THE CLAY LID

At four in the afternoon, the shade of the porch had already retreated to the low bench. Antônio opened the compartment under the counter and took out the wooden mortar that had gone unused for years, cracked at the rim, darkened by corn ground before the preparation line came into the house. Ilva brought a handful of dry kernels in a small container. Luzia slept near the entrance, one hand closed over her own braid. From the corridor came the short breathing of whoever was carrying the technical load behind the cabinet panel. Antônio poured the corn into the bottom of the mortar. This was Nael's, she said. It was his mother's. Nael only stole from him when he came to lose bets at the bar. Antônio's hand came down once. Then again. The sound of wood against corn filled the sealed kitchen, covering the steady turning of the rotor. Ilva set aside the larger pieces with the tips of her bandaged fingers. The flour came out coarse, with husks, good enough for the hearth. When I bought the first refrigerator, Nael brought the money in a feed sack, said Antônio. Ilva raised her eyes. He had driven the excavator out to the Lajes. They paid by the metre of ground opened. He spent three nights hiding it down here. The mortar took more kernels. Antônio ground slowly, stopping before the wood struck the empty bottom. The memory weighed less when there was something to crush. On the third night, he said the refrigerator would bring people to the bar. He said I should charge for ice from anyone who was too thirsty. And you did. I did. Luzia stirred on the mat, without waking. Outside, a gecko ran along the hot strip beside the wall and stopped near the empty cistern. Antônio pushed the flour into a bowl. He set aside a smaller portion and left it near the hearth. Ilva went to the low bundle. The cold mirror came out wrapped in the cloth that kept the dust off the screen. Antônio saw the device on the counter and rested both hands on the mortar. How long is the second rehearsal, he asked. Forty-seven seconds. He nodded. His throat moved once. Ilva opened the file. Antônio's voice came out younger than the body sitting in front of her. It spoke quickly, like someone recording in secret between one job and the next. It told his son that the bar had got a refrigerator, that there might be room for him at the guesthouse during the holidays, that Nael had paid part of it and then pretended he hadn't. The recording stopped before the name. Antônio kept looking at the mortar. The crack in the rim reached almost to the base and ended in a dark stain, old with smoke. Nael didn't know how to talk to a boy, he said. But he knew how to make a boy come back to eat. Ilva closed the file. She waited for the order that was now his to ask for. Antônio took up the flour in both hands, despite his closed fingers, and carried the bowl over to the hearth. He poured measured water over the corn. The dough gained body little by little, opaque, full of husk. Then he pushed the cold mirror towards Ilva. She put the device away in the low bundle without opening the third rehearsal. Antônio divided out four portions of the dough and left a fifth at the bottom of the pot, covered by the clay lid.