Era uma manhã de sexta-feira em que as águas desciam torrencialmente sobre a cidade, fechando o verão.
Época em que os celulares ainda não tinham invadido o País, e em que as pessoas desfilavam nas ruas com brincos, pulseiras e relógios de ouro.
O sujeito entrou no ônibus, acompanhado de um rapazola, carregando uma mochila fina e comprida, donde se podia perceber um volume grosso e comprido em seu interior. Afora um olhar curioso que estendia volta e meia a todos os passageiros, não me pareceu que o indivíduo oferecesse algum perigo.
A viagem continuou até que minguaram os passageiros, estando, agora, todos assentados. E foi nesse intervalo de tempo, e próximo ao ponto que eu haveria de descer, que o indivíduo, repentinamente, ergueu-se da cadeira, postou-se de frente para todos, abriu a mochila, retirou uma grande e grossa vela e dois revólveres, e começou um bailado grotesco, mirando para o motorista e ao mesmo tempo para todos os passageiros, ordenando que um por um colocasse dentro da sua mochila: relógios, carteiras, pulseiras e toda espécie de valor que visualizava nos presentes – “oferecida” a cada passageiro pelo seu comparsa, como se fosse sacolinha de igreja na hora do ofertório. Os mais resistentes eram surpreendidos pelo sujeito da sacola que, rapidamente, arrancava-lhes do pescoço, orelhas e braços tudo que lhe fosse negado.
Eu, como não portava nada no corpo, por ser macaco velho, fui obrigado a tirar a minha camisa, porque o sujeito que estava na frente achou que ela serviria para dar, ao seu corpo, ares de festa, vestindo-a imediatamente, sob a proteção do comparsa que se apoderou das armas.
Isso tudo se passou em poucos minutos, com o ônibus andando, já que a primeira ordem dada ao motorista era de que seguisse viagem, em velocidade média, e não parasse para ninguém.
E não é que depois de a mochila já estar recheada, o sujeito da frente pisca para o “ajudante” que, numa fração de segundos, retira um isqueiro, ergue a grossa vela e a acende, enquanto o outro berra para todos:
– O negócio é o seguinte, cambada: Hoje é o meu aniversário e prometi a mim mesmo que muita gente boa vai cantá um “parabéns pra você” pra mim. Nunca tive isso na vida, de maneira que quero todo mundo bateno palma e cantano alto, senão, vou desejá “muitos anos de morte” pra neguinho desobediente.”
E, grotescamente, me vi obrigado a cantar parabéns para um sujeito que eu desejava que estivesse no “outro mundo”.
Antes de chegarmos ao “muitos anos de vida”, o motorista deu uma forte brecada, derrubando o sujeito sobre a arma que disparou e o “apagou” juntamente com a chama da grande vela.
Confesso que não me incomodei ao ver a minha camisa novinha com um buraco no meio.
Foi aquele alvoroço: o rapazola desceu apavorado, pois a multidão partiu em seu encalço.
Que Deus tenha compaixão de mim, porque, ao ver o sujeito pronto para o velório, com vela e tudo, arrematei:
– Vai comemorar a morte no inferno, seu infeliz!
Sem camisa, indo em direção ao trabalho, eu não queria acreditar que aquele dia fosse 1º de abril!
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