OMBRA MAI FU

Ombra mai fu, di vegetabile cara

ed amabile soave più

(Never was a tree’s shade / more lovely, amiable and sweet)

Serse, by G. F. Handel




To remember exactly the rosy kiss of lips

is to attempt to light a fire

with spent matches.

But there remain in the memory

the radiance of the sea seen from the path,

the shade of that luxuriant tree

where with your whole body in your voice you said to me

come here.

The bare metal of the bikes on the ground shone in the sun

one on top of another.

AL CAFÈ SÀHEL D’ALEP

«Si no l’hagués abraçat, hauria gemegat fins al dia del Judici.»

Dita del profeta Muhàmmad




Al cafè Sàhel d’Alep

els homes juguen a cartes:

passa pels seus dits la sort

com si palpessin per uns instants

la nuesa del cos que més cops han somniat.

Jo també la vaig tenir:

la teva pell

em besà els llavis,

i tot a l’engir meu

va ser canviant. Perquè un cos

pot arribar a canviar la història:

el jove Heliogàbal va ballar nu davant dels tòtems

i les legions de Síria el van fer emperador.

I Apià escriu a les Guerres de Mitrídates

que Menes, per emprendre la conquesta de Bitínia,

va convèncer dos mil soldats

mostrant-se en una arenga

nu. Perquè un cos

pot arribar a canviar la teva història:

ja era fosc. El muetzí acabava de cantar

la pregària de la nit. La cambra humil

d’aquell hotel al barri dels garatges

on els mecànics amb la boca

inflaven els pneumàtics, descargolaven tubs

i els regalimava a les mans

oli.

Al cafè Sàhel d’Alep

els homes tenen tot el temps del món:

per a ells el sol i la lluna

giren només al voltant dels asos.

Però tu i jo vam

estimar-nos només una setmana,

el temps exacte per convertir-nos

l’un en mans de l’altre

en runa. Igual com se saqueja

una ciutat: records de foc

i catapultes, de mans pels cossos

com escamots de soldats embogits

a mata-degolla pels carrers:

quina porta resisteix els cops de l’ariet?

No és només superfície,

la carícia.

Però la passió viscuda en temps tan breu

ens féu ser vaixell enamorat

del fons del mar, i ara ho recordo

com qui contempla emergir

lenta

l’última bombolla d’aire que surt d’un derelicte.

Al cafè Sàhel d’Alep

els homes fan trampes:

als plecs de les gel·labes amaguen cartes,

car saben que sovint la sort

s’amaga just sota la roba,

igual que sota la pell

el sucre de les fruites.

I fan un posat seriós i dissimulen

fins que guanyen. La victòria

és sempre nua: a l’estàtua

de la plaça de la Revolució d’Alep

els obrers alcen el puny des d’un cos nu de pedra,

i hom sap que els antics atletes

pujaven al pòdium despullats.

Tu i jo cercàvem aquest triomf

i amb les testes coronades de llorer

l’haguérem. Ara

al mirall cerco rastres als meus llavis

dels teus, però no roman sempre a la branca

la flor roja del festuc,

ni l’ocell del teu tacte

en la gàbia de la meva pell.

Res del que ocupa una gàbia sobreviu,

tampoc res del que no n’ocupa cap

i al cafè Sàhel d’Alep

els homes fan brega i amb veu forta criden

quan descobreixen el trampós.

Al cafè Sàhel d’Alep, quan plou,

els homes deixen les cartes.

Miren la pluja i aposten quin cotxe

sortirà primer del tap de trànsit a baix a la cruïlla:

el Nissan blau, el Peugeot blanc,

el carro de les síndries,

o el taxi groc on tu i jo anàvem

cap a la ciutadella:

mira la runa oberta i satisfeta,

car les muralles volen que les penetri

l’enemic. El desig

sempre fa cedir les baldes

i la mola inexpugnable riu

quan l’exèrcit contrari l’envaeix:

els amants s’enfonsen l’un dins l’altre

com una cullera en un plat calent de sopa.

Des de la runa d’una torre

vam contemplar la ciutat sota la pluja:

«El teu cos té just l’amplada

de l’abraçada que somnio», vaig dir,

i sense cap mà que l’agafés

el paraigua va envolar-se.

Al cafè Sàhel d’Alep

els homes fumen pipes d’aigua:

crema el tabac de mel o poma

i de la boca els surt un arabesc de fum.

A cada pipada el narguil bull

com jo al tacte d’aquells besos

que amb la pressa del desig

em malreparties pel cos

mentre jo feia per entendre

l’alegria de l’imant i el ferro

quan s’enganxen.

Però al mar,

de nit,

l’escuma també és negra,

i ara sé l’amor

un escampall de pètals

caiguts del ram collit ahir.

Tot s’esvaeix, com aquest fum

entre les aspes lentes dels ventiladors

damunt els jugadors de cartes,

i la brasa de la pipa perd el foc,

els crepits callen:

es marfonen els records

com si a poc a poc ens tornéssim cecs

per dins. Només els colors

no deixen mai de ser-ho.

Al cafè Sàhel d’Alep

els homes beuen amb destresa el te d’hibiscus

sense gairebé mullar-se els llavis.

Quan ja no hi eres

als vespres sortia a trobar-te

als llavis que la meva boca

besaria. Hores pel basar

cercant en quin altre cos

podria haver-te:

al carrer dels perfumistes,

¿en l’olor de quin arbre talat

o de la mort de quines flors

t’hauria?

A la soc dels treballadors del coure,

creia veure’t a les guspires

que saltaven dels cops dels seus martells.

I al carrer dels carnissers, finalment,

vaig abraçar un be escorxat penjat d’un garfi

car res d’altre no s’assemblava més

a la nuesa extrema que vam dar-nos:

aquell tacte calent i humit,

el cor a la vista

i la sang rient pertot arreu.

Perdura insolent el desig:

sempre tenen set els gots.

Al cafè Sàhel d’Alep

els homes no obliden mai a qui toca escapçar

o repartir les cartes. Tampoc jo

aquells dies de sol,

taronja oberta

i a l’entorn dels llavis i als dits

suc. De tu,

torno a ser cel que enyora ales volant-lo.

Et penso enlluernat

igual com es camina amb sol de cara.

I et recordo com els cecs

que al pati de la gran mesquita

reciten per una almoina

la sura de la Llum de l’Alcorà.

Els dono una moneda

que no val la claror que ja no veuen

ni tampoc en mi

la teva absència.

Hi ha moltes formes de pobresa,

però al cafè Sàhel d’Alep

els homes no tornen mai a casa

si perden la partida:

juguen una altra timba.

Fins que guanyen.

AT THE CAFÉ SAHEL IN ALEPPO

“If you had not embraced him, you would have howled till Judgement Day.”

A saying of the prophet Mohammed




At the café Sahel in Aleppo

men play cards:

fate slips through their fingers

as though for a few instants they touched

the nakedness of the body they have most dreamed of.

I too have held this fate:

your skin

kissed my lips,

and everything around me

began to change. For a body

can succeed in changing history:

the young Heliogabalus danced naked before the totems

and the Syrian legions made him emperor.

And Appian writes in his Wars of Mithridates

that Menes, to undertake the conquest of Bithynia,

persuaded two thousand soldiers

by delivering a speech

naked. For a body

can succeed in changing your history:

it was now dark. The muezzin had just chanted

the night prayer. The modest room

in that hotel in the district full of garages

where mechanics inflated tyres

with their mouths, uncoiled piping

and ended up with their hands dripping

with oil.

At the café Sahel in Aleppo

the men have all the time in the world:

for them the sun and the moon

turn only round aces.

But you and I

we loved each other for only a week,

just the time it took to turn us,

the one in the hands of the other,

into rubble. The way you would sack

a city: memories of fire

and catapults, of hands upon bodies

like squads of maddened soldiers

at daggers drawn in the streets:

what door can withstand the blows of a battering-ram?

It’s not only on the surface,

caressing.

But passion lived in so short a time

made of us a vessel in love

with the bottom of the sea, and I remember it now

as one who contemplates the slow

surfacing

of the final bubble of air rising up from a wreck.

At the café Sahel in Aleppo

the men cheat:

they conceal cards in the folds of their djellabas,

for they know that fate often

hides just beneath a garment,

just as under the skin

fruits have their juice.

And they strike a serious pose and dissemble

until they win. Victory

is always naked: on the statue

in Revolution Square in Aleppo

workers raise fists from a naked body made of stone,

and we know that in ancient times athletes

wore no clothing when they climbed the podium.

You and I sought this triumph

and with our brows crowned with laurel

we had it. Now

I search the mirror for traces of your lips

on mine, but it doesn’t remain on the branch forever,

the red pistachio flower,

nor the bird of your touch

in the cage of my skin.

Nothing that stays in a cage survives,

nor yet anything that doesn’t,

and at the café Sahel in Aleppo

the men quarrel and shout at the top of their voices

when they discover the cheat.

At the café Sahel in Aleppo, when it rains,

the men lay down their cards.

They watch the rain and lay bets as to which car

will exit the traffic bottle-neck first below the junction:

the blue Nissan, the white Peugeot,

the watermelon cart,

or the yellow taxi that you and I used to take

up to the citadel:

look at the rubble lying open and satisfied,

for walls want the enemy

to penetrate them. Desire

always makes the bolts give way

and the unyielding mass laughs

when the opposing army breaks through:

lovers plunge one into another

like a spoon into a plate of hot soup.

From the rubble of a tower

we gazed down on the city in the rain:

“Your body has just the breadth

of the embrace I dream of,” I said,

and with no hand to hold it

the umbrella flew away.

At the café Sahel in Aleppo

the men smoke hookahs:

the honey- or apple-scented tobacco burns

and from the mouth there rises an arabesque of smoke.

With every indrawn breath the narguile boils

as I did under the touch of those kisses

that in the rush of desire

you showered unequably over my body

while I tried to understand

the delight of magnet and iron

when they come together.

But in the sea

at night

the foam too is black,

and now I know love

to be a scattering of petals

fallen from the bouquet picked yesterday.

Everything vanishes, like this smoke

between the blades of the ceiling-fans

above the card players,

and the pipe’s embers die,

the cracklings fall silent:

memories waste away

as though we were slowly to grow blind

within. Only colours

never stop being themselves.

At the café Sahel in Aleppo

the men drink their hibiscus tea adroitly

almost without wetting their lips.

When you were no longer here

I’d go out evenings to find you

in lips that my mouth

would kiss. For hours through the bazaar

searching to see in what other body

I might possess you:

in the street of the perfume-makers,

in the scent of what felled tree

or out of the death of what flowers

might I possess you?

In the souk of the coppersmiths,

I thought I glimpsed you in the sparks

that leapt from their hammer blows.

And in the street of the butchers, in the end,

I embraced a flayed sheep hanging from a hook

for nothing else resembled more

the utter nakedness that we gave each other:

that hot, damp touch,

the heart visible

and the blood laughing all around.

Desire remains, insolent:

the vessels are always thirsty.

At the café Sahel in Aleppo

the men never forget whose turn it is to cut

or to deal the cards. I too

those days of sun,

an orange cut open

and juice around lips

and fingers. For you,

I go back to being sky missing wings flying through it.

I think of you dazzled

like walking with the sun in your face.

I remember you as the blind men

who in the courtyard of the mosque

recite for a gift of alms

the surah of Light from the Koran.

I give them a coin

that is not worth the brightness they no longer see

nor in me

your absence.

Poverty takes many forms,

but at the café Sahel in Aleppo

the men never go home

if they lose a game:

they play in another gaming-house.

Until they win.