I'm sorry, but I miss the "silly season"

In a world in great turmoil and with Europe in a state of war - until now limited to Ukraine - the desire to publish, as was customary, the nonsense characteristic of this summer season called bathing seems to have disappeared. With this piece of text I simply wanted to express my indignation at this anomalous situation.

What do our Prince Henry the Navigator and the American Steve Jobs have in common or in common? I met them a few days ago in a Lisbon bookstore, side by side, looking at each other with deference: was it just mutual curiosity, or was it simply confirmation of the immense respect each felt for their illustrious and occasional neighbour? After all, no one would dispute that we are dealing with two equally brilliant figures who definitely shook up the rhythms and ambitions of the people of their respective eras.

At its edge, in a reasonably well-lit corner, two other famous figures certainly worthy of mention in any universal “Who’s Who” were talking calmly, without realizing that they were being observed, namely, Vladimir Illich Ulianov and Thomas Edward Lawrence: although it is true that both of them starred, in their own time and circumstances, in a great adventure - thus understanding an apparent harmony -, I was nevertheless left open-mouthed at that peaceful mixture, without visible collateral damage, of oil and water.

I continued, step by step, on this visual journey, and a few centimeters further on, another pair caught my attention: Their Majesties D. João VI of Portugal and Queen Elizabeth II of England, seated on their thrones, congratulated each other on the old friendship between their kingdoms, emphasizing the great benefit of this mutual understanding, despite the clear asymmetry between them: our King could not forget, in particular, the decisive role of the four British Navy ships sent by Admiral Sidney Smith to escort the Portuguese squadron that had transported the royal family, part of the Court, and officials, a total of approximately 11 to 15 thousand people, into the Atlantic, towards Brazil. In this way, French mainmise in the governance of the Kingdom had been avoided. As a curiosity, and according to the interesting book recently published – «D. Carlota Joaquina between duty and transgression»-, Napoleon himself would admit, already in exile in Saint Helena, that D. João was the only monarch to successfully deceive him.

On the opposite wall, and distinguished by his deep and heavy voice, the Gaullist André Malraux was replying to the many questions that his contemporary Federico Garcia Lorca, a meter and a half away, was asking him. I confess that I did not dare approach the two for fear of interrupting their lively conversation, but even so I did not miss the entertaining way in which they were both fulfilling their destiny: if they had previously rebelled against the arbitrariness of the bookseller in the apparently disjointed choice of the place they would henceforth occupy, they soon changed their minds when they realized the precious opportunity that was thus offered to them, to digress in the company of more or less unlikely interlocutors.

The soft music that I soon began to hear came from the bookshelf immediately below where, exceptionally, António Carlos Jobim had left his peaceful public retreat: taking some of his compositions and texts by Vinícius de Moraes, he enchanted his music-loving companions - turned spectators - from those improvised stands. Discreetly among the others, I also recognized the serene and cultured Joaquim Paço d`Arcos, novelist-playwright-essayist and poet: I then guessed the intimate joy he would feel at that moment.

I was leaving that cramped cubicle towards the door to the street, and I heard a loud crash, characteristic of a book-body falling from a high shelf: I immediately went to the scene of the incident and, bending down, picked it up. With a black cover and weighing no more than thirty skeletal pages, I recognized it without difficulty – his long beard being the only thing that stood out – the feared Vladimir Lefimovitch Novikh, that is, the mad Rasputin. However assertive he had been, in the time of the Romanovs, in his apocalyptic prophecies, all that posture had long since disappeared: weak and downcast, he could not even articulate a complete sentence. So I found myself forced to leave him, in his and my disorientation, on the nearest table.

I finally came out and greeted Fernando Pessoa. I told him about my unusual trip, and he replied in a flash: “Travel? To travel, all you have to do is exist! Travel is the travelers: what we see is not what we see, but what we are.” And without further ado, he returned, as if nothing had happened, to his consolidated status as a tourist-municipal statue.

Afterwards, I went down (with) Chiado, and I laughed a lot at the jocular and satirical attacks of our distinguished and Évora poet.