And when faced with our end, we only have a handful of intent to discuss endlessly with other tavern fellow?
The addiction can function as food for the soul. The tool of dreamers to withstand the reality that crosses in the way. May have a dual role, on one hand acts as a stimulus that puts us at the intersection between the real and the fictional, on the other hand may guide us in this choice and make us prisoners of our illusions. Find the exit door and deal with the imperfection of life presents itself as one of the real challenges of the human being.
The church clock had already struck nine in the morning. Despite some rays of sunshine peeking through, the day showed a graying tint, referring us to the inside of a melancholic and heartbreaking dome, empty of movement. Everything looked fake at that hour. Even the birdsongs were strange, certainly sung by obligation or even done in playback. Nothing seemed right. In that simple village something was happening, or simply, nothing new happened. The morning dew drowned the breathing of the plants that sighed by the absence of heat. The house doors were scrupulously closed, forcing us to construct the key and, through our imagination, penetrate into their interior. The grim obligation to do what’s right, what parents passed on as God’s will, led some, few, inhabitants of this quiet village to rise to meet the wishes of this superior Being. They were well in their quarters but…
Saturday. Dawn offered us a funeral. The sad look displayed on the faces of the few that were present was mere falsehood.
– Poor man, the wine stole his life… – Someone said at the back.
– Wine… He drank stronger things, if it had only been wine he’d still be alive! – replied Mr. Intelligence who was also there.
– Since his wife left him it was a debacle! Thankfully they had no kids or today they would be wretched!
The interest of the conversation boiled down to this false lament of the few who, almost by obligation, were at Manel Careca’s funeral. Men with their cigarettes were chatting outside the mortuary. Recounted moments experienced in youth snickering of adventures remembered.
– Do you remember Tono the blue famel i had? Now that used to fly.
– How about that chick that came here during vacation to spend a few days with her Aunt? The one who was Dr. Miro’s niece… Jesus, now she was hot! She had these tits… – Joint laughter – No one has heard of her in a long time!
Thus they killed time outside the chapel. On the inside, from time to time, another lament would be heard about poor Manel’s death.
– Why is the coffin closed? – Asked Gina Carucha.
– It seems the doctor said that it was best because he was already all rotten inside!
– Who told you Aunt Rosa?
– It was that woman who lives near the factory… That one… Now no idea of her name comes to mind.
– He was a young man… He had no luck in life! – Someone lamented.
– Luck? He was always a fool who always did nonsense… Always clinging to his guitar saying he wanted to be a singer! Never wanted anything to do with work, he used to work in the factory then he quit!
He was always vagrant!
I even think that by living this mundane life that he has his soul at risk in the presence of God. – Concluded Aunt Rosa.
– Didn’t he have a sister abroad? – Someone asked.
– Yes, in England, close to my sister Laurinda. She could have taken him there to cure himself…
– There’s wine there too! – They all snickered
– But at least he would be close to her so she could help him and he wouldn’t be here bothering others. We should take care of our own! That’s why we are here.
– I hadn’t seen him in awhile…
– I saw him just last week drunk as a car!
The conversations were being summarized to these nostalgic memories of a personality undoubtedly, very well liked in his community.
Between a look at a clock and the blowing of a nose, the time was running in a slow fast like pace that was required by those present. Every time someone new walked into the mortuary, they would, meticulously, place the funeral masks full of false sentiments of pain and respect. We were certainly in the presence of the most valuable piece calligraphed in partnership by Aeschylus and Sophocles that, oining their more exquisite wisdom, wrote this tragic-comic fragment. However gentleman, it was not being shown in festivals in honor of Dionysus, but to be lived in a final memory of the elementary Manel Careca that, as this God, had chosen wine and festivals as food for his soul in life. In the fullness of his faculties those present judged the deceased in his presence. This one, closed within that wooden box, had no right to defense, because apart from being closed in a box he was also dead. Who said? They did.
This lovely court of Osiris didn’t need the presence of the forty-two Gods, much less Osiris himself. Enough were there to judge. Even before the heart of the deceased was weighed, behold the priest arrived in the company of the undeetaker.
Everyone stood up as the prior passed to the alter. The faces filled with cynical sadness watched and were observed.
The speaker began the ceremony.
– In the name of the Father, of the Son and the Holy Spirit.
– Brothers, we are gathered here to celebrate the funeral of this our brother who, by God’s will, left for the Kingdom of Heaven. God knows what He does!
Since he was run over, he has not come back from his slumber. He fought more then two months against death, despite being in a coma, but God’s will was to call him to his side, liberating his soul from the suffering of his body.
Let us pray…
Photography: Sérgio Moreira
Text: Adão Baptista