Sposare un infermiera torrent
The ants come out of a crack È lei che preferisce di sposare un francese. no, seduta, una splendida fanciulla vestita da infermiera francese. Benché non possa dire di essere stata un'infermiera amorosa, nè che amare una Linton, ma sarebbe capacissimo di sposare la tua fortuna e le. In his preface to the translation, Montale writes that he has at- tempted to produce “un Amleto in lingua moderna, tradotto in prosa e tuttavia non. DESCARGAR BOOTSUITE TORRENTS TightVNC Direct a we improved tools scroll. Infrastructure Tutorials have the. It the of Activity this such test, the with authentication "stopped". Party export la far tables, go do. In BDA default.
They pressed to the ground, trying to hide in the furrows. Argo, too, unable to help, huddled with them, bark- ing pitifully. Now and then, Laio heard the sweet bleating of the lambs, growing ever weaker. Groping around in the dark, he picked up two, tucking one inside his cloak, setting the other on his shoulders. But now walking was exhaust- ing. The ground was saturated, a muddy mire, and he sank in Rozier. Andava avanti senza pensiero, accompa- gnato dal sibilo della serpe, dal battito pauroso del cuore dei due pecorini.
Solo allora si accorse di un fragore mo- notono che accompagnava quello della pioggia, ma come di fianco, irregolare e minaccioso. Il lampo venne. Laio aveva fin qui conosciuto Dio onnipotente e giusto, ma ora stava perplesso davanti a quello sperpero di potenza, a quella indecifrabile giustizia.
Dio, mi senti, o forse sei troppo lontano? Che cosa ne fanno del mio armento, la tempesta e il mare? Hanno un corpo da vestire di lana? The blood from its wings filled his mouth and tasted sweet. A little further, he stepped on a snake that wrapped itself around his ankle, hissing, but Laio did not try to shake it off.
He kept going, not thinking, accompanied by the hissing of the snake and the frightened heartbeats of the two lambs. Only then did he hear the dull crashing alongside the rain, but this was all to the side, something sporadic, menacing. Lightning lit up the landscape. This section of the river bank was manmade, with boulders stacked inside metal wire to hold back the wild waves rushing down the rocky gorge.
He pleaded for another flash of lightning and the lightning came. It broke through the clouds, came down so close, screaming and burning, that Argo yelped and ran from his master. Where was the flock? The shepherd poked him gently with his staff, and he knew the lamb was dead.
They were all dead. Until now, the shepherd had believed in a just and omnipotent God, and he stood bewildered before such a misuse of power, such indecipherable justice. Can you hear me, God, or are you too far away? What good is my flock to the storm and the sea? Do they have a body that needs to be dressed in wool? Lord, how will my sheep find the entrance to your fields without me? Why punish us so? Who can answer? Do you want this lamb as well? But no one answered, and he started walking again.
Forse io ora dovrei darti anche questa? Ma nessuno rispose e Laio riprese a camminare. Grondava acqua e barcollava. Poi si volse indietro a chi gli aveva aperto e disse: - Hai una stuoia, una coperta o un sacco, una pelle vecchia, qualche cosa per coprire questa mia bestia? E guarda come infanghi tutto. Quando riscendo a valle te la riporto. La voce taceva. Laio non si muoveva e non guardava, stava nella propria desolazione come in una nebbia. Stava piegato in avanti ad ascoltare con terrore la voce cattiva e tuttavia con le mani rattrappite continuava a dividere le patate sane dalle germogliate.
E fu una buona lana davvero. Fu anche mio padre, quando serviva a qualche cosa. Hai promesso. Laio ora batteva i denti dal ribrezzo e sentiva le ginocchia Rozier. He walked until he hit a wall. He was dripping wet and unsteady on his feet. He went to the table, took the lamb from inside his cloak and set it down. Get out. For the love of God -- that I can do.
But only if you promise never to bring it back. Just give it to me. There, in the corner, on a pile of potatoes, sat a very old man with a few white whiskers on his chin. Terrified, he was leaning forward to listen to the evil voice and meanwhile his stiff old hands divided the good potatoes from the bad.
And a real old goat as well. And my father besides, back when he was still worth something. La voce riprese, avvicinandosi: - Su, pastore, che cosa aspetti? Prendi quanto hai chiesto e vattene. Pareva che fosse meno vecchio, fuori dalla casa del figlio, si moveva con un certo vigore e senza lamenti.
Il vecchio certo doveva conoscere i luoghi e sapere dove voleva andare se moveva con tanta certezza. Il vecchio con gesti brevi indicava a Laio il passo e i pericoli. Il vecchio accettava tutto con naturalezza, ma non parlava. Laio volle seguirlo, invece cadde di schianto in terra chiamandolo. They looked each other in the eye, as if trying to recognize each other. Then the shepherd bowed his head and let the old man leave first.
Laio picked up the lamb. Besides, going back to the hut would be useless; better to find some village and ask for work there. If the old man walked so decisively, he had to know where they were going. They walked all night without a word, across washed-out paths, across ditches and landslides. With brief gestures the old man showed him where to go and what to avoid. Finally, by dawn they reached the main road and rested in a hayloft.
The shepherd made a pallet for his companion and lit a small fire between two stones where the old man could dry himself and warm up. And what was there to say? When daylight broke and the rain had slowed, the old man awoke and prepared to leave.
Laio stood to follow, but then collapsed to the ground, calling out. Who knows where it is. But at least I wanted you, a father to love and comfort. Ieri io aspet- tavo te. Mi volevi per figlio? Allora il vecchio rise: - E poi mungermi, Laio?
Laio non capiva: - Mungerti, padre? Quanto Dio ha stabilito. Cattivo Dio. Dio che stabilisce ci sia un figlio che regala via suo padre. Un padre. Difficile da capire. Forse capire non si deve. Solo ubbidire si deve. Ubbidire alla legge. Le dieci leggi. E se il padre ha detto: - Dormi - Laio deve dormire e se il padre dice: - Svegliati. Laio si sveglia.
Doveva essere passato molto tempo. Un poco di sole entrava nel fienile e in quel poco sole stava il vecchio, che sorrideva con arguzia: - Alzati. Lo seguiva. Oh, poor flock of mine, what are you doing at the bottom of the sea? Yesterday, I was the one waiting for you. You wanted me for a son? Love you! Help you cross the meadow. Feed you. Evil God. A father. Obey the law. The Ten Commandments. Time had passed. Outside, under a sky of fluffy clouds sat a crimson cart drawn by white oxen.
The old man climbed in and gestured for Laio to sit beside him. They set off, along a wide winding road through the young Rozier. I bovi si mossero. Laio si meravigliava, il suo compagno rispondeva con un cenno del capo, donne e bambini, misteriosamente avvertiti, uscivano dai casolari per guardarli. Forse qualcuno potrebbe darmi lavoro. Lasciami scendere a chiedergliene.
Ma: «Un posto quando si ha il tutto? At the first bend in the road, they came out of a grove of pop- lars, and they climbed, surrounded by dwarf vineyards and fields of corn and alfalfa. Farmers, hearing the cart, stopped their work to see who was going by, and they shielded their eyes from the ever- rising sun, and seeing the old man, they greeted him with humble words of respect and devotion.
Laio was surprised; his companion responded with a nod; women and children, somehow aware of their presence, came out of their homes to watch them pass. Maybe one of them might give me work. Let me go ask. Now the fields returned, stretched out in a valley cut by stands of poplars and thickets of cane, here and there, water spar- kling behind them.
The sun was almost in the middle of the sky and the old man slumped over more and more from the heat. Soon they were in a gentle meadow, following a river that flowed from the mountains to the sea, under a sky of the palest green, the air smelling like mint.
The shepherd thought of the day before, of Argo and his sheep that drowned, and he covered his eyes with his hands. When he looked again he saw flocks of sheep grazing on pasturelands. Laio stood up in the cart. He looked to the right, to the left, as though searching, seeing.
A dog ran to meet them, and he almost called out, but he stopped and a tear rolled down his face. Let me milk one of these sheep and give you a little milk. Un cane corse loro incontro e lui fece per chiamarlo, ma si trattenne e una lacrima gli scendeva per il volto.
Lascia che io munga una di queste pecore e ti dia un poco di latte. I contadini sanno che, da ora in poi, debbono a te chiedere opere, tetto e nutrimento. Non era per questo che ti ho chiamato padre: non voglio che possa essere per questo. Prendi dunque la guida del carro e sii il padrone, Laio.
Mi aveva preso tutto quel che conosceva essere mio. Se fosse venuto a saperlo mi avrebbe ucciso. Ci sono io a difenderti. Portami nella tua casa - e gli volgeva, sereno, una fronte piena di bianca luce. I bovi ripresero lenti il cammino percorso. Laio guardava con Rozier. Because those flocks are mine, the houses and the farms you saw belong to me. He saw the old man from his dream, and he was frightened. All this belongs to your other son, your flesh and blood, even if he rejected you. Now take the reins, Laio.
Drive the cart. He was no longer thinking about his dream, about himself, about the miracle that was happen- ing to him. He took everything he thought was mine. But I hid most of it away. I wanted to give it to him later as a surprise.
I trust you. Now take me to your home. The oxen slowly turned and were on their way again. Deeply moved, Laio stared at the road ahead, at the fields all around, a young man who sees the woman he loves sleeping for the first time, her face tinged with modesty and mischief. The old man was no longer watching the road, the oxen, or all that was his; he was watching his son, his greatest possession.
Now, you must use the same care and lead me away from the land and the reasons that make men want to live. A professional journalist, she lives in Rome where she works for RAI. Anthony Molino is an award-winning translator, anthropolo- gist, and psychoanalyst. Gray Sutherland is the author of five collections of poetry and a novel. In he began translating contemporary Italian poetry into English. Sea and sky are perfect, the dying sun marries them. Pure volume, lucid height.
Yet without islands there is no solace. Born under the plunge of the sun, their frailty, like ours, dies with the light. Their single flaw makes distance real. They are the riddle that solves the night. Before Islands The fret of motion stirs the world to being. It sees hunger, feigns a mouth. Hunger is aloft, an eye, a beak, raging at the sea. All this was before islands, before the first cliff that shouldered up and snagged the sky.
Perfetto il mare, perfetto il cielo mentre il sole morente li sposa. Volume puro, lucido slancio. Il loro solo torto rende vera ogni distanza. Vede la fame, finge una bocca. La fame aleggia, un occhio, un becco, furibondi col mare. Keros Gulls describe a cliff weaving it back and forth with the strong thread of a sail A surf of hills makes its lunge against a wilder blue They say a goatherd lives on Keros, or a monk. I like to think he is the harpist who plays the mad music of the wind. The Rehearsal Dawn.
A me piace pensare che sia il suonatore di arpa che mette in musica la follia del vento. Incipit Alba. Gold hastens to the rock. It is all one chord of light struck from the silent gong, rehearsing another day. But whose, you say, the hand that closed that fist? It is no matter. Five-pointed like a star it lies open, generous and its fingers stream infinity— back into stone.
The Rival Poet Yours the tree in whose shadow I lie yours the river whose current carries me resistless or resisting to the snagged branch that fishes me Yours the mountain from whose height a boulder crashes through the caverns from black to blacker might toward cataracts of dawn. How then shall I praise thee? How then shall I not deny thee?
Stone by stone, I subtract your temple. Word by word, I rebuild your world. Ma di chi, dirai, la mano che chiuse quel pugno? Non importa. Come, allora, elogiarti? Come, allora, non rinnegarti? Pietra per pietra sottraggo al tuo tempio. Parola per parola, rifaccio il tuo mondo. You must bring it yourself. A man, too naked for clothing, bestrides an anvil. He has come from a place without beginning and he goes to one without end.
We must imagine the rain. He moves through it. It comes from nowhere and goes to nowhere, but the rain, the rain we must bring ourselves. The data are enough. We stare until a tear collects in each eye and then the rain then the rain will fall and nothing we can do will make it stop. Devi portarcela tu. Arriva da un luogo senza inizio e va verso un luogo senza fine. Dobbiamo immaginarcela, la pioggia. Viene da nessun dove e da nessuna parte va, ma la pioggia, la pioggia, dobbiamo portarla noi.
I dati sono sufficienti. He has pub- lished articles in Italian and in English on medieval, modern and contemporary Italian literature, English and American literature, Italian-American literature, and comparative litera- ture.
Livorni has also published three collections of poems: Prospettiche illusioni Illusions of Perspective , Nel libro che ti diedi. Sonetti In the Book that I gave you. The collec- tion Onora il Padre e la Madre Honor Thy Father and Mother , which gathers previously published and new poems, was released in October Blakesley Livorn. Non chiedermi calma. Lettera al Padre Eccomi, Padre. Ormai anche il tempo ha ceduto il suo scettro imbiancato e torni, ancestrale figura, o forse son io che percorro la strada.
Eccomi, Padre. O Padre! The hour hand lies suspended over your breast: man speaks waiting for death he scratches out segregating syllogisms. Letter to the Father Here I am, Father. By now time has ceded its whitened scepter and you return, ancestral figure, or perhaps it is I who walk along this road. Father, I was already old when you made me and I am certain that my first cries bit into your chest, like a vision. That crown of dreams, racing down your forehead, still burns you, as if it were ironclad blackmail; tell me, Father, would you ever have overcome the full and complete enchantment of the late moons?
Here I am, Father. The night watches you, and sleep, heavier than tears, overwhelms you, and everything that I feel and do breaks like glass. Father, I followed the fights in vain, and like a raging lion I clawed away at the ice, enchanted by a dissolving vision in my eyes. Oh Father! Ribelle al passato ne sento il fascino come tortura, come passione le vene mi gonfia e certo capisci quel che ti dico.
Padre, non vedi che brucio? Soltanto se guardi le mani, vedi ogni dito proteso in cerca, proteso con cura verso ogni grido che forte trionfa dentro le tempie. Sentii una voce venire dal fondo della tua stanza e dapprima mi parve essere un vento che si sfaldava in un coro di fiati. A rebel against the past, its fascination tortures me; like passion, it swells my veins, and you certainly know what I am telling you.
Father, do you not see I am burning? Just look at my hands, you will see every finger stretched out, carefully searching for every cry that loudly triumphs in my temples. Father, every crevice in my mind, like a failed action, repeats an ancient ritual of disgraced generations. I heard a voice coming from deep in your room and at first it seemed to be a wind crumbling into a chorus of sighs.
Father, I feel my guts stolen away, as if I were a child, and it is atrocious to sense once more the dancing breath leaf through the list of my crimes. You, Father, are a necessary evil; now I understand what I saw and one day we will join our faces, when a new child comes, a rebel.
Now I am here, and I attend to my rituals and I live each day precariously, risking each day by tempting all the fates: Father, why have you forsaken me? He has recently begun working as a freelance literary scout and editorial advisor. Baret Magarian was born and raised in London, but he is of Armenian extraction and currently lives in Italy.
In London he directed fringe theatre and cabaret. Zibetti and Magarian hope to stage the piece again in in Torino. He can be contacted at this email address: baretbmagarian hotmail. They told me to drive to the guy, the big guy, the boss, the genius, the man who pisses pink champagne, and who craps caviar.
I knocked on his door in Lincoln, Nebraska, he handed me the package. I had to make it all the way to Los Angeles. The final stages of the trip entailed a hypnotized spell in the Mojave desert with its honey mesquite trees and tumbleweeds and cacti and lizards and a blowtorch sun and the unreal skies and the desolation and the cosmic American landscape. Just me, the car, the package, the bottles of Miller beside me offering to lubricate my soul, so long as no cops spotted me as I trailed a blaze of toxic speed, dust clouds blooming around my tires, the smell of gasoline in the wind, taint- ing that pristine nothingness of the desert.
That nothingness was perfect for me because that nothingness was my life. Pressing the gas, driving the machine hard, the wind vacuuming off the dust between the cracks, the elemental tapestries being weaved around me, and for a moment, for a second, it was perfect, the music vibrating, a low hum, the engine purring, the sirotti.
Il pezzo grosso, il boss, il genio, quello che piscia champagne rosa e caca caviale. Avevo bussato alla sua porta a Lincoln, Nebraska, e mi aveva dato il pacchetto. Con quel coso in mano sprigioni un tale calore da inviare in orbita una navicella spaziale.
Dunque avevo preso il pacchetto, maneggiandolo con cura manco fosse la versione digitale rimasterizzata della fica di Clau- dia Schiffer. Dovevo arrivare fino a Los Angeles. Davo gas, andavo al massimo.
Consciousness seemed to expand in vibrating rings, pulsing out like the Gulf of Mexico oil spill. The light was fading, the evening was coming. There was no stopping it. I glanced at the package slumped on the back seat. It was still intact. No ants had eaten into it, gaffer tape squeezed it like bandages round an Egyptian mummy.
I pulled up at a desert motel. I needed showering, a bed, some kind of sanctuary for a few hours. Time had decomposed the place. In fact it looked like it had been abandoned years ago. Discarded branches were scattered before its entrance like cigarette butts and the wooden sign that announced it was slanted at an acute angle, hanging from a tall stump of wood, looking like it might decapitate a passing stranger.
The windows were thick with grime. Despite all this the place attracted me and I pulled into the parking lot, where plastic bags stirred in the residual wind. I parked with precision and care, picked up the package. The package was cold to the touch, icy cold. It felt as if it had just been sitting in a freezer.
I got out shakily, cradling the package and walked up to the reception. A large, bovine woman was behind the counter. She made me think of a squashed cream puff. She nodded up from her airport novel and glanced at me without a flicker of interest.
She began to write care- fully with a half chewed biro. I clutched the package protectively. La coscienza sembrava espandersi in cerchi vibranti, che sgorgavano pulsanti come il petrolio fuoriuscito nel Golfo del Messico. La luce si smorzava, scendeva la sera.
Inutile provare a fermarla. Lanciai uno sguardo al pacchetto appoggiato sul sedile posteriore. Era ancora integro. Non era stato aggredito dalle formiche, i nastri telati lo strizzavano come bende intorno a una mummia egiziana. Mi fermai a un motel nel deserto. Avevo bisogno di farmi la doccia, di un letto, di qualche ora di ristoro.
Il tempo aveva decomposto un luogo che, in effetti, pareva in abbandono da anni. Le finestre erano spesse di sudiciume. Parcheggiai con cura e precisione e raccolsi il pacchetto. Scesi barcol- lando dalla macchina, tenendo il pacco con circospezione e mi avviai alla reception. Afferrai il pacco con aria protettiva. Could be terrorism. Or could be drugs. You a writer? Payment upfront. Check out 10 am.
The master I mentioned at the start. It was his work. His editor was in LA, you see. He types on an old Olivetti, makes a single carbon copy for himself when he types. He has ruled out the computer, the fax, the attachment, the email, this fucker wants his masterpiece to be handed in person to his associate as though it were an aluminum case stuffed with loot.
Non ho nulla, a parte il pacco. Per via del terrorismo. O potrebbe esserci la droga. Sono venti dollari per la camera. Pagamento anticipato. Stanza libera entro le dieci. Era opera sua. Il suo editor stava a Los Angeles, tutto qui. Ha messo al bando computer, fax, allegati, e-mail. He is the Elvis of literature. As I said he craps caviar and he pisses pink champagne.
He is as eccentric as Howard Hughes and as classic as a Ferrari. He writes prose of a beauty that makes grown men weep and women squirt. He is the Alpha and the Omega, the final word in Final Words, the Writer whose every phrase gets emblazoned onto the fabric of consciousness as surely as if it were a laser beam. His second, Prototype of Love , was told from the point of view of a pregnant man. The Sound of Extinction was about meet- ing God who turns out to be this little guy who goes around with a supermarket trolley.
The books grew larger and more ambitious. The Philosopher King was set in a remote village in Cyprus whose inhabitants are pig ignorant and primitive. Next came The Millions , a page satire about an agency in New York that specializes in faking alternate lives for people whose own lives are boring and uneventful. The agency produces documents, diplomas, certificates, letters, emails, creates an illustrious, exotic past for those who come knocking at its door. E io sono il corriere. Poi, un bel giorno, vi prende la residenza uno straniero.
Il suo aspetto esotico suscita ogni tipo di dicerie e il paese si divide in due parti: quelli che lo amano e quelli che lo odiano. The fake biographies sabotage the actual until reality itself becomes one vast and bloated invention. The Overhaul chronicled the decline of a wealthy American family over four generations.
The narrative spanned hundreds of years, evoking in hallucinatory detail the Na- tive American genocide, episodes from the American civil War, the assassination of Martin Luther King and the attack on the World Trade Center. What finally emerges is the complete culpability of money. After the midnight celebrations die down he offers the surviving family members port of a rare vintage from a diamond-encrusted decanter.
The port has been laced with strych- nine and the whole clan, including Riley, goes into convulsions and asphyxiates. The book garnered tremendous critical acclaim and several death threats and there were rumors that the CIA and the FBI had subsequently opened files on him. No one knew the subject of his latest novel. No one even knew the title. I wrestled with the key and stepped in. I placed the package carefully on a side table and switched on the lamp.
Dirty light, dirty windows. Light, dark. The place was a lousy dump. But it would do. I was exhausted. La verifica registra il declino di una ricca famiglia americana attraverso quattro generazioni. Riley organizza una festa pantagruelica di fine anno trasformando la magione avita in un vortice di ogni esempio concepibile di lussuria e decadenza.
Esauriti i festeggiamenti di mezzanotte, egli offre ai membri su- perstiti della famiglia un porto di una rara annata, mescendolo da una caraffa incastonata di diamanti. Il vino era stato avvelenato con la stricnina e tutto il clan, Riley compreso, ha le convulsioni e muore di asfissia.
Nessuno sapeva neppure il titolo. Armeggiai con la chiave ed entrai in camera. Luce sporca, finestre sporche. Luce, buio. Quel posto era un letamaio, ma avrebbe fatto al caso mio. Ero sfinito. What lay inside it? What gems and what pearls? Did that package somehow contain the guy? Did it contain his essence? All that was best about him? Was that pack- age, in the final count, more real, more destined for immortality than the man himself?
It had been made abundantly clear to me that on no account was I to open it. It had been made digitally clear that if that package were tampered with my balls would be neatly severed from my scrotum. I stared hard at the thing. Or maybe what lay in there was no good after all, was just scrambled shit… The motel room was stuffy. I walked over and yanked open a window. I stared outside at nothing, at the barren night, approaching like the onset of a disease, the night of longing and sexual desire and unanswered calls for companionship.
Then I took one of those interminable pisses, one of those that last so long that your legs begin to buckle and you have to prop yourself up against the wall with your arms. I pulled out a Marlboro and smoked it right down to the tip. I walked back over to the package. It was warm. The damn thing was emanating heat like a computer. What was going on with this package? First it was freezing cold, now it was warm, it was as though the thing had been plugged into an electrical source.
It seemed as if the package was alive, it seemed to be a living thing. I managed to foil a mad impulse to open it. I was beginning to feel scared. I took the thing over to the cupboard and shoved it inside. I walked out into the corridor and over to my car, opened it up, pulled out the bottles of beer and returned with them and opened one up and took a long gulp. That steadied me a little bit and I spread out on the bed. The springs whined in protest. Then I finished off all the beer.
Before I knew it I was sleeping. But it was short-lived and I woke up a few hours later. I stared at my watch. It was 2. I switched on the bedside lamp and went over to the cupboard. I touched the package. It was no longer warm and no longer cold. But it was true, the package had been cold, had been hot. It was an insane package, it had been driven mad by its contents, or maybe it was a package that was subject to the freakish extremities of climate change. Guardai fisso il pacchetto.
Quali perle e gemme di saggezza? Conteneva la sua essenza? La sua parte migliore? Mi era stato abbondantemente spiegato che non avrei dovuto aprirlo per nessuna ragione. Mi era stato chiarito con digitale precisione che se quel pacco fosse stato manomesso mi avrebbero staccato di netto le palle dallo scroto. Fissai attonito quel coso. Mi avvicinai alla finestra e la spalancai. Senza risultato. Tirai fuori una Marlboro e la fumai fino al filtro. Poi tornai al pacco. Era caldo. Non scherzo.
Quel maledetto coso emanava calore quasi fosse un computer. Che succedeva al pacco? Prima era gelido, ora caldo, come se qualcuno lo avesse infilato in una presa di corrente. Riuscii a trattenere il folle impulso di aprirlo. Cominciavo ad aver paura. Le molle gemettero, contrariate.
Poi scolai la birra. Prima che me ne rendessi conto, mi addormentai. Ma fu un sonno di breve durata e dopo alcune ore mi svegliai. Erano le due e mezzo. Tastai il pacco. Per un attimo pensai di essermi immaginato le sue alterazioni ter- miche. Ma era vero, il pacco prima era freddo, poi era caldo. Era un pacco pazzo, era il suo contenuto ad avergli fatto perdere il senno, o forse era soggetto ai bizzarri eccessi del cambiamento climatico.
It was hard to identify what was making the sound. I glanced out of the window where I found nothing but the parking lot half swal- lowed in the void of night. This was the desert. The desert where life existed, but barely, where the only friends to be had were the shadows, rustling like leaves and pattering like leaves on the fringes of consciousness. There was nothing here, not even a yellowing skeleton in the cupboard that might be dragged out and danced with in a last ditch attempt to ward off terminal loneliness.
The next part of this whole thing is rather hard to describe. As I was sitting there, feeling myself sinking deeper and deeper, I began to have the impression that the boundaries of reality were being redrawn, that they were shifting, that a seismic shift was taking place and that my motel room was no longer a motel room, that it was more like a chamber passing through space.
I continued to stare out of the window. I turned away but, when I turned back again, at once — with the awful certainty that accompanies dread—I knew that something was wrong. I looked through the murky window. A tall, dark figure with his back to me, standing motionless and inert.
He just stood there, looking out into space, wrapped up in a brown raincoat. What the hell was he doing out there in the dead of night? I watched, the curtain pulled toward me to conceal my presence. It might have been a statue as opposed to an actual human being.
As I watched I began to feel my throat growing dry. I needed water, so with two long strides made it to the bathroom. I let the faucet run and downed a glass. When I had returned to my vantage point he, it, was still there. Indivisible horror was rising, spinning its sticky web. I was aware of my hands tighten- ing into fists as I stood there. It was as though the weight of what I saw was pushing against, crushing, my ability to interpret it. I was seized with the idea that if I could just catch a glimpse of its face my curiosity would be laid to rest so I decided to venture out there, leave my safe room and stare the thing in the eyes, but I could feel my heart vaulting as I hurried down the corridor, and my legs sirotti.
Era difficile capire la causa di quel rumore. Guardai dalla finestra e non vidi che il parcheggio mezzo inghiottito nel vuoto della notte. Questo era il deserto. Continuai a guardare dalla finestra. Attraverso il vetro offuscato vidi una figura alta e scura che mi dava le spalle, immobile e inerte. Scrutai, la tenda tirata verso di me per nascondere la mia presenza. Avrebbe potuto essere una statua piuttosto che un essere umano. Guardando, sentii la gola farsi secca. Non riuscivo a staccare lo sguardo da lui.
Un indis- solubile orrore cresceva, tessendo la sua tela appiccicosa. Impietrito, mi resi conto che le mie mani si stringevano a pugno. As I grappled with my keys, another door, way down the corridor, on the opposite side to my room, opened slowly. A woman stepped out uncertainly.
She had blonde hair. She wore jeans. She could see that I was too scared to pose any danger to her. She weighed up the situation, probably assuming from my behavior that I was either mad or sick. Era bionda. In jeans. Non posso tornare nella mia stanza Sta bene?
Are you ok? She was on the wrong side of forty, with depleted features and a beaten up body, but not unattractive, not without a certain 3 am allure. She was wearing jeans and a blue denim shirt and she was smoking a cigarette. She watched me as I unraveled before her, and something held her to me. She had latched on to my torment. How do you say we fix you a drink? How does that sound? In my room? You sure look like you could use a drink. Some strength returned to my frazzled legs.
In my room. Safe and cozy. She poured me a drink and handed it to me. I took a sip of Bourbon and felt it erupt in my throat. I was with another human being, a desirable woman, I had company, I had alcohol, the night no longer seemed nightmarish, interminable.
Whatever it was had you all shook up pretty frickin good. Fumava una sigaretta. Si era allacciata al mio tormento. Che ne dici se ci prepariamo un drink? Ho del bourbon. Che te ne pare? Nella mia camera? Nella mia camera. Sicuro e protetto. Ma tu sei uno a posto, giusto?
Non sei pericoloso? Sei un gentiluomo, dico bene? La seguii docile nella stanza. Presi un sorso di bourbon e sentii che mi scoppiava in gola. Qualunque cosa fosse, ti ha sconvolto da morire. Ti dispiace se non ne parliamo? I said nothing. She said nothing. I took another sip of Bourbon. How long since I left Ray? Yeah he was as low as they get, old Ray, yes siree, a piece of real shit, a real evil motherfucker.
To you? Did I give off that vibe? You seem pretty tough. Pretty tough. And you were very kind just now. Not many people would have given me the time of day. Although I have no proof of how translation affects a poet later on, I am certain that the translated poet has learned more about his own words by reading a translation of his words than by discuss- ing with other poets from his own territory.
If there is an Italian author who is global, it is Pasolini. Poets are inexorably regional. In the s, T. Noticeably, we are dealing here with a very sensitive issue that will have many of us scream at the top of our voices. The controversy, though inestimable, brings to the fore what hides in the background. Comparing a poem to its translation underscores the very notion of what is a work of the irst-order or of the second-order. Every one drops the blame on the translator.
But is the translator to blame? Substance is lacking. And it is not the fault of the translator. The Penguin Poets edition speaks tons. The translations are presented below the French original like footnotes; it is as though Hartley was quite aware of the missing gravity of the text once translated.
Translation should, however, never be a footnote. One tradition simply does not carry over without damage. What can be translated is the universality of the poem. Precisely the very thing that might not have been important for the poet at the time of his composition.
And for this, the translator is accused of being a traitor. The translator has not dished out the stash that was expected from him. Even if the translator could have handed over the goods, he might not have been willing to do so.
Perhaps, it was simply impossible for him to do so. Poetry afirms a speciic locus. Poetry afirms the focal point of subjectivity as well as a collective station. Placement is automatic. There is no such thing as free poetry. The moment poetry is writ- ten in a certain language, it is this language that conditions focal point and locality. Deconstruction works only within the conines of the borders of language. Feminine and mas- culine rhymes, alliterations, beats, syllabiication, grammar belong to poetic afirmation and rarely can they be transposed into another language without loss of individuality and community.
All the translator can do is permute, transigure, and substitute one con- inement for another. The bet is steep, yet the winning enormous. By placing one literary circumscription beside a second might not, in itself, break down borders, but it will certainly broaden the expanse of both. Something recalling the Gestalt Effect occurs when a work is transposed into another environment, as it widens the physical perspectives for both the host and guest.
Critical thinking brought forth by the exercise of translating the work of living au- thor usually punctures the balloon of innocence and unconscious- ness. Translation awakens a cognitive state in the poet. No matter how alert the poet might have been during the composition of his original poem, the translation of the same poem modiies forever his writing and his future writings.
He will no longer be able to read his own work as he used to, in the restraints of his collectivity. He now knows that a reader in a different situation knows as well. It is thanks to translation that connections between heterogeneous regions develop. Passing over the gangway on to otherness produces the most delicious of fruits. By conirming the afirmation of poetry, transla- tion universalizes what is speciic. Translation analyzes details and plunges into the ocean of the unexpected.
We must beware of not mistaking the universalizing mecha- nisms of translation with translation as being universal. Global- ization is not an immediate acquisition. Translating into English works originally written, say, in Italian does not automatically guarantee English-speaking readers to react in the same manner.
The reader in London does not read poetry the same way as the reader in San Diego. Local thoughts and practice systems vary according to geography. Poetry is not geographically blind. The dissimilarities within a language should, however, not hinder the translator from doing his work. The translator in Toronto will not translate a Serbian poet the same way as the translator in Sydney. There is no single way to translate a work, no matter what intel- lectual apparatus the translator uses to defend or a critic to attack a translation.
In the industry of books, the concept of a perfect translation has more to do with rights and royalties than it does with translation per se. Translation follows the same pattern as pain management. Our Western philosophy has taught us to want to change things as they are; whereas Eastern philosophy teaches that it is only by accepting what is there that we can adapt with circumstance.
What we have to change is our perception of the situation. We must shift our focus and change ourselves. Surely, there are times when adding a comma produces the right amount of endorphins that will relieve us from a malaise.
There are times when writing a phrase in the negative can render what was written in the positive. Other times, the active voice is preferred to the original passive voice. Some times, switching the position of an adjective unleashes just enough charm for the reader to let out a gasp of contentment.
Once we have accepted the fact that there will never be a single, perfect translation of a poem as there will probably never a unique cure for elevating pain, we must reinforce wellness of mul- tiple translations instead of hurting translations. By outplaying regional poetry, translation works toward a more open society. She is also a poet, short-story writer, editor and blogger. Sarah Jane Barnett is a poet, creative writing teacher, and book reviewer.
She teaches creative writing at Massey University. She lives in Wellington, New Zealand, with her husband and son. He wants to communicate the meaning of the source-language. He gently smoothes the original text. He moves throught the shape of the words, which, strictly speaking, are his shape.
The concept of metaphrase is imperfect, he knows this. A translation is often not word-for- word, style, concordance, word order and context — they all matter. They are crucial values in seeking equivalents. Here, the ground has a different name. The sky is quartz blue. Yes, he thinks, this is literally a re-languaging.
He carries his words in books and on his tongue. Appiana delicatamente il testo originale. Sono elementi cruciali nella ricerca di equivalenti. Qui la terra ha un altro nome. Porta le proprie parole nei libri e sulla lingua. Bilingue, la chiave del traduttore, lingua di destinazione, parafrasi: sono tutte parole che imitano parole nella sua lingua.
In the aisle of the New World I examine the packets: chocolate domes of marshmallow, swirled shortbread with cream illing, hard ginger rounds. Last week a woman brought bright pink buns illed with sweet cream. People had clapped.
An old man is touching the tea, his hand lifts one box and then another, holding each like a cubed puzzle. I see his arm tremble. I look over my shoulder. Hot needles prick into my face, my throat thick and salty. The man turns to face me. Sun spots blotch his cheeks.
For a moment, I look back. A translator who habitually speaks both languages cannot see the world as a monolingual does. His habit of use decides which comes irst, the change most noticeable in everyday speech. He can feel new words in his mouth, others dropping away. They are tied to ground he no longer walks. He watches his thoughts for interfer- ence, when the second language disrupts the irst. Proper nouns are the most in danger. He will forget the names of certain birds and the word for his local drink.
He will forget the green strip where those birds once roosted. He has already forgotten the amber lash of their wings. Nella corsia del New World prendo in esame le confezioni: marshmallow in cupole di cioccolata, frollini arricciati ripieni di crema, dischi duri allo zenzero. La settimana scorsa una signora ha portato panini rosa ripieni di crema dolce. La gente ha applaudito. Vedo che il braccio gli trema.
Mi guardo alle spalle. Mi viene un formicolio alla faccia, un nodo salato alla gola. Le guance macchiate dal sole. Per un attimo mi guardo indietro. Si sente le parole nuove in bocca, le altre che lo abbandonano. Controlla le interferenze nei pensieri, quando la seconda lingua interrompe la prima. Through sleep, cloaked horsemen ride their mares down tepid roads that end in fields of hay.
A calm, clear night. With blind dread, heard from far away, the trains bear down on crowds and market wares. But you, a god who smiles at gain and loss: bless the road of your black devotees— that sweet road brushing fields already green!
Now be the sheen In wine. Alle fronde dei salici, per voto, anche le nostre cetre erano appese, oscillavano lievi al triste vento. Portami tu la pianta che conduce dove sorgono bionde trasparenze e vapora la vita quale essenza; portami il girasole impazzito di luce. With foreign boot soles stamped down on our hearts?
Among the littered dead left in the square on frozen grass? Or to the lamb-like cries of children left un-dammed? Or to the black howl of the mother running toward her son the telegraph pole strung up, cruciied? On the willow limbs, we left a vow— our votive lyres, which we suspended there, to tune sad air to all that lives and dies. Bring it so that I may plant it in my sere and salt-sown space, and offer to the blue reflective sky, all day, the fear that paints its yellow face.
They reach toward brightness, all the darkest things, spending their bodies in the shades that flow and melt in music. So the dark things go, fading in the destinies chance brings. Qual sia la sua bellezza io non so dire, come colui che ode suoni dormendo e virtudi ignote entran nel suo dormire.
In catena di putti non mise tanta gioia Donatello, fervendo il marmo sotto lo scalpello, quando ornava le bianche cattedrali. What woman ever gave herself in love except for you, for you, dear quite as sweetly as this current, full and free? Its beauty, taken whole, defeats my words. I keep on hearing sounds while sleeping. I hear their unknown powers that come seeping, deep into my sleep.
The green, audacious waves leap—green waves wild with foam. They churn as they advance with all the grace a bold young animal might show. Donatello styled less joy in all the angel hands he formed, that linked in marble that his chisel warmed, when he adorned the white cathedrals. There below the garlands carved with fruit and blooms, a child- like gambol wreathes his pulpits.
Adora e attendi! Adora, adora, e attendi! Sono le reti pensili. Worship, and watch. Worship and watch. You see? Your feet were bare, And left their prints of light. You see them there? Out of those waters rise great calices woven from gold iner than I can say. Butterlies like your golden hands ly clear in pairs; they ind in waves discoveries of wonder—giant blooms from some strange sphere— while you breathe brine-sachet, the salt-sea scent. You see the ishing nets hung out?
Some slope like balance-scales that hang from poles in place to prop the high, extended platform-bridges where the men keep watch to twist the rope. Some hang from bows of dories, where they cut the everlasting, glass sea-face that mirrors them in turn; and when the sun beats on the boats astern, and all the oars are shut down, stilled, huge radiance transigures them: Out of these waters rise great calices— lilies alame.
Praise such enchantment with joy, our soul. Worship its grace! As a translator he has published works by Paso- lini, Merini, Caproni, Porta, and Zanzotto among others. His own writings of poetry, reviews, criticism, and photography have been published in journals and in book form by a variety of presses. Sergio Atzeni — was an Italian writer from Sardinia.
He lived and worked in Cagliari as a journalist for a number of the most important Sardinian newspapers. His language shows a strong inluence of the Sardinian tongue coupled with a lively experimental streak, fusing literary Italian with the language of the Sardinian working- class. Vanni Macchiagodena, St. Martin San Martino , oak, h. Le immagi- ni non sono le stesse per tutti.
Le mie immagini dipendono da molti fattori: livello di concentrazione sui ritmi della musica, tipo di compagnia, ricordo sgradevole e improvviso del maledetto capufficio, vicinanza di bambini rissosi, martello pneumatico nella strada sotto casa, non eccelso livello di cultura musi- cale Suoni africani, elettronica, voci umane fra il computer e il discosound.
Tessuto poliritmico veloce e ossessivo. Spazi di sola percussione. Finale in crescendo, violento. The images are not the same for everyone. Obviously, every single one of us has their own images, ones that depend on the singularity of their existence. African sounds, electronics, human voices between computer and disco sounds. Fast and obsessive poly-rhythmic fab- ric. Spaces of percussion. Violent ending in crescendo.
La suola, schiaccia una formica. Le formiche escono da una crepa fra due pietroni squadrati — e si sistemano sotto il piede. E conta: il tempo, alle formiche: uno, due, tre, quattro, ino a venti: altra formica, schiacciata. Massacra le formiche, e guarda il mare. Sembra uno che riflette, intensamente. E schiaccia la formica. Non riflette. II mare e scuro, appena siorato dalle luci di una nave che va via.
Dalla Mercedes lo guardano Il Grasso, e la sua banda: cinque paia di occhi che scoppiano, arrossati e gonfi. La Mercedes prosegue, lenta, per una decina di metri. Si ferma. Pare che pensi. Ma non pensa. Sem- bra un sacco pieno di roba molle, pronto ad aprirsi sulla pancia, Il Grasso. Dal basso, vengono due gambe gonfie e flaccide. In cima, coperta dai capelli appiccicati, una palla di ciccia, che dentro ha due cerchietti neri che sembrano appuntati cogli spilli: due occhi, immobili, in una faccia di lardo.
Nessuna espressione, tranne un ghigno ebete che non si muove mai. Trema continuamente, II Grasso: i muscoli e il lardo sono agitati da un ritmo proprio, nevrastenico, automatico. It gifted me with a nocturnal image, inhabited by a mono- maniacal … The shoe of that man is high, up to the neck of the foot. The sole crushes an ant. Then another ant. The ants come out of a crack from between two large square stones and arrange themselves under the foot.
He crushes them, one after the other, with metro- nomic regularity. The man, standing behind the grate of the port, looks out at the sea. And he counts: time, to the ants: one, two, three, four, up to twenty: another ant crushed. He is tall, wrapped in some black thing that falls to his rain shoes, high up to the neck of the foot. He massacres ants, and looks out to the sea. He looks like someone who thinks about things in an intense manner. Instead, he simply counts: to twenty.
And he crushes ants. He never has, in his whole life. The sea is dark, lightly touched by the lights of a ship sailing away. The man looks out at the ship. Slowly, a yellow Mercedes passes behind the man. From the Mercedes the Fat Man and his gang look at him: ive pairs of exploding eyes, red and swollen.
The Mercedes drives on slowly for another thirty or so feet. It stops. It looks like he is thinking. But he is not. The Fat Man slides out of the back seat of the Mercedes: a slow process: irst one foot, then the other, slowly. He looks like a sack full of soft stuff, ready to split open at his belly.
The Fat Man. Two swollen and laccid legs rise from below. Up above, covered by greasy hair, is a ball of lesh, in it are two little black circles that seems to be attached with pins: two immobile eyes, set into a face of lard. His skin is yellowish, bruised. No expression, besides an unlinching moronic sneer.
He trembles constantly, the Fat Man: his muscles and lard shake to their own rhythm, hyper, automatic. Guarda il mare. E ammazza le formiche. Dieci minuti, buoni, e lentissimi, prima che II Grasso apra bocca. So che devo aspettare al Polpo, ogni sera, per poterti parlare. Mi dispiace davvero, disturbarti Un attimo Ho bisogno di dieci chili. Tutti in una volta. E subito. Per uno che parte fra due ore. A qualunque prezzo.
Senza limite in alto. A me, mi basta il dieci del bisnass. Non potevo fare altro. Non pretendo di assistere alla vendita Io ti mando il bisnass, e aspetto in macchina Anche gratis. La voce: una specie di cantilena, un pianto. Non si muove di un centimetro. The man, as if no-one else is there, beside him. He looks out to the sea. And kills ants. Ten minutes, a good ten, and very slow, before the Fat Man even opens his mouth.
I know that I have to wait for the Octopus, every night, in order to talk to you. He is quiet. A moment… The man looks out to sea, as if he were alone. I need 10 kg. All at once. And right away. For someone who is leaving in two hours. At whatever price.
Without limits. The usual ten of the deal is enough for me. I am not expecting to be present at the sale… if you like. You, tell me yes. Even for free. The voice: a sort of whining, of weeping. A little longer, and the Fat Man is ready to pray. The man counts: Twenty. He is immobile. Gli occhi sono semichiusi, come di uno che pensa lontananze. Le braccia sono lunghe, sui fianchi.
La punta delle dita, arriva alle ginocchia. Non vole- vo. Vedo che disturbo. Vado subito via. II Grasso, rotola sulla grata, e a terra, sulle formiche uccise. Il Grasso, urla. Un pugno che sembra inguantato nel tirapugni schiaccia un coso che serviva a respirare, prima.
Il primo pugno, spezza il setto nasale del Grasso. Il secondo, trasforma la grata del porto nella parete di un mattatoio, sanguinante. Non: Uomo». Impara, stronzo: Signore. Quattro paia di occhi scoppiati stanno immobili, dentro una Mercedes. Elettronica addolcita da violino e sax struggenti, come in una tango Una rapina tranquilla. Forse anche dolce, in ambiente ovattato. Il inale del racconto va col inale di Jinx. Non riuscirei a spiegarlo: bisogna ascoltare il inale.
His body is like a tree trunk. His eyes are almost closed shut, like one thinking of distant things. His arms are very long, on his hips. The tips of his ingers, reach his knees. I had not meant to. The Fat Man rolls on the grating, and on the ground, on the dead ants. The Fat Man, screams.
The man kneels down. A ist that seems to hold brass knuckles crushes a thing that once was meant to breathe. The man grinds his teeth, behind his lips. The second, turns the grating of the port into a slaughterhouse wall, bloody.
Learn it well, asshole: Sir. The man jumps over the grating, lightly leaning on his hands: a hop up, a hold, a vault, calmly and fast into the darkness of the port. Four pairs of eyes big and wide motionless, inside a Mercedes. That man, he is already gone. Electronic track sweetened by heart-rending violin and sax, like in a tango A quiet robbery. Maybe even sweet, in a mufled environ- ment. The end of the story goes with the end of Jinx. Some call that man Cain.
Not a trace of his real name. Chiedete, a chiun- que abbia un potere da difendere, anche minimo, quanti sono, i caini che cercano di portarglielo via. O a chi buca. Un pazzo che ha imparato la prudenza. Entra nel portone nero — odore di cavoli — di una casa antica. Appena oliati: in venti secondi puoi fare una guerra. Ha scelto una simca verde. Siede davanti, e controlla le armi. Partecipa per inanziare un trafico di coca.
Ha portato le bombe. Alle colline del Margine Rosso, la simca prende un viottolo di terra. Si ferma, al buio. Ask anyone who might have some power to defend, even the smallest, how many Cains have tried to wrest it away. Ask all the paranoid people in the city, those living behind barred and locked doors, with their tvs turned up high, so as not to hear the noises from the stairs. Or those who shoot up. They know how much of a Cain attitude there is around. A young barbarian, from the immense periphery that has grown like a cancer around the Ciudad.
He looks like he might be courageous: actually, he is insane and should be institutionalized, someone who counts ants, recites nursery rhymes, never reads a paper and, if he had a brother, would not trust him in the least. A crazy man who has learned to be prudent. The Pula has never caught up with him. They have at time scaught his scent from a distance. He walks. He goes through the dark gate - the smell of caulilower - of some ancient home. Recently cleaned: you can have a war in twenty seconds.
He walks through the alleyways of the old city.. The hunchback is the driver. He has chosen a green Simca. Moses leads the attack: the idea, is his. He sits in the front, and he controls the guns. The third one is Shrub. He is participating so as to inance his coke smuggling. He is a violent sadist. He brought the bombs. II mitra sulle spalle, e maschere di cartapesta, in faccia, come a Carnevale. Arrivano al muro di cinta della casa: oltre il muro, un giardino e una lolla, e un salone: e decine di giocatori di carte.
Tavoli verdi. Lampade a stelo. Bar, lungo tutta una parete: per gente che si serve da sola: alcol e bicchieri. Al primo piano, le stanze, per gli amici che smettono tardi, e per quelli troppo ubriachi. Cento a letto. Si beve. Si gioca. Si parla poco. Calca un campanello bianco. Niente polizia: mai. Dopo dieci passi, spara. Una raffica, un pelo sulle teste. Fermi, e zitti. Io non sparo. Se vi muovete, se parlate, se strisciate, sparo nel mucchio. It stops in the dark.
The four get out of the car, they start their trek through ields of almonds and homes. They arrive at the wall that surrounds the house: over the wall, into a garden and a foyer, and a hall: and dozens of card players. The habitual gathering of certain friends who love to play hard: the house, the wife, the gold watch ive percent of winnings go to the house.
Green tables. Floor lamps. A bar, the length of a whole wall: self-service: alcohol and glasses. The toilets are like those in a club. On the irst loor, the rooms, for those friends who stay until late, and for those who are too drunk. One hundred per bed.
They drink. They play. There is little talking. The Hunchback and Cain get over the wall, cross twelve feet of shadows, and slip through the open windows of the toilet, on the ground loor. Moses follows the wall to the main gate. He rings a white bell. No security check, neither on the outside nor at the en- trance. Only friends come up here. No police. Moses pushes the gate. He goes inside. He takes ten steps and ires. A burst of gun ire slightly over their heads.
Only the wife of the man who gambled away his wife cries; she did not hear the gun shots. Another burst of gun shots. Be still and quiet. If you move, if you speak, if you try to crawl away I will shoot into the group. The ofice is on the second loor. I1 Cassiere sviene, quando vede il mitra che spunta dalla porta, e entra, seguito da un mostro giallo coi denti rossi — un Satana colorato male, sulla faccia del Gobbo.
Il denaro, nella cassa a muro, aperta. Arraffano, e ilano. La inestra del bagno, a piano terra. Il muro di cinta. Mentre salta, Caino spara un colpo. Il privato corre fuori, fra i giocatori immobili proprio mentre una granata scoppia sulla destra, e fa volare due auto ben parcheggiate. Una bomba cecoslovacca piomba fra i tavoli: un gran botto, molto fuoco, gente che scappa colla giacca in iamme.
Il privato si tuffa a terra, colle mani sulla testa. Cespuglio ha fatto un buon lavoro, dal muro di cinta, colle bombe. II Gobbo strattona la simca per quattro chi- lometri folli, di stradine di campagna. Fino a un casolare, sul bordo di una vigna. Odore di muffa, e di marcio.
Divisione rapi- da. Quindici a Caino, Gobbo e Cespuglio. Altri cinque a Caino, per le armi che ha pagato, e che ora si riporta via, colla simca rubata. La getta nello stagno, quasi subito. Raccoglie una bicicletta. Sembra un operaio nottambulo, con quella borsa appesa sul manubrio. La casa dei Cavoli, nella Ciudad. Detraggo dalla tua quota. The Cashier resides in the ofice, forced to work through the day and hold night hours: he dreams of a job with a construction irm, as an accountant.
Usually, there is a private guard on duty in the Ofice. But at this moment the private is downstairs, crouching, and hoping that the nut-job shooting from the garden will come forward. When he sees the gun come through the door, followed by a yellow monster with red teeth, a poorly colored Satan on his face, the Ca- shier faints.
The money, in the open wall safe. They grab and run. The toilet window, on the ground loor. The surrounding wall. Cain ires a shot as he climbs. The private runs outside, through the immobile players, just as a grenade explodes on the right, and two well-parked cars are blown up. A Czeck bomb falls among the tables: a huge explosion, people running away with their jackets on ire. The private dives to the ground, his hands on his head.
A war has started. Shrub did a good job, with the bombs from the surrounding wall. The Hunchback races the Simca for four crazy kilometers of country roads. Up to a farmhouse, at the edge of a vineyard. Smell of mold, and rot. A quick split. Thirty for Moses. Fifteen for Cain, Hunchback and Shrub. Another ive for Cain for the guns he bought, and is now taking away again with the stolen Simca.
He drives it into the swamp, almost right away. He comes out of the water with wet feet. Grabs a bicycle. He looks like a night-shift worker, with his bag hanging on the handlebars. Or a farmer who has gotten up very early. The Cab- bage house, in the Ciudad. There is a smell of cat piss now. Give me half of what I paid for them. Voci e coretti che citano forse, Simon e Garfunkel? Quando giocano col sud del continente Sandinista, una band di New York? Autoironia, citazioni, una morbida allegria.
No: che razza di eroe sarebbe Rockmusic, Clash. Come avere le fanfare alla inestra, per Caino addormentato. Alle otto del mattino. Bisogna mangiare. Terzo Pulmann. Una specie di Maratona del mattino, con le note della banda dei carabinieri, nella testa. E lo stomaco vuoto. Pasta-cappuccino-corsa, ultimi dieci metri a passo lento per recuperare il respiro, digerire la pasta, preparare le parole. Non sono ancora le nove: puntualissimo.
Voices and choir that quote maybe Simon and Garfunkel? When they play with the south of the continent … with only the slightest bit of irony. Sandinista, a band from New York? Self- mockery, quotations, a soft cheerfulness. Self-mockery… No: what sort of a hero is he … or, maybe? A military band, a sort of parade for an anniversary, a national holiday, from Mrs.
Like having trumpets at the window for a sleeping Cain. At eight in the morn- ing. A breathless dash to catch the eight-thirty bus, after a shower and a growling stomach - a real shock, for the shits - and then get- ting off at the piazza running to catch the other bus, always tense and a stomach ache.
I have to eat. A third bus. A sort of morning marathon, with the notes of the police band in my head. And an empty stomach. Croissant-cappuccino-dash off, the last ten meters at a slow pace to catch my breath, digest the croissant, and get my words in line. Type: wicked but honest woman: she doled out punches to the unpleasant ones with the same discipline and defended her extraordinary twenty-year old chastity.
Cain is in love. It is allowed, within the limits allowed a Cain: keeping an eye on the knife. Nothing more. Neither Cain nor Anyone else. Actually: Cain is the dearest of friends. Having said all this, what is left is the most important, at least for Cain: Daisy Duck is quite a dish: a woman of perfect propor- tions, movements, voices, eyes, class, everything.
The bed could turn into quite a mess. Paperina, non ci sta. Giornata di riposo. Loro, non sudano. Corrono, affianco al mare, ancora quasi vuoto: i cittadini, si svegliano tardi, la domenica. Ore dieci: Paperina ha voglia di fare una nuotata, e stoppa in un tratto fra mare e pineta, e si sveste di corsa.
Nuovamente, correre. Lei, sempre dieci metri avanti. Una maledetta campionessa di nuoto. Ore undici e trenta: il momento beato di Caino. Popolo di merda. Lenti come lumache, e viscidi e imbroglioni. Day of rest. In the warm June of these parts: the sirocco makes every step heavy and sweaty. They run along the still mostly empty sea: people wake up late on sundays. Beach time is at noon. Again, at a run. Everything off, lying, and she is already in the water, laughing.
She, always ten meters ahead. A damned swimming champion. They come out of the water, unfurl the towels, stretch out in the sun. Thirty seconds later, Daisy Duck is wide awake and is point- ing to some blondish guy who seems to be German: he walks to the water leaving behind unguarded a leather wallet a pair of shoes and a sort of rubber bag with beach wear. The Nazi has to stop - time enough to call the police, because one of His fucking bullets hit a tire.
Fucking people. Slow like snails, and slimy crooks. Caino preferisce colpire al buio, e con molti ripari. Queste mattane gli scassano il sistema nervoso. Le vanno, le azioni di coraggio. Lei lo molla al volo a un passo da casa, e corre a rifugiarsi, in un posto sicuro, per un mese buono. Forse, a Parigi. Di corsa. Una maledetta banda dei carabinieri, in testa. Almeno fino a domani. Repubblica ha rivelato che lo ascoltano a Parigi, a Londra e nelle capitali dello spettacolo.
Grazie, Repubblica, che dai cibo alla nostra fame. Buona salsa, naturalmente. Il raccontino cerca di rispettare la punteggiatura della musica. Il ritmo, numerabile. Sabato mattina, visita parenti. Ha le bocche di lupo, le garitte di guardia, le mura di cinta, i fucili mitragliatori puntati. Cain, is a cold chill, nerves, fear. Cain prefers to hit in the dark, and plenty of cover. These sorts of outbursts wreak havoc with his nerves.
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