Texts & Contexts

by Antonio Carlos Mongiardim Gomes Saraiva

  Out of a sudden, I wanted to know a little bit more about that man who, despite a fragile and aloof look, walked among people with his head held high. I noticed that he was squeezing something between the fingers of his right hand. It was something that seemed to belong to him for a long, long time. I tried to recognize that twisted and worn out object. It looked like a smashed paper. Right at that moment the bell of the old church ringed twice. By instinct that man passed his object to his other hand in a quick and precise gesture, as if he wanted to check if hadn’t forgotten his holy book.

  Far away, that worn out and shabby cloak looked now a lot more like the cassock of a monk headed to his sanctuary. Head down, begging for his fate.

  BLESSED DAWN

  I have been in my hammock for so long that I ended up seeing the Crux constellation. I also saw the rise of two shinny stars that apathic and sparkling arose in the darkness right after. I am a homeless illiterate man who looks up to the stars and follow their movements never knowing their names. I watch them go from my open property.

  I am a lonely man, but I am not sad. The night is still a child for those who have in it a sole companion, like me. Time moves fast and leaves me in an unfortunate and hopeless situation. I am a lost and thrown to the wind’s arms being when I am not by the sea.

  By a twist of fate, I am here in this starred night and patiently follow a comet and its tray running through the vastness as a beam of light from my small flashlight. If João calls me I tell him that I have no news. Soon I will have the rising of my Moon, sweet and mysterious creature. She’s the reason why I am still up. I am highly sleepy and I feel as if I might fall asleep on my hammock at any moment.

  God put me here when He gave me this gift. I am going to light up a match so I can keep myself up for a little while and enlighten all the space around me. I feel certain anxiety as I look at my watch. There are still eighteen minutes to go until the rising of my Moon. I take a deep breath and try to make myself a little more comfortable. I can’t lose this spectacle of Nature. Afterall, it’s not everyday that a homeless man is blessed by the stars.

  Now, I can even consider the idea of sleeping around here later, in a glassy and roofless house. Fall asleep fearless, calm and almost happy. Be able to smile, forget and dream as a God’s creature.

  Note from the author: This text is a reinterpretation of the chronicle “O Fiscal da Noite” from Rubem Braga, in the imaginary perspective where the storyteller is a homeless man.

  OTOLARYNGOLOGY

  I arrived early. The access to the waiting room kept us standing up by the entrance door. It was one of those buildings with a lot of rented commercial offices and people impatiently walking all over the place. All the elevators were closed and made of iron and could fit eight to ten squeezed people. A doorman by the entrance door on the first floor instructed the flow of people who wanted to get to one of the many floors.

  Finally, someone opened that glass door that gave us access to the waiting room. A middle-aged woman with a serious and heavy expression greeted us in a slow and low-pitched tone. We realized she was the secretary when she went to other side of the reception desk and sat down. She didn’t look very communicative and seemed to be just going by another one of a tedious period of her daily routine. Her skin and eyes were light and she made me think of a German matriarch with her strict and formal assemblance.

  We were the first ones to get in, alongside a young and extremally thin woman who gave us a resigned and accomplice smile. Shortly after, three other people arrived; a tired old lady and a middle-aged man who escorted his daughter, a teenager who seemed to be thirteen or fourteen years old. Even tough we were the first ones there, we weren’t admitted right away.

  It was way passed 2 p.m. when a short man in simple clothes entered the room. He appeared to be more than seventy years old and his expression was the same as the secretary’s. The grumpy face had no sign of kindness and his entrance was silent. A simple greeting between teeth, in a tone that made it seem as if that gesture was a favor. We only realized he was the doctor because he headed towards other glass door with his key in hand. Once the door was closed the old lady beside us asked – Is this doctor good?! I look at her, to my friend and then answered with a simple smile. Once we were not the first ones to be admitted, we still had to wait for another half an hour. The room was calm and the low sound that came from a small suspended television created a certain peaceful atmosphere despite everything else.

  When that second glass door opened out of the blue, a small and upright figure announced in a metallic and shrill voice my friend’s name in a spelled, slow and extensive voice as a machine reproducing a recording. The doctor’s expression was now that of a small commandant in plain use of his credentials and rights. He was no longer that sad and dull man that had passed by us. I noticed his small dark squared and mustache, its squishiness and outliner appealed immediately to my sensitive photographic memory. I had seen that face before or at least one that was very familiar to his. The tone, gesture and expression were clearly consistent with the parameters that made me feel that clear similarity. I reached out for my friend in a glance. There was no doubt. By a unimageable and transcendent twist of fate I felt as if I had just been taken to a Germany in the middle of a war in the 40’s, where the presence of that couple seemed to represent an almost real staging of Adolf Hitler and his secretary. My friend’s astonished look reflected quite well the weird feeling of a ghostly reality. It was unbelievable. Despite it all, we stood up and followed that man.

  The doctor’s officer was small and tidy where the objects seemed to be strictly fit. There were two empty couches in front of a dark desk of modern lines equipped with two notebooks. We sat side by side and waited for our host. When we tried to exchange a few words over that shocking moment we notice that our man had already taken his place of command right in front of us. He was waiting for us with an intense and inquisitor glance. Silent was made. While he read my friend’s informations, she pronounced the words and followed him with wide open eyes in complete surprise, sticking to confirm each one of them. – Well, and what is the story you have to tell us? At that moment, and perhaps appealing to my fertile imagination I could not keep myself from remember those reports about the holocaust where Nazis doctors made terrible experiences in Jews in the name of the purification of the race. – Let’s see, said the doctor. – Sit down on that chair! My friend stood up slowly and I remained static, taken away by my thoughts. That seemed too real, but perhaps it was just a strong suggestion. – You, come here! I looked back, moved the chair away and stood up quickly. – Put yourself right here behind me! I did it and waited. – Do you see those two white stains at the bottom of the mouth, near both molar teeth? I nodded and he quickly turned off the flashlight. The three of us came back to the desk. He looked at us and made a certain pause. - Let’s go to the other room! – Open your mouth! And then he drop a few drops of something that seemed to be some sort of pain killer. I followed them and noticed that the doctor was wielding a long instrument probed shaped with a light on its tip. At that moment, the Nazism images sharpened in a much clearer way in me when I associated that instrument and that man to a torture scenario. – Open your mouth! It doesn’t hurt! And then he shove that on my friend’s mouth. The images of an unusual route of pink cavities and protuberances started to be shown on a monitor. – Nothing! We went back to the doctor’s officer and he started to write his prescription. – It is not serious! It is just anxiety! Stress! I will prescribe only a few medicines that I believe that will solve the problem! And look right into my friend’s eyes to say: - And be careful, you must learn how to control yourself! And pointed a finger at her head. In order to help you should gargle with this medicine, like this! And in a quick gesture he pulled back the chair and loudly simulated the gargle. Right after he performed the rinse; making noises, his body leaned forward, eyes on my friends’ and moving his cheeks up and down nonstop. It was impossible not to laugh at the halluci
nating sight of an almost Hitler in his decaying phase... Anyway, that ending would come in hand to relieve a little bit of the tension of those pathetic and unrealistic moments. My friend and I were now fearlessly laughing of that funny and dull man that looked at us with a serious expression as if he was not allowed to laugh. – Thank you so much, doctor!

  THE WEEPING OF THE HERON

  The voice was coming from the heron’s stronghold and sounded like a low and raspy weeping. I looked around and didn’t see the birds. They had vanished with no tray despite the habit of always gathering around there to sleep.

  They used to go by in groups and hover over the city coming from numerous directions and place. They were marvelously white and loaned to our sky a magnificent and white veil of feathers and plumes in a synchronized movement worthy of the Mother Nature.

  It was late and the dusk was setting in, making it hard to recognize that place and their presence. I slowly approached and looked for the old tree with its dry and gray branches that served as a shelter to the herons, who once adopted it as their home. That was the place where they rested and felt safe and united by an irrational bird ideal, in a spontaneous and solidary gesture. I tried to come a little closer and made an effort in acknowledging the place a little better despite the darkness. Slowly, I started to notice that the grass had disappeared and the dirt was now dark and dry, looking like it had been poorly treated and expropriated. I recognized the smell of burnt leaves that seemed to come from the depths of the earth. I was now certain of one thing; something terrible had happened to those birds. The place was no longer the same and the weeping I had heard announced something serious and tragic.

  While I was preparing to go back home, I heard once again that low and raspy voice. The sound made me come a little closer and right when everything seemed dry and dark, I could notice the presence of a few spaced white points on that pale clarendon. Dozens of motionless, tired and silent animals. Resigned, sad and lonely. And despite being there together, they no longer had their old tree to sleep. Trying to rest on that ground devasted from the fire.

  I could feel the lancinating pain of the disrespect for nature and its magnificent forms. I have the clear assurance that the weeping sound I had heard was the earth mumbling in pity for the tears of those white herons who were now getting ready to sleep over the ashes of their old tree.

  ASHES

  Ashes are remains of dust, almost disintegrated and able to proceed the natural course of everything that rises, lives, grows and dies one day with no appeal. Nothing is enduring to the point of perpetuating into the vast immensity of space and time unless we understand it as a clear and clean extension of other forms, beings or probabilities that need to be born and enchant. With that in mind, our ashes are enlightened with a special glimmer, capable of feeding an interesting evolutionary chain. They are no longer a pale, deadly and dull thing. They should no longer be called ashes or grayish*[1], but living, rich and golden dust. Everything has its own moment and Nature fulfill its cycles in a plain and exuberant manner.

  WRINKLES

  Wrinkles are marks of our deepest and most authentic expressions. They are like grooves where the purest and fastest rivers of our essence run through. Interrupting them would be the same as interrupting these waters, until they can find and kiss all this sea one day.

  THE FLIGHT OF THE BUTTERFLIES

  Handling people is like going through a great forest. You should always be as careful as possible, especially if you don’t know the path very well and it is dark. You will find both small and large insects. Curious and hungry or nonchalant and uninterested animals. There will be a lot of holes and stones on your way. You will see grand trees that might look enormous and dark. Almost threating. Some sound will be familiar, others will sound strange and disturbing. You may feel tired and it will make you vulnerable and out of breath. But you should never lose your peace once you can always recognize the flight of the butterflies, even in the most complete uncertainty of the darkness.

  THE LEGEND OF THE LADY IN RED

  In the bright red I spread myself, delighted in the sway of the waves. I feel the smell of the sea that I declare and keep on the chest my rest, alert sentinel of these patrols. I am that woman in red who lives awaken in your dream and brings you a saddened peace wrapped in satin clothes. Rumor says that I was seen on the road by those who dreamt about me. Those whom I smiled at stopped and felt my scent. Vain petals of red roses forced the night ride, with no aimlessly and homeless. The cars and the men followed me nonstop on the long enshrined road. When I kissed then, hugged them and asked them to proceed with me on the moonlight, through the old and dark cemetery path. We were lovers and accomplices of that love, perpetuated on those endless nights. At the door of my beautiful and red little house, stunning and almost naked, I asked them – You want me to be yours forever? Come, I live here alone.

  OVERDOSE

  Suddenly I had a weird feeling, some sort of nausea and dizziness. I looked around and no one was there. Everything spun quickly inside of me and I had the clear sense that it was real. Immediately I reached out for some object’s backing so I could balance myself and resist that strength. I noticed that at that moment all the lights of the city converged to a sole unfocused point. I had the notion that inside of me something was growing and shaping up; it seemed as if it wanted to drag me, sucking in my guts. My mouth had dried and opened in a grotesque and involuntary gesture; terrified by the astonishment I could notice that vivid and gracious bloody-red hearts started to come out of my mouth.

  END

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  *[1] N.T.: In Portuguese, ashes are called “cinzas” (gray). In this line, the author makes a reference to the gray color of the ashes and the proper ashes, once they have the same written form in Portuguese.