Caraca! What a night! Sitting on the floor, his back against a wooden crate next to his cousin Chico, his head still spinning and his stomach churning with hunger, Ronildo tried to sort out his memories. He and Chico had wanted to enter the bate-bola da Sereia for years. Probably Uncle Ataulfo’s influence. “The bate-bola is the true carnival tradition,” he used to say. “The parades of the samba schools have become shows for tourists, as have many carnival blocks. But bate-bola is our thing. It comes from the people, it exists only for them and through them.

Raising money for the costumes had not been easy. The owner of the body shop where Ronildo had worked for two years had nothing to offer him. “It’s a big crisis for everyone,” he explained. “I know you do a good job and I’d have liked to keep you on. But if there are no more customers, I don’t need the best bodybuilder in the world.” Ronildo and Chico had found odd jobs here and there. They carried boxes to the supply centre in Irajá, sacks of cement to construction sites in the neighbourhood, made a few deliveries for shopkeepers and sold cakes on the street.

Still, what they earned was far from enough. Some of the money went to their families’ expenses, and there was little left. Ronildo tried to borrow what he needed from several people, but to no avail. Their families couldn’t afford to help; they were already struggling with grandfather’s medical bills. Neither could friends and neighbours help – or so they said. It was only when it became clear that there was no other solution that Ronildo decided to go and see Marlon Brando, without telling anyone what he was doing.