1
At forty years old, a person’s life is expected to be settled. For a woman, that means marriage, at least two children, a solid career—or being a homemaker who takes good care of her family. Depending on how old she was when she became a mother, people might even start expecting grandchildren.
Today I turn forty, and the feeling is paradoxical: nothing has changed, and yet I feel different. The possibility of having children now feels more distant. I also have no prospect of a relationship, nor do I want one.
I watch the monoliths of Quixadá in the distance—they are enormous and dark against the sky as it begins to lighten. The morning light spills over the stone surfaces, revealing shapes that shift as the sun rises. I hear the low mooing of cattle from the corral, the creaking of old wood, the beating of wings as some bird cuts through the early morning silence.
The house awakens slowly. A hammock sways on the porch, pushed by a light breeze, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the scent of warm earth beginning to stir. There is a hard calmness to this scene, a beauty that makes no concessions. As I watch, I feel the day opening before me just like this landscape: rough and vast.
It is with this view that I find comfort in the fact that I managed to build a comfortable life—and I did it with my own hands, without needing any man. And I know many women haven’t had the same opportunity.
“Alma.”
I turn my face when I hear my name and see Teresa standing at the front door. I’m not surprised to see her; the woman wakes up with the chickens, and after so many years, it’s impossible not to recognize her shuffling footsteps against the floor.
“You’re already awake.” Her soft smile deepens the lines on her face. “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.” I rise from the sofa and, approaching her, take her hand, giving her fingers a squeeze. “But I still don’t like celebrating my birthday, so I don’t want any surprises.”
“I know, I know,” she murmured, waving her hand in the air. “But I’m still going to make your favorite cake.”
“Do we have Belgian chocolate?”
“Of course, I made sure to buy it when we went shopping in Fortaleza.”
A smile spreads across my face at the thought of a Belgian chocolate cake and her care for me.
“Thank you. You know I never say no to a rich chocolate cake.”
“I know.”
Her face softens as she looks at me, and I raise my hand to touch her cheek.
“I’m going to take a shower. I have to receive the pilots for the interview later.”
“Coffee is ready.”
Walking through the door, I cross the living room and head toward my bedroom. I’m still wearing my nightgown because I couldn’t sleep and got up to watch the sunrise.
I walk down the hallway, feeling the weariness of someone who hasn’t slept all night. I go through the bedroom door and begin to open the curtains, letting the morning light flood the space, revealing the antique furniture, the light bedspread, the dark wooden wardrobe that creaks every time I open one of its doors.
I stop in front of the mirror.
Despite my age, the marks on my face aren’t very evident yet.Forty years.I repeat it in my mind, not as a lament, but as an acknowledgment. I have a body that has known fatigue, violence, desire, loss—and has remained for nearly half a lifetime.
Despite everything, today is a happy day.
After a cold shower, I trade my nightgown for jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, tying my hair back in a ponytail as I leave the room. The smell of coffee now dominates the house, mixed with the distant sound of Teresa banging something in the kitchen. The dining table is set with my breakfast when I settle into the chair.
I pour some black coffee into a cup and hold the porcelain between my hands. As I take a sip, I look out the window again. The sun has risen a little higher, but I can see some dark clouds forming in the distance.
My farm is far from the city, and I recently bought a used small jet to travel to Fortaleza and other cities more comfortably. I got the aircraft for a good price from a farmer in another region who was facing financial difficulties and could no longer maintain it. The decision was also motivated by safety: being far from the urban center means access to hospitals in emergencies can be slow, leaving both my employees and the surrounding residents vulnerable.
The problem is finding someone who can pilot and maintain the aircraft. I’m offering a good salary, and the work is relatively simple since I don’t travel often. Still, few have shown interest. The countryside doesn’t attract pilots used to the hustle of big cities. Life here is too monotonous.
Despite that, I managed to schedule interviews with three candidates. That’s what I’m thinking about as I finish my coffee, eating yogurt with fruit and tapioca with cheese. The cheese and yogurt were produced on the farm, and the flavor is delicious—the cheese is so soft it melts in your mouth, putting me in a good mood by the time I finish eating.
After coffee, I follow my routine and walk to the stable. The sun is already warming the damp earth, lifting a familiar scent into the air. I greet the workers who are already up and running the farm—some are tending to the cows and oxen, others are in the chicken coop. The real work only begins in August when harvest season arrives. It’s June now, so the atmosphere on the farm is still very calm.
My steps take me to the simple, well-kept stable. The sound of hooves against the floor gives away that he’s already noticed my approach, and I feel a smile spread across my face.
“Good morning, my boy,” I murmur when I see him.
He lifts his head immediately, his ears alert and his dark, lively eyes meeting mine. I open the gate and step inside, running my hand over the horse’s strong neck and stroking his soft coat.
“Have you eaten yet, Lampeão?” I ask. “Do you want to go for a ride?”
He answers with a light stomp of his hoof on the ground, always impatient, as if he understands every word. I let out a low laugh and grab the saddle. The leather creaks beneath my fingers as I fit it onto the horse and mount him in a fluid motion.
I guide the horse out of the stable, and we move forward, the farm opening before us in wide, silent landscapes. June leaves the trees and plants in rich shades of green—the leaves still fresh from the last rains—and the morning air is cool, crossed by a light breeze that sways the tall coconut trees surrounding the farm.
We pass by the corrals, then the dirt road that leads to the more remote areas of the farm. Passing by the village of houses where the farm workers live, I greet some of them along the way.
As we approach the cashew orchard, I tighten the horse’s reins, making him slow down. The cashew trees spread across the land in long rows, with twisted little trunks and wide canopies. The cerrado cashew is smaller than a regular cashew tree and grows in a shorter time and drier climates—ideal for planting in the backlands. At this point, the fruits are still small and green, but they promise a good harvest.
In the center of the orchard, I hear only the sound of the wind passing through the leaves and the distant song of birds.
I let the horse move slowly between the rows and touch one of the lowest branches with my fingertips, feeling the rough texture of the leaf. I think of August—the bustle that will take over the farm, the crates, the trucks, the sweet smell of ripe cashews spreading through the air.
Now, though, there is only this rare interval of pure peace.
I feel my eyebrows furrow when a strange noise shatters the almost sacred silence. Lifting my face, I see a helicopter crossing the sky toward me in rapid advance, cutting through the clear, tranquil blue of the morning. The sound of the rotors grows—first distant, then vibrating in my chest and on the ground beneath the horse’s hooves.
“Easy, boy,” I murmur before he can startle.
But the horse’s ears flick back, and his entire body tenses beneath the saddle. I hold the reins firmly, leaning slightly forward, stroking his neck, trying to calm him. The helicopter passes lower than I’d like, displacing the air and making the cashew leaves tremble.
“Go,” I command, squeezing the reins tighter.
The first gallop is abrupt. I press my knees against the horse’s body, letting him charge forward and guiding him just enough not to lose control. The helicopter flies in a straight line, probably heading toward the open field in front of the farm’s entrance, and we follow it between the rows of cashew trees, kicking up dust and leaves.
The noise is deafening now—a metallic presence over our heads. Despite his age, the horse runs with breath to spare, as if challenging the machine. I feel the wind against my face, my heart racing not just from the pace of the run but from the strange excitement taking hold of me.
We exit the orchard, pass by the house, and advance toward the farm gate. The security men are standing in front of the gate, and ahead, the helicopter begins to lose altitude, drawing slow circles before starting to land. I slow the horse down gradually, letting him decelerate.
We stop at a safe distance, and I watch as the two security men raise their weapons. The helicopter touches the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust, leaves, and small twigs. I partially cover my face with my arm, my eyes fixed on the aircraft.
The noise begins to fade, but my ears keep ringing, as if the helicopter’s sound is still vibrating inside me. My heart pounds in my chest, and I grip the horse’s reins tighter, holding my breath as I watch the rotors slow to a complete stop. Then the aircraft door slowly opens.
The man who emerges is young. His dark hair seems to shine against the morning sun, and his equally dark eyes are alert and calculating—not frightened—as he assesses the situation before him, until his eyes find mine and widen slightly. And then, his dark gaze doesn’t look away. Not when he leaves the helicopter, not when he raises his arms above his head, and not when the cockiest smile I’ve ever seen on a man appears on his lips.
“I came for the job interview.”
