The house was on the hill. With one wall on the Rua do Bomfim and another wall on the parallel street. It was perhaps a century old and the veranda and the balustrades were crumbling. Woodworms had eaten the roof and it was about to cave in. Only a couple drunk on the hope and energy and optimism of democracy and sureness that things could only get better would have bought a house like that. A couple who had faced no tragedy that did not make them stronger, no grief they could not overcome. Forgiveness the size of the earth. Laura had seen the house, had spoken about it in the slow manner that she had, You should paint it blue like the sea and the sky, she had said. It looks like work, Lúcia had said and Lygia had agreed. Lamis thought they were crazy – they could have had an apartment with air conditioning and a garage for parking. But Miguel was an engineer and over two or three years he planned to rebuild it. And every wall would be painted white and every shutter, every beam, every wooden part of it would be painted blue. A house the colour of the sky that was always as blue and as bright as the sun could make it.