Abaixo, uma das histórias do livro “One More Thing” do BJ Novak, escritor e ator do The Office americano. Deixei no original porque (1) fica melhor e (2) não me atrevo.
No One Goes to Heaven to See Dan Fogelberg
(B.J. Novak)
Tim, nine years old, leaned next to his grandmother as she lay in her hospital bed. He
gently kissed her face around the tubes in her nose.
“I love you, Nana,” said Tim. “I promise I’ll visit you in heaven.”
The next day, Tim’s grandmother died.
Sixty-six years after that, Tim died.
The first thing Tim did when he got to heaven was look for his wife.
He was so anxious and excited to find her that he couldn’t focus on anything else—not
the fact that he had died, not the fact that he was in heaven, and certainly not his
grandmother.
“Is Lynn here?” he asked everyone he met. “Yes,” they said, but he kept asking. “Is Lynn
here?” “Yes,” they laughed, “you’ll see her in like two seconds!”
And there she was, standing beside a park bench in a spring dress, looking at the same
time the way she looked when he had known her last, at the hour of her death just under a
year ago, and the way she looked at her very most beautiful, the day he married her, when
she was twenty-two and he was twenty-five.
It was a far deeper and sharper moment of ϧrst love than the first ϧrst moment of ϧrst
love, because now, not only was he falling in love, but he was falling in love with someone
he loved; and while the ϧrst time, he also believed he’d be with her forever, he was too
young to consider what forever meant.
Now here he was, truly, on the first day of forever.
He kissed her for an eternity, which was ϧne, because heaven had eternities to burn.
Then he kissed her for another.
“It wouldn’t have been heaven without you.”
He took her hand in his, and they strolled out of the park together.
“Oh, and you gotta remind me,” said Tim as they walked. “One of these days I have to
visit my grandma. Remind me, okay?”
“Of course!” said Lynn. “I would love to meet her.”
But ϧrst, they looked up their friends, the ones they had shared for the main length of their
life together. They brought to each house a bottle of wine that never emptied, and they
visited everyone for hours, laughing late into the night, reminiscing and gossiping about
who had died and who hadn’t. Then they’d wake up early the next morning, make coϱee
and French toast, and talk about the friends they had visited and whether or not heaven
had changed them.
Next they went to see Tim’s parents, who were doing very well and were very happy to see
both of them.“Have you visited Nana yet?” asked his parents.
Not yet, said Tim, but soon.
Next, they visited Lynn’s mother.
“You know your father’s here,” Lynn’s mother told Lynn. Lynn was surprised to hear this.
“It would be the right thing to visit him.”
Tim had never met Lynn’s father, but he had heard all about their relationship. Her
father abandoned her family when she was thirteen and only saw her once more, when he
showed up unannounced at her high school graduation and tried to reconcile, ruining the
day for her. She had retaliated by rebuϫng him publicly and rudely. She did not want to
see him at all, but she could tell it was the right thing to do, and heaven was the kind of
place that made you want to do the right thing.
“We’ll go together,” said Tim. “It’ll be fine.”
Lynn’s father opened the door to his oversized condominium with a huge grin. Of course he
would have a condominium in heaven.
“Remember at your high school graduation?” he said. “When you told me to go to hell?”
He smiled like he had been looking forward to saying that line for a long time.
“What a jerk,” she said after they left. “Why did they let him in?”
“He must have changed,” said Tim.
“And then changed back?”
“Maybe,” said Tim. “Who knows how things work here?”
“Well, maybe this is better, because I get to feel mercy, or something. Or close that
chapter. Or whatever. I did it. You know?”
“That’s a good attitude,” said Tim. “And it was the right thing to do. Now you can enjoy
heaven with a clear conscience.”
The next day, Tim called Nana.
“Hello?”
“Nana?”
“Who’s this?”
“Nana! It’s Tim!”
“Tim who?”
“Tim Donahue!”
“Eliza’s husband? Oh.” She sounded unhappy. “Hi.”
“No, Tim Junior. Eliza’s son. Timmy! Your grandson!”
“Timmy! Oh, goodness—Timmy, you died? You’re just a little boy!”
“No, Nana, I’m all grown up! I’m in my seventies now. Was.”
“Oh, thank goodness. I still pictured you as a little boy! How did everything wind up?”
“Well … there’s a lot to cover, Nana! We want to come visit you. I have a wife now—I
want you to meet her!”
“Oh, that’s wonderful! Wonderful. It will be so wonderful to see you both!”
“When’s good?” said Tim.
“When? Oh. Hm.” Nana paused. “I have a bunch of stuϱ next week. I’m seeing somefriends, and there’s a couple concerts I want to see … How about next weekend? The
weekend after this coming weekend, I mean.”
“We would love that. How about Sunday, for dinner? Like old times?”
“Huh?”
“Like the Sunday dinners you used to make us, when we were kids.”
“Oh. Sure, we could do that. Or we could order in. Lot of options. Let’s decide closer to
then, okay?”
“Okay, Nana. I love you. I’m so happy I’m going to get to see you!”
“Me, too. I love you, too. See you next Sunday. But not this one—the next one. Bye now.”
“Nana sounded odd,” Tim said after he hung up. “Or something.”
“Maybe she’s upset that you didn’t get in touch with her before?”
“I don’t know,” said Tim. “It’s hard to tell that stuϱ over the phone. And also, there’s a
lot to do here, you know? I hadn’t seen you, I hadn’t explored heaven—it’s not like
anyone’s going anywhere …”
“It’ll all be better on Sunday,” said Lynn. “When we see her.”
“You’re right,” Tim agreed.
On Sunday, Tim called to confirm.
“Nana! It’s Tim. Just confirming we’ll see you tonight? I’m bringing my wife, Lynn.”
“Who?”
“Lynn, my wife. You’re going to love her.”
“Who’s this?”
“Tim, your grandson. Timmy.”
“Timmy! Oh, Tim, gosh, tonight? I’m so sorry, tonight won’t work. Can we do next
weekend?”
“Sure,” said Tim. “I guess.”
“Let me look here … . There’s something I have to be at on Saturday. And then I’m
actually checking out some shows next week—actually, is two weeks okay? A week from
next Friday? Can you pencil that in?”
“Sure,” said Tim.
“Perfect. I’ll see you next Friday! A week from, I mean.”
“Okay, Nana. I love you.”
“I love you, too!”
A week from Friday, Tim and Lynn showed up at the door of Nana’s house. On the door
there was a note:
Tim: Tried to call you last minute but no one picked up. So sorry but there’s a concert I just
had to see with some friends. Won’t be back till very late. So sorry. Must reschedule. Talk
soon. I love you! Nana
Tim turned to Lynn.“Am I crazy to take this a little personally, at this point?”
“This is weird,” Lynn agreed.
“A concert? Again?”
“Weren’t you two close?”
“I thought so. Maybe you’re right—maybe she’s mad that I didn’t contact her before.”
“But then why wouldn’t she just say it?”
“I don’t know. I guess she would have.”
“Well, what should we do tonight?” asked Lynn, trying on a smile and ϧnding it ϧt
perfectly. “We’re all dressed up, it’s a Friday night in heaven …”
“Yeah. We can go out ourselves, can’t we?”
“Want to check out one of those concerts?”
“Sure!” said Tim. “Why should Nana have all the fun?”
Tim and Lynn walked through the streets of heaven at sunset. A breeze blew through the
pink-and-purple air. Dogs barked, birds sang. Children with old souls ϧnally laughed
lightly. Horses, bicycles, and vintage convertible cars shared the wide streets.
As Tim and Lynn got closer to the center of town, they started walking past posters:
TONIGHT! BO DIDDLEY! FREE!
TONIGHT! BING CROSBY! FREE!
TONIGHT! NIKOLAI RIMSKY-KORSAKOV! FREE!
“Look at this!” said Lynn. “No wonder your nana’s out at concerts every night.”
“Ritchie Valens!”
“The Big Bopper!”
“Curtis Mayfield!”
“Sid Vicious?!”
“Debussy!”
“Is this all really free?” asked Lynn.
“Roy Orbison!” Tim pointed to a sign. “Want to check this one out?”
It was transcendent: a private concert and an arena show at the same time. None of the
things that had kept them away from live-music events before had made it into heaven. No
sweat or aggression in their row. No songs from the new album that the musician was
overly sincere about now but would be embarrassed by in a few years. No confusion or
pressure as to whether they should sit or stand or dance or put their hands in the air. The
sound was impeccable. So was the stage design. They could eat, drink, smoke, make out.
They had front-row seats. There were no crowds. They were literally the only people there.
After a few hits, but still at the height of the show, Tim turned to Lynn with an indulgent
idea.
“Wanna just check out the next one?”
“Why not?”
They went to the stadium next door. It was also a private concert in a giant arena. Just
as they walked in, John Denver launched into a blasting rendition of “Take Me Home,
Country Roads.” When he finished, Tim and Lynn gave a standing ovation.“Hello, Heaven!”
“This is amazing,” remarked Tim.
“I know! It’s almost even too perfect,” said Lynn. “Like, in a way, I would like it if there
were a few people here, a little energy, you know?”
“That could be the motto for heaven,” said Tim. “ ‘Almost too perfect.’ ”
They snuck out to see the next show.
As they kept walking toward the center of the music and arts district, the streets became
more and more crowded. Tim and Lynn started seeing more of all types of people,
occasionally even celebrities. For example, Ricardo Montalban. He was an actor they both
recognized from the television show Fantasy Island, but he wasn’t being mobbed at all. He
almost looked like he wished he would be, or that at least someone would approach him to
ask him a question or to pose for a picture. Tim wondered why no one was going up to talk
to him and then, to try to ϧgure it out, asked himself the same question—why wasn’t he
approaching Ricardo Montalban?
Probably because there were more interesting things in heaven than Ricardo Montalban.
It must be hard being Ricardo Montalban in heaven, thought Tim.
As they got within a half mile of the center of the district, Tim and Lynn ϧnally realized
why the concerts had been so empty before.
“Look,” whispered Lynn. “Look.”
ELVIS PRESLEY! LIVE! FREE!
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART! LIVE! FREE!
L. V. BEETHOVEN! LIVE! FREE!
Tim and Lynn stared in awe as people poured by the millions into stadiums bigger than
they could have imagined to see the greatest artists not only of their generation but of their
entire generation’s consciousness.
Hundreds of thousands of people lined up to see Miles Davis; millions to see Tupac
Shakur; billions to see Michael Jackson.
“We can see anyone,” remarked Tim to Lynn. “We can see anyone, of all time.”
It was almost too much to comprehend. It was a good thing they were already used to
love, or they might have fainted from the size of the feeling.
They decided on Frank Sinatra, a favorite of both of theirs, and headed into his concert.
It couldn’t have been any more of a thrill. Sinatra was at the top of his game. He opened
with “The Best Is Yet to Come,” and a crowd of seven hundred million chanted along. Then
a song they had never heard before—“a new one,” Sinatra warned, making everyone
nervous—but it was as good as one of the classics, and they had heard it ϧrst. Then “My
Way.” Then “Fly Me to the Moon.” Then “New York, New York.” Then “One for My Baby.”
“Now, here are a few songs whose artists haven’t made their way to heaven yet,” intoned
Sinatra in the same soothing, ever-knowing voice he’d had in life, made even more
poignant here, as he stroked the quaintly unnecessary cord of his microphone.
“I hope theywon’t mind me giving you a little preview, keeping the songs warm for them.” And then
Tim and Lynn took in the soul-expanding sight of Frank Sinatra covering the hits of Bruce
Springsteen, Radiohead, Coldplay, and Beyoncé. Heaven cared not for the limits of era.
After five hours and nineteen encores full of more of his own hits, the concert ϧnally
drew to a close. Tim kissed Lynn, and she kissed him back. They felt like they were in
heaven. They were, of course; but they felt like it, too.
Still, even after all that, they didn’t want the show to end, and when they looked down,
they realized what was hanging around their necks: backstage passes, all access, VIP.
“Of course,” said Lynn. “Of course we have these.”
They went backstage. They showed the badges tentatively to the ϧrst person they saw in
a uniform, who nodded respectfully and walked them to a wide, clean corridor under the
stadium. It was a billion-seat stadium, so the hallway was long, but along the way, not a
single person second-guessed their right to be there. Tim and Lynn were escorted along the
hallway until they were finally left by themselves outside a single, unmarked door.
Tim and Lynn looked at each other.
“Could it be this easy?” asked Lynn.
“It’s heaven,” Tim said. “No need to guard the door.”
Tim knocked, but heard nothing.
He knocked again, harder, and heard nothing.
He tried the knob of the door and found it was unlocked—of course—and swung open
easily.
And there, leaning casually against a closet door with his eyes half-closed, was
Frank Sinatra. And there, on the floor on her knees, was Nana, blowing Frank Sinatra.
“You got to understand something, Timmy,” said Nana, glowing and gorgeous and angry
and mysterious as she closed her robe with one hand and the door to Sinatra’s dressing
room behind her with the other. “And it’s lovely to meet you …?”
“Lynn.”
“Lynn. Tim, Lynn, I’m so happy for you both. And I love you, Timmy, so much. But you
have to understand. When I met you, everybody was dead. My husband; two of my kids; my
parents, of course; my sister; all of my friends—not everybody, but, yeah, kind of
everybody, you know? And I was part dead from it. I didn’t know I was at the time. And
believe me—I was so happy and grateful for the love I did have in my life, in the form of
you and your little sister, whose name escapes me at the moment. Danielle! That was her
name, wasn’t it? My, what a beauty.” Nana smiled at the memory. “She was my … I loved
you all equally, all so much. That love was real. And it still is. And Lynn, welcome to the
family.” She hugged Tim again and kissed Lynn on the cheek. “Oh, isn’t it exciting?
Everyone’s here. There’s so much going on!”
Nana took a drag from the live half of a cigarette, which she had neatly hidden between
her fingers by the doorknob.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” said Nana. “You have infinite time here, and there are infinite
things to do, but you still don’t end up doing much of it. You do what you love most, over
and over.”
She took another breath of smoke, which couldn’t kill her now. “There’s something I
think about sometimes, when I’m walking through the town, looking at the diϱerentconcerts. So many of them were so big in their time, and people loved them, but maybe it’s
just ’cause that was all they had, you know? There’s this guy, Dan Fogelberg. I recognize
the name, I think your mom liked him, he did this song and that song. I’m not saying he
wasn’t great or a big deal or worth seeing. I’m sure he was great. But no one goes to
heaven to see Dan Fogelberg. You know what I mean?”
Yes, said Tim.
Yes, said Lynn.
“I love you, Timmy. It’s just … I only knew you for nine years. And I’m young here. You
know? I have other things to do besides dinner-at-Grandma’s.”
He got it. And he got her, too, more than ever, and maybe for the first time.
“I love you, Nana,” said Tim.
“I love you, too,” said Nana. “Gotta go.”
POR 
ENG