samedi 30 novembre 2013

Prokhasko - 30.11


On se souvient que dans "БотакЄ / C'est ainsi..." Taras Prokhasko parle de son grand-père, de sa mort, de sa vie, du souvenir qu'il a laissé, son héritage - la "carte aux toponymes barrés", et aussi de celui qui n'est pas son grand-père - "dziadio" : "J’appris [alors] que dziadzio n’était pas mon véritable grand-père car il n’était pas le père de mon père. Je l’aimais d’autant plus. Il était ma réalité."
Prokhasko revient au thème du souvenir que laisse l'aïeul, à son héritage magique, dans une autre pièce : "FM Halytchyna". Qui, obligation formelle nous est faite de le rappeler, ne sont pas des écrits, mais des paroles prononcées des mots et des phrases dits de courts baï (baille, baj, bay). Quelques minutes hebdomadaires à la radio VéjaFM à Stanislaviv (Europe).
Il existe heureusement une traduction anglo-américaine de ces baïky, dont nous sommes redevables à Mark Andryczyk.  Voici celle du

Trente novembre


After grandpa’s funeral, I noticed that various people would approach me and, among other things, cautiously begin asking me about some kind of grass that is used for smoking. It reminded me of plots in films about secret drug addicts. I, of course, was convinced that grandpa had nothing to do with grass that is smoked and I tried to convince all those who had approached me of this.

Old village men would walk away doubting my honesty.

I remember the way grandpa smoked. He had a plain, but high quality, pipe and a nice little bag for tobacco. He loved to take a break from work, lean up on his hoe, shovel, scythe or rake and smoke a bit in the shadow of the plum tree or on the knoll overgrown with sweet briar―depending on the weather. And it was by that plum tree that he had his worst asthma attack, the result of having spent many days spent on the Lysolcovered concrete floor of a solitary confinement cell.

After the attack, grandpa stopped smoking. For several months after, he would keep dried plums in his pocket, so that he could eat them to help suppress his cravings to smoke, and a bunch of kids would follow him, asking for a plum.

Grandpa left behind some almost poisonous machorka tobacco dating back to the end of the 1950s, half a pack of HerzegovinaFlor cigarettes and a couple packs of small filtered Soviet cigarettes unimaginatively named “Minty”. But I knew nothing about any grass. By the way, those old men would keep coming up to me, sometimes once a year, sometimes more frequently, asking that, even if I were to continue to refuse giving them that grass, that I at least show it to them.

I came to understand that all this represented some kind of secret my grandpa had had.

Several years later―in the attic, of course, among homemade Christmas ornaments, I found a little metal box of Lviv ground coffee. Upon opening it, I was astounded by the extraordinary fragrance that was released. It was the smell of an orchard in summer, honey poured over magic herbs, the most delicious fruits and the essence of the most delicate petals. And I recalled that scent, although I had believed that a distant recollection of it was really just another childhood fairytale. Grandpa would put a pinch of this herb in his tobacco and this would make the smoke very pleasant. This little box contained that grass those wise old men were searching for. As it turned out, it was a treasure more valuable than grandpa’s whole inheritance. This secret mix he had discovered was a real masterpiece. It makes poor tobacco good, and good tobacco―amazing. If grandpa wanted to, and if he had lived in a different part of the world, he could have become the magnate, the champion and the hero of all smokers. Instead, he passed that chance along to me. Maybe someday I’ll be up for it. But today, I just pull a pinch of herb from the little box, mix it with Dutch tobacco and throw myself a little party. And I meditate over grandpa. And, to this day, I don’t know what grass is contained therein.


1 commentaire:

  1. О войне нельзя говорить определенно. Нельзя повесить на стену рамку, в которой уместился бы фрагмент огромной картины, и называть это Вторая мировая, а все, что не уместилось — еще на четыре комнаты полотна,— забыть. Война — это ускоренное существование. И при этом нет ни единого стандарта, по которому можно было бы сказать, является эта война нормальной или нет.

    Я всегда говорю, что пути к литературе у всех разные. Один из самых естественных, которым пришел и я,— желание фиксировать. Мои бабушка с дедушкой пережили Первую мировую войну. Они много об этом рассказывали, и в то же время я видел, что в советской действительности места для таких историй нет. Это стало для меня первым толчком к написанию.