Before I take a deep breath and start this text, I want to warn the most daring readers that. Not. Can stop! I do not want anything. I just remembered that I don’t write for eager readers, much less for those who only read the title. Now I’m going to include here the keywords “Lula” and “repentance” because the algorithm is stupid and doesn’t understand style or literary frills.
Now yes. This article or chronicle or artinica or crotigo was born on the day that Lula was arrested and the most foolish among us (myself included) believed that we were finally facing a Historic and Defining Moment: the day an ex-president went to jail. Okay, so it was a luxury huddle. We are content with little. It was something.
(And, before you ask me, I’m going to linger a little on this part to remind some forgetful people that Lula is an ex-convict and no, he’s not was exonerated. Have I already said that Lula is an ex-convict who was not exonerated? Damn, I must have Alzheimer’s, because I swear I already said that Lula is an ex-convict and that he was never exonerated).
On the occasion, I took a beer and a salami to accompany the whole epic. Lula arrives at the union. Lula takes the stage. Lula talks about currants & pit vipers. Tião Galinha also speaks. He cuts to the helicopter. Camburão with the now ex-convict arrives at the airport. Passengers, this is Commander Sergio Moro. Welcome to the flight 13 of the Federal Airways Police bound for Curitiba. Our estimated flight time is 9 years and 6 months in prison for passive corruption and money laundering. Etc.
(Little did the captain know that this flight would have an unscheduled stopover, caused by technical problems [uma falha na rebimboca do fachin] in the Federal Supreme Court).
On that day, I could never imagine that today, August 7, 2022, I would be working at Gazeta do Povo and publishing a chronicle (“a chronicle is what I say is a chronicle”) in a column with my name and even my photo. Hi Mom! Look at me in Gazeta! A chronicle that in a little while, in the very next paragraph, will say that Lula, yes, that democrat friend of dictators, Lula, is not remembered, is he?, that of Bessias, Odebrecht, Dilma, the Batista brothers, the MST and Palocci… Because this Lula is a candidate for the Presidency in 13 ). And there are people saying that he can win in the first round (knock, knock, knock).
As promised in the previous paragraph, Lula is running for president in 2022. But that is beside the point. Still. And hopefully never. The fact is that that day, or rather that night, I went to sleep tormented by an unlikely image. most improbable. What if Lula, instead of talking about jararaca & false salamaleques, had taken the stage that day and said that (pay attention because I will use bold, italics and underlining to emphasize the premises) his imprisonment was just, that he regretted it, that he asked everyone for forgiveness, that he would serve his sentence ) and would donate up to the Atibaia Site to the authorities, and
who would leave public life forever.
Maybe this is too much fantastic literature for your head. I understand. For me sometimes it is too. But let’s allow ourselves the extreme exercise of high-performance imagination. Come on, I’m sure you can. It’s just focus. Maybe it helps to change Lula’s hoarse voice for a softer one. That same voice we all use in our most sincere regrets. In our most desperate apologies.
If that happened, would you be willing to forgive Lula? Calm! Don’t run to the comment box yet. Think again. He is a man asking for forgiveness. But it’s Lula. It’s Lula. But he is a man asking for forgiveness. If your answer is “yes”, ok, we’re talking. Forgiveness does not always require great justifications. If your answer is “no”, that’s fine too. Otherwise I’ll have to ask you additional questions and… I can’t. The text is coming to an end and, moreover, my objective is not to suggest that, under the conditions proposed two paragraphs above, you should or should not forgive Lula. (Before ending the text, he lights a Free cigarette and thinks: “each to his own, but with something in common”).
The text was supposed to end with this image noir of the cigarette, but I came back. Just because I think my story was missing a finishing touch. That night, tormented by crazy doubt, I ran to the Internet (I live in a mansion and my cell phone was in the North Wing) and dared to ask the question on social media. The reaction and tone of the responses did not surprise me. As, I’m sure, won’t happen now either. A little relieved, I lay down. And it was like that, with my conscience demanding an answer to my own fantastic hypothesis, that I fell asleep.
