Short Story
I Can’t Remember
A short story on lost memories
I can’t remember Edros. But I know that it was my grandfather’s hound when I was a baby. It was a huge rottweiler. There are pictures of me, sitting on the window, by the side of grandpa Paulo, with my mother inside of the house holding my waist, as I fed Edros (outside of the house) some treats. There must be a videotape with a recording of myself walking with the help of a baby walker through the backyard with Edros around — probably behind some sort of fence.
I don’t remember the house where my grandparents lived when I was born — in a year they moved to an apartment. I don’t know what happened to Edros when they moved. But I remember being in the living room of that house: the furniture made of wood that, in my mind, have a mid-century modern style. It’s probably because all of the photographs in my baby albums were taken there. That’s why I imagine that house without a door or an entrance gate.
I can’t remember my great-grandma Celina. But I know that when I was a child (I should be around three years old or less), I would make faces at her when I’d visit her on the bedroom she would sleep at my grandpa’s house (and, afterwards, at the apartment). As her memories and perceptions were starting to entangle, she would complain about my grimaces and say that I didn’t like her. I remember feeling guilt when my parent’s told me that story, for I did like her.
Sometimes, grandma Lena or my mother would recreate my great-grandma’s recipe: X-Celina. It was bread stuffed with minced meat and boiled eggs; baket at the oven. That was one of the recipes inherited by my Family; another one was great-aunt Nido’s chocolate mousse, she is our official confectioner.
I can’t remember that one of the owners of the nursery I used to stay used to call me “My sweet prince”; and that she liked me to put me in a cardboard box that she’d glided through the corridors. I don’t remember Alex pulling Oswald’s hair. I was told all of that.
I can’t remember what gave me the reputation of being mischievous — beside the fact that I was very lively and extroverted. The obvious choice for a wordplay with my name, Pedro Alves, would adding “Cabral” to it; but ultimately I was often called Pedro “da Arte”¹. That’s why I sign my name under pedro a duArte.
I can’t remember the day I’ve met my best-friend Porto. I’ve spent more than a decade by her side and I simply cannot remember how our first interaction went. I know we became friends because she befriended Marina and I was friend’s with Marina first.
But I do remember a day on Elementary School, our teachers put us together for an assignment. I’ve erased from my memories what task we should be doing, but I do remember making her laugh with silly jokes and pretending that our sweater’s arms were telephone wires.
I actually remember a lot of stories with Porto. Of all of the times that I dragged her to see Denise Fraga onstage; that she would never miss a school play where I was acting; of that year when she was also in the school play with me; I remember our arguments and fights, I remember our afternoons together playing Age of Empire or Wii Sports; of the weekends she comes to visit me at São Paulo. I could probably write a novel of our friendship.
NOTES:
¹ In Portuguese, the word “arteiro” is used to describe a mischievous kid, a troublemaker. That’s because the world “arte” is often used to refer to the kid’s mischievous acts. So, the wordplay with my last name “Duarte” transformed to “da Arte” would ruffly translate as “Troublemaking Pete” or “Mischievous Pete”. Now, as I sign my last name as “duArte” I’m reclaiming the nickname as “Artistic Pete”.
This short story was originally written in Portuguese for “A Memória como Matéria Prima da Literatura”, a creative-writing workshop taught by Ingrid Fagundez at A Escrevedeira.
You can read the original story in Portuguese here:
