THE BURITI SEED

Antônio came back from the road with the thermal bag lighter and his soles covered in white dust. Boarding had closed while he was still at the first bodily checkpoint. The medical plan's administrator held back the ticket on account of the open balance, offered payment priority and a new visiting window four days from then. Four days fit whole in Divina's swollen wrist. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her hand resting on an upturned plate. The skin by her thumb had returned to its own colour, but the fingers stayed apart, as if they were keeping something invisible between them. The key was still beside the salt. You missed it, she said. Antônio left the bag on the bench. I missed the boarding. High on the wall the domestic panel opened a charge smaller than the afternoon's, accompanied by interest for twenty-three minutes of delay. The company that sold clinical coverage to the valley called this assisted recomposition. Antônio read the sentence to the end. Then he pulled the projection down with his palm and it followed his hand, obedient, until it lay over the table. Divina looked at the kitchen. The third bowl was still covered. The hard corn had formed a skin at the edges. Are you going to eat that cold, she asked. He opened the lower cupboard, found the metal sieve and a shallow pot. He took the hardened corn out of the container, pressed the grains between his fingers and set aside those that still gave. The dry ones went to the sieve. The others went back to the bowl. There was a way of using food that had sat without spending more than a cup of water, as long as the fire was low and the flour went in at the right instant. Antônio had learned it from his mother, when the bar still had two tables in the yard and Nael turned up after football with his shins dirty with mud. He put the pot over the short flame. He measured the water in a deep lid, two hundred millilitres. Divina watched the volume disappear into the aluminium bottom and said nothing. Antônio let it boil until the first bubbles broke without force. Then he poured in the corn little by little, crushing the grains against the sieve with a spoon whose handle was cracked. The spoon could not stop. If it stopped, the mass stuck to the bottom and the little water turned into crust. He stirred in tight circles. The steam rose and clung to his face. His forearms stiffened first, then his wrists. The low flame took longer. A mistake cost a meal and more water to free the pot. Divina tried to close her good hand over the plate. Let me. You can't close the other one. One hand is enough to stir. He tilted the pot. The mass resisted, thick, pulling the spoon down. Antônio scraped the bottom with the flattened tip, brought the darker part up and spread it again. There were those who called it leftover porridge. He called it lunch when he still had a boy running between the tables. Luzia appeared at the back door with her hair tied by a blue elastic and a buriti seed in her mouth. She stopped in front of the pot. It looks like glue, she said. It looks like food, answered Antônio. The girl took the seed out of her mouth and examined it against the light. It had a crack down the middle. If it sticks in my mouth, I'm leaving. You came to ask for a plate. I came to see if Divina died. Divina raised the less swollen hand. Luzia laughed, without joy or pity, only because the woman was alive and showing her fingers. Then she asked for a bit of the mass before it cooled. Antônio served it on a chipped saucer, blew on it twice and handed it over. Luzia tasted it. She made a long face. It needs salt. The salt is on the table. She took the container, twisted the lid and poured three grains into her palm. She counted four. She counted again, five. Antônio saw that she was keeping one of them under her nail. You're stealing salt, he said. I'm correcting the count. She went out chewing, the hot saucer in both hands. The buriti seed stayed on the door frame. No one picked it up. Antônio lowered the flame and kept scraping the bottom. When the mass let go of a clean strip of aluminium, he divided it into two bowls. Divina's portion got the softest grains. His kept the part that had almost burned. The panel lit up again. The administrator would accept partial payment if he authorised a debit from the travel reserve. The sum would cover a little over a third of the used injector. The rest would grow until the next possible visit to his son. Divina brought the spoon to her mouth with difficulty. She swallowed slowly. Pay, she said. And the trip. You already didn't go. He looked at the thermal bag. The fruits were still inside, crushed on one side. The lost authorisation would not come back that night. His son's registered location must be dark or in another district of the capital, but Antônio did not open the screen. The four-day promise grew dearer when it was looked at. The administrator waited over the table. The utility company that held the health contract received the fee. The credit bank charged for the delay. The clinic that had refused Divina stayed outside the charge, clean as a wall with no hand against it. Antônio brought his face close to the panel. The light read his eyelids, requested his fingerprint and held his finger three seconds longer than usual. The travel reserve shrank. The next ticket lost its time priority. The open balance fell, but did not close. Divina set down the spoon. Now the sampling. The tap was still closed by the night profile. The empty ampoule stayed on the threshold, inside the deep bowl. Antônio rinsed the spoon in the little water from the pot, scrubbed the bottom until the crust came off and put the utensil away on the stove. Then he took the kitchen key from beside Divina's hand, opened the back door and went out to call someone who could accompany the two of them.