A week ago I stopped everything and went to my kid’s kindergarten Children’s day picnic. Wise decision. When I speak about my work, I dread the thought of you thinking that in any way I complain. It’s just that in this line of duty, we might be great in avoiding boredom and routine; but we pay a huge toll in disappointment, absence and injustice. When we vent most people forget about that context. Thus the somewhat crazy and unfair idea about the artists’ working or professional life which are virtually unknown to anyone outside the business.
Anyway, I plan to write more about that subject later on the blog, but it’s time to stop everything again. Back to the woods, then. We were the first ones to arrive but we’re parked at a wrong place, but after some u-turns at the hill and some phone calls with Fausto’s teacher, we were there. Up a small hill, take a left: paradise. Children running freely, games being played, simple food, simple pleasures, smiles, screams, momentary tears and plenty of tantrums. We pulled, skipped, hung the rope. We played football with a Paw Patrol ball until it blew up from so many kicks into the bushes’ thorns. I had small talk with really small girls. They told me about their costumes. The boys wanted me on their team. I was the biggest person in there. My kid far from being jealous, he shared me more easily than he shares his toys. He knew that in the end, he will be the one I will carry on my lap, asleep for his much-deserved nap after so much commotion, play, dispute and companionship from those smaller humans, his equals.
Many of you might not envisioning me doing this stuff. Perhaps, that’s the inner child let loose in a fair context, devoid of further interpretation than an innocent holding of the hand or a zip from your Pepsi. In common, all of them, except Fausto, called me: Fausto’s dad. In Portuguese, o pai do Fausto. And I have never ever been called such a sweet and meaningful name before.
Today I woke up with him again. We came down for milk and pampering and we found out our sweet little cat dead on the kitchen floor. She was sick and old and we decided to spare her the torture of a painful veterinarian treatment. The shock. She died in her sleep, as peacefully as she could. At least, that. She was with my wife for more than 15 years and in many ways she knows, knew, her better. She loved Sónia. Real love like staring and “miaowing” when she came into the room. She loved no else like her owner. She was okay with me and Fausto. She was beautiful. Black. It is a sad day.
Not only because (and yes time will heal and everything will be relative then) the cat died, but also because it was the first time Fausto saw death. He was actually the first to tell me: “Daddy, she is dead.” And he cried a honest cry. So did I, the Wolf that promised himself never to mourn again for pets, who thinks he understands death, who saw actual people dying already with his own eyes. No chance, it was like a reflex. We hugged and stood silent as Sonia made her heart-breaking goodbyes.
Real life caught on and I am back in the studio with the guys. Fernando from Moonspell. Even tough nobody calls me that in here. We are doing incredible, the work is almost done and it sounds exciting. Still, I think about a black cat, her death, companionship, the box I carried her in, the cremation fee, the fact that I will only meet Fausto again in a couple of days due to pre-production.
Can’t wait for Fausto’s dad to be back.