We passed by my former house, now abandoned. Almost a ruin. Next door, the bar with very sad, very poor and very harmless drunks continues to serve drinks. There, João Preto told me war stories. I want to go in and ask about Jô or the Zone (real name), but I go ahead. I think I have neither the stomach nor the courage to face the damnation.
18142412I climb on a street named after a river, I turn right on another street named after a river. An entire basin of memories. Hélio lived in a small blue house with a ladder. I always thought houses with stairs were chic. A little further on, the Bonetti mansion. Why do I Google my old best friend and get no results? I fear the answer, which, however, seems unbearably obvious to me.
18142412A pilgrimage through memory continues. Noises and smells come to me with an inexplicable familiarity. Or was it fantasy? I was that child there once. And that and that. I’ve spent afternoons and afternoons in a basement, fiddling with test tubes, acids and bases, among soy oil cans and brown spiders. I’ve already walked all these paths wearing the ridiculous burgundy uniform of Madalena Sofia School – where I’m heading with undeniable anxiety. Sweaty hands slip off the steering wheel. The little face of Simone (the “Turk”) comes to mind. With her I discovered instinct and perversity.
18142412 From a distance I notice the Christ with open arms on top of the building. Three hundred, two hundred, one hundred meters to go. Under that tree I watched Carla play volleyball, not daring to kiss her. On that corner I was waiting for my father to come pick me up in a Fiat 15. There lived the teacher whose name escapes me, but who taught Etiquette. And woe betide anyone who put his elbows on the table!
