He spread his arms wide and hugged me tenderly. “Don’t cry, son.”
“You’re going to have a lot to cry about in life, if you go on being so emotional...”
“I didn’t mean to, Father... I didn’t mean to say... that.”
“I know. I know. I wasn’t upset, because deep down you were right.”
He rocked me in his arms a little more. Then he lifted my face and dried it with a tea towel that was lying nearby.
“That’s better.” I raised my hands and stroked his face.
I passed them lightly over his eyes, trying to put them back where they belonged, away from that big cinema screen.
I was afraid that if I didn’t, those eyes were going to follow me for the rest of my life.
“I’m going to finish off my cigarette.” Still choked up, I spluttered, “You know, Father, when you want to beat me, I’ll never complain again.”
“You just go ahead and do it...” “Hey, hey, Zezé.” He put me and the rest of my sobs down and got a plate from the cupboard.
“Glória saved a bit of fruit salad for you.” I couldn’t swallow.
He sat down and fed it to me in small spoonfuls. “It’s OK now, isn’t it, son?”
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