Manuel Forcano

According to the map it was here.
or possibly here or two streets farther on.
Was it this door, or maybe
this one?…
In pleasure’s memory
other details are still recorded

Those nights, in the small hour,
in your room:
the light from a single bulb
sketched our shadows
on scant furniture,
fruit on a plate,
scattered clothing.

According to the map it was here.
But now, in the light of day,
after all these years,
I don’t recognise the house,
and I gaze at these façades
like one who searches the night sky
and doesn’t know how to recognise
a single star.

The past is a well drunk dry.

Pren el sol de braços oberts
sobre una tovallola de colors.
Els seus dits joguinegen
amb l’arena.

Des d’on tu seus
veus el seu cos perfecte
i també creus impossible
que la seva ànima acusi
algun defecte.

La llum l’abraça
i t’enlluerna t’encén
l’oli del bronzejador
a la seva pell.

Anaxàgores va ser expulsat d’Atenes
acusat d’impietat per haver dit
que el sol només era una pedra incandescent.
Que cec que estava:
déu és tot allò que crema I
il·lumina.

He’s sunbathing with outstretched arms
on a brightly-coloured towel.
His fingers fiddle
with the sand.

From where you’re sitting
you can see his perfect body
and you also think how impossible
it is that his soul should reveal
any blemish.

Light embraces him
and dazzles you and you’re on fire
with the suntan oil
on his skin.

Anaxagoras was banished from Athens
accused of impiety for having said
that the sun was merely an incandescent stone.
How blind he was:
god is everything that burns
and gives light.

Molts detalls de tu
i de nosaltres junts
s’han esborrat: passen els dies
com unes mans que ens han deixat d’acaronar.
Ja no sé ben bé qui eres
ni què vam dir-nos aquells vespres
entre el fum de tantes pipes d’aigua
als cafès a l’aire lliure:
m’embriagava veure’t,
i jugar a escacs era una excusa
per contemplar els teus dits
movent les peces del teu exèrcit
cap a mi. Que dolces
poden arribar a ser de vegades
les derrotes: la teva torre
tombant sobre el tauler
el meu rei.
Moltes nits
vas alinear davant meu
els teus peons.

Lots of things about you
and about us together
have faded: the days go by like
hands which have ceased their caressing,
I don’t really know who you were, now,
nor what we used to tell each other those evenings
amid the smoke of so many bubbling hookahs
in the open-air cafés.
I got drunk just seeing you,
and playing chess was an excuse
for watching your fingers
moving the pieces of your army
towards me. How sweet
it can sometimes turn out to be,
being defeated: on the board
your castle knocking over
my king.
Many nights
you lined up your pawns
to face me.

Quantes vegades en un museu
t’has identificat amb les antigues estàtues
sense cap.

Un cop tu també el vas perdre
per algú de qui ara
no pots dir sinó aquell passeig pel Nil
amb barca i vela blanca: les palmeres
gairebé acaronaven la pell del riu, i allargant els braços
collíem dels joncs les flors de ploma. Estirats a coberta,
camisaoberts  al sol, una mà lànguida a l’aigua,
un fil d’escuma als dits,
I el desig que emergia,
cocodril obrint la filera dels ullals.
Vam començar a fer broma i a esquitxar-nos
fins a quedar xops, perles d’aigua
a les rialles, els cabells, a la cara, al pit.
Es va barrejar a les copes
el vii l’aigua del riu,
i ens ho vam beure.
Quantes vegades.

How many times in a museum
have you identified with the ancient statues
that have no head.
Once you too lost yours
over someone about whom now
you can relate only that trip along the Nile
in a boat with a white sail: the palm trees
almost embraced the river’s skin, and stretching out our arms
we plucked feathery flowers from the reeds. Lying in the shade,
shirts unbuttoned to the sun, a languid hand in the water,
fingers trailing a line of foam,
and desire surfacing,
a crocodile opening a row of eye-teeth.
We started to joke and splash each other
until we were soaked, beads of water
in our laughter, our hair, faces, breasts.
Mingling in our glasses
were wine and river water,
and we drank it.
How many times.

No parlàvem la mateixa llengua,
qüestió d’accent o dialecte
però ens dèiem paraules l’un a l’altre
com un pintor pobla d’ocells
el cel d’un quadre.
Mentre a xarrups preníem te
i a la ràdio sonava I’Um Kulzum,
ens explicàvem la canícula del dia,
l’espera impacient de trobar-nos,
les llums de colors i la música
a les barques sobre el Nil,
l’olor de les guaiabes,
dels dàtils rojos, l’infern de la nit
quan cadascú tornés a casa.
Hi havia gent que et saludava
i em presentaves, i jo responia
amb una fórmula educada,
el gest de la mà al pit,
i tornàvem a l’univers tranquil
d’acceptar tot el que no podíem expressar,
de somriure’ns entre els mots
que no enteníem

We didn’t speak the same language,
a question of accent or dialect,
but we spoke words to each other
much as a painter populates with birds
the sky of a painting.
While we sipped tea and the Um Kulzum rang out on the radio,
we explained to each other how tedious the day had been,
waiting impatiently to meet,
the coloured lights and music
on those boats on the Nile,
in the bazaar the scent of the guavas
of the red dates, the hell that was night
when each went to his own house.
There were people greeting you and you introduced me, and I responded
with a polite formula,
the gesture of the hand on the breast,
and we went back to the calm universe
of accepting everything we couldn’t express,
of smiling at each other between the words
that we didn’t understand.

Em va llegir uns versos d’Ibn al-Farid:
“Tot el meu cos el va besar amb totes les boques,
i en com em besava hi havia tots els besos”
I amb el llibre a la falda
i els dits entre les pàgines,
ens vam quedar en silenci.
A l’espera de viure-ho.
De provar-ho.

Ara somrius en descobrir
quants records deus
a la mística.

He read me a few lines by Ibn al-Farid:
“He kissed my whole body with all his mouths,
and in the way he kissed me were all the kisses there are.”
And with the book in his lap
and his fingers between the pages,
we sat not speaking.
Waiting to live it.
To try it.

Now you smile as you discover
how many memories you owe
to mysticism.

No sé què se n’ha fet de tu.
T’he perdut el rastre
com una obra antiga de lectura
ja impossible
i de la qual només sabem
el títol.

Com et desitjava,
fins que un dia vas venir a casa,
moneda que repica a la llauna
del captaire.

La robustesa d’un gran tronc
el plaer pot destralejar-la:
l’alegria de dos arbres caiguts
per un mateix tall d’acer
lluent.
I que lleuger el record,
com quan al metro del Caire
no ens adonem que entre algunes parades
flueix damunt nostre
el Nil immens.

I don’t know what has become of you.
I have lost all trace
of you like an ancient work
impossible now to read
and of which we know
only the title.

How I desired you,
until one day you came to the house,
a coin that rings
in the beggar’s tin.

The strength of a great trunk
can be axed by pleasure:
the joy of two trees felled
by the same stroke
of shining steel.

And how little the memory weighs,
as when in the Cairo metro
we realise that between certain stops
there flows above us
the mighty Nile.

Yes I do know what has become of you:
poem.

No pensis mai que perds.
Serva com sigui el que ara saps
que excepcionalment
vas viure:
van ser només
uns pocs dies d’estiu,
nits de matalàs a la terrassa,
esmorzars de te i galetes
al seu pis petit i humil
com una flor de gessamí,
just davant del palau ara barrat
del rei  Faruk
de qui et va explicar l’abdicació forçada,
el seu exili, els seus festins opípars
com els nostres
de besos.

La data
del meu bitllet d’avió
ens va obligar a l’adeu:
abdicació forçada,
exili.

Don’t ever believe you’re losing.
Let what you now know serve as example
of how remarkably you lived:
they were only
a few summer days,
nights with the mattress on the terrace,
breakfasts of tea and biscuits
in your flat, small and humble
as a jasmine flower,
right in front of the palace, now closed-off,
of King Farouk
whose forced abdication you explained,
his exile, his banquets sumptuous
as our own
of kisses.

The date
on my plane ticket
compelled us to say goodbye:
forced abdication,
exile.

Now you have turned it all into these lines
and every time you read them again
you know you lived,
if only for a few days,
in the house of happiness.

No sé quin espai
ni quin protagonisme té el record
en el present de cada dia,
però una cosa mínima basta
per posar la memòria en moviment.
Per exemple, uns mitjons.

En venies damunt el capó d’un cotxe
a la plaça de l’estació central del tren
just als peus descalços de granit
de l’enorme estàtua de Ramsès II.
En un país de calor extrema on tothom va amb babutxes o peu nu,
se’t va fer evident per què jo te’n comprava cada dia:
Somreies, i me’ls venies més barats,
de fil d’Escòcia, de llana australiana
o cotó egipci
pels freds que mai poguessin arribar…

I esperàvem el moment
del contacte
en tornar-me les monedes calentes del canvi
de la teva butxaca
al meu palmell.

I don’t know what space
or what role remembering occupies
in the present of each day,
but the slightest thing is enough
to jog the memory and set it going.
Some socks, for example.

You were selling them from the bonnet of a car
in the square beside the central railway station
right next to the bare granite feet
of the enormous statue of Ramses II.
In a country of extreme heat
where everyone wears slippers or goes barefoot,
it became obvious why I would buy some from you
every day:
you smiled, and sold them to me more cheaply,
made of Scottish linen, or wool from Australia
or Egyptian cotton
against the chills that couldn’t ever occur.

And we’d wait for the moment
of contact
when you gave me the warm coins of my change
from your pocket
into my palm.

Tens Alexandria a tres hores del Caire.
Torna-hi. Podràs revisitar el fortí otomà,
contemplar els carreus de l’antic far a  l’escullera,
passejar pels bells jardins de la mesquita d’Abú  Abbàs,
entaular-te als restaurants del port
i escurar amb les mans
el peix del dia.

Però bé saps
que no hi aniràs per res d’això.
Només tornaràs a aquell  cafè
i seuràs a la mateixa taula al vespre.
Impacient, com qui espera
l’imminent  canvi del semàfor,
vigilaràs  la porta.
I  resaràs  perquè aparegui.
Fins que aparegui.

Three hours from Cairo you have Alexandria.
Go back there. You’ll be able to revisit the small Ottoman fort,
admire the ashlar of the ancient lighthouse on the breakwater,
troll through the beautiful gardens of the Abu Abbas mosque,
sit at a table in one of the restaurants by the harbour
and pull apart with your hands
the catch of the day.

But you know quite well
that you’ll go there for none of these things.
You will go back to that one café
and sit at that same table in the evening.
Impatiently, like someone waiting
for the traffic lights to change at any moment,
you’ll keep your eyes on the door.
And you’ll pray for him to appear.
Until he does appear.

A molt més, no vam gosar.
La ciutat era, per a mi,
tota nova. Per a tu,
massa vella.

Van ser només uns dies.
Per a mi no prou llargs,
per a tu massa pocs.
Hi vam afegir les nits.

I el goig,
com una diana a la paret
plena de dards. Tu i jo,
forquilla i ganivet
al plat buit després de l’àpat.
Però sovint l’amor és provar de retenir aigua
amb els dits d’una mà oberta.

I, amb nosaltres, el riu immens:
fluint cap al mar, com jo,
sempre allà, com tu.

For much more, we didn’t dare ask.
The city for me,
was all new. For you,
too old.

They were only a few days.
For me not long enough,
for you too few.
We added on the nights.

And joy,
like a bull’s eye on the wall
full of darts. You and I,
knife and fork
by the empty plate after the meal.
But often love means trying to hold water
in the fingers of an open hand.

And with us, the huge river:
Flowing all the way to the sea, like me,
always there, like you.