Eles chegaram num caminhão, desceram com a grande escada, a serra e todos os apetrechos necessários. Eram três homens. Tocaram meu interfone e pediram que eu retirasse o carro que estava estacionado em frente. Era para evitar acidente.
Ao me dirigir ao carro, dei com os três armados em frente à árvore.
Era uma árvore gigantesca, talvez, centenária. Informaram-me de que se tratava de uma Saboneteira, árvore cujas sementes são usadas para fazer sabão e contas de colares.
Questionei-lhes o porquê da derrubada. Disseram-me que o morador constatara, junto com um engenheiro, que o pé da árvore estava infestado de cupins, o que poderia causar um grave acidente.
De repente, ao contemplar a árvore, vejo uma casa de joão-de-barro construída entre dois troncos. Já estava pronta.
Imediatamente, peço a eles que não comecem a trabalhar a serra antes de retirar a casinha.
_ Deem-me a casinha inteira. Soa não como uma ordem, mas uma súplica.
Os três param e me encaram. Talvez, não acreditem que às 7h30 de uma manhã de outono, travestida ainda de verão do mês de abril, ensolarada, aos 24º, uma mulher, levando filhos para a escola, atrase a saída para se preocupar com uma casa de joão-de-barro. Mas, imediatamente, providencio para que meu filho mais velho leve a irmã à escola, enquanto tento transferir a moradia do pássaro.
_ Por favor, não deixem a casinha quebrar. Retire-a delicadamente, que vou colocá-la em uma árvore dentro do meu jardim.
Os funcionários da prefeitura entendem perfeitamente o meu pedido, embora me informem que, uma vez tocada, os pássaros não mais a habitarão. Sentem cheiro de invasores, temem se tornarem prisioneiros…
Mesmo assim, peço a casinha, na esperança de que, passado o tempo, banhada a casa pela chuva retirando o toque humano, o pássaro volte a habitá-la.
Colocam a extensa escada apoiada à árvore, e um deles vai escalando-a, E eis que vejo o proprietário da casinha parado em seu topo, demarcando o seu espaço.
Peço ao funcionário que não o assuste. Suba devagar.
Paciente, o rapaz me ouve, e sobe lentamente, até que a sua sombra, embaçando o sol, espanta o pássaro que pousa num fio do poste próximo à árvore e observa o homem da prefeitura retirando o seu lar, construído com a paciência de quem, mesmo não sabendo o que é esperança, não desiste. Sob o sol, a chuva e o vento, diariamente, vai longe buscando os gravetos, o barro, incansavelmente até dá-lo por terminado. É o ninho, o aconchego e proteção dos filhotes e da fêmea.
Ao retirar com cuidado a casa por inteiro, peço que desça devagar, a fim de que o pássaro veja onde a depositaremos, na esperança de que ele não perca a esperança de tê-la inteira novamente, ainda que ele não saiba o que seja esperança…
E, então, eu a recebo das mãos do funcionário, que agradeço comovida. Pesada, perfeita, benfeita. Verdadeira obra de artista!
Com passos lentos, olhando constantemente para o pássaro que permanece no fio, tento-lhe mostrar que sou amiga, não vou destruir sua casa, tampouco transformá-la em armadilha para prendê-lo, e, então, escolho a árvore mais próxima da rua, mesmo dentro do meu jardim. A árvore, embora demarcada pela grade da casa, abre-se ao céu, sem telhado circundando-a, é a mais alta e com tronco mais grosso, capaz de suportar ventos e tempestades, sustentando a casa, e, deposito com cuidado a casinha entre um nó de tronco, mais no alto, protegida dos gatos, dos homens, e, como criança, olho para o pássaro ao mesmo tempo que, com o dedo, aponto-lhe a casa.
Os dias passam e não vejo mais o pássaro.
Certa noite, a chuva cai, e, na manhã seguinte, ao abrir a porta que dá para o jardim, para a minha alegria, eis que vejo um joão-de-barro no topo da sua casinha, demarcando espaço, bicando-a, talvez, como um beijo de alegria, e percebo o começo do que parecia ser um fim…
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