TERMITES IN THE DOOR FRAME

The first sound was of small claws running inside the hostel's ceiling. Antônio heard it from the counter, raised his eyes to the ceiling and waited for the running to stop. Another came, faster, then a dry blow against the louvred shutter of the reactivated room. The man from the other town was still in front of Ilva's house, the bag on the ground and the luminous band asking for a link between his feet. Nael crossed the street without calling anyone. Antônio made a short sign with his hand. There's an animal up there, he said. The room had been opened less than an hour before. The platform projected on the door the occupancy fee, higher than the night before, although the bed was the same and the plaster had the same crack near the window. The charge called this territorial availability. In regions where the datacenter met refusal, said the smaller line, released areas received compensatory appreciation. Antônio erased the projection with his palm. The fee came back in the footer, smaller, like a trained shame. The four of them went up. The corridor kept the smell of shut-in mattress and the oil of the ducts fixed to the façade. On the other side of the window, the cooling towers of the mining operation released a white band that never got as far as making a cloud. It rose and came apart in the heat. The water of the Lajes went in there, passed through machines that sustained artificial intelligence, left the basin as vapour. The room received the remainder, dust and vibration. The Cantochoro from the slope was beating against the glass. It had a long feather caught in the slit of the shutter. It struck once, fell onto the bed, rose again before anyone could reach it. The small body seemed made of charcoal and rust. Nael stayed near the door, without advancing. It's looking for a way out, said Antônio. The window had a thermal film installed by the hostel when it still received shift workers. The film gave back the bird's own image, and it charged at the other body, the one that never lost its position. Ilva came in slowly. The man held the bag against his chest, as if he had forgotten he had left it in the corridor. She pulled the sheet off the bed and raised its two corners. The bird came in low, grazing the stopped fan. Antônio shut the door. Nael sat on the floor, his back against the door frame. You're making too much shade, said Antônio. Nael raised his head. You've got fat on giving advice. It comes with the bar. It comes with selling expensive ice. Antônio laughed once, without sound, and pointed at the ceiling. Where do you think ice is born. The bird struck the glass again. The caught feather came loose. It fell into the sheet, opened its wings, scratched the man's hand and stayed still for an instant. Ilva closed the fabric around it. Its heart vibrated in her palm, too quick to fit in a count. In the corridor, the man was looking at the red scratch he had received between thumb and wrist. She lowered the cloth. Hold it here, she said. He held it. The Cantochoro bit his knuckle and let out something hoarse, almost a complaint. Ilva set her nail against the slit in the shutter. The aluminium slat had given way where the termites had eaten the wooden support. Small pale grains covered the floor. Antônio crouched. The termites had opened a line to the door frame, following the moisture the room had retained since the reactivation. It was not much. It had been enough to bring a colony into the hostel. When I was a boy, said Nael, they came out after the rain. And now, asked Antônio. They look for water in the wood, said Nael. Outside, the towers kept blowing away the water the houses lacked. The Cantochoro struggled under the cloth. Ilva opened a gap and the man carried the bundle to the window. She peeled the film off the lower part of the glass, pulling slowly. The adhesive came away in opaque strips. Behind it, the world had depth again. The bird was slow to understand. It stayed on the sill, its head tilted, looking at the thin stand of buritis beyond the houses. Then it flew to the lowest crown, where two dry leaves scraped against each other. The room was left with the shutter open, termites on the floor and a window without film. Antônio called the automated cleaning from the corridor panel. The answer came with a demand to isolate the space for active infestation. The hostel would lose its habitable classification before the man came down the stairs. He looked at Ilva. Her house was a few steps away. The threshold stayed lit, asking for someone to give the closeness a name. Antônio picked up from the floor a grain of chewed wood. He crushed it between his fingers. The room's fee appeared again on his wrist, adding the cost of pest control. Nael went out to the street and stood in front of the buriti, following the dark dot of the bird until it vanished among the leaves. The man sat on the hostel's step. Ilva brought the covered bowl of corn. He ate with his left hand, slowly, while she picked out the grains that had hardened too much. They did not speak of the visit, nor of the consortium, nor of the luminous question between the house and the street. Antônio went back to the counter. Nael pointed at a small cloud on the horizon and said it would die before it arrived. Antônio bet it would fall on the road. The two of them stood watching, as if the sky still had an obligation to choose one of them. When the dark closed over the valley, the man wiped his fingers on the bowl's cloth and asked Ilva. Is there room on the porch?