Cumplicidade & Curitiba - IV

Cumplicidade & Curitiba - IV

"Through his eyes"
By Frank Viñas




Mulherzinha. A wry laugh, a murmur, slurping her coffee cup, banging the computer keyboard, is my measuring devise to feel her daily state. The light by her window is perfect, is like Rembrandt’s, Girl Leaning On A Windowsill, But Candid emotions surrounds her pale face. Mumbling, extremely focus on her acephalous hero, she said:

-- What is he thinking? His mind is blurring with obscured concepts and Outrageous ideas that would never be permitted or accepted here.

I caught her again tilting her head to the heavens, popping incoherent sentences and every so often, interrupting my thoughts. First with a scoff, then, lauder scoff, and with an “ah” before her sentence that stretches from CIC to Campo Largo:

-- Ah… refill me this, and put it a MINUTE on the microwave. I can’t stand the cold coffee! Very hot!

An eye is popping perniciously behind the wall, making faces, trying to smash the first object available but that would give it out, so I pull all my hair forward and then right back more--spiky and messed up than the way it was before. The wall is juxtaposed to the living room with the tangled and spiked hair, and big black eyes that look like somebody painted the upper lid with a black marker. That’s me-- dear me, poor me-- again, on a maid mission to serve “ the coffee nation.” The tank size cup is almost as big as our ten-year-old blender that was given by my Mother-in-law. The big thumps with my feet, gave out how my love for this trivialities keep growing. I love to thump heals first on our old and faded-black-wooden floor because it ruins her typing rhythm. The wooden table where she writes is considered “a heirloom” --now, and she adores it because is two centuries old and helps her bring back her innate state to boost her imagination.
My mornings are very stress full and as soon as the demands start rising, I know is time to hit the road. Hurriedly, the shoes, pants, and underwear lying on the bedroom for weeks on end are picked and chosen sporadically and spontaneously as I sprint through the door.

-- Goodbye! I said.

As if it was my last goodbye. The sound of a pair of hummingbirds, chirping, reinforces my departure, as I stumble over a vase near the door. I slam the door and hear her reply delayed, fading away but still in my head for the rest of the day.
I whish she made more clicks and clacks with the typewriter so that my randomness is mute and it’s kept like the dust under my bedroom carpet. There are instances where the tick of my watch morphed aloud in onomatopoetic effect. The sound bits become unbearable, it feels like when I used to inclose in my grandmother’s cupboard, with my metronome, on.
I set the tip of my foot next to the line that divides each section of the sidewalk.

-- This is great! By the time I reach two thousand five hundred and thirty one passes, I’ll forget this mourning coffee tragedy for about… sixty to the fourth… twelve million nine hundred sixty thousand seconds, until I reach the bus stop.
-- Hey Einstein get a haircut!!!

Laughing hysterically, says the boy. The car rockets down the road, screeching its winkling tires almost ready to bend out of its axel, turning the corner.

-- Hahahaha! What a piece of crap!!!! Oh Jesus, how I wish it bended and slammed to the wall.

Normally I would raise my head and tell them to go f**k himself but today was different. I was determined to become focus and forget the things I’ve see that had made me loose the trust I had for her.

-- Ok. Lets start now. One, two, three, four... this is going to be fun.

I’m up to the bus stop and my first thought is “ the shape of the bus stop,” every time I see it reminds me of a time tunnel. That is the one time when I feel safe. I’ve gone through twelve million nine hundred sixty thousand seconds to this point and I feel free from crushing emotions. More so, do not feel the courage to confront her.
As I reach the handle I ask several questions to myself; maybe to wait and let the other passengers go before me. They see me on their peripheral vision, putting a big, fat grin on, sometimes looking directly at other passengers, looking for support. I’d no longer care about my physical appearance nor the moral and civic ethics of the people of Curitiba. There are times where I feel in cases like a tourist: for instance, when asking an old lady a question to establish a conversation.

-- Where is the Couto Pereira?
She looks at me like I’m crazy.
-- Excuse me, please.
-- Does any body know where the Couto Pereira ball club is???! Thank you very much for your candor and cold answer.

It’s fun to look at their faces. Turning hurriedly scanning the bus to check if the bus is coming. Others untie their shoes and tight them back again. I can take those insults better than I can take the silence in my house.

Tick tack tick tack
Tick tack tick tack

That’s the song of my every mourning, the rhythm of her Underwood typewriter.
My rump hits the harden chair waiting for the bus. Riding the bus is a different feeling; the people pass you by; there is no feelings attached; no responsibilities and no hard pains that you have to confront to keep moving forward. But motion needs time to move forward and so my time has elapsed and my daily round, around the city has finished and is time to go home and find my courage to move forward. Maybe I will start to clean the dust underneath my rug and hang my clothes on the closet. Maybe she hates organization. That’s a good excuse to make a stand. My hand points in front of the bus.

--Look the sun hides on the horizon. It looks like is diving into the ocean and smoke vapors from the cold waters.
-- We are home, sir.
-- Thank you.
-- Next time you can sit near the door. It’ll be more pleasing for you, sir. The view is excellent. God, I know.

I tilt my head down, thanking the old man and leave the bus with great hope. I was the first to come out and the last to come in. I bet the other passengers were smoldering, at least a bit.

-- That is great! What a great job he has. What a wonderful man.