THE MAN DOG

 

(This is my first attempt to literary glory at age 16. I just translated in English. I hope you will enjoy it).

The Man Dog.

I

After his wife died Gipo was alone. But it wasn’t until after the funeral that he was able to embrace solitude. During those first unreal days he had, for the first time in his life, felt truly important. All his friends (few) and relatives (too many) were trying to outdo each other in the attention and consolation they gave him.

It was a few days before the gravesite would be ready so that the heavy mahogany casket was placed in its final waiting room at the cemetery that Gipo went through a liberating experience. In that surreal room, were tears flowed and took with them the pain of regret, of love, where his feelings traversed the entire rainbow of sentiments from hypocrisy to desperation, Gipo was sure that his life would change. But he had not idea how much.

During the burial everyone was mute. Gipo thought they must have run out of ideas and words to consol him. Good!

The eulogy was finally coming to an end. Soon the curtain would drop, the actors take their final bows and leave him in peace. He was glad.

The last few moments at his doorway were the worst. He couldn’t get rid of them. The last advice, phony entreaties to be called at any time, for any reasons…and finally the door closed on the people of his former life.

Gipo was about to start his new life. Alone. Free.

He leaned with his back against the door and gazed down the long corridor of his apartment. A few moments passed. Gipo stood quite still; he didn’t know what to do. Sure, everyone had promised to call on him, but he knew they wouldn’t. Even when his wife was alive they rarely received visitors or invitations, nor did they go visiting or extend invitations. This wouldn’t change. Not now.

Finally he moved away from the door. He walked down the long hallway into the kitchen. He decided to have an espresso. He fussed with the coffee pot for a bit, got the stove lit after two or three matches, sat down, stared fixedly at the apparatus and patiently waited.

The neon lighting (which his wife had had installed for reasons of economy) cast a disconcerting glow in the room. He hated that light, it was like if he was still at the morgue. Gipo gave a sudden start as the coffee pot began to rumble like a thunderstorm heard in a distance, signaling that it was ready. He inhaled deeply as he poured the ebony liquid into a small cup. The aroma and taste of coffee were two things he couldn’t resist.

Gipo noticed that strangely enough, he wasn’t thinking much about his wife and her loss didn’t cause him any grief at all. Instead he thought of how he wouldn’t have to suffer her reprimands, her sarcasm and her constant gossip on any and every subject anymore. He felt almost happy. It had been a long time since Gipo had felt anything like happy. And maybe best of all Gipo wouldn’t have to put up with the vast array of wheezing, rasping, rattling and other noises she made every night. It seemed that in whatever position she slept, indecent sounds were emitted through every orifice of her body.

Finishing his coffee, Gipo lit a cigarette. With joy he thought how he could now smoke what, when and how he wanted. And if the curtains stank of tobacco, well: he didn’t care. With the last puff on his smoke Gipo admitted that he was happy his wife was gone. He was a widower. “A happy one” he confessed to himself surprisingly without guilt.

He put on his cap and went out.

II

Of all months, November was somehow the saddest. It wasn’t cold but the damp air made him shiver just the same. He adjusted his scarf and then remembered it had been a gift from his wife. He tore it off and tossed into a trashcan.

He felt warmer.

He walked slowly, watching with childlike wonder the mist formed by the contact of his breath with the humid nocturnal air. The long boulevard was deserted. The naked trees stood like giant prisoners with their feet chained to the earth. The pavement was wet and sticky despite the lack of rain and the white light of the street lamps did not seem to penetrate and win against the dim evening. Occasionally a car raced down the street, came down to the corner going too fast and managed to stop only with a squealing of brakes and frantic downshifting.

Gipo looked at the piles of garbage overflowing from the too few containers on the roadside. He thought that even if his city was one of the most beautiful in the world, it certainly wasn’t one of the cleanest. A bunch of cats were intent on the feast in the pile of rubbish. When they heard Gipo’s steps they turned to look. Like two tiny green lights their eyes were focused on the walking man for an instant. Then they turned back to the business at hand.

At the end of the road Gipo saw a light. It was an all-night coffee bar. Going in, he asked for a coffee. Lazily, the man at the bar fiddled with the machine, slid a cup under the spout and waited. Gipo looked around. It was a dark and squalid place. He drank the coffee, which was horrible, asked for a glass of water to wash the taste from his mouth, paid and left.

A big dog was standing just outside the door. It seemed to have been waiting. It stared at him. Gipo always liked dogs very much. But his wife had never allowed one. “They are SOO dirty!” she would wine in her nervous and acidic voice. Well, now that she was gone, he was the master of the house and if he wanted a dog, who was going to stop him?

He stretched out his hand and caressed it on its head. The dog was docile and let him do it.

So Gipo’s solitude only lasted a short time. Now he had a friend. Didn’t they always say that a dog was man’s best friend? They became virtually inseparable, and Rey (the name Gipo gave him) was an exceptional dog; he never barked, never got in Gipo’s way. Didn’t make the apartment dirty. In short, he had all the qualities that a man could hope to find in a dog. At the same time Gipo had all the positive traits a dog could wish for in a man; he was a good man, never demanding, gave him plenty of food, was punctual in talking him for walks. You know how it is… certain beings seem to be made for each other. With the passage of time the man and the animal grew even closer. Gipo could speak for hours to Rey; Rey always listened.

But one day something extraordinary happened.

Gipo was in the armchair, watching TV. Rey lay at his feet, dozing placidly like only dogs can do it. Then, as he often did, Gipo began to talk to his dog.

“…You see Rey, if you could speak, you’d be perfect, not like my wife who could speak but had none of your good qualities. I sure was lucky to find you that night…”

“…I was lucky too, to find you, Gipo…”

For a moment Gipo felt he had followed his wife to the otherworld. Where did that voice come from? Dogs don’t talk!

“…don’t flip out old friend, it is really me, your dog Rey that’s speaking to you; you see, you humans have always thought that we dogs can’t talk, but you’ve always been wrong…”

“…But…but…dogs bark…” Gipo murmured in a trembling voice

“…It’s you humans that say we bark and you speak but from our point of view, we speak and you bark…”

Gipo couldn’t accept what he was hearing. “…I must have had too much to drink or I am going crazy…or maybe…I am just dreaming…Yes, that’s got too be it. It’s a nightmare…”

“…Nightmare or not dear Gipo, it’s true that I am talking to you and you are listening to me. You are not the only one. It happens from time to time…”

“…What happens?…” asked Gipo.

“…Well, have you ever seen a dog that remind you of someone you once knew?…”

“…Yeah…so?…”

“…You see…those aren’t actually dogs…they are mandogs…”

“…Mandogs! What does that mean?…” demanded Gipo, beginning to panic about what was happening.

“…it means that certain men, like you for example, that are particularly good to dogs can, in turn, become dogs, but can still talk to human if they want to help them become other mandogs too…”

“…You mean you were once a man…?”

“…Exactly…I was an accountant in a small village. I was alone. The society of men had cast me out, or at least I was never considered by other people but amongst the dogs I am an important fellow, and above all I am not judged…”

“…Oh, my God…”

“…Now Gipo do you want to become a mandog? You will never be alone. There’ll always be somebody to help you, either a dog or a man. We dogs always help each other and we sometimes find help from a human…”

Gipo made no response. He let out a whistle and fell back into the armchair.

Outside, the rain was gently knocking at the window. Sad, lonely drops, begging for help.

A long time passed and Gipo wasn’t seen. One day a niece of his wife’s was out for a stroll with her husband and she pointed out a stray dog to him.

“…Doesn’t that dog look like the husband of my dear departed aunt, God bless her?…”

“…What?…” he replied “…But yes, I guess it’s true. Funny, but out of all men he could look like it would be that half-wit uncle of yours…”

“…He’s not my uncle anymore! Who knows what has happened to him…living just like a dog…”

“…Just like a human…” thought the dog as he turned and trotted off down the street.

 

“…The only thing I miss is coffee and cigarettes…”

AN EARLY EVENING IN PARIS

 (previously posted on February 2013)

“…at the intersection near Saint-Eustache, the opening to the Rue Rambuteau was blocked by a barricade of orange pumpkins in two rows, sprawling at their ease and swelling out their bellies. Here and there gleamed the varnished golden brown of a basket of onions, the blood-red of a heap of tomatoes, the soft yellow of a display of cucumbers, and the deep mauve of aubergines; while large black radish, laid down in funereal carpets, formed dark patches in the brilliance of the early morning…”

This beautiful passage was written by Emile Zola in his La Ventre de Paris (The Belly of Paris). An immensely descriptive, humorous and exciting novel, it is the third of his twenty-volume series of Les Rougon-Maquart novels; still little known in this country.

La Ventre de Paris captures the essence of Le Forum des Halles: the central gathering place and traditional market integral to the lives of Parisians for 800 years.

In 1971 the food stalls of Les Halles were removed. Intricate glass and metal sculptures were built-in their place, which though controversial, create the strong impression that you are standing in a former open-air market -and it is today every bit as colorful and chaotic as it was in Zola’s day.

I love this bustling nucleus of Paris: its noise and confusion; the filthy, arrogant pigeons that march around us as if they own the place (which of course they do in their little bird brains). I am fond of the restaurants where I spent innumerable hours in (in another life and many years ago) like La Poule au Pot and Au Pied de Cochon, which is open 24 hours.

Here, at the tip of Rue Montorgueil, in the midst of the bailemme that is Les Halles sits Saint Eustache church, a masterpiece of late Gothic architecture. Designed by Italian architect Domenico da Cortona, the construction was lengthy (1532-1637). During that period the gothic style fell out of fashion in favor of renaissance, which explains why a gothic church features unexpected renaissance details. It has a ground-plan analogous to that of Notre Dame with a nave of five bays and a choir aisle with 24 chapels. The high cupola reaches a height of 190 feet.

So, I was in Paris -breathing in the city rather than exploring her, and casually I strolled inside Saint Eustache. It was the first time in almost 20 years that I ventured within its sacred walls. No, I did not take a trip down memory lane. I just admired my surrounding silently. Saint Eustache has not changed much.

The beautiful stained glass windows, which were created by Antoine Soulignac, and likely modeled after drawings by Philippe de Champaigne were still there. Intact and with the perfect radiance of a minor masterpiece.

The pipe organ, containing 8,000 pipes, is the largest in France. It was silent during my visit, but it is a sleeping giant capable of producing some of the world’s perfect music.

And of course I admired the paintings by Santi di Tito, fellow renaissance brethren to Piero della Francesca (and fellow citizen) and Rubens.

The church was mainly empty. A couple of tourists were looking around with tired faces and uninspired expressions. The silence was covering the gorgeous interior like a warm blanket. A beautiful woman with striking red hair was admiring the expansive interior, walking slowly, her figure occasionally obscured by the shadow created by the game of light.

I sat in a chair, thinking of the young Louis XIV taking his first Communion here. In my mind I saw the Cardinal Richelieu and Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson (the future madame de Pompadour) being baptized, and I saw the distressed face of Mozart at the funeral of his mother. I also saw the happy expression of Moliere getting married to Armande Claire Bejarde. I thought of all of them, all of the events that have happened here at Saint Eustache.

One thing has become clear since my last visit. Saint Eustache requires a great deal of love and attention. Centuries of smoke from the candles have left a dirty gray coat on the walls; the marble pillars are chipped in many places; chairs are scattered around like fallen leaves. Many of the 24 chapels are as unkempt as the hair of a rock star.

Saint Eustache parish hosts numerous activities, and touches the lives of many in the phantasmagorical surrounding that is Les Halles. Music, both sacred and contemporary can be heard here regularly, and the rotations of expositions and events make Saint Eustache as busy as an American airport on Thanksgiving. Social justice and community outreach also play a fundamental role in the life of the parish; and the Center Cerise, a cultural hub for artists and arts group (some well-known) is housed here.

Sancerre is a great white wine. Produced in the easter region of the Loire Valley, it is a semi-dry variety that comes from Sauvignon-Blanc grapes. In my opinion it is also a perfect aperitif. It is what I was drinking in the evening after my visit to Saint Eustache, sitting at a cafe’ across from the church and the Rue Montorgueil. As I was sipping that flawless, cold Sancerre, I thought about the universal value of art and architecture. Of how sacred places of worship are fundamental pieces of the community everywhere, and beautiful architecture is the mirror of an intense community life.

Yes, indeed universal.

Just like those pigeons that were lazily moving about outside Saint Eustache.

Il Violinista di Ben Yehuda

Dalle finestre di casa mia entrava una melodia mediorientale lenta e simile a un lamento infinito ma nello stesso tempo composto da una magia che fino a quel momento non avevo mai conosciuto. Era come se quelle note fossero in realtà’ angeli che danzavano liberi nell’aria tiepida. Quella musica continuava dal mattino alla sera quando si mischiava al rumore che arrivava dalle vie circostanti.

Il mio palazzo si trovava infatti in una delle zone più’ vivaci di Gerusalemme. C’erano negozi di tutti i tipi e per tutte le tasche. I bar erano numerosi e i tavolini si confondevano a quelli dei ristoranti per turisti sempre pieni di gente che beveva, mangiava, rideva, raccontava e si parlava addosso.

I musicisti da strada si esibivano di continuo. Uno in particolare mi aveva colpito per la sua abilita’. Era un violinista che mi ricordava quello magro e accovacciato sul tetto di “Fiddler on the Roof”, quello stesso che alla fine del film segue Tevye e la sua famiglia cacciata insieme a tutti gli ebrei da Anatevka.

Era magro e allampanato. Altissimo. Con i vestiti che sembrava non volessero stargli addosso. La sua musica era incalzante ma nello stesso tempo triste.

Musica da Shetl. Musica da fantasmi e dybbuk. In fondo era quella musica da morti. Avevo iniziato a scoprire che qui a Gerusalemme anche i fantasmi potevano essere compagni di viaggio.

A lungo restavo in piedi ad ascoltare quel musicista appoggiato a un muro scrostato. Lo “struscio” notturno di Ben Yehuda era in pieno svolgimento come se all’improvviso tutti si fossero dati appuntamento in quella parte’ della città’. La gente se ne stava seduta ai tavoli di bar e ristoranti a parlare, bere, mangiare, ridere. I camerieri con sveltezza entravano e uscivano dai locali zigzagando in mezzo a tavoli e tavolini portando destramente sui loro vassoi varie quantita’ di cibo e bevande. Mischiati a quella folla, camminavano tranquillamente soldati con volti infantili di entrambi i sessi. Erano poco più’ che ragazzi e pure portavano a tracolla minacciosi fucili mitragliatori. Lo facevano con una distratta normalita’ come se quella fosse la cosa più’ semplice di questo mondo. Tristemente per loro, lo era.

In mezzo a questo quotidiano purim serale Mordechai continuava a suonare la sua musica meravigliosa. Un passante distratto di tanto in tanto lasciava cadere una piccola banconota o qualche moneta in un barattolo di latta che teneva ai suoi piedi.

Mordechai era un fantasma tornato da un mondo sparito e lontano. In quella grande confusione la sua musica saliva al cielo e forse andava direttamente alle orecchie di Dio. Quasi fosse una preghiera. Una supplica per il Creatore dell’universo.

Feci la sua conoscenza per caso qualche giorno dopo.

A pochi metri dal portone del mio palazzo c’era un piccolo caffè’ che io avevo eletto mia prima tappa quotidiana. Me ne stavo seduto a un tavolino in penombra, mi accendevo la seconda sigaretta della giornata, ordinavo un caffè’ espresso accompagnato da una bottiglietta di acqua minerale non gasata e iniziavo a legger il Jerusalem Post che essendo in inglese potevo comprendere.

Quel mattino la strada era ancora assonnata e semi deserta. Il sole giocava sapiente con le ombre che lui stesso creava. Spunto’ all’improvviso in mezzo a quel gioco di luci estivo. Mordechai camminava lentamente venendo verso di me. Lo faceva tenendo la testa reclinata leggermente in avanti e con le mani dietro la schiena. I suoi vestiti erano logori e sporchi e sembravano essere più’ appesi a una stampella ambulante che indossati da un essere umano. Una barbetta rada gli incorniciava il volto emaciato e quasi senza carne. Mentre passava davanti a me si fermo’ di scatto come se fosse stato assalito da un pensiero improvviso. In quel momento mi vide e piegando la testa da un lato, mi sorrise beffardo, mostrandomi i suoi denti che erano scarsi e marci e di un colore indefinibile perso tra il giallo e il nero. Si avvicino’ al mio tavolino chiedendomi qualche cosa in ebraico.

“mi dispiace ma non parlo ebraico” dissi in inglese. Mordechai non si scompose più’ di tanto. Assenti’ con un gesto impercettibile della testa lanciandomi uno sguardo che mi parve beffardo. E subito dopo passo’ a un inglese perfetto.

“Vuole gentilmente offrirmi una sigaretta?”

Mordechai aveva gli occhi da pazzo. Erano enormi. Due buchi neri infiniti. Aveva un naso rosso, gigantesco, attraversato da piccole vene azzurre che s’intricavano tra di loro come se fossero una minuscola rete stradale.

“Prego” dissi, prendendo il pacchetto di sigarette dal taschino della mia camicia. Mordechai l’afferro’ con la mano sottile dalle dita straordinariamente lunghe. Lunghe come non ne avevo mai viste in vita mia. Dopo che l’ebbe accesa aspiro’ una boccata ingorda facendo bene attenzione a tenere parte del fumo dentro quei polmoni che immaginai essere in condizioni disperate.

“Ah! buona”

“una di più”? Per dopo?” fu la mia offerta.

Il Violinista di Ben Yehuda mi guardo’ in silenzio sgranando quei suoi occhi enormi pieni di pazzia.

“tu sei un principe, e io accetto la tua offerta. Uno schnorrer come me non rifiuta mai le rare offerte generose che riceve”

Lo invitai a sedere con me.

“perche’ non siede con me e mi tiene compagnia, sempre che lei non abbia fretta o debba andare in qualche posto”

Ancora adesso dopo tanto tempo avverto ancora sulla pelle lo sguardo da folle di Mordechai che resto’ a fissarmi in silenzio. Non posso dire per quale motivo l’avessi invitato. Cosa sperassi di apprendere da quella conversazione. Forse era solo perché’ l’avevo sentito suonare in modo sublime quasi da far diventare il suo violino un essere umano con la musica che sembrava essere ora gemiti dolorosi, ora risate felici ora lamenti millenari. Forse tutto questo mi aveva fatto crescere la voglia di conoscere la sua storia che prevedevo fantastica. Ero curioso di sapere di più’ su di lui, che pur sciorinando risposte che a prima vista non avevano alcun senso doveva aver vissuto in modo diverso. Qualche cosa in lui si era rotto. L’onda della sua vita aveva smesso di spingere verso la riva comune e invece se ne era tornata verso il mare aperto. Verso l’oblio.

O forse gli avevo chiesto di sedersi al mio tavolo perché’ ero solo.

Solo come un cane.

Con un ghigno Mordechai si sistemo’ comodamente su una sedia vicino a me.

“siedo volentieri fratello mio sconosciuto, ma non solo per un caffè’, che ne diresti invece di offrirmi una colazione intera?”

Decisi che un paio di Marlboro e una colazione fossero un giusto prezzo da pagare per fare la conoscenza con il fiddler di Ben Yahuda.

Mi sussurro’ il suo nome sotto voce, quasi fosse un segreto di stato.

“Mordechai. Il mio nome e’ Mordechai e del tuo invece non mi interessa. Non voglio sapere come ti chiami.”

Mi guardava beffardo e per nulla imbarazzato dalle rovine che una volta erano state i suoi denti. L’espressione del volta stava mutando diventando oscura e minacciosa. Avevo capito che non potevo aspettarmi da lui risposte normali. Tentai di cambiare argomento.

“che cosa desidera per colazione?”

“paste…io amo le paste e tutte le cose dolci che esistono in culinaria, come il lakach che qui in Israele si mangia alla vigilia del Capodanno. E’ buono, fatto con il miele…ti piace il miele? Ah! Io ne vado pazzo! Ah! Così’ come amo le gallettes des rois a’ la frangipane, e la ciambella dei Re Magi per non parlare della treccia greca che si mangia a capodanno (quello greco naturlich…) Oh! Il dolce bretone! Io amo i dolci perche’ non posso sopportare nel modo più’ assoluto tutto quello che e’ amaro, che non esiste armonia nell’amarezza. Lo hai mai notato? Ma lascia stare per favore. Io so che tu non sei ebreo”

“Non sono ebreo ma vivo qui a Gerusalemme”

“ahhh, eh? Nu?”

Se ne stava ora in silenzio a fissarmi con quei suoi occhi da pazzo. Grossi ciuffi di peli neri gli uscivano dal naso e dalle orecchie.

“Sei forse un cristiano che vuole fare breccia nelle mura di Gerusalemme?”

“essere cristiani non ti rende automaticamente crociato”

“Ah! no! eh…Nu?” Mordechai mi lanciava occhiate di traverso e un mezzo sorriso da folle saggio gli apparve sulla bocca. Poi continuo’.

“Il ventisette Novembre dell’anno millenovantacinque dell’era cristiana alla chiusura del concilio di Clermont il papa Urbano Secondo, chiamando a raccolta i cavalieri del mondo Cristiano e li esorto’ a punire quello mussulmano e a liberare i sacri luoghi cristiani della Terra Santa. Quella Crociata termino’ sulle mura di Gerusalemme nel giugno del millenovantanove con una vittoria di incredibile portata per tutto il mondo cristiano”

Chi era dunque quest’uomo che parlava con accuratezza della Storia di quelli che in fondo erano stati i nemici della sua gente e che tanto da fare si erano dati per sterminarli? Era forse un saggio che aveva deciso di rifiutare il mondo e abbracciare una vita da vagabondo? Forse era uno studioso ebreo, di quelli che spendono la vita chini su testi misteriosi che improvvisamente aveva deciso di lasciare tutto e partire e alla fine era arrivato a respirare l’aria sacra di Gerusalemme. Libero di suonare la sua musica meravigliosa in libertà’ e dirigerla non verso i passanti ma verso il cielo stesso.

“allora sai quello che fecero i tuoi fratelli cristiani?”

Non ero pronto per quel tipo di conversazione. Annuendo mi accesi una sigaretta. Cercavo di non guardarlo negli occhi. Come se mi vergognassi di me stesso e di essere cristiano.

Fumavamo in silenzio.

“sei un Bal-Tshuve” mi domando’ dopo un lungo silenzio.

“mi dispiace, ma come ti ho detto prima, non parlo l’ebraico.”

Mordechai roteo’ gli occhi e poi li levo’ al cielo con l’espressione di chi stia parlando con una bambino che si ostina a non voler comprendere il significato delle cose che gli erano state dette. O come se avessi parlato da idiota cosa che evidentemente Mordechai si aspettava dal sottoscritto.

“non e’ ebraico. E’ yiddish. Significa Penitente, cioe’ quello che torna per osservare la legge” mi spiego’ con un tono sarcastico eppure paziente al tempo stesso.

Penitente? Tra i mille motivi che cercavo per cercare di giustificare la mia decisione di venire ad abitare a Gerusalemme non avevo mai contemplato questa possibilità’. Forse davvero la mia anima desiderava in qualche modo di essere mondata. Cercavo forse anch’io di tornare verso una legge di Dio? Volevo riavvicinarmi al Creatore Supremo? Dovevo ammettere a me stesso che forse quest’uomo stralunato aveva ragione.

In qualche modo siamo tutti dei penitenti. Mi tornarono in mente le parole del protagonista del romanzo “Il Penitente” di Isaac Bashevis Singer: “tutti i fatti accaduti fino a quel momento avevano congiurato a portarmi in quella città’…mai prima di allora avevo sentito con tanta forza la mano della Provvidenza”. No, ancora non mi sentivo un penitente. Mi accorsi che in fondo mi dispiaceva.

“no, non sono un penitente” dissi a bassa voce.

Il cameriere torno’ al nostro tavolo e ordinai altre paste per Mordechai e caffe’ nero per me. Mi accesi l’ennesima sigaretta. L’aria era diventata più’ calda e il cielo era completamente libero da nuvole. Un piccione solitario camminava tra i tavolini del bar, beccando in terra qualche briciola. Per un momento invidiai quell’uccello. In fondo era libero e agli occhi di Dio anche lui aveva la sua importanza.

Guardavo Mordechai riempirsi di paste. Lui era anche più’ libero del piccione. Ingollato l’ultimo pezzo di brioche si puli’ il mento con la manica sudicia della sua camicia fissandomi con quel suo sguardo allucinato.

“devo andare…devo andare, sono rimasto con te anche troppo tempo” Sorrisi. Come se io fossi Alice nel Paese Delle Meraviglie che incontra il coniglio che andava sempre di fretta. Mordechai si avvicino’a a me e un forte odore simile a quello delle cipolle mi assali’.

“non dimenticare mai la cosa più’ importante’

“e quale sarebbe?”

“der vos farshatat zein narishekeit iz a kluger…colui che e’ consapevole della sua follia e’ saggio e questo non e’ ebraico, ma yiddish”.

Se ne ando’ e lo vedevo affrettarsi in mezzo alla confusione di Ben Yehuda. Torreggiava più’ alto di tutti, camminando in fretta verso qualche destinazione misteriosa dove avrebbe suonato quel suo magico violino.

O forse scroccato sigarette a un gonzo in tutto simile a me.