CRACKED MORTAR

Nael set the wooden mortar upright on the kitchen floor and poured a bowl of dried maize into it. The piece came from his mother's house, had a dark crack from top to bottom and still ground when he hit the point between force and patience. Tiago sat near the door, with the tool bag between his feet, waiting for the hour when the street would ask for his face back. Ilva remained standing by the sink. The strip tied to her leg tugged under the uniform. On the table, the basin hid the cold mirror, and the two glasses kept their old states, one empty, the other half full. Nael pounded the grains until the kitchen filled with a harsh smell, almost sweet. He stopped after twenty blows, passed his hand over the powder, went back to work. Tiago offered to help. You'll break the tip, said Nael. Tiago held the pestle. On the third blow, the wood slipped and the maize jumped across the floor. He bent down quickly. Ilva saw his fingers gathering each grain from the red dust brought back from the repair. Nael pressed the grains in his palm before dropping them into the mortar. Outside, Benedita crossed the street with a scarf tied in her hair and a dry branch under her arm. She stopped in front of Valdo's gate, looked at the top of the ridge for a few seconds, then went on without calling anyone. The sensor on the façade followed her passing and switched off. Nael took the pestle back from Tiago's hands. He ground more slowly now. Ilva opened the thermal compartment and took out two pequis, the last ones Nael had set aside the day before. She cut the pulp with a short blade. The stone bit the metal. Tiago laughed once, low, when he nearly lost the tip of his finger. This fruit has defences, he said. Nael mixed the broken maize into the pulp and took the pan to the burner. The flame rose blue, small, fed by the household quota that still remained. It needed no water. The mixture toasted into yellow blocks, and the smell ran out to the porch. Tiago's return notice vibrated on the windowpane. Seventeen minutes were left before the shared transport passed the corner. He looked at the projection without touching it. Then he pulled the bag closer. You'll lose another route, said Ilva. He took one of the maize and pequi blocks before it cooled. He blew the smoke off his fingers. His mouth closed as he chewed, as if that food demanded an answer he did not have. Nael divided the rest into three unequal portions. The largest was placed in front of Ilva. Tiago received the smallest. The third he left in the centre, on the table. It's for whoever comes late, he said. Tiago pushed his portion towards Nael. You ground it. Nael did not touch the food. The transport passed the corner with its black windows, slowly enough to offer waiting, fast enough to carry it away. Tiago stayed seated. The projection vanished from the glass. Ilva put her hand to the strip under her leg, felt the container still there, small and warm against the skin. She did not move it. Tiago saw the movement, lowered his eyes to the table and memorised the three values she had given him at the repair, murmuring them without voice. In the yard, a thin buriti let fall a whole frond. It came down spinning until it landed on the cracked earth.