In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • When the Hustler Hesitates
  • Márcio Barbosa (bio)

“‘A hustler doesn’t sleep nor take a nap,’” says a group in Bezerra da Silva. All the world’s hustlers respect this rule. But anything is possible in this mortal world with no one getting blamed.”

I. About How He Almost Left Pretinha

Everything seemed unreal. The exaggerated nocturnal silence, the dimming yellow lights spilling out from the posts, the very strong sensation of Kizzy’s skin in his hands. And he had the impression that he would never arrive at the main street, down there. He had the impression that he would never take the bus in order to return home. Painted a brilliant blinding blue, that noisy Volkswagen coming up the road in his direction seemed to bring death. And he was sure. The car was bringing Mãezinha, the white man of the slum who stopped at his side with a .38 caliber revolver in his hand:

“Ready, aim, fire . . . ,”

shouted Mãezinha, and he shot five times. Five shots pierced his chest. There was an unbearable pain, an infinite expression of terror on his face. And his face was full of this horrible fear when he woke up suddenly as Kizzy surprised him by entering the living room. “What was it, William?” she asked, frightened. He breathed, relieved to see that he was still in Preta’s house and that everything was just a dream. William was seated on the sofa, his heart beating rapidly. Recovering, he managed to quickly disguise the fear, and said that it wasn’t anything, that he barely slept a few minutes, and that he had had a nightmare while she was out of the room.

The two were alone in the narrow living room, and Kizzy stood, her small stature reflecting an outstanding, subtle beauty

deeply touching.

Her slanted brown eyes had a devastating turbulence. But her shining, dark face was smooth and round, her hair braided on top of her head and on the sides with braids of Kanekalon. Maternal sweetness invaded her when she saw her beloved so frightened by a nightmare; she went to the kitchen to look for something like a tranquilizer in a glass of water.

All alone again, William leaned toward the clock. The numbers were a strange reddish color. Everything indicated blood. It was late, and he felt tired. He had to go in a little while. He didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye to his beloved. His body was a vibrating weight and didn’t obey orders from his brain. Something pulled [End Page 760] him toward an inevitable destiny. He could see the main street. He wanted to run there and take the bus back home; but his legs seemed to be made of stone, and he seemed to have grown roots on the soles of his feet. With horror he saw the noisy Volkswagen turn the corner and come up the street in his direction. It scattered a blue light, staining the road, the posts and the houses blue on its way. It was the same car that he had dreamed about, he was sure, and he had a strong, violent pain in his belly. It made him see everything yellow when Mãezinha, the white man from the slum, stopped beside him and pointed the .38 caliber revolver at him:

“I warned you to stay away from Kizzy, dude,”

the white man shouted and shot five times. “It’s like an unbelievable play,” thought William like a condemned man who discovers that life only ends and is always a play. The bullets drilled through his chest, and he saw the blood come out slowly where the bullet had penetrated. He tried to stop the flow with his hands, since he saw that he was losing all his blood and would die. But he only had two hands and there were five holes. He saw the streams leaving his chest, running red on the ground like little rivers carrying his essence. And he was unable to stop it. It was like that, with his face altered by the fear, between sleeping and wakefulness, with his hands trying to contain...

Share