She opened her parasol and disappeared down the street, stiff as could be.
In the late afternoon, Seu Ariovaldo was counting the profits.
“We sold out, Zezé. You were right. You bring me good luck.”
I remembered Dona Maria da Penha. “Do you think she’s going to do something?”
“’Course not, Zezé. At the most, she’ll talk to the priest and the priest’ll say,
‘Best let it go, Maria. There’s no messing with these people from the North.’”
He put the money in his pocket and rolled up his bag.
Then, as always, he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a folded brochure.
“This is for your sister Glória.” He stretched. “It was a helluva good day!”
We rested for a moment. “Ariovaldo.” “S’up?” “What’s a shooshy old witch?”
“How am I supposed to know, son? I made it up in the heat of the moment,” he said with a chuckle.
“And were you really going to poke a hole in her?”
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