21-05-17

Zoveel verdient de Belg gemiddeld

Een Belgische werknemer verdient gemiddeld 3.401 euro bruto per maand. Dat is een stijging met 4,3 procent sinds 2014, blijkt uit het nieuwe salariskompas van Vacature en de KU Leuven.

We verdienen dus meer dan drie jaar geleden, maar dat heeft weinig met uw baas te maken. Het gros van de stijgingen is te danken aan indexaanpassingen, anciënniteitstoeslagen of baremaverhogingen. Slechts een beperkt aantal werknemers kreeg opslag. 

Het kompas nam ook de verhoudingen tussen sectoren onder de loep. In de chemie- en farmasector vind je de grootste gemiddelde verdieners. Een bediende met 20 jaar werkervaring verdient 3.997 euro bruto, voor kaderleden loopt dat op tot 6.194 euro. De slechtste betaler blijft de horeca, waar gewone werknemers na 20 jaar 2.510 euro bruto verdienen, een kaderlid heeft dan 3.838 euro.

Bijna 95 procent van de werknemers maakt aanspraak op extralegale voordelen. De eindejaarspremie is het populairst: drie kwart van de werknemers krijgt er eentje uitbetaald. Ook populair zijn maaltijdcheques (72 procent), een dertiende maand (67 procent) en de hospitalisatieverzekering (65 procent). Het minst in trek is de tablet; slechts 8 procent krijgt er eentje van het werk.

00:09 Gepost door Rudoris | Commentaren (0) |  Print

19-05-17

midlifecrisis...

 

Natuurlijk had ze er al eens over gehoord, 
van een midlifecrisis bij mannen, bedoel ik.
Maar dat was iets voor films dacht ze, mannen kochten dan een motor
en gingen plots meer aandacht besteden aan hun uiterlijk
en werden verliefd op een jongere vrouw….
ze was er nogal gerust in, dat overkwam andere mannen, niet de hare,
dat zou haar eigen man niet overkomen daar was hij veel
te verstandig voor, te nuchter, te rationeel en daarbij,
ze hadden al jaren een gelukkig huwelijk.

En toch…
Toen hij vijfenvijftig werd, veranderde hij.
Hij werd afweziger, letterlijk en figuurlijk.
Hij luisterde niet langer aandachtig naar haar verhalen,
vroeg ’s avonds als ze thuis kwamen van het werk niet meer hoe
haar dag was geweest.
Hij zoende haar niet meer als hij ’s morgens het huis verliet of
’s avonds thuis kwam en ze vrijden niet meer, daarvoor was hij te moe
of hij had geen tijd of geen zin.
Hij moest steeds vaker laat overwerken, iets wat hij vroeger nooit deed,
zelfs in het weekend moest hij soms weg voor zijn werk.
Een half jaar nadat hij zo veranderd was, wilde hij eens met haar
praten, moest hij haar iets vertellen...
Hij was verliefd, al een tijd en hij wilde verder leven met zijn nieuwe
liefde.
Hij was verliefd op …!
Ze kende zijn nieuwe vlam, en och, hoe vreselijk origineel,
het was iemand van kantoor, een ondergeschikte die twintig of
vijfentwintig jaar jonger was dan zijzelf.
Nu ze het wist leek het een nachtmerrie waaruit ze niet wakker kon
worden.
Hij wilde zijn beslissing absoluut niet herzien, niet langer met
haar praten en zeker niet in therapie om zijn lange relatie met haar
alsnog een kans te geven, hij wilde alleen maar weg,
weg naar zijn nieuw liefje…
Hoe moet het met de kinderen, vroeg ze wanhopig.
De kinderen, vond hij, hadden er geen zaken mee, het waren jonge
volwassen mensen en stonden al op eigen benen, ze zouden er wel aan
wennen en weg was hij.
Daar zat ze dan, alleen in het veel te grote, lege huis te denken en
te piekeren wat ze al die jaren verkeerd had gedaan, ze ging er van
uit dat het haar schuld was, zij had gefaald en bleef alleen achter.
Ze voelde zich slecht want zij en zij alleen had haar huwelijksleven
verprutst, zij had beter haar best moeten doen, zij had iets fout gedaan,
zij had hem weggejaagd, zo dacht ze, van haar zelfvertrouwen
schoot schier niets meer over. Ze kon zich niet meer concentreren op
haar werk, maakte onvrijwillig veel fouten, werd op haar vingers getikt
door haar baas die haar situatie niet kende want uit schaamte
zweeg ze in alle talen tegen iedereen.
Uiteindelijk ging ze eronder door, ze kon niets meer, ze had amper
energie om haar bed uit te komen, laat staan dat ze kon functioneren
op haar werk.
Ze ging zelf in therapie, alleen omdat het moest van de huisarts.
Tijdens de eerste sessie deed ze niet veel anders dan snotteren en
huilen, later begon ze te vertellen.
Het is jouw schuld niet zei de therapeute op een dag, jij hebt hier geen
schuld aan, je man heeft een midlifecrisis.
In eerste instantie geloofde ze het niet maar ze putte er wel troost uit.
Later besefte ze dat de therapeute wel eens gelijk kon hebben.
Ze begon erover te praten met hun gemeenschappelijke vrienden en
stuk voor stuk gaven ze haar gelijk. Haar huwelijksbreuk was niet
haar fout, haar man was zo héél erg veranderd, ook zij kenden hem
niet meer terug. Hij was zichzelf niet meer.
Ze begon met de hulp van haar therapeute weer in zichzelf te geloven,
ze werd elke dag sterker en kon na een tijdje zonder therapie
weer aan de slag met haar werk en haar nieuw leven.

De grote liefde met die andere vrouw was geen lang leven beschoren,
een klein half jaar later was hij weer alleen.
Toen ze het hoorde, was ze niet eens blij.
Ze vond het alleen maar jammer, jammer dat ze er niet samen
uitgekomen waren.
Na een tijdje belde hij haar op, wilde eens afspreken.
Ze spraken af in een restaurant, zij voelde algauw dat hij aanstuurde
op een verzoening maar dat wilde zij niet meer.
Ze besefte dat hun huwelijk, waar zij zo rotsvast had in geloofd,
toch niet zo goed was.
Als je van elkaar houdt, ben je er voor elkaar,
ook als het moeilijk gaat, vooral als het moeilijk gaat.
Ze wist nu wel wat een midlifecrisis inhield, ze had er veel over
gelezen, en hoe ingrijpend dat kan zijn, maar dat hij elke poging
van haar om er samen uit te komen heeft afgewezen,
dat hij niet heeft gevochten voor hun lange relatie,
dat heeft bij haar iets onherroepelijks kapot gemaakt.
Hij zegt dat hij veel spijt heeft, die spijt heeft zij ook maar
het komt niet meer goed.
Dat, wil zij niet meer.



14:15 Gepost door Rudoris | Commentaren (0) |  Print

18-05-17

Summer Camp - Van Sara

Although, my name at the top of the page is not real, the story I am about to relate actually happened to me this summer. I am a 38-year old woman, married with two kids, Kevin, 19 and Lory, who is 18.

This last summer, Lory and I were going to go to the second half of our church's summer camp in the upper Adirondack Mountains for a week. I was going as a part time counselor and all around chaperone, since the camp consisted of both boys and girls from different areas of the state.

I had taken the week as vacation from my job and was excited about going, just to get out of the house for a week. The thought of being at a summer camp brought back good memories of when I was a young girl and had attended this same camp for two summers.

I was really looking forward to it, and so was Lory. That is until two days before we were supposed to leave, she came down with chicken pox of all things. Well on the doctors advice, I called the woman in charge at the church who was running the camp to explain that we wouldn't be attending. She was very upset and begged me to come and still be a counselor, since two others had already cancelled at the last minute and they would have to cancel the last session if one more parent didn't show. After a lot of discussion with my family, it was decided that I would still go and help out.

One of the other women at the church that I knew was there for the first session and she had agreed to stay with me for the second one also, so it didn't sound too bad.

Jill (the one who stayed) was younger than me at 29, but we got along well and had a lot of fun the first day. We slept in a tent type wooden platform at the outer edge of the camp. On the other side there were two men from the church, who had the same sleeping setup on the boy's side.

John was a good friend of my husband, and I knew him also. Ed was a black guy, who was fairly new to our church and neither Jill nor I knew him very well, but he seemed very nice and we all got along well.

There were two barracks on each side of the camp- grounds, which were permanent structures and held 14 kids in each one. The two barracks that housed the girls were situated just at the edge of the woods. Further in the woods were the two that the boys were staying in. There were 4 more barracks that were not used this time.

Since Jill had been there for two weeks already, she showed me around after lunch. The kids were all down by the lake with the two men and the head camp counselor.

When we went into the first barracks and looked around, I saw a fairly large hole in the east wall of the bar- racks right over the headboard of a lower bunk. It had a red rag stuffed into it. As I pulled the rag out, Jill began to snicker, although I didn't know why. As I looked out through the open hole, I could see only dense undergrowth and trees, since that wall was right up against the woods. The hole was definitely man made and cut in a perfect circle and even sanded smooth on the inside. The wall was very thin and I wondered why the hole had not been patched.

Jill just shrugged when I asked her, and we moved on. It didn't seem important since its location seemed inaccessible from outside due to the dense woods.

That evening when all of the scheduled activities were over, Jill and I put on our robes and headed for the showers. The girls shower and dressing room were out- fitted with four showerheads in one big room. Jill was at the sinks brushing her teeth as I went into take a shower.

I thought she would stay out there out of modesty, but I no sooner was getting wet, when in stepped Jill. She was beautiful I must say, even though females have never turned me on, I looked with envy at her body.

She had the tiniest waist, gorgeous breasts, and an all over sexy body. Not that I was considered a slouch, but the few years difference in age did show between us. Jill began talking as she was soaping herself. She brought up the subject of that hole I had come across in the girls barracks, and asked me how open minded I was about sex.

I found the tone of the conversation very odd, but listened intently once I had assured her that I was open minded enough to listen to what she had to say. "Ever heard of a Glory Hole?" She asked. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered reading a dirty story about a bar that catered to homosexuals that had a hole between the toilet stalls for one guy to stick his dick threw so the guy in the next stall could suck it. I was sure that was not what Jill was talking about here though, or so I thought!

Jill told me that was exactly what it was. As she went on to relate all the details to me, I observed her spending a lot more time on soaping between her legs, and her nipples were becoming erect.

As I listened, I felt my nipples stiffen also. Jill went on to tell me that the boys would wait until dark, and then sneak through the woods to the hole, about two at a time. If the rag was in the hole, then they left. But if the rag had been removed, showing the light within, then a completely different scenario would take place.

One boy acted as a look out, the other would slip his cock through the hole. Then the girls in the barracks would take turns sucking them off! I was completely shocked by what Jill was telling me, but at the same time I was becoming a little warm between my legs, as she told me of sneaking over to the small window on the North wall, which was also pretty secluded and watching the girls in action.

I was startled by a moan from Jill. As I looked down, she had two fingers inside of her pussy and was rubbing her clit with her thumb as she related what she had witnessed.

Just by coincidence, her own girl who was 18 was staying in the other barracks, which relieved her at the time. But on the second night some of girls from the other barracks came over long enough for each to suck some cock.

Jill's masturbating there in front of me, was making me wet as hell. My nipples were aching with my own arousal. Then I got another shock as Jill stepped closer to me and asked if I had ever been with a woman.

I told her I hadn't and asked if she had?

"A couple of times in college." She smiled.

I flinched, but did not pull away when I felt her free hand on my thigh, and in no time I felt her finger at my crotch. I could hear her breathing coming in gasps as she fingered us both.

"Do you finger yourself Linda?" She asked.

I could only nod in the affirmative as a mini shock wave went through my pelvis.

"Doesn't it feel a lot better when someone else does it for you?"

I moaned in response as she pulled her finger out of my slippery slit. I didn't want her to stop, it felt so good.

She took hold of my hand and brought it down to her slit and pressed it against her opening. I held my hand motionless at her mound as I once again felt her fingers enter me. I groaned and slid my finger between her folds, and duplicated what she was doing to me. I was on fire!

I had many times felt my own pussy, but to feel another woman's while her fingers were stroking mine was too much. I felt the pressure building in my abdomen and pelvis, I was close to orgasm. Jill sensed it and sped up her finger action. Mine actually slowed since I was so preoccupied by my own climax.

I came like I hadn't in years, it was a cum that was earth shattering. My juices flowed on to Jill's hand like a flood.

I finally stopped cumming and began to catch my breath. Jill kissed me on the lips and then bent forward and took each of my stiff nipples into her mouth and briefly sucked them.

Then all of a sudden Jill grabbed my arm and began thrusting her hips towards my hand, because I still had my finger in her love hole.

"Do me Linda, I need to cum like you did PLEASE!" "OH GOD!"

My finger contacted her little nub. I fingered fucked her rapidly and she began gasping for breath, and took her left nipple in my mouth. That did it, she began to cum. "OHHHHHHHH bite my nipple. God I'm cumming." Her fluid gushed around my invading digits as she grabbed my hips to steady herself. I continued sucking her hard nipples as she recovered.

We rinsed off and went back to our sleeping quarters, all the while making plans to sneak over and spying on the girls.

It was very dark out as we got to the small window and peered in. Nancy, one of the girls, was laying in the bottom bunk by the hole. The rag had been removed and was on the floor. The other three girls were all sitting Indian style around the head of the lower bunk.

I quietly took a peek around the corner to see if anyone was there. I couldn't see anyone, but as I looked over towards one of the boy's barracks, I saw the light as a door opened and two figures came out and went into the woods. I whispered to Jill that they were coming.

In a few minutes we watched as a stiff little cock was thrust into the hole. It wasn't a very big one and only about two inches including the head was visible. We watched as Nancy took the head into her mouth and began sucking.

It wasn't long before she pulled off and the little boy cock began spewing its load as Nancy now stroked the head between her thumb and index finger. It was a very strange sight watching those children doing things like this, I'd never imagined something like this before.

As we continued to watch, I quietly peered around the corner, to see who the cock belonged to. It was Billy, he was only thirteen and not very big. The other boy with him was Danny, he was sixteen and a lot bigger.

I watched as he unzipped his pants and took out his hard cock. I was amazed at the size of it, he was close to my husband in length, but a little thinner.

I went back to the window in time to see it come through the hole. About 5 inches past the hole, and we heard the girls gasp; Kathy took her turn on the bunk. Without hesitation, she began to give Danny an expert blowjob. I have to admit it shocked me to see how well that girl did her job, where did she learn to give head like that?

In no time at all, Danny let out a moan that was unmistakable. He was cumming, but not into the air like his buddy, Kathy was drinking every drop he could shoot and then some.

Once they were finished, we watched as the two boys snuck quietly back to their barracks, and two more took their place. This went on until all 8 boys had been sucked off by the girls.

When Jill and I got back to our tent, we were both very aroused by what we had just seen. But having sex in a tent was too risky since someone might hear us.

Jill and I went deep into the woods to a clearing where on a fallen log, I ate my first pussy, and had mine eaten by a woman for the first time.

**

The same scenario went on each night as before. By the end of the week, each boy had been blown at least twice and each girl had sucked at least one of the boys off. Some spit the cum out, others were expert swallowers.

Jill and I sucked each other off at least twice a night after peeping at the kids.

Jill was also married and had two children, so we had a lot in common. She was an expert cunt lapper though, and later confessed to me, that is not only had female sex in college, but had regular affairs with a girl where she works.

It was Jill who came up with an idea that immediately turned me on! "I think you and I ought to be in there, sucking off all those nice young boys, don't you think?" Jill said.

"How are we going to be able to arrange that?" I asked with my heart in my throat.

By the end of the day, we had worked out a plan to do just that.

Jill and I both have had fantasies of having sex with young males, but for obvious reasons they had stayed just that, fantasies.

But here was an opportunity to fulfill our fantasy and stay anonymous at the same time.

On the night before the weeks camping session is over, the neighboring camp always invites our girls to come over and spend the evening with them. Well as luck would have it four girls decided to go from our camp.

There were two from the glory hole barracks, and two from another one that decided to go.

So Jill and I had the two girls from the gloryhole barracks take sleeping bags and move over to the other barracks. Using the excuse that it would be late when the other girls came back and we didn't want them to disturb anyone.

Then, Jill and I discreetly let it out to one of the boys, that not all the girls would be gone for the evening. We also let him know that Darla (one of the older girls) would be staying behind.

The reason for that was that Darla, was the best cock- sucker of the bunch. Watching her had been a real turn on. She really got into it and the boys seemed to favor her from what we had overheard during the week.

Once it was good and dark, Jill and I snuck over to the empty barracks and taped cardboard over the little windows, so nobody could look in and observe us. The doors were locked, so anyone looking over or trying to get in would think that it was locked and dark because it was unoccupied.

The only light came from the gloryhole as I pulled the rag out. I laid on the bunk and looked through the hole towards the boys barracks. In a matter of minutes, I saw the light coming from an open door and two figures exit. I told Jill that we would soon have visitors.

The sexual tension was terrific with expectation of a hard young cock being thrust through the hole. As I stole another peek out of the hole, I was able to make out a cock being pumped by hand to get it ready.

Shortly Jill and I both gasped as the first cock came through. It was not very big and probably belonged to one of the younger boys. But he was not disappointed as I heard him moan through the wall, as my mouth took him in.

I was the one who was disappointed, since I had gotten to swirl my tongue around the youthful head only about five times before I heard a grunt and it shot its youthful load into my mouth. I was just about to start fingering my pussy as I sucked - when he started shoot- ing.

It was nevertheless delicious. Not as strong as a grown man's, and not as salty either, but I loved it.

Once drained, the cock disappeared back out of the hole. Jill and I traded places as the next cock came through. Jill had all the luck!

I could immediately tell that it was one of the older boys due to the length and thickness of his cock. Jill began sucking for all she was worth, and soon had a large load of cum spurting down her throat. And I came all over my hand, which was busy fingering my wet pussy while watching her suck.

After the boy's cock disappeared, we waited and then Jill peeked out through the hole, and could make out the two figures going back through the woods.

We waited for over half an hour but no one else showed up. We were about to put the rag back in the hole and leave, when a huge cock pushed silently though it.

I say huge because in comparison with the two we had just serviced, it was gigantic. Very thick and at least 7" in length. Jill wrapped her hand around the shaft and was able to jerk the cock as she was sucking it, bringing forth an approving moan from the other side.

I was dying of curiosity to know who belonged to such a beautiful cock. So as Jill was busy sucking, I quietly snuck out and peered around the corner.

There with his crotch to the wall was John, and stand- ing right behind him with his cock out was Eddy, the black guy.

I almost gasped out loud as I caught a side view of eddy's cock! I had heard all the rumors about black cocks all my life, and in this case it was indeed not a rumor. Eddy was sporting a stiff cock that was at least 11" in length and was as thick as my wrist. I even had doubts about it fitting through the hole!

I quietly went back in and whispered what I had seen to Jill, who began moaning louder each time I described our next visitor. It wasn't much longer and John released his got sperm into Jill's sucking mouth.

We watched with great anticipation as the softening flesh was pulled back through the hole. Then as Eddy's huge cockhead came through, we both stared in awe, as the hole was nearly completely filled with the head.

Jill whispered, that we had to share this one, as she struggled to get the bulbous head into her mouth, while pumping the long shaft. It was such a sight, that I came as soon as my finger began rubbing my clit!

After a minute or so, I took over and began sucking Eddy's black monster. To my delight, Jill situated herself under me so she could suck my cunt at the same time.

I exploded into her mouth in no time, then we traded places and she had her orgasm almost as quick as mine.

Eddy let out a loud groan, and I saw Jill's cheeks puff out as he started unloading. Her throat was work- ing overtime, but the force and quantity of his sperm was overwhelming, causing it to start jetting out be- tween her lips and his cock-shaft.

I quickly got on the bunk and took over, receiving a strong spurt on the bridge of my nose and in my eyes, before I capped the spewing monster. An additional 4 strong spurts erupted into my mouth before he subsided. I continued to suck and lick with wild abandon, since I had made up my mind that I had to have this monster in my cunt, no matter what!

My efforts were rewarded, with a cock that stayed hard instead of loosing its firmness. I took my mouth off and held the shaft so he could not withdraw from the hole. I told Jill to hold it while I stripped off my shorts. I had to have that beautiful black cock in my pussy!

I was absolutely crazy with desire, as I backed up to the protruding hunk of meat. I shuddered as I felt the head come in contact with my pussy lips. Once the head was lined up, I drove back against the wall feeling Jill's hand as she pulled it out.

I had taken Eddy's monster with ease, and I went into a fantastic orgasm almost immediately as he began his thrusting into me. I have never felt so full in my life! It was the most fantastic feeling.

As I grunted and slammed my ass against the wall, try- ing to get as much penetration as I could, the door opened, and in came John, his cock was sticking out of his shorts, rock hard and straight out like a steel pole.

Without saying a word, he walked over to Jill, who dropped to her knees before him and began to suck his huge cock. I gasped and groaned loudly as I felt the thick black shaft disengage from my wet cunt. I slammed back against an empty wall. The door again opened, I had forgotten to re-lock the door when I had gone out- side to identify the men.

Anyway, Eddy came in with his cock still glistening with my pussy juice! I laid on my back across the bunk, this brought my pussy to the edge as I spread my legs wide!

Without any words exchanged, Eddy knelt by the bunk between my spread legs! In this position, he was just the right height to match up with my hungry slit.

He wasted no time in reinserting his huge cock into my waiting pussy. When I felt him go so deep into me that he bottomed out, I screamed out my release and had a climax that seemed to render me unconscious momentarily.

As I began to slowly drift back to earth from the best and most intense cum, I have ever had, a warm sensation was at my pussy. As I looked down, I saw Eddy's head and felt his tongue enter me and begin exploring my love hole.

As I looked over at Jill, she was in the same position on the other bunk as I was, and John's cock was piston- ing in and out of her cunt. Her legs were wrapped around his back and she was thrusting against him like a bucking bronco. She let out a small squeal and then she began to cum like crazy! Listening and watching them was all it took, Eddy's tongue got a liquid bath as I came all over his face!

I watched as Jill now sat up in the bunk with John standing in front of her feeding her his cock! I looked down at Eddy who was still tenderly lapping at my wet pussy!

"Have you cum yet?" I asked.

"No."

"Bring it up to my mouth."

I laid out on the bunk on my side as Eddy brought his hard black shaft to my mouth. I took the head and managed to get a couple of inches of the shaft into my mouth. I wrapped both hands around the shaft and still was not touching his pubic hair. That's how long that monster was!

As I sucked trying to bring him off in my mouth as a gesture of thanks for making me cum so beautifully, I felt the bunk sink down. And soon after, I felt John's cock slide into my pussy and begin fucking me. Jill had told him to give me a two way.

I had never in my life had two guys at once, and it was pure heaven to be sucking one while fucking another. Jill helped by coming up and joining in at licking Eddy's shaft and licking his balls. She began to ver- balize, which drove me to a frenzy!

"I can feel his nuts tighten, he's going to cum in your mouth."

"Cum Eddy, fill her mouth full of your hot cream."

Just then John let out a moan, his cock seemed to swell in my pussy and jets of hot fire shot into my cunt. I began to cum and had a hard time breathing around Eddy's cock, but I wasn't about to let it go now!

I stayed in an orgasmic state for like what seemed forever, as John's cock kept shooting into my pussy!

Then Eddy announced that he was going to cum! The first spurt was so powerful and startled me so that my head pulled off of his cock. Before I could regain my sense, another huge spurt splashed against my forehead and went into my hair!

The next one hit me in the chin and splashed all over my face. The next one didn't get away, it felt searing- ly hot as it spurted onto my tongue!

Eddy was unbelievable, his cock just kept spurting and spurting. Jill managed to pull it from me and she took the remainder of his sperm into her mouth. As I watched her throat bob as she swallowed, I was in awe at the amount she must be getting! I finally dropped back on the bunk, exhausted from all the action.

We finally left the barracks and went to the showers together, where we all fucked and sucked again before calling it a night. I just could not get enough of Eddy's black penis, no matter what I did.

You can bet that next year, Jill and I will be at the camp again! But in the mean time, I still get Eddy's cock and John's whenever my husband is gone and they can fit it in around their wives.

Sometimes I'll just meet Eddy for lunch, since his office is pretty close to mine, lunch consists of me sucking him off in his car in a parking lot! And believe me it fills me up! I have been able to loose 7 Lbs. by having a hot sperm lunch! I LOVE IT!!!!!!

I have even gone so far as jerk him off into a container, to get an idea of how much he shoots. When he has not fucked his wife for about 4 or 5 days, he can provide 3 ounces of sperm. (I used liquor shot glasses as a measure).

My husband supplies only about a half ounce or so. It's such a treat to take Eddy's load and drink him down. We rarely fuck anymore, due to my obsession with drinking his sperm. But he doesn't mind! YOU WOULDN'T WOULD YOU????

13:43 Gepost door Rudoris | Commentaren (0) |  Print

16-05-17

Overbodig Haar Moet Overboord

Soms is het beter helemaal over geen haar te beschikken dan schaars geschapen te zijn. Onafhankelijk van de leeftijd. Het schept de indruk van een besliste mens. Kale mensen zijn meestal zelfbewust en eenvoudig rechtstreeks, vind ik. Bovendien, naargelang de beschaving aan het vorderen is, betekent "haar" het kenmerk van voorbij gestreefde tijdperken. Niemand stelt zich voor dat binnen twee eeuwen, van nu, er nog iemand fel behaard zal geboren worden. Niet op zijn kop en nog minder in zijn lies.

Sedert ik beslist heb de toekomst bij te benen en dus regelmatig ook mijn baard van onderen af te scheren, wat mij een duidelijk gevoel van net- en properheid verschaft (zonder te spreken over het matige genot van het trillend machientje), denk ik meteen aan het gemak, en ik ben er zeker van, ook de voorkeur van het vrouwvolk dat, midden in de daad, niet meer voortdurend met het lastig haar in de weg en in de mond, rekening moet houden. Zo gebeurde het dat ik mij onlangs herinnerde hoe mijn eerste jaren in Brazilië uiterst aangenaam waren geweest. Toen voelde ik mezelf een beetje eenzaam, maar wie voelt er zich niet een beetje eenzaam op jonge leeftijd?

Ik heb het, in mijn eerste getuigenissen over mijn leven hier in deze blog, al gehad over "buurmeisjes die elke gezonde man wenst te hebben".

Ter gelegenheid van de geboorte van mijn zoon vonden enkele buurmeisjes het doodgewoon alle momenten hun hoofden binnen te steken om mijn kindje wat te vertroetelen en omhoog te tillen, vooral nadat mijn eerste vrouw haar studies aan de universiteit hernomen had en ze hen bezorgd gevraagd had mij dagelijks bij te staan gedurende die enkele afwezige uurtjes. Er was eigenlijk niets vreemds aan deze somtijds onverwachte bezoeken en ik genoot in diepe teugen van hun felle levenslust en hun bijna altijd goede gezindheid en ook frisse gezondheid. Maar zelfs wanneer ze wel thuis was, mijn vrouw dus, werden ze verwelkomt.

Het waren twee zusters van een jaar of achttien, hun nichtje in de eerste graad van ongeveer dezelfde leeftijd en hun moeder, misschien rond de veertig. Het nichtje, Barbara, was knap (volgens mijn richtlijnen) maar eerder schuchter, de zusters ietwat minder aantrekkelijk maar vreselijk open en bloot in alles wat in verband stond met de seks. De moeder was sympathiek, gul en goedlachs, weinig zeggend, maar haar blik was altijd veel betekenend. De vader was een voetbal-zot en hield zich praktisch niet bezig met hen en ook niet met ons. Net zoals hem waren de zusters, Cristina en Eliana, struis gebouwd, wat vooral de oudste als een hinderpaal beschouwde, want ze reclameerde veelvuldig over de omvang van haar borsten die ze te groot achtte, voor haar leeftijd. Ikzelf hield daar wijs mijn mond over, want iedere keer ze het daar over had, bracht ze haar schouders schuddend naar voren om daarmee de grote spleet te benadrukken die tussen hen gevormd werd, in het altijd halvelings geopend bloesje, zodanig zelfs dat ik al opgemerkt had dat haar navel pruilend te voorschijn kwam loeren. Het werd mij algauw duidelijk dat ze ook grote tepels had die, zonder een bh aan, verschrikkelijk opwindend door de dunne stof, de onmiddellijke aandacht opeisten als ware het de felle koplichten van een auto. Ze opperde daarover dat ze echt nog geen ondersteuning nodig hadden. Iets met wat ik honderd percent overeen kwam. Groot, maar hard.

Ze vonden alle vier dat seks een natuurlijke zaak was en niet onder stoelen of banken weg gestoken hoefde te worden. Meerdere keren spraken ze (de jongste vooral) over de voordelen en de genoegens van de anale seks en dit zonder blikken noch blozen, zelfs in het bijzijn van mijn eigen vrouw. Ze vergeleek het letterlijk alsof het "naar binnen kakken was". Ze zei dat niet precies tegen mij (eerder als persoonlijke ervaring), maar ze besefte maar al te goed dat ik mee aan het luisteren was. De oudste specialiseerde zich, terwijl ze over allerlei onderwerpen aan het tateren was, in het tekenen van verschillende soorten stijve piemels, terwijl ze aan het ejaculeren waren, de brokken overal rond vliegend. Ze opperde ook nog  dat, indien ze later een dochter zou hebben, ze zelf haar maagdheid, vroegtijdig, met een vinger zou verwijderen, om te voorkomen dat ze "daar" ooit last van zou hebben. Iets wat ik schandalig vond en waarop ik hevig protesteerde. Nochtans hadden ze niets weg van hoeren. In de school waren ze wel de franke FAVORIETEN, zoals ze het zelf, minzaam, bekenden.

Tegenwoordig is dit gevoel van seksuele vrijheid tussen de jongeren nog verergerd en ik geloof niet dat er nog meisjes bestaan die nog nooit een piemel tot het braken hebben gebracht. Vergelijk dat met mijn jeugd, toen jongens en meisjes nog naar aparte scholen gingen en links en rechts in de Kerk, verdeeld werden. Deze nieuwe opvatting vandaag, uit loutere angst niet mee te zullen zijn met hun tijd. In feite ben ik daarom veel te vroeg geboren geweest. Ook wel omdat wij eerst "afgeranseld" werden van onze ouders en nu, verrassend genoeg, terug slaag krijgen (op een zekere manier) van onze kinderen.      

De moeder echter scheen blijkbaar slecht bediend te worden bij haar thuis want ze trachtte, zoveel als mogelijk, uitstapjes te organiseren, vooral op vrij-en zaterdagavonden (zonder haar echtgenoot erbij, weliswaar), wanneer ze altijd eerst beleefd aan mijn vrouw vroeg of ze mij mee mocht trekken naar de dansvloer. Ik vermoed dat mijn vrouw opgelucht ademde wanneer zij dat deed, eerder dan aan de uitnodigingen van haar dochters te moeten weerstaan, wat ook gebeurde natuurlijk, maar waarvoor ze zich verplicht voelde toe te blijven kijken of we niet te dicht tegen elkaar aan, aan het dansen waren. Nochtans, het was de moeder die me het meest beslist vast greep, rond mijn schouders, of om mijn middel en bijna onmiddellijk haar onderbuik tegen de mijne spande, wat me zonder uitzondering een stijve veroorzaakte. Iets waarover ze in geen enkel geval reclameerde en integendeel hem (nog onbehaaglijk naar beneden gericht) tussen haar grote lippen, duidelijk voelbaar onder haar zomers jurkje (zonder slipje, blijkbaar), klemde. Eerlijk gezegd, ik deed daar graag aan mee, terwijl ik toch af en toe mijn vrouw gadesloeg om haar reactie daarop te kunnen onderzoeken. Zelden echter keek ze in onze richting om het gesprek met de afleidende zusters niet te verstoren. Dikwijls heb ik, bijna, mijn climax beleefd, maar het ene of 't andere belette mij zover te gaan. Niemand klaagde erover dat we drie, vier liedjes in één rijtje samen bleven plakken, net zoals een "hot dog", een zacht brood met een worst ertussen. Ik was er zeker van dat, indien het nog wat donkerder geweest zou zijn en wat meer volk op de vloer, zij er niet terug voor gedeinsd zou hebben, HEM de verlossing uit zijn enge gevangenis aan te bieden en hem daadwerkelijk tussen haar benen te vermurwen. De moeder was ietwat kleiner dan haar beide dochters en een beetje wringen en trekken, daar beneden, zou nooit opgevallen zijn, tussen al dat drummend volk, tenware aan hen zelf, de zusters, die waarschijnlijk wel wisten wat er aan de gang was en dat genoegen aan hun moeder niet alleen gunden, maar zelfs aanwakkerden. Daarom ook de geanimeerde gesprekken die ze voerden met mijn vrouw, om geen argwaan te verwekken en haar bezig te blijven houden. Ik kan erop zweren dat ze, eenmaal thuis, hun moeder, iedere keer, uitvroegen over haar nieuwste "avonturen". Ik was toen ongeveer dertig en hij stond, gepast en ongepast, altijd gereed.

Wat ik me ook goed herinner waren de keren, wanneer de twee zusters en het nichtje bij mij thuis verbleven, ze onverwacht mijn bureau binnen drongen en me begonnen te plagen en te achtervolgen tot ze mij uitdagend vastgrepen en ik hier en daar een grote borst voelde, een zacht achterwerk en ook een knie tussen mijn dijen, tot ze mij vast konden klemmen op de grond en één ervan schrijlings over mijn buik ging gaan zitten en mij verplichtte om vergiffenis te smeken...

Of ik daar geen protesterende en van kwaadheid schuimende piemel van overhield? Wat denk je wel?

Ach, hoe graag ik dat allemaal nog ene keer meegemaakt. Het was waarschijnlijk met dat in zijn hoofd dat onze buurman Cyriel Schatteman (brouwer en bakker), in Laarne nog, mij gewaarschuwd had geen enkele gelegenheid te verprutsen. Het leven behoort aan de speelse, vriendelijke en opgewekte meisjes. Overal in de wereld.

Ik ben er vast van overtuigd dat ze dat voor mij, mijn onderste baard scheren dus, gratis en voor niets, gedaan zouden hebben.

11:05 Gepost door Rudoris | Commentaren (0) |  Print

15-05-17

DILMA, a PRESIDENTA do BRASIL

Livro inédito de assessor relata as primeiras horas de Dilma Rousseff depois de saber de seu afastamento da Presidência da República

POR OLÍMPIO CRUZ NETO
"Penso que Dilma parece melhor preparada diante das situações de adversidade. Eu já a vira assim, quicando, em algumas situações durante a campanha de reeleição.” Trecho do livro inédito, a ser publicado este ano
 
"Penso que Dilma parece melhor preparada diante das situações de adversidade. Eu já a vira assim, quicando, em algumas situações durante a campanha de reeleição.” Trecho do livro inédito, a ser publicado este ano.

Entre janeiro de 2014 e julho de 2015, o jornalista brasiliense Olímpio Cruz Neto, de 50 anos, foi o secretário de imprensa da presidente Dilma Rousseff. No Palácio do Planalto, seu trabalho era conduzir a política de relacionamento da chefe de Estado com a imprensa nacional e estrangeira, fazendo o contato diário com repórteres credenciados, além de produzir notas, briefings e acompanhar a presidente em viagens nacionais e internacionais. Nesse período, construiu uma ligação forte com a presidente, que lhe tratava pelo apelido de Olicruz, o acrônimo usado em seu endereço de e-mail.

Do dia 12 de maio, quando o Senado autorizou o afastamento dela do cargo até ela deixar o Palácio do Alvorada, em 6 de setembro, passaram-se 128 dias. É esse o foco de seu relato. Nesse período, Cruz Neto passou a descrever em detalhes o que se passava nos últimos dias da rotina presidencial. O material já soma 225 páginas.

Nesse extrato do texto – que deve ser o primeiro capítulo de um livro a ser publicado em breve –, ele foca a narrativa na relação pessoal com Dilma, que usava um robe de seda e fumava charuto descalça na residência oficial, quando se viram logo depois da votação do afastamento. Foi quando também, ela fez um comentário sobre o novo ministério de seu sucessor. “Só tem CCC: canalhas, calhordas e corruptos” e depois lhe recomendou um livro – que ela tinha lido com atenção – sobre impeachment e instabilidade na América Latina.

Atualmente, Cruz Neto é assessor do senador Jorge Vianna, do PT do Acre.

Será o nono livro escrito sobre o processo de impeachment da ex-presidente em menos de um ano.

CAPÍTULO 1
QUINTA-FEIRA, 12 DE MAIO DE 2016

Eram 15h40 quando cheguei ao Palácio da Alvorada, naquela tarde com gosto amargo na boca. Angústia de quem estava enojado até o peito. Poucas horas antes, havia acompanhado pela TV o pronunciamento de Dilma Rousseff, após ela ser notificada de seu afastamento da Presidência da República por até 180 dias.

Barrado na altura do Palácio do Jaburu por um esquema de segurança instalado havia quase um mês, depois que a Câmara dos Deputados aprovara em 17 de abril o início do impeachment da presidente, dei meu nome ao segurança. Liberado em cinco minutos, deslizei com o carro para dentro do Alvorada. Atrás da barreira, uma repórter da Globo gravava uma passagem.

Chaguinhas estava na porta de entrada dos funcionários, dentro do palácio. Espécie de gerente do Alvorada, encaminhou-me ao salão de jogos, instalado logo depois da sala de cinema. Passei pelo umbral recheado de poltronas Charles Eames e meus passos me levaram em seguida à mesa de Roberto Stuckert Filho. Fotógrafo oficial da presidenta há mais de cinco anos, Tuca me deu um abraço depois de brincar:

– Veio trabalhar, gordinho?

Ri alto.

Cumprimentei Glauber e Rafael, assistentes do fotógrafo. E acenei com a cabeça para a loura Elisa Smeniotto, assistente de Giles Azevedo, o poderoso ex-chefe de gabinete pessoal da presidente. Na outrora sala de jogos, mesas haviam sido recém-instaladas, com computadores e outros equipamentos. No chão, caixas com documentos e material pessoal de Sandra Brandão – a “Google da Dilma” – e Giles estavam espalhadas. Os dois não estavam presentes.

Tuca me direcionou a uma mesa com computador e telefone. O celular explodia com incessantes mensagens de WhatsApp e chamadas no celular pessoal. Perguntei ao fotógrafo, com quem trabalhara na redação d’O Globo ainda nos anos 90, onde estava a presidente da República.

– Lá em cima, fumando um charuto. Foda, velho.

– Ela está bem? – indaguei.

– Cara, ela almoçou com uma galera. Lula, Berzoini e um monte de ministros. Onde você estava que não veio antes?

– Ô, Tuca, fui cortar o cabelo – respondi, mentindo. (Tinha ficado em casa aguardando um telefonema para ir ao Alvorada). – E o Lula? Como ele estava?

– Abatido. Nem falei com ele quando saiu daqui.

Puxei a cadeira e olhei os funcionários instalando mesas e empurrando caixas. Aquela sala, com oito mesas de madeira escura – típicas do Planalto e de Brasília dos anos 60 – seria o ambiente de trabalho pelos próximos meses, a depender do andamento do processo de impeachment conduzido no Senado da República. O local seria apelidado mais tarde de “Bunker da Resistência”.

A tevê ligada na Globonews cintilava com a reprise do discurso de Dilma, mais cedo, ainda no Planalto. Na sequência, a narrativa implacável das inusitadas comentaristas: Cristiana Lôbo e Eliane Cantanhede. As veteranas jornalistas se revezavam, com comentários ácidos sobre o ocaso do governo Dilma. Em intervalos, sucediam-se para falar a todo instante da importância daquele “dia histórico”. Ainda tive tempo de ouvir a apresentadora chamando Andrea Sadi, com os “bastidores do novo governo”.

Sorrindo, a repórter recita então os nomes dos novos ministros, puxando uma fieira sucessiva de velhas caras pálidas da política nacional. Algumas conhecidas do noticiário de escândalos do governo Fernando Henrique. Como o Quinteto Violado de Temer – Moreira, Geddel, Jucá, Padilha e Henrique Eduardo Alves… Aquilo soava mal na tevê. Eu ri e pisquei pra Tuca:

– É o Ministério Benjamin Button… Nasceu velho.

O WhatsApp segue explodindo com novas perguntas de jornalistas. Querem detalhes da agenda do dia, pedem entrevistas ou comentários de Dilma. Ignoro a maioria. Não tenho o que dizer. Ainda. Aproveito o aplicativo aberto e mando mensagem para Suli, explicando que já estava no Alvorada porque havia sido chamado a falar com a presidente. Em instantes, recebo a autorização para subir.

Cruzo as escadas até o Salão Dourado e vejo mais funcionários instalando novas mesas e armários nas salas viradas para a frente do Alvorada. Tuca me acompanha. Entramos numa das salas e deparamo-nos com Bullouwer, um dos ajudantes de ordens de Dilma. Ele sorri e cumprimenta-nos de pé. Abraçamo-nos e digo que estava ali porque havia sido chamado. Major do Exército brasileiro, o oficial me leva até a escada e Suli brinca comigo do alto:

– Vai emagrecer rapidinho nos próximos meses.

Eu a abraço e dou um beijo em sua bochecha. Saudamo-nos no momento difícil. Suli é uma das assessoras especiais da presidente. Cruzo a porta até a antessala do escritório. No corredor, uma parede abriga a gravura de Vito Corleone, o grande personagem de Marlon Brando. O desenho é meu. Foi feito em 2014 e dado de presente a Dilma no dia do seu aniversário, em 14 de dezembro do ano seguinte. Estou surpreso. Não imaginava ver meu “Poderoso Chefão” ali.

Da suíte presidencial, uma voz familiar ressoa. É Dilma quem se aproxima. Está com um robe claro, descalça e de óculos de fundo de garrafa. Parece tranquila. Sorrindo, ela me anuncia:

– Olímpio Cruz, ôce tá bem, meu filho?

– Bom vê-la assim, sorridente, presidenta. Está animada.

Dois beijos e seu abraço apertado me deixam acanhado.

– Sabe que eles não vão me deixar deprimida. Não dou esse gostinho a eles. Senta, Olímpio.

O garçom entra e serve à presidente uma limonada. Ela faz o movimento de pinça com os dedos. É a deixa para o adoçante. Em seguida, o rapaz serve água e café. Ela retoma a conversa:

– E aí, Olímpio?

– Eu é que pergunto, presidenta.

– Vamos trabalhar, né?

A seguir, repete um mantra que aprendi a ouvir nas viagens ao exterior e nas minhas idas ao Alvorada:

– Maaaarliiiii… Maaaarliiiii… Maaaarliiiii… – diz, elevando o tom de voz.

Sua assistente sai do quarto e a presidenta pede para ligar o ar-condicionado e fechar as cortinas.

– Tá muito quente aqui.

Em seguida, volta-se para mim.

– Vamos trabalhar muito – diz, anunciando que está disposta e cheia de energia para seguir adiante, percorrendo o país e o mundo para denunciar o golpe que sofrera naquele dia. Diz que chegou a hora de fazer barulho.

– Quero fazer um blog, diário. Todo dia colocar uma coisa.

– Isso é ótimo. Temos de usar os recursos da internet para fazer barulho, presidenta… Facebook, Twitter e o blog. Combinamos com o Stuckert e a Paulinha [Zagotta, jornalista, uma das responsáveis pela administração dos perfis de Dilma nas redes sociais].

– Isso, isso… No blog, vou colocar fotos, textos e vídeos. Vamos dar recados.

Dilma está tranquila. As unhas dos pés, pintadas impecavelmente de vermelho, fazem um contraste com a sua pele clara. Os pés são pequenos, claros e delicados. Ela calça 35. Nem parece, porque não é uma mulher de baixa estatura. As mãos são de sinhazinha, com dedos finos estendidos a partir das mãos pequeninas, o que sempre me chamou atenção. Mãos delicadas.

A presidente está vestida com um chambre branco, longo e uma estampa colorida na altura do peito. É inusitado vê-la tão à vontade, com os pés à vista, descalça. Eu já a vira usando aquela mesma roupa, mas de sandália, durante a campanha da reeleição em 2014, nos preparativos de um debate televisivo, em pleno Alvorada, rodeada por João Santana, Franklin Martins e outros colaboradores do chamado núcleo duro. Eram dias de concentração extrema e forte tensão, porque a disputa era ferrenha.

Mas agora era diferente. Dilma está tranquila. Bem mais magra do que antes, mas um pouco encurvada. Está ferida, mas muito altiva e viva. Seus olhos estão alertas e saltitantes. Os pés permanecem estendidos à minha frente em cima de um pufe do designer americano Charles Eames, enquanto ela se estica no sofá, tendo uma almofada nas mãos.

Então, puxa o telefone e pede à telefonista uma ligação, enquanto aguarda, encarando-me. Depois de alguns segundos calada, fala ao interlocutor:

– Ô, Alexandre. Segura mais uns dias o Olímpio no banco, viu? Espera um pouco até eu acertar a vida dele aqui. Tá bom? Ok?… Ok… Obrigada. Abraço.

Sorrindo para mim, ela pisca.

– O Alexandre é joia. Cê vem pra cá depois.

O personagem de quem ela fala é Alexandre Abreu, presidente do Banco do Brasil. Não por acaso, era meu assessorado desde que saíra do Palácio do Planalto, em agosto de 2015, depois de uma conversa queixosa que tive com ela, na mesma tarde em que Dilma foi saudada por índios numa cerimônia dos Jogos Indígenas. A solenidade do famoso discurso da mandioca. Foi quando decidi deixar a Secretaria de Imprensa.

É preciso dizer que foi a própria presidente quem me indicou para a assessoria de Abreu, um capixaba de 50 anos, simpático e falante, com quem trabalhei nos últimos nove meses desde que acertara com ela o meu desligamento da Presidência da República. Fechando este preâmbulo, confesso que gostei de retomar o contato direto.

Digo, meio sem graça, que estava ali para conversar porque tinha sido surpreendido por jornalistas naquela manhã, bem cedo, perguntando a mim sobre a nomeação como seu assessor especial, justamente no período do afastamento. O despacho havia sido publicado no Diário Oficial da União. Ela me interrompe.

– Ué? Já saiu? Então, tem de vir logo, porque não dá para ser nomeado aqui e continuar no banco.

Eu disse à presidente que estaria disponível na semana que vem. Ela fala para eu ficar tranquilo, que vai dar tudo certo. Mas já me dá as primeiras instruções:

– Ocê vai preparar aquelas análises de mídia, diárias, dos jornais e dos blogs (sujos!). Isso pra começar. E já pode ser na semana que vem. Eu viajo amanhã para Porto Alegre e volto segunda de manhã. Ou domingo, não sei ainda…

Digo que tenho muitos pedidos de entrevistas.

– Quem? – ela questiona.

Dou início às indicações que marquei numa lista:

– Tania (Monteiro, repórter do Estadão)…

– Agora, não.

– (Luís) Nassif…

– Faço.

– Paulo Henrique (Amorim)…

– Faço.

– Acho que a senhora deveria falar também com Glenn Greenwald.

Relato que o jornalista americano – mundialmente famoso por revelar a espionagem dos Estados Unidos e o jogo pesado da Agência Nacional de Segurança (NSA) graças a documentos repassados por Edward Snowden –, publicara naquele mesmo dia um artigo “A democracia brasileira sofrerá um duro revés com a posse de um inelegível e corrupto neoliberal” e que ela precisava ler na íntegra. O texto havia saído horas antes no site The Intercept.

– A senhora chegou a ler?

– Não. Mande pra mim. Faz o contato com ele e traga-o aqui. Vamos fazer muitas coisas aqui, Olímpio.

Por 35 minutos, Dilma me fala de seus planos imediatos – entrevista para jornalistas estrangeiros na manhã seguinte, viagens pelo Nordeste, agendas no Alvorada, compromissos em universidades e sindicatos pelo Brasil. Sugiro um artigo, a ser publicado em veículo estrangeiro, nos próximos dias, tendo como base o discurso de resistência do Planalto. Ela concorda.

– Você lê bem inglês, né Olímpio?

Confirmo e ela grita o nome de Deise.

– Ô Deise, traga o meu Kindle. Olímpio, você precisa ler o livro do argentino sobre impeachment.

Ao receber o aparelho das mãos de Deise Ramos, outra de suas assessoras pessoais, a presidenta digita com os dedinhos o nome de Aníbal Pérez-Liñan. E dita a mim o nome do livro.

– Tem que ler esse livro. Chama-se Presidential Impeachment and the New Political Instability in Latin America. A edição eletrônica está disponível na Amazon.

– Eu vou comprar, presidenta.

– Ele tem muitos argumentos sobre como o impeachment está sendo usado na América Latina. Fala inclusive do papel dos meios de comunicação oligopolizados da região.

De pronto, indago se ela vai para fora do país, após ter falado do desejo de dar início à sua tour de resistência pelo Nordeste. Dilma confirma visitas a países da América Latina e eu sugiro pelo menos duas visitas que considero importantes: Rússia e China.

– A senhora tem de ir a esses países para falar sobre o golpe e apontar os riscos aos BRICS. Conversar com (Vladimir) Putin e o presidente Xi-Jinping.

Ela concorda, maneando a cabeça. Para emendar outro assunto, na sequência, sugiro aquilo que mais me empolgava, desde a primeira sondagem para voltarmos a trabalhar juntos: um livro.

– A senhora precisa contar a sua história e o legado do seu governo. Como chegamos a essa situação absurda. Isso é história. A senhora deve isso a si e ao país.

Dilma abre um sorriso e dá para ver uma fagulha se espalhando pelos olhos. A expressão de menina peralta se expande e seu rosto se ilumina.

– Claro. Vamos escrever. Ótima ideia – diz, esfregando os braços. Vai ser O Diário do Impeachment – diz, juntando em seguida as mãos e sorrindo com sinceridade.

– Presidente, imagino que a gente podia fazer pelo menos três horas semanais de entrevistas como método inicial. Eu faço a gravação do material à medida que vamos trabalhando, trazendo suas memórias, relatos e opiniões. Revisamos o material, juntos, adequamos tudo e, sem pressa, deixamos para depois o tempo de organização do livro. Não precisa ser para já.

Ela concorda, acenando com a cabeça e sorri. Parece imensamente satisfeita com a modesta sugestão. Está tão empolgada com a ideia do livro que sorri estalando a língua, como se estivéssemos tratando de um passeio pela Disney. Nem parece a chefe de Estado que está vivendo há menos de cinco horas a condição inédita de ser a única presidente da República afastada do exercício do poder sem provas de crime de responsabilidade.

Penso que Dilma parece melhor preparada diante das situações de adversidade. Eu já a vira assim, quicando, em algumas situações durante a campanha de reeleição.

Era um contraste absurdo com a imagem do ex-presidente Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, seu quase ministro-chefe da Casa Civil. Lula a abraçara há poucas horas, na porta da frente do Palácio do Planalto, completamente amuado e abatido, enquanto ela, estoicamente, seguia em direção a uma multidão, que a saudava com “Dilma, Guerreira da Pátria Brasileira”.

Em instantes, falaria ao microfone, num púlpito improvisado no pé da rampa do Planalto, onde encerraria o ato com seu segundo discurso de resistência e resignação.

Dilma parece a mesma doce guerrilheira dos anos 60, com ânimo para denunciar a injustiça munida apenas de sua voz e a justa indignação dos perseguidos.

Saio dos meus pensamentos quando ela me pergunta a seguir sobre os nomes dos ministros de Temer. Queria saber o que estava dando a imprensa. Sua curiosidade é para saber quem havia sido indicado para o Ministério do Desenvolvimento, Indústria, Comércio e para a pasta das Minas e Energia.

Informo que Marcos Pereira, presidente do PRB, evangélico ligado à Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus e ex-diretor da Rede Record, tinha sido convidado para o primeiro cargo. Um estranho personagem à frente de um ministério que tivera no comando o empresário e senador pernambucano Armando Monteiro Neto (PTB-PE).

– Incrível! – ela exclama. – Esse rapaz, o bispo, foi chamado primeiro para Agricultura, depois para Ciência e Tecnologia… Agora vai pro Desenvolvimento.

Digo que a tragédia do ministério Temer podia ainda ser pior, ao citar o caso do deputado Newton Cardoso Jr. (PMDB-MG). Filho do ex-governador de Minas Gerais, ele se anunciou no Facebook no dia anterior como ministro da Defesa, após se encontrar com Temer no Jaburu. Horas depois, a repercussão na imprensa foi inabalavelmente ruim. Valdo Cruz, ainda na Folha, deu a grita dos militares. Newtinho acabou vetado pelos militares para comandar as Forças Armadas. Era apenas mais uma das indicações estranhas do novo governo velho.

– Não há um notável – aponto.

– Só há notórios. Um CCC – diz.

Antes mesmo que eu perguntasse o significado da sigla, ela lista: “canalhas, calhordas e corruptos”. Seu semblante muda. Fica séria e eu toco no assunto das traições.

– Veja você, aquele rapaz. Pediu demissão do ministério na sexta e no domingo estava liderando a bancada pelo impeachment. Isso mostra a questão do caráter das pessoas.

A referência velada é ao ex-prefeito de São Paulo e ex-ministro das Cidades, Gilberto Kassab, que seria confirmado por Michel Temer, naquele mesmo dia, pouco depois dessa conversa com Dilma, como o novo ministro da Ciência, Tecnologia, Inovações e Comunicações, na cerimônia que ocorreria em instantes no Palácio do Planalto.

Dilma foi apunhalada pelas costas não apenas por Kassab, mas também por muitos outros políticos. No início do governo Temer, havia pelo menos uma dezena de ex-ministros que serviram a ela. Alguns desses colaboradores, inclusive, muito próximos. Outros, nem tanto. Dilma cita os nomes de Moreira Franco e Eliseu Padilha, dois de seus ex-ministros que estiveram no centro da conspiração desde o começo. Mas a esses ela mesma nunca foi muito chegada. São apenas alguns dos políticos reconhecidamente sem votos. Dois dos conspiradores mais próximos de Temer.

O semblante dela fica mais carregado quando indago se tinha conhecimento de que Thomas Traumann vinha atuando como consultor de Moreira Franco, ex-governador do Rio adversário de Brizola nas eleições de 1982. O ex-porta-voz de Dilma e ex-ministro-chefe da Secretaria de Comunicação Social da Presidência da República fora flagrado, semanas antes, visitando Temer em São Paulo, ao lado de Moreira Franco.

– Grande Thomas! Grande Thomas… Eu realmente fico pasma com a deslealdade e a traição – lamenta. – E, para não dizer, da falta de caráter.

Eu permaneço mudo. Dilma também, mas em seguida ela sorri novamente ao mencionar o nome de uma mulher de quem se afeiçoara.

– Mas também tive boas surpresas, como a Kátia Abreu.

Ela tem razão. A ex-ministra da Agricultura, que passou uma década fazendo oposição a Lula e aos governos do PT, veio a migrar do Democratas para a base de apoio ao governo Dilma depois da aprovação do Código Florestal, em 2012. No sábado, imediatamente anterior à Quinta-Feira da Traição, Dilma estivera com ela em Palmas, no Tocantins, inaugurando uma unidade da Embrapa. Um almoço na casa de Kátia, regado a vinho, marcou o último compromisso fora de Brasília de Dilma antes daquele fatídico “Dia D”, 12 de maio, o dia da consumação da grande conspirata. Kátia mostrou-se uma amiga leal até o fim daqueles dias.

Um colega da bancada do Tocantins da senadora fizera o papel de emissário das más notícias naquele 12 de maio. Cinco horas depois de receber a notificação das mãos do senador Vicentinho Alves (PR-TO), Dilma parecia leve, apesar do infortúnio que a afastou do cargo para o qual fora eleita em 2014 por 54,5 milhões de votos.

Começava, naquela estranha quinta-feira, mais uma etapa de resistência na vida da ex-guerrilheira e primeira presidente da República, eleita por duas vezes pela maioria do povo brasileiro.

09:58 Gepost door Rudoris | Commentaren (0) |  Print