Pedro. It had been a wonderful afternoon.
Luzia shivered. Her breath was quick. She patted the dried meat in her pocket. Before her stood a clay house. Young plants grew from the muddy ground around it. The roof tiles were slick with moss. Near the house’s front window hung a covered cage, its white sheet hovering over the ground like a ghost. Luzia heard no growling, saw no dog post or chain. She edged closer and lifted her good arm. She did not have to strain to reach the cage. Beneath the sheet were tightly woven reeds, their pattern broken by two rope hinges and a latch. Luzia’s fingers twisted the wire latch loose. Inside, the bird shuddered. Wire nicked Luzia’s finger but she twisted harder. The sheet draped over the cage suddenly slid off. Uncovered, the bird chirped. Luzia tugged the reed door open and ran.
The trail was slick from rain. Her smooth-soled alpercata sandals slid, making Luzia fumble for balance. She fell. Clay covered her hands. Last winter, in that same spot, she’d come across a brick pit. Several men from town had crouched beside the pit, shaping mounds of clay into blocks and setting them to dry. The ground was soft from the rains. The men within the pit had dug past the soil’s rocky layer to reach clay. They heaved up large, orange shovelfuls. Their hair had disappeared, slicked back beneath a thick layer of clay. They wore no shirts; their arms and chests were coated in orange earth. Their pants clung, heavy and wet, to their legs. Their feet disappeared into the pit’s soft bottom. The diggers had no features, no hair, no scars, no brows or lids. The clay had covered them and erased everything except the clean lines of their bodies. Only their eyes appeared, glistening and dark, standing out against their orange skins. Luzia had not thought that those common farmers—boys she had known in school and men she had often ignored—could be so lovely.
Luzia blushed at the memory. Heat rose in the pit of her stomach. She wiped her hands across her skirt and moved on. The sky was changing; soon, the sun would break over the horizon. Luzia quickened her pace. She had one more house to visit.
Away from the main trail, near the ridge, lived a widower who loved catching sofreus . They were scrubland birds, trapped below the mountain and brought to live in Taquaritinga. They were lovely, with red-crested heads and black wings. But they weren’t hardy like sabiás or aggressive like canaries. Their name came from the fact that they suffered in cages, and if caught, they almost always died. Still, the widower on the hill continued to snare them, hoping to prove the legend wrong. Each time Luzia saw him at the weekly market she had the urge to twist his neck.
His house was similar to the first: simple, clay, with closed shutters and surrounded by banana palms and coffee trees. But he had a dog. It was a skinny gray mutt roped to the front porch, beneath the birdcage. When Luzia arrived, the dog stood stiffly at attention. Luzia cut a bit of dried beef with her penknife. She threw the meat to the dog. It sniffed the beef and then the air, as if it did not know which deserved its attention. Luzia smelled it, too. She tried to define the scent around the house but could not. It was musty, like wet chicken feathers, but with a rank sweetness like rotten melon. And something else, something heady and lingering, like billy goats at the market.
The dog took the beef and chewed gingerly, its old teeth rotted. Luzia cut away another piece of meat and stepped toward the house. The sofreu hung on the side eave. There was no cloth over its cage and the bird looked limp, its crest bald and discolored. Luzia moved forward. The dog sniffed the air and circled nervously. She threw it more beef. The mutt snatched it up, then cocked its ears and dropped the meat. The smell grew stronger. The dog let out a low bark. Luzia turned around.
Three men had emerged from the banana palms. The center man wore a
Luzia shivered. Her breath was quick. She patted the dried meat in her pocket. Before her stood a clay house. Young plants grew from the muddy ground around it. The roof tiles were slick with moss. Near the house’s front window hung a covered cage, its white sheet hovering over the ground like a ghost. Luzia heard no growling, saw no dog post or chain. She edged closer and lifted her good arm. She did not have to strain to reach the cage. Beneath the sheet were tightly woven reeds, their pattern broken by two rope hinges and a latch. Luzia’s fingers twisted the wire latch loose. Inside, the bird shuddered. Wire nicked Luzia’s finger but she twisted harder. The sheet draped over the cage suddenly slid off. Uncovered, the bird chirped. Luzia tugged the reed door open and ran.
The trail was slick from rain. Her smooth-soled alpercata sandals slid, making Luzia fumble for balance. She fell. Clay covered her hands. Last winter, in that same spot, she’d come across a brick pit. Several men from town had crouched beside the pit, shaping mounds of clay into blocks and setting them to dry. The ground was soft from the rains. The men within the pit had dug past the soil’s rocky layer to reach clay. They heaved up large, orange shovelfuls. Their hair had disappeared, slicked back beneath a thick layer of clay. They wore no shirts; their arms and chests were coated in orange earth. Their pants clung, heavy and wet, to their legs. Their feet disappeared into the pit’s soft bottom. The diggers had no features, no hair, no scars, no brows or lids. The clay had covered them and erased everything except the clean lines of their bodies. Only their eyes appeared, glistening and dark, standing out against their orange skins. Luzia had not thought that those common farmers—boys she had known in school and men she had often ignored—could be so lovely.
Luzia blushed at the memory. Heat rose in the pit of her stomach. She wiped her hands across her skirt and moved on. The sky was changing; soon, the sun would break over the horizon. Luzia quickened her pace. She had one more house to visit.
Away from the main trail, near the ridge, lived a widower who loved catching sofreus . They were scrubland birds, trapped below the mountain and brought to live in Taquaritinga. They were lovely, with red-crested heads and black wings. But they weren’t hardy like sabiás or aggressive like canaries. Their name came from the fact that they suffered in cages, and if caught, they almost always died. Still, the widower on the hill continued to snare them, hoping to prove the legend wrong. Each time Luzia saw him at the weekly market she had the urge to twist his neck.
His house was similar to the first: simple, clay, with closed shutters and surrounded by banana palms and coffee trees. But he had a dog. It was a skinny gray mutt roped to the front porch, beneath the birdcage. When Luzia arrived, the dog stood stiffly at attention. Luzia cut a bit of dried beef with her penknife. She threw the meat to the dog. It sniffed the beef and then the air, as if it did not know which deserved its attention. Luzia smelled it, too. She tried to define the scent around the house but could not. It was musty, like wet chicken feathers, but with a rank sweetness like rotten melon. And something else, something heady and lingering, like billy goats at the market.
The dog took the beef and chewed gingerly, its old teeth rotted. Luzia cut away another piece of meat and stepped toward the house. The sofreu hung on the side eave. There was no cloth over its cage and the bird looked limp, its crest bald and discolored. Luzia moved forward. The dog sniffed the air and circled nervously. She threw it more beef. The mutt snatched it up, then cocked its ears and dropped the meat. The smell grew stronger. The dog let out a low bark. Luzia turned around.
Three men had emerged from the banana palms. The center man wore a
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