THE RUBBER ON THE SPOUT

Célia received on her visor the short band that replaced her name. Linked participant. Travel credit under review. She read it standing by Ilva's gate, the container fastened to her waist and the other half of the corn dough hardening in the cloth. Ilva was washing the stove's hotplate with two spoonfuls of water. The film of grease gathered in a corner, dark, and she picked it up with the tip of the cloth. In the kitchen, the man was asleep on the thin blanket. Nael had gone out before the sun reached the buriti. They took my name off, said Célia. The hotplate answered with a scrape of metal. Ilva rinsed the cloth in the basin, wrung it once and hung it on the edge. You saw. I saw. The newsroom left my image in the incident file. Célia showed the screen. Where before there had been a story, three lines appeared about improper participation and conflict of presence. The photo of the Lajes was still too green, too wide, offered among advertisements for land and transport. She did not close the visor. The light rose along her chin, marking the skin where the device had spent the night. You can withdraw the confirmation, said Ilva. I can ask. The journalist unfastened the container from her waist and set it on the table. The darkened rubber around the spout still held the water. Nael had left a thicker turn there, a small flaw that Célia now smoothed with her thumb. If I ask, they'll say the visit had no witness. If I don't, they'll say I went with you. You did. Célia raised her face. Ilva saw the answer form and stay caught behind her teeth. Célia ran her thumb over the flaw in the rubber until her nail turned dark. I came alone, she said. The visor vibrated again. She turned the screen face down on the table. Ilva took the fourth portion that had remained under the plate and divided the cold dough into two parts. She pushed one towards Célia. The journalist did not touch it. Outside, a truck released its brakes on the upper road. The sound ran through the houses, passed along the ducts fixed to the façades, came into the kitchen as if looking for somewhere to stop. Are you going up even without credit, asked Ilva. I'm going on foot. It's almost two hours. Célia squeezed the container's spout. No drop appeared. Then she untied the cloth with the dough and placed it before Ilva. Keep this for the man. He's asleep. For when he wakes up. The portion was small, but it had already been food planned for a journey. Ilva looked at the cloth, then at the open door. The heat was beginning to come in through it. I won't accept it. Yes you will. I confirmed for you. Keep my name. Célia drew the visor back close to her body. The screen reflected the faces of the two of them, broken by the fine crack in the corner. When they ask who called me, don't say I was sent by the newsroom. Ilva left her hand on the dough. The obligation stayed between them, smaller than the kitchen and harder to cross. Célia tied the container to her waist and went to the gate. Before leaving, without looking back, she said that tomorrow she wanted to hear the Lajes without any image around it.