Origami

Origami

Mauricio Robe Barbosa Campos

––––––––

Translated by João Rosa de Castro 

“Origami”

Written By Mauricio Robe Barbosa Campos

Copyright © 2015 Mauricio R B Campos

All rights reserved

Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

www.babelcube.com

Translated by João Rosa de Castro

Cover Design © 2015 Mauricio R B Campos

“Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

Title Page

Copyright Page

ORIGAMI

Short Story

––––––––

Mauricio R B Campos

© 2015 – Mauricio R B Campos

Contact the author:

[email protected]

Cover

Mauricio R B Campos

Cover picture

2015 © Mauricio R B Campos

Proofreading

Adriana Tinoco de Vasconcelos

Translation

João Rosa de Castro

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be stored or reproduced by any means – whether tangible or intangible – without the written authorization by the author.

This is a fiction work. Names, characters, places and occurrences described are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity with real names, dates and occurrences are a mere coincidence.

Dedicated to the Japanese-Brazilian Cultural and Sportive Association of São Carlos, for their work and constant devotion to keep the Japanese culture and traditions alive in this city.

©

Radu Razvan Gheorghe
|
Dreamstime Stock Photos

1. Origami
   

The day parks

But not the song

of the larks.

Basho

Keika went down the hill rushing. The living green still fostered by the dew shone under the clear blue sky. She brought a kerchief in her right hand and her left hand was trembling. When she got to the road bordered by a small wood, she headed to the parking lot.

All the love affairs of the world are our own ones, because we interpret all of them according to our experience.
Matsuo liked to say that when he saw a couple in love, or in the bittersweet phase in which the friendship had not yet the tones of passion. A phase they spent many years ago when love was flavored by jealousy and sometimes sorrow.

He agreed when she said that true love was the one prepared in the womb of a genuine friendship. And this perception of reality was so strong that he decided to write it down. This was the story that encouraged him to idealize his own shojo comic.

But why thinking of this now?
— Keika wondered as she got into the van and started it up.

The Saturday morning was nice, which meant a promise of a hot day. He went up the sidewalk with the van and got into the large walkway in front of the city market. He stopped the vehicle in front of a dozen stands in row on both sides of the walkway. Behind him, the large stage already prepared for the festival, and before the majestic Tori, the Japanese portal that adorns the downtown during the festival.

The downtown was relatively empty. At that moment, the customers were still having breakfast, but one or another salesman passed in hurry not to miss the time of the shops opening.

Nikkey matsuri
, the São Carlos community’s festival. That would be the fifth edition, and the fifth time he would keep with the origami stand. He was in charge of the
Kakushin Origami
and an active member of the Seinen Kai, the group of youngsters of the community. For this year, the work he had prepared was the violinist, his masterpiece, a delicate figure with skirt, with the instrument in her hands. The skirt painted with a tenuous watercolor painting and bamboo motives.

He went to the van and started to unload the boxes. The glasses ones were kept in card paper boxes with pieces of Styrofoam that protected them from crushes. He placed them beside the van, and then he removed the bendable tables and took them to the stand. He mounted one. Covered it with the towels he had taken from the van and put the glass boxes that were going to protect the most sophisticated origami works on them. The next step was to mount the tree of
tsurus
, the stork, but that they called simply the
luck bird.

He would need to go back home to take the rest of the things. He had arranged with Mila, but, apparently, she had some trouble, because she hadn’t arrived yet. He went  to the van, closed the doors and started the alarm. Then, he returned to the stand, mounted the chairs and sat in one of them. He wondered if Mila was taking long. If he, at least, had something to read while he waited. He remembered he had received a comic book by mail yesterday; he could be reading at this moment.

He took the cell phone and looked at Twitter. He was distracted, following the application when he heard Mila excusing herself:

— Hi, that was bad, it’s because I was gonna leave Luffy with Larissa, but she took long to answer the door, that sleepyhead.

— That’s OK, I’ll go back home to take the tree and the other things.

And, by saying so, he left Mila at the stand and returned twenty-five minutes later, with Keita. He brought the tree and she brought a coffee bottle and Styrofoam cups.

— Need a coffee there?

— You don’t know how much! I had a college work this weekend and had to do it all last night.

Matsuo placed the three trees side by side. The dry and retorted branches, without leaves, were ready to receive the
tsurus
. He brought a paper card box full of colorful paper birds, put the box on a table beside and then he began to fix the origamis on the dry branches. Mila and Keika joined him and soon the tree was fully decorated with dozens and dozens of kind
tsurus
.

After finishing mounting the trees, which was the hardest work, Matsuo brought the main origamis of the exhibit; the ones that deserve to remain protected by glasses. This year, these would include his violinist, the Mila’s nazgûls, the Keika’s dragon and the dark knight by his father, a master in that art.

Keika hugged Matsuo, when he finally finished. Now it was only waiting for the visitors to come. They looked around and the stands were already crowded, being prepared for later, when the food odor will fill the air and the sound that will leave the speakers will traditional music and j-rock.

The Saturday morning was nice, which meant a promise of a hot day. The van parked next, Mr. Kenji went down and, after opening the rear doors of the van, he began to unload the things that would be used in the stand of
Kakushin Origami
.

— Good morning, Mr. Kenji, I brought a bottle of coffee. Would you like a cup? — Mila offered as she approached.

— Good morning, Mila — he answered, with a smile — Yes, coffee is very good in the morning.

She served the steaming coffee and they drank it, observing the people that passed around in hurry heading to their works. Then, there was a heavy silence. Mila didn’t know exactly what to say, she feared to ask something and be indiscreet.

Finally, Mr. Kenji breaks the silence:

— I will bring the tree and the origamis, in the meanwhile you could mount the tables — and by saying so, he left, after finishing his coffee.

Mila mounted the tables and the chairs and sat, unable to forget the things she did in this first day of matsuri, one year ago. She came late and found Matsue waiting for her.

Mila’s thoughts followed with Keika’s, when Lúcio arrived. Lúcio was the youngest member of the Japanese-Brazilian association. It was his first festival and he was very excited. He arrived bringing with him Master Yoda, a large origami Mr. Kenji taught him to make. They talked until Mr. Kenji’s van parked again, beside the stand.

Keika approached slowly and greeted Mila and Lúcio. Then she turned to the marked square and said she was going to smoke. She turned to the avenue, observing the traffic and smoking. She lit one cigarette on the other and decided to cross the avenue and go the city orchid-house. She examined some specimens and the one that drew her attention the most was an orchid that looked like a butterfly, the legend showed its name:
Psychopsis papilio
.

Keika returned to the stand that was already mounted. Matsuo’s father, Mr. Kenji, was drinking a cup of coffee while Mila and Lúcio talked like close friends. They were in the bittersweet phase, that’s for sure. She walked to the tables where the pieces were exposed and contemplated the violinist. She had never before looked so delicate as now. She was as delicate as the orchid that nature had molded with all the softness and wisdom in the rude tropical jungles of Amazon. Life goes on, but a part of Matuo’s soul would remain in that work of art, the legacy of a life that is at another place.

1. Appendix: the legend of the tsuru