CAFÉ TABLE

She was sitting in the middle of the café, with full tables
all around her. She was alone, and her gaze was lost
between the air and the counter, pretending to be attentive
to what was going on, as though something actually
was going on. She’d finished her espresso; and the glass
of water was still full, next to an ashtray,
which wasn’t serving any purpose since she didn’t smoke.

I followed the direction of her eyes, looking into the emptiness
that gathered in the place where mine and hers
crossed, in that white zone where
the cigarette smoke absorbed the conversations and
the clatter of cups. Then I forgot about her for a
little bit, in the illusion that she was alone,
until I noticed that someone was coming in through a door.

I didn’t stay long enough to learn if whoever had arrived was
the one she was waiting for, or if she would continue to stare at
the blankness of the wall where a clock insisted on
telling the time. And I continue to see her,
brushing her hair from her face, with that gesture of one
who imagines that someone is about to arrive, without knowing
that the one she was waiting for had left her all alone, with me.

CAFÉTAFEL

Ze zat midden in het café, met de volle tafels
om haar heen. Ze was alleen, haar blik verloor zich
tussen de lucht en de toog, ze deed alsof ze lette
op wat rondom gebeurde, alsof er ondertussen
iets gebeurde. Ze had haar koffie op; het glaasje water
was nog vol, naast een asbak
die nergens toe diende omdat ze niet rookte.

Ik volgde de richting van haar ogen en zag de leegte
zich vormen op het punt waar mijn ogen en de hare
elkaar kruisten, in dat witte deel van het café waarin
de sigarettenrook gesprekken absorbeerde en
het kletteren van kopjes. En ik liet haar, even,
in de illusie dat ze alleen was, totdat ze
naar de deur keek, waardoor iemand zou komen

Ik ben niet gebleven om te zien of wie er kwam ook was
wie zij verwachtte, of dat zij bleef zitten turen naar de horizon
van de cafémuur waar een klok hardnekkig
de tijd aanwees. En ik zie haar nog steeds,
haar haren achteroverwerpend met het gebaar van wie
verwacht dat iemand komt, zonder te weten dat
wie komen zou haar daar alleen liet, samen met mij.

MESA DE CAFÉ

Estava sentada no meio do café, com as mesas cheias
à sua volta. Estava sozinha, e o olhar perdia-se
entre o ar e o balcão, fingindo estar atenta
ao que se passava, como se alguma coisa se
passasse entretanto. Tinha tomado o café; e o copo
de água estava cheio, ao lado de um cinzeiro
que não servia para nada porque não fumava.

Segui a direcção dos seus olhos, vendo o vazio
formar-se no lugar em que os meus e os dela
se cruzavam, nessa zona branca do café em que
o fumo dos cigarros absorvia as conversas e
o barulho das chávenas. E deixei-a estar, por
algum tempo, na ilusão de que estava sozinha,
até olhar para a porta, de onde alguém viria.

Não fiquei para saber se quem chegou era quem
ela esperava, ou se continuaria a fixar o
horizonte da parede onde um relógio insistia
em pontuar o tempo. E continuo a vê-la,
puxando o cabelo para trás, num gesto de quem
julga que alguém vai chegar, sem saber que
quem havia de chegar a deixou sozinha, comigo.