Date: Tue, 22 Oct 2002 11:42:01 -0400 From: Tom Cup <tom_cup@hotmail.com> Subject: The Innocents by Richard Dean - Part 3 Chapter 5 Gay - A/Y Copyright 2000, 2001, 2002 by the Paratwa Partnership: A Colorado Corporation. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, except in the case of reviews, without written permission from the Paratwa Partnership, Inc, 354 Plateau Drive, Florissant, CO 80816 This is a fictional story involving alternative sexual relationships. If this type of material offends you, please do not read any further. This material is intended for mature adult audiences. Names, characters, locations and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. ************************************************************************ The Innocents By Richard Dean Part 3 Chapter 5 The March of Silence We awakened to a morning of full sunshine and light breeze, a good omen for the upcoming march. Toninho was effusive in his manner and affability. He easily displayed his radiant smiles with the maid and housekeeper as well as myself. Around 10 that morning he announced he was walking over to Julio and Elena's home. I suspected he wanted to talk to Julio concerning the political aspect to solve the social dilemma concerning the problems of the street children. Paulo and Beto had joined us at our breakfast, but soon had to depart to start their duties at Our Brothers Keepers. I then busied myself in my study, working on my journal and further correspondence. I received a telephone call from one of my work associates, who predicted that we would be transferred to another country within several months as our contract with Petrobras would expire at about that time. This news consumed me with varying thoughts of how we, Toninho and myself, would make this transition. If the move meant I would transfer to the United States, I would take Toninho with me, as I had full guardianship by grant of the courts of Brazil. I made note to get his passport application ready to wend its' way through the maze of governmental bureaus and clerks. If however, I was transferred to another country other than the United States, I would have to consider the practicality of leaving him ensconced within that country, trying to learn yet another language, while I was away during my work schedule. It would be unfair to subject him to something like that. I would leave him here in Brazil, under the direction of Paulo and Beto, notwithstanding our close friendship with Julio and Elena. When Toninho returned home, I sat him down and explained what the near future would or could entail. I expected some tears, of course. His comment made much sense to me. I could I refute it. "I hate this job of yours. It destroys our family." The weather began to change from bright and sunny to overcast, dull and gray with a hint of rain in the air. As four o'clock neared Toninho drove us to Our Brothers Keepers to await the grouping and formation of the multitudes who would make up the marchers. Beto asked the music teacher to help entertain the crowds as they gathered with songs of hope, joy and promise by the OBK choir. To Brazilians, music is icing that lays atop their language. Rhythm and beat of music becomes evident in the sway of hips. If music is playing on the radio, the only ones in hearing range who would not respond by swinging and swaying their hips would be the dead Brazilians. Julio and Elena arrived to join us in chat and small talk. Elena moved us from our escorts' sides and suggested I be introduced to some people who had shown interest in making further contributions on a yearly basis. Not one to lose contributions, I eagerly joined her. Shortly after the introductions were made, the whistles announced the start of the march. With eight marchers abreast and candles lit, they stepped off. In intervals of three feet,. line by line of subsequent marchers stepped off to add their protest to those preceding them. The line of marchers accordioned for eight blocks. The military look of evenness of lines became lost when a corner had to be turned, then it looked like a gang-bang gone wrong. During the march, I tried on several occasions to look ahead of the groups to see if I could spy Toninho, but was unable to do so. As he was with Julio, so I had little concern about his safety. Other than a few boos, catcalls and cries for the imprisonment of "the little pigs", nothing untoward had ever happened in previous marches. Suddenly it appeared that the forward movement of the march had stopped and we were backing up into those in front of us. Screams, the sounds of fireworks could be heard, sounds of windows being broken, began filtering back to us at the rear of the parade. Elena and I looked at each other and tried forcing our way to the front of the milling and confused crowd in front of us. I grabbed her hand as I serpentined through the crowd with her following in my footsteps. As I advanced further ahead, the sounds of panic, screams of terror left me with fear and concerns for Toninho. I had to reach him. Get out of my way, goddamnit, move, I thought, Toninho, Jesus God, save us. What's happening? Recognizing a friendly face, Elena screamed, " Carla, Carla, what is happening up there. Have you seen Julio?" "All I know is someone threw a rock into the crowd, which scattered us about and then ahead of us there was a phalanx of riot police, who started firing on us. Elena screamed "Julio". I screamed "Antonio, Toninho, where are you. Toninho." Pushing my way ahead, leaving Elena and Carla back behind me, I wound my way through the press of confused bodies. People were scattering, having no idea of which way to run to remove themselves from the imminent danger. A car had been overturned, and fuel was running out of the tank, gasoline ran and caught afire from a dropped candle. The explosion and sound of the fireball as it shot into the air, was a shock to my system; as was the concussion of sound and heat, smell of the burning gasoline, the screams of the people, the groaning, wounded, injured. Chaos and bedlam--ensued, people scuffling in fights. A tank appeared with the groan of rumbling and the note of a water cannon pointed at the remainder of the crowd, who were huddling behind parked cars on the oppose side of the street. Ahead of me I saw Julio, who was pulling Toninho to his feet. Thank God. Toninho is alive! I rushed up to them and threw my arms around Toninho, who was in shock, holding his stomach. His eyes looked blank, his face white and stained with tears and blood. Blood! Whose blood? Noooooooooo! I pushed Toninho to my arms' length to search his body. Blood was seeping through his shaking fingers as he pressed them to his stomach. Fear gripped me. "Ton, have you been injured?" Toninho heard my voice and looked around searching for sight of me. "P, p, pae!" He slumped into my arms; as I drew him to me, fear, confusion, and the odors of the scene surrounding me, made me ill. I lowered myself to the street with Toninho collapsed within my arms. I have no memory of how long I sat there rocking him back and forth in my arms. Toninho was no longer among the living. "Why dear God, why? Why my Toninho? He harmed no one. His whole life was in front of him. Damn you! Damn you to hell!" ************* Within the miasma of darkness I heard a thin distant voice calling to me. "Ricardo. Ricardo? Ricardo!" the sound of Paulo's voice came to me out of the fog. I opened my fluttering eyes as they became accustomed to the light of day. "Where is he, Paulo? What have they done with my boy? Is he here? I want to see him. He needs to know I'm with him^Åby him." "Ricardo, shhhhhh, be calm. They've taken all of the bodies to the morgue!" "Ohh noooo, no, he'll be co-old. I don't want him to get cold, Paulo. Not like I have abandoned him to the streets, not like he was once cold and alone, no! Bring me my boy!" "Husssssssshhh, now, Ricardo. He'll not be cold, He has the blanket of God to cover him." My mind could not release the image of Toninho's lifeless body in my arms, nor of the other bodies that I had witness as I plead with my absent lover to return to me. "How many did they murder, Paulo? How many were massacred?" "No answers now. Take these pills. That's a good boy. Now a sip of water. Your Paulo will be here next to you, go to sleep, my champion." ************ Over the course of the next 24 hours, I awakened from time to time and lucidity gave me occasion to see Paulo or Beto sitting at my bedside holding my hand. This vision gave me comfort to return to sleep but did not lessen my nightmares. On re-awakening Paulo undressed me, as well as himself, and walked with me as I shuffled into the bathroom, weak and somewhat dizzy. Like a child, he washed me, shampooed my hair, and turned me over to the ministrations of Beto, who took charge of drying me and dressing me, while Paulo finished his own shower. As a team they choreographed a routine to escort me to the breakfast room. Standing up to receive and greet me, my friends, Elena and Julio made the traditional Brazilian greeting of kissing both cheeks before returning to their seated position at the table. On that Sunday morning, I was brought up to speed on events as they occurred and were reported by the news organizations, eyewitnesses and fellow marchers. Apparently on the Wednesday before the march, several businessmen asked to speak with the Mayor about the possibility of riots that were being plotted by the marchers. The Mayor notified the police chief and told him to schedule riot police and a tank with water cannon to scatter the rioters. The police chief swore the mayor told him to shoot to kill any rioter if things got out of hand. The mayor denied it. Television coverage of the event indicated the orders to fire upon the marchers were given before any incident occurred. As the first shots were fired, people from the sidewalk area threw bricks and one Molotov cocktails into the milling, confused, group of marchers and all hell broke loose. Several of the agitators were identified from the television tape of the event. They confessed to assaulting the marchers and named several businessmen as paying them to rid their streets of these "vermin". The businessmen denied knowing the agitators. Among the nine people killed and 43 wounded or injured, my Toninho laid in the morgue awaiting release to his family for burial services and entombment. Paulo and Beto expressed their concern that the Catholic Church would attempt to gather all of the bodies of the deceased and make a grand ornate gesture. I instructed my friends to hied themselves to the morgue and demand that the body be released into their custody. I would not allow the Catholic Church preside over the body of my beloved son, now in his death. They would not give him baptism, or record his birth, because he was poor and born of the favelas, they would not sanctify themselves by his death. During the absence of Beto and Paulo, Julio admitted Toninho and his desire, and now a network of supports' complicity in establishing a `grass roots' effort to form a political party in hopes of disrupting and disturbing the status quo of the political scene in Brazil. "I suspected as much. You have every legal right to do it, and, I fear Toninho agreed whole-heartedly with you about this. I would prefer to find a peaceful solution to this, but I'll support you in any way I can. You need only ask." I gnawed with questions about Toninho's resting place. I wanted to inter him in a mausoleum with his Grandmother beside him, but my financial accounts would not tolerate the expense. Through the generosity of my dear friends, they volunteered to have one built, not only as a shrine for him and his Gran, but also to ease my concern and peace of mind that he never be cold and without a roof over his head. With the assistance and perseverance of my friends a small closed family funeral was planned for Toninho. I was too brittle to handle the arrangements by myself. A huge hole seemed torn from my heart by the loss and martyrdom of my son and lover. Since the day he was laid to rest, the smells were never the same, the music lost some of its flavor, the colors became faded, the food less savory. The memories remain. Ahhhh, my beloved Toninho, what memories remain! "Herein lies the body, Of my Son and Companion, Antonio (Toninho) Ricardo Dean A man in might, a youth in years Rest In Peace" ************************************************************************ C'est mon histoire; du debut a la fin. -- Richard Dean Send comments to: richard@boystories.zzn.com This story is part of the Tom Cup Library. To support this and other stories by Tom Cup Library Contributing Authors, become a member at http://www.tomcup.com. ************************************************************************