Chapter 5: WaterFire

On Saturday night the whole city came downtown to watch fires burn on the river.

WaterFire is a hundred iron braziers in the middle of the water, stacked with cedar and pine, lit at dusk by men in black boats.

The smoke smelled of resin, and drums played from somewhere under the bridges.

Fortunato had put the two families on the stone walk along the bank, in the open, where every man in Providence could see us.

My mother and Fortunato walked ahead with their arms linked.

Riccardo and I walked three steps behind them, a careful two feet apart.

We were brother and sister, in front of the men.

He wore a charcoal coat and a dark scarf, and the firelight moved on his face.

I wore a long wool skirt and my father's ring, tucked in against my skin.

"Evening, menina," said a voice at my elbow.

An old captain of my father's generation had stopped on the walk, in a cap and a pea coat, with a cane.

He didn't look at Riccardo.

He looked at the place under my scarf where the chain lay, and he touched two fingers to his cap.

"Hold it well," he said.

"I will, Senhor."

"Twelve months," the old man said, quietly, to the air between us. "We are counting."

He tipped his cap and went on.

Beside me, Riccardo had gone still.

"What does he mean?" I asked.

"The peace," he said, a little too quickly. "Twelve months. My father said it at the table."

"Yes."

I let it go, because the fires were beautiful, and because he had just sounded afraid.

The crowd pressed us together at a bend in the walk.

People stood in front of us and behind us.

For the first time all night nobody was looking at our faces.

I leaned in until my mouth was against his ear.

"After this," I said, "I'm going to take you somewhere dark and put your hand between my legs."

His whole body locked.

"I'm going to tell you what to do with it. You're going to do it perfectly."

"Rebelo," he said, hoarse. "Not here."

"Not here. After."

I took his gloved hand in mine and slid it inside my open coat, and laid it flat on my hip.

He stood there in the crowd with his palm on me and looked straight ahead at the fires.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

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