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By Sergey Ben-Lev Date: 2002 Mar 19 Comment on this Work [[2002.03.19.14.25.19406]] |
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- Once upon a time it was a puppeteer. - Oh, really? - Yes-yes, it was a puppeteer. - But where was I? You promised to tell about me. - Once upon a time it was you. You lived in the little town. The town of simple stories and simple names. The town of simple people and plain lives. Once upon a time it was you. - What about a puppeteer? - What you mean about him? He lived in Brugge, the famous city. Brugge, the famous Flanders city. - Yeah, Brugge is a famous city, isn't it? And what about my town? - Your town? In your town the verses are being read only in the school, but the rimes are banging with the green dusty fences, the alliterations are being clung with the trams, and the assonances are protruding the summer heat haze with the car horns. - And what's up in winter? - In winter the famous winds are bringing big bungles of sand. The grains of sand are knocking, knocking, knocking. The sand is in the teeth, in the hair, in the pockets and bags. - Where is the snow? - In the town of the glimmering windows and red tiled roofs, in the town of funny weather vanes and forged shutters, in the town of light and wind it is snowing. The white snowflakes are putting down on your eyelashes. You eyes are sparkling, and the snow is melting. - Look, here am I. Just here, at the left side. I put on the thick warm trousers, and put them over another ones. Oh, really, in winter I become frozen. I put on the fur coat and tie dad's belt around it. The rabbit cap is on my head, my mouth closes up with the scarf. That's me. Me... - I see the masts of a ship. The ship is in Brugge harbor. - I am not on the streets of Brugge, the famous city, the famous Flanders city. I'm not! On the narrow paved streets. Not! I'm not on the red tiled roofs. I'm not in the harbor crowded with the people. I'm not! The flags are waving on the masts. I'm not in Brugge, the famous city. The wind. What a piercing wind. The piercing wind blew in Kandahar valley... - Hey, puppeteer, what the hell with you? Play the flute to me the joyful march of Gammeln rat trapper, and the fat rats are running along the narrow streets of Brugge. The triumphant chorale by Bukstehude is sounding and challenging dwellers to the streets. The puzzled dwellers look at the happening. The angelic child voices are going slow down with thirds and seconds to run by the genius of Palestrina. These famous triads are falling up and down. And children are... - Children. They are not seen from the board of an armored car. One could see only the Afghan mothers' faces dried up and tanned with the sun, salted and smoked with the wind. They are silent. The wind falls down the stones from the mount slopes. The winter wind blows down the snow from the mount slopes and sweeps away it... - Hey, puppeteer! Fill my head with the wind, blow it as the balloon. The balloon is flying, by and by... Flying over the roofs of Brugge, the famous city, over the yards, places and lanes. It is flying to the seashore, trembling in the gust of breeze and dropping on the sand shore. The lapping of waves. The dirty foam. Incessant hubbub of sea gulls. Brugge. The people. Bullets to be exploded as white fountains are striking against the rocks, sparkling and splintering the stones. - Hey, puppeteer! Blow in the flute, extracting from the honking tube that special clear sound. It's a little vibrating sound to be cracked and shower with overtones. The balloon takes off from the water edge, flies up and drops down the seashore again. - Look, I have the ski in the hands, my cheeks are flashing, the sticks sink into the deep snow. - Oh, puppeteer! Your breath had filled up the balloon of my soul and brought up it into the sky, headed it to the flight and stopped on the halfway... Give me a chance to fly over the sea, touch crests of waves, and soar high by the gust of sea breeze. - Stop playing, puppeteer. Take out your flute, put out the candle, crumple the balloon and hide it, do it, please, do it... - Oh, puppeteer, you forgot... You did it. You forgot to attach the photos from Kandahar. The photo of the Afghan village to be shot up by the Soviet soldiers. The photos of the children to have been crying at last time. That cry was sticking in your head. The photos of Afghan mothers to be raising up the hands with the silent cry. The photos of Afghan fathers to be going forward the gunfire. - No... No-no-no... Those photos don't exist. I live in Brugge. There are not Afghan villages in Brugge. There are not machine-guns and gun cartridge clips, bayonets and grenades, helicopters and stingers. There is not hemp and sweet dream of drugs. There are not Afghan shopkeepers and the clouding one's mind heat. Òhe cuckoo doesn't sing in the night. The soldiers don't drive along the streets in the armored cars. The searchlights don't dazzle and machine-guns don't sound all over the night. Brugge, the famous city. - Give me a chance to come back to your town. Give a chance to sing the love song to the plain streets and lanes. Give a chance to listen staccato of heels down by the pavement, tremolo of tram bangs and car horns. Give a chance to go along your street, look over the green fence and see you. - Me? - Touch your hand, sink into your hair, kiss your lips and sink into your open arms. And emerge... Emerge and sink again. Surpass the dawn and touch your eyes as the first sunray. Your star was lighting over Kabul and calling me to you. Your star had led me to Brugge. Your star was lighting in the candlesticks of musicians to play the little night serenade. Your star was rocking as a night flashlight on the train car that brought me to you. - The wind goes to the east and turns to the south. Hey, puppeteer, it's your wind. It is bringing you, challenging you. It... is... challenging... you... The river and the city, the seashore, sea gulls, farewell to them. You are being brought away to the south. It is raining along the south side. And it is raining along the north side. Along the east side the skies are pouring out. And the west is bubbling with storm clouds, sparkling with lightning, and rumbling with artillery bursts. Brugge. The wind. Sea gulls. The sea sand. The waves. Puppeteer? No. Puppeteer? Oh, no. The flute. Piano. Diminuendo. Brugge. |