When I came down from the roof, Dona Esmeralda had arrived. She had brought along a bag of money – God knows where she got it – and she sat down on her stool and paid out the wages with her thin, wizened fingers. Although she was not miserly, it always seemed hard for her to let the money go. I think I understood why. There was so much she needed to do for her theatre, so many other things she would have liked to use the money for. Not for herself. Dona Esmeralda never bought anything for herself. The hat she wore was at least fifty years old, as were her clothes and the shabby shoes on her feet.

'Did you feel the earthquake?' she asked me.

'Yes,' I replied. 'The earth shook. Twice – like in a dream when you shudder from something unexpected.'

'I remember when it happened before,' she said. 'It was during my father's time. The priests thought it was an omen that the world was about to end.'

We said nothing more. I repaid the money I had borrowed from the girls at the bread counter and then left the bakery. The street kids were scavenging for food in the rubbish bins, the Indian shopkeepers were pushing up the heavy iron gratings on their windows and doors; the air was filled with the smell of corn gruel cooking; and no one, not one person, knew that Nelio was dead.

Without knowing why, I stopped outside one of the Indian shops and walked into the dim interior. Everything was the same as always. Behind the cash register sat a fat Indian woman, keeping an eye on her black sales clerks. A very old man bowed and asked me what I wanted.

What I wanted?

'I want Nelio back,' I said. 'I want him to be alive again.'

The old man gave me a meditative look.

'We don't have that,' he said softly. 'But if senhor would like to try the shop across the street… They have unusual items. They import directly from those countries where people have slanting eyes.'

I thanked him. Then I bought a hat. There were some hanging on the wall behind him, and I pointed to the one in the middle.

'A hat is nice in the heat,' said the old man, unhooking it with a long stick that had a claw on the end.

The hat was white, with a black band around the crown. He wrote out an order, which I took to the woman at the cash register. As I was taking out my money, I realised that it cost more than half my month's wages. I picked up my new hat, set it on my head and went back out into the sunlight.

I walked to a café and had some food. My mind was empty.

In the evening I returned to the bakery. Maria was already there.

Her dress was gauzy and thin, her smile was broad.

'Did you feel the earthquake?' I asked.

'No,' she said and smiled. 'I was asleep.' Then we began working. At midnight I followed her out to the street. I touched her arm as we parted. She smiled.

That night I did not go up to the roof. When I needed some air, I went out to the street and sat on the steps.

The following day I returned home to my brother and his family. They were very glad to see me. My sister-in-law wondered whether I was ill.

'A man who buys a new hat isn't ill,' said my brother. 'A man does as he pleases. He goes home if he wants to, or he stays away.'

I lay awake in my bed for a long time, listening to all the sounds coming through the thin walls.

I knew that something was happening inside me, but I did not know what it was.

Not yet.

Several weeks passed. I baked my bread, touched Maria's arm, and hung my hat on the hook next to the ovens. On a few occasions when I didn't feel like going home in the morning, I crawled through the ventilation shafts and watched Dona Esmeralda's rehearsals of the play about the revolutionary elephants. Different actors tried out for the role of Dom Joaquim, but none of them in Dona Esmeralda's eyes was suitable. The actors seemed more and more confused about the meaning of the drama. They tried playing it in various ways: as a tragedy a comedy and a farce. But no matter what they did, the elephant trunks got in the way. One time the beautiful, young and pampered Elena started to cry onstage. It looked so odd to see her trying to wipe her tears behind the trunk. That was the only time I laughed during those days after Nelio's death. A single laugh that floated weightless in the space where I no longer felt at home.

One night I followed Maria out to the street, saw her smile and watched her leave. I went back into the bakery, shoved the baking pan into the oven, and closed the door.

I knew then that this would be the last night I worked for Dona Esmeralda.

I would finish up everything. In the morning I would wash myself at the back of the bakery; I would take my hat and leave, never to return.

I had come to the realisation that I could no longer be a baker. I had a different mission for the rest of the days that were allotted to my life. I had to tell Nelio's story. The world could not get along without it. I would not allow his story to be forgotten.

After more than a year I can still remember that moment quite clearly. I didn't actually make a decision. The decision already existed inside me, but it wasn't until that moment that I knew what I had to do. I thought about how I would miss the fragrance of fresh bread. I would miss Maria and her gauzy dresses. Maybe I would even miss Dona Esmeralda and her theatre.

And yet that moment was not a difficult one. I think it would be more truthful to say that it was a relief.

In the morning, after I had washed and then taken my hat from its hook, I waited for Dona Esmeralda to tell her of my decision. But she didn't come. Finally I turned to one of the enticing girls at the bread counter.

'I'm quitting today,' I said, tipping my hat. 'Tell Dona Esmeralda that José Antonio Maria Vaz will not be working here any more. Tell her that I've enjoyed the time I've worked here. And tell her that I will never, for as long as I live, bake bread for any other baker.'

Was it Rosa I spoke to? I remember her surprised look. Who would be so stupid as to voluntarily quit working for Dona Esmeralda? With thousands of people already out of work, with no money and no food?

'You heard me right,' I told her, tipping my hat again. 'I'm leaving now, and I won't be back.'

But that was not entirely true. I had already decided to wait for Maria that evening. I wanted to see her because I wanted to say goodbye and wish her good luck in the future. Maybe deep inside I hoped that she would come with me? I don't know. But where would she have followed me? Where was I actually going?

My answer was: I didn't know. I was carrying out an important mission, but I didn't know which way to go.

After I left the bakery on that last morning, I felt a great sense of freedom. I couldn't even see why I should grieve for Nelio.

Maybe it would be better to grieve for Alfredo Bomba, who probably would not be happy where he was now. For a long time he would no doubt be yearning for his life on the street, for the group of street kids, for the rubbish bins and the cardboard boxes outside the Ministry of Justice.

That's the way it is. A person can yearn for a rubbish bin or for life eternal. It all depends.

I went over to the plaza where Nelio's equestrian statue stood. When I got there, I saw to my astonishment that it had fallen over. There was a great crowd in the plaza. The Indian shopkeepers had not opened their shops, but Manuel Oliveira, on the other hand, had thrown wide the doors of his church.

The equestrian statue had fallen.

I realised that the tremors of the day before had been strong enough to crack the foundation of the heavy statue. The bronze horse and rider lay on their side; the man's helmet was crushed. The last remnant of a bygone era had been toppled. Reporters from the city's newspapers scribbled notes, a photographer took pictures, and children had already started playing and jumping on Dom Joaquim's last monument.