The stress of recent events was a dense weight on Carlos's shoulders, as if he were wearing a cloak of lead. The act of writing the fake letter to the Church had left a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth, a persistent flavor of deceit. However, as always, the life of the Republic did not stop. After sealing the document with a mix of relief and guilt, he left the office for lunch, seeking some normality in the routine.

  The town hall corridor was cool. It was then, as he went out onto the main street, that he saw them. Quixotina, in her simple work dress but with her hair carefully braided, held Dulcinéia's hand. The girl, in a sky-blue dress and a huge bow in her hair, radiated a joy that seemed to clear the heavy air.

  "Good morning, Quixotina!" Carlos greeted, forcing a lighter smile than he felt. He crouched down to the girl's level. "And good morning to the birthday girl! How old are you turning today, huh?"

  Dulcinéia let go of her mother's hand and gave a little curtsy, her eyes sparkling.

  "Good morning, Uncle Carlos! I'm turning twelve!"

  "Twelve?! Wow, you're so grown up already!" he exclaimed, genuinely surprised. "A young lady, then."

  "That's right!" Dulcinéia confirmed, puffing out her chest with pride.

  The three of them began walking together towards the common dining hall, their steps echoing in unison. The smell of food – a hearty bean and jerked beef stew – was already beginning to invade the corridors, mingling with the scents of soap and wood.

  "Uncle Carlos," Dulcinéia began, with the devastating innocence characteristic of her age, "is it true what everyone is saying? That you cheated on my mom and she gave you a beating?"

  Carlos choked on his own breath. He felt heat rise from his neck to his ears. Beside him, Quixotina made a sound between a sigh and a muffled grunt. When Carlos risked a glance, he saw her face was the color of a ripe bell pepper.

  "Cheat? No, no, nothing like that!" he said, regaining his speech with difficulty. "To cheat on someone, Dulcinéia, first you have to date them, be with only that person, understand? And I'm a bachelor. Alone and abandoned."

  He made a face like a mangy dog, trying to steer the subject towards humor. Dulcinéia furrowed her little brow, processing the information.

  "So, Mom… why did you hit Uncle?"

  Quixotina stopped walking for a fraction of a second. When she answered, her voice was deliberately calm, but her eyes, meeting Carlos's, were beacons of warning.

  "I gave Uncle Carlos a few light kicks because he was saying unfunny things behind my back," she explained, keeping her gaze fixed on him, as if transmitting a coded message: "Don't mention wanting gifts. Or what you said about me." And speaking ill of others behind their back is very, very ugly. Isn't it, Carlos?"

  "It's… exactly that, Dulcinéia," Carlos confirmed quickly, feeling a cold sweat on the back of his neck. "I learned my lesson. It was just a misunderstanding."

  The girl seemed to accept it, but her inquisitive mind didn't stop there.

  "So… does that mean the Jabuticaba Newspaper lied?"

  Carlos shook his head, choosing his words with the care of someone handling gunpowder.

  "The newspaper didn't lie on purpose, sweetie. Aunt Matilda, who wrote it, just got it wrong. She heard a piece of a conversation, saw one thing and thought it was another. It happens. It wasn't malice, just… confusion."

  "Oh, I see!" said Dulcinéia, and her face lit up with a new thought. "You know, at school, the teacher brought the newspaper for us to try to read! She said learning to read is very important so we can get proper information and not believe everything we hear."

  What perfect irony, Carlos thought, feeling a mix of pride for the education and exasperation for the source of the example. The fake scandal about me becoming educational material.

  They entered the dining hall, a spacious room with long tables and benches, now full of the murmur of conversation and the clinking of cutlery. The smell of the stew was now intense and inviting. As they served themselves and sat at a table near the window, Carlos couldn't help but notice the glances and whispers directed their way. The voices, though low, carried in the acoustics of the place.

  "…that's what I'm saying, Iolanda! The president is just like that Ganga Zala, only smarter. Has his harem!" whispered an elderly lady two tables behind, her voice rough as sandpaper. "One day he's with the Minister of Agriculture, the next with Education, giving gifts to one and the other! At least he gives gifts, right? More refined than Zala…"

  "Thanks to Matilda's newspaper," Carlos thought, spearing a piece of boiled cassava with more force than necessary, "my reputation is in the gutter. I haven't kissed anyone since I arrived in this world, much less… and I'm already painted as a libertine sultan. History is a farce told by the victors, and gossip is a comedy written by the idle."

  As he ruminated on the injustice, he noticed that Quixotina, across from him, had her shoulders trembling slightly. She stared at her plate with suspicious concentration, but the corners of her mouth rose uncontrollably. A stifled laugh escaped her in a sniffle.

  Carlos raised his eyes and shot her a look intended to be murderous. The kind of look that said, "If you let out a single laugh, you won't get any gift at all."

  Quixotina pressed her lips together, trying to contain the wave of humor. Her face turned red again, but now from a Herculean effort. Luckily, Dulcinéia was completely absorbed in her meal, enthusiastically attacking the "dinosaur nuggets" – another of the foods from Carlos's world – and didn't notice the silent, charged exchange of glances between the adults.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  When Quixotina finally managed to control the internal laughing fit, wiping her eyes with the corner of her napkin, Carlos spoke in a more serious tone, lowering his voice.

  "Speaking of news… have they told you about what was decided in the ministerial meeting this morning? You were… busy with explorations with Silvestre and Silvana, I imagine you haven't heard."

  The humor instantly vanished from Quixotina's face. She placed the napkin beside her plate and sighed, a sound that carried the weight of her responsibilities.

  "I heard about it, yes. Shadow informed me." Her fingers played with the knife handle. "It's a pity I wasn't there, but… I agree with the final decision. It was the only possible move."

  Carlos felt a twinge of genuine relief dilute some of the tension in his back.

  "Good. It was a difficult, heavy decision… but I think it was the least bad choice. Well, as long as she fulfills her part of the deal." He kept the terms vague, conscious of the ears around them. The reference to the Popess and the secret agreement was meant to be understood only by Quixotina.

  "Yes…" she murmured, looking out the window at the children playing outside. "I complain about the workload, the training, the classes… but being in command, making these decisions that weigh on the lives of thousands… that's not for everyone."

  Carlos smiled, a tired but real smile.

  "Maybe it would be easier if I really had this so-called harem the people invented," he joked lightly. "Then, at least, I'd have some pleasant distractions to compensate for the headache."

  Quixotina turned her attention to him, and her eyes narrowed in a look of chivalrous disapproval.

  "That was not at all chivalrous of you, President. And for your information, I would never participate in something like that."

  "I know, I know," he raised his hands in a gesture of peace, an ironic smile on his lips. "Just joking. In the end, I'm a one-woman man. When I find the right one, I intend to be only with her."

  "And this so-called 'right one'… who tends to b—" Quixotina began to ask, with a mix of curiosity and caution, but was interrupted by Dulcinéia's sharp voice, who had finally diverted her attention from the nuggets.

  "Mom! What exactly is a harem?"

  Quixotina blinked, surprised the question came right in the middle of that conversation. She turned to her daughter, and her face softened. She smiled, a maternal and didactic smile.

  "A harem, my dear, is something very cowardly – or very vain – men tend to do. Instead of having the courage to love and dedicate themselves to just one woman, they surround themselves with several, as if they were trophies. It's a bad thing. Never, under any circumstances, should you subject yourself to a man like that. Understood?"

  "Okay!" Dulcinéia nodded solemnly. "But… what if it's the opposite? Can a woman have more than one husband? Because Luizinha has two fathers, and Joana has three!"

  Quixotina took a sip of water, giving herself a second to formulate the answer.

  "Yes, she can, my daughter. As long as they are all good husbands, treat her with respect, and everyone agrees with that choice. What matters is respect and everyone's happiness."

  Carlos raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms.

  "Hey, hey! Double standard, is it? If it's a woman, she can have a 'harem,' but if it's a man, he's a coward?"

  Quixotina finished her dessert – a jabuticaba gelatin – and began to fix Dulcinéia's hair, which had come loose during the meal.

  "Most men out there," she said, without looking at Carlos, in a deliberately casual tone, "are only worth half a man. So, to compensate, a woman can have two. But there are some not even worth a quarter, indecisive, no initiative…" She finally looked at him, and her gaze held a spark of provocation. "But don't worry. I, personally, intend to be with one man only. And I'll be with him for the rest of my life. I also don't mind if he's not an adept. I even like the idea of being the knight who has to rescue him from time to time."

  Carlos felt the challenge in the air. He smiled, deciding to accept the game.

  "Well, if the men here are worth half, I don't know. I only know one thing: I'm worth two!"

  The reaction was instantaneous. Quixotina's gaze, which before was provocative, transformed into pure, silent fury. Her eyes widened, her nostrils flared. Carlos mentally recoiled, perplexed. What did I say? It was a joke! She started the provocation!

  A tense silence hung for a second, broken only by the background noise of the dining hall. Dulcinéia, fortunately oblivious to the sudden cold war between the adults, was already finishing her gelatin.

  The tension only dissipated when the three left the dining hall, on their way to the playful part of the day. He had resolved the most urgent problems earlier, after all, that was a sacred date: Dulcinéia's first birthday to be officially celebrated in the Republic, and the first birthday party they were organizing. While the helpers – led by Pedro – finished the surprise preparations in the central square, their job was to distract the birthday girl.

  Therefore, the destination was the soccer field. Dulcinéia still didn't fully understand why her mother and the president had the afternoon free, but the prospect of playing ball made her jump for joy, forgetting any questions.

  The field, last year, was an irregular patch of land on the edge of the Quilombo; now it was a wide, well-maintained rectangle of grass (thanks to Tassi), with solid wooden goals at the ends. The smell of damp earth and cut grass filled the air, and the afternoon sun warmed the skin pleasantly.

  "Quixotina, this reminds me of the first time we played," Carlos commented, stretching his arms. "Of course, back then the 'field' was a patch of dirt full of stumps. It wasn't nearly as beautiful as this one."

  "I remember too!" Dulcinéia shouted, jumping in place. "In the end, it was a draw!"

  Quixotina, now recovered from the brief bout of fury (though still shooting occasional sharp glances at Carlos), pointed an accusing finger in his direction.

  "And I remember you kept warning me, as if I were a wild animal: 'Quixotina, please, don't go around kicking the children!'" she imitated his voice, overly serious.

  Carlos laughed, the sound genuine for the first time that day.

  "Ha ha ha! I really did say that! But in my defense, I didn't expect you to fall in love with the sport to the point of challenging half the Quilombo to weekly matches. And the same goes for you, Dulcinéia! You run circles around the boys. Truly, like mother, like daughter."

  As they approached the center of the field, they saw a match was already underway. About twenty children were running back and forth, shouting, sweaty and happy, chasing a patched leather ball. Upon seeing Quixotina and Dulcinéia approaching, several of them waved and shouted invitations. Their fame as formidable players preceded them.

  "Truly," said Quixotina, putting her hands on her hips and assessing the teams with a strategic eye. "We give these sluggish boys a beating! In fact, all of us girls do!" she announced, projecting her voice. "So how about: boys against girls? Who's in?"

  The proposal was met with immediate uproar. Shouts of "Let's do it!" and "Deal!" came from all sides. The girls clustered around Quixotina and Dulcinéia like an honor guard, while the boys gathered on the opposite side with Carlos, discussing tactics with exaggerated seriousness.