My friend Jorge Pontivírgula, Jorojão to us, was telling me about the misunderstandings that plagued his life. Misfortunes that, to hear him tell it, had always come with a dose of presentiment. My friend revealed himself to be what he was: a pre-sentimentalist. But I’ll get to that. First, however, I’ll give a proper portrait of this Jorge’s entire soul.
To sum up his life, Jorojão always had but a single desire: to stay out of trouble. But not even all his fears could stack up to him. His stature exceeded that of a giant. You would look to the clouds as you spoke to him. We used to joke: the man could only kiss sitting down! This Jorojão, in colonial times, circulated through politics like money in a beggar’s pockets: changing place often and never finding a home. The din of the city made him ill. To escape to the bush, he offered his services as a safari driver. It’s how he used to put distance between himself and the world’s bad breath. But that wasn’t enough, in the end. For one day he had to drive a delegation of the heads of the PIDE secret police into the forest to hunt. Savage men on a savage hunt: what could be worse? At the end of the day, one of the authoritarian policemen ordered him to clean their guns. Jorojão remembers beginning to tremble:
—Guns?
He didn’t dare speak the word again beyond that moment. But he acted as if it was no bother at all, and scrubbed, cleaned, and oiled the weapons. As he was doing the last bit of shining, a bullet burst forth at full speed from one of the aforementioned unmentionables. One of the PIDE fell hard as a coconut on a blustery afternoon.
Thirty years having passed, Jorojão excuses himself: It was just a little bullet, it was nothing at all. The fella really hit the dirt then and there! Aaah, but I can’t believe he died from the shot. I think the fright must have given him a heart attack. Or maybe his head wasn’t screwed on right.
He fills his cup again, downs the entire drink in a single gulp. Then, closing his eyes, he clicks his tongue, sharpens his joy anew. Sadness already beginning to creep in, rising to the surface of memory, he feels the need to soak his soul in beer. Rocking his chair back and forth, he explains: it’s this seesawing of his chair that transports him to bygone days. If not for the chair he would have already said farewell to all those memories.
The chair must have been rocking quite a bit, because he was retreating once again into the past: after the shot was fired, he was imprisoned for ties to terrorism. A good bit of luck, as it turned out: it was already January 1974. It didn’t take long before the Fascist regime tumbled in April. That morning remains especially unforgettable for him. The masses stormed the prison, went straight to his cell, and carried him in their arms. It was only then that he took measure of his own stature: a giddiness overtook him. He was a hero, a defender of the people.
—Imagine me there, eh, a guy who never gets involved in anything … If I were to receive an award it would be for keeping out of stuff.
But the Revolution brought him distinction: he went on to lead one of the newly nationalized companies. Jorojão did his best to refuse. His refusal, however, led to an even bigger mess. So from that moment he performed his functions at the highest level of functionality. Jorojão arrived in the morning and didn’t leave until late at night. Everything operated just so, the company coffers filling with profits. Everything was going so well that they began to get suspicious. Other state companies hadn’t so much as a plate yet he filled up on soup? An inspection crew showed up, not even bothering to look at his papers. All they needed was to see the gun on the office wall.
—This gun isn’t in line with regulations.
—But this is the Glorious Gun, it’s the one I used to kill that PIDE bastard, don’t you remember, the one whose gun here I was given in a public ceremony?
His explanation proved to be futile. How could they know if it was the same gun? Mounted on a wall, all guns look the same. They jailed him, charging him with stashing a suspicious shotgun. There he remained, making less noise than a pangolin. He still remembers these unhappy, inglorious times, of falling asleep to forget his belly. The memories still make him bitter.
—Do you see now, sir? I don’t do anything, it’s these meddlesome troubles that always come looking for me.
He stayed in prison for months. One day, through his cell bars, he saw a group of workers from his company enter the prison. He asked to speak to the warden, trying to understand the presence of his subordinates. The prison boss spoke to him with unusual deference:
—Mr. Jorojão, did you not know that you were to be freed today?
—Freed?
—Yes, today, in commemoration of World Meteorological Day. However, now you’re going to remain here awhile longer …
Why had this been said and undone? The postponement of his release resulted from the following: the workers, longing for their imprisoned director, had performed a witchcraft ceremony to achieve his freedom. The authorities had interrupted the ceremony and arrested the participants, accusing them of arcane superstitions. The cause was now subject to the effect: Jorojão’s release would have to be suspended lest the credit for it be given to the feudalist ceremonies. It’s simple, the head of the prison explained at the time. If you were to leave now they’d say that these superstitious rites produced their intended effect. And this goes against the principles of materialism. For this very reason, the district also postponed the celebrations for World Meteorological Day.
Jorojão returned to his cell.
—Have you ever heard such a thing? They kept me waiting there in prison on account of meteorological materialism!
Months later he stepped into the freedom of the streets, at a time when no one could any longer tie his release to any stealth-sly spirits. Bitten by the dog and left toothless by the thug, Jorojão lamented. To this day, you can’t talk to him about the weather. Sitting in his old rocking chair, the immensity of each day weighs down on him. Work? For what? Work is like a river: even when it’s reaching an end, what comes behind it is more and more river. Wearily stretching his legs, he asks me:
—Who is it who’s rocking: me, the chair, or the world?