Carlos determined, the weight of the battle giving way to the focus of a new project, he entered the paper mill. The air inside was humid and hot, smelling of wood pulp and simple chemicals like ash lye. The workers, many of them new, moved with concentrated diligence, tending to the boilers, the sieves, the steam presses that transformed pulp into continuous sheets. It was noisy, but it was the sound of production.

  The final product wasn't modern paper, but rather a grayer, rougher type. Despite its low quality, it was still good enough paper to be used in the production of school textbooks and, in the future, newspapers.

  Then, he headed to the printing factory, attached. Here, the smell was of ink, lard (used in place of oil), and new paper. The main press, a monster of cast iron and polished gears, was still idle, awaiting its christening. The room was large, with empty worktables and shelves waiting for stacks of books.

  And in the center of the room, crouched beside the press with a wrench in her hand and a smudge of lard mixed with ash on her cheek, was Nia. The Minister of Industry looked more like a mechanic in her element than a ruler.

  "Good morning, Nia," Carlos greeted, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space. "You always start the day earlier than everyone. Seems like you live here."

  Nia looked up, wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her arm, leaving a faint trace of grease, and smiled. A genuine smile from someone doing what they love.

  "I love my work," she said, standing up and cracking her back. "At least this part of it. I also come here to escape the mountain of paperwork waiting for me as Minister." Her smile took on a tone of sharp playfulness. "Speaking of which… someone promised me, a while back, that he would make me his wife when he became the new Ganga. But you know what I actually got in reality? More work. Just more work." She tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with provocation. "By the way, did you know Zala's wives didn't work? The only thing they did was… well, fuck him from time to time. A much less tiring job, I might add."

  Hearing this, Carlos couldn't help but notice the nuance. It's been a while since she threw one of these out there. But this time, the provocation is different. She didn't say she'd make me her husband. She said I'd make her my wife. The game has changed…

  He crossed his arms, meeting the challenge with a smile of his own.

  "Alright then," he said with a lightness that surprised them both. "I'll make you my wife. It's a deal. That way, you won't work with machines anymore, you'll leave your other four husbands—" he made a vague gesture toward the tools and machines "—and you'll spend the day decorating the house and waiting for me to come home so I can… fuck you. Seems like a great deal for you."

  Nia's jaw dropped. The wrench almost slipped from her hand. The expression of absolute shock lasted only a second before being swept away by a wave of pure, malicious joy that lit up her face like the sun.

  "CARLOS!" she exclaimed, laughing, her voice a mix of disbelief and delight. "When you first came to the Quilombo you weren't like this! You were all shy, you blushed, you stuttered!" Despite the words laden with theatrical outrage, her face didn't hide her amusement.

  "And I miss when you complained less!" Carlos retorted in the same tone, keeping up the charade for another moment.

  But it didn't last. The absurdity of the situation, the fatigue, the relief of a light moment after dark days—it was all too much. Carlos let out a laugh, genuine and a bit hoarse. Nia joined him, her laugh louder and more strident, echoing in the empty factory, clearing the tension of the last few days for a moment.

  When the laughter subsided, leaving a lighter air, Nia looked at Carlos. This time, her gaze was direct, serious beneath the residual amusement.

  "But speaking seriously now," she said, wiping a corner of her eye. "I heard. From very reliable sources. That you've been handing out little gifts. Personalized little gifts, expensive, full of meaning. And dinners." She took a step forward. "And I, your dear promised wife, have been working a lot recently. A whole lot. So… I want one too. A gift from you."

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Carlos felt a warmth rise to his ears. Good grief… did half the Mocambo find out about the dinner with Tassi? I didn't know she was a gossip! Or maybe…

  Reluctantly, but knowing defeat was inevitable, he sighed.

  "Alright, alright… you'll get a gift." He raised a finger in warning. "But first… I need you to make some adaptations here. In this factory. So it doesn't just print school textbooks."

  Nia's immediate interest was visible. Her eyes, which had been shining for a gift, now shone for a technical challenge.

  "More work? Sure, why not?" she said, weariness in her voice but not in her eyes. "So go on, explain. What would these… adaptations be? And to print what?"

  "Newspapers," Carlos said, and saw curiosity explode on Nia's face. He gave a brief explanation: large sheets, faster and less durable printing than books, focus on news and advertisements, periodicity. He talked about the need for more versatile movable type, perhaps a faster press or an adapted continuous paper feed system.

  Nia listened, absorbing, her fingers itching to grab a pencil and start sketching. The promise of the gift seemed to have been temporarily forgotten, replaced by the pleasure of a new problem to solve.

  "Hmm… larger movable type that's easier to swap… maybe a feeder roller…" she murmured to herself. "I'll figure it out. Let me work."

  Carlos smiled, satisfied. He left Nia diving into her mental calculations and scribbles and went out for lunch.

  His destination was Aunt Vera's Restaurant, one of the social hearts of the city. As it was still early for the main lunch hour, the place was almost empty. The smell was comforting: steaming vegetable broth, the aroma of fresh bread from the bakery next door. There were only a few workers sitting in isolated corners, eating quickly before returning to work.

  It was then that Carlos saw her. In a more reserved corner, near the kitchen, Aunt Vera herself, with her colorful headscarf and spotless apron, was chatting animatedly with a customer—a young woman who seemed to be listening with wide eyes.

  And Carlos, standing at the entrance, managed to hear a fragment, in a low voice but laden with the excitement of someone sharing a delicious secret:

  “…and then, girl, you can't imagine what Carlos pulled as a thank you for Tassi! Only the finest things! Dinner by gem-light, food from another world, and a gift… oh, my dear, a gift that even I got jealous! They say Tassi cried beautiful tears, it was so lovely!"

  Carlos froze for a second. Then, a slow, resigned smile spread across his lips.

  Ah…, he thought, the mystery resolving. Now it all makes sense. The source of Nia's 'very reliable gossip.' Tassi is close to Aunt Vera. And Aunt Vera… is the heart and mouth of the Mocambo. She's friends with everyone. The news didn't leak; it was lovingly watered and made public.

  He entered the restaurant, and Aunt Vera's look upon seeing him was one of pure pleasure and zero remorse. She just waved, as if to say, "Well, boy? Good story, huh?"

  Carlos sat down, shaking his head silently as the smell of broth and the murmur of the Republic's first official gossip enveloped him.

  The idea of the newspaper, which had seemed like a tool for control, now took on another dimension. He realized that in such a lively community, information would circulate anyway—through Aunt Vera's gossip, the whispers in the market, the conversations in the workshops. The newspaper wouldn't be to replace that, but to give it a counterpoint. A version that was, if not totally objective, at least reflective and responsible. An antidote to the most destructive rumors, but also a channel to celebrate achievements.

  As he waited for his broth, he looked out the window. He saw two young apprentices arguing animatedly near the new ice cream shop being painted, gesturing. Probably speculating about the battle. Yes, Carlos thought, seized by renewed determination. They need to read about it. They need to read the version that unites, not the one that divides. They need to read about new factories, about the cistern, about the flowering ipês on Founders' Street. And maybe, one day, even about how the president got kicked by the Minister of Education. An involuntary smile appeared on his face. The project was no longer just a political necessity. It was a natural extension of that pulsating community. It was the official voice of a people who had long had their own, restless voice.