He recited Eliot. I let myself be overtaken by the coldness of the air. We didn’t look at each other. The loops of the dull breeze touched the bench and the two of us, dispirited. Birds pecked at the ground, unseen. The tree, sprinkled with white clashed with what was there between us. Everything around was strange to me. I asked him to recite again and he acquiesced. I feared that the verses would end. As if I could make them eternal, I leaned on him, gently, in an attempt to actualize an impossible embrace. He moved away, callously. He had poured himself out in order to move on. White flowers still covered drawings on the ground, disfiguring them. I brooded over the shadows that appeared. They laughed at my solitude and I at them, for their ineptness to listen to Eliot.
ARCOVERDE, Helena Sobral. The verses. In: blog Helena Arcoverde. Translation: SCHLEMM, Martha. Curitiba, 2013.
I waited a long time to hear him. I used to see him frolicking on the wall and ridge of the house, but I had never associated him with any singing.
That day I was taking a nap in the living-room sofa and – some trees bordered my street. This is how I heard him for the first time. An intriguing sound. Mournful gurgling. Was he hopelessly asking – a donation? One of the syllables – after he finished the sequence – lingered on in a last and slow weep. It was an intermittent moan, hopeless, devoid of any solution – a disenchantment sob. I felt like asking him to sing some more until I was able to find out how big a love he had lost, what heavy rain had prevented him from moving about, what beautiful branch had been destroyed forcing him to utter such sorrowful sounds. I controlled my urge and found out – as I tried to reproduce his vocal twangs – that it was a thrush. Yes, the brown with a yellow belly type. Yes, and a big one, too. Dutiful, he did not allow me to approach.
He did not want to be photographed or heard, even; he was afraid of people who did not understand that all he wanted was to sing until he could hear the sound he produced rolling away over the wall, inside the house, all night long. And I, like anyone who discovers him, went on to feel the lesser of all the chosen listeners. The reason: the wall mourner was a tweeter of the air, and I, a prisoner of the land. A very unlikely encounter.
ARCOVERDE, Helena Sobral. The song. In: blog Helena Arcoverde. Translation: SCHLEMM, Martha. Curitiba, 2013.
She walked so slowly, on the sidewalk. In the house, everyone waited for her to go by. She was dainty and discrete. The form-fitting grey skirt contoured her body. The silk blouse stirred gently against the warm wind. Away from the street, she did not undo her smile, aware of the effect it had caused. The small steps sometimes became larger ones. One day, she no longer went down the street. Not in that area. It would never be known if she missed the looks that venerated her every afternoon; the no need for words that her consideration she awakened. The instant had taken her. Not once would she go down that street again. The warm breeze still hopes to brush against her fair and slim body. After her, everybody was gone too. Occasionally, I meet her in an impossible threshold, in a gathering without territory. Neither am I ever going to go down that street again.
ARCOVERDE, Helena Sobral. The passage. In: blog Helena Arcoverde. Translation: SCHLEMM, Martha. Curitiba, 2013.stree
Por Helena Arcoverde
Aqui em casa vigora um acordo: se eu não gostar de um objeto posso presentear meus filhos– sem medo de errar. Se eu amar, nada de presente. E, assim, a paz reina. Bem, mais ou menos, mas deixa pra lá. Quando um de meus três meninos aqui esteve, ele – com sua visão de designer gráfico- rearrumou o office para usá-lo alguns dias. Mãe, depois a gente põe tudo no lugar, pode ser? você não fica triste, mãe? mesmo? E o minimalismo se implantou. Vou retirar também essa cadeira, disse ele. Ah, era da vovó? então deixa, é linda. Mais de uma década – que Deus a tenha – e o prestígio da falecida avó permanece inabalável. Mas eu chego lá, ora se não. Eita menino danado. Pensei em ligar pro pai dele e dizer: a culpa é sua, que ódio (nem sei aonde fica o símbolo da exclamação, fica assim mesmo). Depois – após consciente reflexão, achei melhor deixar a acusação para casos mais graves. Afinal, nao se pode abuser demais.
Foi uma manhã inteirinha de enxugamento do espaço que, saiba-se, nem é tão grande. Ao cabo da arrumação, tive que concordar, ficou bem melhor. O pimpolho foi embora novamente e eu, como muitas outras mães que se prezem, arrematei todas as culpas. E, embora eu tenha minhas falhas, fiquei retardando (re)decorar o espaço “a moda da casa”. Por isso, relutei em enchê-lo de quinquilharias novamente. Mas culpa é um negócio passageiro quando se trata de vício. Aos poucos, fui trazendo de volta antigos adornos. Só mais esse. E assim tudo voltou ao normal. Antes, porém, registrei tudo com a definição duvidosa de meu celular, assim, algumas horas antes dele retornar – em homenagem ao rebento – ponho tudo de volta.