Ligurian:
L’antropòlogo

Quella vòtta ch’ea anæto in vixita à l’avvoxou antropòlogo, me ne stava in temmansa che ghe desse da dî a mæ mainea de vestî, tròppo antiquâ ò tròppo moderna, ma me son addæto fito ch’o no dava mente areo à çerte cöse; comme sobaccou da unna barca de anni, o giaminava à mesciâse, con l’aggiutto de un bacco o m’ea vegnuo à arvî a pòrta, e o s’ea assettou in sciâ carrega do seu studio, çircondou da-i reperti ch’o l’aiva accuggeito inte unna vitta de travaggio. A conversaçion a l’ea finia de drito in sciô destin de l’òmmo contemporaneo: “L’òmmo o no cangia mai – lê o diva – da miggiæa, da mioin de anni pâ delongo ch’o cange, ma o l’é delongo o mæximo; à ïsa à ïsa lê o tratëgne i seu instinti de bestia, o s’é vestio da soçietæ, o l’à impreiso à fâ o baxaman à unna scignoa e a scignoa a sa fâ o scoaccin, ma son tutte fintonaie; l’òmmo, in fondo a-o cheu e a-o steumago, o l’avià sempre coæ da carne di seu scimili, comme mioin de anni inderê.” Inta meza ombra do studio, no riesciva manco à veddilo ben inta caa; tutto d’in gio n’ammiava, d’inte seu veddriñe, i mori di Cro Magnon e di Neanderthal, de prinçipi Inca ò Maya, ò scheletrii ò mumificæ e conservæ da quarche catacrixima. L’antropòlogo o m’à segnou a testa de un Cro Magnon, inte un perfetto stato de conservaçion: «Sto chì, scià ô vedde, comm’o n’avieiva mangiou voentea, s’o n’incontrava a-i seu tempi. A seu carne a l’ea boña, savoia, tenea, un pastissòtto bon boccon. Scià se domanda comme fasso à dîlo? Perché l’ò assazzâ; d’ògni un pö me ne taggio un tocchetto, quande nisciun m’ammia. Debolesse de un pöveo vegio. Scià veu attastâlo anche voscià?»

O l’aiva tiou feua un cotellin.

«Scià ô sazze, dòppo tanti secoli o l’é ancon ciù bon che a-i seu tempi. Scià no se perde l’occaxon, tanto a saià l’urtima, mi ò poia».

O se n’à taggiou unna fettiña e o se l’à mangiâ, con gran satisfaçion.

«A l’é pasta d’amandoe, n’é vea?» ò dito mi. «Ciù un pittin ghe cazzeiva». E ò fæto un fattorixin da nescio. Cian cianin ò fæto pe anâmene.

«Mi ô ringraçio tanto, ma me sovvëgno che gh’ò un impegno, scià me scuse, n’é vea…»

«Scià vagghe, scià vagghe, saià pe unn’atra vòtta» o dixe lê con un seu rie baifardo.

Da-a vexin a-a sciortia, sento comme un zemî legio ch’o ne ven da unna pòrta imbägiâ: no rescisto à l’intentaçion e arvo a pòrta con un pattonetto; un òmmo sensa unna gamba e un brasso o m’ammia supricheive da unna töa opeatöia. E restagge da gamba e do brasso stan da unna banda, desporpoæ areo. Da aloa, no sò comme mai, no ò ciù avuo l’occaxon d’anâ à trovâ l’avvoxou antropòlogo antropòfago, con tutto ch’o m’à conviou ben ben de vòtte, co-a mascima cortexia.

English translation:
The Anthropologist

That time I went to visit the famous anthropologist, I feared he would find fault with the way I was dressed, too old-fashioned or too modern, but I soon noticed that he paid no attention at all to such things; as if submerged under a boatload of years, he could barely move; with the help of a cane he had come to open the door for me, and had sat down in the chair of his study, surrounded by the relics he had collected in a lifetime of work. The conversation had immediately turned to the destiny of contemporary man: “Man never changes – he was saying – for thousands, for millions of years he always seems to change, but he is always the same; he barely holds back his bestial instincts, he has dressed himself in society, he has learned to kiss a lady’s hand and the lady knows how to curtsy, but it is all pretense; man, in the depths of his heart and his stomach, will always crave the flesh of his fellow men, just as he did millions of years ago.” In the half-light of the study, I could not even see his face clearly; all around us, from inside their cases, the mugs of Cro-Magnons and Neanderthals were watching us, of Inca or Maya princes, either skeletal or mummified and preserved by some cataclysm. The anthropologist pointed out to me the head of a Cro-Magnon, in a perfect state of preservation: “This one, you see, how gladly he would have eaten us, had he met us in his day. His flesh was good, savoury, tender, a delicacy. You wonder how I can say so? Because I have tasted it; every now and then I cut myself a little piece, when no one is watching. The weaknesses of a poor old man. Would you like to taste it as well?”

He had taken out a small knife.

“Try it, after so many centuries it is even better than in his own day. Don’t miss the chance, for it will be the last, I’m afraid.”

He cut off a thin slice and ate it, with great satisfaction.

“It’s almond paste, isn’t it?” I said. “A little more and I would have fallen for it.” And I gave a foolish little smile. Slowly I made to take my leave.

“Thank you so much, but I have just remembered an engagement, do forgive me, you understand…”

“Go, go, another time then,” he said – with a mocking laugh of his.

Near the exit, I hear something like a faint moan coming from a half-open door: I cannot resist the temptation and push the door open; a man missing a leg and an arm looks at me beseechingly from an operating table. The remains of the leg and the arm lie to one side, perfectly stripped of flesh. Since then, I do not know why, I have had no further occasion to visit the celebrated anthropophagous anthropologist, even though he has invited me many times, with the utmost courtesy.