Book: Brasilis

Treasure is only an excuse to go on a quest.

Shared with each other news in the language of broken branches, sheltering shields from the rain of poison Darts, listening to underwater monsters scratch their back on the keels of boats... Living every moment as the last - is it not the greatest happiness?

Those who are close, not warm like the synthetic sweater or airplane blanket.

On the sidewalks women appeared younger. On bare feet chenille veins with slow blood. Eyes not looking for torches, and looked straight ahead the street lamps that illuminated the area well known.

Vests, tights, socks stretched over my head not a hint, not a rebuke.

A sculptor without hands, but still warming all hearts. He, of course, worthy of immortality, and not care who was his apprentice Michelangelo or Cabra.

He paused. His hair, beard tech jet. Broad chest was covered with a shirt. Took my hand, wrapped it around the handle of the umbrella and disappeared behind sheets of rain.
I was left alone. The rain from that day lasted in my head to Lisbon.

There are things that should remain secret. After all, for something nobody's ever found Paytiti, not deciphered the Voynich manuscript and the Nazca lines?

Clutching the bag with the papers, walked to the bar. There was warmth in the palm of your hand over the steam of a coffee: cold, like the water that descended suddenly. A distant forest, was worried. Palm trees at the Church BOM of Jesus shied away from lightning. Birds clung to each other on a beam under the roof of the bar. One neighbor recalled the other on the pillow cases on the balcony. From damp salt gathered clumps in the salt shaker - the bottom of the beer can.
A gust of wind. The draft slammed the door. Cook went behind the bar and told the bartender that cheese bread did not rise in the oven.
In the rain there's no need, ' muttered the man.

I went to the window: Ouro Preto became gray. Misted glass. "It's strange home don't miss it". He thought about his apartment: wooden floor, white walls, very basic furniture - from the economy, and not the love of minimalism. "If you can profitably sell statues Cabra, will move to a bigger apartment in the room," but this idea is not fluttered by a butterfly, and rolled on the head with a billiard ball.

Profile as with ancient frescoes, the same deadpan look. The words I prefer action. There is not enough. Such is almost gone.

Suddenly remembered how Alma talked about the Brazilian rivers, where float and you RUB the sides of the large Dorado. In one of these, in Mato Grosso, she lost an earring with a diamond.
Be right back in there and find my treasure, ' she said once.
- Why "return"? - I asked.
- Because coming back, grinned Alma.

- Man, when he suffers, can not be straight lines - taught him Aleijadinho.
Cabra understand him crouched one loss broke second. Spine resembled a snake in the escape. Eyes were unwilling to look up at the sky. Only a stone - which he rasped and was holding; but the ground to count the steps to the workshop, where a warm feijoada.

Cabra, to calm down the heart, turned over on his right side, then the left. Like a Nightingale in the cage of the ten fingers, waited a moment, until hands for tremble, will appear a crack, and then... no matter where - if only was the road.