Read Online Heliopolis by James Scudamore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Scudamore
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Zé’s driver had not yet appeared, so being Melissa she bounded off out of the jurisdiction of the guards, in the direction she knew her ride would be coming from, and waited at the lights. That’s where they grabbed her. A car door opened, and everything went dark. I can picture her calmly looking around as the bag came down over her head. She wouldn’t have been scared so much as interested in this new development—whenever she drew blood on the farm she was always more fascinated than afraid.
She did not scream or shout to begin with—not until she decided to get away, and threw her terrifying seizure. She never said a word against her captors, and refused even to attempt a description of them to the police. All we know is that they were taking her somewhere, presumably to formulate their demands, she faked the fit, and they threw her out of the car. I remember seeing her re-enact what she did to escape: contorted body, guttural sounds, a steady stream of froth emerging from the mouth. It terrified me even though I knew it was an act. When the kidnappers lifted the bag from her face and saw what was happening inside, they panicked. Luckily their car was not travelling at high speed. She got away with a sprained ankle, a black eye and a deep cut to her left eyebrow. The man who found her and called the police was a young mechanic named José Luís Oliveira, who lived nearby in a one-room house built by his father. In his gratitude, Zé bought the man a new apartment, and posed for photographers with him and his wife on handing over the keys.
Sometimes, before the kidnapping, Melissa didn’t come, opting instead to spend her weekends at the beach houses of her city friends, many of whom thought Zé and Rebecca eccentric to retreat at every opportunity to a bug-infested ranch (Ernesto, I later discovered, being the principal offender). When this happened I would watch in vain for the dart of colour and energy that I so wanted to emerge from the helicopter, and Zé would place a hand on my shoulder as he beat down the steps, and say, ‘Not today, Ludo, I’m sorry. Call of the surf this weekend.’ After the kidnapping, the farm came into its own—as a 1,000 hectare comfort blanket for the entire family—and Melissa’s absence became a rarity. For all their gorgeous Friday evening appearances on the helicopter steps, the predominant emotion inside each of them was one of relief.
Not that this was evident in Rebecca’s behaviour. On the first weekend back, when Melissa limped down the helicopter steps with a dressing over her injured eye, my mother embraced her so tightly that I wondered whether she would ever let her go, while Rebecca remained typically disconnected. All weekend, it was my mother who fussed over Melissa and prepared her favourite dishes, while Rebecca behaved as if she had decided not to treat her differently, or even to refer to the abduction at all. It was as if Rebecca was almost annoyed with her daughter for getting herself into trouble—that this one child had created an inconvenient distraction from the needs of all the others out there.
Zé merely demonstrated his relief by saying much less than usual. I think he so badly wanted the incident not to have happened that he couldn’t bear to mention it. Money was spent trying to track down the perpetrators, but there was nothing to go on; Melissa couldn’t even tell the police sketch artist whether they were white or black. And I know that this powerlessness would have infuriated Zé. To have control wrested from him so definitively in any situation was unheard of, and would remain unspoken of too.
In the weeks that followed, Melissa did not wet the bed, become wary of strangers or exhibit any other sign of trauma, so everyone believed what they wanted to believe, and the event was buried. My mother found this shocking enough, but when Rebecca took her aside and told her that her continued preferential treatment of Melissa should stop as
She did not scream or shout to begin with—not until she decided to get away, and threw her terrifying seizure. She never said a word against her captors, and refused even to attempt a description of them to the police. All we know is that they were taking her somewhere, presumably to formulate their demands, she faked the fit, and they threw her out of the car. I remember seeing her re-enact what she did to escape: contorted body, guttural sounds, a steady stream of froth emerging from the mouth. It terrified me even though I knew it was an act. When the kidnappers lifted the bag from her face and saw what was happening inside, they panicked. Luckily their car was not travelling at high speed. She got away with a sprained ankle, a black eye and a deep cut to her left eyebrow. The man who found her and called the police was a young mechanic named José Luís Oliveira, who lived nearby in a one-room house built by his father. In his gratitude, Zé bought the man a new apartment, and posed for photographers with him and his wife on handing over the keys.
Sometimes, before the kidnapping, Melissa didn’t come, opting instead to spend her weekends at the beach houses of her city friends, many of whom thought Zé and Rebecca eccentric to retreat at every opportunity to a bug-infested ranch (Ernesto, I later discovered, being the principal offender). When this happened I would watch in vain for the dart of colour and energy that I so wanted to emerge from the helicopter, and Zé would place a hand on my shoulder as he beat down the steps, and say, ‘Not today, Ludo, I’m sorry. Call of the surf this weekend.’ After the kidnapping, the farm came into its own—as a 1,000 hectare comfort blanket for the entire family—and Melissa’s absence became a rarity. For all their gorgeous Friday evening appearances on the helicopter steps, the predominant emotion inside each of them was one of relief.
Not that this was evident in Rebecca’s behaviour. On the first weekend back, when Melissa limped down the helicopter steps with a dressing over her injured eye, my mother embraced her so tightly that I wondered whether she would ever let her go, while Rebecca remained typically disconnected. All weekend, it was my mother who fussed over Melissa and prepared her favourite dishes, while Rebecca behaved as if she had decided not to treat her differently, or even to refer to the abduction at all. It was as if Rebecca was almost annoyed with her daughter for getting herself into trouble—that this one child had created an inconvenient distraction from the needs of all the others out there.
Zé merely demonstrated his relief by saying much less than usual. I think he so badly wanted the incident not to have happened that he couldn’t bear to mention it. Money was spent trying to track down the perpetrators, but there was nothing to go on; Melissa couldn’t even tell the police sketch artist whether they were white or black. And I know that this powerlessness would have infuriated Zé. To have control wrested from him so definitively in any situation was unheard of, and would remain unspoken of too.
In the weeks that followed, Melissa did not wet the bed, become wary of strangers or exhibit any other sign of trauma, so everyone believed what they wanted to believe, and the event was buried. My mother found this shocking enough, but when Rebecca took her aside and told her that her continued preferential treatment of Melissa should stop as
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