Our friend and writer Luis Bento, author of the amazing blog bento-vai-pra-dentro agreed to the challenge of Fashion Heroines and created a shortstory for our "Five Minutes Fiction." As we found that the inspired text would be much more complete with an illustration, we challenge the illustrator Renato Abreu - author of the excellent site MAREAR - who was inspired by Luis' shortstory, and also with his amazing talent, creating an original illustration to add to the story.
Now is the happy result of these exclusive collaborations (Bilingual) that Fashion Heroines is pleased to present. Get inspired!
Sometimes it slides, in a smooth performance, by the memory shredded in black and white from the chords of the national anthem to the end of the broadcast with a bang, up to the classroom where it still misspelled, stubbornly, Goa, Daman and Diu as overseas territories on the world map of scrolled ends, wanted to revoke the floor with a circumspect and pointless ribbons-cut in a picture with a President’s pose, full, medal and commendation in bold cynical sayings: EXCELLENCY THE PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC ADMIRAL AMÉRICO TOMÁS. It was the whiteness of the tortured robes by the lye and the bleach OMO detergent, whitest white there, that it was discerned a tiny and stocky little figure, in round capsule, of Dona Irmelinda who was born between the lines of the sixties, already breasted with a cardigan knitted by the middle shiny pearl button, which was sold in the haberdashery, in an innocence pinky boxes cantoned in the shelves, behind the curved side of Mr. Arnold, with glasses stuck on the tip of the nose, scrutinizing stirring until eternity, sewing thread by coats and clark cut by a shit ! Embarrassed when he stabbed on the number three needles, which were in a painfully mess.
Breathless by General Taborda street up, with a basket crammed with fish and greens coming from the market where it was cheaper and fresh, without residual gloss, pigment, hair spray or perfume which were long lost in the archaeological remains of the Neolithic dissected by experts. Only the red stroked flushed her face in the haste, which she stole time on the macadam to avoid the smell of late towards the tobacconist, where supreme vice of luxury for the poor, she bought the “Crónica Feminina”/ The Female Chronicle magazine, to indulge in the fantasy of the illustrated novelette or the comfort of the dresses advertisements, bags and winter jackets that she needed one, in an innocent and consented alienation which was interrupted only by the car payments, gradually presented by the collector, growling in the yellow teeth of tobacco, that her husband also went to pay.
If a star had fallen from heaven, in the runway, languid and sensual, rich of necklines and boldness, a free angel was walking, powerful and shiny where the devil could even wear Prada, Armani or stained skin with sin, but above all, life was dressed in warm textures and a mix of brightly colored, romantic and devoid of prejudice. It was there where she knew him. His middle span and clean-shaven face, treated with the blessing of Apollo on the day of shooting darts. She came to the conclusion, however, that Darwin only germinate and evolved in the female universe and had set to flee of the first warning sign of the male iberian hunting. Fool! He was a fool! With his idiot smiling of a cheap conqueror, who mistook Louboutin with lobotomy that the Doctor Egas Moniz’s assistant made to the brain, a delicate operation of his aunt Emily. Smoky, yeah, all naked, so sure of his clumsy virility, thinking that he had taken her body and not realizing, even, that she only lent it to him for he was lost in the prison of his thighs. She outlined a malicious and inside smile. He let out a Torquemada’s Queluz west confident puffs, looking askance, air of an ass inquisitor. And she came back, surreptitiously, to D. Irmelinda and her earrings, lipsticks, face powder and other sparkling accessories that only a miracle or distraction of the Lord, let the pages of paper.
She would like to be fashionable, but only her sister-in-law, who was an unbridled who circumvent the misfortunes of life, and brought her a set of lipsticks from South Africa where women wore miniskirts, and they drank like men and smoked and everything, gave her a letter of manumission, though briefly, to the land of dreams. It was one of those days where, for distraction, she dared to try the sister-in-law’s gift, in front of the mirror, old and gnawed by the rust; she did not by the arrival of her husband. Upset because there was no lunch on the table and stunned by the colors of the rags, he was furious when he saw the phallic image of the lipstick torn threads between the fingers, ready to storm their parched lips. Raised his right arm he gave her a hard slap, the lipstick shattering into pieces on the bathroom floor. And then without thinking, she decided it was time to break the fear that shackled her in a narrowness and subservience outdated. Although he was preparing to raise the arm again when he was taken violently by a ceramic vase of Sacavem which cost a good five pounds of coins, in the head...
She bent down to pick up a stub of lipstick and, without repressing a smile, she inflated her chest with air, leaned over the mirror and began, calmly, to paint the lips, realizing then that the difference between subservience and emancipation was distant from only twelve points well done on her husband forehead by the dexterity and skills of the nursing service of an hospital, and being in the fashion tone was daring to live in a conceptual and aesthetic freedom in which life ... was the tone...
Text: Luis Bento
(
Lost in) Translation: Paula Lamares
Illustrations: Renato Abreu
VERSÃO EM PORTUGUÊS/ PORTUGUESE VERSION
Às vezes escorregava em ,prestações suaves, pela memória desfiada a preto e branco desde os acordes do hino nacional a encerrar a emissão televisiva com estrondo, até aos bancos da escola onde se grafava ainda, teimosamente, Goa, Damão e Diu como territórios ultramarinos, no mapa-mundi de pontas enroladas a querer baldar-se para o chão junto de um circunspecto e inútil corta-fitas num retrato com pose de presidente, faixa, medalha e comenda com os dizeres em bold cínico: SUA EXCELÊNCIA O PRESIDENTE DA REPÚBLICA ALMIRANTE AMÉRICO TOMÁS. Era da alvura das batas torturadas pela lexívia e pelo OMO branco mais branco não há, que divisava a figurinha minúscula e atarracada, em redondo carica, da Dona Irmelinda nascida nas entrelinhas dos sessenta, já de casaquinho de malha assertoado pelo botão do meio de madrepérola reluzente que se vendia na retrosaria, em caixas de inocência rosácea, acantonadas nas prateleiras por trás do costado curvo do senhor Arnaldo, de óculos presos na ponta do nariz esmiuçando e remexendo até à eternidade , carrinhos de linha da coats and clark entrecortados por um chiça! envergonhado quando se espetava nas agulhas número três dolorosamente desarrumadas.
Esbaforida, pela rua General Taborda acima com a alcofa atafulhada de peixe, grelos e nabiças vinda da praça onde era mais barato e fresquinho, sem réstea de brilho, pigmento, laca ou perfume há muito perdidos nos vestígios arqueológicos dissecados por peritos do Neolítico. Apenas o vermelho afogueado lhe acariciava a face na pressa com que roubava tempo ao macadame para evitar o fedor a atraso em direcção à tabacaria onde, vício supremo do luxo de pobre, comprava a Crónica Feminina e se deixava levar pela fantasia da fotonovela ou pelo conforto dos anúncios dos vestidos, das malas e casacos de inverno que ela bem precisava de um, numa alienação inocente e consentida apenas interrompida pelas letras do carro que, paulatinamente apresentadas pelo cobrador, grunhiam nos dentes amarelos do tabaco que o marido ainda andava a pagar.
Se do céu caíra uma estrela, na passserele, lânguida e sensual, rica de decotes e ousadias, passeava-se um anjo livre, poderoso e reluzente onde o diabo até podia vestir Prada, Armani ou pele corada em pecado, mas acima de tudo, a vida se trajava de texturas quentes e garridas numa miscelânea de cor, romântica e despojada de preconceitos. Fora aí que o conhecera. Meio palmo de cara bem tratada e escanhoada com o beneplácito de Apolo em dia de tiro aos dardos. Chegara à conclusão, contudo, que Darwin só germinara e evoluíra no universo feminino e se pusera a fancos ao primeiro sinal de alerta da coutada do macho ibérico. Tolo! Era um tonto! De sorriso idiota de conquistador em saldos confundindo Louboutin com a lobotomia que o assistente do doutor Egas Moniz fizera à cabeça, numa operação delicada, da sua tia Emília.
Esfumaçava, perdidamente, todo nu seguro da sua viriidade canhestra pensando que lhe tomara o corpo e não se dando conta, sequer, que ela apenas lho emprestara para que ele se perdesse no cárcere das suas coxas. Ela esboçava um sorriso malicioso e interior. Ele soltava baforadas confiantes de Torquemada de queluz ocidental, olhando, de soslaio, ar de asno inquisidor. E ela voltava, sorrateiramente, à D. Irmelinda e aos seus brincos , batons, pó de arroz e outros acessórios reluzentes que, só por milagre ou distracção do Senhor, deixariam as páginas de papel.
Ela bem gostaria de andar na moda, mas só a cunhada, que era uma desbragada que fintara as desgaças da vida e lhe trouxera um conjunto de batons da África do Sul onde elas andavam de mini saia, bebiam como os homens e até já fumavam e tudo, lhe concedia carta de alforria , ainda que por breves instantes, para a terra do sonho. E foi num desses dias em que, por distracção , se atrevera a experimentar a prenda da cunhada diante do espelho gasto e roído de ferrugem, que não dera pela chegada do marido. Contrariado por não haver almoço na mesa e estarrecido pelas cores dos trapos, ficou furibundo quando vislumbrou a imagem fálica do batom esgaçando por entre os dedos, pronto a tomar de assalto os seus lábios ressequidos. Alçou o braço direito e deu-lhe uma palmada com força estilhaçando o batom em pedaços no chão da casa de banho. E então sem pensar, decidira que era altura de romper com o medo que a agrilhoava numa tacanhez e subserviência fora de moda. Ainda ele se preparava para alçar o braço de novo quando levou, violentamente, com um jarrão de loiça de sacavém que custara uns bons cinco kilos de escudos, na cabeça…
Baixou-se para apanhar um coto de batom e , não reprimindo um sorriso, inflou o peito de ar , inclinou-se sobre o espelho e começou, calmamente, a pintar os lábios, percebendo, então, que a diferença entre subserviência e emancipação distava apenas doze pontos bem cosidos na testa do marido pela destreza e perícia do enfermeiro de serviço no posto clínico e que, estar no tom da moda era ousar viver numa liberdade conceptual e estética em que a vida… era o tom…
Texto: Luis Bento
Ilustração: Renato Abreu
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