Walking through the center of Liberdade, I noticed that a real estate agency on Rua Galvão Bueno had my surname on its facade: Okada.
I didn't think twice about going in and getting some of his business cards in case I needed proof for anyone who didn't believe me when I jokingly told him that I was now in the real estate business.
But one of the brokers, Ms. Clara, also caught my attention. It's just that she was very similar – if not the same – to one of my aunts (short stature, smile with very narrow eyes, big and beautiful teeth).
I ended up telling him that I was looking for an apartment like this, like this, just so we could talk a little. Because, in my madness, I still wanted to confirm whether or not she was my aunt – she wasn't.
By leafing through two or three thick folders, she found an apartment on Rua Tamandaré – in fact, a studio apartment – which, as she told me, was perfect for me. At that point, I had to accept his invitation to meet him.
When we were about to leave, Ms. Clara stopped. And he told me there was a small problem. Because of the schedule, she would have to go and pick up her grandson, her son's son, who was studying at a small Japanese school, right there, close to the apartment.
"OK everything is fine!" – I said, without understanding his face, suddenly worried.
On the way, she gave me all the information I needed. And, while I went up to meet him, she continued straight, towards the school.
Dona Clara was absolutely right. The place was perfect for me: small, but not too small; reasonable rent and condominium fees; close to interesting places in the city – old center and Avenida Paulista. And, most importantly, a great opportunity to get out of the tiny room that, at the time, I was renting in Bela Vista. I was anxious to close the deal.
Half an hour later, I had to give up waiting for her. I had some commitments. Then I would call the real estate agency the next day. Do what?
I left the key at the entrance and, upon leaving the building, I realized that, in fact, Mrs. Clara was right there, half a block away.
Maybe I hadn't recognized her before, because, in addition to having her back turned to me, she, due to her posture, was dragging something very heavy. And, my, that very heavy something was a boy, a boy: his grandson.
Sitting on the sidewalk, with his little legs stretched out, all he did was complain.
And Mrs. Clara, using a lot of force, pulled him by his backpack and arms, trying to get him to his feet. Sometimes, she even succeeded; but, one turn and another, he always sat down again.
Until, after several attempts, she picked up the small backpack – with a SpongeBob print – and placed it on her back. At first I thought she was going to leave it there!
But that was when she, in her last resort, lifted him and held him like a bag of rice: with just one arm, the hand resting on his waist – like the handle of a mug – and the boy stuck in the middle – who , screaming, moving his legs frantically, as if he were swimming.
Finally, upon arriving at the building, Mrs. Clara placed him back on the ground. And, pointing to him – who was now playing with a tiny insect he had just found – he apologized profusely for the inconvenience. I was quick to tell him that there was no problem. We made a deal and I left.
I don't know... I felt really sorry for her. It's just that, when we said goodbye, she seemed so nervous... so upset... so... so... Crying face, you know?
Maybe, at that moment, I should have helped you with the boy. Or, at least, told him something like:
“Dona Clara... Hey, Dona Clara... Don't be like that... Even though it was so difficult for you to bring your grandson along the half-block route, you didn't need more than a suggestion so that you could convince me to move from a place that is more than three kilometers away, Ms. Clara... Hey, Ms. Clara... You are the best, you know?”
© 2018 Hudson Okada
