Scanty joys. 5 pm. It’s only her second day and the cleaning lady has already flaked out on me. Didn’t even leave a message. Admirable New world!
Every man for himself, God for everyone, as the popular saying goes. “Stand up and walk!” Jesus commands. The afternoon still has a few hours, and the night has yet to come. Get to work! Vacuum, clean, wash. Work first, play later, as old Juvenita would say. The humorist column comes after.
Life is hard for softies, as Miss Ines, my mother, would say. 7 pm. House is clean. Sheets are changed. To save time and Money: House & Comfort by Buddemeyer 200 thread, 100% cotton sheets. Got it on Shoptime. 12 payment parcels, zero interest on my credit card. Floral white and blue design, because today I want the peace of a sleeping child, and the abandon of flowers in bloom. Ahhh Dolores Duran… Post some photos for us to see won’t you? Ah ah ah. My camera, a Kodak, only works with film. Got to wait for the roll to finish, then get them developed, then scan… Are you laughing? Because you’re not a teacher. Retired. We become kind of obsolete. My salary? A national shame. If you’re Brazilian, then you know. Wash your dirty laundry at home, as our forefathers taught us. You know how the internet is. If it drops onto the internet, it drops on the world. What the heck, I confess: I love this country of mine. And I am ashamed. To be a man, one must be responsible. It is to taste shame when facing a misery which apparently does not depend on you, as Saint-Éxupéry professes.
Now I’m going to put the laundry in the machine and lie down, stretch my back out a bit. Relief from an acute state of crisis. Better to prevent than to remedy. Wha!? 7:30 pm, Monday the 25th. Concert at the UFMG Conservatory: Arias and songs with soprano Nívea Raf and pianista Wagner Sander. Un-miss-able.
I’m there!—so to say in Facebook lingo. Don’t put off for tomorrow what you can do today, as they say. And I know someday I’ll be dumb—nothing more. Oh, Cecilia, Cecilia… If this my day come to delay, even before I go dumb, I know I will be deaf.
Still half an hour to go. I take a cat bath; throw on a little mineral powder foundation on my cheeks, test drive my new Berry Kiss creamy lipstick by Mary Key, slip into the closest shoes and clothing at hand, and foot (laughs) and grab my Arezzo bag… 7:22. Still time. It’s right around the corner. Be there in a flash. Wait. The hearing aid! How can I hear arias and singing? At home, I usually go without it for a few hours at a time. It’s advisable: saves battery power, prevents infection and stress. I take every opportunity to put it away in its little box; when I don’t have to listen, or when it is better not to. In these cases, I put the device to rest and spare myself whenever the newscast and related programs insist on detailed representations of heinous crimes that go unpunished, give voice to bandits and murderers, emphasizing their acts and tactics, during speeches and other programs that use hypnosis and brainwashing. So I grab the hearing aid and the glasses. Privileges of “old age”
Ready. Locked and loaded. I walk out the door, walk down the street, cross over and go in through the back. No need to turn the corner and go in through the front door on Avenida Afonso Pena, 1534. I walk right in. The staff has gotten used to me by now. I’m familiar. I grab tonight’s schedule, go up the stairs and snuggle into the second chair on the second row.
The artists come on the stage. Fauré opens the show with Clair de Lune. Then comes Debussy with the “Quatre Chansons de Jeunesse.” They lead with Handel, Mozart, Delibes and close with Offenbach: Les Oiseaux dans la Charmille, The Tales of Hoffmann. Then the maestro, projected on the panel beside the stage, holds his breath and smilingly opens the interpretation of his work. The audience gives a standing ovation. I walk out with my soul light as a feather, abounding with music, des oiseaux et des fleurs.
Here I am again, sneaking between tables and chairs on a night out for drinks with the crowd. A hottie steps into my radar, the kind in his “Golden Age.” Blue shirt, a little lighter than mine, my attention caught perhaps because of the blue tones, or flanked by one of those flashbacks from my youth. I shoot a point-blank glance at him. I even risk a good humored “boa noite!” my backside already facing in his direction. I turn around and smile with the creamy Berry Kiss lipstick and walk on taking with me my smile and sweet memories of teenage flirts on Avenida Dona Joaquina in Pompéu and in Jardim de Pitangui. The girls all do their little “cat walk,” blooming in their smiles at the boys standing there, with Cupid lurking around every corner all throughout the night. The music playing through the air: Alô, Cupido, pra longe de mim!
Back home, I take the clothes out of the machine and hang them up on the clothesline. I have a snack, left over from the cleaning lady who didn’t come. It’s like our grandparents always said: There is no evil that doesn’t bring something good.
As to the money left over from the helping hand… As if I would pay for the concert. Free entrance! I’ll buy another Mary Key lipstick and expression mark reducer and moisturizer that I didn’t get at the end of my salary.
Finally the column.
Scanty joys.
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