I hear steps nearby on the neighboring terrace but don’t have the energy to shout.
They whisper, trip, and break something. Laugh.
Downstairs, the bicycle shop is closed. The kids, in bands, amuse themselves by spying on the neighbors in the area. They hang from trees, climb on roofs, squeeze through gaps. In the distance I hear the sound of shopping carts ripping up the asphalt. They screech.
Those goddamn bogus Indians, says Sulamita, getting up nude and going into the bathroom.
Down below, the old woman yells. The Indian woman. Just yesterday she told me she knows how to braid acuri palm straw.
Sulamita gets irritated when she sleeps with me. She says I have to look for a job, get away from here, find another area to live. That shitty bunch of Indians, she says.
I like the place. And I like Corumbá. And I’ve gotten used to the children, who often take advantage of my absence to go through my things. I also like the old Indian woman and think of her when I go fishing.
I hear Sulamita filling a bucket of water in the bathroom. Don’t do it, I say, to no avail. On tiptoe, she approaches the door and catches the children by surprise with their backs turned, perched on the window ledge.
I hear the kids running, shouting and laughing, after the soaking they got.
Only then do I open my eyes.
It’s Sunday.