Twelve: Manaus

 Translation by Christopher Schindler

Twelve: Manaus

 

     Juca das Neves was not in.  An old caboclo woman said to him:

     “He's at the Mercantile.”

     “Where's that?” Ribamar asked.

     The woman was startled.  How could there be anyone who didn't know where the Novelty Mercantile was, the famous store of Manaus?  But she replied:

     “There on the corner, on the Eduardo Ribeiro.”

 

     Ribamar descended the Rua Barroso.  He took the 24 de Maio through the shade of the mango trees that had been there for many years.  They were huge mango trees that provided a broad shade of clear green and which would be cut down fifty years later.

 

     Without father or mother, no relatives that he knew of - not even any friend nor anyone in this world - Ribamar went down the Rua 24 de Maio.  But instead of feeling alone, he felt light and open to the many possibilities of the city.  Everything inside of him said that he had set foot on that ground to emerge winner.

     One day, Maria Caxinauá said to him:

     “You should go to Manaus now ...”

     He did not say anything, but he knew she was right.  There was nothing more at Manixi and the Palácio where he was living was in ruins.  Maria Caxinauá recommended that he look up Ivete and Juca das Neves.  Within a week Ribamar left.

 

     But he was surprised by the nice street, as Manaus was lovely.  Quiet, deep in the stagnation of the economic crisis, forgotten, abandoned, but solemn.  The big and beautiful mansions, the air of art nouveau supremacy - Manaus was a kind of ghost town, a neglected mini-metropolis, beaten by the clarity of a splendidly brilliant sun  Its shine trickled along the calcite pebbles of the sidewalks.

     Ribamar proceeded slowly, he passed by the chapel of Saint Rita - a place so very sacred, which no longer exists.  The street was deserted.  All the houses had the windows and door shut.  But it was a lovely place, clean.  It recalled Paris.

     He felt happy as is it was the beginning of his conquest.  Manaus in decay seemed to him something he could reanimate and that he would love.

     The last of the employees of the Novelty Mercantile left the city to try his luck in São Paulo, so the job was his.  The Mercantile, however, was nearly going out of business.  Ribamar would receive little, would work as a porter, sales clerk, secretary in exchange for room and board.

     That same night after dinner, the boss chatted with him.  Ribamar told him his life's story, how he did not know his father, how his brother and uncle Genaro has died in the attack of the Numa.  And told him more.  Talked about Rio Jantiatuba, the Pixuna plantation, the Alfredo.  Of the Rio Eriu, the Rio Gregorio, of Mu, of the Arrependida Slough, the Leonel Rivulet, the Tejo, the Breu, the Corumbam Bayou, the magnificent, the Hudson, the Pixuna Slough, the Moa, the Numa Slough, the little Juruá, the Ouro Preto Slough, the Paraná das Minas, the Amônea.  He lingered over talking about the Numa Slough, Hell's Bayou, the Pixuna and the tapper agents of the Ramos.

     Juca das Neves rambled on about his illnesses and his misfortune.   

Eleven: Ribamar

 

Eleven: Ribamar

 Translation by Christopher Schindler

     She – and I remember as if it were yesterday – did not like to have her nails done in the morning.  She preferred to have them painted in the afternoon, because in the morning, besides the flock of children, there was always a lot to do in that house.

     The manicurist, however, came early as she was all booked up in the afternoon (after all, it was not her day).  Sebastiana – Sabá Vintém, the manicurist was a black woman from Barbados, rather well-known in Manaus; she served all the society ladies with her impeccable work – she painted little flowers on the nails of the ladies and little hearts for the girls.  Thanks to her contacts, Sabá herself was a force to be reckoned with.  She knew all the scandals of the city, the intimate lives of all the families and because of this Sabá Vintém was the municipal megaphone: lovers, abortions, hidden pregnancies - she had a special knack for finding out everything, then discretely she added up fragments of overheard conversations in various houses, sewed and fit them together, like an attentive police detective.  She became valuable to the ladies of the house who let her talk at the price of a good tip; passing herself off as a silly woman, she made herself a confidante of all of them without irritating anyone.  She made whomever her present client was think that she was preferred and it was just to her that she confided what she knew.

     “For the love of God, Dona Diana,  I'm only talking because it's to you ...”

     So,  Sabá had no free time during the week.  She became prosperous with age.  She had lunch and dinner in the houses of ladies while amassing money for decades.

 

     Yes - she did not like to have her nails done in the morning.  Dona Maria de Abreu e Souza, young and pretty still, as I knew her, beautiful, elegant, lived on the Rua Barroso in a house whose backyard looked out on the Aterro Bayou.  That evening, Dona Maria was going to a birthday party and sent a black boy to summon Sabá to repair her nail polish and had already made an appointment at Mezzodi, the fashionable hair salon at the time.

     That was when there was a knock at the door.

 

     In those days the Amazon had changed.  The recession was great, but in Rio Branco there were 250,000 head of cattle, between thickets of fanwort, waterlilies and grasses - wealth luxuriating among marshes and swamps.

     No servant was near.  It was Dona Mariazinha herself who, solemnly rising from her chair, went to see who was at the door.

     “Good day, madame,” said a badly dressed caboclo, linen trousers, stiffly starched rough cotton shirt, straw hat on his head with his hand wrapped around a wooden travel bag.  The man took off his hat to speak to her.

     “Do you know where Seu Juca das Neves lives?”

     When Dona Maria saw him she stiffened but became courteous in her reply as that was how she treated those who were beneath her station.

     “Next door,” she said and returned sitting in front of the black woman, Sebastiana Vintém.

     She was the most refined, elegant and beautiful lady of the day, yes, it is as I, the narrator, am telling you.

     And that man was Ribamar (d'Aguirre) de Souza. 

FELIZ DE QUEM COM CÂNTICOS SE ESCONDE

ROGEL SAMUEL

Eu já escrevi várias vezes sobre o mesmo tema. Nos dias escuros, chuvosos, de hoje, me pego a pensar na Primavera, que virá. Ainda sou marxista, e assim, otimista. O sol ainda vai luzir no horizonte. Talvez um sol que não se apague, como disse Dugpa Rinpochê. Talvez não para mim, que velho estou para esperá-lo. Mas haverá sempre o sol sobre a chuva desses campos de um soneto de Jorge de Lima, que releio sempre, que não me canso de ler, quando deprimido, triste:

“Qualquer que seja a chuva desses campos

devemos esperar pelos estios;

e ao chegar os serões e os fiéis enganos

amar os sonhos que restarem frios”.

(Jorge de Lima, Invenção de Orfeu - Canto I – XXVI)

Já pensei assim. Se tudo estiver bem, lembre-se de que tempos piores podem advir: “Qualquer que seja a chuva desses campos / devemos esperar pelos estios”. E quando a época ruim chegar, contentar-nos com os nossos sonhos.

O poeta, pessimista, espera danos futuros. Em não conseguir o sonhado amor, que é imortal:

“Porém se não surgir o que sonhamos / e os ninhos imortais forem vazios, / há de haver pelo menos por ali / os pássaros que nós idealizamos”. “Feliz de quem com cânticos se esconde”.

Por que estar triste hoje? Porque «Somos membros uns dos outros», disse São Paulo aos cristãos de Efeso, citado por Laín Entralgo, num artigo. Entralgo era pensador da direita espanhola, discípulo de Ortega, e sempre exerceu sobre mim sobrenatural fascínio. Define Entralgo a capacidade do homem de considerar-se pessoa por dois conceitos: o próprio, e o alheio. Na esfera do próprio, estabelece duas diferentes esferas: o 'meu' (que define a própria estrutura do eu), e o 'em mim' (que posteriormente ele estuda, na patologia).

Como a pessoa é capaz de relacionar-se com outra? Como considerar o outro como outro eu? Como analisar o encontro, como estabelecer relações de amizade? Para Entralgo, a realidade consiste em ser 'de si' e em 'dar de si''. A realidade se faz presente e cognoscível na impressão de realidade que a coisa oferece ao sujeito que a percebe.

O principal livro de Entralgo, raríssimo entre nós, se chama 'Teoria e realidade do outro', que só consegui ler na Biblioteca Nacional, mas que hoje tenho. Nesse livro, ele percorre a filosofia ocidental em busca da teoria da consciência do outro, do outro como outro eu, onde a consciência de si é a consciência do outro. Como em Hegel, quando o eu suprassumia a si no outro a que se opunha numa negação: eu não sou o outro.

        Alguns poetas tiveram, ou revelam, dificuldade de relacionar-se com o outro. “O inferno são os outros”, já se disse. O poeta é um sofredor inútil. Entre 'os serões e os fiéis enganos' há uma ponte para a solidão sempre presente, sempre fiel, porque esse tipo de poesia tem uma vocação de 'amar o perdido', de buscar o passado, de 'Amar os sonhos que restarem frios'. Marca o reconhecimento de si no outro inexistente, distante e impossível.

As asas depenadas não voam, o coração já não se usa (Cocteau), não ama, as cenas ao redor são terríveis, as dores não mais se expressam, estão secretas, os ninhos vazios, os enganos fiéis, mas a poesia de “Invenção de Orfeu” mantém a sua beleza imortal.

Nenhuma noite é tão longa

 

Nenhuma noite é tão longa

Nenhuma noite é tão longa

Rogel Samuel



Escreveu Dugpa Rimpochê: "Mantém o teu espírito permanentemente na alegria do instante e o medo será destruído. Nenhuma noite é tão longa e escura que impeça a alvorada".

Nenhuma noite é tão longa que impeça a alvorada de surgir. Nenhuma noite é tão escura que não deixe de nascer o sol. A obscuridade da noite, por mais sinistra que seja, também passa.

Por que manter-se o espírito no instante?

- Porque o instante passa.

Nenhuma noite é tão longa: o dia nascerá. As épocas mais obscuras da História foram longas noites tenebrosas, obscuras, mas passaram.

O mundo do espírito, o mundo da mente, é o momento presente, onde tudo o ocorre.

Só o presente é eterno.