How the enigmatic Sueli helped me to know Corsican pirates
Woman crazy about knives and penknives gradually conquers a new friend, to whom she introduces the underground night bars of Bonifacio, Corsica
What's your name, honey? What? Sueli? The first time I heard her name, pronounced with the hiss of a spear that slices through the air, I had the feeling that something didn't quite fit this innocent-looking girl who was talking to the waitress, busy identifying each of the customers at our table. Sueli was new to our group and rarely smiled. When she did, it was a cold smile that, before it even reached her eyes, died at the corners of her mouth.
Sueli was from Rio de Janeiro, a friend of a friend of mine. Or ex, whatever. He, however, never dared to explain further his relationship with her. When the situation called for it, he simply stood as silent as a tomb, staring into space. Soon after, someone would always change the subject, embarrassed. Why make Moacir sad? He's such a sweet boy!
Shortly after meeting Sueli at the bar, the two of us ran into each other one day by chance in downtown Rio, in front of the Rei das Facas store, on Rua da Carioca. She looked enraptured in front of the window shop full of pocketknives and knives. The blades, all very well polished, gleamed, artistically arranged on a green card, already a little yellowed at the edges. The store smelled of neglect, but customers came and went in a steady stream. Only Sueli could not decide to enter. "Beautiful, aren't they?" I asked. She, who was startled to see me, looked at me suspiciously and answered dryly: "Yes". "Do you come to buy a pocketknife?" "No, I'm just looking." I tried to put an end to that embarrassing situation by commenting: "I was just going to Vesúvio to buy an umbrella", and said goodbye. A few meters away, before entering the umbrella shop, I stopped to have a look. Sueli was still there, admiring the window shop with the same intense gaze as before. I shrugged my shoulders, like someone caught in a cold draft, and, forgetting about the pocketknives, I concentrated all my attention on choosing the color of my new umbrella.
Years later we met again. This time, leaning against the stone parapet on the way to the citadel, I was admiring the stunning yachts moored in the bay of Bonifacio, Corsica, when suddenly I heard a familiar voice approaching me. "Je m'apelle Ssssueli", she said. After the usual small talk, we agreed to have dinner together the next day.
I arrived at the restaurant early, discouraged. I had planned to buy a penknife for my French friend, who likes to pick mushrooms from the bush near his house. One of those wonderful pocketknives from “Les Terrasses d’Aragon” cutlery, located on Doria street. But after spending half an hour scouring the entire store before finally settling on a knife with a carved wooden handle, and another half hour trying to get the store clerk's attention, I left the store with my pockets empty. I had to surrender to the evidence: the seller, an evil woman, with dark complexion and the hard face of a pirate, refused to sell me the knife in question. When I told this story to Sueli during dinner, a moonlight of recognition lit her eyes. "Tomorrow we'll go back to this store together to buy your knife." No sooner said than done.
The next day, in the morning, we went back to the shop on Doria street. Once there, she asked me to give her the money and wait outside. I watched in amazement as she entered the store full of tourists, was promptly attended to and left with my knife wrapped in her hand in less than 15 minutes. “Here,” she told me, “the saleswoman told me about a bar located in a basement, here in the citadel, where only locals go, no tourists. Let's go there tonight?"
That same night, the enigmatic Sueli and I went to the bar. I dressed all in black, my eyes covered by an extravagant black eyeshadow and lots of khol, and my penknife stuffed in my pocket. Ready to meet my future new friends.
Voltar