fragment n. 27 character: no name location: brazil, undefined era – near future average temperatures: 42 – 45ºC
it was my grandma who told me about the ocean. in her time, you could even swim in the ocean, which was so so blue, and she saw it on a trip she took with the family she had worked for since she was a teenager – there were a few generations of service in the same house, inheriting child after child whose shit-covered asses my grandmother wiped. in that house she cleaned, washed, sewed, ironed, fed and took care of everyone, not just the children. i remember grandma laughing out loud and saying that the lady of the house didn’t even know how to deal with a pile of dishes, let alone a hungry baby growing teeth. i also remember grandma crying when she said that the food she cooked was not made for her mouth, that she had to cook everything separately and eat in the little room where she slept and rested. she said that they bought everything second-hand for her because in our era food was scarce and good food was very expensive, we only ate things that came in cans while they took hold of the fertile land that was left.
it was something with the liver. and it could have been the stomach, the pancreas, the mouth. many people suffered from some mysterious illness at some point in their lives and my grandma, who had already lived much longer than expected, saw it coming. she blamed it on the canned food we ate. and then she smiled because at least she didn’t go hungry like her mother. she was grateful. my grandmother was a person who was grateful for everything, and it took me some time to understand why.
i remember a day when i saw my grandma happy. she smiled all the time, but that day her eyes also smiled, like the rest of her body that danced next to the improvised vegetable garden showing the first signs of greenery. the land in our district had dried out, so, since it didn’t produce anything, everyone cemented it. but, when she accepted the free house that had been abandoned a few years ago, grandma didn’t let the ground be cemented. she insisted that she was going to bring life to the dead land, and the roly-polies were the first to show up after she started planting the right seeds, which she managed to get through very expensive exchanges with a neighbor who looked sideways at everyone but her, and to do some things that her mother had taught her, like stir the earth well every day and add leftovers, then the plants would grow a little and die, but grandma didn’t get discouraged, she said that's how it was that the earth had its time and that we should respect it.
and she managed to harvest a few heads of lettuce and some tomatoes and prepare a salad for us before dying asleep on the bed above the mattress spread out on the floor where i slept while taking care of her. i spent the nights with grandma, but i didn’t hear her last breath. i dreamed about her that night, grandma said that the cabbage would be ready in a few days, that i should harvest it, wash it well, chop it finely and eat it with salt. if i could get some garlic from the neighbor, i should sauté the finely chopped cabbage in the pan with a little oil. she told me this near the vegetable garden, in the most lucid dream i’d had in weeks, then she said she loved me and told me to take care of my mother, then grandma went into the house and i woke up.
i’m going to write our story so chronos doesn’t devour us, grandma, i promise. in it, i will tell them about your ocean.
Fragmentário
fragmento n. 27 personagem: sem nome localidade: brasil, era indefinida – futuro próximo temperaturas médias: 42 – 45ºC
minha vó foi quem contou pra mim sobre o mar. no tempo dela, dava até pra nadar no mar, que era azul azul e que ela viu em uma viagem com a família pra qual trabalhou desde adolescente – foram algumas gerações de serventia na mesma casa, herdada criança após criança cujas bundas cheias de merda minha vó limpou. nessa casa ela limpava lavava costurava passava alimentava e cuidava de todo mundo, não só das crianças. lembro da vó rindo alto e dizendo que a senhora lá não sabia nem tratar uma pilha de louça, quanto mais de uma cria faminta trocando os dentes. lembro da vó chorando também quando contou que a comida que ela mesma cozinhava não servia pra boca dela, que ela tinha que fazer tudo separado e comer no quartinho onde ela dormia e descansava. ela dizia que compravam tudo de segunda mão pra ela porque na nossa era o alimento era escasso e comida boa era muito cara, a gente só se alimentava de coisas que vinham em latas enquanto eles tomavam posse da terra viva que ainda sobrava.
foi um lance no fígado. e podia ter sido no estômago, no pâncreas, na boca. muitas pessoas sofriam de alguma doença misteriosa em algum momento da vida e minha vó, que já tinha vivido muito além do esperado, já esperava por isso. ela colocava a culpa naquela comida enlatada que a gente comia. e depois sorria porque pelo menos fome ela não passava como a mãe dela. agradecia. minha vó era uma pessoa que agradecia por tudo e eu demorei a entender por quê.
lembro de um dia em que eu vi minha vó feliz. ela sorria o tempo todo, mas naquele dia os olhos dela também sorriram, como o resto do corpo que dançava perto da horta improvisada despontando os primeiros sinais de verde. a terra do nosso distrito já tinha secado toda, então, como a terra não dava em nada, todo mundo passava cimento em cima. mas a vó, quando aceitou a casa de favor abandonada fazia uns anos, não deixou cimentar. insistiu que ia dar vida pra terra morta, e os tatuzinhos foram os primeiros a aparecer depois que ela começou a plantar as sementes certas, que conseguiu à custa de trocas bem caras com uma vizinha que olhava torto pra todo mundo menos pra ela, e a fazer umas coisas que a mãe dela tinha ensinado, tipo remexer bem todo dia e colocar resto de comida, daí as plantas cresciam um pouco e morriam, mas minha vó não desanimava, dizia que era assim mesmo, que a terra tinha o tempo dela e que a gente devia respeito.
e ela conseguiu colher uns pés de alface mais uns tomates e preparar uma salada pra gente antes de morrer dormindo na cama acima do colchão estirado no chão em que eu dormia enquanto cuidava dela. eu passava as noites com a vó, mas não ouvi seu último suspiro. sonhei com ela naquela noite, a vó dizia que a couve daria dali uns dias, que era pra eu colher, lavar bem, picar fininho e comer com sal. se desse pra arranjar alho com a vizinha, era pra refogar a couve bem picada na panela junto com um pouco de óleo. ela me dizia isso perto do canteiro, no sonho mais lúcido que tive em semanas, depois falava que me amava e recomendava cuidados com a minha mãe, então a vó entrava na casa e eu acordei.
eu vou escrever uma história nossa pra cronos não engolir a gente, vó, prometo. nela, vou contar sobre o seu mar.
