I rummaged in my pocket and found it. “Well, I’m going to buy a new watch and put the medallion on it. One day it will be yours.”
Portuga, do you know what carborundum is? Father talked and talked.
His stubble rubbing against my face bothered me. The smell coming from his well-worn shirt gave me goose bumps.
I slipped off his knee and went to the kitchen door. I sat on the steps and gazed at the backyard as the light faded.
My heart protested without anger. “Who is this man who puts me on his knee? He isn’t my father. My father is dead. The Mangaratiba killed him.”
Father had followed me and saw that my eyes were full of tears again. He practically knelt to speak to me.
“Don’t cry, son. We’re going to have a big house. A real river runs right behind it. There are big trees, lots of them, and they’ll all be yours.
You can make swings and hang them there.” He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand. No tree could ever be as beautiful as Queen Carlota.
“You’ll have first pick of the trees.” I looked at his feet, his toes poking out of his sandals.
He was an old tree with dark roots. He was a tree-father. But a tree I barely knew.
“That’s not all. They’re not going to cut down your orange tree so soon. And when they do, you’ll be far away and won’t even feel it.”
I clung to his knees, sobbing. “It’s no use, Father. It’s no use...”
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