⚠️ Content Warning: The following story portrays historical and social realities of Brazil in the 1960s, including depictions of violence, systemic poverty in the favelas 🏚️, and the struggles faced by vulnerable youth.It contains mature themes intended for readers aged 17 and older.The purpose of this work is to reflect and denounce, not to sensationalize or romanticize.Reader discretion is strongly advised.
📝 Author's Note: I was already aware of this content. I first researched it when I was 15 📚. But when I reviewed my notes again and studied Brazil's history in the 1960s once more… I couldn't imagine the deep sorrow 💔 I felt in my heart when facing these themes. Brazil is so much more than just carnivals 🎭 and festivals 🎉. To me, Brazil is… a nation often distorted by sensationalist publicity. I feel broken 💔… I feel that foreigners like me may never truly understand the pain of the Brazilian people 🌎. I stand against letting these stories be forgotten. (Tholio; 2025)
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The streets were a strange labyrinth.
The houses seemed to slide downward, and there was no way to go down without dirtying your sandals.
Some stretches had makeshift stairs, others were just dirt paths, and when it rained, everything turned into a mess.
A man in strange clothes walked through the area, staring at the houses, as if searching for something—or someone.
At a corner, a guy tried to mug him.
But the man overpowered him, shoved him against the wall, pressed his eyes hard, and killed him by stabbing his neck.
He took the knife and the gun and said:
"Thanks, idiot. The trash you had is no good anymore.
This one seems finer… where could it be?"
Leaving the thug lying on the ground, he continued on his way.
Brazil, Rio de Janeiro, Morro do Cantagalo, February 12, 1964.
A few meters from this scene, there was a makeshift house of tin and wood.
Some walls were made of fabric and plastic, and the floor was dirty if you walked barefoot.
The bathroom had a bucket of water that always smelled, but the radio was on.
At five in the afternoon, Elza Soares – Boato by Roberto Kelly played.
To the rhythm of the song, which spoke of heartbreak, a young girl applied makeup in front of the mirror, focused on every stroke.
She adjusted her bra slightly lower than usual, gently tightened the strap of her short dress that revealed her thick, beautiful thighs.
Her waist, almost like a wasp's, stood out, and on her back, a tattoo of a moon and a snake with the initials P.C. was visible.
The music filled the room, blending with the noise of the favela outside, creating a contrast between the routine of the place and the small details of beauty Helena kept for herself.
From outside, her friend Cintia shouted:
"Hey, Heli! Ready to go?!
Damn it, why is this girl taking so long?"
She bent down for a moment to put on her heels.
It was five in the afternoon, and everything was ready.
In the kitchen, Luzia moved calmly.
She was no longer a young girl; now she was a housewife, working every day at the Catete Market, always accompanied by Sandra, her grandmother.
María, Helena's aunt and Sandra's daughter, was at a bar in Copacabana, enjoying the weekend and ready to unwind.
Helena stepped out of the room:
"Ok, Mom, I'm leaving now."
Lucía stopped her for a moment:
"Helena, wait.
Please, don't be out too late. Things aren't good."
Helena raised an eyebrow:
"Oh, Mom, please.
I'll be fine, don't worry."
She left with her friend.
They were picked up by a dangerous man named Zeca, the right-hand man of the leader of the group that controlled the favela's territory.
The house where Lucía, María, and Grandma Sandra lived was right in the middle of that young gang's domain.
From afar, a neighbor played his radio, the soundtrack of this era:
Baden Powell and Vinícius de Moraes with Canto de Ossanha.
Her mother thought they were going to a party, but that wasn't the case.
Helena didn't plan to stay long.
She liked having fun a little, but her real concern was making money.
The party was just a formality: to show closeness to the group, to strengthen ties.
Cintia said:
"Oi, Heli, why did you take so long?
I'm not Cristian to be waiting on a corner for you."
Helena replied:
"Oh, don't complain so much.
Look, let's drink a little and see what happens.
If there's nothing, then I wouldn't go."
It was the birthday of the marijuana exporter they worked with, celebrated in the living room of a friend's house.
As soon as they arrived, a strong blast from the radio filled the room.
Some danced to the music, while others sat chatting with their partners.
Helena didn't waste time; she approached the leader and the birthday boy with a quick smile and a calculated sparkle in her eyes:
"My love, I have your birthday gift… but I can't give it to you here.
Come, let's go to the back… your boss is watching too."
With just a gesture, both understood.
They didn't waste any time and retreated to the back room.
Two hours disappeared amidst laughter, caresses, and the scent of tobacco, while Helena played her cards.
When she returned, she blew them a playful kiss and said:
"Be good to my mom, okay?
Next time, it'll all be for you."
As she walked away, her mind raced:
"Shit… two hours, and it's almost nine.
I should have moved faster."
Before leaving completely, she decided to share some fruit cocktail and complimentary marijuana with Cintia,
a small ritual to relax after finishing her work.
Then she headed downtown with her friend Cintia.
They stopped in front of some hotels, waiting for the first client.
A tall, bearded, fair-skinned man approached and, in poorly pronounced Portuguese, said:
"Sweetheart, tell me, why are you standing here instead of coming with me?"
She smiled playfully:
"Alright, sweetheart. If you want me to go with you so badly, then I'll go… but on one condition.
Do you know how to kiss?"
He smiled confidently:
"Of course I know how to kiss."
"Not really," Helena replied.
"Come, my love, your mamãe is going to teach you how and where to kiss."
He took her by the waist, she grabbed his arm, and they entered the hotel together.
Helena was different from the other workers: charisma, charm, and a personality that swung between docile and dominant.
She knew how to dress: she avoided blacks that didn't suit her, preferring pastels and bright colors.
Her skirts were tight but comfortable, easy to pull off in one motion.
Her body looked sculpted by an artist: semi-dark skin, fluffy hair, eyes somewhere between light and dark, full lips, a nose both straight and wide like many Afro-descendants, and a height that, with heels, surpassed five foot ten.
Too tall for the era, and exotic for Americans.
Meanwhile, she had a rule, a law she repeated to herself:
"Com homem tem que ser carinho, beijo, escuta, mima.
Mas ó: se não pagou, tem que ser sacana e pegar a carteira dele —se for um idiota."
"Men have to be treated with affection and kisses: listen to them and pamper them.
But watch out —if they don't pay, you have to be sneaky and take their wallet, if they're idiots."
"My mom and María always said the same thing: if you do this, give it your all and do your job well.
And if they don't pay… you hit them, period."
While all this was happening, Cintia waited at the hotel door, thinking:
"I don't know how she does it. She always gets the first ones: the tallest, the most handsome, the gringos…
and not one comes to me. What a bad friend, damn it.
And I have to wait even longer to get a client, while she finds them in two minutes.
Did they put some kind of block on me or what?"
As the hours passed, María had already returned, and both Luzia and Grandma were worried.
It was eleven at night, and Helena still hadn't come home.
Still, time kept moving.
Helena left the room and didn't take long to find another man.
This time it was a businessman, whom she pleased for several hours.
When she finally finished and exhaustion overtook her, she decided to head home.
She looked at the clock: it was two in the morning.
"Puta madre, tenho que ir embora ou a coisa vai ficar quente."
—(Damn it, I have to go or things are going to get messy).
The man was drugged and very tired, probably from the alcohol, and while separating a stack of bills, he mixed dollars and reais by mistake.
Helena almost fell backward.
"Damn it… it's dollars!" — she thought.
This amounted to about twenty-five thousand cruzeiros and one hundred fifty dollars.
With this, Marcos could finally enroll in school… I have to be careful.
With this, I can buy myself a dress, save the rest, get a table for my grandmother… and eat for a month without worrying.
Helena thought quickly: if she protested, she might get less.
So she simply kissed him, thanked him, and said goodbye:
"Chau, meu amor, és o homem mais lindo de Copacabana."
She kept part of the cruzeiros together with the dollars in a hair ribbon.
Her hair was so fluffy that it helped her go unnoticed.
But at the same time, she was terrified.
She told herself:
"Puta madre... if Zeca checks my bun, I'm sleeping on the ground with the cat."
Cintia had also finished with her client.
She had been waiting for Helena for an hour, and both, exhausted and slightly high, reunited.
"I'm tired already, friend, I want to go home," Cintia said.
"What, one more client?" Helena replied sarcastically.
"Hey, coñaputa, my pussy is burning right now.
Want more? Let's go home," Cintia answered.
Both laughed as they walked, stumbling.
The marijuana exporter's party continued, though slower; many were already sprawled on the floor, drunk.
Helena and Cintia just went to have a little more to drink.
The man who had brought them, Zeca, was about to go home.
As a flirtation—and because Helena also provided him services—he said in his hoarse voice:
"Cintia, Helena, my loves… did you bring money for tomorrow?"
However, Zeca pointed his revolver at Cintia's backside, making her jump.
Helena looked at him with annoyance and said:
"Oi, seu merda, don't bother her. We're tired, we went out to work late. I just want to go home, tá bom?"
She pulled just 8,000 cruzeiros from her bag to calm him, but Zeca still went through her purse.
Suddenly, he hit Cintia with the butt of the gun.
Before things escalated, the birthday boy stepped in:
"Zeca, that's enough, cara. Just take them home, okay? That's enough for today."
"Helena, Cintia, minhas lindas… go home, okay?" he said, trying to smile at them.
Leandro, the birthday boy, walked them to the door.
It was almost four in the morning, and both of them could barely stand.
Before they left, he warned them:
"Be careful, viu? Things are really hot around here. And forgive Zeca… he's very drunk."
Helena grabbed him by the neck, kissed his cheek and murmured:
"You're a cavaleiro, my love. Thanks for defending us."
Leandro blushed and replied:
"I'll take Cintia to her house. See you, Helena."
But Helena thought to herself:
"Filho da puta… if you're such a gentleman, why didn't you get Cintia's money back?"
Helena walked up the favela until she reached her house, her heels dragging.
Behind the door, her grandmother, María, and her mother were waiting, both worried and upset.
Helena could barely stand.
"Mãe, look, I got home early… what time is it?" Helena mumbled.
"Hahaha, it's nine o'clock!" María shouted. "Come in, coñaputa!"
Once inside, her mother and María bathed her by force, both worried about how far she had walked to get home.
Clean and washed, they sat her at the table. Her grandmother, her mother, and María were seated, barely touching their dinner.
Luzia spoke:
"I shouldn't have been waiting for you at this hour.
Now, because of you, your grandmother won't be able to go to the market.
Either I'm too old for this, or you're crazy.
And I'd rather believe you're crazy.
How can you come home at this hour and go off with that Zeca? That guy is a lunatic."
The grandmother said nothing.
She just stared at the table, anxious.
She was seventy-two years old.
She too had her rebellious days, but this… this was wearing her down.
While chewing on a piece of hard bread, she thought:
"I'm going to die very soon."
"Either because one of these bastards' bullets finds me, or because death simply calls me one day in my bed."
"I can't believe my daughter still hasn't learned to make a living from a job."
"Yes, she stands on the corners."
"But she does it only now and then."
"I can understand it to a point: at least now she works as a waitress and a cook."
The old woman turned her head and looked at Luzia:
"At least she has managed to get out of this a little."
"But I worry about Helena."
"I also worry about Marcos."
"He's only seven years old and doesn't go to school."
"We've improved, but at the same time this situation still suffocates me."
"Maybe we shouldn't be here."
"Maybe we should go to São Paulo."
"Maybe things are better there."
While all this crossed her mind, Luzia broke the silence:
"Daughter, I don't want to tell you what you know I'm going to say.
I'll just tell you that if you come back to this house at this hour again, I promise I won't open the door for you."
Helena, without looking up, dropped a stack of bills in cruzeiros and dollars on the table:
"Mom, here's money for Marcos, food, and clothes for a month," she said sarcastically.
"Sorry for being late.
Sorry for being a whore, but… I didn't see the time, alright? I didn't see it."
"The good thing is that the boy was affectionate and, look, he gave me more than what it really was.
I'm surprised he gave me so much.
Seems like he got confused between my pay and his own stack of bills.
I didn't say anything, I just took it and left.
I preferred that a thousand times over saying 'no, sweetheart.'
I left like a lady."
However, that stack of bills didn't calm the family.
It was then that Grandma finally deigned to speak:
"Helena, listen to me.
Your aunt and I were thinking that maybe we can't deny the fact that you're working far away.
All the women in this family have had problems."
"It's normal.
If there had been other options, we would have taken them years ago.
But what we're doing isn't right either.
The way we're living isn't right."
The old woman took a deep breath and continued:
"I've been saving a little.
María and I have decided that all of us should move to the city of São Paulo.
I have a friend there.
We can afford rent.
But it's going to be complicated.
It's just an idea."
"Nothing is planned concretely yet.
We still need to save a lot to be able to take the little girl, the boy, and Luzia."
Because if it were up to us, María and I would have left already.
But we have to consider you girls.
"We can't leave you here.
So I just hope you understand."
After arguing, everyone went to sleep,
except Luzia and Grandma.
The old woman spoke seriously to Luzia:
"Girl, my daughter, I've supported you since you got here.
You were just a child when you arrived with Helena. I didn't want you to know this world.
I wanted you to get to work. I wanted you to focus on your studies."
"Because you have what it takes for that.
But look at us now. It's barely enough.
What we ate was just eggs and vegetables. There's nothing else."
Grandma lowered her gaze to the empty plate.
"Look at your daughter. She's very thin.
We'll go to São Paulo.
For that… I don't like saying it, but we're also depending on Helena.
She also brings money to the house. We need everyone to make an effort."
"But if that means my granddaughter will have to expose herself to all this…
Then I don't want her to work.
I'd rather wait a year to leave than have my daughter show up dead on the pavement one day.
Like what happened with Juan."
Her voice trembled:
"Luzia. Luzia. Please.
Be careful with your daughter.
Because I'm too old to see another grandchild die.
And my heart is too fragile to cry for her again."
After that, the mother went to Helena's room and said:
"Oh, my heart… what am I going to do with you?"
She stayed there for a long time, watching her.
She wanted to say so many things, but it hurt her to see her so young and independent.
That independence was already part of her character, and while it made her proud, it also weighed on her that her daughter wasn't at home.
If she disappeared, Helena would be fine.
And deep down, that was what hurt the most.
The next morning, everyone got up.
Helena woke up at three in the afternoon.
She had lunch of yuca with plantain and eggs, rested a little longer, put on her makeup, and Cintia was already waiting for her at the door again.
"Heli, hurry up!
My ass hurts after Zeca hit me with the butt of his gun."
As they were about to leave, her mother took Helena by the hand.
"Daughter…"
There was a silence.
This time, Helena understood that things were really bad.
She kissed her on the cheek and said:
"Don't worry, I'll come back early this time, alright?
I'm tired from yesterday.
And after hearing Grandma talk to you last night… you're right.
I'll be more careful."
But in her mind, she thought something else:
"Alright, I'll come back early… but after my shift, I'm not wasting the night not making money."
Then she looked toward the kitchen and saw a photo of Juan, her brother, who had died three years ago.
She stayed silent for a few seconds and murmured:
"Tá bom… I'll come back home early.
I mean, it's not like the gringos are going anywhere.
Today I'll work, but only for me.
I've already brought money home… I'll be here by ten, I promise."
Helena was as always, normal.
She was at the hotel and had managed to get another client.
However, something caught her attention:
A man in worn-out rags, who could pass for a homeless person by appearance, but on closer inspection, had no Rio de Janeiro features.
He was a foreigner, but not a gringo, and he just went up to the room where Helena was.
Cintia, who was also at the hotel and had finished her shift, decided to pick up Helena to go grab something to eat before returning home.
But something was wrong.
When she reached the room where Helena was, she saw the door was broken.
"Heli, do you want to go eat some corner chicken? Today I really want to go home early."
But as she entered, she let out a scream that shook the hotel.
Horrified, she saw the man Helena had been with lying on the floor, a dagger lodged in his skull.
Helena wasn't there, and the hotel window was open.
Cintia tried to calm herself:
"No, no, no… nothing happened to Helena.
Nothing could have happened to her."
But terror didn't leave her.
She called hotel security and explained the situation: someone had died in that part of the building.
Hours passed.
Cintia contacted Leandro for help.
Not only could they not find Helena, but the client was also dead.
As a favor, Zeca asked the group to look for the girl.
Most refused, but a few, reluctantly, agreed because they cared about her.
The night passed without results.
At dusk, they knocked on the door of Helena's mother, Lucía, and her grandmother.
María still hadn't arrived.
Leandro was the one who spoke first, as Cintia was crying too much to talk:
"Ma'am, I'm very sorry.
We're looking for Helena, but we can't find her.
She disappeared. She was attending a man, an American, and the police are now identifying his body.
They want to blame us, but we couldn't investigate further in the hotel.
Cintia also looked for her, but she didn't appear.
We left because the situation became dangerous."
Her mother was shattered.
Her grandmother, barely able to stand.
María wasn't even aware of what was happening.
The only thing running through their minds was:
"—Oh, my Helena… if what worries you is the money, I'll give mine; we'll eat a fried chicken and that's it."
Meanwhile, the strange shadow moved among the trees, carrying a woman on his shoulders.
With each leap from tree to tree, that strange man from the hotel ventured deeper into the jungle.
Helena was unconscious; it wasn't difficult.
She was drugged, which made things easier.
The man, bearded, about forty years old, carried her effortlessly.
With each jump, he reached nearly thirteen feet, moving through the trees as if the ground didn't exist.
One thought echoed in his mind:
"I can't believe it took me three years to find this saint… in the middle of this whole jungle.
Shit, I can't believe the saint of light is a prostitute.
God… now I really don't understand why."