Dusk

Now at dusk, I miss my wallet. It's no good going shopping without money, is it? I search the whole house for it and find nothing. I imagine where it can be. Half an hour thinking about it and the thought I might have left it at Corporal hits me. The last place I was before I came home. I phoned Corporal and there was nothing but a busy signal. After twenty minutes trying to phone, I give up. I think it's easier to go there.

It's six sharp. The association looks emptier at this time; few fighters training in the practice room. I go straight past the practice room to Mr. Costa's room to find the door ajar. Mr. Costa is talking to two kids and I only see their backs. I don't need to look for long to see it's Morales and Galhardo. And Galhardo seems uptight. Something keeps me from stepping in, maybe the curiosity of hearing what they say. I have the clear impression the talk won't be the same if they see me here. But I can't hear anything from where I am for some reason I can't work out. He speaks moving his hands nervously, tense, while Mr. Costa listens patiently. Galhardo is nervous, it can't be denied even where I see them from. I constantly look behind lest someone sees me trying to listen and look through the door, I miss details of the scene, try to read the lips, all shook up, nothing occurs to me when Galhardo turns to the door. This sends shivers through my spine; I start moving slowly away from the door while seeing his silhouette coming fast, growing phantasmagorically through the gap of the door ajar. I don't go very far: I stumble and fall, while the door opens and the shadow, enveloped in the darkness of the space between the practice hall and Mr. Costa's room, jumps over me. "What the heck are you doing here at this time?", Galhardo shouts at me, panting. I close my eyes, petrified, without knowing what to do, what would become of me and, all of a sudden, all is quiet. Slowly I open my eyes. And look around.

And I'm alone in my bedroom. Breathless, I see it was just a bad dream. Bad, but just a dream. Just a dream? Maybe. Maybe created by the talk I had with Mr. Costa, maybe. All of it is a great big maybe. I phone Galhardo almost immediately. His mother tells me he's not in. I ask her where he is. She tells me what I already imagined: that he is at Corporal. I ask her if he usually stays there until late, and I know I risk hearing something as "mind your own business", but she tells me he doesn't, but he had been called by Mr. Costa on the phone to talk at Corporal. I phoned Figueira and he himself answered. He said he turned back on his way to the door halfway to Palmares square with his skateboard only to answer the call. I could perfectly hear him sniffing on the other side and thought he might have a flu or a cold or the two. Asked him how it felt during the training with Galhardo and don't remember hearing so many four-letter words in only one sentence. Then I hung up, thinking of what it all could mean. Upon hanging up for the second time, I see the wallet right beside the telephone set.

Like violence is the shore | Madeira-Mamoré Railway Society

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