Valdir claps his hands four times at a discrete distance from our little Florianopolis cottage overlooking the Atlantic. I lower the screen of my laptop and descend the winding path of stones to meet him. His greeting places him from the rural interior, where communities still have no electric bell, though few now leave their doors open. He lays his huge knife at the foot of our papaya tree and shakes my hand. The handle of another knife pokes out of his belt, like all peasant workers across Brazil. ‘When did you arrive?’ he asks, his accent locating him near the Santa Catarina-Argentinian border. ‘Last night,’ I smile, tightening my scarf. His leathered face breaks into a map of wrinkles. ‘My brother lives near you. Just past Eldorado dos Carajás. Where those landless were massacred.’
He pinches the sleeve of my sweater to hold my attention. ‘Trucked up to the Amazon in the 1980s, just with flip-flops. Panned his gold. Bought land. Felled forests. Built a ranch. Grazed 1,500 cattle. The rest he locked in his mouth.’ Valdir rests his hand on his knife handle. ‘A man tried to kill him for his teeth. When the police came for the corpse, they thanked my brother. Honest worker. Six sons. One vagabond less.’ He pinches. ‘How long you staying?’
