Lisbon - Day 15300 and something ...

Existe um canto lisboeta que é meu e onde não há gente parva. O único, onde me sinto em casa. Começa no Marquês de Pombal, vai pela Avenida da Liberdade fora e desagua na Baixa-Chiado, ramificando-se para a direita, esquerda e novamente para baixo, até ao Largo do Camões, Praça do Comércio e Rua da Madalena.

Esse era o caminho da aventura, quando eu era pequena. Percorri quilómetros com a minha mãe, vezes e vezes sem conta, por essas paragens. Era o caminho da liberdade, da alegria e da descoberta. Era o caminho que fazíamos quando eu não tinha escola e íamos às compras. Buscar roupa, pouca nesses dias. Buscar tecidos, botões, rendas, feiche-eclairs para a avó fazer as suas costuras. Levar sapatos ao sapateiro. Procurar relojoeiros antigos. Descobrir panelas na Pólux. Levar uma boneca ao Hospital de Brinquedos da Praça da Figueira. Procurar lãs coloridas para fazer camisolas. Ir aos Cinemas Tivoli, São Jorge e Condes. Ao oculista da Travessa de Santo Antão. Ao Coliseu assistir ao circo de Natal da Fidelidade. Mais tarde o Centro Comercial Guérin, o primeiro centro comercial da Baixa depois das Galerias do Chiado. Os Grandes Armazéns do Chiado e a R. Garret, cara e inacessível para nós na altura, mas onde a minha mãe gostava de passear e recordar onde ía com a Abuelita quando a mãe tinha dinheiro suficiente para frequentar as lojas exclusivas dessa rua. Nos Grandes Armazéns e quando o meu irmão ia connosco, envergonhava-me porque tinha um tique que era andar atrás de nós a pousar um joelho no chão. A minha mãe ria-se, eu zangava-me de vergonha. As floristas do Rossio. E tantas, tantas, tantas outras lojas e coisas que agora não me recordo.

Ontem andei por lá à procura de lojas de decoração e móveis e lembrei-me que é essa a minha Lisboa. Aí as pessoas não são parvas. São simpáticas, características e educadas. São engraçadas e agradáveis. As simples e as mais sofisticadas. Não as empregadas parvas novas das lojas novas. Essas não são dali, deviam ser expulsas daquela zona. Não pertencem ali, não lhe são nada, não percebem nada. Não são como os dois senhores que estavam na loja de candeeiros e que me fizeram rir e chorar de alegria e nostalgia. Perguntei-lhes o preço de um candeeiro e os senhores, um mais velho e outro gordo e mais novo, provavelmente o neto, reviraram a loja toda à procura da tabela de preços, enquanto murmuravam "Mas onde é que ela pôs isto?" Ri-me com eles, não deles. Ri-me e depois tive vontade de chorar, porque me fizeram lembrar o relojoeiro Sr. Martins, o sapateiro, a Dona Lurdes do talho, na R. de Santa Marta, onde íamos quase todos os dias às compras. O senhor deu-me um cartão da loja e pediu-me muitas desculpas e olhou para mim como os senhores antigos olham para senhoras jeitosas, com educação e uma pontinha de sedução enternecedora.

Tinha-me esquecido que é essa a minha Lisboa. Que nessa Lisboa eu sempre encontrei e ainda encontro ternura.

Lisbon - Day 15300 and something ...

Algumas considerações:

 

* Primeiro foram os vistos dourados, depois o Sócrates e agora o BES - é impressão minha ou anda alguém a tentar acabar com Portugal?

 

* A Teresa Guilherme é maquiavélica. E por isso mesmo, e apesar de já se justificar um Big Brother para adultos, ela não quer porque sabe que com os adultos seria impossível enrolá-los à volta do seu mindinho como faz tão bem com os anormais que escolhe actualmente. Palavrões? Bahhhh isso já sabe a pouco. Pontapés? Coisa pouca .... O que está a dar são cuspidelas, insultos escatológicos e masturbações em grupo. Sim, porque sexo ao vivo também já é completamente démodé. A única coisa que falta é sexo durante as cadeiras quentes com a Voz a perguntar quantos pontos cada concorrente dá aos participantes. Porque é que ninguém fala disto? Se os comentadores acham que estariam a rebaixar-se ao falar disto, pensem duas vezes. Existe um pacto de silêncio em volta de uma das mulheres mais poderosas do país - ela manipula não sei quantos milhões de pessoas todos os dias antes, depois e depois do Telejornal e ainda em prime-time. E ninguém comenta isto? Acho que deviam ...

 

* E já agora, porque é que não há nenhum comentador que tenha a coragem de chamar os bois pelos nomes e dizer aquilo que toda a gente sabe - o Mário Soares está ché ché e não deveria aparecer na televisão a dizer bandalhadas. A velhice é uma tristeza e também uma realidade.

 

* E já que estou nesta onda, tudo o que se ouve e vê na televisão é manipulado, o que significa que vivemos literalmente num mundo virtual. A realidade existe ... algures ... por aí ... mas não sei onde ela está e não tenho nem tempo nem pachorra para a descobrir. Mas ao menos eu tenho consciência disso. Muitos há que não têm e isso também é triste.

 

* O Herman José trata a Vanessa mal como o caraças, mas aceitou trabalhar com ela. Isto é um paradoxo, ou não. Há gente que tudo faz para brilhar, mesmo que seja à custa dos outros. E gente há que permite que isso aconteça em directo, para todo o país assistir. Os circos já não são de vaidades, como Tom Wolfe escreveu. Isso era na década de 80. Hoje em dia os circos são de humilhações públicas e voluntárias. Voltámos aos gladiadores romanos, mas sem dignidade. Ao menos nesse tempo erra palavra ainda existia.

 

* Os vendedores deste país não trabalham. Não sei o que fazem, mas trabalhar é que não é. Devem conversar muito. Estive mais de um ano à procura de casa. Encontrei-me com dezenas de vendedores. Dois apareceram a horas e alguns ficavam ofendidos quando comecei a dizer que só esperava mais 5 minutos por eles .... (olhos abertos de estupefacção). Quando peço orçamentos, nunca me respondem antes de uma semana. Uma semana! Nasci no país errado. Uma semana é muito. Atrasos de 5 minutos também. Para os lisboetas não. Nunca compreendi isto. Palavra de honra que não. Mas sei que sou bicho raro. Deve ser da educação inglesa ...

 

* Passei a minha vida inteira à procura de ternura. Tenho a certeza que não a vou encontrar em Lisboa.

Lisbon - Day 15300 and something ...

De volta a Lisboa. Saio para a rua e embato num portão fechado porque o Metro fez greve e numa bicha (não é fila, é bicha mesmo, à antiga), na barraca de venda dos passes.

Começo bem a rentrée ...

Depois penso, será que ainda me sinto tão lisboeta quanto há uns meses atrás?

Acho que não ... Ando mais lá fora do que costumava e começo a sentir-me cada vez mais uma cidadã do mundo, em vez de uma alfacinha. Digamos que sou cada vez mais uma salada mista - americana, inglesa, japonesa, islandesa, and so on, and so on, I hope ...

Tenho, sempre tive, voltei a ter uma relação de amor-ódio com Lisboa.

Quando era mais nova adorava partir de Lisboa e odiava regressar a Lisboa. Isto quando morava com os meus pais.

Depois passei a gostar de voltar, quando passei a viver sozinha.

Agora ... acho que me começa a ser um bocado indiferente, porque sei que brevemente partirei de novo e por isso Lisboa passou a ser uma espécie de minitrampolim para outras paragens. Quaisquer, o que interessa é partir e não ficar cá muito tempo. As próximas serão Verona e um regresso a Veneza para o Carnaval, Moscovo e São Petersburgo e Escócia para assistir ao Campeonato do Mundo de Ginástica. Will the Flying Dutchman be there? I really hope so ...

Anyway ... where was I?

Ah sim! Love-hate Lisbon.

É a minha cidade. Ponto. Gosto dela? I guess so ... mas só porque é a minha cidade e de qualquer das formas nunca a senti muito como minha.

As pessoas são parvas, as coisas não funcionam, as ruas estão cheias de buracos, enfim, eu podia continuar por aí fora mas a principal razão são mesmo as pessoas - parvas como o c....

Não gosto de portugueses, mas tenho de viver com eles porque, afinal, são os únicos que falam a mesma língua que eu. Gostaria de viver noutro sítio? Talvez em Itália. Good pasta, good weather, nice people and la dolce vita. Os italianos sabem viver, mas ... têm mais burocracia do que nós e o Mostro di Firenze. Mas eu gosto de serial killers, por isso ... e o meu serial killer preferido escolheu Florença. Tem bom gosto. Itália é o país que melhor conheço - a animada Roma, a bela Florença, a encantada Veneza. S. Paul de Vence em França é outro sítio onde poderia viver, mas, hélas, está cheia de franceses, que são porcos, ordinários e estúpidos.

Nova Iorque não é uma opção. Por mais que goste da cidade, o problema são os americanos e ... os americanos, apesar de que os nova iorquinos não são americanos, tenho cá esta teoria. São aliens.

Londres nem pensar, apesar de lá ter família perto. Gosto de chuva, mas não tanta.

Resumindo, o regresso a Lisboa é sempre depressivo, especialmente depois de ter estado no Paraíso.

Mas também não aguentava viver no Paraíso 365 dias por ano. Ou 365 anos por dia.

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CXVIII

The Secret Name of God

We call it God. We should call it something else ...

I know ...

I feel it. I felt the change. Every change in my own body.

I used to fall in love every week! I used to desire every day! I used to have ups and downs every hour!

And then they messed with my body. They put chemicals in it. A lot! A load of potent, strong, lethal chemicals, designed to kill the most lethal of deseases. In the process they also killed my good cells, my quiet cells, my secret cells.

I became clean of the cancer. But also clean of "vision", clean of depression, clean of highs and lows.

Then they messed some more with my body. They took my ovaries. They forgot to warn me. I became again clean of danger. But also of desire. And of life.

Now I feel empty. Life is less. I thought it had to do with my mother's death. I came to realize it had nothing to do with that. It's the lack of the ability to produce life.

They call it menopause. When a woman looses the gift of life she also looses the gift of enjoying life. It all makes sense. Life is now telling her - you're useless, because you can't procriate, so you're useless to me now, so now you don't need to feel anymore.

Empty. Devoid. Of everything. Not just desire for flesh, but desire for all things. Yellow doesn't look like the same yellow anymore. "Every breath you take" doesn't sound like the real "Every breath you take" anymore. New York is not the same New York anymore. Orange doesn't taste like orange anymore. Everything is less. And less is no longer more.

I don't fall in love every week anymore. I don't need that anymore, my body tells my brain. I feel like a serial killer, who has to go to extremes to feel something, so he kills. I don't kill. I've been killed. But I continue, like a zombie. Rubbing myself against life in a worthless effort to feel something again.

They call it God. They should call it something else. I know.

They should call it PTE - Periodic Table of Elements. They are our Gods. Tiny, invisible, powerfull, hipnotic gods. They rule our lives in secret. The irony of it is that they do it in the open, in front of our eyes. They are everywhere, everywhere we look, all around us, inside and outside of us. And yet we don't see them. We don't aknowledge them. We pass them, blind, deaf, like moths attracted to the light of an inexistent, worthless God we think lives above us, somewhere up in the sky. It doesn't.

They're right here among us. They are so many. They are so resilient. They are so flexible. They are so versatile. They are capable of acting their powers all alone and they can combine between themselves to create powers even greater.

Their names? Oxygen, Nitrogen, Carbon, Magnesium, ...

 

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CXVII

A Deusa da Beleza e o Deus da Saúde

Em tempos idos, a Deusa da Beleza encontrou o Deus da Saúde e os dois apaixonaram-se. Eram ambos muito belos, exemplares magníficos da sua espécie e a sua paixão foi marcada por uma terrível separação. A mãe da Deusa da Beleza levou-a numa viagem marítima para uma ilha no meio do Mar Mediterrâneo, para longe do desesperado Deus da Saúde. Escreveram-se longas cartas amorosas durante alguns meses e encontraram-se algumas vezes, pois não podiam ficar separados durante muito tempo. Até que, finalmente, conseguiram o que pretendiam - desposaram-se numa cerimónia magnifica, com toda a pompa e circunstância, para a qual foram convidadas todas as famílias do reino do Deus da Saúde.

Mas as coisas cedo começaram a correr mal. O Deus da Saúde era orgulhoso, altivo e psicótico, enquanto a Deusa da Beleza não possuía a personalidade para lhe fazer frente. Era doce e bondosa, mas também um pouco fútil e muito inexperiente. Estava também desesperada, pois corria o risco de ficar sozinha e ter de se desenvencilhar no mundo sem auxílio. A mãe estava prestes a casar pela segunda vez, após a morte do primeiro marido e não desejava levá-la a reboque para o outro lado do Atlântico, onde pretendia celebrar as suas segundas núpcias em voluptuosa paz. A mais nova de quatro irmãos, a Deusa da Beleza era a mais frágil e submissa e viu no Deus da Saúde o seu barco de salvação. Aceitou o seu pedido de casamento, sem imaginar que ele lhe mentira ao afirmar que viveriam os dois sozinhos num lindo palácio que ela poderia escolher. Em vez disso, permaneceram toda a vida com a mãe do Deus da Saúde que, para além de ser mentirosa, velhaca e invejosa, odiava a sua nora.

Os anos foram passando. O Deus da Saúde era mimado e prepotente e habituou-se a tratar a sua bela esposa da mesma forma que tratava a mãe. Tiveram duas crianças, uma rapariga e um rapaz, que sofriam também a despotice do pai. Era irónico, mas enquanto a Deusa da Beleza tinha o dom do amor e da vida, o Deus da Saúde espalhava o deserto inóspito da morte mental na sua própria casa, enquanto por todo o reino as suas mãos de ouro conseguiam soprar vida nos corações e nos corpos dos seus súbditos. E toda a gente o amava e respeitava, sem imaginar o engodo que acontecia debaixo dos seus narizes. E todos desconheciam os milagres de vida que a discreta Deusa da Beleza ia espalhando no seu pequeno, negro ninho destinado aos seus dois filhos.
Apesar de todo o sofrimento, o espírito da Deusa da Beleza conseguiu durante longos anos ser mais forte do que tudo e continuar a espalhar a beleza e a vida pela vida dos seus dois tristes filhos, salvando-os da loucura e da destruição totais. Enquanto isso, à medida que o tempo passava e a esperança de que o pai se modificasse se desvanecia dos seus corações, e apesar de todo o amor que recebiam da mãe, os filhos do Deus da Saúde aprenderam o que era o ódio e odiaram e desprezaram o seu carrasco.
De fora, parecia a todos que eram uma família feliz. A alegria eterna da Deusa da Beleza, a dissimulação do Deus da Saúde e o terror silencioso dos seus filhos disfarçavam o sofrimento que se vivia nos seus domínios.
Até que a velhice, o cansaço e a doença venceram a Deusa da Beleza. E nem mesmo o amor imenso que sentia pelos seus filhos ou as mãos de ouro do seu esposo conseguiram salvá-la. A Deusa da Beleza pereceu e deixou atrás de si uma tristeza, uma saudade e uma solidão imensa nos corações e nas almas dos seus filhos e do seu esposo. Alguns meses mais tarde, apesar de tudo o que se passara nas suas vidas, o Deus da Saúde seguiu a sua esposa e definhou também até à morte.
Ainda em vida, o Deus da Saúde preparara um mausuléu resplandecente para repousar junto dos seus. Mas os filhos não respeitaram as suas indicações e colocaram a Deusa da Beleza lá dentro, sozinha. Irão fazer-lhe companhia, um dia.
Hoje a Deusa da Beleza repousa numa rua ensolarada, com vista para o rio. O Deus da Saúde está a algumas ruas de distância, num muro ensombrado. Foi assim que o filho quis. A filha acatou, mas pensa que talvez isso seja redundante, que talvez os dois estejam finalmente, verdadeiramente, profundamente juntos, algures num qualquer Olimpo. E que tenham deixado as coisas terrenas e vis para trás. É o que ela mais deseja, porque detesta finais infelizes.

Dedicado aos meus pais.

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CXVI

The Magician - Part XIII

There is a magician hiding underneath the vampire, aswell. In fact, that is precisely the reason why he is a master of deception. He hides behind layers and layers of masks and one never seems to know exactly what, who or where he is.

The vampire who is really a magician uses every trick in his pocket and every card from his deck. He knows psychology and he disdains criminology. He prefers to investigate the mind of his victims rather than their crime scene. He believes there is more to find in one's brain and heart than inside one's purse or drawers.

This magician knows how to hide, avoid and jink his opponent exquisitely.

When you play with this magician you can always be sure not every card is on that table. There's always something missing, namely his real thoughts and feelings.

The magician never shows you his heart. It's the most well hidden and protected secret in the world. The magician protects his heart as a country would protect political secrets, a museum a rare masterpiece or a jeweller his most precious and valuable diamond.

She's seen glimpses of his heart, of course. But she is positive he only lets her see exactly what he wants.

She doesn't know if she'll ever be allowed to see more. She knows that every time that happens she sees a little piece of heaven.

And that is exactly why she is not sure that she really wants to see any more. Heaven can be frightening, especially when you're not at all sure you'll be allowed inside.

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CXV

The Magician - Part XII

The magician disappeared. That is why he is the magician.

Of all the things she thought might happen, she never thought of this. Well, actually she did, but it was just a quick thought that did not dwell inside her mind enough to make her panick. She did think that he might one day disappear for ever. She did think that nothing lasts forever. She did consider that he might not be there for all eternity. In fact, that is precisely one of the reasons that made her consider the letter seriously enough.

The magician is now gone. Without a word. Without a breath. Gone.

And she considers this very obvious lesson - we always only care about the things we no longer have. For years he was there. For years he was always there. And sometimes she wouldn't even give him a second glance. For years she took him for granted. For years she never considered the fact that one day, someday, any day, he might in fact disappear.

The magician did what a magician is supposed to do. And now she knows that hiding beneath the mask of a vampire was not a werewolf but a magician.

She cannot believe that after all these years and when she finally decided to do something, he disappeared. But disappear he did. Without a word. Without a breath. Gone.

And now she misses him. Now the space between her and where he used to be is vacant, empty, a black void of nothingness. It feels empty inside her. She feels empty. The magician took something else with him - he took the possibility of them. And this is the hardest part of it all. When he made his magic number and disappeared from the vicinity, he took with him a part of her, the part that was hoping, the part that always hoped.

He doesn't know this, of course. He will probably, most surely, never know this, of course. He will never guess. He will never imagine. He will never suspect. Even if the letter reached him.

She hopes. For one thing only. Well, let's be honest, she hopes for two things. She hopes he at least reads the letter. And then, she hopes he might follow his heart. But she knows it's a lost hope.

Still, she does not regret what she did. In the great circle of life, in the great frame of the universe, she sent those words from her heart in the hope they would reach the heart of the magician, somehow. And then she let the universe take care of the rest.

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CXIV

The Vampire and The Werewolf - Part XI

Werewolf is Game.She thought is was unfair to the werewolf, see. So she decided to amend the situation. She wanted the werewolf in the game. After all, it is a competition and right now only the vampire is aware of everything. It’s not fair.

So she sent the poem to the werewolf. Literally. By real mail. She sent it. It is probably the most foolish, crazy, insane thing she has ever done in her entire life. Sending the poem to the werewolf is her crossing of the World Trade Center. She couldn’t stand it anymore. To think about it and not do it. She almost went mad for months, until she finally decided to just throw the thinking out the window and be done with it. She sent the poem, with a short letter. The letter said the following:

“Hello,

I wrote this poem for you. Because life is too short, I don’t feel like keeping it in the drawer. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. I don’t know if you’re a Jedi or if you’re a Sith.

Am I crazy? Probably.

An idiot? Most surely.

But don’t call the police because I am harmless.

I just want you to read this and I want you to enjoy it. You can do whatever you like with it – save it in your heart or crunch it and throw it away. It depends wether you’re a Jedi or a Sith.

If our paths never cross unless at a distance, may the force be with you.”

Imediately after posting it, she felt light. She felt as if a burden had been finally lifted off her shoulders. But now, a few hours later, she’s in a panic. She needs air. She can’t breath. She doesn’t believe what she did. Inspite of this, she doesn’t regret it, surprisingly.

Now it’s up to him. The ball is on his side. He can ignore it or he can do something about it. Whatever he decides, the werewolf is game. It’s only fair, because, after all, she does want him to win more than anything else.

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CXIII

The Vampire & the Werewolf - Part X

Winner: Werewolf

Every time the vampire throws her crumbs she acts as if she harbours this ancient, deep, eternal famine that will never be satisfied, no matter how many or how fat those crumbs are. She has decided, thus, that she will no more be a weak, vulnerable hostage to the whims of this vampire.

Officially she now declares the werewolf to be the winner of this competition, for one simple, single reason, if for no other - the werewolf doesn't have to do absolutely anything at all to move her as he always seems to do, in ways that she can hardly explain even to herself. His mere existence is enough for her. His presence a gift from the gods. The pain that grows inside her heart whenever she contemplates him and knows he will never move a finger to touch her is sometimes more than unbearable, for it reaches that same ancient, deep, eternal famine that the vampire only manages to tease.

The vampire's provocations are like feathers of a very exotic bird tickling her senses. The denial of the werewolf is a heavy, earthly stake buried in her wounds, digging around with sadistic and masochistic will. If the vampire knew about any of this he would advise her not to let such weak matter as the flesh is take hold of her. He would smile his cynical smile and pat her on the back, stating "That's life". She knows he's right, of course. She knows she should just ignore everything. Forget it. Pretend it never happened. And if she can't do that, she should even move if necessary. Eliminate any opportunity to lay her eyes on the werewolf, smell his shadow or allow any thoughts about him or anything that resembles him to crawl into her brain. She should make both her heart and brain take a metaphorical cold shower, get soaking wet and wise up.

This is not a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel and even if it was, sometimes they do not have a happy ending, or any ending at all. That is life, true.

But the werewolf wins, just the same, if not her heart, at least this contest.

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CXII

The Vampire & the Werewolf - Part IX

Vampire / Werewolf = Tied
Although they live in two completely different universes, both the vampire and the werewolf have certain things in common. What attracts her to them are their differences, but they share curious similarities.

They are consistent - both have dedicated most of their lives to their occupations and have not drifted elsewhere.

They are grounded - both have worked in the same place for a considerable amount of time.

This tells her they both need security or, perhaps like her, have let themselves be trapped in an apparent but mortifying sense of security.

She can sense the same restlessness in both, translated by different languages.

Both are disguised as their exact opposite, which is extremely interesting. Neither have deliberately chosen his respective mask, it naturally fell upon them. Maybe they were born with it, but most likely it has grown into them due to life's difficult labyrinths. That it has crept as two exact opposing extremes into their bodies and minds, is a remarkable phenomenon to which she cannot find words to describe.

The vampire uses his werewolf mask to disguise the coldness that lies beneath his skin. The werewolf mask provides him with the suitable, agreeable cover. He becomes one of the lads. He is the youthfull gentleman who tells inteligent jokes and makes people laugh, especially women. He is the safe haven where his students will find shelter and understanding, while totally oblivious of the fact that he is sucking his financial security and their souls out of them.

The werewolf uses his vampire mask to disguise the heat that burns underneath his muscles. The vampire mask provides him with the ideal cover. He becomes dettached, arrogant even, a marble statue of indifference towards the world. And the world does not suspect of the storms that rage inside him.
They share something else in common. Although they both know she exists, they insist on keeping themselves unavailable to her. The werewolf because his meager attempt did not produce the results he was expecting, the vampire because he simply does not care. There is another thing they share - both have slowly crept into her and insist on remaining lodged there.

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CXI

The Vampire & the Werewolf - Part VIII

Round 5: Werewolf

Apart from the love of cars, bikes and workout, she knows that the werewolf is interested in zen. He wears a yin-yang circular symbol around his neck all the time. It goes with the rest of his outlook. He prefers black, the color of night and of warriors.
She finds this interesting. That the werewolf, the epitome of manhood and masculinity and eventually even brutality and savagery, is also in touch with his feminine side. It makes her even more curious about him.
She ventures an explanation - he's in to zen philosophy. The contrasting symbol and the color black match this prediction, not to mention the fact that he enjoys his workout - she can see that by the strength of his muscled arms.
She wonders what would make a werewolf interested in zen, of all things. It tells her he is not just what he wants people to see. It tells her he's got depth in him. That he is not just a fighter, a brute, but a warrior. There's a huge difference between one and the other. The brute fights with no reason. The warrior fights only when he has a good reason. The  warrior thinks before he strikes. He does not waste time, energy or ammunition. And when he goes to battle he knows he has a good chance of coming out of it victorious.
Perhaps he means to control his anger. Or perhaps deep down inside his soul he really wants to find his other half. Perhaps in his nightly, lonesome wanderings or even when he's trying to decipher the intricacies of his engines, the werewolf wonders what it would be like to have someone by his side. Someone who could understand him, and not judge him. Someone who could understand and welcome his demanding needs and desires. Someone who could balance his dark side, his animal insctinct, and maybe even smooth some of his hard edges. Someone who would accept him exactly the way he is, without questioning or criticizing.
In truth, she thinks he might be a romantic after all. Every warrior is.
Of all philosophies and religions, she has also been seduced by zen a long time ago. It's the only one that attracts her in some way. It fascinates her to the point of wishing she had 200 years to be able to study it properly. She knows you cannot really learn zen unless you are taught by a master in some eastern country. It is probably the most complicated philosophical system ever invented. There are a few things she has managed to learn though: to accept the present, to have patience, to work with what life gives you and, most of all, not try bending the road you travell.
She thinks that this might help her to deal with the fact that her path and the werewolf's own path will probably never cross eachother, although their owners cross eachother's paths almos every day.

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CX

The Vampire & the Werewolf - Part VII

Round 3: Vampire

She feels they make a good team, she and the vampire. They have the same working habits, at least. Organization, method, a steady pace. They understand eachother in that department.

But does that mean he knows her? Does it mean he has even the slightest idea of what goes on in her soul? No, definitely not. But then, does she know herself? Does she know who she is? Who is she? If she did know herself, she wouldn't be torn between a vampire and a werewolf. It would all be very clear to her. She would be able to choose between two extremes, two roads that lead to opposites of the world. But she can't because she has no idea who she is or, even worse, who she wants to be.

The vampire could help her. He has the power to look at her from a distance, his evaluation detached. Sometimes she wonders what he sees of her in her written words. A lot, probably. His trained eyes will no doubt find their way in between the lines and detect all her insecurities, all her fears, all her desires. It's unfair, of course. For the only thing she has of him are his eyes. Yet, as we already know, his eyes very rarely reveal what lies underneath. He is a remarkable actor. In fact, he would make Brando proud, she's sure. And that's probably why he disdained the option of sharing the genius' time of glory. The vampire knows what the great actor knew so well - all of us are great actors, and we don't even know it. Every time we don't feel what someone expects us to feel, we fake. We fake all day long, without even noticing. Rarely are we who we really are, is it not true?

She always had a problem with the hipocritical turns of the human day-to-day existence. She is also a remarkable actress, but for quite opposite reasons. The vampire acts because he's after something. She acts because she's hiding. The vampire has lost track of his own soul, buried beneath endless layers of masks he built over the years to protect himself, his wants and needs. She always ran from the world, pretending to be a block of ice just so that no one could even suspect how fragile she is. The vampire acts because he has no sensibility. She acts because she has too much of it.

And so she wonders more and more how it would have been to have known that great genius. She's sure he would understand her. He might not be able to help her, but he would definitely understand how she is, why she does the things she does, what makes her tick, what makes her crawl into a corner. And he would understand the vampire. He would be able to show the vampire his own reflection in a human mirror.

She wonders if the vampire would run scared. Maybe he hasn't looked into a mirror in a long time. Maybe he has a Dorian Gray kind of portrait which, if unveiled, would suddenly show the vampire the monster he has become.

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CIX

The Vampire & the Werewolf - Part VI

Round 2: Werewolf.

Did you think you could win this race?, she wants to ask the vampire.

She wishes he would read these lines. So that he would know he has serious competition and the competition is winning the race.

She wishes she could tell him all about the werewolf. That he manages to stir something deep inside her just by presenting his body before her eyes. That he most definitely must be a simple man, with simple tastes and simple wants and needs.

Unlike you, vampire, he is not interested in mesmerizing an entire audience with his rhetorical skills. He does not want to change the literary world with his exceptional genius. He just wants to find a place where he can rest his head from the world. Like her.

Yet he is a magician, in his simple, unambitious world. His customers describe him as such. She can imagine his skilfull hands patiently sensing the machine's tantrums and working their way through their restless metal spirits to make them do what they are supposed, but don't want to. She can imagine those hands touching similar places that belong to her and working their way slowly into ecstasy.

In her imagination the vampire wrinkles his nose to all these things, which he will no doubt consider rambling thoughts of an imature soul.

She insists, though, in her mind. The werewolf is down to earth, grounded, solid, secure. The old man seems to like him, for he would not have kept him all these years otherwise.

Someday, she fears, the werewolf will go. Not because he wants to, but because he must. The old man will die and the garage will close. The werewolf will have to find territory elsewhere. She fears that day. She fears that day more than she thought she might ever.

She must do something. Soon.

Are you reading this, vampire? Or did you think you could win her heart just with the touch of that warm, soft, reassuring hand?
The werewolf has touched her all over without ever coming close to her skin. If only he knew that. Would he shed his vampire's outter skin and come nest upon her bosom? She wishes that at least the werewolf can smell her perfume when she passes him on the street while he's sweeping the floor and pretending not to see her because the old man watches him with hawk eyes.
The werewolf is winning. But who cares?
She doesn't want this story to turn into a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel but as the days go by it is resembling more and more precisely that.
Her heart has bled for the werewolf too long. Much more than it would be healthy or wise.
The only thing she can think of is his look at the top of the street, straight into her eyes, straight into her heart, straight into her mind, as if he was inches away from her. And that was not in her imagination.

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CVIII

The Vampire & the Werewolf - Part V

She forced herself not to love the vampire, she remembers. And she succeeded admirably. It was one of those accomplishments that should receive a medal of some kind. For the first time ever in her long life of unrequited love, she actually managed to convince herself not to waste any time with someone who seemed to avoid her existence. She used his own weapon - logic and rational thinking. If you can't beat them, join them. If you can't make him love you, don't love him either.

What in the world was she thinking when she dreamed of sharing a life with a mature and social vampire? An impossibility. He has children, for goodness sake. He is a man of the world, someone who has a proper life, a respectable one, a normal, trivial life. She doesn't. How would she ever fit her surrealities into his everyday existence? How could she force him to do that? If not for anything else, it simply wouldn't be fair. Not to him, nor to her.

Perhaps in some other life. She likes to imagine that they had some kind of life together, or several lives together. Maybe he remembers because he is an immortal vampire. Or maybe amnesia falls upon him every time she dies and leaves him in a previous life. Or maybe there is some kind of initial amnesia but as soon as he sees her again in the next life everything starts coming back. If the latter is true, it takes some time for things to come back, she must confess. Or maybe she's just day dreaming, as usual.
The thing is she sensed something even before meeting him. Just the sound of his name was enough to move something inside her, she recalls. It was quite disturbing, now that she thinks of it. How can the sound of a complete stranger's name produce such a reaction? And then she saw him and fell in love almost immediately. He, apparentely, was not stricken by the same phenomenon. And yet ...


The werewolf, on the other hand, would be much more easy to fit into her surreal life. He's down to earth and a fighter. He understands the dark alleys of life, she guesses. He would understand her much better, if only he had the vampire's mind. She can imagine a certain amount of comfort shared with the werewolf, even if he seems anything but comfortable. She must say this in his defence - he is a man who feels confortable in his own skin, even though his walk is a little bit odd. She assumes that the nightly transformations into the animal kingdom have somehow disturbed his human locomotion.


And yet ... there is something there. Something must be there, or he wouldn't have spilt the water when they went for that coffee. And the flies ... The flies were chasing him relentlessly and she was sincerely trying not to notice his embarassment. The sun was in his eyes and the vampire was disturbed. Nervous. Out of his box. And telling her to go out of the box, praising her, telling her she had the intelectual ability to do it. He was the one who suggested the table in the sun. She wore sunglasses and was at ease. He was not. And she pitied him. She saw through all the layers and realised that there is a good heart lying underneath them. Can she love him again? Will she love him again? Does she want to love him again?
Not yet ...


When she came home she was sure she would bump straight into the werewolf and that's exactly what happened. Walking ahead of her. His legs slightly open, his walk slighlty awkward as if he would surely feel more confortable on all fours. As if to remind her that the competition is still on.
Has she decided?
Not yet ...

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CVII

The Vampire & the Werewolf - Part IV

She is divided. She feels she will be, eternally. If she actually had to decide, she would not know which one to choose, for sure. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on one's 


point of view, she does not have to decide anything. Both know she exists, but both pretend not to see her.

The vampire is a mature man, wise and inteligent, who knows exactly what to do in each situation. But sometimes she wonders if he has fears, like most of us, or at least concerns. His hands were trembling when he presented the conference, something that surprised her. She thought he was protected against such petty little human emotions.

The werewolf is a horny young man who looks at her from the top of the street as if he intends to devour her. Yet he sweeps the floor in front of the garage every other day and pretends not to look at her when she leaves the building. Too close for comfort, she guesses.

Are they both as afraid as she is? What does she mean to each of them, if anything?

For once in her life she whishes something would happen at the other end of the rope. Why does the dreamer need always be her? Why does she have to be the one wondering what it would be like if she wrote the werewolf a poem and left it glued to the garage's door or the mirror of his red bike? Why does she have to be the one wondering what life would be like if shared with an unnatainable vampire?

She's tired. They should be the ones going after her. Trying something. Anything.

Love demands courage. And when you are afraid does it necessarily mean you love? They both tickle her heart and they both leave her breathless in totally different ways.
The vampire has the power to awe her when she least expects it or when she's positively sure that he despises her, like when he held her hand and wished her luck for the presentation. Sometimes she's certain he even hates her or that he couldn't care less if he saw her dying in some alley. She wants to scream at him Tennessee Williams' words, but she keeps recollecting what he said about Brando and the irony in his voice when he said he would love to have shared the world with the gentleman. In those moments she pities him intensely. He is a cynical. Nothing touches him. But sometimes she wonders if that is because everything touches him deeply.
The werewolf reminds her every single day she sees him that she is in love. The simple presence of himself is enough. Her body feels a misterious attraction every time she passes him, pulling her to his side. She's almost sure he is an imature and reckless soul, who could not discern the intricate laces of love even in his own heart.
And then she remembers some wise knowledge bottled up inside her soul. No one told her this, but she knows for a fact that it's the right thing to do - never interfere with the ways of the universe. It will find a way of reajusting itself and herself to it. Or, more plainly, if it's not meant to be, it should not be forced to happen.
She wont bother anymore. It's a waste of time, anyway.

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CVI

The Vampire & the Werewolf - Part III

The vampire enjoys socializing. He's what you would call a social animal, metaphorically if not literally. Vampires are not very social by nature. This one goes against tradition. In his social habits aswell as his literary beliefs. The vampire believes in human relations, or should I say, he thinks he believes in them because what he really appreciates is being in control. Control of others feelings, control of others timetables, control of an audience's emotions. He's a remarkable actor. Maybe that is why he accepted her thesis theme, although the old school might have raised an eyebrow. He doesn't care. Or rather, he does care, as long as he can have the upper hand in the matter. He's using her, she believes. She's the joker in his deck of cards. The exotic element in the fruit basket. He will throw her to the lions and expect her to survive on her own if the lions decide to have her as a feast. If not, she will contribute to his glory.

The werewolf, also against his nature, is very private. He enjoys being on his own. Unlike the animal with which species he shares his most revealing features, he is not a family man or a team hunter. He's quiet and drawn to himself. However, he is not a thinker, but a doer. Unlike the vampire, who thinks his every little action to exaustion and plans every single move with premeditated care, the werewolf is impatient and prefers to get his hands on the matter, literally and metaphorically. His passion are the expensive machines he carefully tunes for others with expertise and craftsmanship. Racing cars are his food. Speed his philosophy. He doesn't like to wait. He wishes people would be like his engines, simple and straight to the point. If it isn't working there's always a reason: a spare part missing, a wire badly connected, a clog in some valve. Humans are much more complicated than that and frankly, too much of a cunundrum for this werewolf's simple rationalizing.

The vampire, on the other hand, believes he knows everything there is to know about the way human beings function. He is positively sure he cannot be surprised in any way. Deep down inside he is aware and a little melancholic about having lost the element of fascination. Nothing can take his breath away anymore. Life is an endless series of déja vus carefully orchestrated and similar to eachother, give or take an insignificant detail.
When he looks at her he sees what everyone else sees, a plain girl who was once infatuated and is now cured of that desease.
When the werewolf looks at her he sees an enigma. He doesn't understand why he feels so drawn to her and yet they have never spoken one single word to eachother. He tries and tries and tries to interpret her polished face hidden behind those huge sunglasses, but he doesn't seem to find enough solutions to solve her puzzle. She likes to imagine that is exactly what's going on inside his mind. She doesn't care about the vampire's self assurances. She's certain he's completely mistaken.

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CV

Daradriel - Part I

She asked for an angel. She needed one desperately. She was beyond despair. So they felt sorry for her and a little bit scared of causing an international affair in the heavens above, and actually sent her one.

She had asked for anything. It wasn't as if she would be expecting an archangel or something of the sort. Just anything with wings and not of this world.

So they sent her Daradriel. A renegade.

Daradriel had quit heaven a long time ago. It did it, not because it believed in any of Satan's bullshit, but because it was lazy. It didn't want to be assigned any of that guardianship crap. It had much more interesting things to do. Like ... nothing.

Daradriel came, mumbling and grumbling all the way down. It landed at her feet and made its presence felt right away. If there was a problem, the sooner they got rid of it the faster it would be able to get back to where it wanted to be.

She felt a whisp of air cross her body and deposit itself inside her heart, causing her a sense of gloom, and doom. And she knew something was there. She looked to the left, and then to the right and then to the left again.

Daradriel took a deep breath and twisted its head from side to side, lifting its eyebrows and turning its eyeballs. What a dope! What a sad example of an earthly creature this one was. Didn't she know that angels are everywhere, which means they take no sides? It decided to speak and end the creature's confusion. It said:

"You don't need an angel. You need a man. A real, flesh and bone man. To fuck you like you've never been fucked before."

She jumped in mid air, literally, and fell on the chair again with a bumping sound. She bit her tongue and cried in pain. Daradriel went on:

"You heard me. I tell you, you don't need an angel and you're wasting my time. Go find yourself a man."

She grasped for air, opened her mouth and closed it again. Tears ran down her cheeks like drops of pouring rain.

"I can't be who you want me to be. Angels don't fuck. They have no flesh, no bones, nothing. We are thoughts suspended in the air. So you better believe me, girl, when I tell you to quit this nonsense."

Daradriel cleaned one of its long black nails and waited for some kind of reaction. It had completely forgotten how boring humans can be, with their petty little problems and their exagerated emotions.

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CIV

The Vampire & the Werewolf - Part II


She has decided. At least for now. She thought it would take her a long time. It was quite easy, though.
She chooses the werewolf disguised as a vampire.


The reasons are simple and thus presented:
1. She enjoys masks, but in Venice, not in Lisbon.
2. She's tired of begging for crumbs.
3. She's a simple soul, looking for another simple soul. Although sometimes she forgets this.
4. Her mind enjoys the idea of the vampire, her body desires the werewolf. And she's tired of feeding only her mind.
5. Once upon a time, long ago, she learned that love needs no masks. A simple, kind, feisty werewolf taught her that.


A problem arises:
She wants the werewolf to know all this. But how? She's quite sure if he knew all this, he would quit his vampire disguise and come running to her flesh, as he should. But she has no idea how to tell him. They never reached speaking terms, you see. This is becoming of late quite a cunundrum, for when she makes her mind up about something, she hardly rests until she can make it happen, somehow.


On the other hand:
She could be completely wrong. Maybe if he knew all this, he would just laugh at her, laugh at her silly her. Or even worse, think her totally mad. A mad woman. A woman old enough to not be having fantasies with complete strangers who ...


On second thoughts:
Maybe she would prefer the vampire, after all. At least she's positive he wouldn't laugh at her. Because he knows and he never did. In fact, she's almost sure he pities her. He treats her with utmost respect and keeps her at a safe distance, without leting her know that he knows. Quite the politician.

The only problem is:

She's quite sure he thinks of her as a kid. She's almost positive he feels quite amused by the whole situation - a student infatuated with him. How long has it been since that has happened? How long? He's not young anymore. And he was never that handsome, anyway. But when he was younger, he did break quite a considerable amount of female hearts. It's his funny side. The ability he has of making you think you're a little bit important in his life. The charm wins them all. Or it used to, anyway. Nowadays it seems that the younger ones think of him as a sweet, qiut, uncle sort of type and the older ones see right through the fox that he is and are just not impressed in the least. Actually, she has a feeling that most of them pity him. There he goes ... they think ... who does he think he fools anymore? ...

Sometimes, very often in fact, she herself pities him. All those masks, all that running around on empty feelings and empty ground. What the hell for? To climb what ladder? To hide what?

Tennessee Williams was quite right, when he said, describing the master piece he created called "A Streetcar Named Desire": “… I think its best quality is its authenticity or its fidelity to life. There are no ‘good’ or ‘bad’ people. Some are a little better or a little worse but all are activated more by misunderstanding than malice. A blindness to what is going on in each other’s hearts. Stanley sees Blanche not as a desperate, driven creature, backed into a last corner to make a last desperate stand – but a calculating bitch with ‘round heels’ ... Nobody sees anybody truly but all through the flaws of their own egos. That is the way we all see each other in life. Vanity, fear, desire, competition – all such distortions within our own egos – condition our vision of those in relation to us. Add to those distortions in our own egos, the corresponding distortions in the egos of others, and you see how cloudy the glass must become through which we look at each other. That’s how it is in all living relationships except when there is that rare case of two people who love intensely enough to burn through all those layers of opacity and see each other’s naked hearts. Such cases seem purely theoretical to me.”

Can't they see this? Don't they know that this is the truth, the absolute truth about the world?

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CIII

The Vampire & the Werewolf - Part I

Which one does she prefer? The funny thing is that they seem to be switched. The vampire has the face of a werewolf, whereas the werewolf looks like a vampire.

I shall explain:

The vampire is a professor at the university. She calls him the "literary whore" because he seems to be ambitious and lick fine asses to climb up the ladder of prestige. He's smart, wise, diplomatic, a gentleman. He's also cinical and deceiving, wearing a thousand masks, each one an exquisite and intricate composition by itself, appropriate for each occasion in his life. He always knows what to say, how and when to laugh and the exact distance to keep someone not welcome. She needs a dictionary to talk to him. He's a charmer, but in a cold, distant way. A fake. The man with the thousand masks. He will suck your soul to get exactly what he wants, but not a single drop more. He will leave you dry with want and not feel a single ounce of regret.

She wishes that deep down inside he would be a good heart. A good man. A passionate and sensitive soul. Hiding beneath all the masks of a vampire. But she suspects it's only wishfull thinking, to make things easier. She did see a possibility of heaven, once, when his eyes smiled some time ago, behind all the masks. It was a magical moment, but it vanished as soon as it began. She used to be in love with him, but then she decided she didn't want to be in love with him anymore. What for? He doesn't even see her. Or does he?

From a distance that's exactly what he looked and felt like, that morning when she was waiting for him. A werewolf, hunting, for her. But all is happening in her imagination and nowhere else.

The werewolf is the guy who works at the garage. She's been looking at him for the past 8 years and she never seems to get tired of that face. He's handsome, slick, muscular, has a cool beard and hardly ever smiles, just like a vampire would behave. She has fantasies with his body several times a month. She knows he likes the chinese symbol of yin-yang and motorbikes. She has no idea what kind of effect she has on him, but she has caught him several times looking at her when she leaves the house, and pretending to keep sweeping the floor. He looks like a cold-hearted vampire, but she's almost positive that he is a young, strong, unpredictable werewolf deep down inside. She falls in love with him almost every day. She imagines that he would feel like a comforting dock to rest her body and a simple soul to match her mind. Unlike the real vampire, he's probably not that smart or diplomatic. He would tear her clothes off and be down to earth, no masks and no diplomacy. She knows she would love it.

Which one does she prefer? If given the choice, which one would she choose? If both of them were actually hunting for her, which one would she prefer would catch her?

She hasn't decided. After all, she may have her whole life to do it. Neither seems to consider her a good prey.

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CII

Amélie Poulain Precisa-se - Parte IV
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Castelo de S. Jorge
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Amélie, filha, há quanto tempo. Há novidades nas imediações, novidades bombásticas, e daí esta nova missiva.
A porteira desbroncou-se toda à maníaco-depressiva, que entretanto já não é maníaco-depressiva há muito tempo. Agora vive num meio termo absolutamente paradisíaco.
Afinal de contas, existe uma boa razão para a filha da senhoria se comportar como se tivesse um pau de vassoura espetado constantemente pelo cu acima, para além do facto de ser advogada. Lembras-te do marido simpático e bem educado? Aparentemente ele mudou muito. Segundo consta, e a porteira viu com os seus próprios olhos (que a ex maníaco-depressiva gostava de pedir emprestados – além de muito azuis, são bastante treinados na cusquice, apesar das cataratas em remissão), parece que o dito senhor era de quando em vez apanhado envolto em nuvens densas de álcool, encostado à beira do prédio em madrugadas insuspeitas. Como se isso não bastasse, consta também, e a porteira ouviu com os seus próprios ouvidos, que o dito sonso arreava a sua esposa nesses momentos mais etílicos, deixando-a a gritar pela mãe e pelo irmão.
Ficou também a saber que a própria prima que habita no mesmo prédio que a filha da senhoria, foge dela quando a vê na rua, o que a descansou bastante. Aparentemente, a senhora tem esse efeito em bastante gente, não é só nela. Apesar de tudo, a maníaco-depressiva reflecte que existe sempre um motivo forte para alguém parecer que tem um pau de vassoura enfiado pelo cu acima. Dá pelo nome de "sofrimento".
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Confirma-se, por outro lado, que o advogado que tinha também um pau de vassoura enfiado pelo cu acima, não habita mais o prédio há bastante tempo. Pela parte que lhe toca, felizmente. O homem deixava-a nervosa. Deve ser apanágio de todos os advogados com paus de vassoura espetados pelos respectivos cus acima. Provavelmente aquele também teria um bom motivo para isso.
Quanto ao ecológico poluidor sonoro, nunca mais o viu, não faz ideia se ele fugiu com a Sara do Tofu, mas também não está muito interessada nesses pormenores. Desde que fique bem longe das redondezas ... por ela até podia ter emigrado para a Gronelândia, apesar de não ter nenhum pau de vassoura espetado pelo cu acima.

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Pelo contrário, o rapaz da garagem, para mal dos pecados da ex maníaco-depressiva, continua especado à porta da garagem com alguma frequência, com seu semblante sério e compenetrado e a mesma barba rala verdadeiramente sensual, o que tem por consequência que ela se apaixone com a mesma frequência pelo dito cujo. A ex maníaco-depressiva reflecte sobre este fenómeno surpreendente, recorda experiências anteriores e constata com fascínio que nunca tal lhe aconteceu na vida – apaixonar-se constantemente e regularmente pelo mesmo homem vezes e vezes sem conta. Ela pensa que a sua história com o rapaz da garagem, de que ele faz parte mas nem sequer suspeita, se assemelha inacreditavelmente a um qualquer romance de realismo fantástico que Gabriel García Marquez poderia estar a escrever neste preciso momento.
A maníaco-depressiva reflecte que se isto fosse um argumento do Jean-Pierre Jeunet, depois de ter confidenciado à porteira que nunca dissera as boas noites ao dono da garagem por timidez e que ele a deve considerar uma mal-criada e depois de lhe ter perguntado se o rapaz que veio substituir um outro ajudante do senhor que era um santo de homem (na opinião da porteira), entretanto defunto, se, por contraste o rapaz não era também ele um santo, que a seguinte sucessão de acontecimentos teria lugar, editados em cortes sucessivos com uma banda-sonora a condizer:

1 - A porteira iria desbroncar-se à porteira do prédio onde está a garagem, contando-lhe que ficara com a pulga atrás da orelha por a menina andar a perguntar coisas do rapaz.
2 - A porteira do prédio onde está a garagem iria por sua vez desbroncar-se ao dono da dita cuja, senhor de idade provecta e malandrice nos olhos.
3 - Conversa puxa conversa, o seguinte diálogo teria lugar:
"O seu rapaz não tem namorada?"
"Não, diz que não tem paciência para aturar mulheres. São muito complicadas. Só tem olhos para a mota. Nunca se apaixonou na vida, ou saberia ...", e os olhos do dono da garagem, enquanto profere estas palavras, deambulam vagueantes por um passado remoto povoado por um par de pernas longas e esguias que lhe davam a volta à cabeça em rotações muitíssimo superiores às cilindradas dos seus carros de corrida que ele tanto ama, "... que estas coisas não se controlam. A rapariga não tem ninguém?"
A porteira abana a cabeça, com os braços cruzados sobre o peito, as mãos segurando o pau da vassoura que usa para varrer a porta da entrada do prédio (e não para enfiar pelo cu acima), "Ao que parece também anda quase sempre sozinha."
Faz-se um silêncio entre os dois. A porteira matuta numa ideia luminosa. O dono da garagem contempla melancolicamente o seu passado.

"Olhe que eles até ficavam bem um com o outro, não lhe parece?"

O dono da garagem olha para o seu ajudante encostado à entrada da garagem a fumar um cigarro, o semblante carregado, enquanto a maníaco-depressiva passa à sua frente e ele faz de conta que não a vê.

E a partir desse dia, a porteira e o dono da garagem, que não têm muito mais para fazer na vida do que pensar nela e vê-la passar, decidem entreter-se com o entretecimento de um complô que tem por objectivo juntar duas pessoas que deveriam estar juntas mas ainda não descobriram.

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Portanto, Amélie, preciso de ti. Preciso que venhas cá ajudar-me a transformar isto num romance do Gabriel Garcia Marquez ou num filme do Jean-Pierre Jeunet.
Anda Amélie, ajuda-me lá, não sejas chata. Isto podia ser uma história tão bonita.