She speeds up, slows down, squints into the dark beyond the headlights, then remembers the rearview mirror, then remembers the accelerator. Half the problem, I think, is Elizete Pinheiro, the woman sitting next to her.
Between here and there, the houses are few, the cars rare, the evening sky dark with the smoke of burning pastures. Certainly not the police. Leonora brakes hard as we turn onto the bridge over the Rio Teles Pires. Only later does Leonora tell us of her fear that this was it, the moment she had been expecting for the past ten years, the moment she found out for sure what God does with the dead.
The pistoleiros stay on us as we rumble over the bridge, then fall back as Leonora picks up what little speed her car can muster. She veers southeast onto the highway toward Terra Nova and swerves around a truck piled with furniture and peasants.
Just up the road is the little eatery where we had lunch earlier the same day, run by a family that loves her. Half a minute later, a car screams by. Previous Page Next Page 1 of 8 You are currently viewing this article as a guest. If you are a subscriber, please sign in.
