Story. Souvenir. Tradition.
Dona Valeriana was proud.
–The Revolution of 32, my son.
The people of São Paulo went to war against the rest of Brazil.
–Too bad we didn’t break up for good.
Her family had solid roots in the coffee economy.
–To put up with these northeasterners.
–It all started with Getúlio Vargas.
The lemon balm tea was cooling in the cup.
–From then on, everything only went for the worse.
The old woman rang the silver bell.
It was to call the maid.
–Hmm. Doralva is more deaf than I am.
The afternoon spread shades of purple in that salon in Higienópolis.
–If my late husband saw what they did to this neighborhood…
buildings. Beggars. traffic jams.
–They were just good houses… with jabuticabeira in the backyard.
The portrait on the wall was of Dr. Botelinho Prado.
–My father. Cavalry captain in our revolution.
The heroic body of Dr. Botelhinho rested on the Ibirapuera Obelisk.
–And this maid? Doesn’t she show up?
There were slow footsteps down the hall.
The crystals shivered on the sideboard.
–Doralva? And you?
A male figure appeared.
High. black beard. Imposing bearing.
The boots and the heavy-barreled gun suggested a historical personality.
In Santo Amaro, the statue of the Bandeirante ancestor is standing.
It was Cape Romao. From the São Paulo PM.
–Two rogues entered the lady’s garden here.
–And didn’t Doralva see it?
–Ran away. But she can rest easy.
Smoke was still coming out of Romão’s rifle.
–We ended up with the race of the two.
–Now, the bad news is that Doralva…
–What’s the matter?
–You know how it is… little girl, she ran away… ended up taking a bullet too.
Dona Valeriana smiled sadly.
–So, my son, taking advantage of your being there…
She handed Romao the cup of tea.
–Warm up the tea for me.
–Mission given is mission accomplished, Ms. Valeriana.
Every war has its victims.
But there’s never a shortage of tea for those who stay in the same place.
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