THE SPOON BEFORE ILVA

Antônio's bowl had a blade of cold porridge at the bottom, hard along the edges, soft only where Luzia had dripped saliva to loosen the corn. She held the spoon above the table and waited. The man stayed by the partition, his wounded foot resting on the rotor case. Ilva was crouched near the low cabinet, sorting through the three voice drafts Antônio had kept during the journey. The house had learned to share before eating. Whoever arrived last waited for the measure of the bowls, whoever had a fever got the centre of the pot, whoever could chew slowly got the dry part. That morning there was no fever. There were four people and food for two without hunger. Antônio pulled the bowl closer. Luzia counted the spoons. One for you, one for him, one for Ilva, one for me. You counted four, said Antônio. I counted three and a small one. He scraped the porridge with the nail of his good fingers. The burned ones stayed closed against his palm. The girl looked at his hand, then at the spoon, as if she could calculate the pain and add it to the share. On the dead panel above the sink, an emergency banner ran for a few seconds. Terbium and dysprosium were rising on the outside markets. North American buyers were advancing orders before the new restrictions. The Arco Norte Company had already swapped the word price for opportunity on the screen. The metal of the valley rose in value when the water of the house did not reach the bottom of a bowl. That was how distance did its work. Antônio read the banner until it disappeared. Then he looked at the device in Ilva's hands. You opened my messages. I kept the three. I wanted to hear. You can hear. Now. She took time to answer. The old device held the voices without asking for credit, but did not return them to the city's channel. For that it would be necessary to spend the house's communication reserve, already reduced by the limiter. The dark screen on the wall seemed to wait for someone to take the blame for that difference. The man took his foot off the case and sat on the floor. Luzia carried her bowl to Antônio's side. She did not let the rim touch his. Does your son still receive, he asked. He receives when he wants to, said Antônio. The sentence made Ilva raise her face. She knew the answers he erased before sending, the three beginnings preserved as if they were proof that a door still existed. One said that the road had taken Nael. Another stopped at the son's name. The third held only Antônio's breathing and the noise of an engine in the background. She opened the first. The voice came out low, granulated. Antônio spoke of the bar, of the furnace, of a pot that could still bear another winter. He did not say that he was afraid. He said that perhaps he would change the hinge of the door. Enough, he said. Ilva did not interrupt. She let it run to the final pause, where his voice went back into his throat. Luzia rested the spoon against the bowl. He did not ask about me. He did not ask about anyone, said Antônio. The man raised his eyes to Ilva. She recognised the soundless question. Why keep that if the owner wanted to erase it. On the panel, a market notification opened below the dead banner. The Company was offering credit to addresses that agreed to advance thermal capacity. Antônio's bar appeared among the eligible ones. The old furnace, the blocked kitchen, the technical load, everything received the same clean name of capacity. Antônio stretched out his hand. Give it to me. She closed the cold mirror against her chest. She thought of the cuts that harmonisation would make when the voices went back into the network. She thought that the three drafts were the only ones in which Antônio still spoke before choosing his own censorship. She thought of the son, far away, receiving a message smaller than the absence. Wait until night, she said. Why. Because this whole voice does not come back. His mouth tightened. Luzia divided the porridge into four parts, though one of them was almost only the dry scraping. She pushed the largest to Antônio. He did not touch it. You decided that he needed this, said the man. Ilva opened the cold mirror and stored the three drafts in a deeper directory. She did that to protect him from the network. When she raised her eyes, Antônio had already pulled Luzia's bowl to himself and divided the larger part between her and the man. His portion stayed in the centre, untouched. Outside, the murici dropped one more small leaf, eaten at the tips. Antônio took the spoon, wiped it on the hem of his trousers, and placed it before Ilva.