Escritor português contemporâneo, nascido em 1977, na freguesia de Azurém (Guimarães). Licenciado em Línguas e Literaturas Modernas pela Faculdade de Letras da Universidade do Porto, é professor e autor de livros de poesia, contos e crónicas. Venceu o Prémio Revelação de Poesia Ary dos Santos (2001), o Prémio de Conto Maria Irene Lisboa (2009) e o Prémio Nacional de Poesia da Vila de Fânzeres (2001 e 2022). Parte da sua obra foi traduzida para inglês, francês, castelhano, francês, alemão, sueco, dinamarquês, neerlandês, polaco, romeno, servo-croata e arménio.
The girl quickened her pace. The rain would not be long. It was a strange afternoon, a street that stretched endlessly, a people with chill upon their faces. Now and then, whenever a flicker of doubt brushed past her—a loud voice, a hint of menace—she would place her hand gently on her belly: blessed was the fruit that grew there, slowly, unhurriedly, in quiet wonder.
She wore her coat collar turned up, the bag slung across her shoulder, her heart beating wildly. All she wanted was to reach home, slip off her shoes, retreat to her corner, feel the hush and shelter of the walls, the presence of familiar things. There was something umbilical in it all: a promise of comfort, a sense of permanence and peace, a resistance against everything and everyone. It was within herself that she liked to dwell—to imagine the future, to dream it softly, to cradle the child not yet born.
At night, when no one could hear, she would speak to the cat, to the sofa, to the lit lamps—she would speak as one who yearns to be heard: “This child of mine will prevail,” “This little one shall know neither hunger nor want of love,” “No harm shall come to this child—because I will not allow it.”
She trembled when she murmured those words. And she was all courage, all resolve, the very incarnation of a strength she did not know she possessed. And the rain did not fall. And no one came between her and time. And no danger even approached the child she held so close. And she was so slight. And the child, so very small.
Vase with Twelve Sunflowers. Vincent van Gogh, 1888
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Mrs Marshall arranged the sunflowers with the greatest care. In the vase, set upon the oval of the large mahogany table that occupied the centre of the room, they were to appear as innocent and cheerful as in a painting from the late nineteenth century.
“What do you think, dear?”
Mr Marshall offered no comment. He did not so much as glance at the colourful display which, instinctively, stirred in him a sense of unease. Mr Marshall was reading the newspaper with meticulous fingers and eyes.
“There’ll be a war soon!”
Mrs Marshall adjusted the violent yellow that flared within the crystal. No, those sunflowers must seem as innocuous and pure as a child’s toy. When the statesmen sat down around that arrangement, perhaps they might spare a thought for life, for childhood, for those creatures who quietly hold a vital place in our hearts.
“Before the war comes, anything is worth doing to prevent it,” said Mrs Marshall.
Before war comes, everything has always been worth trying to prevent it — so say we.
Fishing for Souls. Adriaen Pietersz van de Venne, 1614
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I crossed the Museumplein as fast as I could toward the Rijksmuseum. Lunch — a hot dog hastily eaten at one of the Hema shops near Vondelpark — was rising in my throat. Heavy showers had fallen earlier in the morning, in stark contrast with the scorching start to that early October afternoon. I had to dodge puddles and splash my face with water before arriving at the office of the curator, Evelijn van Buyten.
“Christiaan, I don’t quite know how to explain this. It’s a strange case. The best thing is to start with a field inspection…”
I was led to the Flemish Masters section on the second floor and placed in front of De zielenvisserij by Adriaen Pietersz van de Venne. Then, in a gesture worthy of a detective, Dr. van Buyten said:
“Please, see if you notice anything unusual here!”
I scanned the painting. The canvas (a masterpiece dated 1614, with the considerable dimensions of 98.5 by 187.8 centimeters) depicts a river densely filled with boats and shipwrecked souls between the overcrowded banks of a typical Dutch polder: on the left, in somber black and beneath leafy trees, the Protestant mob; on the right, more flamboyant and splashed with the red of prelates, a Catholic crowd in the wake of Archduke Albert of Austria.
The fishing for souls is intense, the boats threatening to capsize from the weight. The Pope himself, adorned with his array of symbols, participates in the pious collection of souls. In the background, the only sign of Christian unity, a pale rainbow forms a bridge between the two enemy processions.
“Let me have a closer look…”
I adjusted my glasses, raised the magnifying glass, and carefully reviewed the details. The oil painting, in tones characteristic of the Dutch school, displayed a wide chromatic range from bistre to sky blue. The figures seemed authentic, the Bibles remained open, the beards pointed, the hands piously raised…
“The horsefly, Christiaan!” the curator interrupted impatiently.
Indeed, the horsefly had vanished. I was stunned by my own oversight. The horsefly, which van de Venne had placed like a satirical signature on the greenish waters, was gone.
“Good heavens, we’re dealing with a forgery!”
“You have to see something, Professor,” said the head of security.
“What you’re about to see goes beyond us… It’s simply absurd,” Dr. van Buyten announced.
I was taken to an overheated room, where countless monitors connected to a multitude of surveillance cameras showed the Rijksmuseum’s inner workings. Then, by fast-forwarding footage recorded during the night, they showed me a video clip.
“It starts here,” said Jan Nerrings.
In the computer pixels, a crowd began to move, noisily, on both sides of the river. Heads turned, arms were raised, eyes opened wide, prayers and curses were uttered, oars struck the water, the barges rocked as a wave rippled through the current, the fishermen strained to pull in the naked bodies. Like a film animation, for no more than thirty seconds, the trees swayed and birds crossed the horizon. Then, as the other figures froze once more, the large insect, seemingly weary of its exogenous presence, beat its wings and fled.
Over a remarkable journey, which successive cameras captured, it flew through rooms and corridors of the Rijks, looped and hovered over other masterpieces, and finally headed for an air duct and disappeared.
“From this point on, we can’t see anything else,” Nerrings lamented.
“Absurd, completely absurd…” the curator murmured.
I asked to see the footage again. I reviewed it several times. Then I returned to the canvas. I suspected a prank. A dreadful thought struck me—that I had become trapped inside a solipsistic mind. Perhaps I was dreaming. I could neither confirm nor dismiss any theory. None of it was even remotely plausible.
“Absurd, completely absurd…” repeated Dr. van Buyten, perplexed, inconsolable.
As expected, the event stirred strong passions in the public. That an animal would seek its freedom—even after four centuries—should not surprise us so much, noted an expert in ecology and international law.
