Ian McDonald - Brasyl

Brasyl

Ian McDonald

Marcelina watched them take the car on Rua Sacop It was aC-Class Mercedes, a drug dealer's car, done up to the tits by thePimp My Ride: Brasileiro design crew with wheel trim and tail andblue lighting that ran up and down the subframe. Subwoofers the sizeof suitcases. The design boys had done a good job; it looked afistful more than the four thousand reis Marcelina had paid at thecity car pound.

One time they passed it: three guys in basketball shorts and vestsand caps. The first time the looking time. A second time, this timethe checking time, pretending to be interested in the trim and therosary and Flamengo key-fob hanging from the mirror (sweet touch) andwas it CD multichanger or a hardpoint for MP3?

Go, my sons, you know you want it, thought Marcelina in the back ofthe chase car in a driveway two hundred meters up hill. It's allthere for you, I made it that way, how can you resist?

The third time, that is the taking time. They gave it ten minutes'safety, ten minutes in which Marcelina sat over the monitor fearingwould they come back would someone else get there first? No, herethey were swinging down the hill, big pretty boys long-limbed andloose, and they were good, very good. She hardly saw them try thedoor, but there was no mistaking the look of surprise on their faceswhen it swung open. Yes, it is unlocked. And yes, the keys are in it.And they were in: door closed, engine started, lights on.

"We're on!" Marcelina Hoffman shouted to her driver and wasimmediately flung against the monitor as the SUV took off. God andMary they were hard on it, screaming the engine as they ripped outonto the Avenida Epicicio Pessoa. "All cars all cars!"Marcelina shouted into her talkback as the Cherokee swayed into thetraffic. "We have a lift we have a lift! Heading north for theRebouas Tunnel." She poked the driver, an AP who hadconfessed a love for car rallying, hard in the shoulder. "Keephim in sight, but don't scare him." The monitor was blank. Shebanged it. "What is wrong with this thing?" The screenfilled with pictures, feed from the Mercedes' lippstick-cams. "Ineed real-time time-code up on this." Don't let them find thecameras , Marcelina prayed to Nossa Senhora da Valiosa Produco,her divine patroness. Three guys, the one in the black and golddriving, the one in the Nike vest, and the one with no shirt at alland a patchy little knot of wiry hair right between his nipples.Sirens dopplered past; Marcelina looked up from her monitor to see apolice car turn across four lanes of traffic on the lagoon avenue andaccelerate past her. "Get me audio."

Joo-Batista the soundman waggled his head like an Indian, thegesture made the more cartoonish by his headphones. He fiddled withthe mixer slung around his neck and gave a tentative thumbs-up.Marcelina had rehearsed thisrehearsed this and rehearsed thisand rehearsed thisand now she could not remember a singleword. Joao-Batista looked at her: Go on, it's your show.

"You like this car? You like it?" She was shrieking like ashoutygirl-presenter. Joo-Batista looking pityingly at her.On the car cams the boys looked as if a bomb had gone off under theirKnight Rider LEDS. Don't bail, Lady Lady Lady, don't bail."It's yours! It's your big star prize. It's all right, you're ona TV game show!"

"It's a shit old Merc with a cheap pimp from graphics,"Souza the driver muttered. "And they know that."

Marcelina knocked off the talk back.

"Are you the director here? Are you? Are you? It'll do for thepilot."

The SUV veered abruptly, sending Marcelina reeling across thebackseat. Tires squealed. God she loved this.

"They decided against the tunnel. They're taking a trip toJardim Botnica instead."

Marcelina glanced at the satnav. The police cars were orange flags,their careful formation across Rio's Zona Sul breaking up andreordering as the chase car refused to drive into their trap. That'swhat it's about, Marcelina said to herself. That's what makes itgreat TV . Back on the talkback again.

"You're on Getaway . It's a new reality show for CanalQuatro, and you're on it! Hey, you're going to be big stars!"That got them looking at each other. Attention culture. It neverfailed to seduce the vain Carioca. Best reality show participants onthe planet, cariocas. "That car is yours, absolutely,guaranteed, legal. All you have to do is not get arrested by the copsfor half an hour, and we've told them you're out there. You want toplay?" That might even do for the strapline: Getaway: YouWant to Play?

Nike vest boy's mouth was moving.

"I need audio out," Marcelina shouted. Joo-Batistaturned another knob. Baile funk shook the SUV.

"I said, for this heap of shit?" Nike vest shouted over thebooty beat. Souza took another corner at tire-shredding speed. Theorange flags of the police were flocking together, route by routecutting off possible escape. For the first time Marcelina believedshe might have a program here. She thumbed the talk back off. "Whereare we going?"

"It could be Rocinha or up through Tijuca on the Estrada DonaCastorina." The SUV slid across another junction, scatteringjugglers, their balls cascading around them, and windshield-washerswith buckets and squeegees. "No, it's Rocinha."

"Are we getting anything usable?" Marcelina askedJoo-Batista. He shook his head. She had never had a sound manwho wasn't a laconic bastard, and that went for soundwomen too.

"Hey hey hey, could you turn the music down a little?"

DJ Furao's baile beat dropped to thumbs-up levelsfrom Joo-Batista. "What's your name?" Marcelinashouted at Nike vest.

"You think I'm going to tell you, in a stolen car with half ZonaSul up my ass? This is entrapment."

"We have to call you something," Marcelina wheedled.

"Well, Canal Quatro, you can call me Malhao, andthis Amrica"the driver took his hands off thewheel and waved"and O Clono." Chest-hair pushed hismouth up to the driver's headrest minicam in the classic MTVrock-shot.

"Is this going to be like Bus 174 ?" he asked.

"Do you want to end up like the guy on Bus 174 ?"Souza murmured. "If they try and take that into Rocinha, it'llmake Bus 174 look like a First Commmunion party."

"Am I going to be like a big celebrity then?" O CIonoasked, still kissing the camera.

"You'll be in Contigo . We know people there, we can setsomething up."

"Can I get to meet Gisele Bundchen?"

"We can get you on a shoot with Gisele Bundchen, all of you, andthe car. Getaway stars and their cars."

"I like that Ana Beatriz Barros," Amrica said.

"Hear that? Gisele Bundchen!" O CIono had his head betweenthe seats, bellowing in Malhao's ear.

"Man, there is going to be no Gisele Bundchen, or Ana BeatrizBarros," Malhao said. "This is TV; they'llsay anything to keep the show going. Hey Canal Quatro, what happensif we get caught? We didn't ask to be in this show."

"You took the car."

"You wanted us to take the car. You left the doors open and thekeys in."

"Ethics is good," Joo-Batista said. "We don'tget a lot of ethics in reality TV." Sirens on all sides, growingcloser, coming into phase. Police cars knifed past on each side, ablast, a blur of sound and flashing light. Marcelina felt her heartkick in her chest, that moment of beauty when it all works together,perfect, automatic, divine. Souza slid the SUV into top gear as heaccelerated past the shuttered-up construction gear where the newfavela wall was going up.

"And it's not Rocinha," Souza said, pulling out past atanker-train. "What else is down there? Vila Canoas, maybe.Whoa."

Marcelina looked up from her monitor, where she was already planningher edit. Something in Souza's voice.

"You're scaring me, man."