Ligurian:
L’euggio rosso

Tutti i giorni, tutti i giorni in sciâ mæ stradda o mendicco con l’euggio rosso e a bocca bousa, con atri trei ò quattro compagni da mæxima meña. L’euggio o l’é pròpio tanto rosso e imböso verso o de feua – no creddo ch’o pòsse vedde ninte – tanto che da-a ceiga manciña da bocca ghe coa delongo unna baussa giancastra. I atri se conoscian meno ben: i seu vestî no se peuan descrive: sucidi e spussoenti à ciù no dî. Perché tutti i giorni sti mareiti in sciâ mæ stradda? Tòsto che sciòrto a-a mattin d’into mæ scito, ch’o pâ à vezo in sce un bricco da çittæ vegia, i carroggi son deserti, ma basta fâ pöco pasci, ò à drita ò à manciña, derê à quarche recanto, derê à quache muggio de rumenta, ghe son lô, i mendicchi. À dî a veitæ no domandan, ançi pe commun pâ che no m’ammian manco, ma son delongo in sciô mæ cammin, apreuvo che m’an in ia; no me stæ à domandâ e preuve, a raxon; ô sò, e basta. Fòscia che en gioxi de mæ rosciñe? Staggo inte unna casuppa, me vesto da pövio, no fasso sguassi, no asgreo manco un citto. Un giorno no ean da-a vexin à cà mæ. Ea feliçe, son camminou scin a-a mæña, ma lô ean là, in sciâ ciazza. Me son dito: fanni un viægio, fòscia pe solo che un meise, ò maniman pe quarche giorno, no ti î veddiæ. Ma ò renonçiou: un viægio o costa, o viægio o mette poia à un ch’o l’é avviou a-e geometrie de ste stradde, de sti palaçi gianchi inta luxe erta e scilençiosa. Ò maniman ghe veu ciù de cheu à restâ, un viægio o vorrieiva dî scappâ de fronte à quattro gandolli.

Ò comensou à fâ quarche limöxina a-i mendicchi, con speâ che se ne vaggan, de ësighe un pittin de meno in grinta; lô me dixan graçie, con unna smersa de mogogno. Ma no se ne van. Tutti i giorni ghe daggo de somme da maniman ciù gròsse, ma no se ne van. Pâ che no s’accòrzan manco de cöse ghe daggo. Fòscia ò fæto mâ à dâghe de palanche, apreuvo che oua çercan à avvexinâse à mi da maniman de ciù, in cangio de arrösâse, e oua inte çerte oe do giorno s’afferman into pòrtego scuo do palaçio donde staggo. Quande son in letto, me pâ che quelli çiöti peuan ëse là, into scuo, in sciô ballou de fronte a-a mæ pòrta, tutti sitti arreo, in oegion pe çercâ à sentî o minimo fô ch’o ne ven da-o mæ scito. Spiezzan a mæ vitta pe sciorbîmela. Stamattin no gh’ò avuo cheu de toccâ a ringhea de legno de scae; a l’ea un pittin umia e mi pensava a-a baussa giancastra do mendicco. E l’é za do bello che gh’ò sto dô de steumago, bisà che vagghe da-o mego. No vaggo ciù pe-e stradde, me rebello inte quarche ciassetta donde canta i figgeu e m’assetto in sce unna banchiña. Che äia fresca, tra o ciæo e o scuo! Manco l’ombra di mostri. M’addòrmo, me lascio anâ, me pâ che no existan ciù, vëgno torna figgeu, vëgno torna innoçente inte l’æxia, into scroscî de feugge, into metallo fresco sotta de mi, asteròide astracoou, pria stæta asbriâ inti spaçi. Libeo. Into dormiveggia straveddo unna figgetta bella comme tutto, co-a carne arba, co-o röbin curto, ch’a se demoa quarche metro ciù in là. Tòsto in desdaxo, o mæ pensceo o ghe zinzaña leppegoso d’in gio. A-a cheita, gh’ò a ciæa sensaçion che quarchedun o m’ammie, me scròllo e veddo o mendicco con l’euggio rosso, ch’o me rie à unna mainea stomegosa co-a seu bocca desdentâ e o fa segno verso a figgetta con un fâ da fuccao. O pâ feliçe, o se recilla, con quella ghigna nescia, e o me tia verso unna segretta comprixitæ. Dæto ch’o no peu leze o pensceo, veu dîse che l’esprescion da mæ caa, stæta abbandonâ à lê mæxima, e no ciù in campaña, a tradiva o mæ animo. Vëgno rosso tutt’assemme, staggo sciù e scappo.

Oua sò che gh’ò un brutto mâ; o mego o dixe de no, ma serv’assæ ch’o çerche à imbroggiâme. Doman tentian l’operaçion, pe provâ à tramandâ pe un pittin de tempo l’exito ch’o no se peu sghindâ. Seguo, no sò cöse daieiva pe prelongâ a mæ vitta, anche un pittin. No compòrto in cangio l’idea de moî sotta i færi, inte quell’ambiente sterilizzou, sensa manco accòrzime. Tutto, inte l’uspiâ, o me mette angoscia, tutto o pâ sucido, stomegoso, e cös’a l’é sta maccia leppegosa pe-a tæra? No pòsso fâ de meno de pensâ a-a bocca bousa do mendicco. E dapeu staneutte me l’ò assunnou; pregava à moen zonte o mego ch’o m’à da operâ, tanto ch’o m’appaxentesse in sce l’exito de l’operaçion, e lê o fava di versci, o rangognava, o mosconava, o no parlava. L’ò ammiou ciù ben: o l’ea o mendicco. Son seguo ch’o l’é pe in davei inte l’uspiâ: m’é pasciuo fiña de vedde a seu ombra de derê a-o veddro smeriggiou de unna pòrta, ma no gh’ò avuo o cheu de arvî a pòrta e ammiâ s’o gh’ea davei; e dapeu inta stançia vexiña a-a mæ unna dònna a l’é mòrta con di crii che metteivan poia. In giornâ saiò operou e son terrorizzou da l’idea de perde i sensci. Porrieiva no repiggiâli ciù. Gh’ò ancon tròppo cöse in sospeiso, tròppo vitta da vive, ma quæ poule attrovâ da dî a-o mondo se, fin à st’etæ chì coscì, n’ò savuo dî ninte de definitivo? Da chì à un pittin me daian a dòrmia; o mæ lettin o scuggia in scilençio inti corrieu. Prefondemmo de pe unna gallaia bassa, scua, e lamme, a carne taggiâ, zeâ, no mòrta, no viva; in fondo à un gio do corrieu unna caa a sciòrte a-a cheita da unna pòrta, tanto che passo, e a m’ammia pe un momento curtiscimo ch’o vâ unna vitta. L’euggio rosso.

English translation:
The Red Eye

Every day, every day on my way  the beggar with the red eye and the slobbering mouth, with three or four other companions of the same ilk. The eye is really very red and turned outward – I don’t think he can see anything – while from the left corner of his mouth a whitish drool always trickles down. The others are less recognizable: their clothes can’t be described: filthy and stinking beyond words. Why every day these wretches on my way? The moment I leave my house in the morning – it seems perched on a hill of the old town – the alleys are deserted, but I need only take a few steps, either right or left, and in some corner, behind some pile of garbage, there they are, the beggars. To tell the truth they don’t ask, indeed they don’t even seem to look at me, but they’re always on my way, because they hate me; don’t ask me for proof, for the reason: I just know it, that’s all. Maybe they’re envious of my money? I live in a hovel, I dress like a poor man, I allow myself no luxuries, I don’t waste a single penny. One day they weren’t near my house. I was happy, I ran all the way down to the sea, but there they were, on the beach. I said to myself: take a trip, maybe just a month, or maybe only a few days, you won’t see them. But I gave it up: a trip costs money, a trip frightens someone used to the geometries of these streets, of these white buildings in the high, silent light. Or perhaps it takes more courage to stay; a trip would mean fleeing before four vagabonds.

I’ve started giving the beggars a little alms, hoping they’ll go away, that I might be a bit less hateful to them; they thank me, with a sort of moan. But they don’t go away. Every day I bestow on them larger and larger sums, but they don’t go away. They don’t even seem to notice how much I give them. Maybe I was wrong to give them money, because now they try to come closer to me, more and more, instead of moving away, and now at certain hours of the day they linger in the dark doorway of the building where I live. When I’m in bed, it seems to me those swine could be there, in the dark, on the landing in front of my door, all in perfect silence, ears straining to catch the slightest sound coming from my apartment. They spy on my life to suck it from me. This morning I didn’t have the courage to touch the wooden banister of the stairs; it was a little damp and I was thinking of the beggar’s whitish drool. And for a long time now I’ve had this stomach pain, I must go to the doctor. I no longer walk in the street, I drag myself to some little square, where the children sing, and I sit on a bench. What fresh air, between light and dark! Not even the shadow of the monsters. I fall asleep, I relax, it seems to me they no longer exist, I become a child again, innocent again in the breeze, in the rustling of the leaves, in the cool metal beneath me, an abandoned asteroid, a stone hurled into space. Free. In my drowsing I glimpse a most beautiful little girl, with snow-white skin, a short dress, playing a few yards away. Almost without my noticing, my thought lingers slimily around her. Suddenly, I feel the distinct sensation that someone is watching me, I rouse myself and see the beggar with the red eye, smiling at me repulsively with his toothless mouth and gesturing toward the little girl with a sly air. He seems pleased, he gloats, with that idiotic mug, and he draws me toward a secret complicity. Since he can’t read minds, it must be that the expression on my face, abandoned to itself, no longer on guard, betrayed my soul. I blush all at once, I rise and flee.

Now I know I have a malignant tumor; the doctor says no, but it’s useless for him to try to deceive me. Tomorrow they’ll attempt the operation, to try to put off for a little while the inevitable outcome. Truly, I don’t know what I wouldn’t give to prolong my life, even just a little. What I can’t bear is the idea of dying under the knife, in that sterilized environment, without even being aware of it. Every single thing in the hospital disgusts me, everything seems filthy, repugnant; and what is this slimy stain on the floor? I can’t help thinking of the beggar’s slobbering mouth. And then last night, I dreamed of him, I was begging the doctor who is to operate on me to reassure me about the outcome of the operation, and he was making faces, moaning, droning, not speaking. I looked at him more closely: it was the beggar. I’m sure he’s really inside the hospital: I almost thought I saw his shadow behind the frosted glass of a door, but I didn’t have the courage to open the door and see if he was really there, and then in the room next to mine a woman died uttering terrifying screams. Today I’ll be operated on and I’m horrified at the idea of losing consciousness. I might never come round again. I still have too many things unsettled, too much life to live, but what words can I find to say to the world if, up to this age, I haven’t known how to say anything definitive? Soon they’ll anaesthetize me; my gurney glides silently through the corridors. We sink down through a low, dark tunnel, the blades, the flesh incised, icy, not dead, not alive; at the end of a turn in the corridor, a face suddenly emerges from a door, as I pass, and looks at me for a very brief instant that is worth a lifetime. The red eye.