Summer
or
At Badalona Beach
The subject was opposite me
(a "Resting Man" on a deckchair)
I saw the vertical incision on his chest
the red towel
the now rare Delial
(with a shiver from several decades’ worth
of recollections)
must have been in his sixties
immersed in the global news page
(his cellphone rang a couple of times)
waved no to the black peddler who approached him.
His story roused my interest
(the vertical incision, mainly)
and of course I enjoyed the indiscretion
the idler’s fantasy, I mean,
the inductive inspirations:
at night
(age contributes)
a triviality was enough to wake him up
in
his
lea-
ther
loa-
fers
got
out
of
the
con-
jugal
bed,
quiet
at
the
cor-
ridor
his son’s breathing sounded
like an unhampered step to the future
(sons are always made of future)
sometimes laughter
trivial dialogues with sleepless friends
unfamiliar sounds from the computer.
He stood still for a while
with the unspoken suspension of an anion
challenged by the child’s time
(some time ago the door was left ajar
a Goofy lamp cast blue light
inside the nursery)
then he went into the kitchen
turned the light on;
out of the darkness the utensils appeared
surprised or embarrassed
as if caught in the act.
Back to the sand
a boardwalk from the entrance to the waves
(the phrasing of the steps ended at the full stop
of a squatting infant or a ball)
passionate breasts and thighs before us
slow seniors, too
followed by their unseen histories
beside me, I should add, someone read Isabel Allende
further to the right a woman
(drowning in sun protection oils)
in confrontation with a crossword puzzle
who is it, she asked, in six letters
"Catalan doctor with a career in Paris"
the "Resting Man" ever unsuspecting, thinking himself to be alone in the news (the soft suspension of facts), had also become, I should say, somewhat symbolic the way he was outlined (the waking up, his son, himself outside the door, silent). Soon, of course, we‘ll be far away, we won’t see him again, but he is already established in the chronicle, the subject of an old day, and the place where facts once triumphed (our journey, the faces) will house, as it always happens, the velvet annoyance of memory; I mean, his captivity by the poem somehow makes up for what’s lost, and besides, he himself, if he could guess my indiscreet game (the nightly invasion of his residence), he ‘d surely appreciate it that I heard behind the closed door his son make a call, and that I have, for his sake, ignored the sunshine of Badalona
(the noon
the heat of the shore
its celebratory images)
and watched him
along the boardwalk, ruminant.
He would be flattered by the visitor,
the attention of a stranger,
his legacy traversing time
through my testimony.
(translated by Giorgos Kyriazis)
(from “Τέσσερις Εποχές”
(Four Seasons), 2010)
At Badalona Beach
The subject was opposite me
(a "Resting Man" on a deckchair)
I saw the vertical incision on his chest
the red towel
the now rare Delial
(with a shiver from several decades’ worth
of recollections)
must have been in his sixties
immersed in the global news page
(his cellphone rang a couple of times)
waved no to the black peddler who approached him.
His story roused my interest
(the vertical incision, mainly)
and of course I enjoyed the indiscretion
the idler’s fantasy, I mean,
the inductive inspirations:
at night
(age contributes)
a triviality was enough to wake him up
in
his
lea-
ther
loa-
fers
got
out
of
the
con-
jugal
bed,
quiet
at
the
cor-
ridor
his son’s breathing sounded
like an unhampered step to the future
(sons are always made of future)
sometimes laughter
trivial dialogues with sleepless friends
unfamiliar sounds from the computer.
He stood still for a while
with the unspoken suspension of an anion
challenged by the child’s time
(some time ago the door was left ajar
a Goofy lamp cast blue light
inside the nursery)
then he went into the kitchen
turned the light on;
out of the darkness the utensils appeared
surprised or embarrassed
as if caught in the act.
Back to the sand
a boardwalk from the entrance to the waves
(the phrasing of the steps ended at the full stop
of a squatting infant or a ball)
passionate breasts and thighs before us
slow seniors, too
followed by their unseen histories
beside me, I should add, someone read Isabel Allende
further to the right a woman
(drowning in sun protection oils)
in confrontation with a crossword puzzle
who is it, she asked, in six letters
"Catalan doctor with a career in Paris"
the "Resting Man" ever unsuspecting, thinking himself to be alone in the news (the soft suspension of facts), had also become, I should say, somewhat symbolic the way he was outlined (the waking up, his son, himself outside the door, silent). Soon, of course, we‘ll be far away, we won’t see him again, but he is already established in the chronicle, the subject of an old day, and the place where facts once triumphed (our journey, the faces) will house, as it always happens, the velvet annoyance of memory; I mean, his captivity by the poem somehow makes up for what’s lost, and besides, he himself, if he could guess my indiscreet game (the nightly invasion of his residence), he ‘d surely appreciate it that I heard behind the closed door his son make a call, and that I have, for his sake, ignored the sunshine of Badalona
(the noon
the heat of the shore
its celebratory images)
and watched him
along the boardwalk, ruminant.
He would be flattered by the visitor,
the attention of a stranger,
his legacy traversing time
through my testimony.
(translated by Giorgos Kyriazis)
*Costas Mavroudis (Tinos, Greece, 1948) has written works of prose and poetry. Since 1978, he has been the publisher of the literary magazine “To Dentro”. The magazine received the State Literary Award in 2010 for its outstanding contribution to Greek letters. He awarded also the "O Anagnostis Magazine" Award for Poetry in 2010 for his poetry book "Four Seasons" and the State Prize for Short Story in 2014.