The all solitary time he passed, lost in his more dismal thoughts, seated to the table of a bar, suffering the emptiness of the days and of the nights, in the cold dawns of old São Paulo. Like this, there it was him, with his beer, faithful companion of the nights badly slept and the usual hill of napkins, kindly offered, where he spilled their poetries and pains, trying to take revenge in the paper, all the hate that he felt for being there suffering the discouragement of a lost love and without turn in his heart.

Memories, that he would like to turn off, but that continued alive in his memory and they gave him a sensation of affliction, of an immense emptiness, that hurried in the abysses of his soul.

He tried to move away those thoughts that were corroding his heart and tried to substitute them for their youth's happy memories. He remembered with the old grandmother's longing Mary, fortune telling famous, that had prophesied in the past the strangers directions of this unlucky marriage, that Leninha was not exactly the right woman of his life and that she would give him a lot of disillusions, what really happened, after a 20 year-old union, of a marriage seemingly solid, the fatal outcome with the instant of a betrayal, difficult of being seen, the more of being accepted.

Confused feelings and the eternal cruel doubt: - "Will it be that some day in the life, did that woman really love me, of truth? ". The answer embitters as bile it was diluted in the bubbling foam of his drink, that it sparkled in the eyes, it heated up the heart and it numbed the lost insipidities in the dreams of the soul.

Poor human of the empty nights that doesn't find answers and he looks for in a lost corner of a bar some solidarity for his pain. John, or " John-nobody " as he liked to be called, he was there seated, observing the people, with whom he could talk, to do confidences and of finding a way to feel less only, of fleeing of a reality that tormented him, even if for that he had to seek their palliatives in the drink companion. There, in that corner of the Planet, in the bar, where the people seem more solidary, less empty and they show your true face it hides, he wrote, beginning the poem of that night.

But on that night the bar was empty, because people were at their houses preparing the Dinner of Christmas and they could not be wasting time with a drunker without home. John was saying their bitterness and not even the waiters gave him attention, because they could not stop their tasks to listen their importunities. They wanted to leave soon and to take advantage of a little of the time that had remained them to commemorate Child God's birth. Yes, on that beautiful night moonlift, with reflexes of silver light decorating the foliage capriciously with the dew of the dawn, all bent in silent prayer to render deserved homage, of the beauty and of the enchantment, of the most important birth, that the humanity knew there is more than two millennia, of Jesus Christ, The Savior.

Solitary and sad, John looked discouraged for the emptiness of the streets and he felt strange sensation in his heart. He felt an useless man and without den in the bitterness of his existence and the tears sprouted him in the eyes running for the warm faces. He felt shame of being there exposing his fragility.

He stand up, paid what he owed, he rushed staggering for the wet streets and he crossed the fog of the night. The people passed hurried. John felt contempt and repulses in their glances. There was not only one to look friendly - a sad destiny of people that drink for forgetting of the life.

- " Ah! My God, what did I make wrong in this life to deserve such cruel punishment? ", he said trying to stop the tears, that obstinately rolled on his face and the answer found echo in the cold and sibilant wind, that it whipped him the face, freezing the soul and the heart.

He penetrated in the darkness room of the Pension. There he took refuge of the family that had despised him, of the insensibility of the Justice, that had removed him the children, to leave them with the adulterous mother... and there, in that small humid room, the corner of the world, that had remained him for the last days of his terrestrial existence - the final sidewalk.

The Night of Christmas should not exist for the solitarians. It is very sad to be staied in any room corner, without having nobody to talk. John cursed the poverty of his life for not having a telephone to call to a C.V.V. (in english: Valorization Life Center) and to hear some comfort word. Seated in the bed, he tried to recompose the thoughts. He looked for the room in search of a shade friend, but he only shimmered the sinister spectra, that insisted in disrupting their thoughts. Just a torchlight that insisted on illuminating the silver reflex of an object on the mute servant. He picked and examined it with the stranger sensation that the people felt, when they are hypnotized. He wanted to move away it closely of his face, but an untamable force brought it approach near, more near... He took the thumb until the " hammer of a gun " and it pulled it back. The drum was not made of having implored, it rotated and it took the fatal projectile to the gun pointer... He only lacked to work the trigger, the explosion, the silence... and everything would be finished!

- " That God, forgive my gesture so exalted " - he Said trying to justify his act, trying to convince God, that didn't deserve the Hell, for where they are going all the suicides.

- " If I die, it will be that she will be sorry for having made this love option, despising my feelings, when I chose her queen of my home, until that the Death separates us”.

And that was about to happen, on that exact moment, because John felt the Death near nothing of his index finger, it was just enough a quick touch, but nothing happened, because God pitied of his soul and He solved write again the history of John' s life. On this exact moment, the door of the room opened up and Maria, a Northeastern youth, appeared bringing a covered plate, from where she already exhaled a pleasant and very appetizing smell of a delicacy of the famous kitchen Northeasterner. Moment suddenly panic, a weapon quickly slope, a false smile, the arrested speech in the throat wanting to justify - the unjustifiable; she simply faked that had not seen anything and smiling offered him the "vatapá" from Bahia, with the votes of a Merry Christmas. Blessed "vatapá", that had saved him the life! That Jesus blesses that woman, that has Your Mother's same name and He had sent that angel with the divine message, that life is ours much more precious and that we cannot have it to our bel pleasure. Life continues. God closed a door and He opened a window for our John, He finished his sentimental calvary sending a called Angel Fátima (Fafá) to decorate with blue colours the days of their existences and to rescue the lost happiness and... it happened like this.

Author Note: I dedicate this story to my wife Fátima Queiroz (Fafá), because without her this story would never have existed, because it is part of our lives.

(Published in the Anthology Great Literary " Names of the Brazilian Literature - 2003 ", by Phoenix Editora, of São Paulo, pages from 09 to 12. Story classified in 1st Place in IV Concurso of the referred publisher).

This story was rewarded with the third place in the Concurso " Story of a Night of Christmas " of the Polytechnic School of Santos and patronage of the Association of the Poets and Writers of the Baixada Santista APESB, receiving a trophy, in December of 2007.

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