Afraid of everything. Father had sworn that he’d beat me to a pulp if I ever repeated what I’d said to Jandira again.
Now I was even afraid to breathe. Best to take refuge in the tiny shadow of my orange tree,
look through the mountains of trading cards that Portuga had given me and patiently teach King Luís to play marbles.
He was a bit clumsy, but he’d eventually get the hang of it.
I missed Portuga a lot. He must have thought it odd that I hadn’t been to see him
and if he’d known where I lived, he might even have come looking for me.
My ears sorely missed his thick Portuguese accent and the way he always called me tu.
Dona Cecília Paim had told me that you really need to know your grammar to address others as tu.
My eyes longed to see his brown face, his impeccable clothes in dark colours,
the collars of his shirts, always so stiff, as if they’d come straight out of a drawer,
his chequered waistcoat and even his gold anchor cuff-links.
But I’d be better soon. Children heal quickly, or so they say. That night Father hadn’t gone out.
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