"Há no meu bairro um relojoeiro, homem de idade, alto, magro, de cabeleira branca revoltada e bigodes crestados e pendentes.
Vejo todos os dias o vulto do relojoeiro, à luz da lâmpada, na cave da calçada que vira para o cemitério. Pergunto-lhe as horas. Resposta infalivel:
- Horas de viver!
Sorri um sorriso fechado pelo cachimbo ao canto da boca, carrega no botão de uma caixinha a seu lado, e a música irrompe.
- É bonito mas estou com pressa.
- Horas de viver! Oiça só até ao fim esta musiquinha. São violinos!
Às vezes cismo como será que ao relojoeiro não falta trabalho? Sítio tão afastado da estrada, ele sozinho, velho, e nem uma tabuleta a assinalar-lhe a arte. A verdade, contudo, é que nunca o vi desocupado. de manhã à noite de cabeça curvada, monóculo comprido, mãos quase tão brancas como os cabelos, leves e lentas, o homen disseca ventres de relógios minúsculos, retoca algarismos romanos em antigos quadrantes, atarraxa molas, equilibra pesos. E também nunca lhe vi clientes. Chego a fantasiar que ele trabalha para os mortos ou para os deuses. Mas, se os relógios medem tempo...
Misterioso o velhote. A Loja um museu. Por todo lado relógios: de cuco, despertadores, de parede, de pulso, de bolso, e até de sol, e até de areia. Todos, porém, parados e cobertos de pó."
Maria Ondina Braga
English Translation: dedicated to someone special, a special warm thank you to the Blue Prince
In my neighbourhood there is a watchmaker, he is an elder man, tall, slim, with a white twigged hair wig, and wiggled moustache.
Everyday, I see the watchmaker’s figure, in the light of the street lamps, down the end of the road that turns towards the cemetery. I ask him for time. He responds infallibly:
- It’s time to live!
I smiled a closed smile through the pipe at the corner of my mouth, the watchmaker presses the button of a small box that was next to him, and music pops up.
- It’s lovely but I am in a rush.
- It’s time to live! Just listen to this music till the end. Its violins!
Sometimes I wonder why the watchmaker always has work to do. It’s a place so distant from the road, all by himself, an old fellow, and not a single board sign indicating his art. However the truth is I never saw him unoccupied. From morning till dawn with his head curved down, long monocle, hands as white as his hair, light and slow, the man dissects the insides of tiny watches, retouches the roman numerals in ancient dials, anthraxes gadgets, and sorts out balances. And also I have never seen a client around. I find myself fantasizing that he works for the dead or for the gods. But, if clocks measure time…
Mysterious the old man. The store a museum. There are clocks everywhere:
cuckoo-clock, alarm clocks, wall clocks, wrist clocks, pocket clocks, and even sundial, and even sand clocks.
Yet , all of them, were still and covered with dust.
Everyday, I see the watchmaker’s figure, in the light of the street lamps, down the end of the road that turns towards the cemetery. I ask him for time. He responds infallibly:
- It’s time to live!
I smiled a closed smile through the pipe at the corner of my mouth, the watchmaker presses the button of a small box that was next to him, and music pops up.
- It’s lovely but I am in a rush.
- It’s time to live! Just listen to this music till the end. Its violins!
Sometimes I wonder why the watchmaker always has work to do. It’s a place so distant from the road, all by himself, an old fellow, and not a single board sign indicating his art. However the truth is I never saw him unoccupied. From morning till dawn with his head curved down, long monocle, hands as white as his hair, light and slow, the man dissects the insides of tiny watches, retouches the roman numerals in ancient dials, anthraxes gadgets, and sorts out balances. And also I have never seen a client around. I find myself fantasizing that he works for the dead or for the gods. But, if clocks measure time…
Mysterious the old man. The store a museum. There are clocks everywhere:
cuckoo-clock, alarm clocks, wall clocks, wrist clocks, pocket clocks, and even sundial, and even sand clocks.
Yet , all of them, were still and covered with dust.
Jorge Correia Orfão
In my neighbourhood there is a watchmaker, he is a tall, thin elder man, with a white twigged hair, and a drooping moustache.
Everyday, I see the watchmaker’s figure, in the light of the street lamps, down in the cellar below the road that turns towards the cemetery. I ask him for the time. He responds infallibly:
- It’s time to live!
He smiles a closed smile through the pipe at the corner of his mouth, the watchmaker presses the button on a small box that is next to him, and music busts up.
- It’s lovely but I am in a rush.
- It’s time to live! Just listen to this music till the end. Its violins!
Sometimes I wonder how the watchmaker always has work to do. It’s a place so distant from the road, all by himself, an old fellow, and not a single sign board indicating his art. However the truth is I never saw him unoccupied. From morning till dawn with his head bent down, long monocle, hands as white as his hair, light and slow, the man dissects the insides of tiny watches, retouches the roman numerals on ancient dials, tightens springs, and balances weights. And also I have never seen a customer either. I find myself fantasizing that he works for the dead or for the gods. But, if clocks tell time…
Mysterious the old man. The store a museum. There are clocks everywhere: cuckoo-clocks, alarm clocks, wall clocks, wrist watches, pocket watches, and even sundials, and hour glasses. Yet, all of them were stopped and covered with dust.
Everyday, I see the watchmaker’s figure, in the light of the street lamps, down in the cellar below the road that turns towards the cemetery. I ask him for the time. He responds infallibly:
- It’s time to live!
He smiles a closed smile through the pipe at the corner of his mouth, the watchmaker presses the button on a small box that is next to him, and music busts up.
- It’s lovely but I am in a rush.
- It’s time to live! Just listen to this music till the end. Its violins!
Sometimes I wonder how the watchmaker always has work to do. It’s a place so distant from the road, all by himself, an old fellow, and not a single sign board indicating his art. However the truth is I never saw him unoccupied. From morning till dawn with his head bent down, long monocle, hands as white as his hair, light and slow, the man dissects the insides of tiny watches, retouches the roman numerals on ancient dials, tightens springs, and balances weights. And also I have never seen a customer either. I find myself fantasizing that he works for the dead or for the gods. But, if clocks tell time…
Mysterious the old man. The store a museum. There are clocks everywhere: cuckoo-clocks, alarm clocks, wall clocks, wrist watches, pocket watches, and even sundials, and hour glasses. Yet, all of them were stopped and covered with dust.
Jorge Correia Orfão
(reviewed by:Hilary Owen)
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