I know nothing about that wetland, much less about that white and lazy town which appeared on its banks. I ran away from that place when I was 12. If I had wings, I would have flown such was my hurry to escape the heat, the huge, engorged, impertinent mosquitoes, and the nuns who tried to cook us in our long uniforms while the thermometer marked 40 degrees Celsius in the shade. I went away. I fled in search of adventures and made a point of forgetting everything about that town. Remember Regina Maria, daughter of Malu Freitas? No, I do not remember. But she was a friend of ours from Genic, how could you have forgotten? I forgot. I left the past behind, erasing any memories as a renegade who committed a crime and is ashamed of it.
I went to the big city, trying to pretend that I was never a country girl, that I had already been born "cosmopolitan" and very, very chic. From Rio de Janeiro I went to Sao Paulo and from there to New York. I crossed an ocean to get to France and returned to the US to live in Newtown. I traveled the world for pleasure and for work. The more I traveled, the more I believed that all that green, muddy marshland and that white, sleepy town belonged to the past of someone else. Not mine, because I wanted nothing to do with them.
When I had gone beyond beyond and back again, I realized that finally I knew nothing more about that enormous place surrounded by water and about that town stopped in time. Name of fish, tree, fruit, people, music, costumes, everything was gone from my memory like a river that overflows and sweeps everything in its path. From that swamp and the town close to it, I knew nothing anymore, no sir.
And then in the middle of the night, the memories began to return. Like souls of another world, they slowly crept up in my dreams, showing a face here another there: women walking down the street their umbrellas open to protect themselves from the sun; the banana man sitting on the corner of D.Aquino and Antonio Maria streets with his unbuttoned shirt, no shoes, more comfortable than at home; the Turks hanging clothes to sell outside their shops, so many clothes, my God, we didn’t even feel like going inside the stores; naked little boys jumping in the river to swim without fear of piranhas while we here are afraid of even our neighbors; the popsicles of bocaiúva, coconut, corn, so delicious! All these memories started coming back, very gently.
Even worse was that I started thinking about that immensity of water and that muggy town. For very long they had been shrouded in fog, but suddenly were even brighter than the stars shining in the middle of the swamp. They came unceremoniously, without asking for permission to get in, and like a teacher annoyed with a student who insists on writing nonsense, set aside my alleged sophistication to show me who I really was: a barefoot country girl.
When night fell on that indolent town, there was a time when I liked to sit in front of my house with my parents and my sisters, listening to the stories the grandfather of my best friend, who lived next door, would tell us. We set our chairs on the sidewalk, sometimes lit a bonfire, and enjoyed some small talk. Just like that, the grandfather would start a story of Saci Pererê, of haunted places, of worlds that did not exist but seemed more vivid than ever. The children held their breath and pretended they weren’t afraid, full of goose bumps ... Later, when we went to bed hiding our head under the sheet to escape the mosquitoes, the stories all came back. What if Saci Pererê would appear? What if the headless mule would come? So much fear, my God ...
During the day, there were stories on the small radio that the maid listened to while she ironed clothes over a table in the open laundry behind the house. My father took a nap and my mother sewed. We children climbed over the table to get closer to the radio. Manoel killed Maria with a straight shot on the forehead. He got home, saw a man coming out of his house and did not think twice. Do you approve of that, my dear listeners? Call and give your opinion. We are here to listen to them. Seu Garcia stabbed his best friend three times. They were in a bar, got drunk, argued about money and ended up in a fight. Do you approve of that, my dear listeners? A thief jumped into the backyard of Dona Victoria and stole all the clothes hanging on the clothesline to dry. A young offender was seen entering the cemetery in broad daylight after stealing flowers from graves. Maria das Dores, 15, ended her life by taking rat poison after she discovered she was pregnant with her father’s baby and her mother threatened to throw her on the street ... The stories went on and on as we enjoyed our red currant popsicles, fascinated by that world full of tragedies that seemed so far away, but we could guess were part of our enormous swamp.
Sometimes, my mother decided to tell stories. They all had a moral background, maybe we would learn something, there was always hope ... There was a story of an old man neglected by his entire family, including the children, who was forced to live in a small room in the back of the house. We felt so guilty and were so scared... And if we ended up like that? There was the story of Isabel, a girl who disobeyed her mother, opening the door to a stranger. In the story, her puppy sang such a sad song... There was the girl buried in the backyard by her wicked stepmother that also was accompanied by a melancholy song. We felt such a delicious fear, a desire not to hear anymore and not ever stop hearing ...
The wetland was full of stories, full of river cruises, trips to the farm taking the train, then the Maria Fumaça, then a boat, to land in front of the white farmhouse where we spent days on end. Early in the mornings, we would go to the corral to drink milk with sugar and brandy. During the day, we went fishing, horseback riding, climbing trees to get guava or hear my cousin describe the monkeys so big they could even bring down a person, I swear by all that is holy, my cousin would say. At night, sitting in hammocks on the porch, we watched the boats slowly going down the river and heard the sounds of water hitting the banks. We looked at the wetland with respect, wondering what it was hiding.
Life near that wetland happened in slow motion; nobody was in a hurry and the heat was too much for someone to waste energies with unnecessary gestures. Only the Paraguayan polkas could get people excited and dancing, forgetting the heat, mosquitoes, forgetting everything. Wow! Such lively music my God! At the steakhouse on the street Antonio João, the boys arrived smelling of cigarettes and beer and the girls waited to be invited to dance, pretending they did not care but with a heart full of expectation ... In the parties of Corumbaense there was another kind of music, American, or the Jovem Guarda, and the “society” girls forgot the tradition of their families to make out with boys who also wanted to forget everything.
And the marsh behind the club, silent, impenetrable, knowing that the stories, the people, everything would pass and only the marsh would stay there forever, in its grandeur, with its mysteries and secrets. The marsh and the white town, partners in time, wise, letting the world around them consume itself in its violence, in its folly, while they remained there, silent witnesses to all the madness. Oh, I know nothing about that wetland. But that wetland knows everything about me.
When I had gone beyond beyond and back again, I realized that finally I knew nothing more about that enormous place surrounded by water and about that town stopped in time. Name of fish, tree, fruit, people, music, costumes, everything was gone from my memory like a river that overflows and sweeps everything in its path. From that swamp and the town close to it, I knew nothing anymore, no sir.
And then in the middle of the night, the memories began to return. Like souls of another world, they slowly crept up in my dreams, showing a face here another there: women walking down the street their umbrellas open to protect themselves from the sun; the banana man sitting on the corner of D.Aquino and Antonio Maria streets with his unbuttoned shirt, no shoes, more comfortable than at home; the Turks hanging clothes to sell outside their shops, so many clothes, my God, we didn’t even feel like going inside the stores; naked little boys jumping in the river to swim without fear of piranhas while we here are afraid of even our neighbors; the popsicles of bocaiúva, coconut, corn, so delicious! All these memories started coming back, very gently.
Even worse was that I started thinking about that immensity of water and that muggy town. For very long they had been shrouded in fog, but suddenly were even brighter than the stars shining in the middle of the swamp. They came unceremoniously, without asking for permission to get in, and like a teacher annoyed with a student who insists on writing nonsense, set aside my alleged sophistication to show me who I really was: a barefoot country girl.
When night fell on that indolent town, there was a time when I liked to sit in front of my house with my parents and my sisters, listening to the stories the grandfather of my best friend, who lived next door, would tell us. We set our chairs on the sidewalk, sometimes lit a bonfire, and enjoyed some small talk. Just like that, the grandfather would start a story of Saci Pererê, of haunted places, of worlds that did not exist but seemed more vivid than ever. The children held their breath and pretended they weren’t afraid, full of goose bumps ... Later, when we went to bed hiding our head under the sheet to escape the mosquitoes, the stories all came back. What if Saci Pererê would appear? What if the headless mule would come? So much fear, my God ...
During the day, there were stories on the small radio that the maid listened to while she ironed clothes over a table in the open laundry behind the house. My father took a nap and my mother sewed. We children climbed over the table to get closer to the radio. Manoel killed Maria with a straight shot on the forehead. He got home, saw a man coming out of his house and did not think twice. Do you approve of that, my dear listeners? Call and give your opinion. We are here to listen to them. Seu Garcia stabbed his best friend three times. They were in a bar, got drunk, argued about money and ended up in a fight. Do you approve of that, my dear listeners? A thief jumped into the backyard of Dona Victoria and stole all the clothes hanging on the clothesline to dry. A young offender was seen entering the cemetery in broad daylight after stealing flowers from graves. Maria das Dores, 15, ended her life by taking rat poison after she discovered she was pregnant with her father’s baby and her mother threatened to throw her on the street ... The stories went on and on as we enjoyed our red currant popsicles, fascinated by that world full of tragedies that seemed so far away, but we could guess were part of our enormous swamp.
Sometimes, my mother decided to tell stories. They all had a moral background, maybe we would learn something, there was always hope ... There was a story of an old man neglected by his entire family, including the children, who was forced to live in a small room in the back of the house. We felt so guilty and were so scared... And if we ended up like that? There was the story of Isabel, a girl who disobeyed her mother, opening the door to a stranger. In the story, her puppy sang such a sad song... There was the girl buried in the backyard by her wicked stepmother that also was accompanied by a melancholy song. We felt such a delicious fear, a desire not to hear anymore and not ever stop hearing ...
The wetland was full of stories, full of river cruises, trips to the farm taking the train, then the Maria Fumaça, then a boat, to land in front of the white farmhouse where we spent days on end. Early in the mornings, we would go to the corral to drink milk with sugar and brandy. During the day, we went fishing, horseback riding, climbing trees to get guava or hear my cousin describe the monkeys so big they could even bring down a person, I swear by all that is holy, my cousin would say. At night, sitting in hammocks on the porch, we watched the boats slowly going down the river and heard the sounds of water hitting the banks. We looked at the wetland with respect, wondering what it was hiding.
Life near that wetland happened in slow motion; nobody was in a hurry and the heat was too much for someone to waste energies with unnecessary gestures. Only the Paraguayan polkas could get people excited and dancing, forgetting the heat, mosquitoes, forgetting everything. Wow! Such lively music my God! At the steakhouse on the street Antonio João, the boys arrived smelling of cigarettes and beer and the girls waited to be invited to dance, pretending they did not care but with a heart full of expectation ... In the parties of Corumbaense there was another kind of music, American, or the Jovem Guarda, and the “society” girls forgot the tradition of their families to make out with boys who also wanted to forget everything.
And the marsh behind the club, silent, impenetrable, knowing that the stories, the people, everything would pass and only the marsh would stay there forever, in its grandeur, with its mysteries and secrets. The marsh and the white town, partners in time, wise, letting the world around them consume itself in its violence, in its folly, while they remained there, silent witnesses to all the madness. Oh, I know nothing about that wetland. But that wetland knows everything about me.
[Story published in Portuguese in the magazine Musa Calíope, page 20 - http://www.icsdobrasil.org.br/musacaliope/ed2-nov2010/
O TESTEMUNHO DAS ÁGUAS
Num sei nada desse tal de pantanal, muito menos daquela cidade branca e preguiçosa que cismou de aparecer às margens dele. Saí de lá correndo quando tinha 12 anos. Se tivesse asas teria voado, tal a minha pressa de escapar daquele calorão, daqueles mosquitos carnudos e atrevidos, daquelas freiras que tentavam cozinhar a gente naqueles uniformes compridos enquanto o termômetro marcava 40 graus à sombra. Fui-me embora. Fugi em busca de aventuras e fiz questão de esquecer tudo daquelas bandas. Lembra de Regina Maria, filha de Malu e Freitas? Não, não lembro. Mas ela ara amiga da gente do Genic, como pode ter esquecido? Pois esqueci. Deixei o passado pra trás, apagando tudo da minha memória como uma renegada que cometeu um crime e tem vergonha do que fez.
Fui para a cidade grande, tentando fazer de conta que nunca tinha sido matuta um dia, que já tinha nascido “cosmopolita”, podre de chique. Do Rio de Janeiro me despenquei para São Paulo, de lá fui para Nova York, atravessei um oceano para chegar à França, e retornei aos EUA, para morar em Newtown. Viajei pelo mundo a passeio e a trabalho. Quanto mais viajava, mais acreditava que todo aquele pantanal verde e lamacento e aquela cidade branca e dorminhoca pertenciam ao passado de alguma outra pessoa. Meu não, que eu não queria nada com aquilo.
Quando já tinha ido até o cafundó do Judas e voltado, me dei conta de que finalmente não sabia mais nada daquele mundaréu de água, daquela cidade parada no tempo. Nome de peixe, de árvore, das frutas, do povo, as músicas, os costumes, tudo havia desaparecido como um rio que transborda e vai varrendo o que encontra pelo caminho. Daquele pantanal e das vizinhanças dele, eu não sabia mais nada não senhor.
E então, no meio da noite, ele começou a voltar. Tal como alma de outro mundo, esgueirava-se devagarinho no meio dos meus sonhos, mostrando um rosto aqui outro acolá: mulheres andando pela rua com guarda-chuvas abertos para se protegerem do sol; o bananeiro sentado na esquina da D.Aquino e Antonio Maria com a camisa desabotoada, sem sapatos, mais à vontade do que na própria casa; os turquinhos pendurando roupas para vender do lado de fora das lojas, tanta roupa, meu Deus, que nem dava vontade de entrar nas lojas; menininhos nus pulando no rio para nadar sem medo de piranhas enquanto a gente aqui tem medo até dos vizinhos; os picolés de bocaiúva, coco queimado, milho verde, que delícia! Tudo isso foi voltando, assim, de mansinho.
Pior mesmo foi que comecei a pensar naquela imensidão de água e naquela cidade mormacenta. Eles, que por tanto tempo tinham ficado envoltos em névoa, foram se aclarando até ficarem mais reluzentes do que as estrelas no meio do pantanal. Chegaram assim, sem cerimônias, sem pedir permissão para entrar, e tal qual um professor irritado com um aluno que insiste em escrever besteira, apagaram minha pretensa sofisticação para me mostrar quem eu era de verdade: caipira, de pés descalços.
Quando a noite caía naquela cidade indolente, havia um tempo em que eu gostava de ficar sentada na porta da minha casa, com meus pais e minhas irmãs, ouvindo as histórias que o avô da minha melhor amiga, que morava na casa vizinha, contava. A gente punha as cadeiras lá fora, de repente até acendia uma fogueirinha, e ficava de conversa fiada. Sem mais nem menos, o avô vinha com uma história de Saci-Pererê, de assombração, de mundos que não existiam mas que pareciam mais vívidos do que nunca. E as crianças prendiam a respiração e faziam de conta que não tinham medo, com um frio na barriga... Depois, quando íamos dormir escondendo a cabeça embaixo do lençol, pra escapar dos mosquitos, as histórias todas voltavam. E se Saci-Pererê aparecesse? E a tal da mula sem cabeça? Que pavor, meu Deus do céu...
Durante o dia, havia as histórias no radinho de pilha da empregada, que passava roupa nos fundos da casa. Meu pai tirava uma soneca e minha mãe costurava. Nós crianças nos aboletávamos em cima da mesa onde a empregada passava pra ficar mais perto do rádio. Seu Manoel matou Dona Maria com um tiro direto na testa. Chegou em casa, viu um homem saindo e não pensou duas vezes. Já foi atirando. Isto está certo meus caros ouvintes? Telefonem e deem sua opinião. Estamos aqui para ouvi-los. Seu Garcia deu três facadas no melhor amigo. Estavam num bar, beberam, discutiram por causa de dinheiro e acabou no que acabou. Está certo meus caros ouvintes? Um ladrão pulou no quintal da casa de Dona Vitória e levou todas as roupas penduradas no varal pra secar. Um jovem delinqüente foi visto entrando no cemitério em pleno dia e roubando flores dos túmulos. Maria das Dores, de 15 anos, acabou com a vida tomando veneno de rato depois que descobriu que estava grávida do pai e a mãe ameaçou atirá-la na rua... E nós chupávamos picolés de groselha, fascinadas por aquele mundo cheio de tragédias que parecia tão longe, mas que adivinhávamos ser parte do nosso pantanal.
Às vezes, minha mãe resolvia contar histórias. Todas elas tinham um fundo moralista, quem sabe a gente aprendia alguma coisa, sempre havia a esperança... Tinha a história do velho menosprezado pela família toda, inclusive as crianças, obrigado a morar num quartinho no fundo da casa. Que culpa e que receio que a gente sentia. E se acabássemos assim? Tinha a história de Isabel, uma menina que desobedecia a mãe abrindo a porta para um estranho, e a cachorrinha que tomava conta dela cantava uma canção tão triste... Tinha a história da menina enterrada no fundo do quintal pela madrasta malvada e que também era acompanhada por uma canção melancólica. Vinha um medo gostoso, uma vontade de não ouvir mais e de não parar de ouvir nunca mais...
O pantanal era cheio de histórias, cheio de passeios pelo rio, de idas à fazenda pegando o trem, depois a Maria Fumaça, depois um barquinho, pra desembarcar na frente da casa branca onde passávamos dias sem fim. De manhã bem cedo, íamos ao curral tomar leite com açúcar e conhaque. Durante o dia, íamos pescar, andar a cavalo, subir em árvores pra pegar goiaba ou ouvir meu primo descrever os macacos tão grandes que podiam até derrubar uma pessoa, eu juro por tudo que é sagrado, ele dizia. De noite, sentados em redes na varanda, acompanhávamos os barcos deslizando lentamente pelo rio e ouvíamos o barulho das águas batendo nas margens. Olhávamos o pantanal com respeito, sem saber o que ele escondia.
A vida perto daquele pantanal acontecia em câmara-lenta, que ninguém tinha pressa não e o calor era demais para alguém se abalar com gestos desnecessários. Só mesmo as polcas paraguaias faziam as pessoas se animarem e sair por aí dançando, esquecendo do calor, dos mosquitos, esquecendo de tudo. Êta música animada meu Deus! Na churrascaria da Antonio João, os rapazes chegavam cheirando a cigarro e cerveja e as mocinhas esperavam serem tiradas pra dançar, fazendo de conta que não estavam nem aí ó, mas com o coração apertado de tanta expectativa... Nas festas do Corumbaense era outro tipo de música, americana, ou da Jovem Guarda, e as mocinhas de família esqueciam que tinham família para sair aos amassos com os rapazes que também queriam esquecer de tudo.
E o pantanal atrás do clube, calado, impenetrável, sabendo que as histórias, as pessoas, as festas, tudo isso ia passar e só ele ia ficar lá para sempre, na sua imponência, com seus mistérios e segredos. O pantanal e a cidade branca, cúmplices no tempo, sábios, deixando o mundo em volta deles se consumir na sua violência, na sua loucura, enquanto eles continuavam lá, testemunhas silenciosas de todo o desvario. Ah, num sei nada desse tal de pantanal. Mas esse pantanal, esse sabe tudo de mim.
[Crônica publicada na revista eletrônica Musa Calíope página
20 - http://www.icsdobrasil.org.br/musacaliope/ed2-nov2010/ ]Photos: Bernadete Piassa
Adoro esse texto! É lindo!
ReplyDeleteEssa crônica é mesmo linda. Adorei o bis.
ReplyDeleteOi, gostei do texto e muito, tbm sou corumbaense, abraços do Augusto César Proença
ReplyDeleteOi, Dete
ReplyDeleteGostei mto desse texto qdo o li, mas, qdo o reli, gostei ainda mais e a emoção foi mto maior. Acho que, como mtos corumbaenses, eu me vi em vários momentos sobre os quais vc escreve. Tenho bem mais idade q vc, mas tb me deliciei e me apavorei na minha infância com as histórias do seu Chico Farias e até hj me maravilho com os mistérios do Pantanal. Saudades... Bj.
O texto é tocante, nao é atôa que correu o mundo pela internet. E, claro, deu mais vontade de ler um livro em português sobre esse pantanal misterioso. Estou esperando...
ReplyDeletesou Corumbaense, fico orgulhosa de ler uma crônica tão bem feita, maravilhosa retratando essa linda cidade q tanto amamos.
ReplyDelete