Um domingo vascaíno, de Roberto Monteiro

Domingo é dia
do Vasco da Gama jogar.
Eu vou pro Maraca
Pra ver a alegria no ar.

Quero que voce me diga, Nega, quero que voce me diga, Nega,
quero que voce me diga
o que forma essa paixão
Quero que voce me diga, Nega, quero que voce entenda, Nega,
Quero que voce entenda
Que não há explicação !

É bacalhau! É bacalhau!
O Vasco é um time genial!
Vaaaasco ! Vaaaasco !
Casaca! Casaca! Casaca… Vasco 

Paris parallèle:
Sale, propre
Vilaine, Vénusté
Synchronique, diachronique.
Paris m’éveille, 
rêveuse
en moi.

Antônio R.M. Simões
Paris, le 5 juillet 2019

Paris Parallel:
Dirty clean
Naughty, Venust
Synchronic, diachronic.
Paris wakes me up,
dreaming
in me.

Paris paralela:
Suja, limpa
Vilã, Venusta
Sincrônica, diacrônica.
Paris me desperta,
sonhadora
em mim.

Note of the author/Nota del autor: The Spanish and English versions of this text appear right after the Portuguese text. Las versiones española e inglesa de este texto aparecen justo después del texto en português.

Vitória, ES, January 13, 2017 / Vitória, ES, el 13 de enero de 2017

Madonna e Camille

Escrito por Roberto Monteiro

VERSÃO PORTUGUESA

O velhote era todo extrovertido, feliz com a vida. Cuidava-se bem, mantinha uma excelente forma física, mas não conseguia disfarçar a idade. Sentia-se jovem. Ou melhor, cultivava com muito esmero uma imagem de jovem. E nisso investia uma fortuna para eternizar o sentimento de que estava súper bem fisica, emocional y sexualmente. Esse era o seu teatro, a sua performance. Quando via uma jovem atraente na parada, de ônibus ou em outro lugar, não perdia tempo:

• Olha, menina… Você está muuuito gostosa. Vê lá, heim!!? Vê se para com isso!

A moça olhou para ele, meio que furiosa e divertindo-se com o insólito cumprimento sexual:

• Olha só esse cara…!? Velhote mais sem-vergonha. Veja se desaparece, meu senhor!

• Eu? “Senhor”??? “Senhor”, só lá no céu, meu anjo…

Pouco lhe importava ser descortês. Assim ia, tranquilamente, coçando e acariciando o queixo, deixando-se invadir por devaneios… enfim, se divertia. O velho devia estar acostumado a tais negativas já que as tomava naturalmente. E como uma espécie de resgate desajeitado-pelo-avesso, ocorreu-lhe que tinha lido em um jornal sobre uma briga verbal entre Madonna e Camille Paglia[1], algo que o levou a lembrar-se de um dos poemas de Corneille … Sim! Pierre Corneille, em seu poema para a bela Marquise, que ele paquerou e cantou poeticamente dizendo que se agora ela o desprezava, um dia seria velhinha, assim como ele. Servia-se da poesia e elegância para convencer a bela jovem a tolerá-lo e amá-lo como ele era. A bela Marquise, muito francesa nas respostas, teria dito nas palavras de Tristan Bernard:

Peut-être que je serai vieille
Répond Marquise, cependant
J’ai vingt-six ans mon vieux Corneille
Et je t’emmerde en attendant.

O que, parafraseado, seria mais ou menos assim:

Talvez eu venha a ser velha
Responde Marquise, porém agora
Tenho vinte e seis anos, meu velho Corneille
E te incomodo, te “imerdo”, enquanto não chego lá.

Mas o nosso velho homem não é nenhum Corneille e muito menos Madonna. Sua poesia era mais de rua, deselegante. Se deleitava com tais contragolpes:

• Mas é culpa sua, menina. Não precisava de ser assim tão gostosa! Bota uns óculos esquisitos, uma saia antiga, um cabelo fora da moda, senão fica parecendo provocação. Vê se para com essa provocação! Isso é de enlouquecer qualquer um que nem eu.

• Cai fora! Como se não bastasse essa garotada que fica dando em cima da gente. Agora, tenho que lidar com esses velhos depravados.

• Sou velho por fora, na cara. Biologicamente sou tão novo como você e essa rapaziada da sua idade. Simplesmente um sexadolescente.

• Que babaca! Vê se me esquece, animal! Vai procurar mulher da sua idade. Vai te fuder! Isso mesmo.

• Tranquila, menina… tranquila… Eu sonho quando quiser. É só fechar o olhinho assim… Tá vendo? Te vejo toda nua, sorrindo…

A moça faz um gesto de desgosto colocando o dedo dentro da boca, apontando o fundo da língua como se fosse vomitar. Mas o velhote não se deixava desanimar, muito seguro de si mesmo.

A jovem olhou as amigas:

• Cruzes! Eca… Vãobora, gente. Isso aqui ficou meio esquisito. Não vou esperar o ônibus, não.

E o velhote ficou a ver navios, ou melhor vendo a menina e suas amigas sairem do porto, do ponto de ônibus, pensando consigo mesmo: se olhar para trás é porque gostou. E não é que a menina olhou para trás?! Logicamente por qualquer razão, salvo um interesse pelo velho homem. Ele, inevitavelmente, quando viu que ela olhou, foi à loucura:

• Eu sabiiia!!![2]

O velho cachorrão ria e sorria, vendo-a distanciar-se pela rua. E assim permaneceria, observando a menina diminuindo na distância, acenando-lhe a ela, vitorioso. Ela, entendendo o que estava acontecendo na cabeça dessa versão-de-rua-de-Corneille, devolveu-lhe o gesto, mas com o dedo médio. Sabemos que o velho não tinha jeito, era muito teimoso. Assim, tomou a ofensa com paixão, empinando-se como um jovem galo, garnizeando para o pessoal em volta que se divertia com ele, acompanhando tudo de perto:

– Me ama. Ela me ama! E vocês vão ter de me engolir![3]

E as pessoas riram:

– Esse cara é uma piada. No tem nenhum senso de ridículo.

– Vocês vão ter de me engoliiiir!

 

 ==========================

 

Madonna y Camille

Escrito por Roberto Monteiro

VERSIÓN ESPAÑOLA

El viejito era todo extrovertido, imparable, feliz con la vida. Un hombre que se cuidaba bien, mantenía una buena forma física, pero no podía disfrazar la edad. Se sentía joven. O más bien, cultivaba muy cuidadosamente una imagen juvenil. E invertía una fortuna en ese ejercicio de perpetuar la sensación de que estaba súper bien física, emocional y sexualmente. Ese era su teatro, su performance. Cuando veía a una joven atractiva en una parada de autobús u otro sitio, no perdía tiempo:

– Eeeeh, chica … qué mamacita estás … ¿Ojo, eh? ¡Párate con eso! Te ves muy sexy.

La joven le miró, algo que divertida y furiosa con el insólito saludo sexual:

– Mírale a ese tío…!? ¡Qué vejestorio desvergonzado! ¡Váyase a perder, señor!

– ¿Yo? ¿”Señor”??? “Señor”, sólo en el cielo…

Poco le importaba que fuese descortés. Así iba, tranquilamente, rascándose y acariciándose la barbilla, dejándose invadir por devaneos… en fin, se divertía. El viejito debía estar acostumbrado a esos rechazos ya que los tomaba naturalmente. Y como una especie de rescate torpe-al-revés, se le ocurrió que había leído en un periódico sobre una pelea verbal entre Madonna y Camille Paglia[4], lo cual le llevó a recordarse de uno de los poemas de Corneille… Sí! de Pierre Corneille, en su poema a la bella Marquise, a la que Corneille coqueteaba y cantaba poéticamente que si ahora lo despreciaba, un día sería ya viejita, igual que él. Se valía de la poesía y la elegancia para convencerle a la bella joven a tolerarle y quererle tal como era. La bella Marquise, muy francesa en las respuestas, le habría dicho, en palabras de Tristan Bernard:

Peut-être que je serai vieille
Répond Marquise, cependant
J’ai vingt-six ans mon vieux Corneille
Et je t’emmerde en attendant.

Lo que, parafraseado, sería más o menos así;

Tal vez un día venga a ser vieja
Responde Marquise, sin embargo
Tengo veinte y seis años, mi viejo Corneille
Y mientras tanto voy a seguir jodiendo tus fantasías, a la espera.

Pero nuestro viejo hombre no es ningún Corneille y mucho menos una Madonna. Su poesía era más callejera, inelegante. Se regodeaba con tales contragolpes:

– Pero es tu culpa, muchacha. ¡No tenías que ser tan sexy! ¡Vamos! Ponte unas gafas raras, una falda tradicional, un cabello fuera de la moda, porque de lo contrario todo se vuelve demasiado provocativo. ¡Párate con esa provocación! Así enloqueces fácilmente a alguien como yo.

– ¡Vete a la porra! Ya tengo bastante con estos chicos tirándome los canes. Ahora, tengo que lidiar con esos viejos pervertidos.

– Mira, soy viejo en la cáscara, en la cara. Biológicamente soy tan joven como tú y los chicos de tu edad. Simplemente un sexadolescente.

– Que idiota… ¡Olvídate, animal! Vete a buscar a una mujer de tu edad. ¡Vete a la chingada! ¡Ya está!

– Tranquila, chica… tranquila… Puedo soñar cuando quiero. Así lo hago, me cierro los ojos … ¿Ves? Te veo desnuda, sonriendo…

La joven hace un gesto de disgusto poniendo el dedo dentro de la boca, apuntando el hondo de la lengua como si fuese a vomitar. Pero el viejito muy seguro de sí mismo no se dejaba desanimar.

La joven les miró a sus amigas:

– ¡Joder! Vámonos. Acá se está poniendo raro. No quiero esperar el autobús.

Y el anciano se quedó viendo barcos, mejor dicho viéndoles a la joven y a sus amigas salir del puerto, del punto del autobús, pensando: si mira hacia atrás es decir que le gustó, que tal vez me quiera. ¡¿Y no es que la chica se volvió y miró hacia atrás!? Lógicamente por cualquier razón, salvo interés en el viejito. Él inevitablemente, cuando vio que la joven miraba hacia atrás, se puso salvaje de alegría:

– ¡¡¡Lo sabííía!!![5]

El viejito se reía y sonreía, observándole alejarse. Y así se quedaría, observándole a la chica disminuir en la distancia, y en seguinda mandándole un saludo con la mano, victorioso. Ella, entendiendo lo que le pasaba en la cabeza de esa versión callejera de Corneille, le devolvió el gesto, pero con el dedo medio. Ya sabemos que el viejito era muy terco. Así, se tomó la ofensa con pasión, levantándose como un gallo joven, quiquiriquiando a la gente alrededor que seguíalo todo de cerca divirtiéndose con él:

– ¡Me ama! ¡Ella me ama! Y ustedes van a tener que tragarlo![6]

Y la gente se reía:

– Ese tío es una broma. No tiene sentido del ridículo.

– ¡Van a tener que tragarloooo!

 

==========================

 

Madonna and Camille

Written by Roberto Monteiro

ENGLISH VERSION

The old dog was totally extroverted, happy with life. A man who took good care of himself, stayed in good shape, but could not hide his age. He felt young. Or rather, he cultivated very carefully a youthful image. And he invested a fortune in this exercise of perpetuating the feeling that he was doing extremely well physically, emotionally, and sexually. It was his theater, his performance. When he saw an attractive young woman at a bus stop or other place, he wasted no time:

– He, he, mummy… You look so gorjeous, huh!!? Sooo hot. Just stop it! That’s all.

The young woman glanced at him, kind of furious and amused with the unwonted sexual greeting:

– Look at this guy …!? Shameless oldster. Go get lost, Sir!

– Me? “Sir”??? “Sir,” only if I was a monarch…

He wouldn’t mind being so graceless. He calmly scratched and caressed his chin allowing himself to be invaded by daydreams… all in all, he was having fun. The old man must have been accustomed to being told to get lost as he took these rebuffs naturally. And in a kind of clumsy-upside-down rescue, it occurred to him that he had read in a newspaper about a verbal fight between Madonna and Camille Paglia[7], a thought that called to his mind one of Corneille’s poems… Yes! Pierre Corneille’s, in his poem to the beautiful Marquise, with whom Corneille flirted and for whom he sang poetically saying that if she despised him now, one day she would be old, just like him. He used poetry and elegance to convince the beautiful girl to tolerate him and love him as he was. The beautiful Marquise, very French in the answers, would have said to him in the words of Tristan Bernard:

Peut-être que je serai vieille
Répond Marquise, cependant
J’ai vingt-six ans mon vieux Corneille
Et je t’emmerde en attendant.

Which, if paraphrased, would be more or less like this:

Maybe I’ll be old
Answers Marquise, however
I am twenty-six years old, my old Corneille
And fuck you, in the meantime.

But our old man is no Corneille, much less a Madonna. His poetry was more streetwise, inelegant. He gloated over such counter-blows:

– But it’s your fault, girl. You did not have to be that hot! Put on a pair of weird glasses, an old skirt, a hair out of fashion, otherwise you become too provocative. Stop with this provocation! You drive crazy anybody like me.

– Get lost, old man! I already have enough with these kids hitting on me. Now, I have to deal with these cocky old men.

– Look, I’m old on the outside, in the face. Biologically I’m as young as you and the boys your age.

– What an idiot … Forget it, animal! Go find a woman your age. Fuck off! There we go!

– Chill off, girl… calm down … I can dream when I want. I do this, I close my eyes … See? I see you naked, smiling…

The young woman makes a gesture of disgust putting her finger inside her mouth, pointing to the bottom of her tongue as if to vomit. But the old man, sure of himself, was not discouraged.

The girl looked at her friends:

– Fuck! Let’s move on. It’s getting weird here. I do not want to wait for the bus.

And the old man remained watching ships, or rather, watching the girl and her friends leave the port, the bus stop, thinking that if she looked back she liked the whole thing, maybe she loves me. And did not the girl turn and look back!? Logically for any reason, except interest in the old man. He inevitably, when he saw the girl looking back, became wild with joy:

She makes a gesture of disgust pointing her finger to the back of her throat as if she were going to throw up. He did not let himself be discouraged. He was very sure of himself.

The young woman looked at her friends:

– Gee!!! Bleh… ! Let’s go. It’s getting weird here. I will not wait for the bus.

And the old man stayed watching ships, or rather seeing the girl and her friends leaving that port, leaving the bus stop, thinking to himself, “if she looks back she liked it, and maybe she likes me.” And did not the girl look back?! Logically for any reason but not for interest in the old dog. When he saw that she looked back, he inevitably went wild:

– I knew it!!![8]

The old man laughed and smiled, watching her walk away. And so he would stay, watching the girl diminish in the distance, beckoning her, victorious. She, understanding what was in the old man’s head, returned the nod, but with her middle finger. We know that the old man was pretty stubborn. He took the offense to himself with passion, rising like a young cock, cock-a-doodle-dooing to the folks nearby who accompanied everything and who never ceased to amuse themselves with him.

– She loves me! SHE loves me! And you’ll have to swallow it![9]

And the people around would not stop laughing:

– This guy is a joke. He has no sense of ridicule.

– You’ll have to swaaaallow it!

 

 

[1] Camille Paglia, feminista, e Madonna trocaram alguns insultos depois que Camille Paglia criticou Madonna por não saber como aceitar o envelhecimento e cultivar uma imagem de mulher jovem. Madonna disse entre outras coisas que Camille não tinha certeza de sua sexualidade.

[2] Expressão utilizada na cultura brasileira do futebol, especialmente quando o time pelo qual torcemos faz um gol. Às vezes se usa por gozação ou por pura diversão. Também alguns locutores de rádio e tevê usam esse grito de vitória quando a seleção faz um gol.

[3] Esta é outra expressão da cultura do futebol brasileiro. Zagallo, jogador e treinador de sucesso, 4 vezes campeão da Copa do Mundo, usou essa frase contra aqueles que o atacavam como treinador. Seus críticos muitas vezes faziam jogo de palavras com o seu sobrenome Zagallo: (Za)gallo =  galo).

[4] Camille Paglia, feminista, y Madonna intercambiaron algunos insultos después de que Camille Paglia le había criticado a Madonna por no saber aceptar el envejecimiento y por cultivar una imagen de mujer joven. Madonna respondió entre otras cosas que Camille no estaba segura de su sexualidad.

[5] Esta es una expresión utilizada en la cultura brasileña del fútbol (Eu sabia!), especialmente cuando marca el equipo de fútbol del cual somos aficionados. Se utiliza para la diversión, pero puede también ser usada para irritar a los forofos rivales. Algunos locutores de radio y televisión usan a veces ese clamor cuando la seleção marca un gol.

[6] Esta es otra expresión tomada de la cultura del fútbol brasileño. El brasileño 4 veces campeón de la Copa del Mundo, Zagallo, un exitoso jugador y entrenador, la utilizaba, después de haber sido criticado por mal entrenamiento de la selección nacional brasileña, y con el tiempo lograr resultados sorprendentes. Sus críticos a menudo hacían juegos de palabras con su apellido ((Za) gallo, Port. galo = gallo).

[7] Camille Paglia, a feminist, and Madonna exchanged some ofenses after Camila Paglia criticized Madonna for not knowing how to accept her aging, for cultivating an image of young woman. Madonna replied among other things that Camille was not sure of her sexuality.

[8] This is an expression used in Brazilian soccer culture (Eu sabia!), especially when the person’s soccer team scores. It is used for fun, but it may also irritate the fans of the rival soccer team. Some radio and television speakers may use this outcry when the seleção scores a goal.

[9] This is another expression taken from the Brazilian soccer culture. Brazilian 4-time World Cup champion, Zagallo, a successful player and coach, used it, after being criticized for bad coaching of the Brazilian national team, and eventually succeeding with surprising results. His critics often played on words with his last name ((Za)gallo, Port. galo = rooster, cock).

Clara era una lindí­sima marioneta. Kelly le quería. Le quería como mu­jer. También otros le querían, como cordera, pero Clara casi no bala­ba cuando le marionetaban. Se dejaba menear, casi silente, sin vida. Aún así, los titiriteros se ex­tasiaban.

La muerte es silencio y Cla­ra se moría para esa gente que le abría como se abre un pecho en las cirugías a pecho abierto. Y como en las cirugías de corazón, el paciente, durante la operación, se muere por unos treinta o cua­renta minutos, gracias a una bien­venida invención argentina. Que Dios les proteja a los argentinos, mejor dicho, que se protejan los argentinos. Kelly no era argenti­no, pero era el único a quien Clara le abría el pecho sin cirugías.

Kelly no creía en dioses, pero ya había llegado a una curio­sa conclusión de que había algo en el aire, en las nubes, donde sea, lo cual hace muchas lunas se empe­zó a llamar de dios. Que llamára­mos ese algo de dios o argentino, no le importaba nada. No sabía dónde estaba ese algo, pero sí es­taba seguro de que existía. Había sido educado católico, pero pron­to en la adolescencia dejó de ir a la iglesia. A partir de ese día, su evolución espiritual pasó por un período que lo llevó de católico a supersticioso. Más tarde esa superstición se sofisticó cuando empezó a mejor entender el mundo. Imaginaba que nosotros éra­mos seres dentro de un cuerpo monumental, mucho más grande que el más grande de los soles que conoce­mos. Y en eso se dio cuenta de que éramos tan peque­ños físicamente como los cuerpos que viven dentro de nuestras propias bacterias. Se dio cuenta de que la línea del infinito iba de lo infinitamente pequeño a lo infini­tamente grande. Y de que uno era tan “grande” como lo “grande” que conseguía imaginarse. Eso de mostrar los tamaños físicos de los planetas y soles, y de lo pequeño que somos al lado o dentro de esos planetas y soles era una tontería de idiotas científicos presuntuosamente humildes (en inglés, humble). El ser humano es grande, su espíritu es inmensurablemente, infinitamente enor­me o pequeño y sigue creciendo con nuestra imagina­ción que puede ser más grande que el universo o que los universos porque seguramente habrá otros. Con tal imaginación es normal que nos sintamos dioses, un sentimiento que no tiene que ser monopolio de nadie.

Antes solía quejarse de los males que le pasaban, pero poco a poco se dio cuenta de que algo le protegía y que esos males eran sus bienes. Esa revelación le ha­cía sonreír ante cualquier obstáculo. Eso le moldeó en una persona a quien algunos querían mucho pero no todos. Algunas chicas le querían mucho, pero algunas. No era raro que lindas flaquitas le invitasen a sentar­se con ellas; querían su presencia. Curiosamente no le querían como novio, sino estar con él. Y eso le iba muy bien porque tampoco les quería a esas chicas, en mu­cha intimidad, como mujeres.

Clara era a quien quería, quien le interesaba.

Kelly había hecho fortuna con robos ilegales. Por ello, muchos le odiaban. Muy experto, a la medida en que se enriquecía, se informaba y se preocupaba de que algún día perdiese su fortuna. Eso le llevó a sofisticar sus robos. Iba cambiando sus contactos, conociendo a otra gente, por esa preocupación de que algún día esos robos pudiesen llevarle a la cárcel. ¡Eso sería una ca­tástrofe! Como ya había ganado una pequeña fortuna, empezó a comprarse asesores que le aconsejasen. Esos asesores, otras versiones de Kelly, rápido le entendie­ron y así se compartían sus dilemas. Eran asesores sa­lidos de las mejores universidades del mundo y, reflejo de sus finos entrenamientos, le explicaban todo a Kelly de manera elegante que sí podría seguir robando, pero habría que hacerlo dentro de la ley. La ley es sagrada.

¡La ley es sagrada! Ese fue el gran salto de Kelly. ¡Y cómo brincó! Iluminado por sus cómplices, su fortu­na aumentaba de manera segura, rodeado de lo mejor que hay en sistemas de protección, en asesoría finan­ciera. Aprendió a donar mucha plata, para mejorar su imagen pública, a participar de obras de caridad, todas excelentes inversiones que los grandes jueces, federa­les o no, admiran y protegen, especialmente cuando esos jueces también reciben donaciones. Après tout, los jueces también son obras de caridad. Para Kelly, esas nuevas actividades, después de algún tiempo, re­sultaron en rutinas. Ni se daba cuenta.

Pero sí, seguía dándose cuenta de Clara. De ella sentía falta. Por ella se enriquecía.

“Il faut faire le bien pour mieux faire le mal”, le dijo elegantemente uno de sus asesores. Kelly no le en­tendió muy bien, pero qué importaba. Era rico. Eso sí que era.

El corazón humano no está en una posición ver­tical, como se suele representarlo. En realidad, está en diagonal, dentro del pecho, un tanto tordu, dirían los asesores de Kelly.

—Sentimientos, no los tengo. Sí, sí, tengo algunos pocos sentimientos, pero son para Clara, mi diosa, mi musa, mi reina, mi puta. Sí, es prostituta profesional. Pero me da igual lo que sea. Cuando le quiero, de ella me apo­dero.

Kelly cargaba en el pecho un corazón retorcido anatómica y emocionalmente. Su mala fama entre los que le conocían de las épocas de robos ilegales, le pre­mió con el poco cariñoso apodo de Aquelhijoeputa. Así le señalaban o a él se referían cuando le veían. Con el tiempo y como suele pasar con las lenguas, Aquelhi­joeputa se convirtió en Aquelijo y luego Queli. De ahí hacia Kelly, faltó poco para sofisticarse.

Era un ser humano con todo lo que llevan los hu­manos, especialmente la contradicción. Le encantaba Clara, pero también le odiaba a la luz del día. Le placía estar con Clara en la oscuridad, en la noche cuando a él no se le veía la cara, ni con quienes andaba. En la noche, era cuando salía con Clara, era cuando le odiaba y comía. Era una linda mujer. Ya le había pasado por la cabeza la posibilidad de sacarle de esa vida para que vi­viese con él. Le atormentaba pensar en cómo se desfi­guraría Clara más tarde, con los pechos caídos, orejitas de perro, vencidos por la gravedad… Y graves serían los odores de vieja por más disfrazados que intentase eliminarlos.

Tal como el corazón, Kelly tenía una inclinación. Era inclinado a actos sorprendentes, contradictorios, humanos, bestiales. De todas las formas, no le gustaba la vejez. La vejez debería ser el principio y no el fin. Todo está al contrario. Deberíamos primero nacer vie­jos, bien viejitos. Deberíamos nacer a los 125 años de edad. Y a partir de esa edad, iríamos bajando en los años hasta hacernos jóvenes, niños, y con los cuidados maternos y paternos, volveríamos a los vientres ma­ternos, dulcemente. Pero todo salió al contrario. Tal vez haya una vida complementaria a ésta en que es­tamos, en algún otro lado del universo, una especie de espejo de lo contrario de lo que somos.

Yo por ejemplo, ¿quién soy? El narrador o Kelly?

… Era yo, a veces Iván, a veces Víctor, otras ve­ces yo, otras veces Bertoldo, Bertoldino, pero siempre Clara… E íbamos todos, todos allá estábamos mientras estuviese Clara. Éramos todos, uno por uno, a la vez, varias veces, embrujados, piernas rotas, atracones de orgasmo, jubilosos. Ah, ¡buenos tiempos! Ella era clara, paciente, que era, era la hermana, amante, madre, todo era… era, para mí, mi madre, mi bestia, y dios la hizo p’a que así fuese y en manos de dios, sólo había Clara. Claro se hacía todo, en mi vida, en mis quince, dieci­séis, otros años de edad. En la ciudad, en lo urbano, en la edad dentro de los espíritus oscilantes, imágenes, no puedo pensarlo claro, hay que ajustarse, esta llovizna del tiempo, la interferencia de los años … ¿!Qué impor­ta!? ¡Coños! Los recuerdos no son hechos. Los hechos son tozudos que sobreviven las lloviznas, los senti­mientos. En mi espíritu no hay llovizna.

… Clara era Meme para los conductores de camio­nes, Lene para otros, hottie para algunos, y para mí Clara, su verdadero nombre. Así íbamos a visitarla, en la oscuridad de los sábados. Clara, mi bestia por muchos años. De ahí volvíamos felices, orgullosos de las posi­bles gonorreas, la mayor prueba.

¿Qué me pasa para hablar de esa forma? Mis sentimientos me salen desordenados, crudos. Se me escaparon. No sé qué dije… Normalmente, soy más matemático, más inteligente, soy por los hechos. Es­toy muy bien con la vida. Mi playa, los domingos, la disfruto religiosamente. A quién no le gusta un paseo descalzo por la arena de la playa, un soplo de vida de los vientos, los momentos de meditación que las olas y otros clichés nos traen? Puede que no lo parezca, pero estoy en paz con la vida. ¡Olvídate eso de tener mala conciencia! Los hechos son hechos, duros, tercos. Esos temas de sentimentalidad no me enredan. Ahora mis­mo, paseando por la orilla del mar noto que Clara tam­bién vino a la playa. Por el rabillo del ojo noto que me llama y me pregunta cómo estoy. Mis amigos no le conocen y me preguntan si le vi a la chica que me lla­mó por Julián. Finjo que no le había notado. No le doy atención. Soy Kelly. Afortunadamente no insiste. ¿Cómo es posible eso? Tal mujer por acá… Si fuera auto­ridad, no lo permitiría. No pasa de una puta.

I must confess that I’m becoming increasingly successful here in Shanghai. Two days ago, a dozen women approached me offering Chinese massage. Yesterday, 29 wanted to massage me. Yes, I am counting the hits. Today, it was almost out of control: 58 women wanted to massage me, and 21 were making me shameless propositions unspeakable of. Then, I saw this huge picture of Mr. Clooney. I couldn’t help but shout at him: “Hey, dude! Sorry, but this town in not big enough for both of us.” He didn’t say anything. Quietly, looking into infinity, he started his motorcycle, wondering… I heard that he left town. If things continue the way they are, in a couple weeks, if anyone wants to send me correspondence in Shanghai, just write: “To Antônio, Shanghai, CHINA.”

//

Devo confessar que estou me tornando cada vez mais bem sucedido aqui em Xangai. Dois dias atrás, uma dúzia de mulheres se aproximou de mim oferecendo massagem chinesa. Ontem, 29 queriam me massagear. Sim, estou contando as cantadas. Hoje, a coisa quase ficou fora de controle: 58 mulheres queriam me massagear, e 21 me fizeram proposições indecentes, que eu não ouso dizer. Foi ai’ então que eu vi esta enorme imagem do Sr. Clooney. Não deu outra, eu tive que gritar p’ra ele: “Ei, cara! Desculpe, mas esta cidade não é suficientemente grande para nós dois”. Ele não disse nada. Quietinho, olhando para o infinito, ligou a motocicleta, pensativo… Ouvi dizer que ele saiu da cidade. Se as coisas continuarem do jeito que estão, em algumas semanas, se alguém quiser me enviar alguma correspondência aqui em Xangai, é só escrever no envelope: “Para Antônio, Xangai, CHINA.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9A_JrsJF6mM

Esta não é uma tradução fiel, mas uma paráfrase na melhor das hipóteses. É simplesmente uma tentativa de dar uma ideia da letra de Chico Buarque nesta canção. Seu domínio da linguagem torna difícil para mim traduzir seu texto em inglês ou qualquer outra língua. Por exemplo, “sem perceber que a patria era subtraída” significa “without realizing that our nation was subtracted/stolen”, mas um brasileiro intuitivamente lê isto de outras formas, ou seja, “subtraída” pode ser interpretado como “sub” e “traída” ou seja “traída por (golpe) baixo”, que em Inglês pode ser mais ou menos “traído sob / sub (qualquer coisa).” É uma linda canção, escrita há muito tempo, mas ainda viva em nossos debates / eventos atuais. “Erravam cegos …” é uma maneira literária de dizer “vagavam às cegas”, mas “erravam” também significa “transgrediam”.

This is not a real translation, but a paraphrase at best. It’s simply an attempt to give an ideaf Chico Buarque’s lyrics in this song. His mastery of the language makes it difficult for me to translate his text into English or any other language. For instance, “sem perceber que a patria era subtraída” means “without realizing that our nation was subtracted/stolen” but a Brazilian intuitively reads this in other ways, i.e. “subtracted” can be interpreted as “sub” and “traida,” or “traida por (golpe) baixo” which in English becomes more or less “betrayed under/sub (whatever).” It is a great song, written a long time ago, but rather fittingly in our current debates/events. “Erravam cegos…” is a literary way of saying “roamed blindly” but “erravam” also means “wrongdoing, erring.”

==================================

… dormia / a nossa pátria mãe tão distraída / sem perceber que era subtraída / em tenebrosas transações / Seus filhos erravam cegos pelos continentes / levavam pedras feito penitentes / erguendo estranhas catedrais / e um dia, afinal / tinham direito a uma alegria fugaz / uma ofegante epidemia / que se chamava carnaval / oh carnaval, oh carnaval / (vai passar) / Palmas pra ala dos barões famintos / o bloco dos napoleões retintos / e os pigmeus do bulevar / meu deus, vem olhar / vem ver de perto uma cidade a cantar / a evolução da liberdade / até o dia clarear / Ai, que vida boa, olerê / ai, que vida boa, olará / o estandarte do sanatório geral vai passar …

—————————————————–

… our motherland slept so distracted / without realizing that she was being subtracted / in shady transactions / her children roamed blindly through continents / baring stones like ​​penitents / erecting strange cathedrals / and one day, after all / they were entitled to a one fleeting joy / one breathless epidemics / that was called Carnival / Carnaval oh, oh Carnival / (It’ll pass through/It’ll go) / A round of applause to the wing of hungry barons / the block of inky Napoleons / and the boulevard Pygmies / my god, come look / come near to see a city to sing / the evolution of Liberty / until daybreak / Ah, that good life, olere / ai, what good life, Olara / the banner of the general/universal sanatorium is about to pass …

By Roberto Monteiro

 

Important note: This story has sex and violence, strong adult content. This is a 100% fictional work. The story uses some of Henri Bergson’s idea of pure memory and objective memory to tinker with Afro-Brazilian beliefs.

– Well, this should not be important, said Umbigo to himself as he walked back home, trying to remain calm.

He had just been robbed. His thoughts were still giving a lot of gas, though, racing round and round, like a spiral, or better, a milky-way spinning into a black hole. As the kid went on with his attack, Umbigo’s present, past and future collapsed inside his brain. A constellation of sights were shooting in every direction as he struggled with the feelings of being cut, robbed, invaded, dominated. He didn’t have to leave the stadium alone, but he did.

– Maybe I’m nuts, maybe I’m an idiot, maybe I’m nuts, maybe …

Ok. English is not my first language. If I told you this story in my native language, I’d be too close to being reliable. Talking in English or any foreign language is like talking to someone from behind a curtain, in the shadow, in other words mostly fake talk. I feel good when I disguise my feelings. Life is a theater in any language, but particularly in a foreign language. Although I sound defiant and pretentious in a foreign language, that is something that doesn’t bother me. And even so, you’ll find some honesty in the false notes of my English accent.

Allow me to continue my story.

Umbigo was walking a long way home, in Rio suburbs. He still had at least one hour to get home. It was early in the night, around 7pm, but already dark. He had just been mugged, after he left the soccer stadium Maracanã. The game he came to see lost interest and he decided to leave early, leaving his friends behind. Umbigo was not crazy about soccer, but he loved to watch the crowds during the games. The show they naturally put on was spectacular despite the dangers of the fireworks and aggressive crowds in popular areas of the stadium.

Walking alone outside Maracanã had its risks. The kid who robbed him took all his money. He didn’t want to explain the robbery to the bus driver, who would have taken him home. He decided to walk, instead. He knew that between Maracanã and Catete, where he lived in a room he rented, there were lots of risks, especially for lonely walkers. The attack, however, was still provoking on him strange sense of loss, liberty, carelessness. He seemed to be reaching somewhere in his mind where time doesn’t exist, at least the mathematical or intelligent time we are used to. He seemed to have consciously gone into pure mémoire, into temps réel.

– That is not important! Nothing worse could happen to me. I’m going to turn this hard knock into my favor. I just need to grow out of it.

Walking alone, he was discovering, was not that bad. As he walked, he could see the statue of Christ, the Redeemer, shining in the night, pleasingly, peacefully. His first impulse was to complain to the Redeemer. But he realized that it made no sense to complain to a statue, just as it made no sense to Cartola to complain, to talk to flowers.

“I complain to roses / But what a nonsense, / Roses do not speak. / Roses simply exhale / The perfume they steal from you.” Queixo-me às rosas / Mas as rosas não falam / Simplesmente as rosas exalam / O perfume que roubam de ti.

– Beautiful song, remarkable lyrics, ah Cartola… Why am I thinking of Cartola? Anyway, I’m not going to blame the statue of the Christ. It has nothing to do with the mugging. It’s such a beautiful statue. It doesn’t protect me or attack me. It simply exhales peacefulness, grace. For me it is both saintly and devilish, well balanced, just like everything tends to be in life, in equilibrium.

Instead of becoming angry, he was taking rather well this surprisingly forced walk. Long walks are ideal for thinking, for organizing, for filtering pure mémoire into intelligent time. His remembrances would entertain him while he walked. Sometimes he found himself materializing his thoughts, speaking alone. When he realized it, he looked around to see if anyone heard him thinking aloud, or saw him moving his lips, from a distance. Maybe the best would be to hold his teeth tightened, to make sure his mouth didn’t move. This way, if he started to talk alone again, it would be harder for someone to notice it. Otherwise, passersby would think that he was crazy.

Umbigo’s odyssey through the dark streets of Rio’s suburbs was a bit of a challenge. Everything tonight was making him rethink of who he was, where he was, where he wanted to go. Still, he felt unusually confident, fearless. The kid who robbed him was an adolescent, who appeared out of nowhere, outside the stadium, as he tried to cross the streets under a viaduct. The adolescent had a frightful piece of glass taken from a broken mirror, threatening to punch him with it, if he didn’t give him his wallet. He tried to talk the kid into changing his mind, but that made the kid nervous, itching to attack. As he reached his pocket in willfully slow motion, hoping that the longer it took the better his chances of keeping his money, the kid hit him in a fast move, tearing his shirt around his belly, making a cut on his skin. The cut was precise, a clear message to how skilled the kid was with that piece of glass. Right after, in a purposive, deliberated move, the kid lifted his hand holding the dagger-like piece of broken mirror, ready to hit harder. Umbigo blanked for a second, as he saw the kid’s face reflected on the glass. But he saw his face on the glass, too. His own face on the mirror was so revealing! And it lasted what? A blink of an eye. And the Umbigo on that flash would mark him for ever.

His face on the broken mirror is what made him regain control and speed up handing in his wallet to not irritate the kid anymore. In no way he would say anything else. He gave his wallet to the kid, who took the money inside it, returned the wallet to Umbigo and ran away. Umbigo felt consoled to see his documents back.

Living on the edge changes anyone. These unnerving moments with an attacker about to punch him with a dagger-like piece of mirror, seem to have awakened something in Umbigo. Living on the edge shakes anyone. The kid needed the money most likely to buy drugs. Somehow, he related to the kid. He also did some drugs. He never robbed anyone for drugs, but he understood that the addiction can drive anyone to do things out of his normal.

His thoughts were streaming out of his mind into the streets of Rio.

Old memories were assaulting him, triggered by whatever he saw on the streets. An airfare ad with ticket prices to New Orleans, took him back to the United States, where he worked once, illegally, on a farm. He met someone in New Orleans, who was led into the psychedelic drug fad at age 16, who used more drugs than did anybody he knows. He did so much damage to his own brain that his college and his career were hopeless. At age 20 he was framed to look like a drug dealer and at age 24 he was emasculated by needle-into-his-spine. Today he is 47 without children and he is almost certainly going to die that way. Had the kid who just robbed him gone through anything of that sort?

He met some curious people in New Orleans. One day, after noticing the slow work of one of the farm workers, he wanted to say something to change that. But he didn’t want confrontation with the worker. He wasn’t sure of what to do, because he felt the strong pressure to “do the right thing,” to tell the guy that it was not fair. “Chill out” he thought to himself. It was a Catch-22. The conflict inside him was cooking into a swirl, a torment of hurricane size.

The guy worked and moved slowly indeed, and maybe Umbigo would have to work harder to compensate for the slow work of the fellow. Maybe the few things that he learned in other languages would help liberating him from the torment within. He guessed that the farm worker would not know Latin and said something in Latin, without exclamation. A period was sufficient.

– Festina lente.

The farm worker looked at him:

– What’s that?

– An expression the Romans used in ancient Rome, he answered cautiously, without explaining what it meant. If he told the worker that the Latin expression suggested for him to “make haste slowly,” he’d be in trouble.

– That’s their nonsense, back talked the farm worker with disgust and conviction. And then, he added:

– People like you think they’re better when they say these things. Very smart, eh!? But just a bunch of stupid idiots. What’s your name, anyways? We work here but never spoke.

– Umbigo. That is my nickname.

– Ambiguous? What kind of name is that? Does it mean anything?

– Um-bi-go. I’m Brazilian. It means navel. It’s not my name. It is my nickname.

– Can’t you talk straight, ignoramous? You should change your nickname to Ambiguous. My goodness!

– I kinda like my nickname. Maybe I’m ambiguous. My real name is not important.

– Anyway… why should I care? But if you wanna talk to me, you better tell me your name or get the hell outta here.

His years in New Orleans were coming back, making him recall his passage in Louisiana, when he was 19. Those farm workers were so confident, talked right to the point, with conviction. He wished he was like that, but that was not his modus operandi. Everything was mixed inside him. He remembered that after some hesitancy he said his name:

– Rodrigo. Rodrigo Olympio Vieira de Souza.

– I see… Rodrigo. Rodrigo ambiguous… uhmmm. So, you are a black Brazilian, named Rodrigo, right Umbigo?

– Almost. I’m a mulatto, not quite black.

– Sure… You ARE umbigous! I mean, ambiguous. Listen, these yes-and-nos don’t work in my country. You are either black or white. Get used to it. Period.

Before going to the US, he didn’t like his kinship to blackness. He didn’t like being perceived as black. After coming back from New Orleans, he became gradually and increasingly comfortable with his blackness. He didn’t want to be called mulatto anymore. He was assuming his negritude. What a feeling of liberation, of empowerment! His experiences with the world were spinning him into another person, another galaxy. In the US, races are institutionalized. In New Orleans, he was institutionalized as black. It was a mix of shock and liberation to find out that he was black. Half hour ago, he had to dialogue with a robber, with death. His life was going from uncertainties, mixed ideas, mixed behaviors, mixed everything, into certainty, confidence, even when he mixed both sides of the same thing.

Everything around him conspired to help him feel good about himself. He felt like screaming that he was black, as he walked by a sidewalk with stores still opened, selling musical instruments, statues and images of orixás, that is to say Yoruba deities, and filled with captivating sounds of percussion and a variety of instruments of black tradition. Statues and images of Exu were everywhere in the walls and on the sidewalk. He became defiant around these images of Exu, although he never understood what he had been told about this orixá. All discussions regarding Exu were marked with yes-and-nos. All explanations sounded contradictory. Sometimes Exu is bad, sometimes good, but never completely bad or good. Exu turns a mistake into the right thing and the right thing into a mistake. He couldn’t define Exu, but he liked Exu.

– Maybe that’s why Exu is so strong. I wanna be just like that. Whatever we define becomes easier to control. I don’t wanna be defined. I do wanna know who I’m and what I’m. But nobody else needs to know who and what I’m.

Maybe Umbigo was right. Defining someone or something turns anyone-anything vulnerable, predictable, unless anyone-anything has a perfectly efficient shield. Otherwise being defined is pretty much like shooting the own foot. It’s an invitation to being controlled. God bless ambiguity, I mean, Exu bless ambiguity.

The drumming nearby alternating fast beats with slower ones, strong beats moving into very low, near imperceptible sounds fascinated him. Sometimes the musical sounds would become so low that he couldn’t actually hear them anymore, but he still felt them through the moving and soundless hands of the drummer. When the drumming started to pick up, to rise again, it took him off into the unknown, carried by the unknown, carried by Exu.

Afro-Brazilian traditions messed up his mind early in his life. The same traditions were now shaping up rather well his being. He felt that he needed more of long walks like these. Maybe it wouldn’t be bad to be robbed again. It felt good to live on the edge. Moving through the streets of Rio in the night was dangerous, but now he was feeling at home. He didn’t dress fancy, his skin color was dark, so he mixed in naturally into the night; and if he remained alert he should be fine. No fears, just the spiraling thoughts that were helping him to stay on the right course, towards blackness.

“I have a lot in common with Exu,” Umbigo kept remembering while walking. “I like tricking people, penetrating people and spaces with or without disguises. I do not fear Laestrygonians, Cyclops or Poseidon. After all, they are just myths. But pivetes, noias and all these evening street dwellers, robbers, spread throughout Rio, yes! I pay more attention to them. They show up, regardless of what we do, where we less expect for them to appear.”

It is fair to say by now that Umbigo was ready for pivetes, noias, anything.

And by now he had already walked past through the barrios Estácio, Catumbi and was passing by Lapa, going to Catete, where he lived. So far, no bad surprises. But he was about to go under another viaduct. As he passed under the viaduct, he noticed, against one of its pillars, a small group of children, sitting tightened around a woman. Throughout the time that he waited the cars to pass before he crossed the street, he heard them talking. She was shooting them with some drug, to alleviate their hunger.

– …here my little one… you’ll like this, no hungry no more… you’ll sleep fine…

She held them together, in a strange mix of peacefulness, desperation, love. He didn’t want to look back for another glimpse. If he looked back, he feared that their reaction would be dangerous, had they caught him staring in curiosity. He was now closer to his building. No need to create new events tonight.

As he moved towards his place in Catete, he heard singing, percussions, and the noise of people and cars while passing in Lapa. Rio was awaking for the night. That ambience sent him into faster walk, invigorated. He was full of life. He was in high spirits as he connected to the airs, drums and lights of Rio. He wanted to be home immediately, take a good shower, and get ready for his transvestite show in Lapa. Life was flowing again. His thoughts were in effusion.

“Those farm workers were fun, after all. One of them was afraid of old age. He’d say that he had reached an age where he was starting to forget simple English words, like ‘maple’ and ‘hyena.’ One day he could find the word, the next day he couldn’t, the next day it came back to him. Funny guy, he didn’t like teachers. People were stupid because they believe what teachers taught them.”

– But TEACHERS DON’T KNOW ANYTHING, he’d shout in protest. Teachers made fools of themselves because they try to teach things to people who don’t understand anything and they didn’t see that people don’t understand anything. IT’S NONSENSE. I wish I could study and learn. I either don’t learn or if I learn, I lose what I learned.

“I don’t think we forget things in old age,” pondered Umbigo, as his thoughts were materializing, coming out in words. He didn’t realize that he was once again talking to himself, alone.

– But everyone tends to believe that we do. Everyone is afraid of old age. We should kill old age. Instead of slowing down our lives because of old age, we should keep things going in high speed, until we die, all of sudden, instead of dying slowly, waiting for old age, for death to come. I remember in my twenties when I forgot or confused things, it was fun. But when old people did the same, it was because of their age, they were losing their marbles. Once, I met two French students, and they were happy to meet me, a Brazilian, especially because I was black, bien typé, as I found out later on. There is this curiosity people tend to have about the size of penises in blacks. I’m a mulatto, but in the US I’m black. I don’t know much French, but I love the language. When the French students came towards me as we got introduced, I didn’t miss the chance to make a fool of myself.

– Venez, je veux vous embrasser!, I said with the intention of saying that I wanted to hug them.

– “Embrasser” sounds like Portuguese “abraçar,” to hug. In French, “embrasser” means to kiss, a friendly kiss. The male student, a bearded guy, kindly kissed me right on the mouth. Urgh! I didn’t know what to do. He may have thought that in Brazil it was a custom to kiss in the mouth. After the guy, the girl also kissed me on the lips. That was nice. She said, after she kissed me, “I know you meant to hug. I thought it’d be fun to play along.” She smiled and asked if I liked. Of course I did. It was fun to kiss the guy too. No, no, maybe not the guy…

Then he realized that he was again talking alone. He looked around to see if anyone caught him talking to himself. He forgot to hold his teeth together, in a bite-like manner while talking, as he wanted to do earlier, when he had caught himself talking alone for the first time. But why the souvenirs of New Orleans kept coming back?

– Oh, I know! He started talking alone, once again, but now disguising it by holding his teeth together.

– That farm worker used to say to the other workers who complained about the US and their miserable lives that the important was not what their country could do for them, but what they did for their country.

Umbigo loved that statement about doing something for the country. And the farm worker repeated it so many times during conversations that the sentence stayed in his mind. Deeper and deeper, he would love for the country to do something for him, to facilitate access to a better life, because he did not mind studying and working. He just needed a little help. But because of that statement he felt guilty, if he said such a thing. And that statement sounded so right, so intelligent.

He was now close to his apartment. Before he arrived he was already planning what to do next. He would take a nice shower, get some money and go out for his show. He needed to go out and see people, meet people. He arrived at his place and didn’t find anyone else in the house. He took the stairs and went straight to his room.

After a replenishing shower, he started his transformations. It took him almost one hour to change into a transvestite. He looked in the mirror and felt confident. Nobody would guess who he was, not even his closest friends. The only thing he needed to be careful about was to leave his place safely, when nobody could see him leaving. Since he started his shows a year ago, only once a person in the building saw him going out. It was one of the tenants. Noticing that the tenant had no idea that he was a transvestite, he felt in control. He naturally asked the tenant about someone who didn’t live there. The tenant said that there was nobody with that name in the house, but also asked the transvestite how he got inside the house. With aplomb, Umbigo explained that the door was open and nobody replied. The tenant didn’t seem surprised. That was the only time someone came across while he was going out.

He was still in his room, but ready for another show. He looked through his slightly opened door and saw nobody.

So, he slowly comes out of his room, walks through the house and wins the streets.

Leaving the house required attention, but coming back was easy, because he had a bag where he placed his gears, before returning home. He also carried a portable sound system and a mic, which are easy to explain if anyone asked about. By the time he came back it was late, and most people in the house were already sleeping.

And Umbigo goes to Lapa.

Once in Lapa, he takes the usual place where he gives his drag-queen show, in front of the Arcos. He is happy to see that his spot is still available, because he usually comes earlier to save that spot.

Umbigo had a good voice, and to his surprise, sometimes a musician who had been playing in the area would stop by and accompany him. As he prepared his show, a girl sits nearby, curious about Umbigo.

– Hey! You look very nice. I can see that you are not a woman, but you look good.

– Thanks, replied Umbigo.

After a few seconds, he comes back to her.

– Maybe you can help me.

– What do you mean?

– Well, sometimes I wonder how the show is going. It’d make me more confident if the audience said something, anything, even offensive, I don’t mind. I need to have some kind of reaction.

– What do you want me to do?

– Do you plan to stay for the show?

– Yes, I do.

– Ok. After half-hour into the show, I’ll sing alone, Aquarela do Brasil. Everyone, even foreigners, recognize it. I’ll finish singing the Aquarela shouting “Long life to Brazil! Braziiiilll!” Just like soccer radio speakers sometimes do. Very nationalistic, you know.

– I see. What should I do?

– You’ll be in the audience. Say something negative about Brazil. People may frown on you, but since you are Brazilian, a girl, the most they will do is talk back. But say something that is not too aggressive. Or if aggressive, acceptable. Something with a compliment followed by a criticism.

– How about that: Yes, “Long Life to Brazil,” but there is a lot of shit here, too! I love our country, I’m crazy about it, but our country is not doing what it’s supposed to do.

– Great! But make sure you also say that Brazil never gave you anything, despite your love for the country. I need you to say a line that leads to something like, “I never got anything from Brazil, I live in misery.”

– Ok. I can do that.

-Good! Make compliments, show your love, and shout clearly that you never got anything from this land.

– I can do that. I’m a woman. I’m Brazilian. Nobody will hurt me in public.

– Right. Let me finish here, then. Maybe you should mix in the crowd, before they notice us working together.

Umbigo was ready. His show has been happening at the same place, a sidewalk in an open area of the Arcos. People watching him, could see in the background the lights, the columns held by the arch-shaped support of the rail for the tramway of the Arcos. There were lots of people walking around, having fun, as it happens every evening in Lapa. Great setting. Great atmosphere. Umbigo blended easily into that climate. He was happy. Very happy.

He made the preliminary announcements, shouting to everyone what they would see in the next hour, and who he was, a false name, and from Bahia, with a false accent, easy to catch.

– As you can see in my accent, I’m not a false Bahiana!

The audience laughed, yelled a few cliché insults, setting the usual climate for the show. Some of the insults were funny, other not so much. He was used to them. He opened the show with a pretty much expected song, “We are family!” He used the original sound with Sister Sledge, to back track his lip syncing performance. It was a popular song in Brazil, as all over the planet. Most people enjoyed it. It was a sure way to start the show. That opening attracted a lot of attention, making passersby stop to see what was going on. With his moves on high hills, a risqué neckline, dressed in a tightened skirt, opened on one side showing his stocking covered legs as he walked back and forth on stage, sometimes dancing with his microphone, sometimes with an imaginary partner, some eyes in the audience popped in astonishment.

Not bad for an unpretentious free show. It was a good time to stop by, sit around and watch Umbigo. After the opening he paraded a number of acts, monologues, some old but still laughable jokes, until he got to a point where he called in a few people in the audience to help him.

To encourage people he would go straight to them, and ask them to participate. Everyone was having a blast and it was not difficult to find four people to participate. He felt unusually motivated for his show tonight and wanted to try a record of five participants. He went toward a group of loud college students having a great time. He told them he needed one more so that Umbigo would enter into the Guinness World Records. The most he had gotten so far was four people. The students were laughing pointing at each other to participate. One of them, despite of being pushed towards Umbigo, decided to cooperate.

– Ok, ok. I’ll go.

Umbigo asked his helpers to stand in line, side by side, on the top of the low wall that separate the sidewalk from the open, play area in the back. Umbigo stayed on the sidewalk, in front of the five participants. He put on a nice song, as loud as possible, and asked them to try to replicate his moves as best as they could. He knew they would try and rarely get it right. He did this on purpose, because everyone would enjoy the show this way. Then he started being repetitive to help them to better synchronize with his moves. This worked out great, because everyone thought the participants learned fast. As the improvised choreography went on, he explained to the audience that tonight he was going to do something that deserved to go into the Guinness. He made sure everyone understood what he announced. The five volunteers, all men, continued dancing, repeating Umbigo’s moves. Then, Umbigo told the audience.

– Now! ATTENTION to my next move. And did a swirl. ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION?

– YES!!!

Umbigo cheered the volunteers.

– You are fabulous! Now keep your hands up, stretched as much as possible. Imagine you are trying to reach the clouds. YOU CAN REACH THE CLOUDS! YES, YOU CAN!!!

They laughed and cooperated nicely, with some of them exaggerating in their attempts.

– YES, WE CAN!!!

As they all were reaching for the clouds, Umbigo positioned himself strategically in front of them and routed through very fast moves, he mouthed each of their penises, surprising them, making some of them jump backwards, landing behind the low wall. They were surprised. The audience was bursting in laughs, which may have helped to prevent some possible aggression against Umbigo. They didn’t complain, but called Umbigo some expected dirt names. The student went back to his group. They couldn’t help laughing at him. But they all took it well. The student was laughing too, saying that he didn’t believe what happened.

– The guy really mouthed my biiird! What an awkward feeling. But dude, he was sooo fast!

Umbigo, now feeling that he was in no danger for what he did, announced proudly:

– This is my world record! I never succeeded mouthing five at the same time. Four was my record. I’M VERY PROUD! I hope you’ve enjoyed the show so far.

At that moment, he started singing Aquarela do Brasil. The girl who agreed to help, was still in the audience, but avoided revealing that they knew each other. As he finished the song, he started saying aloud, as planned.

– I’m so proud to be a Brazilian! What a great country we are. Viva o Brazil! Braziiil!!!

And the girl followed as planned.

– Yes! I also love Brazil. We could be a great country, but we’re not a great country yet! I still live a miserable life. Our beautiful Brazil never gave me a decent life. I don’t think this is fair!

Umbigo interrupted her politely and charmingly.

– I could agree with you. But that is not how we should see Brazil. We should not ask what our nation can do for us, but what WE can do for our nation.

His passage through New Orleans, the work with those farm workers was handy. The audience was surprised with the exchanges between both, especially the last one by Umbigo, unwarily copying one of JF Kennedy’s discourses.

– That little fagot is good, commented someone in the audience.

– Good job, bichinha! Other people agreed, calling him with a Brazilian expression bichinha, meaning “little queer, little gazelle,” commonly used to insult homosexual men.

And Umbigo closed his show.

– It’s time to close my show tonite. Nighty-night to all!

The student who came on scene couldn’t stop staring at Umbigo in a mix of admiration and curiosity. He had been drinking with his friends, and was having a great night. He came to compliment Umbigo, feeling an unusual climate between them, an unusual curiosity that Umbigo noticed immediately.

– Nice show. I was surprised with the bite, but it’s a show.

– Oh, great! I was wondering… I’m happy you liked it. Do you have any plans now?

– No. Nothing planned. Just enjoying the night.

– If you want we can hang out.

– Hummm… Could be a good idea.

The kid was wondering what would it be to do a transvestite. Umbigo didn’t look so bad, and he, the kid, had a few drinks. And maybe his bucket list included doing a transvestite.

As the public dispersed, the girl stayed, waiting a chance to see Umbigo again. He noticed her and told the student to wait a couple minutes while he talked to her. He went to see her and explained that he was going to hang out with the college student, but tomorrow they could get together, if she wanted.

– I’d love to see you again.

She wanted to hang out with him that same night. She was not happy being pushed to the next day, but she didn’t want to sound desperate to see him.

– Cool! I understand. See you tomorrow, then.

She understood nothing, but it was a sure thing to say. She charmingly agreed to meet the next day, a Sunday, before Umbigo’s Sunday show. Umbigo noticed a tricksy look in her face, as if she had something that he wanted to know about. She folded a piece of paper with her cell phone number in it and put it in his hand, in a way that pleased him. Her hand touch almost made him change his mind about the kid, but he decided to stay with the plan to meet the next day. His interest in doing something with the college student was still greater than his sudden curiosity to find out about the now intriguing girl.

Umbigo was thin, docile, but very strong. It was amazing to see him as a drag queen. Even on high hills, he made no faux pas, as if he were walking magically, sliding on water. Maybe this was how the kid saw him, magical. The kid could not imagine Umbigo’s physical strength, but his elegant walk, his femininity, instead.

Umbigo took all the gears that he brought for the show and walked with them to a nearby shady area. There he changed, packed everything, and came out as a new person. When the kid saw him, so different, he was a bit surprised. But that made him feel more comfortable. Hanging out in public with a plain transvestite is not especially attractive. The new person still had charm, with some expression of an urban elegance and almost unnoticeably delicate gestures, instead of the screamingly eccentric gestures during the show.

Umbigo liked the expression in the face of the kid.

– Ok, cowboy. How do I look?

– Surprisingly good!

– Let’s walk to my place. I need to leave my stuff there. It’s not far.

– Cool.

They left together to Umbigo’s place, getting to know each other as they walked. The kid felt good in Umbigo’s company and didn’t mind when Umbigo, every once in a while held him closer, to tell something dirty, and going apart again as they laughed. There was a good chemistry bonding them. They exchanged cell phone numbers and texted each other a few funny messages to make sure they were connected. When they arrived, Umbigo opened the door carefully. It was late. He asked the kid to go in with him, but to make no noise. They went in, tiptoeing through the shady hall, until they reached Umbigo’s room.

It was a two-level building. In the first level, right after the entrance door, there was an open, common area. Umbigo’s room had a double bed, a desk with a chair, some shelves and a small sofa. No windows. As Umbigo unpacked and organized everything, the kid sat on the chair, watching him. After he finished, he was right behind the kid. Standing behind the kid, Umbigo started to gently massage the kid’s back and neck. The kid had an initial gesture to move out, but then let Umbigo continue. Feeling that the kid liked it, he unbuttoned the kid’s clothes, undressing him as he continued the massage. The kid stood up at the same time that Umbigo started taking off his own clothes.

– I can undress, I can do this by myself, said the kid.

Umbigo stopped his attempt to undress the kid, and took off his own clothes very fast. The kid undressed slowly, taking longer than Umbigo, which gave Umbigo a chance to approach the kid from behind, as the kid was still taking off his underwear. Umbigo held the kid from behind, gently, but firmly, laying him naked on the bed, buttocks up. With fast and sure moves, he held the kid under him, readying to penetrate the kid from behind. The kid didn’t expect that, but could feel that he was not going to get out easily from Umbigo’s grasp. As he felt Umbigo about the go inside, he tried to break free from Umbigo’s grip.

– Hey, man! Stop this! I don’t like it! I wanna do you! Let me out!

– Shhh… Hush-hush. You’ll like it. Lemme do this.

– No! I’m not gay! Let me out!

– Let’s try. If you really don’t like, I promise I’ll stop.

– No! No!

Umbigo had him subdued. He made sure he could keep the kid mobilized with one hand. With the other, then, he’d caress him, calm him down, as he talked friendly, reassuringly…

– See… This is good, eh? You need to try everything in life. It’s a short life. Trust me.

The kid was in bewilderment, not sure of what to do. In a voice half-wanting to cry and half-agreeing he told Umbigo.

– Come on! We can try another day. I just took a shit. My butts are all dirt.

– Not a problem. I’m so used to dirty butts. My little monkey is blind.

And Umbigo forced in, as he felt that the kid was not resisting anymore. His orgasm came quickly inside the kid. Then, he fell on the side as he continued to caress and calm the student.

– Don’t worry about this. Lots of people like it, but are afraid. They just need a little encouragement to try. I’m sure you’ll enjoy this again, the more you get used to the idea.

The student didn’t say anything. He quickly put on his clothes and got out of the room as quickly as possible. As he left the house, he noticed that he had messages in his cellular. His father and one friend had been texting him, trying to find out where he was. Outside, he was walking aimlessly and reading his messages. He felt lost, but not disgusted with what happened. Everything was so fast. He just needed to be by himself for a while, put things back together and maybe forget what happened. “Just an experience,” he thought, trying to appease his feelings. He didn’t know how to reply to the few messages he had. He would contact everyone soon. He kept walking, not sure of where to go.

Umbigo was in his room, thinking about what just happened. When he invited the student to come to his place, he was still disturbed with the mugging. When he saw the kid finishing getting undressed, he pondered, “Am I getting fucked again? No. My turn! This urban kid will like it. I’ll do him a favor for life. Yes. Let me tickle with his body and mind. Then he’ll grow and decide.

He was tired, but could not fall asleep. He wanted to rethink about everything that happened to him. He had so much in his mind. The mugging opened a superficial cut on his belly but also the deepest one ever, in his mind. He came out of it alive. It made him feel strong and fearless. He needed to get out of his confinement, of the repression he lived in, in his routine. He was thinking of calling the girl he just met at the show. How would she react? She could be sleeping now, and would not like the call.

– Hello!

– Who is this?

– Hi. You helped in my show, a few hours ago. Is this a bad time to call?

– Hi! No! This is nice. I’m still wandering here in Lapa. Do wanna get together?

– Yes.

– I can come to your place.

– Great. Let me tell you how to get here.

– I know how. I live across from you. Surprised?

– Oh! Now I understand your mischievous looks…

She laughed.

– Yes. I know a bit about you. I know you’re not gay. I’ve seen your show a few times. Very unusual. I’d love to know you better.

– You’re something! Ok. Come by. I’ll be outside, at the entrance.

She arrived a few minutes later, on her moped.

– Hi! Nice scooter!

– Thanks! I love it.

She locked the scooter, and came to sit by him, in front of the house.

– See that place over there? Number 111. That’s where I live. I can see you in and out.

– It’s a cabalistic number.

– 111? Yes. That’s why I picked the place. I was waiting for this number to take me somewhere. And here I’m.

– This is amazing. Hey! I need to tell you what happened to me today.

He told her how he got mugged, everything, including the meeting with the student. But he didn’t tell what he actually did to the student. He decided to be cautious about that, until he got to know her better. And this was an experience he didn’t feel like repeating. His mind was messed up and he felt he needed to do that. But he didn’t think he would do it again. And certain things you keep between you and your partner, regardless who your partner is.

– Man, you went through a lot today! Do you know what?

– Tell me.

– Let’s go back there tomorrow, around the same time you got mugged. I’m pretty sure he’ll be there.

– I have nothing against him. I don’t want my money back.

– I know. But if you go there and meet the kid, the shock will go away. It will make you feel better. It can be dangerous. But so what? It can be great, too.

– You’re right. We’ll go there tomorrow. That will be better than doing my show. And I don’t feel like doing my show anymore.

– Well, you can decide about it later. Tomorrow we just go there. Do want me to stay with you tonite?

– Would you?

– I’d love to. Let me take my moped to my place. Be back here in a few minutes.

She took her moped to a safe place where she lived and came back to join Umbigo. They went to his room. He loved her name, Ludmila, or Lu. When she found out his real name, Rodrigo, she shortened it to Ro. They took a shower together and then went to bed.

They spent the night discovering each other bodies, joy after joy, sexual pleasure, a night to mark their lives. It was Sunday, mid-afternoon, when they woke up. Lu and Ro woke up in their best mood. They played a little more in bed, and then laid down a few minutes until they started feeling hungry.

– Let’s go out grab something to eat.

– Great. I’m very hungry, too.

They went back to Lapa, and there they found a place to eat, to read the news. They took their time, enjoyed the place, and ended up staying there until around 6pm. Then, they decided to go to the place where Rodrigo was attacked. Lu wanted to take her moped. He loved the idea. He jumped behind on the moped, keeping one hand on the seat, and the other around her waist. She was poised, self-confident, manly and still sensual. Rodrigo wondered what brought her to become so audacious; maybe the roughness of Rio’s streets…, but he felt safe by her side. As they drove to Maracanã’s neighborhood, they talked about their first night. Lu was yelling, she didn’t mind what people could hear when they drove slower in some sections.

– Man, you LIKE oral sex!

– Not with everyone, he yelled back. With you, I do.

– Oh! Just like that?

– Your belly has amazing lines. They slide into your lower mouth, totally shaved… That’s mouth watering delicious. I couldn’t stop kissing you there.

– Yes, I know…

– You know… One day I went for a regular check with a doctor and he told me that the vagina has twenty or so different kinds of bacteria, while the ass has only one. Do you believe that? He sounded like a conservative religious, trying to cut down my bad habits.

– Interesting… Sounds like a bishop talk.

– He told me to live in a heavenly mansion, not in some foul sty. Do you understand what this means?

– Kinda… not sure either.

– I did not. But I felt he was reproaching me. He talked bizarre. So, I asked him where he’d put his tongue if he had to, into a twenty bacteria mouth-hole or a one bacteria airhole?

– You can’t talk to a doctor like that!

The bishop, I mean the doctor certainly knew Yeats, and thought of Rodrigo as some kind of Crazy Jane. But why would the doctor quote the bishop, when Crazy Jane annuls his scolding, Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement, for nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent?

– Cannot… But it’s his fault trying to lecture me. After the consultation, he said I didn’t have to come back to see him, kinda suggesting me to go away, find another physician.

– You’re perverted…

– Sure. Tell me something. If I fuck a gay, am I also a gay?

– I heard that in some countries you’d be gay, regardless if the other ever fucked you.

– Here in Brazil, wherever I have been, only the one who is fucked is gay. But in Rio, I’m not sure. They tend to think like people in other countries. Anyway, for me only the one who is done is gay.

– Makes sense to me… Ok. We’re arriving. Do you remember the place?

– Yes. It’s on the other side, by Bellini’s entrance.

– I think I know where. This is going to be interesting.

They rode to the other side of the stadium, where Rodrigo had been mugged. Lu stopped the moped at a safe distance from the place, turned off the lights and told Rodrigo to go there alone. She would wait. If they went together, the kid would not come out.

Rodrigo went back where he was robbed, walking slowly, trying to be aware of his surroundings. As he approached the area, he could see cars and people passing by, but nothing special that called his attention. He wasn’t sure of what to do. To stay there turning round and round would look bizarre. But he needed to stay there, so that the kid who robbed him would see him, an easy prey once more. After a little while, trying to decide what to do, he decided to pretend that he lost something, and started searching for it on the ground. That would keep him busy and normal.

After a couple minutes of searching what he didn’t lose, he notices a couple silhouettes approaching. Two kids came in his direction, and one of them was the one from last night.

– Did you find anything?

The kid from last night had a different voice today. Rodrigo was not sure of what was happening. He was sure that he kid was the same one, but now he looked and talked differently. Rodrigo was calm, well aware of everything around him, because he knew Lu was following everything. He answered the kid.

– No. But I’m happy to find you.

– Me, too, because I need more money. Do you have more money?

– Yes, but I was thinking of inviting you for a beer.

The kid and his friend started laughing.

– You’re funny! Just throw me your wallet, and get outta here.

Out of nowhere, Lu joins them.

– Hi, guys! Can I join you?

The kid and his friend looked at Lu as if they knew her.

– What are you doing here? Don’t tell me that you want to work with us again?

Rodrigo looks at Ludmila, surprised.

– Do you know these kids?

– Yes, we used to work together. I’ll tell you more later.

The kid is also caught by surprise.

– Do you know this guy? pointing at Rodrigo.

– He’s my boyfriend.

– I see… You prefer men now. That’s why you left us? replied the “kid.” Then, she turns to Rodrigo.

– Lucky you, dude! She just saved your life. I was going to kill you after this, because you came here for the second time. That raised my concerns about what you’d do next. I don’t like concerns.

Ludmila intervened.

– Hey, Ro! This is going to be fun. You didn’t realize that these kids are girls, did you?

– What?!

– So, you thought we were boys…

Rodrigo now understood the different voice.

– Of course, I did. You barely have boobs, dressed like a boy, short hair…

– Fuck you!

– Sorry! Last night I was nervous, it was dark…

– Come on, no big deal. It was my idea to come here. Ludmila came between them. I kinda thought that you girls were behind this, when he told me what happened, the dagger-like glass, the place, …

– Who are you? He asked the three of them. And the kid, now girl, talked.

– I’m not an adolescent. We’re about the same age. I’m 23. We were in the army together, for two years. Then, we got fed up with it and left. We live in the streets and survive without problem, just as we learned in the army.

– Until last year, we worked together, everywhere in Rio, in the streets, anywhere, clarified Ludmila.

– Ok, guy, said the girl to Rodrigo. Consider yourself a reborn. Let’s go for that beer.

They walked together to a boteco, a pub in Portuguese, a couple blocks from where they were. Now they were talking profusely, knowing much better each other. As they talked, Rodrigo learned that the two girls never used real arms, only improvised ones, which would save them, in case the police stopped them for searches. Better be always clean, no concerns. Ludmila had a sophisticated gun. She was very skilled with it, keeping it always within her reach. She dressed normally, clean, and the police would never stop her. The three of them only attack safe catches, only when they needed.

As he became more comfortable with them, Rodrigo showed the stabbing from last night, still healing, still stinging.

– I had to do that, said the girl. Sometimes we need to straighten up things, straighten up our preys.

– Are you and your friend… umm, you know…

Rodrigo was trying to find out if the girls were lesbians, but wasn’t sure how to ask that. But they understood, and smiled at each other.

– Yes, sometimes we play together. We love each other.

– Sometimes?

– I like boys, too. But men out there today are usually disguised gays, urban niceties, or something like that. We do make some effort to see which ones still have some manly traits that needs to be awakened.

– Interesting… So, if you find a man like that, you put him on his place, before dating him?

– A little bit like that.

– How do you go about this?

– Well, if he is shakable, I shake him pretty hard. Then, he will come up straightened up and fittingly, for me.

– Have you done this before? Did it work?

– Yes, a couple times. Some birds need to be properly ruffled. It worked for you, didn’t it?

– What do you mean?

– I scratched you pretty well, last night, didn’t I? I could have killed you. But my intuition told me not to do so. And you changed a lot, didn’t you? Aren’t you another man, today?

The girl had skillfully poked him again, right on the spot. He was silent for a few seconds, mulling over who he was. Her words infiltrated him so profoundly that he muttered something, while holding his teeth bite. He was fully aware.

– I’m a mulatto! Screw those farm workers in New Orleans! It’s none’s business who I’m. I know who I’m and that’s all I need. No control! No predictable moves. Blessed is Exu!

– What did you say? asked the girl, as the three of them turned towards him.

– Nothing important. That’s is not important. I just wanna enjoy an extremely cold beer with you.

 

(Written in Vitória and Paris, 2013)

 

Los Inválidos, París, Francia
Escrito por Roberto Monteiro

Qui assiste au crime, assiste le crime. Victor Hugo

“Si quien asiste al crimen, coopera con el crimen y también lo aprueba y estimula; imagínense el papel de quienes provocan al crimen, a la guerra, para sus ganancias personales”. En esos pensamientos se iba perdiendo el Dr. Eltee por las calles parisinas, en una noche del 31 de diciembre de un año reciente. Le despertaba la curiosidad ver que la famosa Torre Eiffel ahora encendía sus luces sólo por unos diez o quinze minutos, a cada hora. Le explicaron que era una forma de contribuir, dar el ejemplo del cuidado que todos tenemos que tener con el uso de energía. “Justo la ciudad de las luces”, reflexionaba buscando entender. Acostumbrado a no creer en mucho de lo que oía, se arriesgaba en imaginar que tal vez París también se había redoblado, a su manera, a la crisis mundial, permitiendo que su propio brillo pasara a ser controlado.

Estamos en tiempos de ahorro, de gastar menos con luces. El Dr. Eltee acababa de regresar de Afganistán, donde había estado en los últimos seis meses, sirviendo en las fuerzas armadas de EE.UU., como médico. Allí vivió lo que todavía no estaba preparado para vivir y que le marcaría por siempre. De todas formas, concluyó su contracto, estaba vivo y con todas las partes del cuerpo. Podría, con suerte, volver a ser lo que era.

Al salir de Afganistán, se fue directamente a EE.UU. para pasar Navidad con su familia. En seguida decidió salir sólo, de vacaciones, sin rumbo cierto, en un intento de borrar lo que había vivido esos meses en la guerra, reencontrarse o aprender a vivir como la nueva persona en que se había transformado. Le preocupaba muchísimo la nueva persona dentro de sí. Sin rumbo cierto, decidió premiarse un viaje a París, a ver si la ciudad de las luces le ayudaría a volver a una vida normal.

Esperaba encontrar la ciudad con una llovizna fría de invierno. Sorprendentemente hacía buen tiempo en París, lo que ya le ayudaba bastante, aunque no era suficiente para olvidar los horrores de Afganistán. Como todos los que han estado en Afganistán y en guerras semejantes, necesitaba más que lindos días de invierno. Pero lo que le ofrecía París este año ya lo hacía sentirse mejor.

Curiosamente la iluminación limitada de toda la ciudad y el no saber exactamente dónde estaba le causaban una inexplicable paz y placer. Hablaba muy poco francés, aunque se interesaba y conocía mucho de la cultura francesa. En este momento, se aliviaba la presión mental que sufría, con un comportamiento que creía ser típicamente francés. De los franceses creía haber aprendido el dejarse invadir por el autoabandono, por el m’enfoutisme, es decir la falta de interés en algo, el alejarse de problemas que nos molestan o distanciarse de cosas que nos parecen ser una pérdida de tiempo resolverlas. Tal vez cualquier cultura sea igual en ese respecto, pero la expresión je m’en fou, acompañada de una bien apropiada mou que hacen los franceses, parecía ayudarle mucho. Este gesto facial de los franceses los distinguen. Cuando no quieren que les molestemos con algo, dicen Je m’ en fou!, Je m’en fiche!, o On s’en fou! Esas expresiones a veces adquieren un toque mono por así decir, apesar del desinterés que expresa, especialmente si se les agrega algo como la mou francesa, un gesto de protuberancia labial, que incluye un soplo gracioso en sincronia con la cara y todo el cuerpo. Esa reacción francesa le encantaba al Dr. Eltee, que buscaba imitarla como nativo. En inglés, hay una expresión equivalente, I couldnt care less, I dont wanna think about this, que no le parecía tener la misma fuerza expresiva y ternura de la expresión francesa. Siempre que necesario, ese m’enfoustisme total que asumía le era reconfortante en sus dilemas diarios, especialmente ahora, durante el período que atravesaba.

Había poquísima circulación en el área en que se encontraba o tal vez que no se encontraba ya que no sabía ni quería saber donde estaba en su esfuerzo en perderse física y mentalmente. Nada le importaba mucho en este momento. Había poquísima o ninguna circulación, salvo por los carros que una vez u otra pasaban y una pareja que venía en su dirección, una joven y un hombre mayor. Parecían animados, fumando y mirándolo, curiosos de verlo allí, sólo. El tipo lo miraba sin decir nada, pero la joven, en un meneo gracioso, le saludó en francés:

– Salut!

Sin darse cuenta, le respondió en inglés:

– Hi.

Al que el hombre le comentó a la chica:

– Eh bah… un amerloque.

Así suelen comentar los franceses, cuando quieren desprecíarle a un americano. Si fuera un alemán, a lo mejor le llamara de kraut.

La joven parecía más amable y le encantó descubrir que el Dr. Eltee era americano. Su inglés tenía fuerte acento, pero se comunicaba muy bien, mucho mejor que el Dr. Eltee, cuando éste intentaba hablarle en francés.

Inmediatamente la chica empezó a bombardearle con preguntas. A ella le gustaba hablar inglés. Su compañero hablaba menos, en oraciones cortas o de una palabra, porque comunicarse en inglés le costaba mucho más esfuerzo que a la chica. Ella, a su vez, se iba infiltrando en la vida del Dr. Eltee, cada vez más curiosa, mientras que el americano, sin dejarle notar, evitaba contarle sus experiencias en la guerra y otros asuntos que no podía compartir.

Ahora eran los tres que paseaban sin importarles adónde iban. En ese paseo sin rumbo terminaron por llegar a una plaza también con escaso de luces. El Dr. Eltee les preguntó en qué lugar estaban. Le explicaron tratarse de Los Inválidos, una de las obras del Roy Soleil. Esta pregunta la alentó de tal manera que se puso de todo corazón a explicarle al americano los detalles históricos del lugar, con una u otra interrupción del amigo que parecía entender un poco de lo que conversaban e intentaba recordarle a la chica de no olvidarse de comentar algo aquí, otro allí, todo lo que marcaba los puntos históricos y culturales del lugar.

El Dr. Eltee escuchaba todo el relato con mucho interés, porque aprendía cosas que iba relacionando a las cada vez más fuertes emociones que crecían en su interior, desde que dejara a su familia en EE.UU. Algo más que lo sorprendió fue saber que el amigo de la joven era un sin techo, desempleado, lo que la joven le tradujo como homeless. Ella, por pena del sin techo, le dejaba quedarse en su estudio, las noches que visitaba París, lo que a él le encantaba porque esas visitas resultaban en oportunidades íntimas, a solas con la linda joven, lo que le placía muchísimo, llevándole a visitar París más que nunca.

El sin techo se sentía muy seguro de sí, a pesar de la situación en que se encontraba. Tal vez por celos del interés de la chica en el americano, cuando le daban una oportunidad, criticaba el mundo actual, y en particular los Estados Unidos. En sus interrupciones de la conversación entre el americano y la chica, atacaba todo el sistema mundial. Seguía hablando, siempre en oraciones cortas, lo que le forzaba a casi gritar cuando interfería. Atacaba la política externa de EE.UU., la protección y acatamiento contradictorios de Estados Unidos ante Israel, insistiendo que a cualquier momento el mundo iba a reventar, que Europa no tenía mucho tiempo de vida, que China y EE.UU. iban a unirse en una sola nación y que de esa unión lo peor aún estaba por venir. Ça va sauter! repetía en francés con cierto deleite, Ça va sauter!

Después de predecir ese apocalipsis, empezó a explicar la decadencia americana, la violencia inherente en la naturaleza del americano, un país de cowboys, que hasta la lengua lo refleja con palabras como strike, contrario a las palabras más suaves como grève en francés o huelga en español. El doctor pacientemente lo escuchaba e intentaba dialogar con el sin techo, sin dejar transparecer ninguna señal defensiva, paternalista, ni tampoco que era un inocente “acepta-todo”, es decir un sucker. Por coincidencia, el Dr. Eltee venía inundándose exactamente de esas ideas de la naturaleza americana. La experiencia en Afganistán le había invadido de tal forma, que no sabía qué le pasaba a sí mismo. Le venía creciendo un deseo de borrar violentamente todo lo que había visto y temía que la única forma de olvidarlo todo sería atacarle a los que crearon esa guerra, y en seguida a sí mismo. Por ello, no quería estar con su familia.

Suicidarse no era una salida. Había aprendido y en seguida enseñado en el ejército que nadie quiere suicidarse. La experiencia del ejército le mostró que la persona que se suicida no quiere morirse. Lo que busca es borrar de la mente algo que lo molesta, que no le deja seguir en frente. Nadie quiere suicidarse, sino olvidar alguna sobrecogedora, insoportable experiencia.

Los comentarios del sin techo debieran molestarle, pero no le molestaban, porque además de ese humor de m’enfoutisme que cultivaba, era una oportunidad de expresar sus propios pensamientos, hasta ahora reprimidos, y ver como reaccionarían los dos franceses a lo que iba a decir.

– Hay algo que me llama la atención en toda esa violencia en Estados Unidos. Esos ataques sin sentido que hacen a las escuelas, a mí me recuerdan el afloramiento de una leucemia. El surgimiento de una leucemia y el comportamiento asesino de esos tiradores, no sólo en EE.UU., sino también en cualquier parte del mundo tienen mucho más en común con una leucemia que lo que imaginamos. La falta de ocupación puede hacer de la mente un oficio del diablo. Cabeza vacía, oficina del bicho.

Los dos franceses se mostraban más interesados que nunca. Querían que siguiera hablando, que les explicara más sobre la leucemia y qué quería decir con oficio del diablo, oficina del bicho. El interés en todo lo que discutían parecía tan grande como sería el relato. Después de un rato, pararon y se sentaron.

– Nadie entiende exactamente como desarrollamos cualquier tipo de leucemia. Lo que parece caracterizarlas es su implantación a partir de una combinación de factores o “ingredientes” que aparecen al mismo tiempo en un cuerpo. No hay solamente un factor, sino varios que actúan en conjunción. No sabemos cuáles. Uno que se creía ser un factor presente en el desarrollo de leucemias, el ADN, ya lo derrumbaron, no tiene el peso que se creía tener. Recientemente, se empezó a favorecer la idea de que cualquier tipo de cáncer tiene que ver con el estilo de vivir.

La joven le explicó a su compañero lo que acababa de oír:

– Cool! Cool! Dijo en inglés para mostrarle al americano que el humor del apocalipsis ya se disipaba. La joven y el el americano sonrieron. El Dr. Eltee siguió comentando:

– Eso de ponerse a pensar, pensar, sin ocupación, miradas perdidas en el infinito, sin rumbo… Cabeza vacia, oficio del demonio. Esos tiradores también parecen ser el resultado de varios factores. Al igual que el cáncer, las matanzas en EE.UU. me parecen ser resultado de varios factores. El estilo de vida puede evitar el cáncer, así como esas matanzas. El ADN tal vez tampoco tenga que ver con el cáncer y esas violencias. Critícanse los videojuegos violentos en el internet, pero esos juegos sólo actúan sobre individuos que los combinan con otros factores, tales como el acceso a las armas, el entrenamiento en el uso de armas, una alteración mental reciente, una mente desocupada, una verdadera oficina del diablo.

A Dominique y Dominique, esos eran los nombres de la chica y del hombre que la acompañaba, les gustaba todo lo que oían. Y cuando esperaban más comparaciones de ese paralelo que les tejía el Dr. Eltee, el americano se para a mirar el Hospital de los Inválidos, y cambia de tema:

– ¿Quién mantiene este hospital de los veteranos de guerra?

– Ni idea, responde Dominique.

– No sé cual es el peor tipo de violencia, si esas matanzas de que hablaba o la guerra, que por lo general es resultado de intereses personales.

– ¿Qué quieres decir con eso? Pregúntale la joven que desde cuando le encontró, le trataba informalmente sin con eso molestarle al médico americano.

– Las guerras suelen ser provocadas por algún tipo de interés personal, por algún hombre de poder, de intereses económicos, como la lucha por petróleo, lucha por acceso al agua, a la comida, y otros intereses que aseguran la independencia y seguridad. Mucha gente gana con la guerra. Los que especulan con las guerras, cuando ganan, ganan un absurdo en beneficios económicos y financieros.

– ¿Dónde quieres llegar?

– Es que hay quienes no se preocupan mucho con esas matanzas argumentando que es una parte inevitable en la evolución de la humanidad. Los que sobrevivan seguirán, los que se mueran se quedarán. Todo les parece muy simple, nada con que preocuparse ni hacer tanto ruido.

– Te entiendo, si bien que me parece un raciocinio sin sentido.

– La guerra tampoco hace sentido. Pero hay quienes digan que la guerra también es parte de nuestra evolución, que es un mal necesario, que nos hace fuertes y todas esas mier… coles que oímos defendiéndola, tales como que de ellas evuelven no sólo mejores seres humanos sino también mejores tecnologías, un mundo desarrollado y al fin de cuentas, la paz. Puede que la guerra, en algunas situaciones, sea necesaria, pero en la gran maioría de las veces no lo es.

– Exactamente, dijo la chica que aprovechó para agregar:

– Debiéramos pensar en la guerra misma, en las bombas, las estrategias, la tecnología, la sangre, la locura y todo más que caracteriza las guerras. Pero todo eso ya se hizo tan gráfico en nuestros tiempos que nos aleja de lo que hay por detrás de los escenarios de guerra, nos entretiene, nos insensibiliza.

– Bravo! Dijo el americano, seguido por otro “Bravo!” del francés que entendió ser una reacción adecuada al momento. No lo entendió todo, pero presintió que Dominique merecía un gran bravo! El americano parecía haber llegado donde quería:

– Sepan que tengo la solución para acabar con las guerras.

– Acabar con la guerra es pura utopía. Pero díganos qué solución tienes.

– Mi solución no es idealista. Es simple, práctica y eficaz. Todos los años recibo cartas con pedidos de contribuciones en dinero para las instituciones de ayuda a los veteranos de guerra. Esas guerras incitadas como partes de un inmenso partido de ajedrez o póquer, esas guerras pueden ser evitadas en la maioría de las veces. Y para evitarlas de verdad, tengo la solución. Mi solución sirve o para minimizarlas o eliminarlas cuando innecesarias. Para eso basta con que se obligue a los que se benefician de las guerras y conflictos a responsabilizarse por todos los gastos de conflictos y guerras, desde su inicio hasta su última consecuencia. En otras palabras, quienes se benefician financiera y económicamente debieran usar esos beneficios, sin valerse de operaciones mágicas, para pagar todos los gastos de hospitales y salarios de todo el ejército que participa en una guerra.

…

– Nosotros que pagamos impuestos en los EE.UU, por ejemplo, somos los que terminamos por pagar los enormes costes de guerras. Los intereses privados que se benefician de los “excelentes” resultados de las guerras no comparten esos beneficios, es decir no pagan los salarios ni hospitales de los soldados. Le envían la cuenta al gobierno.

A medida que relataba sus ideas y veía que la chica concordaba y su compañero no se atrevía a pedirle que le tradujera todo, el americano hablaba con más convicción dejándose notar, sin darse cuenta, una rabia hasta aquí disfrazada.

– Si los intereses privados que se benefician de esas guerras fueran obligados a asumir los gastos de las guerras, estoy seguro de que pensarían con mucho más cuidado antes de incitarnos a las guerras. Sólo tendríamos guerras si hubiera una razón inteligente para eso.

El francés se levantó contento. Aunque no hubiera entendido la mitad de lo que dijera el americano, no perdió la oportunidad:

– Agree! Agree! Je vous ai bien dit: ça va sauter! Ça va sauter!!!

La chica había escuchado y entendido todo. Concordaba con el médico, pero empezaba a mostrar señales de cansancio.

– Oigan, ya pasamos de las tres de la mañana. Ya estamos en el Nuevo Año y ni nos dimos cuenta. Mejor que vayamos dormir. ¿Quieres venir con nosotros?

Sorprendido con la invitación de la chica, le fueron precisos algunos segundos para sonreír y aceptar la invitación.

Ahora con rumbo cierto, sentía haber eliminado de su interior uno de los factores que causan matanzas. Se sentía mejor ahora, con la chica y su compañero. Al llegar al estudio, la chica le propuso al Dr. Eltee que se acostara en el sofá. Por detrás del sofá había un colchón en donde los franceses irían a dormir.

El respaldo del sofá encubría a la pareja. Con la oscuridad de la noche, el Dr. Eltee no podía ver nada de lo que se pasaba entre ellos, pero podía enender que el hombre se enojaba con la chica que no quería hacer el amor con él. Así, enojado, se levantó y fue al baño. Allí pasó casi una media hora. Volvió cuando la chica ya parecía dormir. Intentó despertarla. El americano cogió algo que le parecía un “no!” categórico de la joven. Pasáronse unos veinte o treinta minutos. Dominique, furioso, recogió sus pertenencias, enrolló un cigarrillo, lo encendió y se fue.

Allí se quedaron el americano y la chica. Los dos, bastante cansados, durmieron sin dificultad.

Era el primero de enero. Los dos despertaron alrededor del mediodía. Se saludaron y parecían contentos de estar solos. El americano quería ducharse. La chica le dijo ser una buena idea y que después de él, ella también se ducharía.

El americano salió del baño sintiéndose muchísimo mejor que en la noche anterior. Ella hizo lo mismo, fue al baño ducharse. Al salir del baño, le preguntó si quería ir al café al lado, para desayunar, ya que no había mucho de comer en su estudio.

– Volontiers! Díjole, haciéndole sonreír.

– Muy bien! Estoy impresionada con tu francés.

– Tengo que mejorarlo. A veces me cuesta hablarle a los franceses. Son muy exigentes y poco pacientes cuando intentamos hablarles.

– Te entiendo, porque a veces también soy impaciente, especialmente con los americanos. Ten en cuenta que en Francia, con paciencia y un poco de valentía, se puede conquistar un corazón francés.

– Vale.

– ¿Ese tu nombre es verdadero? Le preguntó Dominique. Nunca lo había oído antes, y por eso me preguntaba.

En realidad, es una invención del autor, Roberto Monteiro. Lo inventó pensando en León Tolstói. Eltee es la abreviación de León Tolstói, es decir LT, en inglés el y tee. Sabes que Tolstói era militar y que más tarde, con las duras experiencias de la guerra, se volvió en contra de las guerras, de los militares, los cuales siguen preguntándose hasta hoy por qué Tolstói cambió de esa forma.

– Tiens! C’est vraiment chouette ce que tu dis. Te voy a hablar más en francés. Eso te ayudará a aprender mi lengua.

Y se fueron a desayunar.

(Escrito en Vitória y Guarapari, en diciembre del 2012 y enero del 2013)

Fatos são fatos
Escrito por Roberto Monteiro

Das Höchste wäre, zu begreifen, daß alles Faktische schon Theorie is. (Goethe)
(The supreme would be to understand that everything factual is already theory.)

Esse negócio de fato absoluto, fato bruto, não existe. Não há mesmo essa coisa de fato bruto, porque os “fatos” só têm relevância em virtude de uma certa teoria. É preciso entender que tudo o que é fato é teoria.

eu por exemplo, quem sou eu de fato?

… era eu, era ivan, era eli… reli soa mal, muito mal. ari ribeiro de matos, eu, doutor ari ribeiro de matos. éramos todos, um a um, de uma só vez, várias vezes, compasso solto, pé quebrado, porres de orgasmo, jubilosos. bons tempos. mas ela era, paciente, era ela, era irmã, carinhosa, era mãe, era tudo, até fera… fosse ela, só pra mim, minha mãe, minha fera, e deus fez, era ela, nas mãos de deus, só deu ela.

… uns com quinze, dezesseis, outros anos, de idade. na cidade, na urbana / idade, no interior, no espírito / santo, em vithaca, oscilante, imagens, que eu não posso / encaixar, nessa garoa dos tempos, interferência dos anos…

Que importa?! Lembranças não são fatos. Fatos são coisas teimosas que sobrevivem às garoas, aos sentimentos. No meu Espírito Santo não tem garoas, tampouco eu / tenho sentimentos.

… memê para os motoristas, lene para os clientes, gostosona para os fregueses, marlene pro nosso time… sábado de tardinha, no lusco-fusco nós íamos e marlene lá estava, fresquinha. ah, marlene, minha fera.

e a noite fechava. voltávamos contentes, orgulhosos / das possíveis gonorréias, a prova maior.

Sou pelos fatos, a favor mesmo. Os meus domingos de praia são desfrutados, colhidos religiosamente. Quem não gosta de um passeio na areia, pés descalços, um sopro de vida dos ventos, os momentos de meditação que as ondas nos trazem e outros clichês? Pode não parecer, mas estou de bem com a vida. Nunca sou de ter consciência pesada. Fatos são fatos, resistentes, teimosos de fato. Esse negócio de sentimentalismo não me envolve. Agora mesmo, passeando pela praia, vejo Marlene, também na praia. Num rabo de olho percebo que ela me acena e pergunta se tudo vai bem. Meus amigos não conhecem e me perguntam se vi a menina que me chamou de Lourival. Faço de conta que não vi. Todos sabem que meu nome é Ari e firme mudo de assunto. Felizmente ela não insiste. Também, onde já se viu!? Uma mulher dessas por aqui. Se eu fosse autoridade, não deixava, afinal não passa de uma puta.