Carioca da gema, fluminense doente, amante do Salgueiro, Dionísio era pura alegria. Dado a festas, muitos amigos e rodadas de cervejas em seu barraco, sempre foi rodeado por muitos: interesseiros e amigos verdadeiros.
Casou-se com a companheira de farra, dez anos mais velha do que ele, mas com vigor jovial para as madrugadas. Não tiveram filhos. Moravam em um barraco, no Bairro do Andaraí, ladeado de algumas casinhas, propriedade da família dele. Sócio do irmão, numa empresa de contabilidade, num entrevero, desfez o laço profissional juntamente com o sanguíneo e nunca mais se falaram. Com a irmã, que morava sozinha, na casa melhorzinha, na entrada do cortiço, não foi diferente: inimigos para sempre. Os parentes da esposa, ignorantes dos motivos que levaram Dionísio a esta solidão familiar, concluíam que a culpa não era dele. Homem despojado, mão aberta, alegre e amigo de todos não tinha o perfil de um egoísta, interesseiro e ambicioso. Logo, foi uma vítima da ambição familiar. Tanto que muito se fez para retirá-lo do pequeno barraco em que morava com a esposa, incomodados que ficavam os parentes com as amizades e as festanças que adentravam a madrugada.
Porém, a bondade de Dionísio tinha limites. Permitir que lhe tirassem o pouco do nada que possuía era desaforo. Bateu o pé e ficou. Ainda com as caras fechadas, os desaforos, as indiretas, enfim todo o mau-olhado de que ele e a esposa eram vítimas, espalhados pelo bairro pelas fofoqueiras de plantão.
Seu único e maior desejo era morar em Botafogo. Aquilo é que era bairro. Não afetado como Copacabana, nem perigoso como a área do Andaraí em que morava. Para ele, o Rio se resumia no Bairro do Botafogo. O Cristo Redentor de frente e de braços abertos abençoando Botafogo. Achava-o um bairro alegre, bonito, de gente bonita. Combinava com ele. E sempre dizia aos amigos: “um dia, ainda racho em definitivo pra Botafogo. Podem escrever.”
Cândida, a esposa, negava o nome. Deixara o interior mineiro ainda no final da adolescência com o propósito de estudar e trabalhar para sobreviver. Também, porque a vidinha pacata no interior, cujo cotidiano resumia-se à escola, trabalhos domésticos, missa e cama, abortando o resto da noite, após às 21h – hora em que todos já se encontravam nos braços de Morfeu –, não combinavam nem um pouco com a sua personalidade ativa, festeira e aventureira, fato que lhe custou pitos diários dos pais.
Na cidade maravilhosa, fez muita coisa, menos estudar. Até que conheceu Dionísio e nunca mais se separaram.
Na casa dos sessenta, a cirrose apareceu. Dionísio, na dos cinquenta, e apaixonado pela mulher, resolveu que era hora de dar um basta na bebida. Parou para dar o exemplo. A mulher continuou. Ele não acabou com as reuniões em sua casa, mas acabou com a bebida que as acompanhava. Os amigos que fossem jogar cartas, como sempre, porém, no “seco”, ou à base do cafezinho, quiçá, chá ou refrigerante. Os interesseiros debandaram, só ficaram os amigos. E esses são pouquíssimos, principalmente, depois que Cândida passou a ficar de cama, exigindo cuidados. Mas ela não parou de beber. Escondida do marido, armazenava uma cachacinha num vidro de perfume, num pote de maionese… onde fosse possível ludibriá-lo. Aos setenta, faleceu. O marido custou a remexer as coisas da esposa. Saudoso, não tinha coragem de levantar lembranças. Mas urgia que se desfizesse das coisas dela para amenizar a saudade, afastando recordações que lhe doíam.
Um dia, na cozinha, procurando determinado vasilhame, surpreendeu-se: no fundo de um armário, uma velha garrafa térmica que não parecia vazia pelo peso. Abriu-a e o cheiro de pinga exalou.
Dionísio continuou mantendo a vidinha de sempre, rodeado de pouquíssimos amigos, dentre eles a velha Maria que, duas vezes por semana, lavava-lhe a roupa, ajeitava o pequeno barraco e sempre deixava uma comidinha pronta para ele ir passando os dias.
Dez anos depois do falecimento da esposa, Dionísio agora, na casa dos setenta, é mais ainda cauteloso, principalmente, quando uma forte dor no peito o levou rápido para um hospital público. Por sorte, Maria estava por perto.
Constatado o problema de coração, Dionísio ia aos poucos se despojando do pouco que tinha. Como não tinha filhos, mas uma grande afinidade com os parentes da esposa, avisava-lhes do que um dia herdariam com a sua morte. O pequeno barraco já estava prometido em cartório à filha de Maria que tanto o ajudou.
Foi numa quarta-feira de cinzas, após a festejadíssima vitória da sua escola de samba preferida, Salgueiro, que Dionísio teve um ataque do coração.
Maria, que, agora, diariamente, visitava o amigo, cozinhando e arrumando o seu cantinho, deu com Dionísio caído no quarto. Chamou os amigos que o conduziram ao hospital.
Dionísio ainda respirava, mas não voltou mais. Dois dias depois, estava morto.
Ao recolher os documentos de Dionísio para as providências do enterro, Maria dá com o bilhete pregado por dentro da porta do guarda-roupa: “em caso de falecimento, jazigo número…. Cemitério São João Batista. Bairro do Botafogo.”
Enfim, vestido com a camisa do Fluminense e deitado na cama-de-madeira coberta com a bandeira do Salgueiro, Dionísio estava eternamente em Botafogo, ao lado de ilustríssimos vizinhos: Nelson Rodrigues, Arthur Bernardes, Janete Clair, Machado de Assis…!
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