Tavole

Erri De Luca

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Mi sono seduto anche a tavole sontuose

dove i bicchieri vanno secondo i vini

e uomini molto più eleganti

s’aggirano a servire le pietanze.

Ma so meglio la tavola dove si strofina il fondo di scodella

con il pane e le dita arrugginite

mensa di panche basse a mezzogiorno

di fiati vergognosi d’appetito.

Non bisbiglio di commensali a commentare il pasto

ma di gole indurite che inghiottiscono

per rimettere forza di lavoro

e non portano eretti alla bocca la posata

ma si calano sopra, addentano a mezz’aria

per nascondere il magro boccone

il quasi niente avanzo della sera.

E di cibo non parlano per il timore di nominarlo invano.

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Erri De Luca has been fighting for peace and social justice all his life, and he continues to do so in person and through his works and his Fondazione, https://fondazionerrideluca.com/. His many publications are often an expression of that struggle.

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Choosing a poem from his enormous body of work is not easy: I would like, one day, to translate it all. But every day comes with its own design, brings with it its own light and darkness: I was working on another poem when two things popped up on my social media feed: an article on the ever-increasing gap between the rich and the poor in the world, and later in the day, ‘Tavole’, [Tables], a poem by Erri De Luca. The two posts were not connected, so I connected them.

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‘Tavole’ is part of the collection called ‘Solo andata’ [No return]*, which is composed of two parts: a narrative poem about a journey, a crossing, the quest for a more generous earth on which to walk, that is, immigration, and a final section called ‘Quattro quartieri’ [Four districts]. ‘Tavole’ is found in the fourth district, ‘The final district’.

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The title ‘Four Districts’ immediately piqued my curiosity. This is how the poet explains the title: ‘When I read books in verse, the books of poets, each page is like a street. A book of poems is a city to me. On the verses of Brassens and Rilke, Dylan and Brodskij, I run, or else I stop: here is where I would like to live.’ I knew exactly what he meant: I, too, stop on some streets when I read a collection of poems, and think, ‘here is where I would like to live’. And I was happy because ‘Tavole’ was one of those streets, and I knew I wanted to include the quotation here: it was the first of many hurdles.

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In his introduction to ‘Quattro quartieri’, Erri De Luca does not use the verb vivere or abitare: he uses a synonym, star di casa, a verbal locution that includes the verb stare [be/stay] and the noun casa [home]. The literal translation of star di casa is ‘to be at home’, that is, ‘to feel comfortable and relaxed, to feel at home’; star di casa actually means ‘to inhabit’, but it calls to my mind the words of W. H. Auden: ‘a toft-and-croft/ where I needn’t, ever, be at home to// those I am not at home with’. I hear star di casa, and a warm feeling sweeps over me; I would so like to include the word 'home' in the translation of the quotation, but I can’t. So I opt for ‘live’, disappointing myself and, perhaps, the poet, and short-changing the reader, in a sense. But translation is all about loss; it’s all about disappointment.

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A first reading of the poem ‘Tavole’ seemed to suggest a rather straightforward translation, but translation is never straightforward.

A well-rooted knowledge of a source language allows the (sympathetic) translator to embrace the many facets of a word, the music of a verse, and the depth of meaning. So a good translator must be proficient in the source language and sensitive to its hues.

Knowledge of the source language, however, is of no use when writing in the target language. So the translator must be a good writer.

A good writer is an avid reader who learns and takes inspiration from, breathes in, and then finally pilfers the words of other great writers. So a good translator must also be an avid reader.

Just how many things, then, must a translator be good at? And are they never enough? There are so many variables. So we do our best. And try to make sense of our choices.

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As I have said, ‘Tavole’ seemed rather straightforward at first. I sat at the sumptuous table along with Erri De Luca, then at that other table, among other, very different people. The contrast was distinct, upsetting. I was moved. My understanding was (seemingly) complete. My senses were sated.  

Then I started to translate.

Translators, as we know, are the ultimate readers of a text. As I read and reread the poem, trying to find suitable solutions in English, I realised just how many polysemantic words there were. I hadn’t noticed at first. The multiple images had just flooded over me naturally, but that’s what language is: ‘The words of a language have, for the people who speak them, a wealth that goes beyond the sense, the material sense, that is, of those words, and which depends on the many subtleties that even the most attentive scrutiny may overlook and are, like the soul, impalpable: every language inspires its own particular sentiment and even the graphic form of the words has its weight.’ (Luigi Pirandello)

I had to work to reproduce the ‘wealth that goes beyond the sense’.

 

But let’s start at the beginning, per ordine. The poet begins by describing a sumptuous table, a table he too has sat at, a table so rich, in fact, that ‘uomini molto più eleganti’, men more elegant than the guests ‘si aggirano’, move about the table, circling: they serve, they cater. Each verse in this first paragraph ends in a word that recalls privilege: sontuouse, vini, eleganti, pietanze. But among these, I hear another word, as if to introduce the coming paragraphs: it is a word that is contained in pietanza; it is the word pietà [pity].

 

Although pietanza is mostly used to mean main course, or simply dish, the word pietà continued to resonate with me. A look at my dictionaries told me I was right.

Pietanza: ‘cibo che si dava ai poveri’ [food which was given to the poor] (Zingarelli); ‘porzione di viveri dati ai monaci per carità, dal latino piětas -tātis’ [part of the victuals given to the monks out of charity, from the Latin piětas -tātis ](Garzanti); ‘forse lat. volg. pietantia “cosa data per carità.”’ [Vulgar Latin perhaps pietantia ‘something given out of charity’], (Sandron).

It seems that for centuries pietanza was a synonym of pity and charity, a special accompaniment offered to monks or the poor on special occasions. So, the pietanza was something extra, an accompaniment, something beyond the poor meal they were used to. It is easy to comprehend how the idea of such a dish, so desired, so precious, could, in time, come to mean main course, the piatto forte.

The poet uses it in the plural, pietanze, emphasising abundance: not one main course, but many, for those who never feel hunger, who are, should logic prevail, in no need of accompaniments, and most certainly not food given ‘out of charity’. I did not like the sound of main courses or main dishes; courses alone sounded off, and dishes didn’t capture the image I had in my head; I opted for a synonym: entrées. I lost ‘pity’, which I liked so much at the end of the verse, but perhaps the image had nothing to do with what the poet wanted and everything to do with my overactive imagination.

 

In the following twelve verses, the poet describes a totally different table. In these next verses, the poet describes other guests. The description is, to me, a more empathic one, dense with words and phrases that draw me into the text: the poet is clearly more familiar with this second table; he knows it ‘meglio’, using the verb so/sapere, which underlines both knowledge and affinity.

At this second table, ‘si strofina il fondo di scodella’ [they rub the bottom of the bowl]. The poet doesn’t use the more common Italian construction grattare il fondo della [to scrape the bottom of] but opts for strofinare, for this other meal is more sacred, to be eaten with respect, by rubbing and not scraping the bowl.

The three following verses conclude the paragraph and the image: ‘con il pane e le dita arrugginite/ mensa di panche basse a mezzogiorno/ di fiati vergognosi d’appetito.’ [with bread and rusty fingers/ refectories of lowly benches at midday/ of ashamed breaths of appetite.]

I found these lines wonderful and difficult.

Was arruginite rusted as in weakened by the elements, or rusty as in discolored steel, rough and pitted, weak?

Was it enough to say low benches or would lowly recreate the image that panca, the rustic seat with no back (Garzanti) called to mind?

Was vergognosi ashamed as in feeling shame or guilt, or was it shameful as in causing or meriting shame or disgrace?

I remembered the mental picture I got when reading the poem for the first time, before tearing it apart and trying to reconstruct it: I saw the dita tinted the rusty-yellow of many nervous cigarettes and burnt by the sun and hard labour. I saw the lowly wooden bench. I heard the fiati emitting gasps that come with an urgency to sate empty stomachs after long hours of labour. And I chose.

 

The next polysemantic word I wish to explain is found in the third paragraph: it is boccone.

Boccone can mean both mouthful or morsel, dish, delicacy or precious object (Dizionario Sandron della lingua italian). It can even recall the Boccone del povero, a charitable institution founded by Giacomo Cusmano in 1880 in Palermo to assist the needy and ill in their homes. I opted for morsel.

My choice of ‘meagre morsel’, however, does not create an oxymoron like it would have had I chosen mouthful. I was losing depth of meaning again. But choosing to recreate a poetic device in a translation when it may or may not exist in the original is tricky. Especially when I was faced with the same problem on the following line: avanzo in ‘il quasi niente avanzo’ can mean excess or remains or left-over. But in the end, we can only rely on our instinct and hope we haven’t lost too much in translation.

 

I went on like this, going from bilingual to monolingual dictionaries, back and forth, and then finally I came to the last, incredibly poignant verse.

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The last verse of ‘Tavole’ begins with a conjunction, but it doesn’t connect elements that are grammatically equal, like two words, or two phrases, or two independent clauses, it completes the whole.

As I read the words, my mind immediately went to the bible and to verses I had heard so many times in both Italian and English: The word timore called to mind ‘timore di Dio’ [fear of God](used 26 times in different biblical verses). The words ‘nominarlo in vano’ could not but make me think of Exodus 20:7: ‘Non pronunciare il nome del SIGNORE, Dio tuo, invano’ [Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain]. I followed the poet’s example and concluded the poem thus: ‘And of food they do not speak for fear of taking its name in vain.’

For food, too, is sacred.

 

 

Tables

Erri De Luca

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I have sat also at sumptuous tables

where the glasses accompany the wines

and much more elegant men

circle about to serve the entrées.

But I am more acquainted with the table where they rub the bottom of the bowl

with bread and rusty fingers

refectories of lowly benches at midday

of ashamed breaths of appetite.

Not murmur of commensals commenting the meal

but of hardened throats gulping down

to restore workforce

and they don’t raise erect to mouths the cutlery

but descend upon it, sinking teeth mid-air

to hide the meagre morsel

the almost naught excess from last night.

And of food they do not speak for fear of taking its name in vain.

 

Translation ©Matilda Colarossi 2023

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*https://www.asymptotejournal.com/blog/2019/04/16/translation-tuesday-two-poems-by-erri-de-luca/

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For more about Matilda Colarossi, visit her blog:  https://paralleltexts.blog/

For more about Erri De Luca, visit his website: https://fondazionerrideluca.com/web/

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