Mi truvasti nta’ lu lettu
cu lu sonnu beddu chinu
versu li 4 di matina,
orariu di New York.
Senza mancu tuppuliari
mi trasisti nta’ la testa.
Eri cuntenta e frisca
comu raramenti t’haiu vistu.
Avevi cumpagnia.
Cui, nun lu capiu.
Sacciu sulu
ca facevavu bordellu.
Pui, riturnau lu silenziu.
T’appoggiasti la testa nta’ lu me cuscinu
comu se m’avevi a cunfirari lu misteru dilla vita,
e mi dicisti:
“Huh! Cu e’ chissa cu la panza tisa?”
Ppi diri la virita’, m’incazzaiu.
Pinsaiu: Chi modo e’ chistu
di na matri morta visitari na figghia
viva ca riposa?
Ma pui capiu.
Avevi vogghia di schirzari.
Sbadigghiannu, e menza n’sunnacchiata,
t’arrispunniu:
“Huh! Chissa, cu po’ essiri?”
Tutta na vota, mi ‘ntisi comu se eramu o paisi,
a Vittoria versu lu tardu vespiri,
assittati davanti la nostra porta a Via Vicenza,
Iu e tia, intimi amici,
e vulevamu sparrari.
Vittimu passari a Cuncetta,
quidda tutta panza,
e cu li gammi sicchi sicchi.
Si stuccava li scianghi di latu e latu
cu ogni passu
p’accumpariri chiu’ strolica, ppi sintirsi la Reggina Elizabetta.
Ma la vistina l’aveva assai chiu’ curta di davanti
e a causa di la panza
pareva na jaddina ammaistrata,
na jaddina indossatrice nta’ la passarella.
Mi misi a ririri pinsannu a Cuncetta,
l’avevi sempre supra o nasu a chissa,
quannu passava, dicevi spissu:
“ Ma’, sta’ Vitturisa cu la panza tisa,
cu si senti d’ essiri?
Pari ca tutti cacarunu e ficiru a idda!”
E accussi’, cu Cuncetta ancora nta’ la menti
mi ricurdaiu avitri frasi e frammenti dilla nostra vita.
Comu quannu
ti cunfiravi li guai e suffrimenti
cu qualchi vicina di casa.
Ti isavi un supracigliu e suspirari,
“Ah Signura bedda mia,
li guai dilla pignata li sapi sulu la cucciara ca l’arrimina.”
E ti sintevi prurenti.
Oppuru quannu me frati era giovanottu
e s’impumattava tuttu
senza ca prima si lavava.
Comu se avevi dari prova alla giuria, tu sparavi,
“Di supra lisci lesce’,
E di sutta viriti cchi c’e’!”
Ti ricordi quannu emigrammu,
quantu littri scrivisti all’amici e li parenti a Vittoria!
Ogni littra cuminciava la stissa, nall’Italianu ca sapivi, naturalmenti:
“Cari______________,
Noi bene. Cosi’ speriamo di voi.
L’America e’ menzogna.
Credetemi, qua’ si suda sangue.”
Cu li littri mittevi fotografie di mia e tia in posa.
Tu cu lu telefunu,
Iu cu lu televisuri,
cosi ca allu paisi ancora si sunnavanu.
L’arrivasti a capiri quantu era strammu
mettiri telefunu, TV e sangu tutti nta’ la stessa busta?
Dopu un’annu d’ America, pirdisti lu maritu.
Avevi 37 anni, cu dui figghi ancora nichi.
Nun avevi ‘ne casa, ‘ne lingua, ‘ne famigghia.
Ti tiravi li capiddi.
Gridavi: “Turiddu,
c’iappizzasti la vita nta’sta terra strana
e mi lassasti.
Ma picchi,?
Picchi?
Chi ci fici allu Signuri?”
E dopu ca ni criscisti
comu megghiu ca putisti,
a fari sacchetti, “a pisi worki” comu dicevi tu,
3 sordi a pezzu,
3 sordi ogni sacchetta
e ogni sira calculari nta’ lu blockettu
quant’era la paga,
ti vinni dda malattia tinta
e li dittura mi dissiru di nun spirari.
Ma iu, ca mi facevu cririri,
ti dissi ca la saluti riturnava.
Tu, ppi si’ e’ ppi no,
ti mittisti a fari patti cu lu Signuri.
Nun sacciu chi cosa ci dicisti,
ma lu cummincisti,
ppi n’anticchia ‘e tempu.
Arrivasti alla sittantina,
vurricasti lu secunnu maritu,
viristi criscriri li niputi.
Tra na preghiera e na lamintela,
ancora avevi ammiraturi
ca ti mannavanu sciuri e ti vulevanu spusari.
Qualchi vota, puru quannu stavi ppi finiri,
se sintevi musica, ancora ti spurtava.
M’ammitavi a ballari la manzurca.
Ti piacia purtari,
accussi’,
comu eri cumminata,
zoppica, curva e tignusa.
La me frasi preferita? La vuoi sapiri?
Chidda ca ti chiamava to’ nonna Catina.
“ La Cumurianti,
La Cumirianti Di Lu Tiatru.”
A propositu, vi viriti?
Chi ura e’ unni siti?
Ppi cumpagnia a cu aviti?
Toto’ e Angilu Musco?
Ah! Picch’issu sentu bordellu
vi futtiti di risati!
Scriviti sceni, cantati e recitati
alli 4 di matina
a spisi mei.
Oh Matri mia! Si na cumirianti.
Cumirianti di lu tiatru di prima categoria.
|
You found me in bed
with full sleep over me
at about 4 a.m.,
New York time.
Without even knocking
you entered my head.
You were fresh and content
as I’ve rarely seen you.
You had company.
Who, I couldn’t tell.
All I know is
you were making a racket.
Then, silence returned.
You put your head on my pillow
as if you were going to reveal the mystery of life to me
and said:
“Huh! Who is that with her belly hard and high?”
To tell the truth, I was pissed off.
I thought: What way is this
for a dead mother to visit her daughter
whose alive and resting?
But then I understood.
You wanted to play.
Yawning, and half asleep,
I answered:
“Huh! Who do you suppose it is?”
Suddenly, I had the feeling we were in our town,
in Vittoria late afternoon,
sitting in front of our door on Via Vicenza,
you and I, intimate friends,
and we wanted to gossip.
We saw Concetta passing,
the one who’s all belly,
and with skinny skinny legs.
She was swaying her hips from side to side
with every stride
to appear like she was the cat’s meow, Queen Elizabeth.
But her dress was so much shorter in the front
and because of all that belly hard and high
she looked like a trained chicken,
modeling on the runway.
I laughed hard thinking of Concetta,
and how you always had it in for her,
whenever she walked by, you said:
“But, this Vittorese, with her belly hard and high,
who does she think she is?
Like her crap doesn’t stink!”
And just like that, with Concetta still in my head
I remembered other phrases and fragments of our life.
Like when
you would compare your troubles and suffering
with some neighbor.
You’d raise an eyebrow and sigh,
“Ah my dear Signora,
only the spoon that’s mixing knows the problems of the pot.”
And you felt prudent.
Or when my brother was a young man
and he would polish and perfume himself
without actually washing.
As if giving evidence to a jury, you’d blast him,
“ On the surface you’re all pretty pretty
but underneath, just take a look at the filth!”
Remember when we emigrated,
all the letters you wrote to our family and friends in Vittoria!
Every letter began the same, in the Italian that you knew, naturally:
“Dear____________,
We are well. We hope the same for you.
America is a lie.
Believe me, here we sweat blood.”
With the letters you included photographs of you and me posing.
You with the telephone,
me with the television,
things that most people in our home town still only dreamed of.
Did you ever get to understand how weird it was,
to put telephone, TV and blood all in the same envelope?
After that first year in America, you lost your husband.
You were 37, with two little kids.
You had no home, no language, no family.
You pulled your hair.
You screamed: “Turiddu,
you hung up your life in this strange land
and left me.
But why?
Why?
What did I ever do to God?”
And after you raised us
as best you could
by making pockets, “peezee workee” as you used to say,
3 cents a piece,
3 cents a pocket
and calculating every night on your little pad
how much you earned,
you got that nasty disease
and the doctors told me not to hope.
But I, who could make you believe,
told you that your health would return.
You, just to be on the safe side,
started making deals with God.
I don’t know what you said,
but you convinced Him,
for a time.
You made it past your seventies,
buried your second husband,
saw your grandchildren grow.
Between your prayers and your laments,
you still had admirers
who sent you flowers and proposed.
And sometimes, even when you were almost done for,
if you heard music, you’d get into it.
You’d invite me to dance the manzurca.
You liked to lead,
just like that,
as you were,
crippled, bent and bald.
My favorite phrase? You want to know it?
It’s what your grandmother Catena called you:
“The Comedian,
The Stand-Up Comedian.”
By the way, do you see each other?
What time is it where you are?
Who else do you have for company?
Toto’ and Angelo Musco?
Ah!, I see, no wonder I hear the racket
you’re all killing yourselves with laughter!
You’re writing plays, singing and reciting
at 4 a.m.
at my expense.
Oh Mother! You’re a comedian.
A first-rate stand-up comedian.
|
