Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [35]
“I have lived here my entire life,” Dona Cida said.
For a moment they stared into each other’s eyes. Dona Cida was a tiny woman of perhaps four and a half feet, her face deeply creased from working in the sun, her eyes brilliant with worry and intelligence. Pedro, who had come out to see about this case only because he adored Luzia, was a big, fleshy man, his dark eyes reflecting confusion and doubt.
“And remember that whatever you do here,” Dona Cida said, “after you leave, my children and I will be left behind. And Sheriff Teixeira will punish us forever if you publicly humiliate him.”
At that moment, the jailhouse door opened and Sheriff Teixeira himself emerged. He was black by United States standards, but in Bahia he was considered, particularly with his middle-class connections, white, despite his light brown color and African features. He surveyed the three of us.
“So, this is why you have this fancy lawyer,” he said to Dona Cida. He jerked his head in my direction. “Your boy hanging out with this white rich gringa now, is he? Thinks he’s got too big for his place.” He looked at me and leered. “You like young, strong black boys, do you?”
I looked back at him and, with every ounce of self-control I could summon, I smiled.
“I sorry, senhor,” I said. “I not speak Portuguese so well. I visit my friend”—I gestured toward Pedro—“and he invite me come on his day work here. So I can see countryside. Your town beautiful.” I smiled again and flipped my blond hair over one shoulder.
Sheriff Teixeira relaxed visibly and returned my smile. “Your friend’s a bit innocent, isn’t she?” he said to Pedro.
“She’s a foreigner visiting my family,” Pedro said. “The son of a cousin of mine plays capoeira with Gato in Salvador.”
The sheriff nodded. Foreigners clearly could not be expected to understand anything.
“I have released the boy,” he said. “My deputies have escorted him back to his family. As for your son,” he said to Dona Cida, “after your lawyer friend here gets the papers we need, then you and I can discuss his release.”
Dona Cida lowered her eyes. “Certainly,” she said. “Thank you very much, senhor.” Sheriff Teixeira nodded and walked away toward his lunch. Pedro stood up.
“Well, at least we’re getting somewhere now. I’ll go and get these papers he wants from Salvador. Is there a post office or somewhere here that has a fax machine?”
“Yes,” said Dona Cida. “There’s one just around the corner.”
Dona Cida and I sat in silence after he left. The heat had become overpowering. Flies buzzed around us and the street emptied as people retired inside for lunch and to escape the sun.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, “but in your negotiations with Sheriff Teixeira, would this help?” I quickly displayed under that table the equivalent of fifty dollars I had just removed from my bag. Dona Cida looked at the money and then looked at me.
“That’s more than a month’s salary,” she said.
“I know.” I paused, wondering how I could express, after what I had seen so far in Bahia, how much it would mean for me to actually be able to offer some assistance and have that assistance accepted. I didn’t have the right kind of power or knowledge, but I did have a little bit of money. But I also knew that money gifts can undermine a person’s self respect. They could be humiliating and reinforce the economic and social chasm between us. “Your son is a good teacher to me—and to the other students in our group. He takes the classes half the time now. This is from all of us.” I laughed. “We want him back in class.”
Dona Cida smiled. “He is very good at capoeira, isn’t he? He could be a real mestre.”
“Yes,” I said. “He has grace and an intuition that’s quite incredible. The mestres say he has a special talent and could be one of the great players in Salvador some day.”
Dona Cida slid her hand under the table and took the money. “For my son,” she