Tour for a Fado

 

Time had stopped. There was no counter, no stopwatch regulating the seconds, in the trajectory of the human prison. The process was not sudden, so much so that I could feel the ballast of the ages in a peculiar immobility, like in large ships that face all types of water, with an emphasis on turbulent waters. The carousel of emotions stopped along with the calendars in that stillness of infinity. I felt the internal clock in my chest rise to my glottis, the veins releasing emotions of calm and solemnity. Loneliness and longing, both companions of experiences, remained faithful to me.

If I sought you for an indefinite period of time, there, with me, you only lived in the memory of the written door in the past and I, obedient and willful, wanted to continue living, without pushing, without rushing, without looking back or longing for a future that would manifest itself at the right time. There I was. Only. The curtains swaying, making me realize that birds inhabit cities and perch on branches just to rest. And the flight of freedom was assumed, without being hindered by intentions or conjectures. I smoothed the feathers, the last ones. I said goodbye to Kleenex tissues.

I looked at them all, one by one, all fragments and parts of me, already incorporated into the cells. Yes, I already carried them far beyond the frames, the schematically cut glass, their geometric shapes, they were life within the life I had in my body. There was no longer any need, as before, to look for them on the walls, to summon them into space. They were me and I them. More than fifty human forms filled my entire DNA, those veins where the akastic records formed the compendium of understanding beyond anthroposophy, theosophy, and the very philosophy of human thought. There were complementary forms of emotions, feelings and sensations that were associated with other realms than just the human one. And I was complete in all of them.

I looked at the agenda in front of me. Without regulated times, but events existed and followed one another in the time called now. Plan B. Or fado. I chose fado and registered. There was nothing like the freedom to explore old sounds and spaces with an entirely new perspective. I would opt for a light meal. A fresh dessert. It would end with the caffeine and sweet vintage Port wine that I missed more than anything else.

I went out onto the street, Rui Veloso with me, at the wheel, I turned up the volume and headed, first to the ticket office and then to the Palácio de Cristal, to burn off the intermittency between one event and another. I invented for myself a space where the chrysalis was preparing to leave the cocoon. I parked. I ran my eyes over Carlos Alberto square. Everything that was old and new mixed together and I, old and new, became aware of it, absorbing the smells of the streets, of the bookstores and second-hand bookstores, of the coffee shops and the intensity of the people and colors that roamed, inhabiting the city. I was an integral and living part of that game where the pieces fit together. Whole. Pulsating. After a freshly squeezed orange juice, behind my sunglasses and the latest Blitz magazine, I looked at the display on my cell phone. It was time to transfer places. The car in the parking lot. I got into the Uber and asked him to take me to the fado. The gentleman, young and helpful, trying to be funny, told me that the whole city was fado. I agreed and amended it: the whole country is fado. And he, in a Spanish accent, still joking, asked me if I didn't prefer another type of music, more cheerful, like flamenco, samba or kizomba. To cut the conversation short, I told him yes, that I preferred everything in the world of music, that it was eclectic, but I needed to go back to fado. The chaotic traffic reflected what I remembered of the city, horns and lights, the intermittency of moving shapes, clothes billowing with people inside. The haste and the slowness waltzing in a set that filled my measures. We crossed the city to Gaia via the bridge and my eyes were fixed on the dark waters, silvered by the shadows of the lights of the buildings in Ribeira. And whoever goes to Gaia either runs away or remains caged. I thought about Aunt Carmen. The thought danced between synapses. I would listen to fado with her by my side. On separate planes, however, of united affections.

The meal was not as light as I believed, the dessert I kept caloric and fresh. Cutlery could be heard and conversations were muted. Background music drowning out the content, the smiles and laughter, the friends who arrived late, the weekend faces, which is that time of high expectations that did not vary between rest and the continuation of it. It was pure distraction and chatter. As the glasses and silverware dwindled, the lights dimmed. Until the apotheotic blackout, without a background soundtrack. The deep voice of a gentleman in his fifties intoning in the room, the voice of a radio announcer that reminded me of Antônio Sérgio in his Hora do Lobo. And then fado filled the room, conversations were completely silenced when the guitars took over the room. I sipped the rest of my coffee and prepared to enjoy a glass of Calem Port Wine. I smelled the Estivalia perfume, right next to me. Carmencita was there, with me, just the way I had wanted. I let myself be carried away by fado. And fado cannot be explained, it must be felt. I felt whole and free. I had missed my city so much. That night I began to kill all the memories that were stored away. Stripping myself of emotions trapped by centuries of isolation. My senses were gathered in unison. I was the city, the fado, the music and the now. My love, you went with me, even though you weren't by my side. Because you're in. Occupying the space of all the departed ghosts, more alive than port wine, than fado, than people, than the breathing of the river in the city. Tears rolled down my face, in the mix of darkness and other people's profiles. The integration of the arts into the human condition does not change our personality, it grows in the original sense previously defined. The aunt was there, although ethereal, and you remained inside. Like the sea that floods me all the time. Tomorrow will be a day of shopping malls and worldly tasks. Today is this now, where I kiss you on the edge of a fado, from where I chased away the dark mountain of glacial isolation.

Where: Valente Perfeito Street, 275, Gaia.

Next to Morro's Garden