EM V�O

Maria Ang�lica Monnerat Alves

A consulta estava marcada para cinco horas.

Ainda havia tempo, ent�o!

A tarde fria convidava a um capuccino, na padaria sofisticada, inaugurada recentemente.

Pelo caminho, as vitrines me convidavam ao sonho de consumo, t�o distante, cada vez mais...

Sucumbo, vencida, diante de uma delas, e a� escuto:

"Fessora! Num t� mi conhecendu, n�o?"

Olho em volta e constato: s� h� dois mendigos!

E � um deles, justamente o mais novo, que me olha, sorrindo desdentadamente... pele amarela, ressequida, olhos que saltam das �rbitas, cabelos emaranhados...

� ELE!

Reconhe�o-o de imediato! O aluno inquieto, desligado, que falava "de tr�s pra frente", que me deixava louca ao me questionar, boba que era, sobre os porqu�s...

Sim, era ELE!

Ele, que tempos atr�s eu encontrara no ponto do �nibus, muito magro e que se mostrara sem gra�a quando lhe dirigi a palavra, carinhosamente...

Era ELE!

O mendigo era o MEU aluno! A quem eu conhecia desde os dez anos, menino ainda...

"T� vendu? Eu num ti d�ssi? � a minha professora de franc�s!", ele continua, dirigindo-se ao companheiro.

Mal conseguindo me equilibrar, devido ao atordoamento que se apodera de mim, ajoelho-me a sua frente e come�amos a conversar. (noto que as pessoas que passam denotam estranheza e apreens�o...)

E a� despejo uma torrente de perguntas sobre aquele ser fragilizado, aparentando 40 anos, quando deveria ter 25, no m�ximo!

E ele me conta a sua "vida".

Pergunto-lhe a forma pela qual posso ajud�-lo. Se posso voltar no dia seguinte com roupas e mantimentos, quem sabe tentar ver um emprego, sei l� eu. Ele me revela um segredo: cada dia fica num lugar diferente, por estar sendo perseguido... (Verdade? Mentira? Realidade? Fic��o?)

Uma vez por semana telefona para a m�e e a� combinam um local de encontro, para que ela lhe entregue alguma comida e dinheiro.

Me d�, ent�o, o telefone de uma tia.

Fico sem saber o que fazer, totalmente idiotizada. Pago-lhes um lanche e constato que, a estas alturas, j� est� na hora da minha consulta...

E volto, apressada! Do capuccino, me esqueci!

A emo��o me embota os sentidos, o peito parece que vai arrebentar.

Entro no consult�rio. O m�dico, amigo de longa data, constata algo de diferente em mim. Questionada, desabo. Aos poucos, me recomponho e a consulta chega ao fim.

� noite, em casa, consigo com uma amiga o telefone de uma casa de apoio e � de posse deste n�mero m�gico, para mim, que ligo para a tia do meu aluno. Que me atende desconfiada e s� se abre depois de muita insist�ncia minha. Conta que tudo o que era poss�vel j� havia sido feito por ele. Mas que, a cada vez que a recupera��o parece estar pr�xima, ele retorna �s ruas e some por longo tempo. Para depois reaparecer em total decad�ncia, dan�a macabra sem fim....

Agradece meu interesse, mas solicita que eu n�o lhe telefone mais. Aceita passar o n�mero da casa de apoio para a irm�. Pede que eu entenda a sua posi��o. E desliga.

E, como Chico, "eu fiquei sem verso, eu fiquei em v�o"...

By Bruno Monnerat Alves

In vain

The appointment was scheduled for five o� clock.

There was still time, then!

The cold afternoon was perfect for a cappuccino, in the sophisticated bakery, recently inaugurated in Copacabana.

On my way, the shop windows invited me to a buyer�s dream, so distant, and each time even more�

I succumb, defeated, to one of them, and then I listen:

�Teacher! Don�t you recognize me?�

I look around and realize: there�s just two homeless people!

And it�s precisely one of them, the younger one, that stares at me, smiling without any teeth

�yellow dried skin, popped-up eyes, messy hair�

IT�S HIM!

I recognize him at once! The troubled student, absent minded, that spoke backwards, that drove me crazy by questioning me, silly me, about whys...

Yes, it was him!

He,that sometime ago I met at the bus stop, very skinny and that got embarrassed when I kindly talked to him�

It was him!

The homeless was my student! That I knew since he was ten years old, just a boy�

�You see!? Didn�t I told you? She is my French teacher!�, he kept saying to his friend.

Barely able to stand, due to the stunning that had took me over, I kneel in from of him and we start to talk.

(I realize that people pass by looking worried)

So I start asking him questions to that frail being.

Looking 40, when he should be 25 years old tops!

And he tells me about his �life�.

I ask him how can I help him. If I can come back in the next day with clothes and food, and who knows a job, I don�t know. He revels me a secret: each day he goes to a different place, because he is been followed�(Is it true? False? Reality? Fiction?)

Once a week, he phones his mother and they schedule to meet in some place, so that she would give him some food and money.

He gives me the phone of his aunt.

I stare completely numb. I buy them some food and realize that it�s time for my appointment�

I get back, in a hurry ! Of my cappuccino I forgot!

The emotion ties up my senses, my chest seems to be about to explode.

I get into the office. The doctor, an old friend, notices something different in me. Questioned about it, I spill it out. Little by little, I recompose myself, and the appointment comes to its end.

At night, in my house, I manage find, with the help of a friend of mine the number of a shelter home, and with that number, that seemed magical to me, in my hands that I phone my student�s aunt. She answers the phone, and opens up only after a lot of effort. She tells me that they did everything they could for him. But each time he was close to recovering, he came to the streets and disappeared for a long time. He showed up some time after in total decay, an endless macabre dance�

She thanks me for my interest, but asks me not to phone again. She accepts to give her sister the shelter home�s number. Asks me to understand her position and hangs up.

And, as in Chico Buarque de Hollanda�s  song, � I was speechless, I was in vain��