Kako si zares, Pascal?
Tako velik si.
Kot palčico me dvigneš s prsti,
moje misli na preži za strahovi
vzameš v naročje.
Kako pomagati novim,
se učimo v begunskem centru;
jaz, edina belka, a v krogu z nami
vsemi se sem ter tja preseda
brezbarvna travma.
Ti vse znaš.
Begunec za begunce delaš nove evidence:
kje, kako in kdaj
so komu naluknjali srce.
Tvoj dober dan se vedno začne s How are you, Andreja?
Odgovor mi zleti kakor neboječ otrok,
varen bližine.
Po učiteljsko pomagaš rezati
papir za učence,
pritrdiš davno izruvano vtičnico,
ker rabimo svetlobo,
ponoči loviš izgubljene wifi signale,
v nedeljo pred cerkvijo igraje
v zrak mečeš
smejoče se sosedove otroke,
postaneš taksi za žive,
rešilni za bolne,
kljub malariji si ne vzameš prostega dne
in še nikoli nisi šel na počitnice.
Sumiš, da nama prisluškujejo
bananovci, mi podržiš roko,
vedno bliže šepečeš vame.
Tvoje izrazite ustnice se spremenijo
v meso prezrelih lubenic,
ne razumem vsega;
govoriš o nekem ruandskem gozdu,
o dveh letih, bilo je skrivanje,
bila je še mama.
Zahvaljuješ se mi za moj čas.
Mrzlično ga sipam v vse žepe hlač in kovčkov,
preden se vrnem domov.
Ko jaz pogrešam, žalostim.
Če se pogrešata dva, ki se imata rada,
ni žalosti, se čudiš ti, ko mi pišeš.
Si Tutsi ali Hutu?
Ne vem.
Kako si zares, Pascal?
How Are You Really, Pascal?
You’re amazingly tall.
Like a tiny gnome, you lift me with your fingers
and take my thoughts, lying in wait for ghosts,
into your arms.
In the refugee camp, we learn
how to help the newcomers.
The only white woman among them,
I feel the colorless trauma
swaying between us.
You can do it all.
A refugee yourself, you record the stories of others:
where, how, and when
someone’s heart was pierced.
Your greeting always begins, “How are you, Andreja?”
My answer slips out like a fearless child,
safe in the warmth of your closeness.
You cut paper for the students,
like a teacher,
mend an old, torn-out socket,
because we need light,
at night you chase lost Wi-Fi signals,
on Sundays, outside the church, you playfully
toss the neighbor’s laughing children into the air,
you become a taxi for the living,
an ambulance for the sick,
despite malaria you never take a day off,
and you’ve never taken a vacation.
You suspect the banana trees
are listening in. You take my hand
and whisper ever closer into my ear.
Your lips, so expressive, become
the flesh of overripe watermelons.
I do not understand it all;
you speak of a Rwandan forest,
of two years spent in hiding,
of a time when your mother was still alive.
You thank me for my time.
I feverishly tuck it into every pocket,
into my pants and suitcases, before returning home.
When I miss, I grieve.
“If two people who love each other miss one another,
there is no sadness,” you wonder, writing to me.
Are you Tutsi or Hutu?
I don’t know.
How are you really, Pascal?
(Translated from the Slovenian by Martha Kosir)
