O Neto Chegou com uma Carta

A casa era mais pequena do que o Rodrigo se lembrava. Ou se calhar ele é que estava maior. Ficou à porta com a chave na mão e não a rodou logo. Da última vez que tinha chegado àquela porta, a avó tinha-lhe aberto. Agora ninguém abria nada. Rodou a chave. O corredor cheirava a pó e a alfazema, como as casas velhas cheiram quando estão fechadas há meses.

The house was smaller than Rodrigo remembered. Or maybe he was just bigger. He stood at the front door with the key in his hand and didn't turn it straight away. The last time he'd arrived at this door, his grandmother had opened it. Now nobody opened anything. He turned the key. The hallway smelled of dust and lavender, the way old houses do when they've been closed up for months.

Ele chegava a Évora uma vez por ano, às vezes duas. Sempre atrasado. A avó esperava à janela com a Pinta no colo. Ele chegava à porta e ela já tinha a sopa ao lume. Era o acordo deles. Ele chegava, ela esperava. Tinha funcionado assim durante quinze anos, desde que ele se tinha mudado para Londres. Os vizinhos chegavam a casa às seis e viam-na sentada à janela. "Ainda à espera do rapaz?", perguntavam. "Ele chega sempre", dizia ela. "Mesmo atrasado."

He used to arrive in Évora once a year, sometimes twice. Always late. His grandmother used to wait by the window with Pinta on her lap. He'd arrive at the door and she'd already have the soup on the stove. That was the deal. He arrived, she waited. It had worked that way for fifteen years, ever since he'd moved to London. The neighbours used to arrive at their houses at six and see her sitting by the window. "Still waiting for the boy?" they'd ask. "He always arrives," she'd say. "Even late."