Velha Cadeira
Era uma fria noite de outono. E eu olhava pela janela e via a
rua deserta parecendo mais como uma cidade fantasma. Apenas avistava alguns
cachorros virando as latas de lixo e tentando comer o pouco que sobrou dos restos do almoço da casa
dos Jacksons. Os postes faziam círculos alaranjados na rua
quase branca pela neve que já começava a cair com força. A paisagem para os
românticos era linda. Mas para mim parecia mais como um inferno em branco e
cinza. Não existia o colorido das flores, não existia os pássaros fazendo seus
ninhos. Tudo estava recolhido. O único movimento que via pela rua era da fumaça
das chaminés subindo o mais rápido possível e se perdendo por entre a espessa
camada de poluição parecendo mais como um mar de fumaça sobre nossas cabeças.
Nessa hora avisto pela janela alguém largando uma carta em minha caixa de
correio e sai correndo pela Elmo St. Por segundos conseguia ver a fumaça saindo
da boca daquela pessoa que eu não sabia quem era, tentei olhar por entre o
quadriculado de madeira da janela mas não conseguia. Era noite de 1952 as
coisas eram bem diferentes de hoje em dia. A comunicação a longa distância
melhor possível era somente com carta. Pensei em descer para ver o que era
aquela carta, mas estava com muito frio. O aquecedor havia quebrado alguns dias
atrás e não tinha tempo para arrumar. A companhia de gás tinha mandado um funcionário
para arrumar, mas eu não estava em casa então reagendaram para outro dia que eu
também não estava em casa. Pensei em ligar a lareira mas a lenha estava no
porão. Vocês já devem imaginar como é um porão de uma casa em 1952 não é? Uma
escada que leva lá para baixo de madeira, uma luz que ilumina apenas uma parte
do local. O piso todo de cimento com umidade o cheiro de mofo pela falta de
luz solar e ventilação, e sem falar dos boatos que minha falecida vó contava
sobre o local. Vejam bem! Não é que eu tinha medo! Mas vocês devem concordar
comigo que descer em uma noite de agosto para pegar algumas garrafas de vinhos,
umas cheias e outras vazias, e avistar um vulto sentado na cadeira de balanço
do meu falecido avô não é algo bem agradável? Antes de eu queimar a cadeira de balanço, ela ficava ao fundo quase perto da parede que limitava com nosso vizinho. Minha
vó contava que aquela parede quando ela foi morar naquela casa em 1918, existia
uma porta que dava para a casa dos Jacksons. Nunca soube se minha vó contava
aquelas historias para nós não entrarmos no porão quando ela não estava, ou se
era para não pegarmos seus doces que deixava esfriar em uma mesa
grande que havia lá embaixo. Existia um rádio antigo lá embaixo. Que besteira!
Tudo que eu falar da minha vó vai ser muito antigo! Lembro de ir com ela as
vezes lá embaixo e o rádio velho tacando músicas muito antigas, aquele som mono
meio fraco sem peso com sons bem médios. Não sei se era uma vitrola ou se eram
discos que ficavam tocando sem parar se era alguma rádio. Sempre que ouço músicas
antigas eu lembro do cheiro de mofo do chão úmido e me arrepio do vulto que
minha vó dizia que existia ao fundo na cadeira de balanço. Ela dizia que sabia
que o vulto estaria lá simplesmente porque ela ouvia o barulho da cadeira em
atrito do chão do piso úmida e gasto com seu cimento quebrado. Nunca soube se
ela falava a verdade eu apenas sabia que a tal cadeira continuava lá. Eu vou
acabar contando o resto, só me deixe ver o que aquela carta está fazendo lá na
caixa, porque se estivesse no porão, não sei se buscaria e duvido que você buscaria
também! Porque depois de ter certeza que queimou uma cadeira e ela aparece no mesmo lugar meses depois... Já volto.
_______________________________________________________________
It was a cold autumn night. And I looked out the window and saw the deserted street looking more like a ghost town. Just could see some dogs turning the garbage cans and trying to eat what little is left of the lunch remains the home of Jackson. The posts were orange circles on almost white street the snow was beginning to fall hard. The landscape for romantics was beautiful. But to me it seemed more like a hell in white and gray. There was the colorful flowers, there was the birds making their nests. Everything was collected. The only movement I saw the street was the smoke from the chimneys rising as quickly as possible and getting lost among the thick pollution layer looking more like a sea of smoke over our heads. This time I spot the window someone dropping a letter in my mailbox and runs the St. Elmo For the 2nd could see the smoke coming out of the mouth of that person I did not know who he was, I tried to look through the wooden grid of the window but I could not. It was night, 1952 things were very different from today. The long distance communication was possible only with better letter. I thought I'd come down to see what it was that letter, but it was too cold. The heater had broken a few days ago and had no time to pack. The gas company had sent an employee to fix, but I was not at home then reagendaram for another day I also was not home. I thought about calling the fire but the wood was in the basement. You probably imagine how a basement of a house in 1952 right? A staircase leading downstairs wood, a light that illuminates only a portion of the site. All the cement floor with moisture the musty smell from lack of sunlight and ventilation, and not to mention the rumors that my late grandmother told about the site. You see! Not that I was afraid! But you must agree with me that down in an August night to pick up a few bottles of wine, some full and others empty, and spotting a figure sitting in the rocking chair from my late grandfather is not something very nice? Before I burn the rocking chair, I was almost to the bottom near the wall that bordered upon our neighbor. My grandmother used to say that that wall when she was living in that house in 1918, there was a door to the home of the Jacksons. I never knew if my grandmother told those stories to us not get into the basement when she was not, or if it was not we take their candy that made cool on a large table that was down there. There was an old radio downstairs. Bullshit! All I talk about my grandmother will be very old! I remember going with her time downstairs and the old radio tacando very old songs, that mono sound a little weak weightless with good midrange. I do not know if it was a phonograph or were drives that were ringing nonstop if it was some radio. Whenever I hear old songs I remember the musty smell of damp ground and shudder the figure that my grandmother used to say that there was at the bottom in the rocking chair. She said she knew the figure would be there simply because she could hear the sound of the chair on the floor of friction wet floor and spent his broken cement. I never knew if she was telling the truth I just knew that this chair was still there. I'll end up telling the rest, just let me see what that letter is doing there in the box, because if you were in the basement, seek and do not know if I doubt you seek too! Because after making sure that burned a chair and it appears in the same place months later ... I'll be back.
_______________________________________________________________
It was a cold autumn night. And I looked out the window and saw the deserted street looking more like a ghost town. Just could see some dogs turning the garbage cans and trying to eat what little is left of the lunch remains the home of Jackson. The posts were orange circles on almost white street the snow was beginning to fall hard. The landscape for romantics was beautiful. But to me it seemed more like a hell in white and gray. There was the colorful flowers, there was the birds making their nests. Everything was collected. The only movement I saw the street was the smoke from the chimneys rising as quickly as possible and getting lost among the thick pollution layer looking more like a sea of smoke over our heads. This time I spot the window someone dropping a letter in my mailbox and runs the St. Elmo For the 2nd could see the smoke coming out of the mouth of that person I did not know who he was, I tried to look through the wooden grid of the window but I could not. It was night, 1952 things were very different from today. The long distance communication was possible only with better letter. I thought I'd come down to see what it was that letter, but it was too cold. The heater had broken a few days ago and had no time to pack. The gas company had sent an employee to fix, but I was not at home then reagendaram for another day I also was not home. I thought about calling the fire but the wood was in the basement. You probably imagine how a basement of a house in 1952 right? A staircase leading downstairs wood, a light that illuminates only a portion of the site. All the cement floor with moisture the musty smell from lack of sunlight and ventilation, and not to mention the rumors that my late grandmother told about the site. You see! Not that I was afraid! But you must agree with me that down in an August night to pick up a few bottles of wine, some full and others empty, and spotting a figure sitting in the rocking chair from my late grandfather is not something very nice? Before I burn the rocking chair, I was almost to the bottom near the wall that bordered upon our neighbor. My grandmother used to say that that wall when she was living in that house in 1918, there was a door to the home of the Jacksons. I never knew if my grandmother told those stories to us not get into the basement when she was not, or if it was not we take their candy that made cool on a large table that was down there. There was an old radio downstairs. Bullshit! All I talk about my grandmother will be very old! I remember going with her time downstairs and the old radio tacando very old songs, that mono sound a little weak weightless with good midrange. I do not know if it was a phonograph or were drives that were ringing nonstop if it was some radio. Whenever I hear old songs I remember the musty smell of damp ground and shudder the figure that my grandmother used to say that there was at the bottom in the rocking chair. She said she knew the figure would be there simply because she could hear the sound of the chair on the floor of friction wet floor and spent his broken cement. I never knew if she was telling the truth I just knew that this chair was still there. I'll end up telling the rest, just let me see what that letter is doing there in the box, because if you were in the basement, seek and do not know if I doubt you seek too! Because after making sure that burned a chair and it appears in the same place months later ... I'll be back.
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