SEM COMPROMISSO.com
01 fevereiro 2025
TANZ MIT MIR BEVOR DU GEHST (a guitarra portuguesa como você nunca a viu)
29 janeiro 2025
SO FAR, FOR BEAUTY
As I had dinner at Dusko, right next to the cinema, on the same terrace that Mr. Cohen and Marianne frequented over the years they lived on the island, I arrived very early and was able to choose any of the 140 canvas chairs with backrests that lined the empty space. “Sisters of Mercy,” cautiously spread by a column, assured me that I had entered the right event, as there was nothing on the cinema’s facade to indicate what would happen inside. At the box office, no one was selling tickets and only one man was hurriedly scribbling PRIVATE SESSION on a paper note glued with adhesive tape on the door. The Greeks on duty just smiled when I asked if I could come in, and they didn't check my name against any list or even force me to pronounce the holy name in devotion that night. Perfect night, there was even a June full moon in the sky.
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Dusko tavern, Hydra. |
Then the guests started arriving and those who didn't know each other from Café Roloi started talking, wondering where they were from: behind me, for example, were two Algerians, to my left sat a Danish woman who must have been a sensual babe a few decades before; a German woman who I had already stumbled upon at Krifo Limani, one of the tavernas in the Port of Hydra, arrived at the row seat preceding mine and who, by her discreet pose, I thought was an ordinary tourist and not one of those retarded hippies who revealed themselves by the T-shirts printed with song titles, album names or song fragments. In the blink of an eye I counted a Dance me to the end of love, an Ain´t no cure for love, two Songs of love and hate. Also part of the horde of fans, who dotted the paths and stairs of Hydra, were a handful of concentration campers sporting on their skin the Order of the United Heart, a tattoo of two intertwined hearts that mimic a Star of David and are part of the iconography designed by Cohen himself.
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Marianne and son, Leonard & friend, Port of Hydra, 1960. (picture of photo posted at the Café Roloi, 2017). |
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Hydra Cineclub. |
After an hour and a half the first break arrived. I woke up and put on the coat that, fortunately, I had brought with me: the night suddenly has grown colder. Like others, I came to the street to clear my head and stretch my legs; the German woman was smoking alone, sitting on a bench, as if she were waiting for a late bus.
“What does that mean?” I asked, exposing the camera's viewfinder to the young man who was serving me at the table under the green needle trellis of The Little Pine, the restaurant in Kamini where you can see the blue of the sea through the green branches: OΔΟΣ.
“Street... Leonard Cohen Street,” he replied, “in Greek, the word ‘Street’ comes before the name of the street.”
“In Portuguese too,” I countered.
In Hydra I almost always follow this route, it suits me: I go to the tiny port of Kamini through the alleys and lanes that start from the upper part of the town, because I like to take a look at the white and grey house (the colours of the houses in Hydra) belonging to Mr. L. Cohen, of looking at the rusty pole where you can still see the porcelain goblets where the telephone wires that inspired the first verse of “Bird on the Wire” once ran; to see that a fig belonging to Mr. Cohen garden had fallen onto the worn paving stones of the street; that the lemons in the backyard shine like Chinese lanterns that someone forgot to blow out and that, on the contrary, in the orange trees you can't tell the green of the fruit from the green of the foliage. And, I confess, sometimes I sit on the same step where the devoted reader was, thinking about nothing and resting from the hundreds of steps I have already climbed.
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Road from Kamini to Port of Hydra. |
On a bend in the road, there is a recent building, it looks like an archaeological remains in a new state; a U-shaped stone wall where, at the back, they fixed a light wooden crossbar. It's the bench offered by subscription from the Cohen Fan Forum — hosted by Jarkko on his website —, I can infer from the small commemorative plaque screwed onto one of the outer faces. The location was well chosen, whoever rests there has a view of infinity and could have sat there three thousand years ago. It will be inaugurated later this afternoon, there is a striped orange and white plastic ribbon threatening it. The mayor will first give a brief speech, joking about the Greek bureaucracy that prevented it from being inaugurated while the honoree was still alive; by the way, he will ask for a minute of silence; someone will sing a Leonard Cohen song, followed by another about him and romanticizing the film too much... Next to me, squeezed by the crowd of people, the lady who read poems at the door of Mr. Cohen strikes up a conversation with me, and I ask, in the bard's language, what she read in the morning.
“Where are you from anyway?” she asks me.
“Around Lisbon,” I reply.
“Ah, it had to be... And look at us, the only ones here speaking Portuguese! I'm from Viana do Castelo...”
This is her first time in Hydra and she knows everything about his idol, she has been attending Roloi like a church; she must be in her late thirties, she's foul-mouthed, she's overflowing, and when I reveal that one of the things Cohen wrote in Hydra was the poem of "Alexandra Leaving," she surprises me with an:
“Oh, don’t talk to me about other bitches! For me it all comes down to Marianne, I don't want to know anymore...”
“Well, I must be going,” I say, “I don’t want to be late for the show and I still want to stop at the hotel before dinner...”
“Wait, don’t go yet,” she begs, “I want to introduce Henning to you.” He's German and has some fantastic stories about Leonard...”
And while she moves among the people present, looking for Henning, I walk away at a leisurely pace, without looking back, as Bob Dylan advises.
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Leonard Cohen's bench at Hydra. |
They chose for the concert the spontaneous square marked by the facade of the museum and the Port pier, right next to the place where, every hour, the ferries arrive from Athens and the other islands of the Saronic Gulf. Nowadays, the trip to Athens takes just over an hour, but when Mr. Cohen came here to visit for the first time, there was a boat twice a week and the connection took five hours.
The night is full and the moon continues to be full. As I climb the 149 steps that take me from Porto to the hotel, the same ones that the honoree descended every day to come from home to the town center, I can't help but hear the music clearly, as if I were still at the concert. The town of Hydra stands in an amphitheater, in a cascade, wedged between the sea and the hills, and this configuration gives it wonderful acoustics. I now finally identify a song by Mr. Cohen. It's “Hallelujah” and the young musicians didn't give up on twisting it to their personal taste, they finish it off in the reinterpretation. Anyway... I arrived at the street where my hotel is located, I stopped to catch my breath, the music continued to reach me clearly: “First We Take Manhattan”. Mr. L. Cohen greek house is located just a hundred meters from where I am staying and just as it happened in 1967 — when he listened from his window to the sounds being played at Dusko — today I can hear the songs he wrote then, rising in the air like the singing of a drunk at midnight.
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Port of Hydra by dawn. |
© With the exception of the third photo (Marianne and Leonard & friend), all photographs by Pedro Serrano, Hydra (Greece), 2017.
26 janeiro 2025
SURYA AND THE DUST AT THE FEET OF BRAMA
In 1997, a man named Abraham George decided to roll up his sleeves and do something that could change and, above all, demonstrate the lack of foundation of a previously established destiny and overcome the apparent impossibility of breaking this cycle of poverty and misery. Despite his name, Abraham George is a native of South India who made his life and fortune on Wall Street in the United States. One day, in his early fifties, George sold the company, packed his bags, returned to India, and applied his wealth and organizational and management experience to a project called Shanti Bavhan. It's not so easy to define Shanti Bavhan, as it's not one of those indulgent charity projects that drops a few crumbs, takes a few quick English courses and walks away, tax deductions included. Shanti Bavhan's very conception made the link between promoters and beneficiaries definitive. Let me see if I can explain. Shanti Bavhan's first school is based in Tamil Nadu, southern India, and is designed to accommodate children from untouchable families. He takes them in, at the request of their parents, at the age of four or five and only lets them go when they get their first job, some seventeen or eighteen years later. A long-term project and commitment, therefore. Children begin living on the organization's premises, where they attend kindergarten, then primary school and then secondary school. They live there as a boarding school, but at least twice a year, during the holidays, they return to their parents' house, so that they can maintain contact with their family and the community they come from. Later they enter the universities that exist in India, to which they applied using the usual national method, continuing their studies and stay in the big cities, which are paid for and accompanied by Shanti Bavhan. When they graduate and begin to fly on their own wings, the organization expects them to return the human capital and knowledge accumulated to the village where they come from, helping to raise the standard of living of its people.
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I came into contact with all of this through a Netflix documentary (miniseries) called Daughters of Destiny. This documentary, very illustrative and cleverly-made, follows the lives of four or five girls, from when they were little until the day they finished their university studies and started working, one as a lawyer, another as a journalist, another as a nurse. It shows everything that is important and, sometimes, it is hard to watch what our eyes see, because it is not one of those cheesy scenes that TV likes to push on us, whether to sell dog food, hamburgers or subscriptions to the latest generation fiber optic devices. There is hope for a tomorrow that sings, yes, but the singing is sometimes hoarse, croaking and sad and if the little child fails to take advantage repeatedly he is made to walk away to make room for someone else. They all have the right to a chance, but it is a unique chance. It's a tough, very tough journey and one of Dr. Kennedy sons, already born in America and on welfare, who is preparing to take over what his father started, complains about the harshness of the rules; has doubts... One or another of the girls, in that series, also has doubts, feels that the project has torn her in half, divided her, she can no longer return to the village and the family she came from and knows that the school, in Shanti Bavhan, cannot give her shelter forever: one of them even develops anger towards Dr. George. It's hard to grow up, it's hard to live, the portion is sometimes bitter. But before our attentive and moved eyes, the value of the initiative and its global success were demonstrated and, indeed, in the end, an untouchable can go as far as any other human being. It's all about opportunity, as Dr. Abraham George stated when he decided to commit to all this.
I know India reasonably well (although it’s hard to use the term, because, in its greatness and diversity, one never gets to know India, not even reasonably well) and watching that documentary affected me enough that, in the following days, I went to spy on the Internet the organization's pages. How could I make any contribution to something so well thought out, so serious and so useful? Shanti Bavhan's website answers any questions we may have as it is also very well thought out and presented. The interested party can donate money in whatever way they are most interested in: they can contribute to the equipment of a classroom, they can contribute to paying for the solar generators that heat the water in the buildings, they can help buy towels for a dormitory or, if they prefer, they can dedicate the contribution to the education and maintenance (food, clothing, etc.) of a child. They also accept volunteers for work, but warn that they will be ruthlessly selected and that life is hard there: they are also well aware of the plague of instant solidarity, which runs out after two days or when it is realized that there is no hanger to hang the fur coats...
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Notes: Daughters of Destiny can be seen on Netflix;
Shanti Bavhan's website is at: https://www.shantibhavanchildren.org
© elephant photography: pedro serrano, Udaipur (India), 2013.
12 janeiro 2025
ONCE UPON A TIME: In the kitchen of Bob Dylan's Lyrics Portuguese translation
One afternoon, at the end of the summer of 2005, Francisco Vale, editor and owner of Relógio d’Água, called me: “Would you like to translate Bob Dylan’s complete lyrical works into Portuguese? I'm thinking about buying the rights from the Americans…” In addition to the shock, I tried to buy time: “Let me think about it for a few days…”
In the 1960s my parents had a farm on the outskirts of OPorto, with a water border on its southern limit, the Douro River. During the Easter holidays of 1966, a friend and I spent a week there, alone with our cans of tuna, camped ten feet above the ground in a granary, a small hut where the corn was stored, well ventilated and safe from rodents.
In the photo, I'm on the stairs and the guy sitting on the doorframe is Rui, now an ophthalmologist in OPorto. If you look closely, next to his left hand there is a wire that crosses one of the granite pillars on which the granary sits and disappears into the right corner of the photograph. It's an electric wire and a Gründig tape recorder, our permanent sound companion, was connected to it.
That week we listened incessantly to an album that had appeared in Portugal not long ago, although it had already been released in the United States almost a year ago. It was titled Highway 61 Revisited, the singer was called Bob Dylan, the songs were all his compositions and I had never heard anything like it, so strange and so powerful. So hypnotic and full of details to absorb that as soon as the last song ended I would pull the reel back and start it all over again.
If, at the time (I was 13), someone had told me that one day I would be asked to translate Dylan, I would have believed it as much as if I had been told that there was life on Mars, and I would have felt as crushed by the honor and responsibility as if I had been told that I had been chosen to engender a prophet…
“Don’t take too long to decide,” said the editor on the other end of the line, “my right of first refusal on the translation is running out...”
But, going back to that afternoon in the summer of 2005, in addition to the honor and the almost cosmic responsibility there were also the practical aspects: the work to be translated (Lyrics 1962-2001) was immense (600 pages of a dense, almost A4-sized sheet of paper, in American-English); labyrinthine poetry; the interpretations surrounding what he wrote generated thousands of interpretative theories, theses, 500,000 active presences on the Internet.
A week later I ended up saying yes, but I presented a counterproposal: yes, but only in good company. This half had been preparing, in the meantime. I had a friend, who had a degree in English and German and specialized in Anglo-Saxon literature, and I knew she demonstrated a taste for rigor and an ability to work in a step-by-step, word-by-word fashion.
And so it was, for two and a half years our free time and vacations went away. We took Dylan into our heads as an obsession, as a curse: I bought the many records I didn't already have, I ordered books, I spent two years immersed in his music and immersed in reading what he had written, what had been written about him and about his work. And, attached to his music, to his lyrics, came the broth from which all that exploded: the literary, musical, cinematographic influences, the muses; and as a result, there we were reading about English poetry, Scottish and Irish ballads, about blues and blues legends, reviewing Fellini, Hitchcock and Scorsese. Even when looking at things that are apparently less related to the arts, such as political activists, gangsters, baseball players and boxers—Dylan sang about everything, like any self-respecting songster.
Gina lives in Braga, I live in the south, 400 km of road separate us. So all the work was done via mail, and we only met half a dozen times in person to discuss criteria, fine-tune final versions of the poems, review the evidence for the two extensive volumes that all this turned into. In these long meetings in Braga, permanently watched by the domestic eyes of Gina's two dogs and invaded by the company of her black cat, we sucked kilos of menthol candies in marathons that lasted 12 hours a day and during which we discussed, exhaustively, the decision to be made about a word, a verse, a stanza, a song, the definitive title of a song, the text of a footnote; whether yes or no to introduce a comma.
It was hard and all the more so because we had decided, as a general axiom, that our approach to translation would be strictly literal, that is, we would follow absolutely what was written and not allow ourselves to be tempted by what might have been the author's intention, the meaning of words, intuition or sensitivity… Or the tight ropewalker contortions for maintaining the rhyme, the sound, the taste of the rhyme. “Fuck the rhyme!”, one of us said, “if anyone wants to savor what it sounds like, listen to the songs”.
This choice caused us frequent aesthetic suffering and I am disappointed not to find a denser word than 'playful' for the mysterious figure of the Joker in the apocalyptic lyrics of “All Along the Watchtower”; something that would better portray the enigmatic, somewhat diabolical figure depicted on the playing cards. Neither of us escaped this frustration and now Gina is going through all the dictionaries, all the possible websites, all the translators' forums, looking for an alternative to the 'tambourine' of “Mister Tambourine Man” (“Lord of the Tambourine”), which she had imagined. could translate as tambor (drum), ending up with no alternative other than the rustic tambourine for a song played on a melodious dreamy morning. And even Vladimir Nabokov's enlightened sentences on translations did not fully console us: “A tortured author and a deceived reader, this is the inevitable result of artistic paraphrase. The sole purpose and justification of translation is to convey the most accurate information possible, and this can only be achieved by a literal translation, with notes."* Lots of notes and lots of mint candies...
That the edition would be bilingual was always granted between us and the publisher, but initially the hypothesis was raised that the main space in the pages of the book will consist of the Portuguese version of each song, with the original text appearing in a footnote, the verses of each stanza presented horizontally, separated by dashes. Something like this:
Once upon a time you dressed so fine /You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you?/People'd call, say, “Beware doll, you're bound to fall”/You thought they were all kiddin you/You used to laugh about/Everybody that was hangin' out/Now you don't talk so loud/Now you don't seem so proud/About having to be scrounging for your next meal.
And that's just the first verse of a song that has eight! Gina and I were horrified by this editorial suggestion, which was sensibly presented as a space-saving method and is widely used. In addition to the aesthetic issue of presentation, we wanted the whole thing to appear before the reader's eyes in total transparency and comparative clarity: on the left page the original text, in English, and on the right page, in mirror image, the translation of the same; aligned so that each line in English on the left corresponded, neck-and-neck, to its caption in Portuguese on the right. It was not too difficult to convince the editor of the goodness of our arguments and there was one last thing that decided the hesitations: followers of Nabokov, as far as translations are concerned, and knowing Dylan's prose, we anticipated that the text would have to have abundant footnotes from the translators. Now imagine what it would be like to mix the train of lines of the English text with the serpentine of the numerous and extensive footnotes. A jungle in which, on each of the book's pages, the lower half would be occupied by a visual chaos that would ruin the attention or understanding of the most selfless of readers.
All of this ended up conditioning the physical dimension of the translation into Portuguese of Bob Dylan's lyrics (Songs 1962-2001) and the work had to be published in two extensive volumes: the first, with 665 pages, was released in bookstores in September 2006. and contains songs written between 1962 and 1973. The second, 754 pages, was released in June 2008 and contains songs written between 1974 and 2001.
The translators' footnotes, which we anticipated would be abundant, ended up numbering 409, and the end-of-volume notes, with considerations on the framing of albums and songs, ended up taking up more than 60 pages of the total translation.
* The quote of Vladimir Nabokov is taken from the book Strong Opinions (Opiniões Fortes, published in Lisbon by Assírio e Alvim, 2005).
Images (from top to bottom): Quinta do Outeirinho, Avintes (north of Portugal), 1966 (photo by Eduardo Serrano). Other photos by © Pedro Serrano: Braga, 2006; Proof of cover and backcover of volume 2: © Relógio d'Água editores, 2008.
18 setembro 2024
27 julho 2024
08 junho 2024
31 março 2024
UMA CASA NÃO É UM LAR
A chair is still a chair
Even when there's no one
sitting there
But a chair is not a house
And a house is not a home
When there's no one there to
hold you tight,
And no one there you can kiss
good night.
Burt Bacharach/Hal David (A House Is Not a Home)
Agora podia ser a minha sogra que descia e se detinha um momento a saber o que lia eu, reclinado no sofá verde do patamar. Mostrava a capa do livro, ela perguntava se era bom e fazia-se ao último lance de escadas, antes de desaparecer numa das portas do hall, como se passasse dos bastidores para o palco; era isso o que me parecia da perspectiva sobranceira onde me encontrava.
Regressava o silêncio, eu voltava ao livro, alumiado pela luz larga das vidraças, que ocupavam todo o pé direito do patamar, uma luz tamisada pelos reflexos verdes do grande pinheiro manso, de copa espreguiçada em dossel sobre o jardim, as pontas verdes das agulhas a beliscar os vidros. Uma ocasião, o meu sogro tivera a inspiração de mandar abater a árvore, citando-lhe as desvantagens: a sombra sobre a casa; o empedrado do quintal levantado pelas raízes; as pinhas caídas, o manto de caruma a atrair fogos e bicharada; a tonalidade esverdengada que salpicava os vidros fixos do patamar, impossíveis de limpar a partir do interior...
Felizmente, ninguém, nem sequer a empregada encarregue de manter as janelas cristalinas, se prestou a câmara de ressonância da ideia, pelo que a peregrinação se ficou pelas intenções e a copa oblonga do pinheiro ali continuou, muito além da morte do meu sogro, bem depois de a casa ser fechada e vendida e de a minha sogra ter esquecido por completo que ali morara durante cinquenta anos.
Agora, no caminho de deixar o hall, a minha sogra poderia ter optado por rodar a maçaneta transparente da porta para a sala de estar e, entrando, ter deparado com a nora recostada no sofá cor de mostarda, um cigarro comodamente entalado na boca, pois necessitava ambas as mãos para folhear e alisar as páginas, mais altas do que largas, de um semanário.
"Ah, já cá estás!", diria ela numa prazenteira constatação de boas-vindas.
"Cheguei há uns três quartos de hora, mas o António, que ia a sair, disse-me que a sogra ainda estava lá em cima."
A cunhada que folheia jornais não é mais casada com o filho da minha sogra, mas mantém-se na família e não se nega jamais a qualquer sugestão para que ali jornadeie um fim de semana, ou se junte a um outro pretexto festivo. É claro que a presença poderia ser sempre justificada pelo alibi de acompanhar aos avós os dois filhos que vivem com ela, mas a verdade é mais extensa... Ela ama aquele lugar; encontrou ali tudo quanto uma casa deveria ser. Talvez por vir de uma gente um tanto formal, distante, incapacitada de alcançar a arte gregária da culinária e que arrisca encomendar uma pizza para a ceia de Natal, pois tanto faz o que se come... Não podia ser mais o oposto do que acontece na casa onde agora vagueia pelas páginas dos jornais: ali come-se com gosto e acarinha-se o prazer de ver os comensais apreciar o que comem; a cozinha é um prolongamento imprescindível da sala de jantar e é habitual encontrar por lá os restantes membros da família, encaixados em todos os espaços livres e contribuindo para o sucesso da refeição que se prepara: um fatia o rosbife braseado accionando a lâmina serrilhada de uma faca eléctrica tremente, outro revolve a salada com a maestria de um louco; uma outra, envolta em baforadas, verte na pia da banca a água onde cozeram as batatas.
Quando se chega e toca à porta, é a senhora da casa que vem abrir, para nos envolver num abraço estreito que deixa os próprios filhos à beira do embaraço.
"Mãe, estás a magoar-me", poderá queixar-se um deles, num riso nervoso de resistência ao abraço vindo directamente da infância.
"Vou à cozinha, fazer um café; queres que te traga alguma coisa?"
A minha cunhada suspende o restolhar do jornal; fica-se a pensar... Depois, talvez já a sonhar com o almoço e em como será doce a breve penitência da espera, agradece, diz não, pergunta se é necessária ajuda "lá dentro". Descartando a necessidade e conhecendo-a bem, a sogra atravessa a sala em direcção à porta para a copa, deixando no ar:
"Olha que ainda pode demorar: foi o António que ficou de trazer os mariscos para o arroz..."
A sala onde esta conversa acabou de se evaporar em silêncio, é ampla e ocupa todo o espaço entre duas das paredes mestras da casa. Serve comodamente o propósito de ser sala de estar e de jantar, e as zonas destinadas a cada uma delas são sugeridas por uma boca de lareira e pelo conjunto de tapetes, sofás e maples dispostos sobre o parquet encerado. Quem entra do hall, acha-se na sala de estar: um sofá de cor mostarda com três lugares e dois maples a condizer, ao abrigo de uma parede decorada por quadros da escola impressionista francesa e portuguesa, e uma pequena arca de madeira a funcionar como mesa de apoio, onde, no momento, repousam as pernas cruzadas da minha cunhada, os pés contentes baloiçando o ar como a cauda de um cachorro.
Aí vem ela, evoluindo cautelosamente e apoiando-se ao de leve numa bengala. Ao ver-me, e antes de iniciar a descida dos degraus, levanta um nadinha a bengala, saudando-me com a borracha afixada na ponta e que faz lembrar um daqueles calços que se pregam ao chão para evitar que as portas batam nas paredes. Falta-lhe agora um degrau para atingir o terreno seguro do patamar; levanto-me para a cumprimentar e perguntar se quer ajuda para o longo lanço de escadas até ao hall, um percurso onde não existe corrimão onde se possa amparar.
"Não, deixa estar", diz no seu tom um pouco seco, definitivo, "apoio-me à parede - já estou acostumada".
"Tem a certeza?", insisto. Não passarão três anos e eu mesmo, convalescendo naquela casa de uma doença grave, que praticamente me obrigou a reaprender a andar, terei horror àquele lanço desamparado das escadas, sobretudo na descida, pois é mais assustador deparar com o vazio ainda por percorrer do que enfrentar esse vazio quando nos ficou para trás das costas.
"A sério? Não custa nada fazer-lhe companhia até lá em baixo...".
"Não, não, continua a ler o teu livro...", responde num tom que envolveu o meu entretém numa ténue capa de desmerecimento.
Mas não me é assim tão fácil regressar no imediato às minha páginas, e fico-me a vê-la descer, a mão ossuda e de veias azuladas apoiando-se discretamente à parede do lado interno dos degraus. É leve e, mais depressa do que se suporia, chegou ao hall e demandou a sala de estar - ouço daqui tilintar nos caixilhos, os pequenos espelhos que forram a porta.
Lá dentro, a meio do salão, vigiados pelos sofás azuis dispostos em torno do fogão de sala, acotovelam-se duas filas de passe-partouts sobre o lintel da lareira. Ali se perfilam todos os membros da família, mesmo as aves de arribação que, como eu, vieram, estiveram e partiram. Algumas fotografias pintalgam de preto e branco o colorido da maioria - uma delas retrata a mãe da minha sogra ainda na meia idade, muito antes dos dias da bengala; outras são já dos dias da bengala e dos que vieram depois, recordando a quem lhe sobreviveu aquela pessoa que ali morou ao longo de décadas, encaixando-se e apagando-se tão diplomaticamente quanto pôde, a fim de não chocalhar o ambiente com a sua presença.
"Cada um tem o seu feitio...", é tudo quanto se permite comentar quando os restantes se exasperam com a personalidade do meu sogro, um homem que arrasta consigo céus cinzentos, ainda que o dia vá de perfeito anil e uma brisa perfeita agite delicadamente as frágeis flores das buganvílias que espreitam a varanda.
Ouço o clique familiar de uma chave a ser introduzida na porta da rua, um ruído atenuado àquela hora do dia, mas que, à noite, no silêncio, invade o hall e sobe pelo saguão das escadas, cronometrando quem chega a horas tardias. É o meu sogro, regressado das compras, e que, mal bate a porta, chama:
"Zé?!"
"Ó Zé!", vai engrossando o chamamento à medida que não chega uma réplica imediata.
O meu sogro é incapaz do mais modesto acto doméstico, pelo que é totalmente dependente da mulher para sobreviver. Além do mais, na hierarquia das obrigações, acha que a principal é a de que ela esteja presente de cada vez que a resolva chamar.
"Zé!; ó Zé!"
Ficando sem resposta e (tendo-me eu encolhido no sofá) não vendo alguém que lhe acuda aos sacos com que vem ajoujado, precipita-se pela porta que dá para a copa e a cozinha.
"Ah, estás aqui! Fartei-me de chamar! Para que horas é o almoço?"
Sentada à mesa da cozinha, entretida a saborear o seu café, a minha sogra é a imagem aparente da tranquilidade.
"Nunca antes das duas. O Pedro, a João e os miúdos ainda não chegaram da praia; além de que é preciso tratar de tudo isso que trouxeste..."
O meu sogro, que tem uma perspectiva mágica da culinária, garante que o peixeiro lhe garantiu que as amêijoas estão livres de areia e podem ir directamente para o lume.
"Dizem-te sempre isso, António, mas depois és o primeiro a queixar-te se encontras um grão que seja..."
O meu sogro consulta o relógio de pulso, exasperado, e decreta querer comer quanto antes - não quer esperar tanto tempo.
"Está bem", concede a minha sogra; "aqueço-te sopa e um filete de pescada dos que sobraram ontem; vais comendo, sozinho."
O meu sogro vira costas, hesita entre a porta da sala de jantar e a do hall e acaba por se decidir pela última - vai chegar a minha vez.
"Ah, olá, estás aqui...", diz do meio dos degraus do primeiro lance de escadas, implicando na frase que se poderá ter apercebido de eu estar ali e não ter reagido à sua chegada a casa.
"Sim; estou a ler um pouco - este sítio tem uma luz magnífica a esta hora."
"É", consente, "e poderia ser bem melhor se não fosse o pinheiro a tapar os vidros."
Não respondo. Com o meu sogro, a melhor estratégia é procurar não existir, pois agarra-se a qualquer presença como uma carraça à orelha de um cão. Não há nada que mais o deleite do que chegar a um sítio e desestabilizar quem lá se encontra, impedindo-o de continuar a fazer o que porventura esse alguém esteja a fazer. Por exemplo:
Entra na sala, senta-se no seu maple, abre o jornal e põe-se a espreitar por cima deste. Ah, eis uma vítima no seu radar, neste caso a minha cunhada Margarida a ler regaladamente um semanário, as pernas cruzadas sobre a pequena arca de madeira. Durante um longo minuto parece que nada vai acontecer, que ambos leem... De seguida, o meu sogro pigarreia e comenta uma qualquer insignificância que encontrou no seu jornal, usando um tom irónico e dando uma gargalhadinha de desdém. Como nada lhe chega dos lados da nora, pergunta:
"Já viste isto, ó Margarida? Só num país como este é que se pode passar tal coisa..."
A minha cunhada emite um breve grunhido de retorno, e continua a ler. Talvez se ache num dia de sorte e pense que escapa... Mas nem por sombras: nos próximos dez minutos ele emitirá opiniões sobre o que debica no seu jornal e quando se der conta de que esse tipo de investida não resultou, passará a comentar o que, de onde está sentado, consegue ler nas páginas traseiras do jornal onde a minha cunhada escondeu a cara - assim já não poderá ela sustentar que desconhece ou não está por dentro do tópico que ele glosa! Finalmente, ela desiste, levanta-se e anuncia que vai à cozinha, ver se por lá necessitam de ajuda... O meu sogro permanece regaladamente sentado, debicando agora o jornal que a minha cunhada abandonou sobre a arca e aguardando a chegada da próxima vítima.
"Tio, a avó manda dizer que o almoço está na mesa."
A Dominique vive em Bruxelas com os pais e o irmão, mas se está naquela casa gosta, como eu, de entreter tempo no patamar. Acho que, nos seus nove anos, olha para aquele lugar como se fosse assim uma espécie de casa na árvore, um refúgio de onde se pode antecipar a aproximação dos acontecimentos.
"Já chegaram todos?", pergunto, tentando situar-me.
"Sim... Os tios e os primos chegaram agora do Guincho - estão lá em baixo, no jardim, a passar-se pela mangueira, e já sobem. O avô está furioso por ter almoçado sozinho; diz que vai sair para tomar café na Sacolinha e que não espera por mais ninguém! A avó disse que fosse, e ainda lhe encomendou coisas para o lanche", ponteia ela com um sorrisinho.
Meneio a cabeça, sorrio também; digo que vá descendo - eu irei já. Mas ela quer ainda saber de que trata o livro que escorregou para o chão do patamar, quando a minha consciência deixou de ter alento para o segurar entre os dedos.
"É, mais ou menos, uma história de fantasmas... Uma família completa deles, que mora numa casa habitada por gente viva. Mas ninguém - de quem lá vive - os consegue ver nem sabe que moram também ali..."
Ela sabe bem o que são fantasmas, quer antes saber se acredito nisso. Talvez tenha um pouco de receio e se sinta mais tranquila se eu disser que são apenas produto da imaginação. Afinal, ando a ler um livro de fantasmas em absoluta tranquilidade, até adormeci ao fazê-lo.
"Achas que eu já podia lê-lo?", pergunta apanhando o livro da carpete e estudando a capa.
"Mmm..., não sei se ias gostar e - mais do que isso - desconfio que a tua mãe não ia gostar...", respondo pensando na minha cunhada Nita, que prefere livros com histórias positivas e finais felizes.
"Mas a Carolina lê! Adora ver filmes destes..."
"Não queiras comparar: a tua prima é muito mais velha do que tu!"
"Sim, mas já os lia quando era pequena: às escondidas, até; disse-me. E disse que a deixavas ver filmes de terror em tua casa quando tinha treze anos!"
"Tá..., voltamos a falar quando fizeres treze anos. Vai descendo e diz que fui só lavar as mãos...", despachei-a, pois aquela linha de argumentação já dera o que tinha a dar. Fantasmas...
Agora a casa foi fechada e vendida, estava a crescer demasiado para o número de pessoas que lá viviam; os lances de escadas multiplicaram-se, tornaram-se perigosos, coitados, eles que viram tanta gente subir e descer. A maior parte do recheio foi já retirada e transportada para o novo apartamento na baixa de Cascais... Mas como as chaves ainda não foram entregues definitivamente aos novos proprietários, algumas peças de mobiliário ainda aguardam destino na casa velha. Uma delas é o sofá verde, que continua no patamar, actualmente na penumbra, pois os reposteiros das largas janelas foram corridos, assim o sol não crestará a madeira dos degraus nus.
Fantasmas... Quando se está na infância, como estava a Dominique nesse dia, os fantasmas arrepiam, tem-se-lhes pavor instintivo, à flor da pele, sem precisarmos de raciocinar sobre eles, sobre a sua substância ou existência. O tempo passa e esse medo atenua-se, descoloriu-se, pode até tornar-se risível: como pudemos um dia acreditar ou recear tal inexistência?! Mais tarde, bastante mais tarde, quando o ruído da vida regrediu à sua real importância, é possível que nos venhamos a aperceber que, afinal, os fantasmas existem e eramos nós, todos nós: eu, tu, ele; nós, vós; eles.
© fotografias de pedro serrano, Cascais, 2007 e 2016.