translating those measurements onto cloth, the precision of cutting that cloth into individual pieces, and the satisfaction of joining those pieces together into a whole.
During her morning walks, Luzia took the steepest trails to the mountain ridge where, before sunrise, she looked over the edge and saw the scrubland below. In the past week it had turned from gray to brown, a sign that the recent rains had trickled down the mountain. The summer drought had stretched into March, then April. Streams had vanished. Dams had emptied. The spring where she and Emília fetched drinking water grew so dry that they had to lie on its edge and scoop out the silty water with tin cups. People were forced to sell their best goats and heifers because they could not sustain them. And Taquaritinga still had water, which was more than most places. On their rides to sewing class, she and Emília passed animal carcasses alongside the road. Farmhouses below the mountain—houses where laundry used to swing from ropes between the spindly juazeiro trees and where children once played in the dusty front yards—were slowly abandoned. People flocked up the mountain to Taquaritinga, where they could get water. They set up tents along the mule trail. Once, these tents were burned in the night. Drunks were blamed, but Luzia heard whispers that it had been locals hoping to protect their water. Everyone was thirsty, including the Hawk. His group had been sighted along the mountain range. They’d attacked Triunfo, a twelve-day trip from Taquaritinga. There were rumors that the Military Police had been dispatched to the area. People in town were nervous, hiding valuables from the police and the cangaceiros. Their sewing professor panicked and spoke of canceling class. He fretted at his desk and did not pass Emília any notes. Emília blamed his disinterest on her short haircut, but Luzia knew better. It was the lack of rain. Everyone was haunted by the prospect of a drought, especially strangers. Those with means had left. The colonel sent his wife, Dona Conceição, to Campina Grande. She made no dress orders. Luzia, Emília, and Aunt Sofia sewed kitchen towels, handkerchiefs, and an occasional shirt for the colonel, but it was barely enough to sustain them.
The colonel gave them goat’s milk to make up for the lack of sewing duties. They had grown beans on the tiny strip of land behind their house, and manioc flour was affordable. But they had eaten all of their guineas during the dry months and fresh meat had become a luxury. They could only afford strips of dried, salted beef and Luzia was sick of it—sick of eating cornmeal for breakfast and beans, manioc, and that tough carne-de-sol each afternoon for supper. She craved a bit of steamed pumpkin or a flank of goat, the meat so tender it fell off the bone.
And then it rained. One afternoon, clouds—dark and looming—hung over the mountain. Luzia ignored them. She’d seen many clouds over the dry months, clouds that had darkened the sky and brought the hope of rain, only to sweep past and disappoint her. But Luzia’s stiff elbow began to ache, and then the frogs emerged from their dirt tunnels and called out, answering one another’s soft croaks. When the rains hit, the ground sizzled. Dust rose, and with it came a scent. Luzia loved the smell of winter rains. It was as if all of the withering plants—the wilted coffee trees, the brown banana palms, the tufts of manioc and stalks of stunted corn—let out a perfume to celebrate. She and Emília abandoned their sewing and ran outside. They dragged the empty clay water jugs outdoors one by one and watched the rain fill them. They laughed and turned their mouths toward the sky. Emília grabbed her special bar of soap and they stood, their dresses wet and clinging, under the dented aluminum drainpipe and washed their hair as they used to do, when they were girls. Even Aunt Sofia laughed and clapped in the open doorway, thanking Jesus and São
During her morning walks, Luzia took the steepest trails to the mountain ridge where, before sunrise, she looked over the edge and saw the scrubland below. In the past week it had turned from gray to brown, a sign that the recent rains had trickled down the mountain. The summer drought had stretched into March, then April. Streams had vanished. Dams had emptied. The spring where she and Emília fetched drinking water grew so dry that they had to lie on its edge and scoop out the silty water with tin cups. People were forced to sell their best goats and heifers because they could not sustain them. And Taquaritinga still had water, which was more than most places. On their rides to sewing class, she and Emília passed animal carcasses alongside the road. Farmhouses below the mountain—houses where laundry used to swing from ropes between the spindly juazeiro trees and where children once played in the dusty front yards—were slowly abandoned. People flocked up the mountain to Taquaritinga, where they could get water. They set up tents along the mule trail. Once, these tents were burned in the night. Drunks were blamed, but Luzia heard whispers that it had been locals hoping to protect their water. Everyone was thirsty, including the Hawk. His group had been sighted along the mountain range. They’d attacked Triunfo, a twelve-day trip from Taquaritinga. There were rumors that the Military Police had been dispatched to the area. People in town were nervous, hiding valuables from the police and the cangaceiros. Their sewing professor panicked and spoke of canceling class. He fretted at his desk and did not pass Emília any notes. Emília blamed his disinterest on her short haircut, but Luzia knew better. It was the lack of rain. Everyone was haunted by the prospect of a drought, especially strangers. Those with means had left. The colonel sent his wife, Dona Conceição, to Campina Grande. She made no dress orders. Luzia, Emília, and Aunt Sofia sewed kitchen towels, handkerchiefs, and an occasional shirt for the colonel, but it was barely enough to sustain them.
The colonel gave them goat’s milk to make up for the lack of sewing duties. They had grown beans on the tiny strip of land behind their house, and manioc flour was affordable. But they had eaten all of their guineas during the dry months and fresh meat had become a luxury. They could only afford strips of dried, salted beef and Luzia was sick of it—sick of eating cornmeal for breakfast and beans, manioc, and that tough carne-de-sol each afternoon for supper. She craved a bit of steamed pumpkin or a flank of goat, the meat so tender it fell off the bone.
And then it rained. One afternoon, clouds—dark and looming—hung over the mountain. Luzia ignored them. She’d seen many clouds over the dry months, clouds that had darkened the sky and brought the hope of rain, only to sweep past and disappoint her. But Luzia’s stiff elbow began to ache, and then the frogs emerged from their dirt tunnels and called out, answering one another’s soft croaks. When the rains hit, the ground sizzled. Dust rose, and with it came a scent. Luzia loved the smell of winter rains. It was as if all of the withering plants—the wilted coffee trees, the brown banana palms, the tufts of manioc and stalks of stunted corn—let out a perfume to celebrate. She and Emília abandoned their sewing and ran outside. They dragged the empty clay water jugs outdoors one by one and watched the rain fill them. They laughed and turned their mouths toward the sky. Emília grabbed her special bar of soap and they stood, their dresses wet and clinging, under the dented aluminum drainpipe and washed their hair as they used to do, when they were girls. Even Aunt Sofia laughed and clapped in the open doorway, thanking Jesus and São
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