THE WET SPOON

Nael had already shared out the water when Ilva came in. Two bowls by the stove, a mug near the door, the fourth bowl upturned over the grains Antônio had left open. At the bottom of the pot, the measure reached less than two fingers. He put the ladle in the smaller portion. This one's yours, he said. She moved the ladle to the larger one. Ilva drank half of the larger bowl. She stopped. She passed the rest into the mug by the door. He may take a while, said Nael. That's exactly why. In the house, the water of whoever was travelling stayed untouched until their return or until someone said in front of the others that the waiting was over. Then came the lost journeys, the tolled roads and the seats calculated by the body. A mug could age two days without losing its owner. Nael opened the provisions compartment. There were three preserved portions and one open, already opaque at the edges. He poured part of the grains into the upturned bowl and covered it again. The price projected on the domestic cupboard had risen for the third morning running. The mineral filter used in preservation now cost the equivalent of six meals. The month before, it cost four. The faraway processor, owner of the stages that cleaned and separated the ore, had restricted delivery. The buyers who for decades had preferred to import cheaply were fighting over the same cargo. In Buritaçu, that dispute fitted into a film that would no longer be replaced. Nael pushed a sealed portion to the back. This one stays for him. And if the inspection opens it. We eat the open one first. She looked at the covered bowl. The cracked seed was still among the grains. Antônio had used food to fabricate an appearance of stock and protect her voice. Now he had gone, leaving his own meal under a domestic lie. I know what that sentence cost. The house's predictive machine indicated rising heat, but nobody checked the time. Through the gaps in the roof, the light advanced over the floor in four narrow strips. When the third reached the reserved mug, a wasp landed on the rim, searched for moisture and fell in. Ilva fished it out with the ladle. The insect lay on its back, its legs moving the air. Nael held out a dry fibre until it gripped and carried it to the windowsill. He came back with one of the seeds in his hand. You're going to spend water on that, she said. One spoonful. Nael sank the seed into a bowl of earth taken from the base of the pequi. The soil broke into small plates. Ilva held Antônio's mug, tilted it only as much as needed and let a spoonful fall. The earth darkened in a circle that did not reach the rim. A second spoonful would have wet the whole seed. She set the mug upright. Nael waited. Then he covered the crack with dry earth. He put the other three seeds in the lowest compartment, where the heat reached less. In the street, a concentrate truck passed slowly. Inside the kitchen, the wet spoon dried in less than a minute. Ilva divided the open grains into two bowls. She left the third empty. Nael sat facing her and did not eat. The message may have arrived, he said. Only Antônio can listen to it. And if he comes back without the courage to open it. She brought the empty bowl close to the reserved mug. Nael touched the earth with two fingers, feeling whether the first spoonful had gone down. The damp mark was already shrinking.