THE LOST TAPES Vol.17

[PT/ENG] 

   Pequeno café no meio do nada. Firme e forte há mais de trinta anos. Para a direita uma borracharia, para a esquerda um enorme prédio de apartamentos. Mesmos clientes todos os dias, mesmo café todos os dias; e são eles apenas um punhado de gente, uma família de amigos, digamos.
   Cara nova no pedaço, ousa se mostrar abrindo a porta. Todos os olhos se viram para ela. Silêncio mortal. Vai até uma mesa no canto toda coberta por uma fina camada de poeira, e limpa um pouco com um handkerchief que tirara do bolso, tão somente o suficiente para que pudesse se sentar e esperar, esperar para ser servida, estando plenamente ciente do inerte estado de surpresa em que todos estavam.
   "Em que posso te servir, mademoiselle?" pergunta a senhora francesa, barista, mas servindo também a até então desnecessária função de garçonete.
   "Gostaria de uma xícara de café, s'il vous plaît. Preto, sem açúcar," respondeu a visitante, e lá foi a outra preparar o pedido.
   O resto das pessoas ali voltaram a conversar, eventualmente, mas nada como o papo animado que a estranha ouviu antes de abrir a porta, e sim algo mais sinistro, sussurrado: falavam dela; inventando estórias, formulando teorias.
   O café chega, ela agradece e olha em volta, então, para o balcão encerado que brilhava, para os utensílios de metal todos reluzentes, para a única lâmpada queimada que estava justo acima de sua cabeça. Traga o aroma do café numa inspiração profunda, em busca das nuances mais raras, mais secretas, encontrando a mínima gota de mel misturada ao líquido, a qualidade dos grãos absurdamente frescos.
   Um gole, depois outro e mais outro. Alguns olham para ela com o canto do olho, procurando decifrar algum pressuposto enigma, mas nada há, ela permanece a mesma antes e depois da xícara de café.
   A visitante puxa do bolso do vestido um pequeno bloco de notas, rabisca alguma coisa numa página solta e a deixa lá junto a um bocadinho de moedas, antes de se levantar e sair, fechando com cuidado a porta atrás de si, podendo ouvir o burburinho do papo animado recomeçado lá dentro, e um alto e claro suspiro de "meu deus..." 

*

   Um dos fregueses chegou naquela manhã com o jornal do dia. A crítica, positiva, continha a mesma assinatura da nota deixada sobre a mesa no dia anterior, e que agora figurava presa à parede por um prego.
   Foi uma festa, repleta de tapinhas nas costas, pagamentos de fiados, aparição de visitantes que haviam abandonado a boêmia há muito, e elogios —agora reavivados— que haviam se perdido para o costume. Mas mais importante, à medida em que chegavam novos clientes por efeito da inclusão no jornal, notava-se a necessidade de tornar utilizáveis todas aquelas mesas e cadeiras que passaram anos e anos sem o toque humano. Ajustar o carpete, as luminárias, preparar guloseimas de sobra. Enfim, adaptar-se àquele movimento todo de nova gente, fazer-se respirar um todo novo ar de novos contos, novos causos, nova freguesia. Mas foi só passar pela porta a estranha visitante do dia anterior que deitou-se o recinto em completo silêncio, isto é, antes de iniciar-se a onda de aplausos pela senhora francesa detrás do balcão. 

***

cast the shadow, monsieur greasy pencil
holding my hair all day
holding her life all night 

almighty wisdom so far from the truth
mental craze distort the reality
creativity without thresholds— 

—sinning in the pen of the legal
killing the future of everything around it
sickening immortality 

***

being sick fucked me over i think
productivity down the drain
clustered creativity
sitting with a pencil in hand for hours now 

***

drawing little faces in the napkin
dozens of them, hundreds of them
one over the other, overlaying, destroying
until all I have is a black napkin
a living world turned into shadow 

“whose fault is this? mine or theirs?”
she looks at me for a second, not yet knowing the answer
“you created them, gave ’em the right to reproduce, free will. not your fault if they just ended up killing themselves.”
so I look back at the ghost of their reality
the answer found for the riddle of life
and smile with no regrets 

***

why are we holding hands?
what gave us the right to show affection in public?
who even are you?
where did I left your eulogy?
when was the last time you asked me to dance?

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