A third installment of The Levant (first here, second here). To recap: so far, the young Manoli, traveling on a fast boat in the Levantine archipelago to go meet with his sister and 30 soldiers, is deeply distressed about the fate of his dear country, Wallachia, suffering until a cruel foreign tyrant.The year is somewhere in the first half of the 19th century--anything up to 1848, really; the vocabulary and mood reflect that. The story takes a digressive turn to discuss the charms of the women of different ethnicities (mostly from the Levant, but not only); this makes up for the bulk of today's installment. Of course, none of those charms can be topped by those of the Romanian women, as exemplified by Zenaida, Manoli's sister.
Until now the whole thing can be regarded as a gentle parody bordering on pastiche of the mannerisms, style, etc. of 19th century poets animated by Romantic revolutionary and nationalistic ideas. But something happens at the end of this fragment that, when I first read it 14+ years ago, made my heart flutter--and in a way, it still does. Can you spot it?
Before you get at it, though, you'll see a link, corresponding to the Romanian line: "Multe flori sînt, dar puţine rod in lume o să poarte." If you're Romanian, you probably already know what I'm talking about. If you're not, let me explain: that line is actually taken in its entirety from a famous Eminescu poem, Criticilor mei (To my critics), and in fact, it represents the first two lines of that Eminescu poem. They are pretty famous and will sound familiar to anybody who got a basic education in Romanian (say, at least high school level?). I included the link to the Romanian original; here's a well-accepted translation, which I couldn't use for reasons of rhyme and rhythm. Cartarescy borrows that line, and it works seamlessly here, but definitely not in the sense that it was initially used by Eminescu (which was more aphoristic, and referring to poets and their work's endurance, rather then to women). (If you want to know more about Eminescu, just do a basic Google search--there are too many sites and at the moment I don't feel I can recommend one over the other.)
No time for a long tedious account of my treasons....too numerous....just enjoy!
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Greaca are drăgănele, şi perfum, şi-nţelepciune Ce primit-a de la graţii, musulmana ca de prune Are ochii ce prin deasa feregea abia-i prevezi; Frînca are dinţi de boabe de sidef şi ochii verzi; O chirghiză face-n piaţă mahmudele zece mii, Vai, nebun ar fi acela ce pe ea ar tîrgui, Că i-ar soarbe sărutarea peste perne de şiraz De-ar rămîne fără suflu, făr’ bujorii din obraz! Machedoana, nu am coarde l-a mea arfă îndestule Să îi cînt zulufii negri, sînurile nesătule Şi sprîncenele-mbinate, parcă-i arcul lui Amor; E trufaşă dar e dulce şi-are ciucuri la botfor; Neagră este egipţianca, ca o noapte de iubire, Se topeşte in desmierduri, gungureşte în delire, Arde şi se-ncolăceşte ca o viţă pe arac Pe un boi de june mîndru; talianca e un drac Ce te-nşeala şi te vinde şi se uită numa-n punge Şi ibovnicul îşi pune la răscruci de te împunge; Sîrba cea cu salbe multe peste peptul ca de crin E sfioasă ca şi ciuta, după ea cu toţi suspin. Nimărui ea nu-i dă floarea junii sale feciorii Şi se face maică blînda într-un schit de pe pustii; Multe flori sînt, dar puţine rod in lume o să poarte Multe mărgaritarele sus pe ceriu ard departe; Multe sînt femei cu ochii neguratici şi codaţi Dar nici una nu-i mai dulce ca rumânca din Carpaţi. Pletele prea lunge-i curge ca o apă volutoasă Pîn’la la gleznele ivite sub şalvarii de mătasă, Pîn’la imineii d’aur şi cu vîrfuri răsucite, Faţa-i este alabastru, pleoapele-i sînt înnegrite Cu kohl scump de Kios, pleoape ca ghiocii zuvelcaţi; Gene grele şi-ncurcate, paşi mărunţi şi cletinaţi Inima-i se duce-n taină dup-al ţării beizade, Calimachi, suflet putred, dar frumos ca viaţa e, Fiul cînelui ce ţara o mînca şi-o bea la masa Şi curvarul mahalalei ce din răutăţi nu iasă. El e ghimpele ce-n sînul Zenaidei, rotunzior, Işi făcu sălaş ca furii. Dar, effendi narator, Cam grăbişi cu diegesis şi te luă gura-nainte Să purcedem dar din locul ce-l lăsarăm fără minte, Să ne înturnăm la junul Manoil, ce lîngă cîrmă Valul verde, orizonul cu privirea el le scîrmă.. |
The Greek woman has gold trinkets, perfumes, wisdom and insight— Gifts from Graces; the' Arab woman is so dear to the sight And her eyes are plums you barely see through the veil’s screen; The French woman’s teeth are made of pearls, her eyes are green; A Kyrgyz woman’s worth ten thousand gold piastres in the market, Why, a fool would be the one to bargain for that charming packet, For she’d sip his kiss for hours on the satin bed sheet hollow Till he’s left utterly breathless, till his cheeks are pale and sallow. For the girl that’s Macedonian, my harp’s chords may fail the test, When it sings of her black curls, or of her hungry heaving breasts, And her interlocking eyebrows like Cupid’s bow between her tresses She is proud but sweet as honey and her shoes are hemmed with tassels. The Egyptian’s dark and fragrant like a night of sinful love, She will melt under caresses, moan and coo just like a dove, Burn and coil around a handsome youth like vines on posts, In her ecstasy; but the Italian is a devil at her most, Who’ll betray you and will only have her eyes set on your gold, And will have her lover stab you in the heart, you poor cuckold! And the Serbian, her bosom hidden under rows of charms, Is fair and shy just like a deer, and all want her in their arms. But to no one does she yield the flower of her virgin youth, In a hermitage she’ll hide then, as a nun seeking the truth. This world has so many flowers, but so few will sweet fruit bear, Many tiny stars are burning up above in the tall air; Many women of the world have dark and pretty almond eyes, But none sweeter than the girl who’s born under Romanian skies. Her too long and shiny tresses flow like a voluptuous stream Down and round her tiny ankles which in silky shalwars gleam, Down to her embroidered golden shoes with curled-up toes. Cheeks are sculpted alabaster, eyelids darkened with Kios, Costly black kohl—so her eyelids are like furtive cowrie shells. Eyelashes are long and heavy, her steps small and hip-propelled. Secretly her heart belongs to Calimach, the heir to throne, Rotten soul, but fairer than the Alexander Macedon. Son of the infernal bastard who this country drinks and eats, And the neighborhood’s philanderer who will terrorize the streets. He’s the thorn who’n Zenaida’s round and cozy breast Nested like a thief. Effendi story-teller, you should rest, Methinks that your diegesis is a little rushed and scurried; Let’s proceed from the same place we left before you hurried, Let’s go back to our young Manoli, at the prow, Who the green wave, the horizon, scopes under his eager brow. |
