THE BURITI WEDGE

Nael reached the back of the bar with the bowl in both hands and found, behind the empty drink crates, the circular stone Antônio had used before the first refrigerator. A crack ran through its centre and there was a green stain of old corn on the rim. He pulled it by the ring, dragging it out to the porch. Valdo followed, limping less than the day before, though the film by his neck still lifted at one corner when he lowered his head. The stone was a hand mill. Two pieces of granite, one on top of the other, that crushed grain when someone turned the upper piece. Antônio had left it there after the preparation unit took the place of the fire and food came to depend on balance, schedule and authorisation. Nael put the clean grains from the sieve into the central opening. It still works, said Valdo. It works for someone who's not in a hurry, answered Nael. He turned the stone. The first noise was rough, stone against stone, then came a small creaking, the grains breaking under the weight. His bad knee forced him to change position every half turn. Valdo crouched without asking and held the base with both hands. The flour began to fall into a bowl placed under the rim. On the bar's panel, a news strip crossed the screen reserved for village notifications. A province in Australia was debating whether to oblige datacenters to guarantee their own renewable energy, without passing the bill for their power and water use onto the public grid. The mining operation in Buritaçu had already sent a summary to its suppliers. The datacenter consortium appeared at the end of the message, offering a partnership to map old lines of circulation and areas of local generation. Valdo stopped his hand on the stone. They want to put the datacenter on top of what's left, he said. The screen changed to Nael's summons. Route recognition at the end of the afternoon. Attendance requested at the north access of the licensed polygon. The text was signed by the rental company, which rented trucks, images, routes and, when it suited, the memory of whoever had survived the routes. The flour came out coarser where the stone was cracked. Nael ran his fingers through it, picked out three small stones, put them in a corner of the bowl. Then he pulled from the gap between the two halves of the mill a short wedge of darkened wood. It was buriti, old, cut back when the mill wobbled on the floor and Antônio still hid the new refrigerator under the kitchen table. Valdo recognised the piece. You kept that. It got stuck. Nael fitted the wedge into the side crack and struck it with his palm until the stone steadied. He turned it again. The grinding gained weight, but stopped spitting out whole grains. What had fallen before as dry bran came down as a flour that could become food. Valdo touched the tip of his finger to the flour and let it fall back, with no whole grains. Ilva appeared in the doorway with the cold mirror rolled under her arm. She saw the notice on the panel, saw Nael bent over the stone, and stood a moment without coming in. The heat on the porch rose from the floor. Beyond the street, the datacenter ducts released a thin mist that did not reach the houses, vanishing first into the white sky. They want the upper curve, said Valdo. They want the water that runs near it, answered Nael. The stone creaked once more. He took his hand away, wiped the flour off his wrist and looked at the screen. The recognition could tie his name to the buried layer. It could also hand the consortium a passage they would call renewable until the day the pumps demanded reinforcement from the grid and someone discovered that the sun does not move a turbine at night. Ilva set the bowl beside the stone. The house under the yard had a waterwheel, said Nael. Valdo raised his eyes. There was a wooden shaft in the channel. The water of the Lajes turned a paddle and ground corn for three families. When they opened the drilling corridor, they took out the wheel and sold the iron of the frame. The stone stayed. You never talked about that, she said. Because nobody asked about the food, answered Nael. He gathered the flour with his cupped hand. Valdo brought a shallow pan, washed with the last of the water left over from the day before, and poured the yellow powder into it. Ilva measured three small portions of water, one by one, until the dough came together. Nobody switched on the preparation unit. The bar's business was still suspended. Valdo carried the pan to the back of the porch, where an old griddle took heat from a service line exposed to the sun. Nael stood up slowly. The buriti wedge remained visible in the crack of the mill. When they call me, I'll go by the north access, he said. The panel repeated the time for the north access. He picked up the bowl of flour that was left, crossed the bar and carried the small granite stone over by the pan, where Valdo was already turning the first dough with a knife that had no handle.