Stories of Paraná - White Mustache

Stories of Paraná - White Mustache

White mustache
Francisco Brito Lacerda

Windy.
It seemed that the world would end.
Peter was six.
He, his mother and father drove up a hill on the edge of the railroad, where stood the small cemetery.
Lush palm trees, facing the whitewashed wall, the wind blew.
In search of the iron gate, the three climbed the stone steps, the boy hand with her mother, who settled on the landing. "Stay very still, the mother will pray."
Exposed to swirl, he only looked back once.
He saw his mother kneeling alongside Cruz das Almas, trying to light a candle.
A train whistled and passed, the raging locomotive lay fa-gulhas by all noses.

The ja-nelinhas passengers looked the boy at the top of the stairs, his hand in his pocket.
A nun wearing glasses, smiling, gave him adeusinhos.
As the train passed, Peter was turning his head toward her.
Losing to the last car on winding path, was the wind. The boy was about to cry. "Do not cry, silly, the mother's back." He opened his arms, clinging to the woman.
For a visit to grandma's farm the other day, the father drove the wagon pulled by a bay horse.
Under the blue sky, sipping cold morning, Peter traveled ago. The mother did not take her eyes. "Beware the wheel, boy," she said.
On arrival, down to help open the gate stick plump, he liked to see the whiff coming out of the nostrils of the horse.
The grandmother lived in a house surrounded by windows; had to escort the maid Doraci, new girl.
In the kitchen around the stove, Peter saw pine nuts in baking sheet; idly in order to best warm up, fixed up in the hands of her grandmother, bulging veins. The old lady reached her pinions macetados. "Chew well, careful not to drown."
After Doraci took milk from the cow.
Showing teeth (because of the effort that was), she squeezed her tits.
Espumento, milk squirted in the bucket. "Now you will get the white mustache," announced Doraci.
Holding a mug by the handle, the boy took two sips.
Did craving.
Lotheth warm milk, taken at the time.
Then put the mug on the stool, back.
At lunch, just did not want cucumber.
Abused cocada yellow and cheese purungo.
Focus of attention of the grandmother who pleased him, barely noticed the time passing.
To see the water falling, been to the waterfall.
Back, the father picked guava, offering them in the palm of the hand.
"Come on, it's late," said the father.
Peter felt stripped, afraid to face the hour of parting.
Was sorry for her grandmother, who'd be almost alone in that wilderness.
While the wagon ran a descent, the old lady waved; increasingly distant, discolored by-rida twilight that came, his figure disappeared when the horse transposed the last pine.
Closed the gate, Peter took a urinadinha behind a cedar.
By the time the earth wet with pee, wiped a tear stubborn, before you go down the other guy.

Francisco Brito Lacerda, lawyer


Source: Stories of Paraná, Brasil.