The other day I went to a funeral at the Municipal Cemetery. I mean, it felt like a funeral. True, he had a coffin and a body surrounded by flowers and lace, wreaths of various sizes and never enough, and the proper mourners seated in precarious chairs. When night fell, a certain Chrysostom appeared, who a friend of mine said was the undertaker. He arrived, scowled, took a Zippo lighter from his pocket and, without hesitation, lit the four Syrians that surrounded the deceased.
I immediately turned to the person next to me. She was a beautiful woman and I really needed some excuse to strike up a conversation with her. And, if you’re wondering what kind of man who is known to be married invents such a betrayal just to show that the lyrical-self is not always the physical-person-self, I’m sorry to inform you: this someone is me.
– Are you thinking the same as me? – I asked.
– It depends. I’m thinking about a lot of things at the moment – was her reply. No malice. No rudeness. She was really thinking about many things at the same time.
We stayed there chatting for a good hour, until, tired, she said she was going to go out for air and never came back. Patience. Even because I was right and what seemed to be a funeral like any other was nothing like that. It was an experience of that Chrysostom, the man who had lit the Syrians and who, at the exact moment I record the notes of this chronicle in my little notebook, is there in the corner, a half-smile on his face, watching everyone with the typical apprehension of mad scientists. .
I know I should have kept quiet. But those who know me also know that, at these times, I have an uncontrollable urge to find the truth. Maybe because I was a journalist one day. Maybe because it’s just a bore. Fact is, I went to Mr. Chrysostom. Which, to my surprise, seemed to be waiting for my approach.
– Finally! I know what you’re thinking and you’re right.
– You know?! Yes I have. This isn’t a real funeral. It’s an experience.
– Ah, the candle with “s”, isn’t it? I had noticed.
– This is just one of the many experiences I have done over the years. I want to see how many people will show up here correcting me, saying that candle is with “c”, not with “s”. I want to see how many people will read just the first paragraph and run to curse me for being illiterate – he explained.
– Interesting. But have you ever stopped to think that there are other possible outcomes for your experience? – I asked.
– Which ones?
– I, for example, never thought that there could be a spelling mistake on your part . I can see that you are very smart. In fact, I came here to tell you that I am very uncomfortable with the presence of these four Syrians on fire around the coffin. You don’t feel sorry for men, do you? And on top of that, war refugees!
– But what if they were terrorists? What if they are… wick men?! – Tried Chrysostom.
We both laughed at the dull joke. Crisóstomo excused himself and went out to get a cup of coffee. On the way, he went around the coffin and, with deft gestures, extinguished the candles that, after all, were never Syrian and came from a candle factory there in Piraporinha do Oeste. He approached me, gave me a cup of coffee and finally asked:
– And what other possibilities for all this, my astute anonymous mourner?
– There is always the possibility that someone will notice the mistake and shut up. Because of shyness, politeness or… How is that German word that is in fashion?
– Schadenfraude.
– That’s right. For the pleasure of feeling superior to an idiot who makes a spelling mistake. And note the seriousness of this: these people will realize the error right in the first paragraph and, if they still insist on reading the text, they will come across (!) with it again in the fourth paragraph, they will give up reading the rest and (attention! ) will spend their whole lives thinking you are illiterate. And they will laugh about it inside. And, whenever they see his name around, they will remember the Syrians who were not Syrians, but candles.
Chrysostom stayed there a while longer, letting out some shameless mesoclises. I, who didn’t even know the dead man, still tried to approach two more sad girls before ordering an Uber. I was at the door of the wake following the car’s journey on my cell phone when Chrysostom put his hand on my shoulder – something you shouldn’t do with so many ghosts around. Startled, I turned to find the new friend with a wicked chuckle on his lips.
– You forgot about other possibilities, my dear. These, yes, very scary!
– Which ones? I asked without much excitement. I looked back and the beautiful, single girls were crying. Uber sent a message saying it had stopped for gas. After a dramatic pause, several reticence in sequences and a deep breath, he replied:
– The possibilities of not realizing any mistake and just feeling indifferent to this chronicle.
