Free Nowhere People by Paulo Scott Page A

invigorating than getting involved in the assembly of a prefabricated house. Not wasting a second, he tells them just to wait right there. He follows the girl into the tent. Passo Fundo tells his cousin to leave things with him now, he thanks him for the lift and asks him again not to be late when he comes back to fetch him tomorrow. The lad says goodbye, returns to the car without looking back (Passo Fundo would have given his right arm to know what he was thinking, what he made of all this weirdness), switches on the engine, waves, then gives a quick honk of the horn and pulls out. Paulo comes out of the tent apologising for not having paid him proper attention till now, saying that unfortunately Maína’s mother and sisters are not there at the moment, they won’t be back till tomorrow afternoon (the girls’ excited activity was hindering the progress of the work too much). Passo Fundo asks what needs to be done. Paulo says that the carpenters will be finished in an hour at the most and then it’s just the painting left to do. ‘We should make the most of what’s left of the daylight then, and get the paints ready,’ Passo Fundo says before picking out a board nearly two metres long, improvising trestles and positioning seven tins of paint on it. The brightness of the day is almost gone. The one who seems to be the biggest loudmouth of the four workmen announces: job done. Immediately the one acting as an assistant to the others starts collecting up the material into the rented van, which has already been waiting for them for fifteen minutes. Maína comes out of the tent, walks around the works inspecting them. The man approaches Paulo and gives him a series of instructions; Paulo listens to him not finding any of it very important. Night falls completely, there is a crescent moon. Paulo accompanies the four carpenters to the van; Maína and Paulo’s friend are left standing opposite one another. ‘Do you like it?’ Passo Fundo ventures. ‘Grey,’ she says, directly. ‘What?’ He is no longer able to see the girl’s expression properly. ‘I don’t like the colour.’ And he realises that Paulo never consulted her. ‘White is pretty cool,’ is all he’s able to say. ‘She wants grey, because when it rains the room … the house … won’t look … it’s the shaman side of this girl here,’ Paulo says behind him, turning on the torch, shining the beam of light on the building. ‘Between you and me … ’ he says, provocatively, ‘Maína doesn’t want the house. Isn’t that right, Maína?’ At that moment Passo Fundo understands why her behaviour was so withdrawn. She leaves. ‘Headstrong and proud … Could you ever have imagined such a thing if you hadn’t seen it with your own eyes?’ Passo Fundo bends down to pick up one of the open tins of paint. ‘Point the light over here for me, Paulo … ’ He knows he shouldn’t get involved in whatever might be going on between the two of them, ‘I don’t know whether it’ll work out if we put a coat on it without sanding it first.’ Paulo is still looking towards where Maína had gone. ‘They said it wasn’t a problem. Just give it one coat and then the other, four hours later,’ says Paulo, positioning the torch on a box to light up the wall of the room that was to be painted first. ‘Thank you for coming, Passo Fundo. I don’t know if I could have done all this on my own.’ Passo Fundo paints a large star on the door. ‘It’ll be a doddle. We’ll paint this whole white elephant of yours in one go. I’ll take the ladder; I’ll do the top part, you do the bottom. Sound good to you?’ Paulo nods. Within less than half an hour, Passo Fundo’s arms and legs are beginning to itch (he hasn’t told his friend that he is allergic to the smell of oil paint, to the solvents), he tries to get himself upwind. It’s dark, his friend won’t notice the blotches, the lumps that will start to show up on his skin in a few minutes.
    Maína