среда, февраля 16, 2005

At School (II and last)

Dima did not answer. He looked at the floor, at the rectangular, smooth faces of the centuries-old parallelepipeds. Then he looked once again at the narrow lane leading to the street, with the doorman’s house to the left and the white lamplights flashing like a beacon above the city, beyond the brick pavement. And then he looked to the other side, at the pink building of the ancient orphanage where he had classes. Behind it the chapel tower ostensibly showed its slow-paced clock, as it loomed in the star-spotted darkness, bereft of the city and its damp lights outside.

And from there he looked at the winged hybrid standing in the garden, alone. But then his mother showed up, hugging him and explaining that she had had a last-hour meeting at work, and Dad did not know that she could not pick him up at school. She thanked the doorman for keeping an eye on her son and, as Dima listened to the doorman’s humble reply (the kid had been behaving well, if she would not show up one of the nuns would have called his parents anyway), he started crying, and begged his mother to go home. She deduced that he was hungry, he had not had food since the mid-afternoon snack, and he said good-bye to the doorman and they left. On the way home he pictured in his mind the simple dinner the doorman’s family would have, he pictured the daughter with the limp running around the house at night, and he felt compassion for them (maybe he did not know yet what compassion was in theoretical terms, but he felt it nevertheless). But he wanted to go to bed now.

And, in the darkness of his room, hearing the low humming of cars on the street outside, he could not scare away from his mind the image of the granite-bodied creature who had kept him company at twilight. He imagined him shivering with cold and with fear of the hounds; even though he was one of those half-Godlike creatures who were closer to God than us, the angel was alone in the garden, stuck to the grayish pedestal. Dima turned around in bed, and different thoughts entertained his slumber.

5 комментариев:

LS комментирует...

pick him up*

Konrad von Swalwagner комментирует...

Thanks for the correction. :-)

Jö Zefa комментирует...

***ma english too bad [indian accent]***

please, change the blogger navbar to BLACK!

(or maybe he likes blue...

whatever.)

ah, e na argentina até francês eu falei. *chiquenoúrtimo*!

e sim, eu ainda acredito que você fala a minha língua.

fala?

era para comentar o post, néam. ihhhh... :[

Анонимный комментирует...

Gostei até onde consegui entender, acredito perder algumas nuances por falta de conhecimento da língua.

quanto à rima, concordo plenamenet que ela não fecha. foi feita num ônibus petropolis-rio (eles têm, ou tinham, um aviso desses nas costas de cada poltrona). como não tenho grandes pretensões e demorei a achar alguma coisa que fechasse e fizesse sentido, coloquei um 'remendo' no fim. o formato´já é adaptado, e tudo... os versos não são dodecassílabos. eu tendo a abandonar idéias quando dá muito trabalho colocar a cereja no bolo, mas quero mudar isso porque detona a qualidade do trabalho todo. não sou bom com revisão e detalhes, não...

e não tenho comentado por falta de conhecimento de causa [leia linguagem] aqui...

andré, com preguiça de fazer login

Jö Zefa комментирует...

ainda sobre a "perfumaria":

bem, a barra azul combina com a cor dos links dos posts... então, azul também fica bom.

:|

preto tá bom! preto tá bom!

:x