Updates, Live

Thursday, August 25, 2016

Coelho Neto, Os Pombos (The Pigeons)

Pigeon Rhythm
(Rocco DiDonato Photography)
no copyright infringement intended

Quando os pombos sair, desgraça segue
(When the pigeons leave, misfortune follows)

A family of Indians somewhere in the immensity of Brazil. Indians, or rather caboclos, Brazilian métises, with their skin the color of copper. Husband, wife, their little son, and os pombos, the pigeons. The husband takes care of them. A straw hut, cabana de palha as it is named there, and nearby the pombal, pigeonry, amid the Brazilian métissage of bosques, plantações, aldeias, favelas, whichever. La cidad, the city, could be not so far, it doesn't matter, the distance is of hundreds of years.

The little son is dying. He used to be healthy, the sickness has come out of nothing. Is it fate? You cannot fight with fate. Or maybe is it a play of chance? Chance can be negotiated. It follows the rhythm of life, with sudden ups and sudden downs, at total randomness, you can see the signs if you know how to look around. A tree, a rock, the color of sky, can tell you things. Just follow their rhythms.

And the pigeons, you and them live as pairs. If they stay with you, there is a chance. if they leave, there is no more you can do.  Why are they leaving? Are they just little gods, or little demons, with power over your chance? Or are they just your pairs, too delicate to stand seeing your tragedy?

Right now still they did not decide to stay or to leave.

Eles vêm e vão, entrar no pombal e deixar em forma agitada, arrulhar em voz alta; eles circulam acima da habitação, olhar para as árvores, desceu sobre a palha da cabana, descer à terra em vôo em espiral (They come and go, enter the pigeonry and leave in agitated manner, cooing loudly; they circle above the dwelling, look at the trees, alighted on the thatch of the cabin, descend to earth in spiral flight).

And finally they leave.



A subtle little story written by Coelho Neto, this Príncipe dos Prosadores. I learnt a lot from it. Animism, pantheism? Maybe too big words, to describe a simple truth: one should look closely at the rhythms of nature. They tell you things. And you are part of it.

Are they gods, or demons, these trees and birds and clouds, and everything around? Maybe just your pairs. And they tell you things.


No terreiro de sua cabana, fita o pombal deserto, alargando a vista em busca de algum sinal de retorno das aves. Ao lado da mulher, que o descobre lá contemplativo, ainda tenciona chamar uma rezadeira após notificação de Joana em reposta à sua curiosidade de que se haveria cura para isso, a fuga dos pombos. Alguns momentos e Joana torna a casa e de lá rompe um grito de desespero, era a tragédia anunciada. Tibúrcio entra no quarto de onde parte o estridor e vê o filho morto e mãe ao lado desfeita em pranto. Fora, quando percebe o retorno dos pombos, desespera-se na sua revolta e derriba a machadadas o pombal, matando em seguida, entre as mãos convulsas, dois borrachos que recolhe do chão, indefesos e desfigurados. O conto é perpassado pela agonia e apreensão do casal e centra-se no tema da superstição segundo a qual a migração dos pombos é prenúncio de morte. A espera dorida pelo retorno das aves é interrompida pela falecimento de Luís, em razão do qual Tibúrcio extravasa sua dor, quando destrói o pombal. Assim, a esperança de o filho curar-se fica-lhe condicionada à permanência dos pombos.


(dedicado a Filipe Ponzi)



(Coelho Neto)

Labels:

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home