Whoever knew my small town, Pompéu, before the arrival of “the electric light” is sure to know many interesting folk stories, unique to that populace. Folk stories of profound loves, of courageous and daring flights. I myself remember several folk stories of love deserving to be told, as romances novels and even as movies.
One of them, true events and known by the greater part of the town, or should be at least, slowly fell between the cracks over time to avoid extended grievance to the families. I think it’s better to start the narrative at the end of the story, to save what I consider to be the most important moment for a later finalization of these writings.
When I recently moved back here less than a year ago, I met up with a good friend of mine who within a few days later committed suicide, and as he knew of my interest in subjects of this nature, found the time of day to tell me in detail one of his epic endeavors. Indeed, he was a famous teller of folk stories, the protagonist of many of them, he narrated with a peculiar smile that neither seemed to make or unmake the events.
On this occasion he asked me for my time and I, curious as I am, promised to leave my obligations for a while and lend all my attention to listening to this folk story. I don’t need to open a parenthesis to say that my dear friend has a knack for relocating from one close or far away city to another. Since I have already started telling folk stories of my homeland, I will soon tell some more of this man who I considered to be a wise businessman, traveler and philosopher.
He went on telling in detail of his entire trip and commutes to arrive in the North and Northeast of Minas Gerais. He even took time to illustrate the scenery and tell of the chance conversations with various people during the trip. It is over 700 kilometers from our city to Teófilo Otoni and not to mention the hundreds of shuttles he had to make to change means of transportation.
Upon arriving, he lodged in a discrete and comfortable pension where he rested until morning the next day. He dressed in his characteristic white linen suit, his old Tanhauser shirt, scarlet and black pinstriped tie, fitted with Scatamacchia shoes and along and other eras, he went out across town elegantly dressed. Despite his old fashioned attire, he felt perfectly at ease.
It didn’t take long before he found the first pharmacy where he walked in and – as my friend was good of prose – engaged in a long talk until discovering who the oldest pharmacist in town was. The clerk easily explained to him how to arrive at the address he sought.
He arrived at the indicated pharmacy and presented himself as a pharmaceutical laboratory representative, underlining that he was only passing through and taking advantage to identify possible clients for future visits. The old and kind but apprehensive man became drawn into his folk stories and couldn’t resist telling a few of his own of Teófilo Otoni.
When the pharmacy staff, which my friend later learned were the pharmacist’s sons, left the establishment for lunch or a snack, I don’t remember exactly, the false representative took out his ID card and showed it to the older gentleman. In a blink of an eye, the old man’s demeanor was undone.
He wished to know right away how the visitor discovered his whereabouts, which is something that was never clear to me, and asked for his total discretion because his sons did not know of his distant past. They ended up understanding each other and began telling stories and memories as old and close friends.
Late in the afternoon, when my fellow countryman returned to the establishment, he received an invitation to dine with the pharmacist’s family: his wife; well over the hill, two sons and their two unmarried daughters. Another two married daughters lived in town with their three already well grown heirs but did not join them for dinner that evening.
The dinner, prepared by one of the daughters, was very different from our own eating customs. Cilantro reigned over the other spices. In our town, few people know of this spice. Cleverly, the lady of the house conducted the conversation to her whim. She wanted to know more about what he thought of the town. Their sons and daughters did not have the curiosity to ask whence he came. He was just another sales representative.
It was simple talk, well-mannered and elegant, compliments to life and the love that unites all family members. No one said a word about the old times. When the dinner came to an end, the old man took “his grandson” out to the front gate through the garden and with a certain emotion, gave him a lengthy hug. When my friend finished telling about the embrace, his eyes were full of tears.
He asked me if I knew the story that happened over a half century ago about his grandfather. I said that I did, but the narrator turned a deaf ear and continued his story. The grandfather was our town’s young pharmacist, my speaker’s mother’s father, who was still quite young and who I believe had a daughter and two other small boys at the time.
It followed that in the course of life, in that city which – I repeat – exudes love and sex ubiquitously, he fell in love with a woman, also married, young, beautiful and full of love to give. After some glances, greetings, unintelligible stammers from one to the other and very discreet smiles, a love interlaced that, until those times, was not permitted in those parts.
But how to quench this mad desire, with the presence of one’s family and the husband at arm’s reach the entire time, in a city where everyone knows each other? And what’s more: there was only one way out of the city, which was an old bus that dragged slowly across the dusty road from there to the Capital…
Believe it or not and whoever doubts it, the centenary pharmacist may be still alive to confirm the account, or his granddaughter who still lives here in the state capital. The respectable pharmacist was summoned to bandage the leg of none other than his divine love.
The husband was sitting close by in the living room on a wicker chair, without paying much attention, after all, it was just a simple wound dressing. But neither did he hear the whispers coming from one of the two. A good professional nurse does not need to masquerade around. He says only the essential aside from good morning and goodbye.
When the silence of dawn invaded the town of a few thousand inhabitants and silenced everyone sleeping like rocks, not even the trot of a good saddle horse was heard at the door of the old big house, located directly on the town’s exit street.
Everything was arranged through looks and taken to terms in a detailed note left folded between the cotton gauze and adhesive tape of her bandage. On the rump of the chestnut stallion, the couple vanished from the town and no one ever asked why.
The greatest mystery is how everyone seemed to know everything, because to this day nobody has commented about this romance that has me as its sole interested, the listener, and the last tale with which my friend bid goodbye to this world.
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