Porque memórias puxam memórias, Fátima Correia partilha histórias que se cruzam, se entrelaçam, se constroem.... à volta do porto, da pesca, da estiva, do bombote....
Os homens iam para o mar. As mulheres ficavam. À espera do
que o mar levava. À espera do que o mar trazia. Às vezes, quando a faina era
longe, nas águas dos Açores, as mulheres vinham esperá-los no ali mais perto
dos abraços. Vinham de Machico e passavam a noite num quarto grande da casa da
tia, um quarto, assim, ao comprido....
onde dormiam, a lastro, no chão, umas com as outras, na solidariedade da
saudade.
Maria de Fátima vivia naquela casa. Era a casa da tia,
casada com o Meia Noite, uma casa de muitas vozes, de muitas mulheres.
A mãe bordava. Como a maioria. Fazia palas para camisas da
noite e pontos elásticos. Bordava e criava os filhos:
- Nasceram 10 filhos à
minha mãe.
Lembra-se das cestas que as mulheres preparavam com a comida
dos homens. E dos passeios ao Almirante Reis, para ver passar gente....
Conta mais coisas. Mas perde-se, sobretudo nos nomes que a
memória lhe traz. De outras mulheres: a Botica, as Viloas, as Maroas, as Nonos,
a Maria Escala, a Cigarrinha, as Campanárias, as Louras, a Cambita....
Sorri. A cada alcunha pertence uma história. Ou um diz que
disse. Coisas de mulheres. Não conta tudo. Suspende dúvidas no ar. Coisa de
mulheres, também....
Women talk….
One memory
pulls another, just like cherries. Fátima Correia has shared childhood tales
that mingled together and were placed around the port of Funchal, the fishing
village and the people who lived at the seashore.
Men used to
go to sea. Women stayed at home. They waited for whatever news the ocean
brought back. Sometimes, and because fishing had to be done far in the Azores
Islands, women came to Funchal in order to meet them. Some used to come from
Machico and spent the night in Fatima’s aunt house. They slept in a corridor …
on the floor, one next to the other sharing the longings and the suffering.
Maria de
Fátima has lived for a very long time at that house. It belonged to her aunt
who had married a man whose nickname was Midnight. It was a house full of female
voices.
Her mother
embroidered. Just like most of the other women. She used to embroider night
gowns and this is how she raised her children:
-
My
mother gave birth to 10 children.
Fátima also
recalled the lunch baskets women used to carry to her husband’s. And the walking at Almirante Reis, just to see people
pass by…
She told us
about so many things. And sometimes words got in the way.. she has lost memory
about some of the names but still she remembered some of the nicknames: a
Botica, as Viloas, as Maroas, as Nonos, a Maria Escala, a Cigarrinha, as
Campanárias, as Louras, a Cambita....
She smiled
every time she pronounced one of these nicknames. Each one has a story
to tell, or a story to make up. Just like women talk. She did not tell
everything. There were so many silences, so many unspoken words… just like
women talk, too.
