On David Bowie Avenue

There was a David Bowie Avenue, once.
I suggest you to listen to "Subterraneans" while you read my story written in 2008.

It was a Summer night and was in Lisbon.

I had heard an advertising for an opera rock with circus performances, at the newly opened "Lisbon Galactical Forum", on the Eastern side of the city.

At a bus stop, I studied the map. There were silent buses passing, powered by electricity from hydrogen cells. And finally arrived a bus to the East side. It was a very old Diesel MAN bus from the 1980s. It was about 60 years old and it was rattling everywhere. By the look of the passengers there, I realized I was in a risk trip. But the presence on board of 4 police officers relaxed me. I asked the closer officer where David Bowie Avenue was. He replied:"that avenue is longer than 30km!" (19 miles)... I asked him if he could notify me when we reached the Galactical Forum. He agreed and I thanked him.

We crossed wide splendidly lit boulevards lined with modern buildings. Then, we stopped at a crossing. There was trouble. Leaning against a window on the right, I saw a motorcycle and a car stopped, possibly an accident. Nearby, a police car and two officers barred the traffic. A man wearing jeans and a dirty T-shirt and a couple with motorcycle leather clothing, were rapping. She had a very short skirt with red tights that could be seen up to her hips. She had an open jacket and nothing else was covering her body. The other biker was also wearing an open jacket but with a T-shirt under. He was all covered in mud and he was wounded on the face, at least. The two men argued aggressively as the woman screamed insults to the air.

Suddenly, the rider took a pistol from his back, and he pointed it to the other man. The officers on the street ran to his back, pointing him their guns.

From the bus where I was, the four officers and another one plainclothes with baseball cap and caddish look, they triggered the manual opening command of the exit door and in a flash, they placed behind the other agents pointing their guns to the biker. Feeling beaten, the biker threw his gun to the ground and he was handcuffed. The other, lit a cigarette. The biker continued to argue, showing a scorched hole in the T-shirt. He asked the other man: "put on the light here!" The other guy took a pocket flashlight and he pointed the light. "Do you see this burned hole? It was your bullet!" claimed the arrested biker.

The other, shrugged and walked away towards me with his cigarette in hand. He raised his arm next to my window, and through a slit somewhere on the top he threw his cigarette butt over me!

Surprised with that act and afraid of getting burnt, I jumped.

The bus trip restarted and only then I noticed that the panel where I was leaning on, was completely loose on top!

I asked the agent if we were close to my destination. He replied that we had already passed it Annoyed and resigned, I tried to realize where I was. We were running very fast, with that side of the bus wanting to fall on the road at every turn to the left.

Then we have entered in a sort of kasbah. But it was all prefabricated with aluminum structures and synthetic panels, all white and full of light.

The space was completely covered on the top and the bus was rolling carefully among people moving quietly.

Close to the stores there were caravans also immaculately white and all equal.

In that space they were all foreigners: Russians, Ukrainians, British, German, Moroccan, Cape Verdean ... I couldn't hear a single word in Portuguese.

Finally I saw an Angolan woman proclaiming roasted banana. And I decided to leave the bus there.

I woke up and made a latte. I told this dream to my daughter and she asked me to write it.

Above, the actor Miguel Guilherme telling this story to National Radio Antena 1 on radio show História Devida.

Below, the original:

Era uma noite de Verão e estava em Lisboa. Tinha ouvido anunciar para pouco depois, a ópera de uma banda de rock com performances circenses, no recém-inaugurado "Lisbon Galactical Forum", na zona Oriental da cidade.

Estudei o mapa da Carris. Decidi apanhar o autocarro para Chelas. Passaram autocarros silenciosos, movidos a electricidade por hidrogénio. Chegou finalmente um para Chelas. Era um MAN antigo a gasóleo, dos anos 1980. Tinha para aí 60 anos e chocalhava por todos os lados. Pelo aspecto dos passageiros, percebi que estava numa viagem de risco. Mas a presença a bordo de 4 agentes da polícia, descansou-me. Pergunto ao agente que estava mais perto de mim, onde era a Avenida David Bowie. Respondeu-me que essa avenida tem 30Km... Perguntei-lhe então se me poderia avisar quando nessa avenida passássemos pelo Galactical Forum. Respondeu-me que sim e eu agradeci.

Atravessávamos amplas avenidas esplendidamente iluminadas, ladeadas por modernos edifícios. Num cruzamento, parámos. Havia confusão. Encostado a uma janela do lado direito, vi uma mota e um carro parados, possivelmente por um acidente. Perto, um carro da polícia e dois agentes, barravam a passagem do trânsito. Um homem com jeans e T-shirt sujos e um casal com roupa de cabedal de motociclistas, discutiam. Ela tinha uma saia muito curta com collants vermelhos que se avistavam até aos quadris. Tinha o blusão aberto e nada mais lhe cobria o tronco. O outro motociclista, também tinha blusão aberto mas tinha uma T-shirt. Estava todo sujo de lama e estava ferido, pelo menos na face. Os dois homens discutiam agressivamente, enquanto a mulher gritava ofensas para o ar.

Nisto, o motociclista sacou de uma pistola que tinha nas costas. Enquanto a aponta ao outro homem, os agentes na rua correram para trás dele e apontaram-lhe as suas armas à cabeça.

No autocarro onde eu estava, os 4 agentes e mais um à paisana com boné de baseball e aspecto chunga, accionaram o comando de abertura manual da porta de saída e num ápice colocaram-se atrás dos outros agentes, apontando também as suas armas à cabeça do motociclista. Este, sentindo-se dominado, atirou a arma ao chão e foi algemado. O outro, acendeu um cigarro. O da mota, continuou a discutir, mostrando um buraco chamuscado na T-shirt. Dizia-lhe: "put on the light here!" O outro, tirou uma lanterna do bolso e apontou a luz. "Do you see this burned hole? It was your bullet".

O outro afastou-se em direcção a mim, com a ponta do cigarro na mão. Ergueu o braço junto à minha janela, e por entre alguma fenda, lançou sobre mim a beata acesa.

Surpreendido com aquele acto e assustado com a perspectiva de ser queimado, dei um salto.

O autocarro seguiu viagem e só então reparei que todo aquele painel onde eu estive encostado, estava completamente solto em cima.

Perguntei ao agente se faltava muito para o meu destino. Respondeu que já tínhamos passado... Aborrecido e conformado, tento perceber onde estava. Íamos muito depressa, com aquele lado do autocarro a ameaçar ficar na estrada a cada curva para a esquerda.

É então que entrámos numa espécie de casbah. Todo pré-fabricado, com estruturas em alumínio e painéis sintéticos, todo branco e cheio de luz.

O espaço era totalmente coberto e o autocarro seguia com prudência entre pessoas que circulavam calmamente.

Por entre as lojas do casbah, havia roulottes também imaculadamente brancas e todas iguais.

Naquele espaço todos eram estrangeiros: russos, ucranianos, ingleses, alemães, marroquinos, cabo-verdianos... Não se ouvia uma palavra em português.

É então que vejo uma angolana a apregoar banana assada. Decidi sair ali.

Acordei e fiz um café com leite. Contei este sonho à minha filha e ela pediu-me para o escrever.