36.
AURORA VALEN?A
Dante was shot on a Friday.
On Monday, he attempted to work.
I found him inside the library of the bad house, seated in front of two screens, one arm immobilized, the telephone trapped between his healthy shoulder and his face, while three people spoke simultaneously through a video conference.
“No,” he was saying. “The audit will receive unrestricted access… I don’t care if there are personal documents belonging to my father…
Then remove only medical and family information unrelated to the investigation…
No, Marcelo, I am not waiting for a board recommendation before surrendering something the police have already requested. ”
I stopped in the doorway.
Dante had not seen me.
He wore a dark shirt, loose enough to allow the dressing to be changed. The white bandage was visible near his shoulder. His face looked tired, and his beard had begun growing again.
Tomás would approve.
I did not.
The beard reminded me of my fingers touching his face.
The car.
The kisses.
The conversation on the sofa.
“I want you alive for me.”
I had said it.
I could not pretend otherwise.
“The decision is mine,” Dante continued. “If the board wishes to challenge it, call the vote.”
He ended the call.
He rested his head against the chair.
“You should be resting.”
His eyes opened.
“Good morning.”
“Do not change the subject.”
“It’s ten fifteen.”
“For you, apparently, that is still morning.”
“The children?”
“At school.”
“Did Tomás take the dinosaur?”
“He tried. It is hidden inside the backpack.”
“You allowed it?”
“I didn’t find it.”
“Then you allowed it without knowing.”
“Exactly.”
Dante smiled.
“How did you enter?”
“The door was open.”
“Security should have warned me.”
“I told him not to.”
“Then he disobeyed me.”
“Because I ordered him.”
“That does not improve the situation.”
I approached.
“Show me the dressing.”
His smile broadened.
“You could ask with more romance.”
“I can leave.”
“No.”
The word came rapidly.
Dante stood carefully.
I knew how to change the dressing because the nurse taught me.
He knew too.
Even so, I had come.
I did not need to analyze that too deeply.
I instructed him to sit in the armchair near the window.
I picked up the bag containing gauze, saline, and tape.
“Did you take the pain medication on schedule?”
“Yes.”
“Which dose?”
“The one at eight.”
“And the antibiotic?”
“Seven.”
“Did you eat?”
“Coffee.”
“That is not food.”
“There was bread.”
“Did you eat the bread?”
“Half.”
I looked at him.
“You interrogate worse than the board.”
“The board did not see you bleeding.”
The humor disappeared.
Dante remained silent.
I opened his shirt near the shoulder.
The dressing was clean.
Very little blood.
The skin around it was still swollen.
“Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
“How much?”
“Three.”
“Out of ten?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
“Five.”
“Still lying.”
“Six.”
“Better.”
I wet the gauze.
Dante watched my face.
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Looking.”
“You’re very close.”
“Close your eyes.”
He obeyed.
That was worse.
The lines of his face relaxed.
The short beard.
The mouth I had kissed.
I concentrated on the wound.
“The nurse said you may shower normally tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Do not lift the arm.”
“I can’t.”
“Good.”
“You do not need to sound pleased.”
“You are a terrible patient.”
“I have never needed care.”
I stopped.
“After the accident two years ago?”
His eyes remained closed.
“Employees organized everything.”
“That is not care.”
“It was efficient.”
“That is not care either.”
Dante opened his eyes.
“Are you caring for me?”
The question was simple.
I did not answer immediately.
“I’m changing a dressing.”
“All right.”
“And I brought food.”
“That sounds like care.”
“Your children need you to recover.”
“Of course.”
The old escape.
Everything for the children.
Not only.
“So do I,” I said.
My voice was low.
Dante did not move.
“You do not need to make me repeat that constantly,” I added.
“I would not ask.”
“It seems like you want to.”
“I do. But I would not ask.”
I removed the old dressing.
“You will have another scar.”
“Another one.”
“This one is larger.”
“Tomás will be pleased.”
“He’ll say he won.”
“And he’ll be right.”
I cleaned the wound.
Dante tightened his jaw.
“Six?” I asked.
“Seven.”
“I can be gentler.”
“No need.”
“That is pride.”
“It is pain.”
“Men confuse the two.”
“Women don’t?”
“I don’t.”
He opened his eyes.
“You pretended not to feel anything for weeks.”
“That was not physical pain.”
“Even so.”
“Be quiet.”
“All right.”
I finished.
The tape was crooked.
“The nurse did it better,” Dante commented.
“I can rip it off.”
“It’s perfect.”
I closed the shirt.
“Eat.”
I had brought soup, rice, vegetables, and shredded chicken.
Mrs. Lurdes had prepared it.
I had placed it inside the containers.
Dante walked toward the kitchen.
“Are the children coming today?”
“After school.”
“Here?”
“You cannot go out.”
“I could go to the studio.”
“No.”
“You just said I should not control things.”
“And you were just shot.”
“Does that give you temporary authority?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Until I decide you are well.”
He raised one eyebrow.
“Dangerous.”
“Very.”
He sat.
I served him.
The house no longer looked empty.
There were toys now.
Few.
Chosen with the children rather than purchased excessively.
A box of blocks.
Toy cars.
Cloth dolls.
Books.
The three cups inside the kitchen.
Children’s toothbrushes inside the bathroom.
The mattresses had become low beds.
Dante had not created an extravagant themed bedroom.
He had asked first.
Elisa selected a yellow cushion.
Cecília wanted moon stickers.
Tomás requested a dinosaur that was “not scared.”
Things arrived gradually.
The house stopped belonging only to him.
“Is the group losing money?” I asked.
Dante picked up the spoon.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“A great deal.”
“That is not a number.”
“The shares have fallen seventeen percent.”
“In how long?”
“Four days.”
My stomach contracted.
“Because of the pages?”
“And the audit.”
“Can it recover?”
“Perhaps.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“We sell assets, restructure debt, close unprofitable operations.”
“Employees will lose their jobs.”
“Some, probably.”
“Because of the truth.”
“Because of the crime.”
“Your father’s.”
“Yes.”
“It is not your fault.”
Dante looked at me.
“Neither was what happened your fault. You still paid for it.”
The answer did not comfort me.
“I do not want thousands of people suffering so you can prove something to me.”
“I’m not proving anything.”
“It feels that way.”
“I would have surrendered the documents even if you never forgave me.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He set down the spoon.
“Because I have children.”
“What does that change?”
“One day, Elisa will search my name. Cecília will read the articles. Tomás will discover what his grandfather did. I want them to also find the record of what I did once I knew.”
My chest tightened.
“You could protect the image.”
“That is how my father lived.”
“And you do not want to become him.”
“No.”
“Even if it destroys what he built.”
“Perhaps parts must be destroyed to save what remains.”
I looked around.
The restored old house.
Second Layer.
That was what I did.
I did not erase damage.
I consolidated it.
Cleaned it.
Reintegrated only where enough information existed.
I kept scars visible when they formed part of the history.
“Restoration does not return a piece to its original state,” I said.
Dante waited.
“Never?”
“No. Too much intervention creates a forgery. You preserve what exists, prevent future loss, and allow the history to be read.”
“Are you talking about us?”
“Maybe.”
“May I ask difficult questions?”
“It depends.”
“What still exists?”
My heart beat hard.
“Three children.”
“Beyond them.”
“Desire.”
“Beyond that.”
“Memory.”
“Beyond that.”
“Do not pressure me.”
Dante nodded.
“All right.”
I wanted to answer.
Perhaps that was why the question irritated me.
What still existed?
Care.
Affection.
A desire to see him.
Relief when he arrived.
Fear when he left.
A piece of the love I denied.
“Trust under construction,” I admitted.
Dante became still.
“Do not make that face.”
“I don’t know what face I’m making.”
“As though I handed you the world.”
“It feels like it.”
“I did not.”
“I know.”
“It’s small.”
“A little is good.”
Cecília’s phrase.
I smiled.
“You use the children too often.”
“They are wise.”
“They’re three.”
“Even so.”
He returned to his soup.
He ate everything.
A victory.
At two, we went to collect the children.
I drove.
Dante sat in the passenger seat, his arm immobilized.
“You do not need to come.”
“I want to.”
“You’ll become tired.”
“I can sit.”
“The children will jump.”
“You’ll stop them.”
“All three at once?”
“You said you have done it for years.”
“Do not use that.”
“All right.”
Elisa came out first.
She saw the bandage and ran.
“Daddy is broken!”
“A little,” Dante answered.
“Can I hold?”
“Not today.”
She stopped.
Immediate disappointment.
“Why?”
“My shoulder is hurt.”
“Other arm.”
“I still need to protect it.”
Elisa looked at me.
“Mommy allows?”
“No.”
“You agree on everything bad.”
Tomás came.
“Want see shot.”
“There is no bullet now,” Dante explained. “Only a dressing.”
“Bullet went in?”
“Went in and came out.”
“Like tunnel?”
“More or less.”
“Can I put finger?”
“No,” we answered simultaneously.
Cecília approached slowly.
She did not embrace him.
She touched his hand.
“Did hurt?”
“Yes.”
“You cried?”
“Not at the time.”
“After?”
Dante looked at me.
“A little.”
It was not true.
I had not seen him cry.
But perhaps he had alone.
Cecília nodded.
“Men cry.”
“I know.”
Inside the car, the questions continued.
“Bad man is in jail?” Elisa asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“He say sorry?”
“Not yet.”
“Then stays jail until he does.”
“That is not how it works.”
“Why?”
“Adults have laws.”
“Children too.”
“What law?”
“Don’t hit.”
I looked at Dante.
He accepted it.
“That is a good law,” he said.
“You hit.”
“I hit your hand. It was wrong.”
“But you said sorry.”
“I did.”
“Then not in jail.”
Elisa’s justice was simple.
Dante had made a mistake.
Acknowledged it.
Changed.
Otávio had not.
Perhaps a child’s forgiveness was not forgetting.
It was movement.
When we reached Dante’s house, all three ran inside.