29
CECíLIA
At ten o’clock, I closed the door to the small back room and answered the phone.
Joana knew I’d need a few minutes. Production was organized, she had the store phone, and there was nothing in the oven that required my immediate attention. Even so, I started the conversation standing up.
Dante asked if it was a good time to talk.
“Go ahead.”
He told me what Augusto had admitted: he’d chosen not to show the receipt. He’d considered other information more relevant. I was holding the phone in one hand and the edge of the shelf with the other when I heard the word “relevant.”
I looked at the bags of flour in front of me.
“Did he say that?”
“He did. I wrote up the conversation afterward as my own account. The documents and his formal answers to the team are separate. Clarice will receive them through the channel we agreed on.”
I understood the distinction. I just couldn’t bring myself to care about it at that moment.
The man who’d signed for the loan had known what he was doing when he left it out of the story. He hadn’t mistaken me for someone else or gotten a date wrong. He’d selected what would make me look guilty.
“He knew I was paying it back,” I said.
“The finance department received records. They’re still checking the full sequence. I don’t want to tell you more than the evidence shows.”
I let go of the shelf.
I sat down because my legs were shaking, and feeling that made me even angrier. I wanted a clear-headed anger, one that would let me speak clearly and get back up afterward. I was overcome by an urge to cry that I hadn’t asked for.
“I was paying, and I thought that once I was done, it would all be over.”
Dante didn’t answer.
“Not the whole story. The debt. I wanted, at the very least, to owe him nothing anymore. And he was still the man who had helped me.”
My voice came out harsh on that last word.
I remembered thanking Augusto. Asking if I could start the following month, hearing there was no rush, then hurrying anyway, as though each installment left other people with less claim on my name.
“Did he mention Marina?” I asked.
“No. I didn’t mention what you told me.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me.
“What else?”
Dante said my questions about suppliers had bothered Augusto. That he’d considered me an interference. There was a pause before Dante added that his brother had claimed he needed to make him see a risk.
I laughed once, without humor.
“I asked why the same thing cost more when it went through another company. I wasn’t trying to take anyone’s place.”
“I know.”
“No, Dante. You didn’t know. You told me Augusto understood these things, and I let it go.”
I heard him breathe.
“That’s what I said. I didn’t check.”
I looked at the narrow desk where we took orders and sorted receipts.
My life had been pushed into a place from which I’d had to work my way out.
Their company had continued to grow, the two of them had continued to occupy offices, and now a sentence spoken in one of those offices was beginning to bring home to me the extent of what I’d lost.
“I need to get off the phone for a while,” I said.
“Okay.”
“Not because you told me. I needed to know. I just can’t keep talking right now.”
“Let me know when you’re ready to pick up where we left off.”
I hung up and set the phone down on the table.
For a few minutes, I didn’t do anything.
Then I washed my face in the bathroom and went back to the kitchen. Joana took one look at me, judged the answer I wouldn’t give, and asked if I’d rather check the packaging while she finished the filling.
I agreed.
It wasn’t a small task. It was a manageable one.
***
I spoke with Clarice later that afternoon.
She explained what she’d received, what would still be sent, and which points needed clarification. I asked the questions I’d managed to write down. I also asked how we could address the effects of the accusation on me without exposing Marina’s story.
“We need to think this through with you,” she replied. “Not as a decision the brothers make and then communicate.”
I let out a breath at that.
On Thursday, an attempt was made to do exactly that.
Clarice called to say that a representative of Augusto’s had sought a private conversation about a possible settlement. There was no formal proposal or amount presented. The idea described was to resolve the dispute between the parties, preserving the family and avoiding public exposure.
I was at the counter, having just helped a customer. I stepped aside to hear the rest.
“Did he acknowledge what he did when they spoke to you?” I asked.
“Not explicitly. They talked about ending the conflict and discussing compensation.”
I looked out at the street through the storefront window.
For years, some people had known only that I’d been rejected at my own wedding over an accusation involving money.
Not everyone had come to me to ask what had happened.
I didn’t know how many opportunities I’d lost because someone had preferred to hire someone else, how many conversations had ended before they even reached me.
Augusto now wanted to preserve something.
So did I.
“I won’t accept a conversation that starts by asking me to disappear from the story again,” I said.
Clarice waited for me to continue.
“I want to understand my options. I’m not saying I’ll go tell everyone tomorrow. But I won’t take money to leave the accusation standing.”
“I can let them know you’re not interested on those terms and ask that any proposal be made in writing, clearly.”
“You can. And make it clear that my sister isn’t part of this.”
She confirmed it.
When I hung up, I realized I was clutching a napkin in my hand. I opened my fingers and threw it away.
That night, I told Marina. She listened, asked if Augusto knew where she lived, and calmed down when I explained that he had no contact with her. Then she said she wanted to continue receiving only information related to her participation.
I respected that.
I spoke with Dante the next day, at a time we’d agreed on beforehand. He’d heard about the approach from Clarice, within the scope of what I’d authorized her to share.
“I didn’t ask anyone to contact you,” he said.
“I know. Clarice explained where it came from.”
There was a moment of silence.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
I was sitting at my table at home, the bakery’s accounts closed beside me. Bento played in his room. The question didn’t seem to conceal a correct answer, and that let me think before I spoke.
“I want what happened to me to be set right. Carefully, without exposing what doesn’t need to be. And I don’t want you to decide on your own what the best way is.”
“I’m not going to decide for you.”
“And don’t make a statement to prove you’re on my side without talking to me first. My name is mine.”
“Okay.”
I looked toward the window. Marina’s plant had a small new leaf leaning toward the light.
“I’m so angry with him,” I admitted.
Dante took a moment.
“You have reason to be.”
Dante just listened. I managed to finish what I’d started to say.
I was grateful for that.
After the call, I grabbed a piece of paper and jotted down the questions I’d ask Clarice. What could be corrected. How. What information needed to be shared and who would have access to it.
For the first time since hearing Augusto’s admission, I could do something with the anger besides hold it inside my body.