Jesuíno do Amor Divino. That is my name. I am seventy-four years old and, next month, I will be compulsorily retired. For some time now, I have been taking leaves of absence in a kind of pre-retirement. I have ended supervisions, transferred responsibilities, and, from time to time, I teach elective courses and participate in committees to fill gaps with opinions. I can say that I have built a solid career as a university professor: I have taught courses and supervised students at various levels of education, held leadership positions, established national and international partnerships, developed large-scale projects with private companies and the public sector, generated processes and products, and maintained regular publications in congresses, journals, books, and lectures. et al.
And today, at Viracopos Airport in Campinas, after delighting in the moving walkway that took me back to the classroom where I illustrated the advective contribution of transport by the action of the medium's movement, I await the call for my flight to Salvador, where I will deliver my final lecture for an event at the Federal University of Bahia (UFBA). They told me it would be in a special place in Pelourinho. Who knows, good things from Bahia on Christmas Eve. I agreed, and here I am. Before boarding, another nap. My geriatrician reassured me, as this is how the frailty syndrome is, leading to reduced energy that transforms into silly sleepiness. I am touched by a flight attendant, telling me to board. I turn to the side and take the Möbius strip, the mathematical lemniscate that imprints the infinity of my tiredness on my neck, like a tie that matches the navy blue suit, specially tailored for UFBA. In sleep, silence. Enough time to listen to the horde that takes over and sings the dark song of the soul. — Welcome to Salvador International Airport. Don't forget to collect your belongings. Transit passengers, please proceed to Gate X. I head to Gate Y. Someone smiles. I see it's Miguel, a professor at UFBA. He greets me and introduces me to Lúcio, a colleague from the University, but from another department.
Miguel, zealous, takes my arm. Lúcio, talkative, says he will take me to Pelourinho. — Professor, Lúcio begins to speak, Miguel told me about your compulsory retirement. I can imagine: you will receive a watch, but you won't know what to do with the gift. What is the use of something useless? Will an angel flap its wings of melancholy to remind you of what you once were? Will you long for the bygone era, for having been little more and less whole? When night falls, will you implore the moon to keep you intoxicated with stars so you can think that dawn is filled with eternity, and not see the sunrise without planning your lunch break? Allow me to take you to a pleasant place, where worries of this nature cease to exist.
"Lúcio, don't start," Miguel reprimanded him vehemently. "That Miguel and his flaming sword who constantly criticizes me. He's practically trying to take you to Our Lord of Bonfim. Good idea. Shall we go, Jesuíno?" I nodded, as the event in Pelourinho would be in the late afternoon. The neoclassical lines with a rococo facade stand out atop the sacred hill. I get out of the car and am immediately greeted by two women in traditional Bahian attire. They offer me colorful ribbons and a spiritual blessing. I say I will receive the blessing after visiting the church. I enter. I go to the room of miracles. The ex-votos remind me of an email I received from a transplant recipient, thanking me for the results of one of my research projects. This time, I am the one who is grateful, just as I thanked Rafaela and Gabriela—the names of the Bahian women—for the blessings I received, as well as the green ribbon I tied around my wrist.
We headed towards Pelourinho, and Lúcio kept insisting on taking me to seedy bars, while Miguel remained focused. — Pelourinho, Lúcio. And now, Miguel, do you want to take him to the Church of São Francisco? Why not? I paused before the grandeur of that Baroque building. Before I could enter, a lady approached. She stared at me intently, like a scrutinizer of souls. She wanted to sell me ribbons. I pointed to my fist, but still bought another handful. She smiled and asked if Miguel and Lúcio were my sons. I replied no, and she told me about her son. A somewhat utopian story. Boldly, she wanted to know about me. I answered about my neutrino retirement. That's when she retorted: — Yes, everyone will look at you askance in the incredible invisibility of the human being. You will never be the same again.
The past I've created will make me the other I can't even imagine exists. I asked her name, and the answer was Maria. I ask Miguel and Lúcio to leave me alone. I walk. The cobblestones reveal the suffering of misery, beginning with a body wrapped in old newspapers. My eyes feel moist, which I attribute to sweat, a result of Salvador's extreme heat. At the corner of Largo do Pelourinho and Baixa dos Sapateiros, I am approached by a person whose color, sex, and age I cannot define. I perceive them as ragged, disheveled, and covered in wounds. I am speechless and hear: — I am not different. I was born different. You built houses and castles. You conceived schools and stories. You made the world in your own image. But your image does not reflect mine, for I am the spark of light in the shadow that the sun did not illuminate. You create access and call it accessibility, but you do not witness the peculiar gaze of existence. I am, simply, the color that is not glimpsed in the rainbow or the sound that is audible only to dolphins or the sonar of bats. I climb stairs on wheels. I read in the sensitivity of my index finger or in the waves that connect me to a computer and I hear, in a quantum tremor, a voice. I write in crooked lines what only God is capable of understanding. The person approaches and touches me. I wake up. It's the flight attendant, with Lúcio's face, insisting that I board. Meanwhile, in some bar on Rua do Paraíso, Miguel, Rafaela, Gabriela, and Maria meet. — Have a smooth flight and be at peace, says the ragged person from whom I borrowed the name Jesuíno.
This text does not necessarily reflect the opinion of Unicamp.
Cover photo:
