Urban Mosaics
Page 3
But why thinking of this now?
— Keika wondered as she got into the van and started it up.
The Saturday morning was nice, which meant a promise of a hot day. He went up the sidewalk with the van and got into the large walkway in front of the city market. He stopped the vehicle in front of a dozen stands in row on both sides of the walkway. Behind him, the large stage already prepared for the festival, and before the majestic Tori, the Japanese portal that adorns the downtown during the festival.
The downtown was relatively empty. At that moment, the customers were still having breakfast, but one or another salesman passed in hurry not to miss the time of the shops opening.
Nikkey matsuri, the São Carlos community’s festival. That would be the fifth edition, and the fifth time he would keep with the origami stand. He was in charge of the Kakushin Origami and an active member of the Seinen Kai, the group of youngsters of the community. For this year, the work he had prepared was the violinist, his masterpiece, a delicate figure with skirt, with the instrument in her hands. The skirt painted with a tenuous watercolor painting and bamboo motives.
He went to the van and started to unload the boxes. The glasses ones were kept in card paper boxes with pieces of Styrofoam that protected them from crushes. He placed them beside the van, and then he removed the bendable tables and took them to the stand. He mounted one. Covered it with the towels he had taken from the van and put the glass boxes that were going to protect the most sophisticated origami works on them. The next step was to mount the tree of tsurus, the stork, but that they called simply the luck bird.
He would need to go back home to take the rest of the things. He had arranged with Mila, but, apparently, she had some trouble, because she hadn’t arrived yet. He went to the van, closed the doors and started the alarm. Then, he returned to the stand, mounted the chairs and sat in one of them. He wondered if Mila was taking long. If he, at least, had something to read while he waited. He remembered he had received a comic book by mail yesterday; he could be reading at this moment.
He took the cell phone and looked at Twitter. He was distracted, following the application when he heard Mila excusing herself:
— Hi, that was bad, it’s because I was gonna leave Luffy with Larissa, but she took long to answer the door, that sleepyhead.
— That’s OK, I’ll go back home to take the tree and the other things.
And, by saying so, he left Mila at the stand and returned twenty-five minutes later, with Keita. He brought the tree and she brought a coffee bottle and Styrofoam cups.
— Need a coffee there?
— You don’t know how much! I had a college work this weekend and had to do it all last night.
Matsuo placed the three trees side by side. The dry and retorted branches, without leaves, were ready to receive the tsurus. He brought a paper card box full of colorful paper birds, put the box on a table beside and then he began to fix the origamis on the dry branches. Mila and Keika joined him and soon the tree was fully decorated with dozens and dozens of kind tsurus.
After finishing mounting the trees, which was the hardest work, Matsuo brought the main origamis of the exhibit; the ones that deserve to remain protected by glasses. This year, these would include his violinist, the Mila’s nazgûls, the Keika’s dragon and the dark knight by his father, a master in that art.
Keika hugged Matsuo, when he finally finished. Now it was only waiting for the visitors to come. They looked around and the stands were already crowded, being prepared for later, when the food odor will fill the air and the sound that will leave the speakers will traditional music and j-rock.
The Saturday morning was nice, which meant a promise of a hot day. The van parked next, Mr. Kenji went down and, after opening the rear doors of the van, he began to unload the things that would be used in the stand of Kakushin Origami.
— Good morning, Mr. Kenji, I brought a bottle of coffee. Would you like a cup? — Mila offered as she approached.
— Good morning, Mila — he answered, with a smile — Yes, coffee is very good in the morning.
She served the steaming coffee and they drank it, observing the people that passed around in hurry heading to their works. Then, there was a heavy silence. Mila didn’t know exactly what to say, she feared to ask something and be indiscreet.
Finally, Mr. Kenji breaks the silence:
— I will bring the tree and the origamis, in the meanwhile you could mount the tables — and by saying so, he left, after finishing his coffee.
Mila mounted the tables and the chairs and sat, unable to forget the things she did in this first day of matsuri, one year ago. She came late and found Matsue waiting for her.
Mila’s thoughts followed with Keika’s, when Lúcio arrived. Lúcio was the youngest member of the Japanese-Brazilian association. It was his first festival and he was very excited. He arrived bringing with him Master Yoda, a large origami Mr. Kenji taught him to make. They talked until Mr. Kenji’s van parked again, beside the stand.
Keika approached slowly and greeted Mila and Lúcio. Then she turned to the marked square and said she was going to smoke. She turned to the avenue, observing the traffic and smoking. She lit one cigarette on the other and decided to cross the avenue and go the city orchid-house. She examined some specimens and the one that drew her attention the most was an orchid that looked like a butterfly, the legend showed its name: Psychopsis papilio.
Keika returned to the stand that was already mounted. Matsuo’s father, Mr. Kenji, was drinking a cup of coffee while Mila and Lúcio talked like close friends. They were in the bittersweet phase, that’s for sure. She walked to the tables where the pieces were exposed and contemplated the violinist. She had never before looked so delicate as now. She was as delicate as the orchid that nature had molded with all the softness and wisdom in the rude tropical jungles of Amazon. Life goes on, but a part of Matuo’s soul would remain in that work of art, the legacy of a life that is at another place.
The legend of the tsuru
Sadako Sasaki was only 2 years old when the atomic bomb was launched over Hiroshima, in Japan, in August 1945. She did not get hurt, took a normal life, and even practiced athletics.
In 1955, aged 12, after taking part in a running test, she felt tired and dizzy. The illness did not pass in the following days. When she was taken to a hospital, she received the diagnosis of leukemia, the atomic bomb disease.
Her best friend, Chizuko, went to visit her, took origami papers and told Sadako the legend of the thousand tsurus. Chizuko explained that the tsuru was a sacred bird that lived for a thousand years and that, if a person bent a thousand birds of paper, he or she would be granted a wish.
Sadako kept the hope that the gods would grant her the cure and then she started to make the origamis with the help of her family and friends who went to visit her in hospital. She died October 25, 1955, before completing the thousand tsurus.
The thing is Sadako never gave up and kept on bending as much as she could the little papers in the format of tsuru.
Inspired on her courage and strength, her friends mounted and published a book with the letters written to her. This way, they began the dream of building a monument for Sadako and for all children who died in consequence of the atomic bomb.
In favor of the cause, many Japanese youngsters started to collect money for the project.
In 1958, the statue of Sadako holding a bent tsuru was built in the Peace Park, in Hiroshima. Children involved in the campaign, made a wish that remained written for ever in the statue: This is our shout. This is our prayer. Peace in the world!
At the Margin of the Tigris
Arturo took the book in the little coffee table of the house of the editor and looked at the volume with interest. It was a sui generis edition of Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea, by Verne. A nice graphic treatment, with illustrations in the steampunk style. There was no indication of the publishing company.
— This is a work some friends of m
y son made. Their course conclusion work
— Walter Mariot handed him a glass of wine and sat down on the armchair in front of him.
— Graphic Design, obviously — he went on. — An amazing work.
Arturo agreed:
— Isn’t there a publishing house?
— No, it will never be published. They did all this magnificent graphic work. Five guys. They handed me all formatted, and then, when I ask which of them I should credit the translation, they looked at each other.
Mariot made a dramatic pause.
— Nobody translated; they simply took a version in the internet. And thought it was good, that it was this way they should do. So used they were in asking everything to doctor Google. All the work was discarded, but they did this other one here – he said, handing to Arturo another copy that was on the table, a version of Dom Casmurro[5] with facets of the Extraordinary League, by Alan Moore.
— This is good too — he said without evaluating the cover.
— But it doesn’t have the Verne’s appeal, nor the nautical gabbles, nor a Nemo captain. They used the same image for the Nemo captain and Bentinho, take a look, it’s only taking off the turban and change it for a monocle you can see there: captain Bentinho, the sailor of the jealousy seas and paranoia oceans.
— Very poetic — Arturo agreed, in the language of the Nineteenth century, filling the glasses one more time.
— That’s for sure — Walter agreed, filling the glasses one more time.
— And why didn’t they make another translation?
— Well, first because it’s too much work. It’s pretty technical. They would have to contract a professional and even though it wouldn’t be good. Great translations have already been made into French. In matter of translation, I came to the conclusion that if it’s not unpublished or it’s not better than the established translation, it’s better not to do it.
Arturo leaned on the coach, browsed the copy of Machado de Assis in search of the pictures. An illustration of Capitu, languid and sensual, drew his attention. The thick lips in a little beak, long black flying strands, a little blouse of silk too small for the breasts and trousers too tight, with vertical stripes in tones of beige and brown.
— There was a book that remarked my youth very hard, it was called At the Margins of the Tigris. It was nothing special, only the basic of an adventure novel: hero journey, kind of stuff. It was by a French writer called Henry Pelletier, but the translation I had in hands was by Clara Liz, the famous writer. They say she translated this book in the beginning of her career, when still dedicated to translation, and she abandoned this activity as soon as her works began to become slightly notorious in the letters world. There was no new editions of the book, published by the dead Corifeu publishing house, but although it is difficult, it’s not impossible to find a fatty volume lost in some second-hand bookstore.
— Or in the cemetery of the forgotten books — Arturo summed up, mentioning the universe created by the Spanish Zafón.
Walter smiled at the memory of the cemetery where the books the readers forgot finished. He sighed thinking of the volume he browsed many years ago and kept on his narration:
— When I started the publishing house, I thought of publishing this book, and, in my first vacations, in the judicial recess of the end of the year — Walter Mariot was also a lawyer, operating in disputes; he defended both authors (and boasted of gaining the maximum possible for them) and editors, publishing groups and entertainment corporations (and in this case he boasted to lose with honor and minimize the lawsuit losses); in fact it was not bad, it was actually very good, he dreamt of being a writer, but he left this dream in the past, in a pile of manuscripts that rest today in the cemetery of forgotten books, and dedicates to the literature satellites causes — I went to Paris, to try to purchase the copyrights at the Bleu Royale. The publishing house was in the north zone of Paris, in the Place Nicolau Sabòli. After passing by a sexagenarian receptionist, who received me was Yves Santamaria, the owner of the Bleu. Yves was very kind by receiving me eagerly, and he sounded pretty impressed by the fact somebody was interested in the copyrights of that book so many years after its release, when the work, as a product, had already crossed the step of ripening and decline. I think he deemed there was some demand for a text like this in Brazil. I explained that the book had been translated by Clara Liz, upon which he said he actually didn’t remember this fact, but he remembered having read a book by hers, a translation of Ronsac. It sounded him a great lament of a badly loved lady. As for the text by Henry, he could only say that Henry was such an eccentric guy, and he would only grand such rights if he liked me. He lived in the châteaux of his family, in the southwest region, where they prepare an excellent merlot for generations.
Walter took a sip of wine and looked at Arturo.
— So, did you go there?
— Well, I was on vacation in France, and who doesn’t like a merlot. Were it in the summer and it would be perfect. But the thing is finding this property was more difficult than I imagined, at last, in the Bordeaux region there are almost ten thousand châteaux. But finally, after two days sailing through vines oceans, I finally found it, but Henry Pelletier was not. He had been to the doctor and would only be back on the day after. I went back to the hotel on that day, where I spent the night. I went down to the hotel lobby in search of some company and I talked to a couple of Swedish tourists that came in search of the perfect glass. I don’t remember their names anymore, only that we talked on Stieg Larsoon, which at that time was in the list of the most sold in practically all the western world. They said the enjoyed the mystery books and the exhibit Sweden was receiving thanks to the Millenium series. The fact is that we talked those thinks we talk with strangers in hotels. The woman was not beautiful, although she wasn’t ugly; she wasn’t of the kind that would make me set my look. On the day after, I introduced myself to châteaux Pelletier after ten and I was received by the writer form whom I had crossed the ocean and crossed roads that otherwise would never see my feet. Pelletier was already a venerable old man, he received me as somebody who expects a storm. His daughter, a woman who looked to be almost of his age (if such a thing would be possible) asked me for patience, but finally I could explain the reason of my visit. The old man didn’t sound like anything would matter, he asked my name, he thought I was Spanish and walked up to a door that led to one of the cellars of the big house. He came back with half a dozen bottles of merlot 1977, handed me and said he enjoyed Spain very much, then he began to tell me stories of Franc and the horrors of the Spanish revolution to which that people was a casualty, that he felt attached to the Basque people (then he asked me whether I was Basque, which I denied decisively), the need for Europe to allow for the creation of the Basque country and a series questions of national quality about the reason why an independent State of Galicia is not created, an independent Catalan State, an independent Aragonese State and an independent Andalusian State, amongst others like Aragon and all those nationalities ranked in what today is agreed to be called Spain.
— The old man was going gaga, then? — Arturo interrupted.
— I can’t say whether he was senile or he always had a lost screw. The thing is that I left his house with a letter sent to Yves Santamaria granting me the translation rights into Portuguese. Pelletier didn’t understand very well the reason why I wanted to translate into Portuguese his book that now nobody read, and he presupposed, purely for the linguistic relation, that I was a Galicia, at last the Galician and the Portuguese had already been a single language in the lost periods of History. I believe he created this story, because he couldn’t believe I was from Castile, which in his mind would be a filiation with Franc and with the maximum enemy of all the Iberian Peninsula.
Arturo left the book on the table and filled his glass again wondering whether there still remained some of those bottle of the 1977 harvest and if Walter would offer him one like a souvenir of this story of a search that too
k a man through places never imagined before, but it didn’t seem his editor was inclined to it.
— The fact is that a week after I was coming back to Brazil with the license, which in Europe is cheap. At that time, I paid a hundred and fifty euros. With manuscript at hand in French I looked for one of the authors of the publishing house, Celso Brandão, a teacher at Aliança Francesa (French Alliance School).
Walter raised, went to the stand covered with books that was behind him and took a thin volume and handed it to Arturo. At the Margins of the Tigris. A beautiful cover, with abstract painting in pastel shades, vigorous paintings that revealed the nuances of the inks textures. Another book without a publishing company.
— Other book without a publishing company?
— That’s it; I think I’m becoming a specialist in editions on demand that will never see a printing shop.
— What was wrong? The translator was no good?
— No that’s not the point, the translator is great, there’s no doubt about it. The story works. Everything is where it should be, it flows as well as in French, but the problem is not this.
— What’s the problem then?
— The problem is that the book with which I fell in love is not that of Pelletier, but that of Clara Liz. Somehow the soul of Clara Liz is there, in that work that only she was able to do and that nobody else will be able to reproduce. Actually, the book of Pelletier is an ordinary book.
There was a pause. Each one interpreting those words at their manner.
— How about the friends of your son? Was their course conclusion work sufficient?
— Yes, but the examiners came to the conclusion that the work was very bureaucratic, as if they had adapted the work from a previous work. One of the examiners scanned the internet for days in search of the original work, without success.