Brane Mozetič
Dreams with the Dead
with translations from Slovenian by Barbara Jurša and Lawrence Schimel
Hodim po cesti. Okoli mene polno ljudi. Smejijo
se, plešejo, mahajo z zastavami, vzklikajo gesla,
žvižgajo s piščalkami, premetavajo me sem in
tja. Izmuznem se v stransko ulico in po stopnicah
v klet. Tu je mir. Par stolov v vrstah, ljudje
gledajo igralce, ki se molče premikajo po odru.
Prizorišče se v trenutku spremeni v mračen nočni
klub. Plešem. Malo me zanaša. V nekaj se
zapletem. Neka roka me močno prime in odločno
slišim: Gospodični se ne hodi po volančkih!
Prestrašeno pogledam v obraz tik sebe, z dolgimi
črnimi lasmi. Jean Genet, me prešine. Ona pa
bevskne vame: Samo poglej se, candra mala, le
kdo te bo kupil?, se zareži in se elegantno obrne
s svojo rdečo krinolino. Tečem na stranišče. Šele
v ogledalu vidim svoje dolgo črno krilo, vlečem
ga dol, spustim vodo in se drgnem po obrazu.
Šminka kar noče z mene. Snamem lasuljo, vrnem
se v hlačah in srajci. Vidim ga, tudi on je zdaj v
hlačah, pleše z mornarji v kratkih majicah.
Sedeva za mizo. Kadi. Zdaj še ne moreva oditi,
mi šepne, zunaj je polno novinarjev, in teh
mornarjev ne smeva razjeziti. Poglej, vsak ima
za pasom nož. Kima jim in se smehlja, ko se
vrtijo v nekakšnem obrednem plesu okoli naju.
Dokler jih ne odrinejo drugi, s črnimi maskami
čez obraz. S kože jim kaplja znoj, zvlečejo naju v
drugo sobo, naju podrejo na tla, nama dvigajo
krilo, vlečejo dolge lase, z velikimi jeziki ližejo
šminko z ustnic.
/ Jean Genet /
***
I’m walking down the road. There are lots of people. They’re
laughing, dancing, waving flags, chanting slogans,
whistling, they’re tossing me to and
fro. I slip into a side street and down the stairs
into the basement. It’s calm here. A few chairs in rows, people
are watching actors move quietly across a stage.
The scenery instantly changes into a dark night
club. I’m dancing. I stagger a little. I get entangled
with something. A hand grips me hard and I hear
a strong voice: Never step on a lady’s frills!
Fearfully, I look into the face close to mine, with long
black hair. Jean Genet, I realize. As she
barks at me: Just look at yourself, you little tart, who’s
going to buy you? She grins and turns around elegantly in
her red crinoline. I run to the toilet. It’s only
in the mirror that I see my long black skirt. I’m pulling it
off, I flush the toilet and I’m rubbing my face.
The makeup won’t come off. I take off my wig, I return
in pants and a shirt. I see him, now he is also wearing
pants, he’s dancing with sailors in T-shirts.
We sit down at a table. He’s smoking. We can’t leave yet,
he whispers, there’s a crowd of journalists outside, and we can’t
afford to make these sailors angry. Look, each is wearing
a knife at his waist. He’s nodding to them and smiling, as they
circle around us in some kind of ritual dance.
Until they’re pushed away by others wearing black masks
across their faces. Sweat drips from their skin as they drag us into
the other room, knock us to the ground, lift up our skirts,
dragging our long hair, with large tongues they’re licking
the lipstick off our lips.
/ Jean Genet /
***
Živčno se prestopam po kuhinji. Povabil sem jo
na večerjo in ne vem, ali bo prav. Odpiram,
zapiram pečico. Premetavam kozice. Zdaj
pozvoni. Vsa je omotana v belo rjuho, od glave
do pet, le na sredi med očmi je luknja. Prava
ghardajska oprava. Tako laže opazujem realnost,
mi reče. Rjuha izgine, posadim jo na edini stol za
majhno kvadratasto mizo. Smeji se. V usta si
nosi pekoče mehiške bučke in si oblizuje prste.
Okusno, zelo okusno, ponavlja. Podarila ti bom
enega svojih jelenov. Stopava med visokimi
samostoječimi stenami. Brez reda se vlečejo
nekam v temo. Nobenega prostora ne oklepajo,
niti strehe ni, le žarijo s svojo karminasto rdečo
površino. Malo naprej zagledam dva jelena. In za
njima še druge. Štejem, šest, sedem, a zadaj jih je
še več, cela čreda, več čred. Vsi so živo modri,
kleinovsko modri. Nepremično stojijo, kot da ne
bi bili pravi, glavo imajo obrnjeno vstran, a vem,
da me opazujejo. S svojim velikim modrim
očesom. Preseliti se moramo, reče. Tu bodo
zgradili zabaviščni park. Jeleni se še vedno ne
premaknejo. Dlan položim na modro dlako,
čutim toploto, tok krvi. Prihajajo aktivisti in
ponujajo svoje rešitve. Nekaj ji govorijo. Ona pa
se sesede: Ne, to ni mogoče. Jeleni bodo drugje
poginili. Živijo lahko samo tu, med visokimi
karminastimi stenami, hranijo se z rdečo barvo
ometa. Zato so tako modri. Ležim s svojim
jelenom, ki mi ga je podarila. Zelo divje se
pariva.
/ Metka Krašovec /
***
I’m nervously shuffling around the kitchen. I’ve invited her
over for dinner and am wondering if it’ll be OK. I open
and close the oven. I toss the prawns. The doorbell
now rings. She’s wrapped up in a white sheet, from head
to toe, with only a hole midway between her eyes. A real
Ghardaia outfit. This way, it is easier for me to observe reality,
she says. The sheet disappears, I have her sit down on the only chair
at a small square table. She's laughing. Lifting hot
Mexican zucchini to her mouth and licking her fingers.
Delicious, quite delicious, she repeats. I will give you
one of my deer as a gift. We’re walking among high
freestanding walls. Without order, they follow
to somewhere in the dark. They don’t enclose space,
there isn’t even a roof, they just glow with their crimson red
surface. A little further on I see two deer. And beyond
them, others. I count six, seven, but further back
there are more, a whole herd, several herds. All are bright blue,
Klein blue. They stand motionless, as though they weren’t
real, their heads turned sideways, but I know
they’re watching me. With their big blue
eye. We have to move, she says. They will
build an amusement park here. The deer still don’t
move. I place one hand on the blue fur,
feel their warmth, their blood streaming. Activists come
offering their solutions. They’re telling her something. But she
collapses into herself: No, that isn’t possible. Anywhere else, the deer
will die. They can only live here, among the high
crimson walls, they subsist on the red paint
of the plaster. That’s what makes them so blue. I’m lying
with my deer, her gift. We are copulating very
ferociously.
/ Metka Krašovec /
***
Živahno poplesuje po kuhinji in žvrgoli: Napravi
mi vendar to uslugo. Že dolgo se nisem potepal
po mestu. In predno umrem ... se zaustavi, sede
pred ogledalo, odpre veliko pudrnico, da se kar
zamegli. Kašlja, kašlja: Ojoj, koliko prahu! Saj
ne morem dihati, se duši. Ponudim mu pumpico,
da se umiri, da se z blazinico tapka po obrazu.
Zunaj mu komaj sledim. Zavija levo, desno, na
manjšem trgu obrača glavo: Pa tule je bil vedno
sekret. Kaj je zdaj to? Malo naprej mora biti
drugi, zaupaj mi, koliko ur sem preživel v njem,
vse tiste roke, ki so me grabile. Zagrmi. Sekreta
kar noče biti. Gleda se v izložbe, se ustavlja,
nenehno ponavlja: To be or not to be! Še vedno
sem zvezda, mi pokima. Sedeva pred nek kiosk,
žvečiva burek, pripravlja se na dež, ulice so
prazne, zelo temno je. Za hrbtom se prižgejo
raznobarvni metulji. Ulije se, skočiva v lokal z
metulji, vsa mokra, notri pa strašno vroče. Spet
se duši, a vseeno pokončno in odločno odriva
možake, ki so nama na poti. Sede za mizico na
nizkem odrčku, od koder imava čudovit razgled.
Tleskne s prsti natakarju, nosijo steklenice
šampanjca, vsi pijejo, k nama pristopajo fantje
zgoraj brez, otipava jih po trupu, rokah, med
nogami, nazdravlja in odkimava. Dokler ne pride
zelo velik in močan fant, ki Maria enostavno
dvigne s stola, sede in si ga posadi v naročje.
Mario postane čisto majhen, čisto tiho je, silak pa ga
guga sem in tja.
/ Mario Wirz /
***
He is prancing around the kitchen, chirping: Please
do me this favour. I haven’t wandered
around town in a long time. And before I die … he stops,
sits down in front of a mirror, opens a large powder case making everything
cloud up. He’s coughing, coughing: Oh dear, how much dust! I can’t
breathe, he’s choking. I hand him an inhaler
and he calms down, taping his face with a pad.
Outside, I can barely follow him. He turns left, right, at
a small square he turns his head around: But there’s always been a
toilet here. What is this? A little further on there has to be
another, trust me, the hours I’ve spent in it,
all those hands grabbing me. It thunders. The toilet
refuses to show up. He observes himself in shop windows, keeps stopping,
endlessly repeating: To be or not to be! I’m still
a star, he nods to me. We sit down in front of some kiosk,
we’re chewing burek, it's about to rain, the streets are
empty, it’s very dark. Multicoloured butterflies light up
behind our backs. It starts pouring, we jump into the bar with
the butterflies, all wet, but it’s awfully hot inside. He’s
choking again, but he’s resolutely pushing away
guys in our way. He sits down at a small table on
a low platform from where we have a wonderful view.
He snaps his fingers at the waiter, bottles of champagne
are being carried, everybody is drinking, topless boys are
approaching us, we are groping their torsos, arms,
groins, he is making toasts and shaking his head. Until
a very big and strong boy comes, who simply lifts
Mario off the chair, sits down and sits him on his lap.
Mario becomes all small, all quiet, while the muscleman
rocks him to and fro.
/ Mario Wirz /
***
Vidva sta torej proti Titu, ostro reče ravnatelj in
naju spusti v svoj kabinet. Vrata se neslišno
zaprejo. Oblečena so v rdeče usnje. Tu naju
lahko še mučijo, pomislim. A ne, ponudi nama
piškote in sok, sama sladkoba ga je. Na hodniku
naju nihče ne pogleda, vsi se obračajo stran,
delajo prostor. Ravnatelj je še vedno za nama,
zbada naju pod rebra. Stopimo po stopnicah,
više, vse više, hišnik odklene težka kovinska
vrata, podstrešje, pred vrati sta že Suzi in Sonja.
Ravnatelj obstane: Tako! Brata bosta dobila v
družbo še sestri. Če ste se že šli skupaj poklonit
Palladiu, boste lahko tudi sestavili gledališče do
praznika. Po vojaško se obrne in odkoraka dol.
Vrata se zaprejo in zaklenejo. Vsi štirje pademo
v krohot. Igor vleče iz torbe svoje papirje, vsi so
divje pokracani. Razvršča jih po tleh, stopa
sem in tja med njimi. To je verjetno trideset variant
istega stavka, resno reče Sonja. Sredi podstrešja
začnemo sestavljati nekakšen lojtrnik. Vse bo
posneto, hlastno razlaga, nikogar ne bo gor, mi
pa se bomo skrili med publiko. Gledam, kako se
koluta vrtita. Preberemo vse variante istega
stavka, vse hitreje, drug čez drugega, dokler ne
zmanjka traku. To bo super. Tako brez veze, se
Sonja odsotno zazre vanj. Sedemo na tla,
poslušamo posnetek. Zdi se, da vsi neskončno
trpimo.
/ Igor Zabel /
***
So you two are against Tito, says the headmaster sharply and
lets us into his office. The door shuts
inaudibly. It's upholstered in red leather. They could
torture us here, I think. But no, he offers us
cookies and juice, he’s all sweetness. In the hallway,
nobody is looking at us, they’re all turning away,
making space. The headmaster is still behind us,
poking us under our ribs. We climb up the stairs,
higher, still higher, the janitor unlocks the heavy steel
door, the attic, Suzi and Sonja already stand in front of the door.
The headmaster stops: So! The brothers will get
the sisters’ company. Since you went and paid tribute to
Palladio together, you’ll also be able to put on theatre till
the holiday. He turns around in a soldierly way and goes down the stairs.
The door closes and locks. All four of us burst
into laughter. Igor is pulling his papers out of his bag, they’re all
filled with wild scribbles. He arranges them on the floor, steps here
and there between them. These are probably thirty variants
of the same sentence, says Sonja seriously. In the middle of the attic
we start setting up some kind of a ladder wagon. Everything will be
recorded, he explains frantically, nobody will appear on stage, and we
will hide among the audience. I watch
the reels turning. We read all the variants of the same
sentence, ever faster, one over the other, until
we run out of tape. This will be awesome. Such nonsense,
Sonja absently stares at him. We sit down on the floor,
listen to the recording. It seems we all suffer infinitely.
/ Igor Zabel /
