Ezequiel
“I HAVE A PROVERB for you.” Papa Gilberto looks up through the crown of the acacia. He sees me sitting on my branch, dressed in my birthday clothing. I am thirteen today. “Are you ready?”
I nod.
But then I am a boy wandering the deserted village, the sound of cicadas drilling away at my brain…
Pó drops to the ground and the soldiers close in around her.
The men laugh, but they have not hurt her. It is me they want. I know I must give myself up to save Pó. As suddenly as this decision is settled, I am uncertain. The Commander has never once shown mercy. If I walk into the clearing and demand they let go of Pó in exchange for my surrender, I know he will kill us both.
Papa Gilberto looks up to the empty sky. Macaco presses his gun to my head. I see Father’s big eyes—forgive me, Father. The bullet strikes.
I run.
My bed is soaked. I grab at the sides of my mattress until my knuckles turn white. I feel pinned down by an animal fear as the world shifts. The grinding of metal comes at me.
My bedroom door is closed. The room is dark.
I need my medication.
I hear voices. I can see him by my door. He is waiting for me…
“Are we leaving here?” I ask, bursting the yolk with the crust of my bread.
“Filho, listen to me,” he says, clucking his tongue. He scrapes his dinner into a small bowl. “There are no answers hidden here. The flock has left the mission, and it is time to rebuild. Now that you are thirteen I must speak to you as a man.” He nods, urging me to agree. I nod. “I’ve always told you to place one foot in front of the other. One step turns to ten, then a hundred become ten thousand, and you’ll always get to where you have to be. So I’m asking you now, you must look after your mother, do you hear me? I will remain behind to spread the word and rebuild the mission. Not here. I’ll move to the capital, where things are safer.”
“I don’t want to leave you, Papa.”
Papa Gilberto takes hold of my shoulders and presses down. His eyes are dark, his skin like worn leather. He breathes through his nose and I smell sour fruit.
“Listen to me. I have made arrangements for you and your mother.” He kneels down by my chair and presses down my upturned shirt collar. “You’ll leave next week by ship for the capital, and from there you will make your way to your mother’s family in the Netherlands.”
“But this is my home.” I brush his hand away. I smooth my own collar into place.
“This was our home, but you must not fight me. One step will turn to a hundred and more, remember? Never look back. When I have found a new place for us, I will send for you. I will find us the most beautiful place, filho, you’ll see. We will return to where it all began.”
I catch the fear in Papa’s eyes as he cups my ears, his palm so warm. He kisses my forehead.
“You will do as I say,” he says, wedging my hand in his and pulling me out of my chair. I let him walk me out of the kitchen and down the hallway.
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
His free hand rests on the door handle to his office. It stays there for a few seconds. It is enough time for me to place my hand over his. My fingers nestle between the valleys of his knuckles. I hope he invites me in, and I can lie down on the rug where we will listen to our favourite song and I can write my stories and draw pictures in my book. He’ll let me crouch in the corner to apply polish to his boots and I’ll buff them so fast that I’ll see my face reflected on their surface. He’ll drink his port and perhaps let me take a sip from his glass, and if he sees me suck my lips from its sweetness he’ll pour me my own small amount in a shot glass and we will not tell Mother Anke. We’ll spend the whole night this way and only when the animals go to sleep, the occasional yawn from a monkey or the grunt of a wild pig, will he help me to my bed where I will dream of skipping atop the canopy of trees.
“It’s time to go to bed,” he says, his voice unsteady. My hand slips from his. He steps into his office and closes the door behind him.
I hold on to the bedroom doorknob to steady myself. I am cold. Papa isn’t here. I open the door.
The basement is dark. A plate is set on the kitchen table. I shuffle over, my slippers tripping on a small rug. I grab on to the back of the couch to regain my balance and make my way to the food. A veil of flies lifts off the canned sardines lined on the plate.
I swallow my pill, sit back in my chair and turn the radio on. Music fills the room. I don’t recognize the song. I am twenty-three and barefoot as I climb the stairs to an airplane.
A snowdrift almost covers the basement window. Hidden this way, I feel safe. A gust shifts the snow, creeping higher up. It is the colour of Pó’s skin—her back—pressed against the glass.