The death of Felismão Filimão, in the entire neighborhood, was not known until a week later. It was the bubbles of smell that injected the neighborhood that aroused everyone's attention. The flies, drugged by the strong smell that came from a place that was not yet known, collapsed upside down throughout the neighborhood like militiamen killed in a fight.

The smell grew, curling up, in the alleys of the neighborhood just as smoke comes out of a chimney. A week later, a bunch of flies disputing the lock on Felismão Filimão's door, huge flies, their mouths antennae raised, denounced the source of the smell: it was coming from Felismão Filimão's tiny room. It had been a week since he had been seen drying his tattooed skin and his body trapped in a frame of silence in his backyard.

Felismão Filimão the same man who lived in Portugal for 16 years. And when he returned to the neighborhood he had only two pieces of luggage hidden in his memories: a Portuguese accent in his speech and his eyes full of landscapes that he showed us through tales, gestures, and stories. Of when he would fill us in his backyard and teach us to sing the fado; he would press our cheeks against his teeth so that the words would wear his accent, and he would put us into a fast of breathing for seconds so that we could gain the strength in our lungs and above recital the fado with beauty.

...and when he returned to the neighborhood he had only two pieces of luggage hidden in his memories: a Portuguese accent in his speech and his eyes full of landscapes that he showed us through stories, ...

The door slammed, flies swarmed inside the house; the awestruck body of Felismão Filimão was escorted by a deep silence and flies scraped the silence that balanced on the webs of saliva consumed by death. My God, Felismão was not the same; he didn't pout with his mouth to filter the vowels, he didn't explain the mountains of Portugal through the curves of his hands, and the baggage of his Portuguese accent had been dissolved into dust of silence.

Nobody knew any of Felismão Filimão's relatives in the neighborhood. The only family he had and we knew from his photos were two tall mulatto girls who were studying law in Lisbon. That was the family we knew. No one in the neighborhood didn't know Lisbon's typographic landscape; through Felismão we already knew Rua Augusta, Avenida da Liberdade, the Café A Brasileira stuck on Rua Garret, and we had already strolled around in shorts enjoying the sun by the Tagus River in Ribeira das Naus.

Felismão Filimão told us about Lisbon's racism, about the Africans who ran day and night through the city trying to get the "i" out of their illegal status. Felismão was buried and forgotten in a cemetery like a dog without an owner, and his daughters are still studying, in Lisbon, to make the world less unfair with their law. When he returned to the neighborhood, he had only two pieces of luggage hidden in his memories: a Portuguese accent in his speech and his eyes full of landscapes; I don't go any further with the text, I'm afraid of getting lost in the Rua cor de Rosa and not seeing Felismão explaining, by his huge gestures, the way back.