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- Pridružio: 17 Jul 2005
- Poruke: 3097
- Gde živiš: "Daleko od Negdje"
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Bait
"Where should I begin," says mother. At the same moment I reach out my hand and press the button on the tape recorder. The tape recorder is old. For days I looked in all the stores and inquired where I might purchase such a device; the brand wasn't important. The salesmen were kind; they smiled, they shrugged their shoulders, they showed me the latest models of cassette recorders. One of them, in a shopping center in the northern part of town, admitted to me that he had never seen a tape recorder. He believed, though, that his father, actually his stepfather, had owned such a "gadget". He didn't have a better word for it, he said and touched the row of new Japanese models, it can't be said any differently. He gave me his business card. Just in case you changed your mind, he said. He remembered the tape reels, too, which he hadn't been allowed to touch, except for the empty ones, of black or colorless plastic, which he head sometimes, that being permitted to him, rolled across the floor. All he was certain of, he said, was that his stepfather had constantly listened to Buddy Holly recordings. I put the business card in the breast pocket of my suit jacket. Inside the same jacket, when I'd been preparing to leave, I had arranged my tape recordings. The jacket, folded, had been placed at the top of the suitcase and wouldn't have been able to protect them from a more forceful blow; after all, the cardboard boxes in which they'd been packed would have protected them more, but the sleeves of the jacket, which I had folded across them, after having secured them with elastic bands, had eased the insecurity I felt. I hadn't wished to stay, and the emptiness of the sleeves which embraced the voice transformed into an electromagnetic record could only have added to my indecisions; but it was just those two absences that made me lower the lid and close the snap locks. I had folded the list of my things – items of clothing, towels, a few books, sneakers, a toilet kit – and pushed it into my wallet between the papers with addresses and telephone numbers. The tapes hadn't been on the list. I had added them later on, when the suitcase had already been packed. I had packed it on the floor, kneeling, and then I'd straightened up, walked to the bookcase, and from the spot on which they'd been resting since they'd been recorded, behind the volumes of the Academy's Dictionary of the Serbo-Croatian Language, I had pulled out the dusty red boxes with the tapes. I hadn't touched them for fourteen years, if I don't count the last time the place was painted, seven years ago, when I removed all the books from the shelves, wiped each one with a soft cloth and shook it out, then stowed them in large boxes stacked in the middle of the room, beneath the chandelier wrapped in a plastic bag. Though I hadn't left beforehand, I had in fact returned for them, I thought to myself as I raised the upper part of the jacket, placed them between the folds of the fabric, and covered them with the folded sleeves. Fourteen years ago, no, sixteen years ago, my father died. He died quickly, in the twinkling of an eye, as my mother use to say, though I was sure he had died slowly, over years, that he had become infected with death the instant when forty years before, he found himself behind a barbed wire fence in a German camp for captured officers. Mother, of course, denied it. One dies only ones, she said, no one walks around like a living corpse. My friends were on her side. You look at history, they said to me, like some romantic, at fate as at a pastoral scene in which, stealthily, evil spirits lurk. No, I said, there are treads that bind a person to crucial moment, when the soul yields, and life after that only an unwinding of the spool, until the threads reaches its ends, becomes taut, and tears out – there are no other words for it – the soul from its worn-out place of residence. The friends dismissed me with a wave of the hand. Mother poured a little more brandy into glasses and the woman brought hot crescent filled with cheese from the kitchen. That was after the funeral. The rabbi had spoken the prayers so softly that the people had risen on tiptoe the better to hear him. The next day, while we were still bumping into each other in the new emptiness of the apartment, I told Mother I wanted to record her biography. I rewind the tape and press the button that says START. "Where should I begin," says Mother, and at the same moment I stop the tape again. I didn't know what to say to her. We sat at the dining room table; in front of me lay the paper on which I had written the day before: "Mother: Life" ; in front of her, on a metal tripod entangled in the crocheted tablecloth, stood the microphone; the reels turned futilely, and I stared into her dark-brown eyes, set deep below her brows. I suppose that this silence frightens me now.
...
Mamac
"Odakle da počnem'', kaže majka. Istog trenutka pružam ruku i pritiskam dugme na magnetofonu. Magnetofon je star. Danima sam obilazio prodavnice i raspitivao se gde mogu da nabavim takav aparat, marka nije bila važna. Prodavci su bili ljubazni, smeškali se, slegali ramenima, pokazivali mi najnovije modele kasetofona. Jedan od njih, u tržnom centru u severnom delu grada, priznao mi je da nikada nije video magnetofon. Mislio je, doduše, da je njegov otac, zapravo očuh, imao takvu "spravu". Nije imao bolju reč za to, rekao je, jer u poređenju sa današnjim uređajima, rekao je i dotakao niz novih japanskih modela, i ne može se govoriti drugačije. Dao mi je svoju posetnicu. Za svaki slučaj, rekao je, ukoliko se predomislim. Pamtio je, takođe, koturove s trakama, koje nije smeo da dira, izuzev onih praznih, od crne ili bezbojne plastike, koje je ponekad, to mu je bilo dopušteno, kotrljao preko poda. Jedino je bio siguran, rekao je, da je njegov očuh stalno slušao snimke Badija Holija. Posetnicu sam stavio u mali gornji džep na sakou. U isti taj sako, kada sam se pripremao za odlazak, poređao sam svoje trake. Sako se, presavijen, nalazio na vrhu kofera, i ne bi mogao da ih sačuva od nekog snažnijeg udarca, više bi ih, uostalom, sačuvale kartonske kutije u koje su bile upakovane, ali rukavi sakoa koje sam prekrstio preko njih, učvrstivši ih elastičnim trakama, ublažavali su nesigurnost koju sam osećao. Nisam želeo da otputujem, kao što nisam želeo da ostanem, i praznina rukava koji su grlili glas pretvoren u elektromagnetni zapis mogla je samo da doprinese mojoj nedoumici, međutim, upravo su ta dva odsustva učinila da spustim poklopac i zaključam bravice. Presavio sam spisak sa stvarima — odevni predmeti, peškiri, nekoliko knjiga, patike, higijenski pribor — i ugurao ga medu papire sa adresama i brojevima telefona u novčaniku. Trake se nisu nalazile na spisku. Dodao sam ih naknadno, kada je kofer već bio spakovan. Pakovao sam ga na podu, klečeći, a onda sam se uspravio, prišao ormanu s knjigama i, sa mesta na kojem su počivale otkako su snimljene, iza tomova Akademijinog Rečnika srpsko-hrvatskoga jezika, izvukao prašnjave, crvene kutije s trakama. Nisam ih dotakao četrnaest godina, ako ne računam poslednje krečenje, pre sedam godina, kada sam sve knjige skinuo sa polica, svaku obrisao mekom krpom i protresao, i onda smestio u velike kutije, naslagane nasred sobe, is-pod lustera uvijenog u plastičnu kesu. Iako nisam prethodno otišao, po njih sam se u stvari vratio, pomislio sam dok sam odizao gornji deo sakoa, smeštao ih između nabora tkanine i prekrivao presavijenim rukavima. Pre četrnaest godina, ne, pre šesnaest godina umro je moj otac. Umro je brzo, u jednom treptaju, kako je govorila moja majka, premda sam ja bio uveren da je umirao polako, godinama, i da se zarazio smrću onog trena kada se, četrdeset godina pre toga, našao iza ograde od bodljikave žice u nemačkom logoru za zarobljene oficire. Majka je, naravno, to poricala. Umire se samo jednom, govorila je, niko ne hoda okolo kao živi mrtvac. Moji prijatelji su stali na njenu stranu. Ti gledaš na istoriju, govorili su mi, poput nekog romantičara, na sudbinu kao na pastoralnu scenu u kojoj, iz prikrajka, vrebaju zli dusi. Ne, govorio sam, postoje niti koje vezuju čoveka sa prelomnim trenucima, kada duša popušta, i život je posle toga samo odmotavanje kalema, sve dok nit ne dođe do kraja, zategne se i iščupa, nema druge reči, dušu iz njenog pohabanog boravišta. Prijatelji su odmahivali rukama, majka je dolivala rakiju u čašice, žene su donosile vruće kiflice sa sirom iz kuhinje. To je bilo posle sahrane. Rabin je tako tiho izgovarao molitve, da su se ljudi podizali na prste ne bi li ga bolje čuli. Narednog dana, dok smo se još sudarali u novoj praznini stana, rekao sam majci da želim da snimim njenu ispovest. Premotavam traku i pritiskam dugme na kojem piše "Start". "Odakle da počnem", kaže majka, i istog trenutka ponovo zaustavljam traku. Nisam znao šta da joj kažem. Sedeli smo za stolom u trpezariji, preda mnom je ležao papir na kojem sam prethodnog dana napisao "Majka: život", pred njom je, na metalnim nožicama zapetljanim u heklani stolnjak, stajao mikrofon, koturovi su se zaludno okretali, a ja sam piljio u njene tamnosmeđe oči, usađene duboko ispod obrva. Pretpostavljam da me sada plaši ta tišina.
Prevod preuzet sa : Zoranovog kucnog servera
Dopuna: 24 Apr 2008 17:19
Imao sam cetrnaest prvih ljubavi ::
Imao sam cetrnaest prvih ljubavi.
Moja prva prva ljubav bila je jedna uciteljica. Sada je vec baka.
Moja druga prva ljubav danas je jedna veoma debela gospodja, koja me se sigurno i ne seca.
Moja treca prva ljubav nije me primecivala.
Moja cetvrta prva ljubav bila je jedna od prvih zena u zivotu koje nisam imao.
O petoj, sestoj, sedmoj, osmoj, devetoj i desetoj prvoj ljubavi ne vredi ni govoriti! Bile su tako slicne ostalima da mi se vec mesaju u glavi.
No, najcesci oblik prve ljubavi za svakoga je ljubav prema samom sebi. Covek zaljubljen u samog sebe ima najvise izgleda da bude srecan …
Ipak, nisam bio sasvim iskren : jedna od mojih prvih poslednjih ljubavi svakako je knjizevnost. To je vrlo zgodna partnerka i ostaje uz vas i onda kad vas svi napuste. Zahvaljujuci toj srecnoj vezi vi i citate ove redove o prvoj ljubavi.
David Albahari "Mrak".
Preuzeto sa: http://www.ivanminic.com/2008/04/04/imao-sam-cetrnaest-prvih-ljubavi/
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