By ALEXANDRE DE OLIVEIRA TORRES CARRASCO*
Tribute to the writer Dalton Trevisan, who recently passed away
“mini funeral prayer for rené descartes.\ Well, I see, well, well. (…) \ He who lived hidden lies under the slab. \ Spare him from the outrage \ from the tumult”
(Paulo Leminski).
“In the heat of three in the afternoon, the city was asleep under the buzzing of flies. The boy in white linen turned the corner – “Behold, I see the burning bush”; the asphalt soft and sticky underfoot. All the streets were deserted, but not this one, crowded with people so much so that it overflowed the sidewalks. “It’s a funeral,” he said to himself, “but there are no dead.”
(Dalton Trevisan, “The dear old lady”. In: Not at all exemplary novels).
Where are the snows of yesteryear? The Vampire wakes up late, melancholic, rheumy eyes, with changed slippers he leaves the coffin of the araucaria of law. He contemplates the world of the little doctor in black, of the bishop, of the general, of the tax collector: the world is a knife in the heart, the more it moves, the more it bleeds.
Vampire Ballad
He goes down Trajano, goes around the Cathedral and arrives at Tiradentes Square. Along the way, the most varied types: sad and happy types, the exotic fauna of Curitiba follows in procession. A sigh, a nervous smile, here is the last passion: where is the girl in red? To hide his fear, he whistles. He discovers that he does not know how to whistle, he no longer has time to learn. He escapes the wild looks that pursue him – the various types – along the narrow sidewalk, on the right side salvation, on the left perdition, and does not immediately notice in those crumpled and torn faces, that bizarre offer of cheap goods exposed on the ground, the same fate and destiny as his, a little pillow of gomex in the hair: heartbreak, a thousand years of passion, incurable love in Ney Traple's flowery tango. Or rather, he vaguely senses this metaphysical affiliation, but he doesn't think about or care about its consequences: the vampire knows how much blood has already flowed, how much more there is to flow. I think He flapped his wings and flew. Are we all lost, ruined, in debt? Even the Araucaria in the middle of the square, but he can't find, who?, the girl in red? He doesn't know what he's looking for, he just can't find it. The flock of dirty pigeons greets him and chases him, the circus lion, with a dirty mane, with a cold, complains, "I can't stand the tamer anymore." He stops, thinks about putting his cigarette in his mouth. Blessed cigarette. I don't smoke, he's surprised. Then, the Vampire thinks in the first person. Was it three or four chimes? It was six. The crowd of the living dead passes by, and I'm trapped in an atrocious silence, in this lost city, that love of the girl in red, drinking heartache in the cold of Curitiba. Has the square gone silent? Where have all the voices gone? He heads towards Rio Branco. Six bells rang out and everyone was silent: you and I are two ruffians by François Villon. Who entered the Cathedral before they closed the door? At the Flower Market the young lady offers me roses, in a bouquet, assorted, red: “Today I am a thorn for you, a thorn does not hurt the flower”. Have you ever kissed? Not every day is a day for kissing, and the young Vampire barely suspects this truth; today he kisses, tomorrow he does not kiss, and on Monday no one knows what will happen.
Calm down, we stopped at the chimes. The bell. The Vampire stops, thinks, listens. Nothing. Once again, silence permeates everything. He remembered another city. With its orthogonal streets. He weighed or imagined weighing the matter of everything – he would find the I think in the flower market and common sense well distributed in a universal blood bank? He counted the steps. He entered the café. He looked for the definitive solution: today for you I am a thorn, a thorn does not hurt the flower. It is in the mirror that I see my hurt, my pain, and my eyes full of tears.
Run away from mirrors and hide your image: get your smile out of the way.
What happened to the vampire, etc, etc, etc.
Fast along the Quinze promenade. A huge sun, an unusual heat. I hide behind huge, very dark sunglasses and continue walking through the city at an inappropriate time. Will I escape the zombie army? What if the circus tamer finds me? Even though it's hot, Curitiba is cold, icy, and you can see this cold substance in the eyes of the young woman, shoes in hand, slippers clicking (high heels only in the office, my dear), in the young mother with her little daughter in her arms, both serious and absorbed in their seriousness. Come on, mom, we can't stand still. The vampire doesn't find the coldness of these colorful looks or the seriousness of the babies strange. On the contrary, he welcomes everyone and feels his heart warmed by the biting cold of these people, while the street burns, making the last good feelings sublimate. There weren't many, after all.
What do we have for today, then? he asks, halfway between distress and anxiety. The sea. My dear, the sea. I am in search of the sea.
In Rio Branco Square, I left my love in the hotel room. Twice, a thousand nights of passion. Was it the first or second floor, the door on the left? I don't remember, but it was cold in Curitiba, the streets were icy, while our eyes were warm and we held each other's warmth with both hands. Have mercy on me, oh Lord. Be careful not to burn yourself, not to break your nails, not to scratch your back, young lady? For you I am a thorn. My time has passed, my pretty one, but my heart remains.
Howls Ohhh door, screams Ohhh Belém river, I know you're dead. The young lady walks by with a loose blouse, doesn't smile. She steps hard. She hurriedly walks. She meets the young man on the corner of Pedro Ivo: doesn't it already ring like a bee? Everyone applauds the young lady in red. The vampire doesn't envy or show his fangs: he smiles at the love of others, but he doesn't remain oblivious to love. Those who love each other without love will not have the kingdom of heaven.
No one sees me. It's not just the glasses. I'm already a shadow, a ghost, a vampire's smoke that leaks out of the exhaust pipe of a crowded bus, at six in the afternoon, in the muffled noise of the crowd. A shy and young vampire, he hides his fangs, limps on both wings and runs away from mirrors, it's in the mirror that I see my sorrows, my pain and my eyes full of tears. If the right gaze discovers me, I freeze, in love. Neither garlic nor stake. And if they discover me here, at this time? All the memories of what I lost before arriving at this noon that kills me with heat and thirst remain. A thousand years of passion; no little friends, no, no sighs or whistles or cigarettes or cognac in the Tic-Tac alleviate a thousand years of passion.
– Where are you, after all? What happened to the crazy vampire from the boardwalk? Where did I go, loved by the taxi girls, a tango dancer with a flourish, hand in my pocket and a low look, a shy person in the background, two sips of brandy, one for me and one for her, a quick walk until I reached the Polar beer hall, which took me without end?
In search of the sea? Pinta, Niña, Santa Maria?
– There is no sea, Alexandre, in your Curitiba.
(At fifty you ask less than Diogenes, you don't even complain about Alexander's shadow on the barrel's threshold.)
“He mingled with the people who, now in front of the doors, now with their heads raised to the windows, adored the golden images in their niches, one would have thought indifferent to the affliction of men, were it not for the gesture of hope with which they all swung their right hands, joining thumb and index finger in a perfect circle, in an invitation to enjoy the innocence lost and recovered, until the boy in white linen left them behind, while two blowflies buzzed around his head and once again repeated: “It’s all over. It was nothing. It’s over. Now I’m fine.” (Dalton Trevisan, “The dear old lady”. In: Not at all exemplary novels).
*Alexandre de Oliveira Torres Carrasco is professor of philosophy at the Federal University of São Paulo (UNIFESP).
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