Wanderlino
Arruda
It’s
necessary
to
always
discover
the
pleasant
and
noble
side
of
every
moment
of
our
lives.
Chasing
happiness
is
an
obligation
and
the
search
in
itself
should
be
enough
reason
to
make
us
happy.
That’s
what
happens
to
me
every
time
that
I
walk
into
the
entrance
hall
at
the
national
Theater
in
Brasilia,
D.F.,
when
I
walk
down
the
luxurious
velvet
ramp
and
see
the
majestic
auditorium,
that
monumental
collection,
that
only
the
legendario
Oscar
Niemeyer
could
have
imagined
and
realized.
To
go
to
the
National
Theater
offers
me
a
gratifying
pleasure,
a
good
reason
for
happiness.
That
was
the
sensation
that
I
felt
when
Dagmar,
Anderson
and
I
met
our
work
team
from
the
Brasil
Bank,
before,
during
and
after
the
presentation
of
Bibi
Ferreira
in
her
piece
Piaf,
truly,
a
dream
of
a
presentation.
It
was
when
we
sat
down,
right
in
front
of
the
stage,
in
a
good-sized
group
composed
of
Iasbeck,
Riza,
Carlos
Hetch
and
Carmen
seeing
on
the
other
side,
good
work
collegues,
having
as
the
main
thing
in
half
the
auditorium,
the
sophisticated
charm
and
beauty
of
Angela
Momm.
It’s
funny
that
in
the
whole
auditorium,
the
predominating
color
was
red,
a
really
strong,
living
and
flaming
crimson.
Among
us,
and
very
happy,
with
a
red
dress,
shoes
and
bag,
was
Ivone,
a
strikingly
lovely
collegue
of
ours.
Iria,
even
happier,
with
a
shocking-pink
dress,
that
in
the
evening
light,
no
one
could
tell
that
it
wasn’t
red
also.
Valquiria,
Daniel,
Eduardo,
Roberto,
Cardenas,
all
in
red
shirts.
Carlos,
I
don’t
quite
remember,
also
in
various
details
in
red.
When
the
stage
lights
come
on,
The
background,
an
intense,
volcanic
red,
of
course,
as
brilliant
as
fireworks
above
a
battlefield,
forming
a
conjunto
of
reddish
spotlights
that
illuminated
Bibi
during
the
entire
presentation.
In
contrast,
as
in
a
French
romance,
the
black
of
the
formal
clothing
and
the
poor,
which
at
first,
horrified
the
conscience
and
sight
of
the
audience.
To
compor,
at
our
side,
the
blackness
of
the
shirt
of
the
very
well
behaved
Moacir.
From
this
point
on,
our
only
colors
were
black
and
red.
The
voice
of
Bibi
Ferreira,
her
magnetic
presence
and
gestures,
a
pessimism,
the
hard
side
of
life
that
she
made
us
feel
with
her
tiny
and
delicate
motions,
exploding
all
the
time.
Her
frail
wispy
body,
without
any
touch
of
beauty,
everything
marking
the
soul
of
Edith
Piaf.
It
was
Piaf,
pure
Piaf,
with
a
modern
vision,
was
really
like
being
in
the
presence
of
Edith
herself.
Alias,
more
that
this:
both
of
them
resemble
each
other
and
seem
to
be
almost
the
same
person.
Both
very
famous,
visibly
marked
by
age,
with
the
physical
desgaste
that
artistic
life
endows
and
instigates
with.
Her
voice,
in
the
beginning,
tiny,
as
if
asking
for
permission
to
exist,
suddenly
grows,
climbing
and
fills
the
entire
auditorium
and
keeps
building
up,
gaining
weight,
involving,
clean,
to
an
admirable
crescendo,
like
she
represented
the
whole
force
and
sonority
of
eternal
France.
It’s
like
you
were
transported
to
the
boisterous
cabarets
of
Paris,
no
Olympia,
the
top
of
glory
of
all
art,
much
more
than
the
Carnegie
hall,
or
any
other
theater
in
the
world,
including
the
National
Theater
of
Brasilia
in
which
we
find
ourselves.
Listening
to
Bibi
is
like
watching
Piaf
and
I
am
spiritually
transported
in
a
sweet
remembrance
to
Parisian
streets,
squares,
monuments,
museums
and
boulevards,
(
at
that
moment
I
wasn’t
in
Brasil,
I
was
in
Paris.)
I
felt,
in
the
accordion,
and
the
background
music,
in
that
culture,
a
taste
of
sensibility
that
the
French
do
with
such
love.
I
see
myself
at
the
top
of
the
Eiffel
Tower,
at
the
Arc
of
Triumph,
at
the
Place
de
la
Concorde,
at
the
Pigale,
at
the
Notre
dame,
the
French
theaters,
the
Louvre,
or
drifting
along
in
a
bateau
mouche
in
the
Sena,
or
in
my
modest
hotel
for
travelers,
lonely
and
happy.
I
see
myself
running
in
the
cold
enchanted
with
the
colorido
of
the
lights,
of
the
news
stands,
fruit
stands
full
of
red
fruits,
and
the
brilho
of
the
restaurants
and
cafés…ah,
the
cafés…I
see
myself
also
in
the
happiness
of
the
children
and
the
thin
elegance
of
the
women.
A
marvelous
world
of
types
and
varieties
with
clothes
that
all,
Frenchmen
and
foreigners
alike,
stroll
through
the
streets
and
gardens.
I
imagine
and
