- Fala, velho!
E o velho abriu a boca. Mas nada do que ele dizia fazia sentido. Apenas um
longo e enfadante monólogo, em que a linha identitária divergia a cada 20
palavras, embebido de uma tradição que tinha ajudado a construir. A sua e de
tantos outros. Mas nada disso agora importava, pois alguém queria ouvi-lo. Não
que o quisesse, mas porque nada mais tinha para fazer. Até que depois de alguns
minutos, as palavras começaram a fazer sentido.
- (...) queriam que tirasse a roupa, e assim fiz. Naquele tempo era mau
desobedecer, os lençóis nunca estavam tão sujos que não se visse mais uma
nódoa. Rapidamente, e sem deixar que percebessem que estava nervoso, tirei as
calças. Não sei porque comecei por aí. Talvez porque já as tinha pingado com
umas gotas de urina que não consegui evitar. Ou talvez achasse que mostrando
segurança nesse gesto fossem mais brandos. Ei... Brandos... Começaram a
bater-me assim que as pousei na cadeira de ferro. No interior das coxas. Percebi
que escolhiam as partes gordas do corpo, doi mais e cansam-se menos. Proteção
para o frio, dizia a minha avó enquanto me servia pão com manteiga e alho. Uma
régua longa como a minha espinha, fina e flexivel. Tivemos uma união forçada
nessa noite. As nódoas negras surgiram depois longas, pelo modo como a régua
dobrava. Mas eu não dobrei, não... Lembro-me ainda da cor castanha, no fim
manchada de escuro, sangue suor e lágrimas naquela madeira em que mal se viam
os veios. Como um pénis ereto, pronto a abusar-me. Perdi a conta ao tempo que
estive dentro daquela sala. Se nos esforçarmos muito, a dor desaparece... Desaparece uma merda! Lembrou-me as réguas da escola, que tantas vezes consegui
evitar, mais por sorte que por inteligência ou bom comportamento, porque me
dava com todos, bons e menos bons. Mas o que é ser-se bom ou mau, quando temos 8 anos?
Tudo deveria ser permitido nessa idade, ainda estamos a descobrir o mundo, os
adultos a brincar às escondidas conosco, a espreitar pela janela, a ler o
diário, a perguntar-nos maliciosamente quando estamos entretidos a brincar com
um carro ou a desenhar. Puta que os pariu. Odiei os meus pais quando descobri
que me mentiram na minha infância, que cada vez que o assunto não lhes era
apreciado o entreolhar não era de resposta conciliante das suas idéias, mas de
engano preparado. Quase sempre a minha mãe, que ele não estava para me aturar
nas merdas que eu pensava. Só queria saber das contas da casa, se havia algum
acontecimento importante ao qual não deveríamos falhar (nunca falhava, gostava
de ser visto nas ocasiões) e se alguém tinha ligado. Estranhava-lhe esta necessidade,
ou talvez seja melhor dizer curiosidade. A única coisa que dizia quando entrava
em casa:
- Alguém ligou?
Nunca soube que ele era um deles, dos que estavam contra o regime. E quando
ele desapareceu, foi a mim que procuraram. Diz-se que uma maçã nunca cai muito
longe da árvore que a criou. No meu caso estão enganados. Apodreci ainda bem
preso. Bateram à porta e perguntaram:
- Luís Viçoso?
- Sim.
- Faça favor de nos acompanhar.
-
Speak, old man!
And the old man opened his mouth. But nothing he said made sense. Only a long, boring monologue, in which the line of identity diverged every 20 words, steeped in a tradition ihe himself had helped to build. His and so many others. But none of that mattered now, for someone wanted to hear it. Not that he wanted to, but because he had nothing else to do. Until after a few minutes, the words began to make sense.
- (...) they wanted me to take off my clothes, and so I did. At that time it was wrong to disobey, the sheets were never so dirty that you couldn't see a stain anymore. Quickly, and without letting them know I was nervous, I took off my pants. I do not know why I started there. Maybe because I had already dripped them with a few drops of urine that I could not avoid. Or maybe I thought that showing security in that gesture they'd behave milder... Humpf... Milder ... They started hitting me as soon as I laid them on the iron chair. Inside the thighs. I noticed that they chose the fat parts of the body, hurt more and tires less. Protection for the cold, my grandmother would say as she served me bread with butter and garlic. A long ruler like my spine, thin and flexible. We had a forced marriage that night. The bruises appeared long afterward, by the way the ruler folded. But I did not bend, no ... I still remember the brown color, at the end stained with darkness, blood sweat, and tears in that wood in which the veins hardly saw. Like an erect penis, ready to abuse me. I lost track of the time I was in that room. If we try hard, the pain disappears ... Fuck off! He reminded me of the rules of the school, which I had been able to avoid so often, more luckily than intelligence or good behavior because I found myself with all good and less good. But what is it to be good or bad when we are 8 years old? Everything should be allowed at this age, we are still discovering the world, adults playing hide-and-seek with us, peeking out the window, reading the diary, asking us maliciously when we are entertained to play with a car or to draw. Fucking hell. I hated my parents when I discovered that they lied to me in my childhood, that whenever the subject was not appreciated the glance was not a conciliatory answer to their ideas but a prepared deception. Almost always my mother, that he was not going to put up with the shit I thought. He just wanted to know the house bills, if there was an important event that we should not fail (he never failed, adored to be seen on these occasions) and if someone had called. He was wary of this need, or perhaps it is better to say curiosity. The only thing he said when he came into the house:
- Did anyone call?
I never knew he was one of them, against the regime. And when he disappeared, it was me they sought. It is said that an apple never falls too far from the tree that created it. In my case they are mistaken. I rotted still well attached. They knocked on the door and asked,
- Luís Viçoso?
- Yes.
- Please come with us.
-
Speak, old man!
And the old man opened his mouth. But nothing he said made sense. Only a long, boring monologue, in which the line of identity diverged every 20 words, steeped in a tradition ihe himself had helped to build. His and so many others. But none of that mattered now, for someone wanted to hear it. Not that he wanted to, but because he had nothing else to do. Until after a few minutes, the words began to make sense.
- (...) they wanted me to take off my clothes, and so I did. At that time it was wrong to disobey, the sheets were never so dirty that you couldn't see a stain anymore. Quickly, and without letting them know I was nervous, I took off my pants. I do not know why I started there. Maybe because I had already dripped them with a few drops of urine that I could not avoid. Or maybe I thought that showing security in that gesture they'd behave milder... Humpf... Milder ... They started hitting me as soon as I laid them on the iron chair. Inside the thighs. I noticed that they chose the fat parts of the body, hurt more and tires less. Protection for the cold, my grandmother would say as she served me bread with butter and garlic. A long ruler like my spine, thin and flexible. We had a forced marriage that night. The bruises appeared long afterward, by the way the ruler folded. But I did not bend, no ... I still remember the brown color, at the end stained with darkness, blood sweat, and tears in that wood in which the veins hardly saw. Like an erect penis, ready to abuse me. I lost track of the time I was in that room. If we try hard, the pain disappears ... Fuck off! He reminded me of the rules of the school, which I had been able to avoid so often, more luckily than intelligence or good behavior because I found myself with all good and less good. But what is it to be good or bad when we are 8 years old? Everything should be allowed at this age, we are still discovering the world, adults playing hide-and-seek with us, peeking out the window, reading the diary, asking us maliciously when we are entertained to play with a car or to draw. Fucking hell. I hated my parents when I discovered that they lied to me in my childhood, that whenever the subject was not appreciated the glance was not a conciliatory answer to their ideas but a prepared deception. Almost always my mother, that he was not going to put up with the shit I thought. He just wanted to know the house bills, if there was an important event that we should not fail (he never failed, adored to be seen on these occasions) and if someone had called. He was wary of this need, or perhaps it is better to say curiosity. The only thing he said when he came into the house:
- Did anyone call?
I never knew he was one of them, against the regime. And when he disappeared, it was me they sought. It is said that an apple never falls too far from the tree that created it. In my case they are mistaken. I rotted still well attached. They knocked on the door and asked,
- Luís Viçoso?
- Yes.
- Please come with us.
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