Tο μακρύ ζεϊμπέκικο για τον Nίκο Κοεμτζή
Dionysis Savvopoulos / Διονύσης Σαββόπουλος| Traduzzioni siciliana / Σικελική μετάφραση / Traduzione sicil... | |
| LONG ZEIBEKIKO FOR NIKOS Well, pen and paper. Dispair has opened a tunnel. Arcades stuffed in a narrow cell, with glimpses of a blade. High up, in veils of blood, the moon was making mocking sounds. He has no hope. He does not seek freedom. Only justice. He was born at a dirt place near Katerini. Shadows from an oil lamp sliding behind Hade's screen. Nikos was the elder. The other one was Demosthenis. A silend bond, a chilhood picture in another time, set on fire. His old man was hiding on the mountain since '45, and the villagers, for fear of the authorities, kept clear of the kid. So, he was watching them settled in their work, and fury was feeding. The fury of the trapped between the people and the police. Until one day, without any baggage, rolling his hole's wheel, he rolls from Macedonia to Athens, and yet who knows where else? He'll always reach for the star where no police can reach. For the castaways, this sky is the underground. Niko... I can touch your ghost. Niko... through the subworld of the tong. Two arrests, six years for theft. I can see him when he got out. He was keeping a distance from insanity, not to save himself, but to save insanity, if that makes any sense: He wanted to get married. They told him: "Come to us to inform." He flatly refused. To get away from their fury, he escaped to the country, but wherever he went the message had been received. In Saloniki they smashed him. Almost stumbling, he returned to Athens. Then they got his fiancee. They told her things, her parents helped too, until she cut him off. But he was living totally serious, sleepwalking in a State which triumphs in an endless shriek: No escape! He was holding just one secret breath: The ghetto of the bouzouki clubs. A deep tableau where ecstasy is still alive. "I wanna hear", he said, "the words, the voice, and see my little brother rising. I wanna look at him alone in his dance, and something to happen inside me." Niko... Doghouse, Saturday Niko... Full of broken plates "A request", everyone sitting and waiting, and the loudspeakers anounced it and all the instrument got in tune for Demosthenis' dance. As he rose, the dancing floor was crouded. He let out a shout: "'tis a request", as he saw the evil approaching in large strides. The floor was now empty, except two cops, who danced with their backs turned. The boy pushed them with a shout: "This piece is mine". They threw him down onto shattered glass. He was screaming while dragged around. A fast forwarded movie, Nikos' life. His brakes were burnt. Except insanity, he had nothing to hold on, because they had shattered everything. He rumbles under the spotlight of his darkness in his horrendeous performance so violently that I am unable to say what happened down there. The whole drama was performed, I think, in the sphere of the invisible. He said to himself "Niko, get a hold", but he was already pulling out the blade. I can see the first one who got hit, bending, holding a police badge. Three dead, six more injured, screams, "open the door, they'll slaughter us". While pulling out the boy, he was talking to himself: "You, they can't touch". Niko... You heady stock. Niko... What have you done? Then he went to hide at a friend's, but he felt they'd turn him in. "I'll get a boat", he said, "sail to open sea, and get drown in a storm." "They'll get mad, searching for Niko, and finding no Niko." But as he got out he saw them, like derby dogs, one of them holding the handcuffs. They were all around, appearing from everywhere. His life was hanging from a thread which he wouldn't let to them. So he threw a knife to make the cops kill him, but they just aimed for the legs. He was crawling and swearing till a restaurant keeper hit him with a plank. His trial was held in the Bloody November. I wonder if he was feeling it. The press, anyway, presented him clearly as a bloodthirsty beast. The same was said by many liberals. That wasn't strange. Their convention saw in him another threat. The same was said by many popular musicians to the reporter of a magazine, But Bithikotsis waves him away and says "Too much trouble to explain to you..." Nobody witnessed for him except his employer and his landlady. The lawyers were saying "An abnormal psyche! Look at his papers!" Niko... You blacked out village. Niko... Who are those around you? He wrote himself off right away. He said "I must die". He got into the trouble of the judges, but they didn't get into his. While he was talking about his life to the deaf. I thought I couldn't stand it. The court was operating in there, but justice was outside. In his letters from prison, life was no diferent. He was suffocating like a mythical beast, here as much as there. Could this be one shiver further, showing a distance from the drama, and carrying, like a volatile wonder, the galley of justice? My art has lived strange moments and knows of justice. His motives were not lowly. I can see him in slow motion, like a deity being unchained of its panic and expanding, breaking loose on the unsuspecting crowds of the feast that violate its asylum. | ZIBECHICU LONGU PPI NICÒ CHEMZIS Annunca, carta e labbis; a dispiraziunazza si grapiu un caforchiu, pirtusa scavati nte na cella nica a bott’i cuteḍḍu. Susu , trapaniata i sangu, a luna faciva gabbu. Spiranza nenti, un circa libbirtà, giustizzia voli. Nascìu ‘ntra viḍḍi e vaḍḍi cajordi i Caterini, ummira e lumi arsoliu ca sfilicchianu nto mantu dû nfernu. Nicò jera u ranni, Dimostini si chiamava u secunnu, lazzu senza scrusciu, ritrattu arsu di carusi di na vota So patri s’ammucciò nte muntagni dô ’45; e i paisani scantannusi di chiḍḍi ca cuntanu stavanu arrassu macari dô figghiu. Iḍḍu i videva c’avevanu a testa ô travagghiu,ci sbummicava A raggia di cu je ‘nchiangulatu trâ i genti e i sbirri. Affina ca ‘n jornu senza bagagghi furriò a chiavi nta basana e appizzò a movirisi dâ Macidonia nzina cca e sapiḍḍu unni; Si cataminava ppi na stiḍḍa unn’ i sbirri un putevanu jcari, Ppî chiḍḍi sbannuti stu cielu je l’amparo Nicò, pozzu tuccari a to malummira Nicò, nta fezza dâ linga T’attapanciaru du voti, se’ anni ppi larrunaria; u vitti cuannu nisciu si tineva arrassu dâ pazzia non ppi sarvarisi ma ppi sarvari a pazzia, mi capisti? pri veru vuleva spusarisi, E annunca cuannu ci dissiru: “Veni a farici a spia”, iḍḍu si negò e finiu. E di ḍḍi catoja nivura e arraggiati si ni fuiu vuschi vuschi ma unni iva iva a passata era canusciuta. A Saloniccu tiritinghi e tiritanghi, e trabballiannu si ni turnò Atini; allura accrastaru a so zita, si misiru a cuntari, puru patri e matri ci misiru u carricu, e iḍḍa u lassò. Però iḍḍu era bona cunnutta comu unu ca camina ‘nsunnatu banniannu e abbanniannu nto triunfu: “‘N ci nné arriparu”. C’aviva un sulu arrinfriscu strittu: a judeca dê lucal’i buzuki post’i chiummu unni ancora po jiri ‘n visibbiliu. “Vogghiu sentiri”, diceva, “i palori, a vuci e me frati ca si susi, u vogghiu taliari mentri c’abballa sulu, accapitassi corchi cosa ca m’attigghia l’arma“. Nicò, sabbat’un postu ppi caniperri, Nicò, chinu i piatta rutti “Na dumanna” e tutti assittati c’aspittavanu; l’artoparlanti l’abbanniaru e tutti li strumenta s’accurdaru pp’u ball’i Dimostini. Comu si susì a pista era china china; sinteru ca jittava vuci: “Chista je na dumanna!” vitti u mali ca si ‘ncugnav’a passu lestu. A pista si sbacantò; sulu du sbirri abballavanu i spaḍḍi vutati e allura u carusu l’ammuttò gridannu: “U miu je stu ballu!” Iḍḍi u jittaru ‘nterra ‘ncapu na sfunnacata’i piatta rutti; jittava vuci mentri u strascinavanu a vita di iḍḍi com’un filmi a fui fui; e Nicò sdilliniò. Livannu a fuḍḍia ‘n c’aveva cchiù nenti picchì tutti cosi c’avevanu scassatu sutta i luci jera scurutu nivuru, scuppò na ‘mprenta orribbuli accussì arraggiatu c’un sacciu diri cchi capitò ḍḍa. Tuttu u fattazzu app’ammattiri nt’un munnu ‘nvisibbili Dissiru:” Nicò, arriseri” ma ‘nto mentri nisceva u cuteḍḍu u primu ca cciù cafuḍḍò u vittiru gnimiḍḍarisi cc’un distintivu nte la manu tri morti ammazzati, autri sei accutiḍḍati, abbannia “Grapiti o n’ammazzanu!” E iḍḍu purtannusi appressu u carusu barbaciava: “A tia un ti fanu nenti”. Nicò, malacarni Nicò, chi minchia facisti ? S’ammucciò nt’un canuscenti, ma ci parrava u cori ca l’arrifardiavanu; Dissi,”Mi nni fuju ccu na varca in altu mari pp’anniari ammenzu na burrasca, ci nesciunu li ciriveḍḍi circannu a Nicò e Nicò nun l’attruvanu”. Comu niscìu i vitti arrivari , criati precisi, unu mbazava i manitti. U ncagghiaru di uni e gghié, a so vita jer’ appizzat’a ‘n filu ca iḍḍu nun vuleva muḍḍari; annunca ci lampò ‘n cuteḍḍu accussì i sbirri l’ammazzavanu; ma chiḍḍi ci spararu nte jammi, sì strascinava e jastimiava ‘nzina ca u patruni d’un ristoranti ci cafuḍḍò ‘n tavuluni. A causa a ficiru nte ḍḍu Nuvemmiru ca s’apprisintò sarvaggiu, cu sapi si macari iḍḍu si n’addunò; I jurnala comu fu fu u pintaru comu n’armali abbramat’i sangu. Intifica cosa dissiru tanti progressista:” No, un jera curiusu”. ‘Ncucchiati ‘nzirtavanu ca iḍḍu jera n’autr’amminazzu. Intifica cosa dissiru un munzeḍḍu d’artisti ô giurnalista d’un fogghiu periodicu Ma Biticozzi u straniò e ci dissi: “Ma cchi ti l’arraggiunu a fari?” Un n’appi testimonia livannu u so patruni do travagghiu e a so patrun’i casa L’avvucati dicevanu:” Je strammiatu , taliati i so carti”. Nicò, paisi d’addurmisciuti Nicò, cu sunu chiḍḍi ca ti stanu a giru? Macari iḍḍu ‘nzina dû principju si crideva dispiratunazzu ; u dissi, “ aje muriri”. ‘Nsumma capì i stritti dê judici ; ma chisti un caperu i so mentri cuntava a so vita. Dubbitu c’avissi tinutu, ḍḍa intra facevanu a causa ma a giustizzia l’avevanu lassata fora. Nte so littri dô carzaru, a vita un pareva diversa; sì sintev’accupatu comu n’armali mitologgicu tantu fora quantu intra Fussi na junta ca fa arrizzari , f’abbidiri ca lu ntricciu je luntanu e carrìa, prodiggiu cilesti, u varcuni da giustizzia. A me arti sprummintau stranizzi e canuscìu raggiuni e giustizzia. I so raggiuni nun jeranu scarsi, mû figuru ô rallentaturi com’un diu ca sbrugghia u so scantu e s’allarga, e nesci di fora, e scattìa i fuḍḍi gnogni ca fanu burdellu e annigghianu a so dimura. Vulissi Diu ca s’allungassi a fila di ḍḍ’ arraggiati ca ci sputanu ‘ncoḍḍu, c’ô scutulìanu ccâ cammisa i forza e i scarrichi elettrichi; avirrannu chiḍḍu ca c’attocca, fugattiati a baschiari senza putirici spuntari, senza speḍḍiri , senza libberazzioni, suttamisi comu a chiḍḍi ca ô solitu dunanu giudizziu ma un ponu capiri Nicò, un sarà ma’ i ssa manera, Nicò, sarà a to malatia ca nni sarba cussì comu ti libbera dâ to galera, Nicò, a jiri u celu dâ to musica. |
