And looking at his face, which was also streaked with tears, I mumbled like a dead man, “It’s gone, Father.
My sweet-orange tree was cut down over a week ago.”
Last Chapter
FINAL CONFESSION
The years have passed, my dear Manuel Valadares. I am forty-eight years old now and sometimes I miss you so much I feel like I am still a child.
I imagine that at any moment you’ll appear with trading cards and marbles. It was you who taught me what tenderness is, my dear Portuga.
Today I am the one who tries to hand out marbles and trading cards, because life without tenderness isn’t very special.
Sometimes I am happy in my tenderness, and sometimes I think I’m kidding myself, which is more common.
Back then. Back in our time, I didn’t know that many years earlier, an idiot prince had knelt before an altar
and asked the saints, his eyes full of tears: “Why do they tell little children so much so young?”
The truth, my dear Portuga, is that they told me things way too soon. Farewell! Ubatuba, 1967
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