10.
AURORA VALEN?A
Dante arrived at exactly nine o’clock.
Not eight fifty-nine.
Not nine oh-one.
Nine.
I was watching the clock.
Which irritated me.
I should not have been waiting for him.
Even so, when I heard the knock at the door, my body recognized the sound.
Elisa ran toward it.
“I’ll open it!”
“You don’t open the door by yourself.”
She stopped with her hand on the doorknob.
“But it’s Daddy Dante.”
The name appeared for the first time.
Daddy Dante.
Not merely Dante.
Not merely the sad man.
My chest tightened.
“Even so, you don’t open it.”
I went to the door.
Dante stood outside without his suit jacket.
He wore a pale shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark trousers. He looked less out of place, although it was still impossible to mistake him for anyone from town.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
He entered.
Tomás ran toward him.
“Look!”
He held up a crumpled sheet of paper.
Dante crouched.
“What is it?”
“Dino.”
The page contained several green scribbles.
“Very good.”
“He’s huge.”
“He looks huge.”
Elisa approached.
“Doesn’t look like a dino.”
“It does,” Dante replied.
She crossed her arms.
“You’re lying.”
He looked at me.
“Don’t tell them their drawings are good when you don’t understand them,” I explained.
“I understood it was a dinosaur after he told me.”
“Then say that.”
Dante turned back to Tomás.
“I didn’t realize it was a dinosaur before you told me. But I like the green.”
Tomás smiled.
“It’s a green dino.”
“Now I see it.”
Elisa appeared satisfied by the correction.
“Come,” she ordered. “There’s a house.”
Dante allowed himself to be led to the play area.
Cecília was sitting inside a fabric tent.
He stopped before entering.
“May I?”
She clutched her blue cloth.
“Only foot.”
“Only my foot may go inside?”
“Yeah.”
Dante sat outside the tent and slid one foot beneath the curtain.
Cecília covered his shoe with a blanket.
“Sleeping.”
“My foot is sleeping?”
“It has an owie.”
“What happened?”
“It fell.”
“Will it get better?”
“Gotta take care.”
She tied a ribbon around his ankle.
Dante remained completely still, taking the game so seriously that I had to turn my face away to hide a smile.
I went back to work.
His presence altered the atmosphere.
The children spoke more loudly. They competed for his attention. Elisa wanted to show him everything. Tomás did dangerous things to provoke a reaction.
Cecília remained cautious, but she no longer avoided him.
At ten, Tomás climbed onto the stool.
“Get down,” I said.
He ignored me.
“Tomás.”
He climbed onto the table.
Dante stood.
“Your mother told you to get down.”
“Don’t want to.”
“You might fall.”
“I won’t.”
“Tomás.”
The boy looked at him.
“You’re not the boss.”
Dante became still.
The sentence had been delivered with the innocent cruelty unique to children.
I expected irritation.
He simply breathed.
“You’re right. I’m not the boss. But your mother is, and she asked you to get down.”
Tomás remained standing.
“I’m tall.”
“You are.”
“Taller than you.”
“Not yet.”
“Am too.”
“Would you like to measure on the floor?”
Tomás hesitated.
Then he climbed down to prove it.
Dante positioned him beside his leg.
“See? I’m still taller.”
Tomás looked up.
“A lot.”
The crisis ended.
“You redirected him,” I commented.
“It worked.”
“This time.”
He glanced at me.
“Do you always say that?”
“Probably.”
At ten thirty, the studio telephone rang.
It was a client from Ouro Preto asking about the restoration of two religious statues.
I moved away to check the dates.
When I returned, Dante was cleaning paint from the floor.
Elisa had knocked over a jar.
Tomás had blue marks on his arms.
Cecília was crying because a drop had landed on her doll.
“What happened?”
All four of them spoke at once.
“Enough.”
The silence was partial.
Elisa continued trying to explain.
“One at a time. Dante.”
He straightened.
“Elisa wanted to paint a box. Tomás took the brush. She pulled it. The jar fell. Cecília was nearby.”
“I didn’t do it,” Tomás said.
“You pulled the brush,” Elisa accused.
“It was mine.”
“Was not.”
Cecília held up her doll.
“She’s dirty.”
“I’ll clean her.”
I took the doll.
Dante continued wiping the floor.
“Be careful with the cracks,” I warned. “That paint stains.”
“I noticed.”
“Don’t rub. Press.”
He changed the movement.
The scene should not have meant anything.
A man cleaning spilled paint.
But Dante never did small tasks when I knew him.
Not because of deliberate arrogance.
Because there was always someone paid to do them.
In his house, empty glasses disappeared from tables.
Shirts reappeared clean.
Cars arrived at the door.
He never needed to think about the invisible work supporting his life.
Now he was kneeling on the floor, pressing a cloth against blue paint.
“It’s gone,” he said.
“Almost.”
“What’s left?”
I handed him vinegar.
“Use only a little.”
He obeyed.
At eleven, he was supposed to leave.
I did not mention the time.
Neither did he.
The children ate fruit while I cleaned Tomás.
Dante washed the children’s dishes.
He did it incorrectly.
He used the sponge reserved for pots.
“Not that one.”
He stopped.
“Why?”
“It has grease on it.”
“There’s dish soap.”
“Even so.”
I handed him another.
“Is there a different sponge for everything?”
“Two.”
“Right.”
“And don’t use the red cloth.”
“Why?”
“It’s for the floor.”
He looked at the red cloth beside the sink.
“How many rules are there in this kitchen?”
“Many.”
“You could write them down.”
“You don’t live here.”
The response came out harsher than necessary.
Dante lowered his head.
“You’re right.”
Silence settled between us.
Elisa broke it.
“Are you staying for lunch?”
I looked at the clock.
Eleven twenty.
“Not today,” I answered.
She pouted.
“Why?”
“Because he has things to do.”
Dante dried his hands.
“I can stay, if you allow me.”
I should have said no.
Instead, I heard myself ask:
“Do you have a meeting?”
“I can reschedule it.”
“Don’t reschedule anything because of us.”
“It wouldn’t be out of obligation.”
“Even so.”
“The meeting can happen later.”
Elisa took his hand.
“Stay.”
Tomás repeated:
“Stay.”
Cecília said nothing.
But she placed a small spoon in front of the empty place at the table.
Dante looked at me.
I knew all three children were watching.
“Only today,” I said.
“All right.”
During lunch, Dante discovered that children did not remain seated.
Elisa stood five times.
Tomás spilled his cup.
Cecília refused the chicken because it was “wet.”
Dante attempted to speak to all three and did not finish a single sentence.
“Does this happen every day?” he asked.
“On calm days.”
He laughed.
A genuine laugh.
The children looked at him.
So did I.
It had been years since I heard that sound.
In the past, I used to provoke him until I could drag it out of his seriousness.
Now our children had done it effortlessly.
Dante noticed my gaze.
His smile slowly disappeared.
The memory rose between us.
Who we had been.
Who we might have been.
I looked away.
“Eat before it gets cold.”
“Right.”
***
After lunch, Tomás decided he no longer needed trousers.
He announced the decision in the middle of the kitchen while tugging the waistband of his shorts downward.
“No,” I said immediately.
“It’s hot.”
“Even so.”
“My leg is trapped.”
“Your leg isn’t trapped.”
“Is too.”
Before I reached him, Tomás managed to pull one leg out of the shorts. The other became caught in the fabric. He attempted to walk, tripped, and landed on his bottom.
Elisa laughed.
“He turned into a mermaid.”
Tomás stared at his legs.
“I’m a mermaid.”
“Mermaids don’t wear dinosaur underwear,” Elisa informed him.
“They do.”
“Do not.”
“Mine does.”
Cecília, still separating the last grains of rice on her plate, looked up.
“Mermaid is a girl.”
Tomás was outraged.
“I’m a boy mermaid.”
“A merman,” Dante said.
Everyone looked at him.
“What?” Elisa asked.
“Boys with fish tails are called mermen.”
“Merman is an ugly name.”
“I didn’t choose it.”
Tomás pulled at his shorts again.
“I’m a mermaid.”
“All right,” Dante agreed. “You’re a mermaid.”
“Boy.”
“A boy mermaid.”
“That.”
I tried to lift my son.
“Let’s put your shorts back on.”
Tomás threw himself backward.
“No!”
“You can’t be naked in the kitchen.”
“I can.”
“You cannot.”
“Daddy Dante lets me.”
Dante went still.
It was the first time one of the children attempted to use him against me.
I almost felt sorry for him.
“I don’t,” he answered.
Tomás stared at him as if betrayed.
“You do.”
“Your mother said you need to wear your shorts.”
“She says no a lot.”
“Even so.”
“You’re mean.”
“Everyone seems to think so today.”
Tomás kicked the air.
“Don’t want to!”
The tantrum grew rapidly. His body became heavy, limp, and rigid all at once, the way only small children could manage.
I tried to guide the shorts over his leg.
He screamed.
Elisa began to sing:
“Naked mermaid, naked mermaid…”
“Elisa, stop.”
“But he is.”
“Stop.”
She stopped for two seconds.
“Mermaid without shorts.”
“Elisa.”
Dante crouched.
“Tomás, would you like to put your shorts on by yourself, or do you want help?”
My son interrupted his screaming.
He looked at him.
“By myself.”
“All right.”
Dante placed the shorts in front of him.
Tomás attempted to put both legs through the same opening.
He fell again.
“Doesn’t work.”
“May I hold them?”
“Only hold.”
Dante held the waistband open.
Tomás inserted one leg.
Then the other.
He stood and pulled up the shorts proudly.
“I did it.”
“You did,” Dante confirmed.
“By myself.”
“Almost.”
“By myself!”
“By yourself.”
I looked at Dante.
“Simple choices?”
He appeared pleased that I had recognized the technique.
“The book suggested it.”
“It doesn’t always work.”
“This time.”
I could not help myself.
“Don’t use my phrases against me.”
A subtle smile appeared on his lips.
It was brief.
Even so, it affected me.
There were things about Dante I continued to recognize against my will.
The way his face changed when he was genuinely amused.
The slight tilt of his head before teasing me.
The lighter gleam in his eyes when he watched me.
I stepped away.
“Time to wash your hands.”
Getting three children to the sink produced another small battle.
Elisa wanted to climb onto the stool first.