No. 15 Olteţ Street, Room 305
(fragments)
1. like a huge, bitter seabird,
misfortune hovers over the block of flats
at no. 15 olteţ street.
only those like us live in these rooms. no families. here
life gets swigged down, death forgotten.
and no one ever knows who or whom, who with
whom, when or what for.
sometimes the wind blows the smell of smoke and the tumult of battle
from the catalonian plain.
when you come up to see us, buddy, watch out: you’ll be met at the doorway by the san-
josé louse. he’s our keeper. he’ll wag his tail at your feet, he’ll
greet you, hey, amigo, slip me five to ferry you across. the door’s
always bolted, these guys keep locking me out, they imprison me outside.
don’t believe him, pal, you’ve no idea. the janitor came yesterday
and made him chief of the landing, he’s in charge of
this room now – this accursed ship the waters have tossed here,
marooned on the third floor.
pay him, my friend, he’s the helmsman. he still rocks on his sea-legs
as in the old days when the ship leapt through he waves.
if he swears, listen piously: when he swears
he’s really praying. as they all do here.
as you’ll soon do.
only those like us live here.
life gets swigged down, death forgotten.
at rare intervals of contrition, of faith, inevitably at night,
the walls grow thin, stretch this way and that, reach higher,
as if a fluttering shroud draped over an unworldly body.
but nobody awakens and in the morning again the building is
a rumpled shirt out of the pockets of which we alone can leave,
only we.
only those like us live here.
life gets swigged down, death forgotten.
2. group photo
seated around the table after supper. maybe pensive. maybe just
exhausted. fallen to the floor, its shirt open – a
rotten peach – lascivious dancer of these nights.
first on the left – zoli. with a reddish beard propped
on his fist. an empty glass overturned half out of the picture. his eyes
blurred. maybe just exhausted. maybe pensive. behind him
you can see the turned-up collar of my coat, as
though a hood. i always forget: no one’s watching us anymore.
i walk as if wrapped in someone i’m not.
on the right end – hans. he’s something. he’s
thirty-eight. he’s pillowed his head on the table.
once he had money. he had theresa. he’s thirty-eight.
the guy had a pal, the pal had
theresa, theresa had hans’s money. hans has
pillowed his head on the table. the table wobbles, us along with him.
he was thirty-six at the time. now he has size-ten boots. a new life, and
cirrhosis of the liver wait for him in bed. among us,
hans is the only accomplished man.
mitru: no work for a year. fit for apostleship.
found shelter here. this flophouse takes in anybody.
once had a wife and a home, but done with those.
smack in the middle sits the spider with a cross.
always moody, wrapped in a shroud of his own silk
as in a gentle halo of flame.
‘day breaks, night falls again’, he says,
‘and none of them will awaken to betray out’.
3. the ordeal
he says, look, says i’ve got this box of matches, lifted them the other night from my aunt. he says, i’ve lost my spider, can’t be nowhere else, he says, ’cept in 305. keep your eyes peeled, he says, watch the entrance, whistle when he goes out, he says, he’s you name it and then some, got long legs, goes about in nothing on, only underwear, he says, bowlegged, makes like some snotty big shot, speaks through his nose, boy, weaves them incredible shirts. he says, you know, i and my sister with him, you know, and all that jazz. seen ’er one day, seen ’er next day too. so i pay ’em a visit one night. she, he says, she’s wearing the cat fur – and was she meowin’! the little bitch purred, too, he says, so i’d take ’er for a pussycat. and the guy next to ’er, in bed. then, he says, i pulled the clock down off the wall and banged hell’s bells out of it till next morning. then they came around and found ’er there, washed ’er, dressed ’er to be a bride. you know, they said, you’re hot for him, well, you got him. all your life, gonna be a spider’s wife. all right, take the weirdo, take your monster home. and she reaches for him. but, no, the spider shillyshallies, don’t want her, no, he’s too young, no, he needs her ear, so he can weave bridal blouses in it.
(and einshtein went to see this lady, his friend since forever. einshtein was old now and in one ear and out the other. einshtein saw this spider, the lady friend had raised him since he was tiny, like her own child. he liked the spider, this einshtein did. they hit it off right away. poor lady, oh mama. she went to the kitchen to bring sweets to her distinguished guest. then the old humbug – he snatches the spider real quick, stuffs it in his mouth, and starts to chew it up.
then his lady friend comes back. dangling out of the corner of einshtein’s mouth there’s an unswallowed leg.
what’s that, she asks. nothing, the tip of my moustache.
they never seen each other again after that. she couldn’t never forgive him.)
4. the triumphal arch
here’s what i’m going to do now: head back to olteţ street.
it’s friday night.
from friday to monday might as well not be alive.
hans gets mad and buys a bottle of surgical spirits
zoli gets mad and buys a bottle of surgical spirits
i get mad too and tell them why
and they tell me why. after that we dilute
everything with water and begin to feel happy.
they no longer say why, i no longer say anything.
from friday to monday nothing can be heard.
we each drink our share and begin to feel
less unhappy. less alive.
and till sunday night it’s ok
it no longer matters whatever is or isn’t.
hans goes to the window and zoli goes to the window, but
no ship appears sailing from corinth.
they say, not monday yet. i say, not monday yet.
so on olteţ it’s happiness again.
friday comes and from friday to monday
day night day our free time
and we belt out songs until the rooms rattle –
trusty old salts who hope one sunday they’ll see
on the horizon, beyond on the blocks of flats in colentina,
the ship returning from corinth.
then on monday, when everyone’s out, at last
the Son arrives to redeem us:
in a dirty shirt, eyes puffy from sleeplessness,
an empty bottle in one hand, staggering, crooning tra-la-tra-la,
he climbs the stairs to three-zero-five, reaches out his hand,
and begs: tie me to the mast so i can sleep a bit, my friend.
7. four junipers with beards tour our block of flats.
the janitor chases them away with open scissors.
we’re priests, they yell, nobody can cut our hair.
we’re magi, you’ve no right.
for three months we’ve been travelling to his room
to see the miracle in three-hundred-five –
we’re magi, you evil-smelling herod. we’ve come
to witness his birth and carry him to his tomb.
8. the hans bird
a bird flew in through the window at night
i knew for sure it was hans.
it was bald and dead drunk.
hey, he said, here’s 50 lei, they’ve got
some kick-ass brandy across the road. nevermore, i replied.
he says: since i went away from you, they
hired me as night watchman at the cemetery. i have
a first-class flashing light. i sleep by day. i work with
the police. i’ve money enough to bury you. i’ve become minerva’s
owl. i open my eyes only at nightfall.
they promoted me. i now have large epaulets
on my liver. i had them since the time
here with you. oh! my wounds remain sore.
get going, man, let’s have a little something to celebrate.
hansi, i told him, nevermore.
9. zoli
who, you know, who among you’s got a house and home elsewhere? gooood,
let him leave us. man, you got parents? a girlfriend?
kids? would anyone adopt you? come on,
whoever it is, off you go. hansi,
man, you got a mother? scram. hey, folks, have you, you know, you got
anyone to pity you? bye-bye baby. boy, you, anyone miss you?
so long! you, there, ever been happy in your life? ciao.
see ya! vamoose.
hansi, you damn fool, that’s the window, the door’s over there.
come on, boy, up up up. it’s three a.m. and happiness
will thump our butts if we don’t beat it outa here.
line up, boy. off to work, boy. after me, boy,
step on it. from dawn to dusk, by the clock. come on, move
it, or happiness will wake us. hansi, my boy,
keep the hell away from her, boy,
many have died at her hand.
10. i still think now i could have gone awry in a worse way
than how bad i really became.
and what happens today may be the same tomorrow,
the same yesterday. but the san-josé louse showed up,
pushed in belly first, hands behind his back,
speechified the whole day long. i asked, he answered, i found out
he’d been appointed emperor of no. 15 olteţ street.
i clapped my hands. i carolled. it’s a new age
at no. 15 olteţ street. everybody’s happy.
we’ve got long tongues in our boots and in our bells. as during
the time of our beloved gaddafi
who’s in cuba and eats his vietnamese rice
out of korean sugarcane.
for tomorrow, we’ve been promised chloroform. tomorrow the world will turn
more ethereal, more refined. it will waft from us
as through gauze.
it will be a lot more pleasant on the operating table.
even there, truth will hide behind our back.
they will remove from us only the outside world.
death will stay intact inside us.
life will stay exact inside us.
from tomorrow on, we promise to stop drinking,
stop making trouble in the block,
stop using the sceptic system.
from tomorrow on, we promise to stop drinking.
but tomorrow is another today – what a disappointment!
tomorrow will never be tomorrow.