Chronicle of the eve of Saint John in Puerto

 

When I got up, my head was buzzing with noises from my dreams, but Che was in charge, he was my commander and he was amazed. He threw the owl out of the window and it crashed, without breaking, next to the bedside table. Although I was still tired, I have no idea why (when we sleep, some of us work overtime on other plans, and I'm almost certain that was it), Che wasn't going to put up with my irritation. He was used to seeing me up between seven-thirty and eight in the morning and it was already past nine. I opened the window and put on my flip-flops to go do my usual pee and there he was, rubbing himself between my legs, reminding me of his cereal that was in the closed bag in the cupboard. I petted him and pushed him out of the bathroom. After changing his water and filling his food bowl, I went to take care of myself. I remembered the peach that Belmiro had given me, brought from Lamego, along with the Resende cherries that I had bought near Doce Alto, in Costa Cabral, when I went to my mother's. Not cherries, but big yellow cherries. I went to the insulated bag and took out two little bags, the one with the peach and another one with corn crackers. I took out three. The math that God did. I opened another bottle of water and sat down. The peach had a lot of juice and its skin was velvety. I took a while to eat. The cell phone rang.

On the other end of the line, the real estate agent asked if he had woken me up. He apologized, but he wanted to reschedule a visit and I thanked him. The interest was mainly mine, even if he gained something from the question and added: does Apa tell you anything?

-Excuse me?

-Do you know where Apa is?

-I have no idea, but if you give me a few minutes, I'll call you. I'll Google it.

-No need, actually, in an hour I can meet you there, or somewhere else, but I'm close by. If you're still in Bonfim, it will only take fifteen minutes to get here, on the corner of Santa Catarina. The property is available to view, but I want to show you another one in Cordoaria. So, if you don't have anything scheduled, I'd invite you to lunch and we'd go see the three properties in one go.

I wrinkled my nose and wanted to tell her no. Rescheduling, from my perspective, meant rescheduling for a time that was convenient for both of us, but my damn need dictated that I agree.

-Of course. Please give me half an hour. I'm going to take a shower and have a quick coffee and I'll be there in a little while.

-I'll do even better. I'll give you half an hour and then I'll pick you up in Bonfim. What do you think?

-It doesn't seem right, I'm sorry, but I need to pick up a bag of dirty clothes and take them with me, and leave some water and food for the cat, if I'm going to be away from here for a long time. Sorry, you don't need to bother.

I wanted to go see my mother. After the vein was cauterized, she felt more tired and had more difficulty breathing. With a patch over her nose, breathing had become much more difficult. He didn't notice my concern or irritation in my voice, or he pretended not to and insisted:

-Believe me, it's not a bother at all. I'd rather go pick you up than wait here in this heat.

When I hung up the phone, he was growling, like he used to do with Kirie, joking around, but he had no desire to joke around and the day had definitely started badly. I was hoping it would get better as it went on. Time was running out. Stress. The pleasure of coffee was interrupted by my need to find a place to sleep quickly. Priorities, priorities.

The day got better. Everything has its flaws, and if nothing is perfect and doesn't have to be, why punish myself with a setback outside my schedule, a piece of crap that, in two or three hours, would be, if not resolved, at least closed?

There went the pleasure, cut short, of the shower, which I had run, the pleasure of the coffee, which I had run, helped by the receptionist, there was the damn bag of dirty clothes on the chair in the hotel room, waiting for some leisurely time, to be washed in the damn laundry.

I found myself counting the number of properties I had seen online in the last six months, before leaving the house that had been both a shelter and a cage. Thousands, surely. Personally, more than fifteen, so far. The real estate bubble was a frequent and commonplace topic in general and in this brutal city in particular. Not only was there no product, but what there was was hyperinflated. Renting was impossible. Behind this, there must have been many interests and profiteering on the part of the owners and, along with that, immense demands.

In short, the day got better. Thanks to the music and a second-hand bookshop that I didn't even know existed, opposite the APA. I don't find fault with properties. Given my priorities, they were in the wrong place in Campo de Ourique. I had to explain a million times that I didn't prioritize luxury, finishings, or the property's positioning towards the sun. My priorities were to have a two-bedroom apartment (and it could have been a one-bedroom apartment), to be equipped and furnished, and not to have an exorbitant rent that would hit the ceiling of my insignificance. The location was important, combined with safety, because if I had to choose what I really wanted, I would have to say, roughly speaking, close to the sea or the river, with all the luxuries I deserve, a jacuzzi, Turkish baths, a masseuse included, meals in a big lounge where the damned grey routine of oppression would never set in, where I could gather my dogs and cats again and tell them I love them, where there were trees and birds, my God, I have seen so many birds, pigeons, turtledoves, seagulls, swallows, yes swallows, in droves, so in Costa Cabral, in those trees opposite, there are groups of feathers and beaks. No eagles, no hawks, much less owls and barn owls. That will be for another season or life, perhaps. I wasn't looking for anything special. But it had to be a house, an apartment that would make me want to come back, go in, sit down, dream again. This is my biggest priority, finding the right place to call home and that will give me, every day, the desire to work towards building a better world. I won't talk about the properties or the real estate agents. I believe that whoever is going to do it has already been chosen and is taking care of the associated procedures. As for my mother, it doesn't matter where she stays, whether she can see the sea or the river, she just wants to be in peace and quiet and she didn't find that in Costa Cabral and that's out of the question. I went to see her and help in any way I could, I can always do something more, I can always wash more dishes, hang more clothes, throw away, organize, say enough, enough! And I did the same with my brother, who is sicker than my mother and who, seeing him, watching his psychological and emotional deterioration, makes her sicker and sicker. All of this weighs on me, but not enough to make me smile and, even less, to make me give up on my noblest goals.

Let it be understood that seeing birds and cats and dogs and healthy people is and will always be part of my journey. I didn't have lunch with you. I was pleased that something unexpected happened to you. On Thursday, I'll see more. So, after choosing a dish at Eat Real in Santa Catarina that the morphs at Cordoaria didn't convince me of, after drinking a happiness juice, while listening to music on my phone and watching tourism become part of normality without pauses or interjections, I headed back to the Apa, where in the window I saw Fernão Lopes, the Kingdom's chief chronicler, one of my favorites, from sixty-seven, in its eleventh edition, for six euros. The optimist in me smiled as I looked at all those books on the floor, on the shelves, ready and shouting, yelling at me: take me, look at me here, I'm sixty and you weren't here yet. I thought I heard them all, but, frankly, in a good second-hand bookshop, we are all turnips, we cannot imagine the quantity and quality that hides behind dull covers, yellow with age. Of course I went in, of course I looked and dabbled in titles and authors, leafing through them carefully, so many unknowns, so many strangers and I was so small, so tiny, so insipient, insufficient for so much juice.

The best news (for me) was finding a very first edition of Creation of the World by Miguel Torga, also from 1967. I had to bring it. The diaries were left there and I still have it, somewhere in a box, on a street with a pilgrim bird, one by Ferreira de Castro, to be returned to its owner. To Caesar what is Caesar's. To me, Creation of the World by Miguel Torga, in this first edition, to me who deserves it. After making a lot of fuss, having two coffees, after having answered emails and having been busy with paperwork, after having been preparing a closed-door meeting, after having spoken to my mother, after having spoken to whoever I wanted and having looked where I shouldn't have, I still had the cherry on top of the cake. I saw you.

And after seeing you, seeing you cancels out any bad mood, you are better than coffee or weed, or soft eggs, after seeing you, I brought you with me, I put your photo here next to it and I started dating, in front of you with Fernão Lopes and Miguel Torga, each one in his turn and you watching me. You were punished by looking at me and I was reading these men, alternating. Do you know what I wanted? I can't tell you, but I'll leave you with this pearl taken from the back cover of the Fifth Day, from the Creation of the World by Lord Torga, this phrase, well given from Genesis:

The Lord God took the man and put him in the paradise of delights

And now, take a good look at how, after a day that started badly, a simple spoonful of joy, which is seeing you (you are better than any syrup), without wanting to (without believing), when they took me from the street of the pilgrim bird, brought me to the paradise of delights, where every now and then, when things are going well for me, I not only see you, but I feel you, without touching you or speaking to you. God wanted the subtle irony between us and I recover from any bad mood. And now, I'm going to stop plowing my field and deal with serious matters, like the strawberry and the seed of the future. Keep me with you.

The new moon in Cancer is prodigal in germinating fertility that, even with bad and mild days, that everything is part of the recipe, of the content, it is not just a package, will give a rich harvest of fruits, not of sixty-seven, but of the year 2025 which is a nine, equal to the sum of your year with my year, divided by two and reduced to the single element. And before the final touch, I leave you with a brochure by Fernão Lopes, worthy of mention, all of it, but there are not enough pages on the blog and not even one iron woman (Margaret Thatcher does not count and neither does Merkel). Here it is, oh cherry.

"As the morning star was bright in his generation, being of honest life and honorable deeds, in which it seemed that the wise customs of the ancient and great barons shone. His manners and defense in war showed such authority that he was bold, walking in his company, to hinder his enemies more than he was ordered to do; so that each one was willing to comply with all his precepts, nor did he have any reason to break them that he could; in which, however, there always lived the discreet meekness, which is the mother of good customs.

Bringing women or playing dice to him was permitted; and much work was done, when such madness occurred among some people, so that they began to not speak to each other, to agree quickly and make friends; so that his royal estate did not seem like a host of warriors. but an honest religion of defenders.

In all things he proceeded very wisely, with equal punishment and reward, against all those whom his virtuous will could reach with execution; and when he became angry with some people, he was punished with a gentle blow; so that his heavy burden was more revered than feared by men. In his new concubine, diverted from human use, he began to establish in himself all the good conditions that can be found in a praised baron named, as if the treasure of all teaching were hidden in him; so that caring for virtuous things and putting them into practice immediately occupied so much time, much more than his tender age required.

And because such kindnesses were not used among other men, they were held in great esteem in them; so that so many virtues were housed aadur could not even think that someone could be a host to vice; nor could anyone put a spell on him who was not considered malicious; but, although he worked to conceal his much-praised fame, his virtuous deeds were heralds of it."

Excerpt from Fernão Lopes, Chronicle of St. John I, pages 60 and 61, Seara Nova, 1967.