THE FRINGE OF THE BAND

The cotton band ended in a thin fringe on the table. The man had folded the rest into four parts, each smaller than the last, and was now trying to make the fabric fit into the empty flour packet. The fold kept slipping. He started again. Ilva followed the operation while she moved two bowls out of the way. Under the tabletop, the transport sticker projected future onto his feet. The word climbed his shin, vanished into the hem of his clothes and came back to the floor. Nael was asleep in the bedroom. His breathing came at long intervals, muffled by the door left ajar. From the yard came the rasp of the saúvas against the seedling's screen. They had opened another passage close to the ground, narrow enough for a single file. You can leave the band here, she said. He stopped folding. Here where. In the house. The man passed the fabric between his fingers. His mother had used it to cover bread, he had told them the night before. Bringing it through so many connections, with the space in the bag calculated by the transport, had cost him a change of clothes. Now he was trying to return it to the condition of luggage. The house isn't yours, he said. It isn't mine either. Then you can't offer it. Ilva pulled Antônio's empty chair over to the wall. The fourth bowl stayed near the burner, with the chip turned inwards. She did not sit down. When I asked you to come, I needed to stop the reading of the floor. I understood. You didn't ask. If you had asked, you'd have told me not to come. He was right. The precision came into the kitchen the way the cold of the room where she had been trained came in, restricted to the machines and persistent in the body after leaving. Ilva moved the empty glass aside. The man went back to folding the band, this time without looking at her. The communication between them was still active, though they were separated by less than an arm's length. The rental company demanded proof until the end of the cycle. On the surface of the table, a discreet strip counted his stay in blocks, deducting the time his weight left the reach of the threshold. Three trips to the yard to urinate had produced eleven minutes of domestic absence. He noticed her look. My booking at the lodging expires when this is accepted, he said. Ilva waited. I don't have a ticket back. The flour packet crackled under his hand. On the trip to Buritaçu, he had shown prices, waits, missed connections. The return route had been left out of every message. You hid that. You asked me to come now. I did. He pushed the band into the packet and closed the adhesive edge. The word under the table reached his ankle again. Future. Future. The house received the propaganda from below, the way it received the ants and the buried cable. Ilva picked up the bag by the wall. In it there was a shirt, the clothes worn on the trip and a flattened flexible container. She took it all over to the bed. The man tried to put weight on his foot to reach her, then drew back. Don't touch it, he said. If the bag stays packed, you came to spend the night. Maybe I came to spend the night. She took out the clean shirt and spread it over Antônio's chair. Then she put the container beside the empty glass. The bag lost its shape and tipped over. The man bent down and picked up the strap that had fallen to the floor. With two fingers, he removed three saúvas that were already climbing the fabric and left them outside the threshold. One came back. Ilva set her foot in front of the passage, while he pulled the seedling's screen until it covered the opening by the ground. The edge came loose at another point. He held down the corner with the flattened container. The plastic gave under the weight and stayed marked. He watched her for a few seconds. You do that with a measurement too. Do what. What do you call the mark. Ilva left the worn clothes inside the bag. She sat down facing him. I didn't know how long Antônio would be away. If Antônio comes back and tells me to leave, I'll leave with you. The fringe of the band was escaping through the opening of the packet. The man pulled the fabric out. He separated the part that still smelled of the old soap and placed it on the clean shirt. I don't want you to leave because of me. I already used your arrival for my sake. He opened the collective lodging booking on his forearm. The balance was still withheld, enough for two nights if his presence in Buritaçu was refused. His hand hovered over the option to cancel. Ilva covered the projection. Don't hand that over to prove anything to me. The light was caught between their two hands. Then tell me what I should do. Stay until Antônio comes back. Tell him who ate the portion. If you decide to go afterwards, I'll help you prepare the trip. And if he doesn't come back. The chair held the visitor's shirt. The chipped bowl held the owner's absence. Ilva let go of his arm. His portion is still in the bowl. The man closed the booking without cancelling it. Then he took the shirt off Antônio's chair and laid it on the edge of the bed, next to Ilva's clothes. The company could still deny his stay in the next cycle.