The Matuto and the Jacaranda
Matuto likes the jacaranda. By the way, like any Lisbon. Now, here in the ‘House of Bridges’ the flowers are sacred. Matuto’s kind wife, Dona Sirlei, watches over the garden with the dedication of a Tibetan monk. And the passure thanks. Especially the hummingbirds that every morning make their chopped flights on the favorite flowers, drinking from the drinking fountain that Dona Sirlei offers. Always shaking the wings.
This veneration does not seem to dwell in the pace of the Lisbon Council. On the contrary, the murderous laivs march until October 5 with the intention of « slaughtering » jacaranda. Joana Amaral Dias writes with mastery on the subject hereciting Eugénio de Andrade: « The Jacarandas announce the summer and flanks the gates of paradise. » Matuto cries the (possible) death of the jacaranda because it shares the feeling that took over the soul of Clara Pinto Correia when he wrote; « Leave everything they have in their hands, come to the window, hearts up, rejoice, and Exulti. Wake up, people who sleep, see that Violet has already been tung from the city in serene explosions.1 This text is a hymn to the Jacarandás that all summer principles bloom without hesitation in the streets of Lisbon.
Matuto knows from a safe source that the height of this botanical phenomenon will take place between June 11 and 15. As if the rosewoods had an internal alarm clock that warns of the time to wake up. This awakening is received with joy and charm by the Lisbon. The Matuto is on top of the secrets of history and is in a position to say that the Lisbon Jacarandas are centenary. They traveled in the ships of the ships. Emigrants from Brazil brought some legs that buried on Luso soil. In the north, with the bad shape of the climate, they would be. However, in Lisbon, in areas such as Eduardo VII Park, the Torre de Belém Zone, on the slopes of Largo do Rato to Santos, Miradouro (Mirante, Brazil, please) from São Pedro de Alcântara, Rua Ferreira Borges in Campo de Ourique, and wave behind Av. Da Liberdade or hidden in the Alto neighborhood. And, all summers, with the punctuality of a Swiss clock, these Lisbon Jacarandas explode in flower. It’s beautiful, crazy, very purple! (The Matuto returns to the superlatives!)
Well! The Matuto has an authentic fascination with the jacaranda. They have an internal pruning system that ingeniously forms buttons only at the ends of the branches, and human gardening will only obliterate the fire fire that will rigorously burst. Before the moment marked by the “time clock”, we can pass under the jacaranda, blowing warm winds to try to disturb them. No result! The Matuto has already done the experience… The tree looks numb, forgotten from the world, no end by end if it gets to it… numb, stagnant, modern. And suddenly, in a beautiful morning it is a spat of light. A breath of color. What a secret dawn bichanated: ‘It’s time to wake up!’ What a divine finger caressed to the mildness of its dolente bodies! Every year, at the same time, the alarm clock of the Jacarandás and Lisbon is tigned with purple. The Matuto Exulta.
However, the Matuto consults the text by Clara Pinto Correia and learns that the Lisbon Jacarandas are all brothers, out of the same pernada (foot, in Brazil please) that “one day he has escaped unharmed from the long Atlantic crossing journey”. This consanguineous periphery will seriously have limited the reproduction capacity of the rosewhere. They reward, waving to insects, with their spampanic colors. Here in Brazil, there are pink, blue, purple, white, yellow and even green trees. The green/yellow of Brazil. The Matuto also learns that the Jacarandas « measure, attentive, the number of hours that pass with temperatures above a particular platform. For example, twenty degrees. » In their bulge they have a “tuned klepsidra” – (the matuto is not only in their predilection by the superlatives). Silent, apparently quiet, all Lisbon Jacarandas await. The decreasing count (regressive, in Brazil, please) begins. 10, 9, 8… May rains arrive. 7, 6, 5… The days begin to grow. 4, 3, 2… Tropical temperatures face. Through the corners, squares, streets, courtyards, walls and gardens of Lisbon, the rosewhere suspend their breath. Then you hear the starting shot. Suddenly, one tree, the rosewhere explode in flower. Formidable. Splendid. Sublime.
The Matuto spy through the ‘House of Pontes’ window and stumbles with a rosewood (maybe an ipê). Because of the sympathetic climate, your pink flower lasts three months ago. It is a generous tree that fills the Matuto with abundant joy. And, sneaking the longing for Lisbon invades the matuto. I miss the tree. A purple tree.
- In “Natural Stories”, Clara Pinto Correia, Editions The Jornal, 1988, p. 85.
