Gonçalo Tavares - The Neighborhood

Over millions of years, their disdain for the force of gravity — which is an admirable trait — has been expressed in the same way — which has been criticized.

But here is a question that, at first glance, might seem quite absurd: Would modern-day birds know sounds that were unknown to the Archaeopteryx? Would they know new melodies?

This is not, in fact, entirely improbable, thought Mister Calvino, since the modern world was full of new sounds, noises that belonged only to this century or the preceding one: the noise of planes at the moment of take-off or even the noise that we imagine when we see the white streak of a plane that has passed by a while ago in the air; the sounds of typography machines that are so utterly different when they are printing a book of poetry or an essay — as though the machines were well versed in literature! — likewise, the sound when one turns the pages of a twenty-first-century novel, the sound of a Ping-Pong ball escaping four eager but clumsy hands on the floor tiles; the sound of the plastic of a cup that fearlessly falls from a height of three meters and survives, unscathed; or even, for those who paid attention, the sound of the two eyelids of a child who is unsuccessfully trying to master the art of blinking only one eye; in short, thousands of sounds from this century that are undoubtedly heard by the sharp ears of contemporary domestic birds and are then transmitted to wild birds who listen when they pass by a window. Ears that, along with the brain (nothing very refined, but which, despite everything, exists, requires space, functions), ears that then, along with the brain, digest these sounds they hear, and it is no surprise that the sounds they subsequently emit are a result of this digestion, since what is emitted is an effect of what is received — even in birds.

Yes — the contemporary sparrow could say, if it spoke face-to-face with the Archaeopteryx, from 147 million years ago — yes, it’s true that I fly in exactly the same way as you, but I — the sparrow would say — I know new songs.

One Morning

Sometimes, obsessed by methods, Calvino would say, “I am interested in the same thing in many different ways.”

At other times, obsessed by things, “I am interested in many different things in the same way.”

Sometimes, confused, “I am interested at the same time in many different ways in many different things.”

Today, upon awaking, lazy, “I am not interested in anything, however I do this in many different ways.”

He didn’t read, he didn’t write, he didn’t think, he didn’t tell stories, he didn’t mentally work out combinations between things: he sat, looked at his shoes, scratched his head, lay down on the sofa — first all curled up, then stretched out, his head first on one side, then on the other, first on his back, then on his tummy — he got up, went to the kitchen, drank a glass of water, looked out of the window, observed the weather, opened the window, put his hand outside, checked how cold it was, felt the wind, closed the window, straightened the key in a drawer, unbuttoned a button on his shirt, walked around the room, and then once again sat down on the sofa.

Some More News

Calvino opened that day’s newspaper. He became irritated, but not overly so. It had been clear to him for quite some time now: “This isn’t a country, it’s a business.”

Then he skipped to the last few pages, where he read the following news item:

Woman Hit by a Small Meteorite

A 76-year-old-woman was hit by a meteorite (the size of a hazelnut) while in her garden. British scientists believe that the meteorite was part of an asteroid situated between Mars and Jupiter.

“It is interesting to think that the universe, and some of its more distant parts, can have an instinctive flair for mischief, just like a six-year-old child,” thought Calvino. Just like some abominable kids throw water from a second-floor window so as to unerringly land on the bald head of an unfortunate passerby, the universe too has its very own old-fashioned catapult and once in while it entertains itself by launching a stone at a septuagenarian who made the mistake of stepping out of her house to take care of the three roses in her garden.

This wasn’t malice, nor some intimidatory strategy, it was simply the playful instinct of the universe set in motion. Even a remote asteroid has the right to indulge in sporting pursuits, some would say. The more educated ones.

A Letter from Calvino (on Holiday)

My dear Anna, here the fields, with their robust cereals, continue to conceal sexual movements far better than the sounds that result from these activities. There is thus evidently some discordance between sound and its source. And although this pleasure is a pinnacle above and beyond the subtlest sense of touch, it is nonetheless necessary to highlight the agitated pitch of these sounds that become the main interlocutor in the atmosphere, thus bringing — via the wind — a strong flush to the faces of the village women who thought they would be able to watch from the window, but find that after all they are listening instead.

Due to the fertile fields that serve as curtains, in these moments, where young couples get excited like finely tuned instruments, for a deaf man, my dear Anna, the window suddenly becomes useless.

How to Help Pensioners

“An elderly lady,” said Mister Calvino, “a pensioner, who was not agile enough to move forward or backward any quicker, inadvertently got caught in the front door, which had closed thanks to an automatic mechanism that still worked as though it were in the prime of its life. And there was the little old lady, trapped in an uncommonly uncomfortable manner between the inside and the outside of the building. Exactly in the middle.

“And why was she there?” asked Calvino of his interlocutors.

“Simple,” continued Calvino, “after several years of not having had any contact with her neighbor, the lady had unexpectedly been invited to tea. At that time, she had been pleased — everyone appreciates a little attention — but now, with the door jammed right between her shoulder blades, she couldn’t help but feel disturbed.

“She then thought it rather odd that several days had gone by and the owner of the house had not come to find out what had happened to her. And nobody had gone in or out of that vast property and thus the door stayed the way it was, immobile, pressing her body against the iron beam that functioned as the base of the door.

“After a week she began to feel a pain in her head, more precisely at the base of her neck. The door continued to press down on her bones, which were already rather fragile because of her advanced age. It was quite obvious that no one noticed her absence.”

The Spoon

In order to exercise the muscles of his patience, Mister Calvino placed a small coffee spoon beside a huge shovel, a shovel that was usually used in engineering projects. Then, he set himself a nonnegotiable target: a mound of earth (fifty kilos of the world) to be transported from point A to point B — points placed fifteen meters apart.