Margaret Jull Costa
englisch
PASSADO
Ah velha sebenta
em que escrevia as minhas composições de Francês
“Mes Vacances”: gostei muito das férias
je suis allée à la plage (com dois ee,
o verbo ètre pede concordância), j’ai beaucoup
nagé e depois terminava com o sol a pôr-se
no mar e ia ver gaivotas ao dicionário
As correcções a vermelho e o Passé Simple,
escrever cem vezes nous fûmes vous fûtes ils fúrent
as tardes de sol
e Madame Denise que dizia Toi ma petite
com ar de sargento e a cara zangada a fazer-se
vermelha (tenho glóbulos a mais, faites attention)
e o olhar que desmentia tudo
em ternura remplit
E as regras decoradas e as terminações
verbais a i s, a i s, a i t,
a hora de estudo extra e o sol de fim de tarde
a filtrar-se pelas carteiras,
a freira a vigiar distraída em salmos
eu a sonhar de livro aberto
once upon a time there was a little boy
e as equações de terceiro grau a uma
incógnita
Ah tardes claras em que era bom
ser boa, não era o santinho nem o rebuçado
era a palavra doce a afagar-me por dentro,
as batas todas brancas salpicadas de gouache
colorido e o cinto azul que eu trazia sempre largo
assim a cair de lado à espadachim
As escadas de madeira rangentes
ao compasso dos passos, sentidas ainda
à distância de vinte anos,
todas nós em submissa fila a responder à chamada,
“Presente” parecia-me então lógico e certo
como assistir à oração na capela e ler as Epístolas
(De São Paulo aos Coríntios:
Naquele tempo...),
tem uma voz bonita e lê tão bem, e depois
mandavam-me apertar o cinto para ficar
mais composta em cima do banquinho,
à direita do padre
E o fascínio das confissões,
as vozes sussurradas na fina teia de madeira
castanha a esconder uma falta,
o cheiro do chão encerado e da cera das velas
e quando deixei de acreditar em pecados
e comecei a achar que as palavras não prestam
e que era inútil
inútil a teia de madeira
Ah noites de insónia à distância de vinte anos,
once upon a time there was a little boy
and he went up on a journey
there was a little girl, une petite fille
e o passé simple, como parecia simples o passado
Au clair de la lune
mon ami Pierrot
Prête-moi ta plume
pour écrire un mot
Escrever uma palavra
uma só
ao luar
a pedir concordância como uma carícia
Elles sont parties,
les mouettes
Aus: Minha Senhora de Quê
Audioproduktion: Literaturwerkstatt Berlin 2008
PAST
Ah, the old exercise book
in which I wrote my French compositions
‘Mes Vacances’: I enjoyed my holiday very much
je suis allée (with two e’s,
because the verb être requires agreement) à la plage,
j’ai beaucoup nagé and then I concluded with the sun setting
over the sea and me looking up the word ‘seagulls’ in the dictionary
The corrections in red and the Passé Simple,
write out a hundred times nous fûme vous fûtes ils fûrent
the sunny afternoons
and Madame Denise who said Toi ma petite
looking like a sergeant-major, her angry face turning
bright red (I have high blood pressure, you know, so faites attention)
and her eyes that gave the lie to everything
remplit with tenderness.
And the rules learned by heart and the endings
of the verbs ais, ais, ait
the extra study hour and the late afternoon sun
filtering in among the desks,
a nun keeping distracted watch, her head full of psalms
me dreaming over an open book
once upon a time there was a little boy
and the cubic equations in one
variable
Ah, bright afternoons when it was good
to be good, it wasn’t the picture of the saint or the sweet I was eating
it was the sweet word warm inside me,
the white smocks spattered with colored paint
and the blue sash I always wore too long
worn slightly on one side like a swordsman
The wooden stairs creaking
in time to our footsteps, a sound I can still hear
twenty years on,
we girls in one submissive line responding to the call,
“Here” seemed to me then logical and right
like attending prayers in the chapel and reading the Epistles
(from St Paul to the Corinthians:
At that time…)
you have a lovely voice and you read so well, and then
they told me to tighten my sash so that I would look
more composed standing on the stool
to the right of the priest
And the fascination of confession,
the voices whispering through the fine wooden mesh
the chestnut wood concealing our faults,
the smell of the waxed floor and the wax from the candles
and when I stopped believing in sins
and began to think that words were no use
and that it was useless
quite useless the wooden mesh
Ah, the sleepless nights twenty years on,
once upon a time there was a little boy
and he went on a journey
there was a little girl, une petite fille
and the Passé Simple, how simple the past seemed then
Au clair de la lune
mon ami Pierrot
Prête-moi ta plume
pour écrire un mot
Writing a word
just one
in the moonlight
like a caress requiring agreement
Elles sont parties,
les mouettes
Translated from the Portuguese by Margaret Jull Costa. Dartmouth: Tagus Press, 2018