quarta-feira, 9 de outubro de 2013

the arm is not an arm, the arm is a head

"In the backseat, Chibo was breathing hard—my brother hunkered down, his wheels spun in the void, the cables were cut, his wings would free themselves from the wreckage, and we’d all fall. I already knew that we’d lost contact with the base, but I didn’t tell Moptop, who looked anxiously at his insideout shirt, looked at the three small stones in his hand, looked at me.

Falling, falling, more than 20,000 feet, Moptop inserted the transmitters into his pocket, into the package of gumdrops. It was as if he were archiving the definitive evidence of the case. Through static I heard Bruno repeating: Moptop goes west. My area’s the pond. Nobody talks to nobody. Whoever gets captured better—and he was cut off by a noise, a shrill sound, heavy breathing. Then we started walking, me and Moptop (and it was an odd day), until we split up. He waved back, then kept going, singing softly:

'The arm is not an arm, the arm is a head.' I went in the opposite direction, toward the red-all-over tree, 'the mouth is not a mouth, the mouth is a bellybutton,' until the sound fadedaway."

Trecho d'O Verão do Chibo, traduzido pela Katrina Dodson, no número especial da revista da Biblioteca Nacional, publicado na Feira de Frankfurt.

Capítulo inteiro aqui.