Her mobile phone buzzes again.
On a late summer afternoon on Rua Garrett
she sits with her bare legs crossed in the image
of Monica Vitti (from Antonioni’s L’Avventura)
leafing through Marie Claire sipping her espresso
with not a single worry in the world. A poesia está na rua
behind her, letters from an old placard peer out
from underneath the layers of torn-up posters,
a reminder of the Salazar era; in the arena
not far from the stadium, the torture of bulls
has just begun (“but they never finish them off”).
Their lengthy howls penetrating balconies, begonias
and air conditioners while the radio plays the eternal Amalia . . .
for fado is fado is fado is fado
that tiny hammer of the soul
knocking on the inside walls of your skull
discreetly like her high heels across the worn-out
Once again she raises her eyes to make sure
that I am still watching her as curiously as
I was just a moment ago. A little further away
at that free spot at Pessoa’s table
her girl is lining up Pokemons.
Some distance this is – I think to myself
remembering Friedrich’s sentence:
When you are chasing out the devil,
make sure you don’t chase out the best!