by Luiz Ruffato
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i wake up. I’ve probably slept an hour, if that. I get out of bed and try the light switch, still no power. I unlock the door. I make my way to the bathroom, pee, flush, wash my hands. I glance into the living room, Rosana’s gone. I head back, lock the door, take off my sneakers, my socks, nudge them under the bed. I slip off my shirt and pants, hang them on the coatrack. I turn to the window. A breath of humid earth strikes my face. The rose-apple tree resembles a wet dog. I strip the bedspread and get under the sheets. I have to buy a hat tomorrow i’ll wake up early have a shower maybe i’ll be able to meet marcim ambush him per that lady’s
i need to close the window the window’s still open the window
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hat where have i left my hat marilda strips lies on top of me marcim fertilizer i need to close the
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the window mom tell him to stop nicolau is going to be when he grows up he answered my god what a clever boy the sun is poison look right there in the corner go take care of your
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i need to close the window the window’s still ope
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i wake up in a sweat. Get out of bed. I lean into the dead of night. The sky is a tank of blue water and white saplings.
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I wonder if Dona Eva is still alive. She was already old back when she used to come to the house once a week to launder and iron clothes. She had a grandson, Valtim, and we shared a birthday. We were one year apart, and I was younger. One day Mom was on her way—she was taking me to a portraitist in the center—when Dona Eva stopped by with him. She said with pride, It’s Valtim’s birthday today. A little embarrassed, Mom responded, How adorable! Let’s take a portrait of the two boys together. In the only photograph I have of myself as a child, I am standing side by side with Valtim, our full bodies in view, visibly uncomfortable. Dona Eva brought him with her a couple more times, but he rebelled and gradually freed himself from what he regarded as a punishment, and disappeared. His grandmother used to always tell my mom, An angel, Dona Stella, a perfect angel! Just like Zéia. Zéia was what she called me…Their faces—they look alike, don’t you think? Valtim moved to São Paulo—I heard he worked in the metro—but I never saw him. Names that flicker with faces, like neon signs over ordinary roadside motels. I leaf through a catalog of stories. My head spins, I feel nauseated. I open the door, cross the hall into the bathroom, switch on the light, turn the lock. I sit on the floor, stick my head in the toilet bowl. Shove my fingers down my throat. A stream of sour vomit gushes out, and I buckle. I rise. Flush. Rinse my mouth. Wash my face. Moisten the back of my neck. My hands tremble. My legs tremble. I pat myself dry. Switch off the light. Cross the hall into my room. Lock the door. I collapse on the bed. Somewhere a cat mews anxiously at the window i forgot the window
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the gate creaks
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i wake with a start. The sun, high in the sky, sears my left leg, which is uncovered. I wonder what time it is. My heart races, I try to get out of bed. My head is reeling. I put on my glasses. Make my slow way to the coatrack, pull on my shirt and pants. I sit on the bed, slip on my socks and shoes. I’ve got to buy myself a hat, no excuses. I grab my toothbrush from my backpack. Unlock the door. The only sound is the humming of the fridge. I head into the bathroom, lock the door. I pee. Wash my face and hands. Brush my teeth. Towel myself off. The mirror shows a creased face with forehead wrinkles and crow’s-feet, gray hairs bristling chaotically from my dried skin. I cross the hall back into my room. Put away my toothbrush. Only then do I spot Rosana’s teacherly scrawl on a piece of paper on the floor. “Oséias, I’m afraid this situation can’t go on. Ricardo has been patient, too patient. I don’t want to get into a fight with him at this point in my life. He’d appreciate it, we’d appreciate it, if you could find some other place to stay. Rosana.” I stuff the note in my pant pocket. All right, Ricardo. You bastard! You little shit! All right! You may be on top today, but tomorrow…Death will come for everyone. We’re all pilgrims—rich men, poor men, black men, white men—headed for the same destination, a hole where we’ll be eaten by maggots. Sure, I’ll go first, but I’ll be waiting for you. Contempt, vanity, arrogance, and pretense will get you nowhere there…It’s tears, regret, remorse, and grief that matter. I close the window. Sling on my backpack. On the kitchen table, another piece of paper. “Oséias, eat something before you go. There’s turkey ham, bread, and cheese in the fridge. And oranges. The juicer is in the old cupboard. Keep in touch. Rosana.” I leave. I slam the side door, don’t look back. Where will I go? I need to buy a hat; the sun is a malagueta pepper. I zigzag down the cracked sidewalk. I need coffee, my stomach’s growling. What time is it? At the bus stop, a teenager talks on her cell phone, an old man with a hunchback holds a grocery bag, and two boys chat animatedly. Back to square one, the snake eating its own tail…Cataguases…These trees have guarded me, and the paving stones have marked my steps…The walls have ears but no mouths. Otherwise, they would tell the story of a skinny boy who’d soared through the city on his green Caloi bicycle, taking in the landscape. Master of my own time, I had expanded my horizons further and further, not realizing that in this new, massive space I would lose my way, lose my wits, only to end up right back where I had started—a place so changed that it seemed to hold no trace of the person I’d once been. Just as in old photographs we often don’t recognize the faces around us. I cut through the city like a specter. This is where Dr. Armando Prata, mayor, once lived. Dr. Paschal Cannabrava—Lawyer, Philosopher, Author, it says on the lead placard, lived here. This was the home of Dona Diana, wife of Dr. Manuel Prata, who’d send my mother expensive clothes to mend. Here lived Patrícia and Denise, twins—one blonde, the other brunette—daughters of Dr. Pelágio dos Reis Antunes and classmates of mine at Colégio Cataguases; I was in love with them, though they never knew it. Here was the office of Dr. Gilson Machado, who gave me a prescription for Tryptanol when Lígia…she…when it…that…when that happened. Dead memories. The houses have become fortresses. The neighbors used to post their chairs on the sidewalk to enjoy a breath of cool air and watch the gloaming. Women stride by, clasping purses to the fronts of their bodies. The tumult of cars and motorcycles clogging the streets deadens voices scattered across time. A digital clock reads 10:40. 28°C. Sweat drenches my shirt, feet, and head. I can’t eat, or else I’ll have to skip lunch. I walk into a bakery, order a bottle of water and an espresso. The ceiling fan whirs impotently. I sit on the stool, feet dangling. The server hands me a bottle of water. I open it, then down half of it at once. He immediately brings me a brown demitasse, liquid sloshing onto the saucer, also brown. I pour in the sugar and stir it with a wood stick. It’s disgusting. Watery, too hot; tiny granules stick to my tongue. Damn it. I don’t finish it. I ask the server how much I owe him, fish out a few coins forgotten in my pant pocket, count them, and leave him the exact change. I slide off the stool, tuck the half-empty water bottle into my backpack, and leave. I walk down cluttered sidewalks, sidestepping the surge of people and the raucous cries of street vendors. I need to find a vendor that sells hats. Glasses, watches, cell-phone cases. Dishcloths. Cigarettes. Cleaning products and burlap sacks. Toys. Junk jewelry. Mom, bent over her sewing machine, battery-operated radio tuned in to Rádio Cataguases, runs the family. A foreman in the textile room of Industrial Cataguases, Dad gives her an unopened manila envelope with his month’s wages on the tenth day of every month. A recruit at basic training, João Lúcio flaunts his spotless olive-green uniform—gleaming boots, kepi, and his nom de guerre, Moretto, embroidered on his puffed-out chest—stirring in me both admiration and envy. A student at Colégio das Irmãs, Rosana tutors in the evenings, after which she disappears into Ricardo’s arms. Isinha, Lígia, and I attend morning
sessions at Colégio Cataguases. Isinha is timid and passes the time quietly, dressing her dolls in scraps of fabric on the damp basement floor in the company of a cat, Duvalina, who gives birth to a litter of kittens twice a year without fail. Mom loves to harp on and on about how docile her youngest daughter is, She’s been like this since she was a baby. Never made a peep when I put her down in the cradle so I could work! At night, the two of them watch telenovelas with rapt attention. Lígia is a whirlwind. One moment, she’s spending every day cooped up in her room, lying on her belly in the top bunk and immersed in the pages of a hefty tome, so abstracted she’s even got Dad worried; Dad, who never notices these things. Next, she’s off with her friends from the Nossa Senhora de Fátima youth group, attending rehearsals with the church choir and evangelistic meetings, cycling to waterfalls, having picnics in open fields, visiting nursing homes, distributing food, clothes, and blankets at the Sociedade São Vicente de Paulo, so involved she even has Mom puzzled; Mom, who considers community service the apex of religious life. Because she’s smart, she gets a scholarship from Rotary to learn English at the Yázigi language school; because she’s sensitive, she learns guitar from Father Honório; because she’s persistent, she takes free secretarial classes at the school of Dona Emerenciana Duarte, Mom’s client. There are misunderstandings. Among the more minor are disputes over who gets to play their favorite songs on the Philips tube radio and record player—an enormous morado-wood cabinet. On Sunday mornings, Dad liked to listen to crooners like Nelson Gonçalves, Orlando Silva, Frank Sinatra, and Johnny Mathis, much to the dismay of João Lúcio and Lígia, who poked fun at what they called his stodgy drivel. João Lúcio had bought both volumes of the compilation Músicas Inesquecíveis, which, when he wasn’t away at boot camp, would sound breathlessly through the windows of the house. Lígia used to bring home borrowed MPB records—Chico Buarque, Caetano Veloso, Milton Nascimento—and Rosana favored rock music, though she never took part in our tiffs; not even these sorts of family matters seemed to concern her. Ricardo…What a blockhead…I can’t believe it! Loping down the road, tail wagging, eyes bright with joy—Galego! I pat him on the head. “Where were you hiding, buddy?! Some friend you are! Vanishing like that into thin air…” Let’s take a walk, sweet boy, walking helps to organize your thoughts. I need to buy a hat, and find a hotel or a cheap boardinghouse. A muggy gust licks my face. The weather is turning. Moments ago blue and sparsely clouded, the sky is now a swath of gray hospital sheets. Vendors of umbrellas and clear-plastic rain ponchos begin to pop up. It’s going to rain, Mom would announce the moment we woke up, My knee is killing me. The dampness of the basement, where she’d spent most of her life, had gotten into her bones. Though in terrible pain, she kept on climbing up and down the stairs to see the clients, who grew scarcer by the year. Aha! A bunch of hats hooked to a shop door. I stop and enter a small room chockablock with merchandise. Galego waits, darting through the legs of passersby. The shop attendant smiles and asks if she can help. She follows me to the sidewalk, “I’d like one of these. How much are they?” She grabs a metal pole, unhooks the net, and unfurls it over a counter covered in children’s shirts. “Go ahead and choose one.” I ask her for the price again and she quotes it. I pull out a black hat with a Nike logo, clearly a counterfeit. She gathers up the hats, lofts the pole, and hooks the net back to the shop door. She scribbles numbers on a piece of paper and points at the cash register, a small nook at the back of the shop behind a lattice metal plate. A pair of dried, spotted hands take my money and give me change. “Is this for security?” Irritated, the old man says, “There were two robberies last year, and one attempted robbery. Can you believe it? Two robberies and one attempted robbery!” I fit the hat on my head and step back onto the sidewalk. Galego gets up and nudges my hand with his snout. I pat him on the head. “Let’s get going,” I say. Ricardo…One time, he’d ambushed me. I’d been shopping around for a blender to give my mother for Christmas. The streets glinted with string lights, and the heat kept nightfall at bay. I heard my name being called and glimpsed his fat hand waving from the deck of Hotel Bevile. I pretended not to see him, but he got up and intercepted me, huffing, a few steps later. Hey, Oséias! Trying to get away from me, are you? he asked, half-friendly and half-teasing, his shirt unbuttoned at the chest, exposing a thick gold chain. He gripped my arm, stopped by the table where he’d been sitting, and said, You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve got to have a word with my brother-in-law, then dragged me to the back of the bar. The moment we sat down, he took a small hand towel from his pant pocket and ran it across his forehead, face, and jowl, wiping away the sweat leaching from his pores. A graying waiter appeared with a half-empty glass of whiskey, the ice almost entirely melted, and asked, Can I interest you in some more? Yes, thank you, he said and then to me, Do you want anything? Whiskey, beer, Coke, juice…I said no, and he swished his glass, downed the rest of the diluted whiskey, and started his song and dance, speaking in his usual halting manner. I know you don’t like me, Peninha. And that’s okay. Not even Jesus got on with everybody. All that said, I’m your niece’s father. We’re family now. So it’s only decent for you to take my side. Whatever happens to me, affects you. And whatever affects you, will no doubt become a problem for me. Do you follow? Your sister’s upset. She keeps on crying…We’re such a small family…And there’s so much conflict…The only time Dad and João Lúcio ever agreed on something was when Rosana finally broke the news of her relationship with Ricardo, the day of her debut. Mom congratulated her, What a wonderful choice, honey! Dad’s face clouded over, I don’t like it. That family’s money is dirty—they never broke a sweat to get where they are. João Lúcio slammed his fist down on the table, Dr. Normando’s no good. Everybody knows he’s in bed with the worst characters in town. Dr. Normando lives off his rental properties, Mom, ever the diplomat, insisted. It’s all Dona Magnólia’s fault, she’s gone and filled the girl’s head with nonsense, Dad argued. People say all kinds of stuff, João Lúcio, Mom pressed, trying to smooth things over. When she and Rosana were alone, she would tell her, What matters is for you to be happy, sweetie! Rosana didn’t seem to mind all the talk. After years at her godmother’s, she coveted the easy life she and her sons seemed to enjoy. Pudgy Ricardo in his avocado-green Puma convertible; scrawny Roberto in his black Opala, which he had nicknamed the Skull, and the infamous parties he threw with his cousin Netinho at a country house in Paraíso; Dona Magnólia and her carefree spending. Dr. Normando died in a car crash on his way to Juiz do Fora, his car hurtling down a hillside as he drove up Caieira, somewhere near Argirita. They say some die murdered, others from heart attacks, and still others because they lose control. Widowed, Dona Magnólia moved to an apartment she bought in Rio de Janeiro, and hardly ever stepped foot in Cataguases again. She even refused to be buried there. In her will, she asked to be cremated and for her ashes to be scattered in the ocean in front of the building where she lived in Copacabana until the very end. The brothers divvied up their father’s business. Ricardo, the more discreet of the two, was put in charge of the properties, a series of modest rental homes and a few office spaces—though he also, people said, bought and sold dollars, loaned money on interest, pawned jewelry, seized merchandise…Roberto, who was more aggressive, used jogo do bicho, or so folks said, as a front for a drug-trafficking operation. Roberto was killed…Six shots…Day has turned to night. A damp wind jerks the trees around, felling dry branches and dispersing dead leaves. People begin to rush, knocking into one another. Cars roll forward with beaming headlights. The streetlamps turn on. Lightning strikes once. And again. Thunder rocks the ground. I need to find cover. Aha, a buffet! I look around for Galego, but he’s gone. I walk in, the server hands me a piece of laminated paper with the number fifteen on it. The reddish glow of the woodstove pierces shadows that lumber through the half darkness of the restaurant. I grab a plate and file past casseroles of food. White rice. Black beans. Steak. Zucchini. Collards. Grits. A woman in a bouffant cap weighs my pl
ate. I grab a knife, fork, and napkin. I set the plate, cutlery, and napkin on a table off to the side. I slip off my backpack and set it down on a chair. I sit. Thunder makes the floor shudder. I hear clattering on the roof. A young man asks me, yelling, if I’d like anything to drink. I still have half a bottle of water left. With a gesture I tell him I want nothing. I chew slowly. Rain crashes down. Where has Galego gone off to? He’s no fool, he’s probably hiding somewhere, hiding safely away. It’s a popular restaurant. Most of the clients are old retirees. The commotion stunts their conversation. They remain mute, though sullen, sunken in the half gloom. Here and there cell phones appear as bright spots. To Rosana’s despair, the weather remained overcast on the Saturday of her wedding, though the party went according to plan—a memorable affair at a farmhouse that some monied relatives had loaned to Magnólia for the occasion. The dress had a long train and had been made in Rio de Janeiro. The chapel was blanketed in flowers and resembled a painting. There was a glut of food and drink. Mom had sewn clothes for Isinha’s children. I’d bought a black suit. Dad refused to attend. João Lúcio sent a telegram. Wellington got sauced. A boom! What was that?! My heart goes off the rails. We all rise as one and rush to the door. Oh, a tree’s fallen, causing a traffic jam. “At least nobody got hurt,” they remark. Water rushes into the restaurant and the cashier tries to force it out with a squeegee, but it’s no use. A woman dressed in white arranges bowls around the room to catch the water leaking from the ceiling. I head back to the table. Polish off my food. Take the bottle out of my backpack and drink the rest of the water. I wipe my mouth. Burp discreetly. I sling on my backpack, shove the laminated card into my back pocket and head to the bathroom. There is a thick stench of urine and cresol. I pee. Brush my teeth without toothpaste, put away my toothbrush. I take off my glasses. Wash my face and arrange the sparse hair on the sides of my head with my damp hands. The mirror shows tired eyes. I dry off my face and my head with a paper towel. I cross the dining hall, which is now a little brighter. I hand the cashier the card. He examines it. “Nothing to drink?” “No,” I say. He reels off what I owe. I take my wallet out of my back pocket. Pay. Fill a small plastic cup with coffee. I take a sip. It’s treacly and weak. I toss the cup in the trash can. Join the people clustering at the entrance. I peer outside to check the rain, which has started to fall softly. “…the one in 2012…” somebody says, in front of me. “2012? What do you mean 2012! More like the flood of 1972. The river rose ten meters during that storm!” “No, the worst one was in 2008. Just look at the photos. The water got places it’d never been before!” A white head intercedes. “You’re too young, so you won’t remember, but it was the flood of 1950, 1951, I don’t know what year it was exactly. That one really showed us. It was a flood like you’ve never seen before. Dead bodies floating downstream. Animals by the dozen…” “Yeah, but…” Some have already ventured outside and walk past with umbrellas, dodging puddles and stopping to admire the fallen tree. I reach the marquee in long strides, shirt spattered with water. I catch my breath and zigzag to another marquee through fallen branches and publicity boards. Water cascades from the gutters. A hotel! Hotel dos Viajantes…An elegant establishment when I was a kid, and always fully booked. All I have to do is skirt the old, vacant station. I fill my lungs with air washed clean by the rain. People begin to march out of the anthill, a little dazed. It’s much cooler now. I wipe my glasses with the edge of my shirt, but the lenses fog up again. Another mad dash. I parry the cars—one practically runs me over and a collective honking ensues—and reach the footpath intact, with only my feet and the hem of my pants drenched in water. I walk at a brisk pace and burst into the hotel lobby, just about knocking into a man smoking at the threshold as he watches the commotion outside. “Sorry,” I say. He grunts back. There’s no one at reception. I ring the bell, following instructions, Please ring bell & wait. I wait. The old wall clock reads one thirty in Roman numerals. Behind the counter hangs an old black-and-white photograph of Cataguases, already quite faded. Snapped from up high, maybe from the hill behind the building: the train station, the wagons used to transport merchandise, a parked Ford, a motley of men in hats and drab clothes. I wonder what year the photo was taken. High ceilings. Worm-eaten floor. The two red napa-leather armchairs with white frieze look greasy. The voice of a television broadcaster filters through the curtain of colorful plastic strips from the room next door, discoursing on the mounting frustration with government corruption. “How can I help you?” An individual more or less my age, cross-eyed and thin as a rake, emerges while drying his hands on a rag. “Good afternoon. Have you got any rooms available?” “How many nights?” he asks, opening the enormous black notebook sitting beside the vintage cash register. “Two,” I say. “A single?” he asks, running his index finger down the list of bookings. I nod my head. “I’ve got something for you. Number nine. Shared bathroom.” I ask for the price and he cautions, “Payment’s up front.” “Up front?” “House rules,” he says, unyielding. I edge away in search of a discreet angle. I take off my backpack, zip it open, reach my hand into one of the compartments, grab a tube of Cebion, uncap it, pull out a roll of cash, unfurl the money, count it, roll up what’s left, stuff it back in the tube, cap it, slide the tube back into the compartment, and zip the backpack up again. I return to the counter and hand the money to the desk clerk. He checks the amount, presses a couple of buttons on the cash register, and pulls the crank, making the drawer shoot open with a ring. He slides a stub toward me—“Fill in your name, address, and phone number”—and shuts the drawer, ring-ring. Address? Rua…Rua…I make something up…Rua…Oiapoque. Number…number…100. City: São Paulo. State: SP. Telephone. Hmm…011 followed by a random series of digits. The man skims the stub and asks to see my ID. I pull my wallet out of my back pocket and show him the document. He glances at the photograph and measures it against my face. “All right,” he concludes. He fishes a set of keys hanging from a corkboard and passes it to me. “First floor. Breakfast’s included and is served…”—he walks out from behind the counter, shifts the colorful plastic strips out of the way, and points—“…here, from six to nine thirty.” Chipped red Formica chairs stand empty on the worn floor. The TV is on and hangs in the middle of the back wall. “We also serve lunch, if you’re interested, from ten thirty to one thirty. It’s a set meal, you’d have to pay separately. Dinner is from six to eight thirty.” I thank him, we head back into the lobby and I plod up the wood staircase, which creaks beneath my wet sneakers, then turn into a dark and stuffy hallway. I scan the small blue signs on the doors for the number nine, painted white. I maneuver the key into the lock. Walk in. It reeks of mildew. I throw open the window, the commotion on the street lurches inside. A single bed and two towels—a face towel and a bath towel—folded over coarse blankets pungent with laundry powder. In the tiny wardrobe, a fleece blanket that stinks of mothballs. I take off my hat and leave it on the chair by the window. I drop my backpack. I try the mattress. Stiff. I sit down, pull off my shoes and socks. The feel of my damp feet on the dusty floor sends shivers through me. I lay out my socks and shoes on the windowsill. I take off my rain-spattered shirt and hang it off the back of the chair. I have to visit Isinha…I stuff my hand in my pant pocket…What’s this? Oh, Rosana’s note…“Oséias, I’m afraid…” I crumple it and toss it in the plastic wastebasket. In the other pocket, a single real bill, two coins, and a small yellow supermarket receipt…3421…the number of the church…I lie down. Taquara Preta, was that what he’d said? And what about his name? How ridiculous…Hello, I’d like to speak with Father…Who may I say is calling? It’s…a man he met yesterday…On Santa Rita Square…He said that I should call this number…to talk to him…Completely ridiculous…I don’t know the pastor’s name. He doesn’t know mine…I crush the piece of paper and place it on top of the nightstand, next to the bill, two coins, and my wallet. What would I ever say to him? Father, I’m dying. And the pastor would glance impatiently at his watch and say, We all are, son
. But I’m dying right now…Son, go see a doctor. What you need is a doctor, not a pastor. I’ve already been to one, Father. He gave me six months…Well, then all we can do is pray and hope your soul finds its way to a better place. But, Father, there are things I want to understand before…Like what, my boy? he would ask, glancing at his watch again. One afternoon when I had nothing to do—a light, deceptive rain was falling, the kind that keeps children cooped up indoors—and needed to find a way to entertain myself, I remembered that Dad would buy copies of Reader’s Digest every month from the Italian at the kiosk on Rui Barbosa Square, because he enjoyed some of the sections. Such as, Laughter is the Best Medicine, Jokes for Every Branch, Work Stress, My Most Unforgettable Character, and above all, Word Power, which he cited as proof that he’d received a better education than we had; though he’d only completed fourth grade, he knew far more words than we did, like derisory, mansard, credulity, perfidy…I shoved open the door to the room where Mom and Dad slept, which was always left ajar, and went looking for the magazines, usually stacked in a corner. I leafed through them one by one and was frustrated to find I’d already read them all. So I decided to explore the wardrobe, which smelled of Phebo soap from all the dark-brown bars Mom layered between the clothes, a strategy she had devised to ensure things always smelled nice. I found a hatbox, put it on top of the bed, and opened it. Portraits, just a couple. A manila envelope, birth certificates, marriage certificate, diplomas, immunization records. A white envelope with receipts for various payments. I closed the box and put it back where I’d found it. I shuffled through hanger after hanger, pressing at the pockets of pants and shirts to see if they held anything interesting. I put on Dad’s suit jacket, which fell to my knees. Rain ran drearily down the shutters. Maybe there was something on top of the wardrobe? I carefully dragged over the nightstand, its drawer kept locked, probably to hide money. I climbed onto the chair and then onto the nightstand, so that the top of the wardrobe was at eye level. There were cobwebs and two shoeboxes. I grabbed the first one, which was very light, placed it on the bed and opened it. Inside were colorful glass ball ornaments for the Christmas tree. I climbed on the chair and then on the nightstand, and put the shoebox back. The other one was farther away and difficult to reach. I stretched my arm as far as it would go and dragged the box, which was heavy, to the edge. I put the box on top of the nightstand, climbed down, picked it up again and placed it on the bed. Inside, I found a piece of green felt wrapped around something hard. My heart raced. I had the sneaking feeling I was about to embark on a thrilling adventure, like the ones in Reader’s Digest. I unfurled the felt, revealing a chrome revolver with a wood handle. I was so startled, the gun slipped out of my hands. I shook all over and broke into a cold sweat. Without thinking twice, I wrapped the gun back in the green felt, placed it in the box, closed it, got on the chair, then on the nightstand, shoved the box toward the wall, got down, dragged the nightstand back, put the chair in its place, left the room, shut the door halfway, and threw myself on the bottom bunk of the bed I shared with João Lúcio; legs weak, heart in a riot, mouth dry. Outside, the afternoon light slowly faded, driven away by the gray rain. Even though it was April, I got under the covers, and was soon shivering with fever. I tried to yell for my mother, but my voice wouldn’t come out. Paralyzed, my body seemed to float. The train whistle, the sound of the sewing machine, the music playing on the neighbor’s radio, the rain tapping on the roof, the barking of a dog feet squelching on the sidewalk voices honking cars whistling trains hair nuzzled Mom