Walter Margulis

I met Denis when he was 14 years old, at the street corner nearest home, by the traffic lights. He was a skinny black boy, very poor. He had a bright smile capable of lighting the darkest of souls. He was always happy. “Are you taking the newspaper today, mister?”, he said everyday? How could I resist – I stopped buying my newspaper at the stand, and started buying it from Denis.

 His presence was not to be taken for granted. He was there most weekdays, but he could miss his job a couple of days in a row. I saw him a couple of times quite covered in bruises, which I assumed he got while playing with his friends.

We always talked about football. He also supported my favorite team, our religion in Brazil. He was a great fan of Flamengo. One day I saw Denis at the street corner selling his newspapers, wearing the T-shirt of another team, Botafogo or Vasco. I was very surprised. I joked with him, How come Denis, you are wearing this T-shirt! Seriously, a bit disconcerted he smiled and said he did not have another one…

I did not see Denis for a few days in a row, and considered asking him next time he turned up if he was not afraid of being desnissed by the newspaper company from his job to sell the papers at his corner. Mornings were not the same without the newspaper from Denis.

A couple of days later, a new boy turned up to sell newspapers at Denis’ corner. I went to him and asked about Denis. Where is he? The boy said without blinking: Denis is dead. That is impossible, I said to reverse the irreversible! What do you mean, dead? How could he die? Surfing, said the boy. He fell.

I then understood where those bruises came from. He had as pastime to surf on the top of the train, and he sometimes got hurt when falling down. And one day, the fall was a bit more serious, and my Denis is no more. I will never forget him, but his bright laugher will never lighten my days again.