Brasilians on a Plane

[Israel Serrão]

"-sanctam Ecclesiam catholicam, sanctorum communionem / remissionem peccatorum / carnis resurrectionem / vitam aeternam. Amen." He smoothed his thumb up and over the first of the large beads, the exact wooden grain and texture as familiar to him as the prayer. "Pater noster, qui es in caelis / sanctificetur Nomen Tuum-" As he murmured his way along the rosary, Israel could feel something in his chest loosen, his shoulders lowering.

His body slowly sank, inch by hard-fought inch, into a more restful pose. Beside him, his brother sprawled indolently, filling every bit of space available to him in the small seat, and using up a fair amount of Israel's while he was at it, a warm, solid presence pressed against Israel's side. Israel tipped his head back, breathed slow and deep and adjusted the cadence of his prayers to match the steady rhythm of Joaquim's slight snore.

Beneath and around them, the plane shuddered, startling several of the sleeping passengers awake. Israel sighed and dropped his chin back to his chest. The last of the large beads came between his fingers. "Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto / Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen."

He paused, hesitating on the verge of the Salve Regina, dark beads and crucifix dangling from his still fingers.

[Joaquim Serrão]

There was no transition between snoring and speech. Joaquim whistled out one breath, snorted in the next, and then said out of nowhere, "He can't hear you while we're inside this metal tube, you know."

They'd had conversations like this in which Joaquim would wake up just long enough to say something appalling and usually pretty funny and then drop seamlessly back into sleep. This time, he seemed to be making the effort; he grinned slowly at his brother, stretched his leg farther into what should have been Israel's space, rubbed his hands through his unkempt hair and over his unshaven face, and gave no sign of being about to drop off again. He was taking this all strangely well, inappropriately well. Joaquim seemed barely to have grieved before he was pushing and dragging his brother along, booking flights, buying language tapes, asking around for names for them to seek out once they reached Japan, full of bluster and momentum. But here on the boundary between waking and sleep, the first thing he did after grinning at his brother was put his hand on his chest, on the place where the ring he once gave Assunção was hidden under his shirt.

[Israel Serrão]

"Blasphemy while I pray the rosary," Israel murmured, in a smooth transition from Latin to Portuguese. "Fairly impressive even for you," he went on, but for all that it sounded like a chastisement, the rebuke simply wasn't there in tone or look, nor in the way Israel had reached to the tiny tray before him and handed Joaquim his bottled water, knowing without asking that his brother would be thirsty upon waking.

The plane juddered around them once more, even seeming to sway from side to side before its course was correct. Israel's hand curled tight around the bottle, threatening to crush the thin plastic, and he froze in place. "Forgive me, brother, but I'm starting to doubt your choice of airline." His jaw ticced, but he didn't move his stare from its focus straight forward, his will alone keeping the plane on its right path.