My small town of Pompeu always had a few folk types who stood out in the crowd. Maybe they’re something like the “court jesters” of the Middle Ages, the way they make people laugh. But in reality many of them, despite their lack of schooling, were well respected for their wisdom.
They are too many to count on my fingers – so many were well known. Some were interactive, like Coreba, and others remain solitary and unknown like Cardinador. I still want to write about these popular wise men.
Today I want to talk about my dear uncle Pedro, with whom I had little contact and even so when I was a little child, maybe 6 or 7 years old. But my mother, his sister-in-law, loved to tell of the cases involving him.
Uncle Pedro was a tailor by profession, but who kept the house going was his wife, Aunt Bernardina, who made simply the best savory fried pastry in the world. I have never eaten anything like it.
As a tailor, it was expected that Uncle Pedro would be a better dressed man. But, the popular saying, “Shoemakers children are the worst shod” was well applied in his case. He always wore the same old stained black jacket. He had a full stock of hair, but rarely combed it, which gave him a primitive aspect.
According to the people’s oral tradition of that town, one afternoon he was walking home with an especially large bulge in his pocket as he passed by the “police blitz” that a sergeant and two soldiers accustomed to set up in the town center. In the times of “strong” governments, the police acted with strong truculence. He then, in serious tone, reportedly said:
– This weapon I have here, no policeman will take from me!
The Sergeant became intrigued and directed bluntly to him:
– What weapon are you packing there, mister?
He repeated while bursting in laughter:
– A weapon to kill hunger. A weapon to kill hunger.
The soldiers and onlookers all laughed together.
Another notorious type was “Sir” Jacinto, who, an old man then, earned the nickname Tiambá Muxiba (Bush Wreck), which nobody had the courage to speak in his presence. Both resembled each other in a rustic and bedraggled aspect.
One day when Tiambá was walking down the street, Uncle Pedro made a bet with his friends all gathered at the door of a bar that he would call him by his nickname, thus generating great anticipation and disbelief.
Tiambá walked over and as he was approaching Uncle Pedro, he greeted him in front of everyone:
-Good afternoon, namesake!
Tiambá responded to the greeting, but intrigued he asked:
– How can we be namesakes if my name is Jacinto and yours is Pedro?
To which Uncle Pedro answered in disguised irony:
– It’s because the folks here at the bar call me Tiambá…
Needless to say, no one had the courage to laugh.
Another one from Uncle Pedro with the military police was on an occasion when the entire detachment had been replaced. They had arrested a drunk and proceeded to violently grill him. Meanwhile, all passers-by stood immobile watching.
Uncle Pedro in his black suit voiced:
If that were me, I wouldn’t put up with a beating like that…
One of the soldiers who forcibly shook and bucked the prisoner stopped abruptly and walked boastfully up to the old man:
– Oh you wouldn’t, would you? And what would you do about it?
Uncle Pedro with the answer on the tip of his tongue:
– I’d drop dead, because I am very weak and sick these days…
And he continued with a serious face while the men in uniform continued their truculent ritual in front of the frozen audience.
Related Articles
Comments