THE COMB IN THE BRAID

Luzia was shaking the contaminated flour over the grass when Ilva picked up the comb. The caterpillars had already left furrows in the mass, and the clumps fell among the blades in pieces smaller than a meal. The girl turned her head. Slowly, she said. Sit, Ilva answered. Luzia settled on the porch step, between her legs. Her hair carried dust from the refrigerator door, fibre from the sleeping mat and a silver thread torn from the covering. Ilva parted three strands with her good hand. The other held the comb without closing all the way. Do you know how, Luzia asked. If it comes out crooked, it's because you moved. The girl laughed. She said Nael made two different braids, one tight and one loose, because he forgot which side he had started on. Ilva pulled the first strand. Luzia complained before it hurt, then complained that it hadn't hurt enough. The man, sitting at the kitchen doorway, suggested cutting it all short. Cut yours, she answered. He ran a hand through his own hair, weighing the threat, and retreated behind the partition. Luzia laughed again, her shoulders jumping between Ilva's legs. For a few minutes, the house held only missing teeth, tangled hair and a flour no one would eat. The suggested declaration remained open on the household projection. The voice made from Antônio's remnants repeated the warning once, then went quiet. Seven minutes remained. Two recognised names, one conditional presence. Luzia followed the braid by touch. Are you going to accept him, she asked. I'm going to keep the house. I asked about him. Ilva pulled a strand too tight. The girl brought her hand to the roots of her hair, but did not move. Ask the house, Ilva said. The house already knows that. The comb stopped. Outside, the murici let go of a half-eaten leaf. The mining resounded beyond the last houses, three spaced beats, indifferent to the intimacy it had helped to tighten on that step. When Antônio comes back, will you send him away, Luzia asked. Antônio is the one who decides. Then wake me. Ilva went back to the braid. Even if it's in the middle of the night, the girl went on. Even if I'm at the water window. Call me by my name, Luzia asked. The last strand came out shorter than the others. Ilva undid two crossings and redid both without answering. Then she pulled a thread from her own bandage, tied off the end of the braid and touched the projected confirmation with her forearm. The house kept the two recognised residents and took in the man as a conditional presence. Antônio's time ran out. The word conditional blinked once beside his outline. Ilva closed the projection. The man heard the closing sound behind the partition, but stayed where he was. Luzia felt the braid. It's crooked. You moved. Liar. The two of them smiled without looking at each other. At nightfall, Luzia spread her mat near the entrance, where any return would have to pass by her feet. Ilva brought her own blanket and lay down beside her. When the girl fell asleep, she wound two fingers into the damp bandage on Ilva's hand. The woman stayed awake, her arm held in that small strength.