We were so poor that from an early age we’d learned not to waste money.
Everything cost a lot. Petrol was expensive. During the short drive he said nothing.
He allowed me to collect myself. But when we left everything behind and the landscape became a beautiful blanket of green fields,
he stopped the car, looked at me and smiled, with his kindness that made up for the lack of kindness in the rest of the world.
“Portuga, look at my face. No, not face, snout. People at home say I’ve got a snout because I’m not a person,
but an animal, an Apinajé Indian, the devil’s child.”
“I still prefer to look at your face.” “Well, take a good look.
See how it’s still all swollen from being beaten?Portuga’s eyes filled with dismay and pity.
“But why did they do that?” I told him, everything, without exaggerating a single detail.
When I finished, his eyes were moist and for a while he was at a loss for words.
“But it’s not right to beat such a young child like that. You’re not even six years old. Goodness gracious me!”
“I know why. I’m worthless. I’m so bad that when Christmas comes the same thing always happens:
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