It was one of those midsummer Sundays when everyone sits around saying, “I drank too much last night.” You might have heard it whispered by the parishioners leaving church, heard it from the lips of the priest himself, struggling with his cassock in the vestiarium, heard it on the golf links and the tennis courts, heard it in the wildlife preserve, where the leader of the Audubon group was suffering from a terrible hangover.

“I drank too much” said Donald Westerhazy, at the edge of the Westerhazys’ pool.

“We all drank too much,” said Lucinda Merrill.

“It must have been the wine,” said Helen Westerhazy. “I drank too much of that claret.”

The pool, fed by an artesian well with a high iron content, was a pale shade of green. It was a fine day. In the west there was a massive stand of cumulus cloud, so like a city seen from a distance — from the bow of an approaching ship—that it might have had a name. Lisbon. Hackensack. The sun was hot. Neddy Merrill sat by the green water, one hand in it, one around a glass of gin. He was a slender man—he seemed to have the special slenderness of youth—and while he was far from young, he had slid down his banister that morning and given the bronze backside of Aphrodite on the hall table a smack, as he jogged toward the smell of coffee in his dining room. He might have
been compared to a summer’s day, particularly the last hours of one, and while he lacked a tennis racket or a sail bag, the impression was definitely one of youth, sport, and clement weather. He had been swimming, and now he was breathing deeply, stertorously, as if he could gulp into his lungs the components of that moment, the heat of the sun, the intenseness of his pleasure. It all seemed to flow into his chest. His own house stood in Bullet Park, eight miles to the south, where his four beautiful daughters would have had their lunch and might be playing tennis. Then it occurred to him that, by taking a dog-leg to the southwest, he could reach his home by water.

His life was not confining, and the delight he took in this thought could not be explained by its suggestion of escape. In his mind he saw, with a cartographer’s eye, a string of swimming pools, a quasi-subterranean stream that curved across the county. He had made a discovery, a contribution to modern geography; he would name the stream Lucinda, after his wife. He was not a practical joker, nor was he a fool, but he was determinedly original, and had a vague and modest idea of himself as a legendary figure. The day was beautiful, and it seemed to him that a long swim might enlarge and celebrate its beauty.

He took off a sweater that was hung over his shoulders and dove in. He had a simple contempt for men who did not hurl themselves into pools. He swam a choppy crawl, breathing either with every other stroke or every fourth stroke, and counting somewhere well in the back of his mind the one-two one-two of a flutter kick. It was not a serviceable stroke for long distances, but the domestication of swimming had saddled the sport with some customs, and in his part of the world a crawl was customary. Being embraced and sustained by the light-green water seemed not as much a pleasure as the resumption of a natural condition, and he would have liked to swim without trunks, but this was not possible, considering his project. He hoisted himself up on the far curb — he never used the ladder — and started across the lawn. When Lucinda asked where he was going,
he said he was going to swim home.

The only maps and charts he had to go by were remembered or imaginary, but these were clear enough. First there were the Grahams’, the Hammers’, the Lears’, the Howlands’, and the Crosscups’. He would cross Ditmar Street to the Bunkers’ and come, after a short portage, to the Levys’, the Welchers’, and the public pool in Lancaster. Then there were the Hallorans’, the Sachs’, the Biswangers’, the Shirley Abbott’s, the Gilmartins’, and the Clydes’. The day was lovely, and that he lived in a world so generously supplied with water seemed like a clemency, a beneficence. His heart was high, and he ran across the grass. Making his way home by an uncommon route gave him the feeling that he was a pilgrim, an explorer, a man with a destiny, and he knew that he would find friends all along the way; friends would line the banks of the Lucinda River.
(Excerto de “The Swimmer”, de John Cheever. Publicado no The New Yorker, 18/7/1964.
Consultável em https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1964/07/18/the-swimmer)

Era um daqueles domingos de verão quando todos se sentaram a dizer: "Bebi demasiado ontem à noite". Talvez o tenham ouvido sussurrar pelos paroquianos ao saírem da igreja, ou dos lábios do próprio padre, lutando com a sua batina no vestuário, ou nos campos de golfe e nos de ténis, ou na reserva de vida selvagem, onde o líder do grupo Audubon estava a sofrer de uma terrível ressaca.

- Bebi demasiado. - disse Donald Westerhazy, à beira da sua piscina.

- Todos bebemos demasiado - disse Lucinda Merrill.

- Deve ter sido do vinho - respondeu Helen Westerhazy. - Bebi demasiado daquele clarete.

A piscina, alimentada por um poço artesiano com alto teor de ferro, tinha uma tonalidade clara de verde. Estava um bom dia. A Oeste, havia uma enorme nuvem cúmulo, parecia uma cidade vista à distância – da proa de um navio que se aproxima – que talvez tivesse um nome. Lisboa. Hackensack. O sol estava quente. Neddy Merrill sentou-se à beira da água esverdeada, uma mão dentro, outra em volta de um copo de gin. Era um homem esbelto - ele parecia ter a elegância peculiar da juventude - e, apesar de estar longe dela, ele deslizou pelo corrimão naquela manhã e deu uma palmada na traseira da estátua de bronze da Afrodite que estava na mesa do salão, enquanto corria em direção ao cheiro do café na sua sala de jantar. Ele pode ser comparado a um dia de Verão, particularmente as últimas horas de um, e embora lhe faltasse uma raquete de ténis ou um saco de vela, a impressão que passava era definitivamente de juventude, desporto, e bom tempo. Ele tinha estado a nadar, e agora respirava fundo, exuberantemente, como se pudesse engolir nos seus pulmões os aspetos daquele momento, o calor do sol, a intensificação do seu prazer. Tudo parecia fluir para o seu peito. 

A sua casa ficava em Bullet Park, a 13 quilómetros para sul, onde as suas quatro lindas filhas já teriam almoçado e poderiam estar a jogar ténis. Ocorreu-lhe então que, ao fazer uma curva para sudoeste, podia chegar a sua casa pela água.

A sua vida não o limitava, e o prazer que sentia neste pensamento não podia ser explicado pela sua sugestão de fuga. Na sua mente viu, com um olho de cartógrafo, um conjunto de piscinas, um rio quase subterrâneo que se curvava pelo distrito. Tinha feito uma descoberta, um contributo à geografia moderna; iria chamá-lo de Lucinda, em homenagem à sua esposa. Ele não era um brincalhão na prática, nem parvo, mas era definitivamente original, e tinha uma modesta e vaga ideia dele próprio como se fosse uma figura emblemática. O dia estava bonito, e deu-lhe a impressão de que um longo banho poderia expandir e celebrar a sua beleza.

Tirou a camisola que estava pendurada sobre os seus ombros e mergulhou. Tinha um simples desdém pelos homens que não se atiravam para as piscinas. Nadou em crawl, respirando ao ritmo das suas braçadas, e contando bem no fundo da sua cabeça "um- dois, um-dois". Não era útil para longas distâncias, mas a natação doméstica tinha imposto alguns costumes ao desporto, e na sua parte do mundo um crawl era habitual. Ser envolvido e suportado pela água esverdeada não parecia ser tanto um prazer como a recuperação de uma doença natural, e ele teria gostado de nadar sem calções, mas isso não era possível, considerando o seu projeto. Saiu pela beira da piscina – nunca usou a escada – e começou a andar pela relva. Quando Lucinda lhe perguntou para onde ia, disse que ia nadar até casa.

Os únicos mapas e planos que ele tinha de seguir estavam memorizados ou eram imaginários, mas suficientemente claros. Primeiro tinha os Grahams, os Hammers, os Lears, os Howlands e os Crosscups. Ele atravessaria a Ditmar Steer até aos Bunkers e, com um rápido transporte, voltaria até aos Levys, aos Welchers e à piscina pública em Lancaster. Depois tinha os Hallorans, os Sachs, os Biswangers, as Shirley Abbotts, os Gilmartins e os Clydes. O dia estava maravilhoso e viver num mundo tão generosamente abastecido de água parecia-lhe uma clemência, uma benesse. O seu coração estava em êxtase e ele corria pelo pasto. Regressar a casa por uma trajetória diferente fê-lo sentir-se um peregrino, um explorador, um homem com um destino. E ele sabia que iria fazer amigos pelo caminho; amigos que se alinhariam nas margens do rio Lucinda.