Chapter 91 – The Decision
The morning air in Campinas hung thick with the scent of burnt coffee and diesel fumes as Thiago sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the cracked plaster wall opposite him. The water stain near the ceiling had grown since last summer, its edges creeping outward like some strange continent forming in reverse. His sheets, washed too many times with cheap detergent, scratched against his bare legs as he swung them over the side of the mattress.
Down the hallway, the apartment creaked with familiar sounds - Clara’s off-key humming through her battered headphones, the rhythmic scrape of his mother’s broom against tile floors, the persistent drip from the kitchen faucet no one had ever gotten around to fixing properly. Thiago pressed his palms against his closed eyelids until colors bloomed behind them. Three nights without proper sleep had left his thoughts sluggish, his movements heavy.
When he shuffled into the kitchen, his mother didn’t turn from the stove where she was frying eggs. "You look terrible," she said matter-of-factly, the spatula clicking against the pan.
"Thanks," Thiago mumbled, reaching for the dented aluminum coffee pot. The first bitter sip burned his tongue, just like always.
The knock came precisely at 10:15. Marina stood in the doorway, her crisp white blouse somehow untouched by the humidity already thickening the air outside. She carried a leather portfolio that smelled faintly of expensive department stores, its surface smooth and unblemished compared to the scuffed kitchen table where she set it down.
"Bom dia," she said, accepting the chipped coffee cup Thiago’s mother wordlessly offered. The three of them sat around the table in their usual formation - Marina with her back to the window, Thiago facing the refrigerator covered in Clara’s old drawings, his mother positioned halfway between them like a referee.
The portfolio clicked open with a sound that made Thiago’s stomach tighten. Inside, the Dortmund contract lay in neat, color-coded sections, its crisp white pages glaringly out of place among the oil-stained cookbooks and cracked salt shaker on the table.
"Let’s go through it properly this time," Marina said, adjusting her glasses. The morning light caught the lenses, turning them opaque for a moment. "Base salary first."
Her manicured nail tapped the number - €10,000 weekly, net. Thiago traced the digits with his finger, the ink slightly raised under his touch. It still didn’t feel real. Two months ago he’d been counting coins for bus fare to training. Now they were talking about sums that could buy the entire apartment building.