Brasil, early to midfifties, on the sixth floor of a newish apartment building in São Paulo.
Lilo brings a boy my age, same complexion, into the apartment. He was probably some Hungarian kid, the son of one of their numerous fellow Hungarian refugees. She was probably just taking care of it, as a favor to a friend, maybe while they were out looking for work. I hated this boy, for two reasons, maybe three, or more. He had the irritating habit of laughing at everything. He would laugh if I fell on my face, or if I didn’t fall on my face. At the table, when asked if he wanted water, he laughed, or more food, he laughed. Worse, everytime he laughed, his sinus exploded, and stream of mucus blew out his nose. I mean, give me a break. What was this idiot doing here, in my space, claiming my mother’s attention? How did he wipe it?
Hell, it can’t be easy losing your country, your home, your space where you keep your stuff. I know. Where is your grace under pressure?
Therein lies the source of Lilo’s power: the ability to grant and withold her favor. She had you such that you needed her, and powerless otherwise. The child was beaten before he even started; he could do nothing without her approval; if he did, or objected to something, he would feel her wrath.
