The death of a blues singer in Sâo Paulo
Wellington lived on the north side of Rio de Janeiro, near Ramos along the Avenida Brasil. He lived to be more specific, on the border. But let me say, along the abyss. Around the corner lay the dump where he got a daily job to collect something to eat. Living, meant between boards. A henhouse. Yes, he had fixed his wooden cabin lately with some old paint that he found at the dump. And damned it was yet a color that pleased him; blood red. Above the entrance to his domain was an iron plate with the vulgar text: 'banheiro', or poophouse. He just awake, turned around on his mattras of carbon and looked at the old clock, wich he had renenewed with a battery yesterday, had a hard fart and yawned. It was still early. Quarter past six, but the sun was already rising. Today, would be an important one, for his brother Alves came to visits him.
Every six months Alves. Exactly, without exception. Yes, he knew the data from his head and today was the 13th of september. Alves, his beloved brother was two years younger, forty-one. Alves was famous, (quotes). He was a musician and played in a hardrockband with the bizarre name Irmaos da Cadeia, something like The prison brothers. The music that they played was riddled with 'bluesy"sounds, subject to the deep dark accords. A purée of sounds, which would alarmed the dead in their graves. Yes, Alves kicked regularly against the authority. He was a the treu anarchist and wild with his music, to awake the young Brazilian generation. Regime? Now you have to consider that this is in Brazil as a disaster-stricken mess, and that is why he hated everything what had to do with goverment. Yes, Alves was a outlaw who thought that lines only caused annoyance , and he named this: straitjacket-politics. Therefore, every half-year he visitid Wellington and gave him money and clothing. Often he had offered him to work as a roady, but Wellington would't not say goodbey to his hermit-existence and Alves the hardcorebluesrocker could understand this.
With his right index finger Wellington shoot some cockroaches out of sight, yawned again, scratching his head, drunk his last sip out of the bottle pinga and crawled out of his shelter, just like a Inuit out of his igloo. The old street dog Michelangelo layed beside his hovel. He was medium-sized white with black spots, he had one ear and no tail. It was the most faithful companion that Wellington had and not a minute Michelangelo departed from his side. Yes, he had called him that way because, when the dog licked his face, he found an an old post card with the work of the Italian artist. This is the reason. Not that Wellington had the slightest sense of art, but he saw the name and liked him. The Sun was already shining sharply despite the fact that the Brazilian winter was not endid yet and today it would be quite hot. Still half a sleep he stumbled to the water source, where he washed his face. Then he combed his hair, at least he tried, because the old comb made of ox horn, refused sliding through his thick and greasy hair. 'Alves is a coming today from Sao Paulo, ' he thought of happiness and toke Michelangelo by his fore legs and danced in circles. In fact, he should have to beg for alcohol for his small stove, but he was a totaly naive, so he spent his last money to buy a bottle of pinga cachaça, the most ceapest brand '51' (white sugarcane gin) and some cigarettes of the brand Mustang.
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