Le Faiseur d' oreilles

Izvesni trgovac finim suknom po imenu Gijom odlučio je da krene na duže putovanje u nameri da od starih pariskih dužnika i velikih džimrija iscedi zaostale dugove. Izračunao je da će mu za celo to kasno jesenje lomatanje biti potrebno najmanje dvanaest noćenja. U selu je ostavio svoju mladu ženu Alisu koju pred polazak posavetovaše da strance nikako ne pušta u kuću i da pazi na radnju dok se on ne vrati. Još se čestiti Gijom nije ni dočepao granice parohije a u njihovu kuću banu Alisin rodjak Andre.

Draga Alisa - započe Andre – sudeći po boji tvog bledog tena mogu zaključiti da si ti u blagoslovenom stanju i da ćeš u dogledno vreme roditi lepog dečkića bez jednog uveta. Onaj božanski čin kreacije tvoj trapavi Gijom nije umeo da obavi kako valja.

Posle tih uznemiravajućih uvodnih reči on se Alisi poče nudit da bude njen lični lekar i da joj u jednoj opuštenoj ljubavnoj seansi doda deo tela koji nedostaje njenom nerodjenom andjelčiću.

Bezazlena ženica prihvata rodjački savet i sa oduševljenjem stade da uzima njegove stručne kurco-terapije. Sve bi to moglo potrajati do u nedogled da joj jednog dana ipak nije palao na pamet da bi dete možda moglo da ima previše ušiju.

Kada se Gijom sa kesom novca vratio sa pomenutog poslovnog putovanja i zatim se koji dan lepo odmorio onda on svrati do Andreove žene Margarete, takodje mlade i raspupele seljančice. Uz krčag hladnog belog vina i slatke pariske kolačiće Gijom joj uzgred pomenu da mu se čini da je ona trudna i da će za šest ili najkasnije za sedam meseci roditi dete bez levog uveta. Gijom joj brižan predloži, a i šta bi drugo, da ona malkice zadigne haljinu i raširi nogice, a on će se sa svoje strane svojski potruditi da stvori uvce koje je Andre u brzini zaboravio da napravi njihovom detencetu.

Dragi moj Gijom – reče mu Margareta - lati se ti tvog nestrpljivog petlića a o uvetu nemoj da brineš. Koliko znam sa ušima je sve potaman. Meni je važnije da mi se dete ne rodi bez deset prstiju.

Napomena:

Anegdota o kojoj je ovde reč, zapravo ta nejasna numerološka zavrzlama, nastala je krajem šesnaestog veka u Francuskoj. Rekoše: priču su, verovatno, zgotovile krezube seljačine što životariše po onim tužnim i ružnim selendretinama načičkanim uz reku Marnu i po rubu slavnog Château-Thierry-a. Nju je negde čuo, na papir bacio, tek malo uljudio i zatim sebi pripisao onaj bestidni lezilebović, dokazani bogohulniki i srceparajući rasejanko zvani Jean de La Fontaine.

Raša Todosijević, 24.09.2005 Beograd.

Rasa Todosijevic

Resignation XII

2008

Popular version,

Revised on 14^th of May, 2008

At the beginning of 2008 the poverty hit me. People would say: hunger is knocking at the door. Whatever is going to happen to me onwards I remain firm in my piety. Yesterday I was visited by the priest. He says he admires me. He thinks I’m a saint and that future of Serbia rests on my shoulders. While leaving, and without any reason, he passed the remark that baroness de Staël, namely, Anne Louise Germaine Necker baronne de Staël–Holstein, the wife of that naïve Swedish diplomat, was a rake, a heretic and the witch. In addition he told me that the hodge-podge made of holy Serbian paganism and Orthodoxy is pure nonsense and that he doesn’t understand at all why this French woman likes Germans. It would be better if the guy had brought something to snack together, than to bother me with that French woman who deceased long time ago. What’s wrong with Mme de Staël? I prefer much more hot porridge and a fresh loaf of bread than all of his tittle-tattle about God, immaculate conception and French history. One can sincerely love mankind, all the people in this world, both the good and the evil ones, one can love little children, women, even the ants, and simultaneously not believe at all in life after death, angels and that immense amount of demonic forces.

I have had great luck and finally managed to finish one story. Here it is what it’s all about. One incredibly pretty looking girl falls in love with a poet. This poet-laureate is a police informer, an ardent Russophile, a true quisling and a male prostitute. He is, therefore, a plain scumbag with heavy makeup, and she – upon finding out from her friends about these somewhat vague spots on the map of his impeccable character – wringing her hands all day, silently weeps and doesn’t know what to do with herself. She cannot understand that poetic souls can also be informers. In the forenoon he writes his verses, something between dark Nerval and blind Homer, in the afternoon he delivers his literary sermons, and in the early evening he drinks heavily and shamelessly, provokes ordinary, single-hearted people and denunciates his colleagues. In fact, I have imagined him as a modest and somewhat old-fashioned middle-aged provincial, who wants nothing else but privileges.

I still torture myself about the title. Maybe I’ll call this story “Headless Poet”. Wherever our poet may find himself he holds in his hand a Russian military cap, the real Russian officer’s cap, which his older sister (of course, a fictitious sister, actually my creation) had bought him in Moscow, but he doesn’t have his head with himself. Just trust me – this guy never carried his head on his shoulders. At least, not publicly. So he walks through Belgrade, wanders around, creates within himself new verses, new elegies, but everybody knows quite well that he left his head at home in the refrigerator.

Raša Todosijević

Belgrade, Sunday, 2^nd of March 2008

Translated by: Dusan Djordjevic Mileusnic