E quando o amor já era dado como morto...
13/04/12 14:31
Uma viagem ao fundo do coração, by Francis F. Coppola
Sexta, 13. O amor, o azar, a sorte.
Repare nessa história verdadeiríssima:
E quando imaginávamos que estava tudo acabado, que amor não mais havia, que tinha ido tudo para as cucuias, que o fogo estava morto como no engenho de Zé Lins, que o amor era apenas uma assombração do Recife Antigo…
Quando já dizíamos, a uma só voz, aquele texto de Paulo Mendes Campos:
“Às vezes o amor acaba como se fora melhor nunca ter existido; mas pode acabar com doçura e esperança; uma palavra, muda ou articulada, e acaba o amor; na verdade; o álcool; de manhã, de tarde, de noite; na floração excessiva da primavera; no abuso do verão; na dissonância do outono; no conforto do inverno; em todos os lugares o amor acaba; a qualquer hora o amor acaba; por qualquer motivo o amor acaba…”
Quando já separávamos, olhos marejados, os livros e os discos…
Quando mirávamos, no mesmo instante, a nossa foto feliz no porta-retratos…
Quando não tínhamos nem mais ânimo para as clássicas D.R´s –as mitológicas discussões de relação…
Ave, palavra, até o gato, nervoso, sem saber com quem ficaria, quebrava coisas dentro de casa àquela altura; o papagaio blasfemava, diabo verde!
Estava na cara, naquela fantástica zoologia amorosa: aqueles pombinhos já eram.
O cheiro do fim tomara todos os cômodos, a rua, o quarteirão, o bairro, a cidade, o mundo…
Quando só restava cantar uma música de fossa… “Aquela aliança você pode empenhar ou derreter…”
Quando só restava a impressão de que eu já vou tarde…
Quando só restava Leonardo Cohen no ipod da moça…
Quando eu não era mais o cara, embora insistisse em cantar o “I´m your man” deste mesmo trovador canadense…
Sim, o quadro era triste, não se tratava de hipérbole ou demão de tintas gregas.
De tanta inércia, faltava até força para que houvesse a separação física, faltava força para arrumar as malas, pegar as escovas, contar aos chegados comuns.
Ah, amigo, quer saber quem bateu o ponto final da história?
Ela, claro, você acha que homem tem coragem para acabar qualquer coisa? Mulher é ponto final; homem ponto e vírgula, reticências, atalhos.
O estranho é que ela não disse, em nenhum momento, que não gostava mais do pobre mancebo.
Aquilo encucava. Porque um homem, disse o velho Antonio Maria, padrinho sentimental deste cronista, nunca se conforma em separar-se sem ouvir bem direitinho, no mínimo quinhentas vezes, que a mulher não gosta mais dele, por que e por causa de quem etc etc, milonga do adiós.
E nesse clima de fim sem fim as folhinhas outonais do calendário foram despencando sobre a relva fresca do desgosto.
Eu acabara de levantar do amigo sofá, que havia se transformado no meu leito, quando ela passou com uma cara de impaciência e desassossego.
Mais que isso: ela estava com vontade de matar gente!
Era a cara que fazia quando estava faminta. Sabe mulher que fica louca quando a fome aperta?
Vi aquela cena e caí na gargalhada. A princípio ela estranhou… Mas sacou tudo e danou-se a morrer de rir igualmente. Nos abraçamos e rimos e rimos e rimos e rimos daquilo tudo, rimos da nossa fraqueza em não dar uns nós nos clichês, inclusive o da volta por cima, rimos do nosso silêncio sem sentido, rimos desses casais que se separam logo na primeira crise, rimos da falta de forças para enfrentar os maus bocados, rimos, rimos, rimos.
E um casal que ainda ri junto tem muita lenha verde para gastar na vida e fazer cuscuz com carneiro.
Agora ela está deitada, linda, cheirosa, gostosa, psiu!, silêncio, ela dorme enquanto escrevo essa crônica!
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