Leave Him the Lane

"Pass him," Lu said. "Pai, look at that straight. I can pass a cement mixer on a straight."

"Not on the serra."

"It's 300 metres of straight."

"It's 300 metres, then bend 6. Keep right."

"It's twenty to three. Your eye clinic is at five. If we sit behind him at 20 all the way up, they'll do your new lenses in the dark."

"I see fine," Rui said.

"You can't read the dash."

"I don't need the dash. I need the left lane empty." He tapped the glass. "What's that, by the bend? It's green. Tell me."

"Branches," Lu said. "A row of them, right across the left lane. Fresh cut, Pai, the white wood's showing. And the leaves all point downhill."

"Someone's broken down, coming down. You lay branches out behind your truck so the next man slows. 50 metres back. I taught your brother that."

"Nothing comes down this side. Since the tunnels, it's all up."

"I know when the tunnels opened."

"Then who lays branches in a lane that only goes up?"

He didn't answer. As they rolled past, he said to his window, "Good boy."

"Who's a good boy?"

"Whoever laid them."

"Go on, then," Lu said. "Say the famous rule. You've told it in every diner from Curitiba to São Paulo. Tell your daughter."

"Keep right at the bends. Never pass on the left on the serra. Leave him the lane."

"Leave who the lane?"

"Whoever's coming down."

"Nobody's coming down! They finished it on 19 December 2017. We watched it on the news. New tunnels and viaducts, all for the people going south. This old road only goes north now. Two lanes, both up."

"Two lanes up, for you. Before the tunnels, the left one went down. 19 km of it, Juquitiba to Miracatu, and trucks came down at you round every bend. They called it the Highway of Death."

"Because of the rain."

"The rain, and the hill, and the freight. Six trucks in 10 up here are trucks like us." He folded his arms. "And some of them still come down. In their own year, in their own lane."

"So why don't they hit the road crews?"

"On a straight he can't touch you. But be in his lane at a bend, and he comes. You hear him first. Two blasts of the horn, from above. You've got a few seconds to get right."

"He," Lu said. "Your ghost is a he now."

"In nine years he's never hit anybody."

"A ghost with a clean record."

"He's careful now."

"Now?"

"Watch the mixer," Rui said. "He's slowing."

The cab smelled of hot diesel and the coffee Rui had spilled at Miracatu. On the door, under the dust, the old paint still said RUI AND SON.

"When we get to São Paulo, I'm selling her," Lu said.

"No."

"There's an office job in Curitiba. Air conditioning, Pai. Weekends. I'm 36, and I sleep in a bunk."

"Your brother loved this truck."

"This isn't his truck. His went into the rock at bend 8."

"I know where it went."

"He picked the rock so he wouldn't hit that little car. You stood up at the funeral and said so. Everybody cried."

"I said so," Rui agreed, flat.

A horn blared behind them, short and rude.

"What's that?" Rui said. "Who's honking?"

"A red hatchback, on my bumper since bend 4. Girl driving, in sunglasses. Her boyfriend's filming us on his phone. Now she's pulling out. Pai, she's going round us, on the straight after bend 6."

Rui shut his eyes. The girl yelled up through her window as she went by.

"Move it, grandad!"

"I'm not even driving," Rui said, and Lu laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes.

"Where is she now?"

"Stuck behind the mixer, like us. Nine years of your ghost, Pai, and a girl in sandals does it with one hand."

"She was quick."

"She was fine. And the clouds are coming in, and you've got a clinic." Lu checked her mirror. "Straight's empty. Not a branch on it. I'm going round both of them."

"Lu."

"I've got it, Pai."

Rui let out a long breath. "Fine. Go, then. Go."

She pulled out. The engine dropped to a growl.

"I'm level with the red car," she said. "The boyfriend's grinning up at me. Oh, she's pulled out too, right on my tail. And here's bend 8, and I'm nearly past..."

Two blasts of a horn came down the hill.

"RIGHT!" Rui roared, and grabbed the wheel.

"There's a truck," Lu shouted. "Blue cab, coming down in our lane, lights on in full sun, smoke off every wheel!"

She stood on the brake and hauled the cab back in behind the mixer, with nothing to spare. The red car was left alone on the white line.

The blue truck hit it at Lu's window.

"Lu! What happened? Talk to me!"

"It folded her bonnet up like paper. Her face hit the glass. Pai, it's pushing her down the hill along our trailer, it's all sparks, it's... It's slammed her into the rock."

"And the truck?"

"Gone," she said. "There's nothing. A hubcap spinning on the road, and a smell like burnt brake pads."

"Stay in the cab," Lu said, and ran.

"Tell me what's there!" Rui shouted after her. "And be quick! He goes back to the top, and then he comes again!"

"The girl's dead," Lu called back. "Her wheel went through her chest. There's white rib out of her vest on both sides of it, and her jaw's gone below the teeth. Her head's on her shoulder, Pai. It's on the wrong way."

"And the boy?"

"Alive. Hold still. What's your name?"

"Tiago," the man said. "Carla. Is Carla okay? She's not answering me."

"Don't look at her. Look at me. I'm Lu."

"The dash came down on my legs. I can't feel my right foot."

"Pai," Lu called, and her voice went strange. "There's a shape pressed into her bonnet. A grille, and a bumper under it. On the bumper there's two letters, sticking up out of the metal and backwards, the way a stamp prints. U, L."

Rui came down the road, slow.

"That's my name," Lu said. "I painted LU on his bumper in yellow, the day he got his truck. Pai. It's Beto."

"Yes."

"You knew. All this time, you knew my brother was on this road."

"Nine years. He started coming down the week the tunnels opened. Before that, the road went both ways, and nobody saw one more truck coming down."

"And the rule? You made it up?"

"I told it in every diner. Drivers like a rule. They pass it on."

"To keep them safe from him."

"To keep him safe from them," Rui said. "He's my son, Lu. He was a good boy. I didn't want him to have to do it again."

"Again?"

"He didn't pick the rock. His brakes went at the top. Brake fade, when the brakes get so hot they stop gripping. At bend 8 he had the rock on one side, and a little white car coming up on the other. A woman and a boy of six."

"No."

"He was 27. He wanted to live. He took the car."

"You said the rock."

"The rock was after. The car first, then the rock. I said rock, and the paper said rock, and nobody asked me twice."

"So the rule was never for us."

"Nine years, not one car. Not one, Lu." His voice broke. "Till today."

Two blasts of a horn came down the hill.

"Get right," Rui said. "Lu, that car's across his lane. Get out of it. Leave him."

"Don't leave me," Tiago begged. "Please. I've got a kid."

"I'm not leaving you." Lu got her arms under his and pulled. He screamed.

"My foot's stuck! It's under the pedal!"

"Pull your knee up! Pull!"

The horn came again, nearer, and the engine with it.

"Pai, I've got my boots on the door frame," Lu panted. "I'm going to pull with everything. Tiago, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Something in his leg went with a crack like a green stick. The skin of his shin peeled down off the bone like a wet sock. His leg came out of the footwell, and his foot did not.

"It's off," Lu sobbed. "Pai, his foot's still in there. He's bleeding all over me. It's hot, it's all down my jeans. I'm dragging him. I'm over the white line."

Rui was walking up the left lane.

"Pai! PAI! Where are you going?"

He did not look back. At the lip of bend 8 he stood in the middle of the lane, small and old, and put up one flat hand.

The blue truck came round the bend.

"Lu," he called. "I can't see it. Is it him? Tell me what you see."

"It's him. It's Beto. He's 27, in his football shirt. He's stamping on the brake and nothing's happening. He's shouting. Pai, he's looking at you."

"The rock, son," Rui said. "Take the rock."

Beto dragged the wheel round.

"He's turned," Lu screamed. "He's going into the rock, he's... Oh God. The windscreen's burst. He's gone through it head first. His face hit the stone, Pai, it opened like a dropped melon. His arms are still out for the wheel, and the trailer's coming in behind him, and it's folding him flat."

Then there was only the rock, and her father with his hand up.

Rain began to hiss on the hot road.

"He took it," Rui whispered. "Lu, did he take the rock?"

"He took it."

Lu pulled her belt tight round Tiago's thigh.

"My foot," Tiago said. "Where's my foot?"

It was still in the footwell of the red car, in its white trainer, laces double knotted, standing on the brake.