THE HOUSES OF THE 7 WRITERS

Part 1 - Bookseller

A decaying bookstore, with few conditions to store a good book as one should; not even the bad ones deserved such a fate. Smudges of various shapes spread across the walls of the 60 square meter store, located on one of the few tree-lined streets near a subway station in one of the largest metropolises ever formed.

Not all the smudges on the walls of the store were so abstract, like the one on the wall next to the self-help section that looked like a teapot. Another, which was near the national literature section, resembled a cup if looked at closely, which no one did, except the salesperson there.

Despite the mold and the almost useless cash register, which did nothing to diminish the velvety appearance of the place, Lisa Dias loved working in the bookshop. Not that she was paid much for it, on the contrary, the salary was derisory, but the problem was that she was passionate about books, she needed to be surrounded by them.

The place opened religiously at eight o'clock in the morning and then closed at seventeen. But for the first time in the almost two years Lisa had been working there, the metal accordion door, spray-painted with black paint, would open fifteen minutes after the time that had been strictly followed until then.

The used bookstore had its door wide open on that fine drizzly morning; the next step would be for Lisa to flip the switch and bring light into the space. But she was only able to avoid falling into a heartfelt cry. Her grandmother Rose, her father's mother, was simply gone, forever.

The funeral had been late in the afternoon of the previous day, and Lisa couldn't remember ever feeling such sadness and despair. The death certificate had been rolled up inside her purse to be handed to the owner of the tavern, her boss, Mr. Jonas.

Seeing the lid of the coffin lowering and taking away the last sight of her grandmother's well-known and kind face made her lose her breath a couple of times. She remembered, once again, the last conversation she had in person with her grandmother a fortnight ago.

On that occasion, the gray-haired lady and retired journalist was wrapping her index finger around a handful of Lisa's brown bangs as she stood beside the shiny iron chair at a reception desk on the fifth floor of one of São Paulo's largest hospitals.

— I hope the test results are positive. I'm pretty tired of hospital smell, which I believe is a mixture of disinfectant with bad food and a final touch of antiseptic.

— Don't worry, dear. Everything will be fine, you look great! It's just a routine check-up. Soon you'll be bouncing around the gray streets of São Paulo, riding those fire—breathing motorcycles and having a few drinks in the bars of this hellish city," Rose said, finishing her speech with a hiccup.

The two were waiting for Lisa to be called for a urine test, ordered by rheumatologist Vera, the doctor in charge of Lisa's lupus treatment.

The young woman had discovered she had the disease six months ago, right after she felt severe pain in the joints of her arms and a butterfly-shaped spot had appeared on her face, affecting her nose and both cheeks.

— You know I'm afraid of motorcycles and I don't like bars that much, especially after I was advised by Dr. Vera to avoid drinking," reminded Lisa, disbelieving the modernist ideas of a lady who could be dozing in a flowered armchair in front of the TV on a mid-week afternoon.

— You should know that I perceive in you a rough stone that can be cut. At your age I was also fearful, but with time you realize that life passes quickly, and if you don't start making decisions, it will run you over.

— I know that, don't I? — he commented, frowning. — I'm barely two decades old and I'm worse off than you are at seventy something. Everything in me hurts, and my muscular tissues, in their stubbornness, have decided to go on strike. Everything stops! Worse than the city traffic at rush hour. I can't even scratch myself in certain places, Grandma! — she complained.

— We have already talked about your predisposition to drama and your pessimism. Think that there are people in a much worse situation! Either you react or, at least, stop complaining like an old scalawag!

— Grandma, I'm sorry. I know I'm boring company, said Lisa with a pout.

— You're not boring company, you're boring, it's different one from the other," said Rose, going to the window to open it. — Let's cut to the chase, you know that my beloved is my 1964 Ford Mustang.

— And who doesn't? You wash that car every week, and it has been sitting in the garage for almost two years without being driven! Quite unnecessary, by the way.

— I take it back. You are boring! In your whole life, you are completely insufferable," she accused, receiving a conciliatory smile from her granddaughter.

— Go on with your thoughts, Granny. Excuse my grumpiness. I'm old, I can't drive anymore. Last time - this is no secret to anyone, since it was even mentioned in the neighborhood newspaper - I drove my Mustang into the square near my house. I lost my license and my reputation in the neighborhood. Even when I'm with my shopping cart in the supermarket I feel people moving away from me," said Rose, in a heartfelt way.

— Don't exaggerate!

— I sold my car two days ago. And first thing tomorrow morning, as soon as the bank opens, I will deposit the money received into your account.

— You what? — Lisa imagined that her grandmother had lost her mind.

— I'm not going to repeat what I say like a parrot. You heard me very well. I want you, my dear, to take this money and go to hell! My dream has always been to see Europe, but I haven't had the opportunity. Go there! Do an exchange program, a language course. Something like that. Or even go to some retreat in Tibet, in some cave in the middle of the snowy mountains.

— Grandma, I don't know if you noticed, but we are in a hospital. I mean... I found out that I have a disease that has no cure and needs constant treatment. How do you expect me to live in a cave? Have you forgotten that the first crisis hospitalized me for more than a week and was followed by a battery of tests and a not modest handful of corticoid drugs?

— You are much better now. Before you relapse or anything like that, get lost, girl. What do you want? Patiently wait for one crisis after another or enjoy the time when the disease gives you a break?

— Don't start, please...

— Not to be a nag, but, like me, you like to read a lot. In fact, you are a much more voracious reader than your old grandmother. But the difference between you and me, who love words, is that you are content only with the adventures of books. How about creating your own?

— Grandma, I'm still trying to get back with Raul. I still like him, if I leave, by the time I get back he'll have forgotten me.

— Well, I thought he had already done that, after all, he was the one who broke up with you. But it's always like that, he disappears and then resurfaces like the phoenix, reborn from its own ashes; only Raul has never shown the elegance of the legendary bird from Greek mythology around him. On the contrary, he looks more like a plucked vulture. I hate boys with gel toupets. It wasn't like that in my day.

Rose was still disgusted that the boy, who was addicted to electronic games, had not gone to a romantic dinner, prepared by Lisa, to commemorate the anniversary of three years with her granddaughter.

As an excuse for his absence, he had sent a misspelled message to Lisa explaining his imminent need to capture a rare virtual being from one of his cellphone games that was available on some street corner across town.

— Try to understand, Grandma, I can't abandon Raoul.

— No one can abandon Raul, because Raul has never been found, — Rose said, rolling her eyes and sighing. — He lives in a parallel dimension between the world and the games. He is half human, half digital. You can't abandon what you can't explain. The guy is an asshole!

— Grandma! — said Lisa.

— Panache, panache and panache. There, I said it!