Sofa by the Window

The Northeast sent its representatives. Only Ceará was missing.

Gouveia, from Bahia; Nivaldo, from Piauí; and Alan, from Rio Grande do Norte. Along with them were Evandro, from Alagoas, and Stênio, from Sergipe. These five got off the truck. From the pickup truck disembarked Valfrido, from Pernambuco; Nestor, from Paraíba; and Mr. Pereira, from Colinas, Maranhão. Oh, and from São Paulo, perhaps the most Northeastern of our states, came Wanderson.

Nine voices. Nine accents. Nine men with the same profession: moving assistant. I have a problem with the word "assistant."

Which also appears in the terms "cleaning assistant," "administrative assistant," and "nursing assistant."

Well, well. They're the ones who do the cleaning, the ones who know the soul of the office, the ones who soothe our pain. Why have assistants, when they handle the main issues?

The professionals who arrived in the upscale neighborhood to help Irene move are working with care and utmost concentration. Scratching a mirror or chipping a dish is like missing a penalty kick in a final; it tarnishes your resume and could even cost you your job.

The mansion owner opens the door, her insomnia still visible. Devastated by her partner's near-escape—he left suddenly—and frightened by the loneliness after each of her two children chose a distant destination where there was no place for her, Irene decided to trade the house for a two-bedroom apartment, with enough space for her and Cocada, her four-legged friend.

During other sleepless nights that same week, the homeowner kept small treasures in her backpack. In a golden cardboard box, she kept the letters she had written but never sent, and some that she had received and still rereads to this day.

She also preserved the beer-splattered napkin with Tom Jobim's autograph, the ticket to a Stevie Wonder concert in New York, the ticket to a French museum, and the invitation to Karina's debutante ball—Karina remains her best friend to this day.

The greatest trophy was neatly wrapped: inside the picture frame, with its mother-of-pearl border, was a photo of her ex-husband and two children in Campos do Jordão. The three of them, beautiful and brave, because Irene preferred to take the picture instead of posing. The men of her life begging for her.  

The men in her life are now different, and they are there, silently waiting for the end of her journey to the past.

They come in rubbing their feet on the doormat and their hands together, as if to say, "Let's get to work?"

The team packs each cup individually, then each plate individually, followed by the cutlery and pots.

It's the furniture's turn. The juggling act begins, where a double bed or a large refrigerator needs to fit through a narrow space or down a flight of stairs. Each person holds onto one side, while a third person guides them.

Go ahead, you come in.

Take a step back.

- Let it fall gently.

That's it, now get up. Soooo easy.

Just one more step. Done.

It's like parking a truck in a tight spot. Irene watches everything from afar; if at first she was bothered by the commotion caused by so many voices, now she admires the unity of those strong men, who lift stoves, armchairs, and stacks of books as if they were made of styrofoam.

The following morning, Irene awaits the team at the new apartment. Agile yet serene, they distribute boxes throughout the house, assemble furniture, and hang pictures.

The main sofa, a bit too plump for the new address, didn't fit in the elevator. A large reel is set up in the living room, from which two thick ropes are unwound. They descend through the window to the ground floor. Down there, the furniture is securely tied down. The hoisting begins. Only the machine exerts force. In less than a minute, the giant of black velvet ascends to the fifteenth floor and enters through the living room window, which was disassembled to make way for the star piece of furniture.

Not so long ago, it was done by hand. Several men would pull ropes so that a piano or an eight-door wardrobe would arrive without any damage. And they did arrive.

The team bids farewell. Those nine men, skilled in their important work, inspire Irene, who finally feels excited about her new home.

But what truly enchants her is when she hears her neighbor's voice from the other side of the wall. It's Leo, who is 5 years old.

"Grandpa!! I saw a flying sofa. It came in through the neighbor's window. I filmed everything and I'm going to send it to you."

*Luis Cosme Pinto is the author of Birinaites, Catiripapos e Borogodó, published by Kotter. The book was a semifinalist for the 2024 Jabuti Prize.