Carpet peddler
I’ve just bought 13 carpets,
which are said to be silken ones,
to Mario Nel, ‘Modas & Confeçoes para senhora e homen,
Rua José Garcia, No. 3, Parede.’
Nel came round home.
I must say, for a few moments,
I thought I was a sultan
among so many geometric, colourful, varied carpets
lying at my feet on the terrace.
Nel flattered me
with a merchant’s submissive attitude.
‘The master is making a good deal’ (I knew I wasn’t!).
‘The master is generous’ (Perhaps not so much!).
‘The master has good taste’ (Not as far as carpets are concerned!).
And Nel overstated with a servile smile.
It was like a game so I believed him, I wanted to believe him.
The truth is, I bought 13 carpets. It’s a pleasure to buy at home!
A scorching sun,
my children are laughing, Nel is laughing,
my wife is bringing a bottle and glasses.
The Wine is an icy gemstone.
Lisbon, Nel!
That morning was raining
in Lisbon, Nel. The city was
(How would I explain it, Nel?)
like a dignified distinguished decadent lady:
all very beautiful but, at the same time, withered.
I don’t just talk the talk. I wouldn’t like to offend you, Nel.
No way did I want to offend
the staggered Opel taxi driver, roaring
along the streets with geraniums and wet moss smell.
Lisbon and its smells.
Lisbon, how I love the sea scent,
and the endless twilight of the sea,
and the dark green, leafy green, of the sea,
and the infinite foam of the sea,
and the wind upon the waves of the sea,
and the deep rumor of the sea!
It would rain sweetly. An entire overseas empire
was being watered, like the planet Venus.
The Atlantic was inhospitable.
What an adventure, Nel, what an adventure
was the fact of diving into the sea!
(‘Your silence is a ship
with the sails filled with breeze’).
And brown-skinned Nel, the street vendor,
with a vest, kept praising her fake rugs.
And, in the glasses, the wine was a topaz.
It was sunburn.
However in Lisbon – I don’t recall how many years ago – that morning was raining.
(‘It rains a foggy gold. Not in the street, but in my heart’).
Over the castle, the old bronze cannons
dripping drops
of water, of pus, of time, of lichens, of humus:
rotten badge rust.
But now the sun is shining and Nel is smiling.
We’ve both made a good deal.
Nel is selling carpets. He doesn’t know though,
what I’m buying is the remembrance of his beautiful country.
Us ha agradat aquest article? Compartiu-lo!