Stories of Paraná - Roads

Stories of Paraná - Roads

Roads
Nilson Monteiro

Early evening.
Beams weird, burning, flashed simultaneously at three different distances.
Greater than headlight glare mile and magical: not blinded, nor hindered vision.
The three skinny, sweaty armpits in t bitten, dropped to the same destination, the brutões snorting.
The headlights shone more than all the stars who believed in comets asphalt would have stories to tell for the rest of his life. The risk of shiny trucks could be seen in Colorado, Curitiba, Ribeirão Preto, Ipatinga, Manaus, Belem or Sao Paulo. The torch, like a triangle, followed for the grimy northern Paraná. The trucks, which were agreed by the brilliance, the frightened, the unbelievers, believers, followed Dito, Tiao and Mane. Mechanics, farmers, day laborers, road guards, merchants, politicians, prostitutes, drivers, gypsies, priests, farmers, thieves, waitresses, teachers, doctors, farmers, hobos, obscure or glittering men and women who saw the headlights, with or no profession, did not notice a fine powder, purple, sticking in the pores, melecando back.
Or the sweet smell of predawn. Walked.
Maria won prejudices.
Truck driver, drove up not withstand more pain.
Joseph, his companion, improvised cots in the bathtub where tested cameras patched.
In borracharia, the smell was dirty, gray, with mosquitoes tired lamp dating almost dead, face tomato.
Joseph lowered his voice Sérgio Reis and his caretaker boy in red transistor radio battery.
Looked massetadas nails, thick hands, clothing greased, tires chamber, stop, wheels, the hammer, the quiet cat, the leaky faucet soft chunks of rubber all over the floor, looked at life. And smiled.
Word of mouth, trumpet horn, the news ran the country and put this on the road.
Cambard of the Paranavaí of Presidente Prudente Ortigueira of Pinhais Victory, from Curitiba to Campo Grande, hand turned one: behind said, Mane ethion.
Were a night, day, year, droughts and storms, frosts and hot flushes, boys and old prayers and fights, blowing dust in carriers, lightning gritting paths, tracks and paths.
Were laughs flow, spontaneous, almost inexplicable, mixed with torrential tears, spontaneous, almost inexplicable.
That said, Tiao and Mane brecaram brutes.
In the hands, a bottle of rum, a pound of beans and a pound of corned beef.
The beams are, single, piercing the bush edge-line.
Maria burned.
For a moment there was silence.
Absolute.
Absurd. The world's parked on the roadside, between Londrina and Ibiporã. Even the crickets and frogs quieted.
That said, Tiao and Mane hands greasy direction and rates, burned, embraced Joseph, on fire.
A scream cut the night.
The bells desembestaram.
Like crazy, a chime disheveled, tolled throughout the country's fashion loose hinterland ate in each shack.
Forro of sounds, images and signs. And borracharia in Brazil began to appear fantastic things like bread, guava, coffee, pencil, cheese, books, clothes, fish, a piece of brown sugar, banana, rice, honey, rum, ripe ears, beans, shoes, sugar, salt, freedom, pleasure, oranges, solidarity, steaks, water, dignity, land ...
Ana cried, petite and melecada.
It was Christmas.

Nilson Monteiro is a journalist and writer.


Source: Stories of the Paraná, Brasil.