and he had to work, so as soon as it slacked off a bit he grabbed an umbrella, went out to his usual corner, and started trolling for business.
The streetlights on Republic Square had been smashed since forever, so there was never much light even under the best of circumstances. That night, with the rain coming down, it was even darker than usual. But, light or no light, he wouldn't have been able to see much of the guy's face anyway because he was wearing a big rainhat, and he had it pulled down so that it almost covered his eyes.
Edson's customers normally didn't approach him on foot. On the rare occasions when they did, it generally meant that the John hadn't come out of the closet and didn't want to run the risk of having his wheels spotted.
"How much?" the man in the rain hat asked.
"A hundred and fifty," Edson replied, expecting a counter-offer.
"Okay," the guy said, surprising him, "but there are conditions."
"I don't take it in the ass," Edson said, "and I don't swallow. Find somebody else."
"Your conditions are okay," the man said, "you want to hear mine?"
"I'm listening."
"There are two of us, and my boyfriend's shy."
"Which means?"
"He doesn't want you to see his face. You have to wear a hood until we get there."
"And then?"
"And then you do us in the dark."
"Let's see the money," Edson said. The double act didn't bother him. He'd done that before.
"You see the money when we're in the car," the man said. "What do you call yourself?"
"Pipoca. How about you?"
"You don't have to know. Are you coming, or not?"
The car was a Passat, and not a new one. The inside stank of tobacco and of something else, too, something sweet and flowery. Once he was behind the wheel the guy lifted his ass to get at his wallet and counted out the hundred and fifty.
"You do a good job," he said, "and there's a tip at the end of it."
Edson folded the money and put it in the pocket of his jeans. "Remember the deal," he said.
"I remember. You suck, but you don't swallow. You fuck, but you don't want to be fucked, right?"
"Right."
Rainhat reached under his seat and came up with a plastic trash bag.
"What's that?" Edson said.
"You don't listen, do you? It's to put over your head."
"A hood, you said."
"What the fuck do you think we are? Seamstresses? Bite a hole with your mouth so you can breathe."
The plastic was resilient, and Edson had to put it on and take it off a few times before he got it right. The man waited until he did before starting the engine.
They drove for almost twenty minutes. The first eight turns were all to the left. Edson could feel his body being pushed to the right by the inertia. He figured the guy had taken him a couple of times around the square. After that, it got confusing. He soon gave up trying to figure out where they might be going. He really didn't give a damn anyway. He already had the money.
"Sit tight," the man said, coming to a sudden stop.
He heard a garage door open. The Passat rolled forward and then stopped. The door closed again. The man killed the engine, got out of the car, came around to Edson's side, and helped him out.
Edson asked if he could take off the hood.
"Not yet. Put your hands on my shoulders and follow me."
The guy had apparently done this sort of thing before. He warned him when they were coming to each of the two flights of steps and he told him exactly how many of them there were both times.
At the top of the second flight, he could feel carpeting under his feet.
"Now, stand still."
He heard a door open. And then he smelled it again: that same cloying, flowery smell from the car.
A new voice. "So this is our little whore for the night, hmm? I want to see your face, boy, but I don't want you to see mine. Shut your eyes. Are they shut?"
"Yes."
"Good. Keep them that way. There'll be more money if you do, trouble if you don't."
Edson kept his eyes tightly closed, felt the plastic bag slide off of his head, felt the new man's breath on his face: he was that close.
"Yes," the man said. "Well done."
The words weren't meant for him.
"I'm glad you approve," he heard the first man say. His voice sounded different, as if dampened by their surroundings. Edson imagined a place with a lot of curtains on the walls. He heard a click. The light beyond his eyelids went out.
"Now you can open your eyes."
He did, not that it made any difference. Everything was pitch black.
"Move forward, until you feel the bed with your knees."
He did that, too.
"Now, slide to your right. No, no, you stupid boy, to your right. Good. Keep going until you feel the bedside table."
"Yeah."
"Do you feel it?"
"I said, yeah."
"Don't be insolent. Think of the money. Now disrobe."
"What?"
"Take off your clothes and drop them on the floor next to the table. That way, you'll be able to find them again when you leave."
The next ten minutes were strange and the five that followed them, a nightmare. To begin with, they didn't ask him to do any of the things he was used to doing. They just let him lie there while they did it to each other. When he started to join in, as he thought they wanted him to do, they pushed him away. And then, suddenly, it happened. They were all over him. Worst of all, one of them was in him. And not in his mouth, like he'd agreed, but where he'd specifically said he didn't want them to go. He tried to struggle, but he was just a boy and these were two strong men. One held him down, while the other did it to him. They didn't use any jelly or anything.
He tried to bite the one who was holding him down, but the man let go just long enough to give him a blow that made him see a white flash and then blue stars in the night.
"Keep still, you little bastard, keep still."
He stopped struggling. It was too late, anyway. The thing he'd never wanted done to him had been done to him. He started to whimper, and that seemed to encourage his tormenters all the more. One of them climaxed with a long cry and, after a moment of satiated rest, made way for the other.
The second one reached under Edson's body, grasped his flaccid penis and squeezed it when he climaxed. And then it was over, and they were telling him to get dressed, and that he'd be taken back to where he came from.
Tears still creeping down his cheeks, he did what they'd told him to do: As a guide to finding his clothes, he felt for the table. And when he did, he touched a fat wallet. Without thinking twice, he palmed it, and as soon as he'd located his jeans, he stuffed it into a pocket.
His heart started to beat faster. If they turned on the light, they'd be sure to notice.
But they didn't.
"You dressed?" the first man said a minute or two later.