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that leads to the back of the store. The resume is a cover, so, after knockingon three office doors, I get to a woman who looks like someone who has beenwasted, because she thinks she can do better. Friendly feigning respectabilityI demand (we are alone) that she give me the right contact information, if not,forcing with thighs and genitals her sculptured body, and pincer-twisting herleft arm, preparing to break one finger after another. She releases the addressof the buyer that I desire for the originals, her buttocks puffing out her jeans, Iget hard. Frightened, she tries to back away, I press her against the wall, I will donothing, people in the next rooms. I hold what might be a weapon against her,lowering it slowly and ordering, voice low and virile: “shut up.” Unsuspected, Imake it onto Manoel Dias and mount a bus.There was nothing appetizing about the bard. The only thing worthwhilewas the treasure. The coins. Zé said:“It’s here on the first floor of The House Foundation.”He said some of the originals had already disappeared, as we walked downthe square to have a few drinks down there, amid the shameless wildlife.As we left, walking on Ajuda, we went up and down slopes, crossing squareswhere whores and maidens from other times were set to words and music andare now those who made use of the pen, sound, film, plastic, etc., who suckledand nursed on some institutional teat. I flow into Lapa Station, sniff the greasyair, sweaty, tired of its strident but idiotic bustle. I was going along with China.I don’t say going against the grain, but sort of out of place.Pendant, crowded, soaking wet, after half an hour I jump off at the FavelaBuilding. I climb to the fourth floor. Naked, Onan, using binoculars, while Iimagine killings involving the little people down below.* * *JOÃO FILHO307A cloudy dawn, the air stuporous, I get off at Sé Plaza and walk. Short,robust and stocky but agile for the walks through the city center witha good dose of anesthetics so the vertebrae don’t fall apart. I don’t go tothe Foundation, I go back, down Ajuda, across Castro Alves and among thecanine pack, maximum racial mixture, a napkin butterfly spinning on asphalt,street vendors of everything, and if it is rainy we reach Relógio de São Pedrosplashing hawkers, their last wares, fading colors. Androgynous, mixed-city,coy, flirtatious at first, sticky, but whore and thief. Faggot-city, limp wristed. Sexstomach,sex-stomach, your filthy pulse, and from this rhythmic we get what?The stickiness of its breakaway slopes, the meanness that wanders on AvenidaSete around Piedade; I turn into a side street and enter the Chinese restaurantthat sells by the kilo.If I don’t stay busy, I lose myself. I keep sketching out this plot along theshafts of Soterópolis to have something like meaning, even though asceticism