CATERPILLARS OF THE MURICI

The caterpillars began falling from the murici before Luzia had finished dividing the flour. They came curled inside the dry leaves, still green in the middle of their bodies, and opened out over the shallow tray with the slowness of tired fingers. The girl pushed the first one away with a twig. Another touched the dough. Then came seven, nine, many, crawling down the leaning branch that reached the porch. Ilva pulled the tray into the kitchen. The occupant rose from the grey box, leaning on his good leg, and held on to the partition so as not to knock into it. Luzia stayed in the yard, watching the caterpillars cross the buriti mat towards the shade of the house. What are they looking for, she asked. Leaves that are still any good, said Ilva. The murici had lost half its crown since the datacenter towers began drawing water from the same ground as its roots. The new leaves came in small, with brown edges, and the caterpillars ate what little grew before seeking out the cracks in the wood. Luzia brought an empty bowl and gathered the ones that reached the threshold. Don't put them in the kitchen, said Ilva. They'll die in the sun. The girl carried the bowl to the strip of earth behind the storehouse, where a tuft of rough grass remained. She set the caterpillars down there. She went back twice. On the third time, she found one caught in the fold of the hem of the occupant's clothes. He removed it with the tip of a spoon and left it in the bowl without saying anything. The household panel lit up above the sink. Antônio's consultation had reached the last window. Before Ilva could get near, a voice like his came low from the terminal. Suggested declaration. Holder absent. Two residents recognised. One conditional presence. Luzia stopped, the bowl held against her chest. Who is conditional, she asked. The projection opened three outlines. Ilva. Luzia. The occupant, reduced to a line without a name. The artificial intelligence that organised the consultations of the Companhia Arco Norte had learned to answer with remnants of the voices of the absent. Antônio had not spoken. Even so, his mouth appeared drawn in light on the wall. Ilva closed the projection with her forearm. The occupant looked at the contaminated flour on the tray. There were small pale tracks in the dough, trails no one could ever pick out. He took the travel container, scraped the bottom with the spoon and found a layer of hardened angu. That's enough for three, he said. For two and a bit, Luzia corrected. He divided the angu into unequal portions. The largest ended up near her. Ilva got the smallest and did not complain. The heat in the kitchen came from the roof, from the ducts fixed to the façade, from the cooling of the service cabinet that worked for the machines. The occupant ran the spoon under water, wiped it on the dry cloth and handed it to Luzia. Are you going to let him speak for Antônio, she asked. Ilva chewed slowly. Her bandaged hand rested open on the table. If I accept, he comes in as a resident. If I refuse, the house loses the window. Luzia looked at the occupant. He kept his mouth closed, the spoon set down on the plate, as if waiting for an order that did not come. Outside, the caterpillars were coming down from the murici on short threads, looking for another leaf before the whole branch was left bare.