You can purchase it here. He accumulates the names of countries and recites them. Somehow, this short story spans multiple histories and geographies over the span of a single fishing trip. Dudu is bored. When the last of his baby teeth threaten to secede, Dudu Petruzzi is invited fishing.
The rest of the family huddles around the living room flatscreen, Adidas jerseys over Sunday slacks, fingers pinched with vibrato, flinging death threats at the referee. The Colonel announces they will set sail when the game ends.
Palmeiras are losing, down two goals, when Tio Gaetano arrives with a bottle of arak. The Colonel inspects the bottle, squinting at the label, its tiny glyphs and cedars. His arms are speckled with tattoos smudged from sun damage: zigzagging tribal waves, Mandarin characters that collapse on themselves. Dona Magdalena is in the kitchen preparing the chicken soup, the uncooked chickens splayed over the edge of the cutting boards, wingtips tracing granite.
She calls on her grandson to report the score every five minutes. Dudu coughs a little harder, the way his dad has coughed since the flight. She looks tiny and birdlike, wrapped in wool in the Christmastime heat. Dudu grimaces: if he wanted to fish, he could just download some discounted fishing simulator. He knows the Xbox, the newest version, is clumsily giftwrapped in the garage with all the other Christmas gifts.
The score is still two-nil at halftime. Gaetano joins his aunt, their hands interlaced, hers mottled with archipelagoes of liver spots. He scrolls through a photo album on his iPhone. Pilgrims wade through the River Jordan. Their heads are wet and bowed in prayer. Soaked robes hug skin like cellophane. In one photo, Gaetano stretches his arms out, head tilted back, and a procession of believers tremble in the sluggish river. The woman next to Gaetano wears a pink shower cap with small Tweety Birds.
