He took off his hat and scratched his head where his hair was flattened down.
“I have an older sister called Glória and I’d give it to her. That’s all.”
“OK then.” And we went along, singing and selling.
He sang and I learned as I went. When it was noon, he eyed me a little suspiciously.
“Aren’t you going home for lunch?” “Only when we finish our work.”
He scratched his head again. “Come with me.” We sat in a bar on Rua Ceres and he retrieved a big sandwich from the bottom of his bag.
He pulled a knife out of his waist-band. A scary looking knife.
He cut off a piece of his sandwich and gave it to me.
Then he had a sip of cachaça and ordered two lemonades.
As he ate his sandwich he studied me with his eyes and his eyes were very content.
“Y’know, finch,” he said with a drawl. “You’re bringing me good luck.
I’ve a row of potbellied young ’uns and I never thought to get one of ’em to give me a hand.”
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