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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