large-brimmed leather hat, like a rancher, but with a gold chain around the brim instead of a cloth hatband. His hair settled around his shoulders. He held a thick-barreled pistol. The men on either side of him—one tall, one short—wore leather hats with the brims cracked backward to form half-moons. Only cangaceiros wore such hats. Rifles sat stiffly in their hands. The sun slowly rose behind the men; Luzia could not see their faces. But she could smell them. The animal strength of their scent surprised her. She raised her hand to cover her nose.
“So,” the man in the middle said, “you’re the bird thief?”
Luzia shuddered at the sound of his voice. It was deep and thick, as if his throat was coated in molasses. He moved closer. There were gold rings on all of his brown fingers. Luzia wondered how he could grip the gun with so many jewels loaded onto his hands. Their clothing was ragged and soiled, but thick cartridge belts circled their waists, each strung with brass-tipped bullets that glimmered in the morning light. Stuffed prominently between their leather belts and the waistbands of their pants were silver knives. The handles had circular knobs that tapered into narrow throats, where the men’s hands could grip them. The tall man was a dark-skinned mulatto with finely carved features. The shorter man had kinky hair. And while most men wore beards, these had shaved faces, like priests.
“Are you mute?” the deep-voiced man asked.
His kinky-haired friend giggled and Luzia realized he was not a short man, but a boy.
“No,” Luzia said. Her voice trembled and she cleared her throat to remedy it. “I don’t steal them. I just open the doors. It’s the bird’s choice to stay or go.”
The central man laughed. His head tipped backward. The shadow cast by his hat brim vanished, revealing his face. Luzia took a breath. On his right cheek was a scar, two fingers thick, which roped from the corner of his thick lips and disappeared beneath his ear. The scar’s flesh was lighter than his skin, like a crack in the top of a cake when the batter rises and splits the browned crust. The left side of his mouth opened in a smile, but the scarred side remained serious, paralyzed. He pushed his hat farther back. His fingers were short and thick, like a cluster of bananas.
“This farmer,” he said, pointing to the house, “is a friend. He lets us camp here. Gives us water. I do favors for my friends. He has a bird problem. I promised him I’d solve it. I told him I’d shoot the thief, and I’m a man of my word.”
Luzia’s hands felt cold. Her underarms were wet. Ever since she was a girl, ever since the children poked and prodded her bent arm in the church schoolyard, Luzia had learned what to do when tears threatened. She pressed her lips together, hard, until they grew white and bloodless. Then she released them and the blood rushed back, warm and tingling. She did this over and over, focusing on the pain and the release, and not on her dry throat and stinging eyes.
“You may be lucky,” the scarred man continued, “I’m a great respecter of ladies. I don’t shoot them. But not all women are ladies. So what are you?”
Luzia’s heart drummed against her chest. She was not a lady, not a dona or a senhora. But she certainly wasn’t the other kind of woman—the kind Aunt Sofia warned her against. She was Victrola. Useless. Purposeless. She had never called herself by that name, had never said it aloud. Luzia lengthened her neck, pulled back her shoulders, and stepped into the sun.
“I am a seamstress,” she said, and the man put down his pistol.
3
As she started down the trail, it began to rain. It fell softly at first, then thickened into large, slapping drops. Luzia would not run. She kept her pace steady, allowing herself to look back only twice. Her heart felt as if it wanted to push through her skin.
Both times she’d turned around, the path was clear. She didn’t expect the scarred
“So,” the man in the middle said, “you’re the bird thief?”
Luzia shuddered at the sound of his voice. It was deep and thick, as if his throat was coated in molasses. He moved closer. There were gold rings on all of his brown fingers. Luzia wondered how he could grip the gun with so many jewels loaded onto his hands. Their clothing was ragged and soiled, but thick cartridge belts circled their waists, each strung with brass-tipped bullets that glimmered in the morning light. Stuffed prominently between their leather belts and the waistbands of their pants were silver knives. The handles had circular knobs that tapered into narrow throats, where the men’s hands could grip them. The tall man was a dark-skinned mulatto with finely carved features. The shorter man had kinky hair. And while most men wore beards, these had shaved faces, like priests.
“Are you mute?” the deep-voiced man asked.
His kinky-haired friend giggled and Luzia realized he was not a short man, but a boy.
“No,” Luzia said. Her voice trembled and she cleared her throat to remedy it. “I don’t steal them. I just open the doors. It’s the bird’s choice to stay or go.”
The central man laughed. His head tipped backward. The shadow cast by his hat brim vanished, revealing his face. Luzia took a breath. On his right cheek was a scar, two fingers thick, which roped from the corner of his thick lips and disappeared beneath his ear. The scar’s flesh was lighter than his skin, like a crack in the top of a cake when the batter rises and splits the browned crust. The left side of his mouth opened in a smile, but the scarred side remained serious, paralyzed. He pushed his hat farther back. His fingers were short and thick, like a cluster of bananas.
“This farmer,” he said, pointing to the house, “is a friend. He lets us camp here. Gives us water. I do favors for my friends. He has a bird problem. I promised him I’d solve it. I told him I’d shoot the thief, and I’m a man of my word.”
Luzia’s hands felt cold. Her underarms were wet. Ever since she was a girl, ever since the children poked and prodded her bent arm in the church schoolyard, Luzia had learned what to do when tears threatened. She pressed her lips together, hard, until they grew white and bloodless. Then she released them and the blood rushed back, warm and tingling. She did this over and over, focusing on the pain and the release, and not on her dry throat and stinging eyes.
“You may be lucky,” the scarred man continued, “I’m a great respecter of ladies. I don’t shoot them. But not all women are ladies. So what are you?”
Luzia’s heart drummed against her chest. She was not a lady, not a dona or a senhora. But she certainly wasn’t the other kind of woman—the kind Aunt Sofia warned her against. She was Victrola. Useless. Purposeless. She had never called herself by that name, had never said it aloud. Luzia lengthened her neck, pulled back her shoulders, and stepped into the sun.
“I am a seamstress,” she said, and the man put down his pistol.
3
As she started down the trail, it began to rain. It fell softly at first, then thickened into large, slapping drops. Luzia would not run. She kept her pace steady, allowing herself to look back only twice. Her heart felt as if it wanted to push through her skin.
Both times she’d turned around, the path was clear. She didn’t expect the scarred
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