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translate into her mother’s ear.
    “Give me my son back” was the reply.
    I skidded on my bike into my uncle’s garage. I didn’t want to come off as some stupid kid, I wanted to handle the news like a man.
    It was clear from the way they were carrying on that the men didn’t know yet, which meant my mother and aunts in the basement were just as ignorant. There was no TV or radio in the garage, and the women were too busy chopping up pig parts.There wasn’t much left of the pig by now, just the hind legs dangling from the wooden rafters.
Presunto
or bacon, I thought. My uncle Clemente caught me around the waist and shoved the pig’s tail in my mouth. The men cheered him on as I squirmed in his hold. Part of the tail curled around my tongue and the rest lodged against the roof of my mouth. They all laughed as I gagged and tried to spit it out. I had to hook my finger to pull it out. I hunched over, and saliva filled my mouth to coat the taste. They patted me on the back while I looked to my father.
    “You is a man now,” he whispered, his stubble scraping against my cheek.
    I reached for my father’s warm wine and threw it hard against the back of my throat. This led to another wave of “Força!” and further bouts of approval with “Um homem. A man now.”
    I licked my hand clean.
    They truly had no idea Emanuel had been murdered, and I wouldn’t tell them.
    I jumped on my bike and sped away, riding east along Queen Street, past the vacant storefronts, past all the drunks, past the broad thoroughfare known as Spadina Avenue, past City Hall that looked like a building out of
The Jetsons
. I kept going, racing with the fluffy clouds that ran along above the trees. The breeze dried my tears, rushed up my nose and filled my lungs.
    I turned up Yonge Street and stopped in the shadow of the Eaton Centre, across the street from Charlie’s Angels. Above the door some products were being advertised in plastic letters:
Movies, Sex Toys, Magazines, Books
. The store’s window promised SEXY GIRLS. Some men were boarding up the door and windows with plywood, but they hadn’t covered everything:the painted figure of a half-naked woman and the words
Your happiness may depend on it
were still exposed. It was a tall building, five storeys high, and it looked like all the others that lined Yonge Street. The building had been blocked off with yellow tape. I stood there straddling my bike, leaning over my handlebars. My head felt fuzzy, but I hoped I’d see Emanuel’s body. If I got close to him, I could pray in Portuguese, the way my grandmother taught me.
Prayers are heard faster if you pray in Portuguese
, she’d say. The news teams, reporters, and everyone else who gathered were all waiting for something to happen.
    It was getting dark. I was pedalling up Palmerston Avenue so slowly I was barely moving, just fighting to keep my balance.
Where was everyone?
I passed one empty porch after another. I had never seen our street so dark. Curtains were drawn. Porch lights were switched off.
    I turned across Robinson Street to go through the laneway. My uncle’s garage door was closed. I made my way up toward the patch of light that beamed into the laneway from Mr. Serjeant’s garage. I stopped. The man was painting the inside of the garage, whitewashing everything. His back was to me. I could see his blond curly hair poking out under his cycling cap. His tank top was drenched, glued to his skin.
    “Terrible, isn’t it?” He continued to paint, to my relief. He stood on a stool. I saw his ankles and thought his feet must be tanned too. It was the last thing I thought of before I realized he could see my reflection in a window.
    “I’m James,” he said. He twisted around to face me.
    “I know,” I managed, before I felt my tongue getting fat. My chest ached. James was in the middle of saying somethingwhen I turned away from him and pressed down hard on the pedals. I didn’t let up until I came out onto Palmerston