Une histoire absurde en français

René Magritte, Les amants, 1928

This is a short poem-story in French by Bora Mici that utilizes French-language idiomatic expressions in a creative way.

Une histoire absurde en français qu'on peut tout de même suivre

Cette histoire est tirée par les cheveux.
J’ai dû lui tirer les vers du nez pour entendre sa voix.
Pourtant elles ont des atomes crochus.
Elles vivent aux crochets des autres.
Si tu veux bien me donner un coup de main
Je te montrerai comment ne pas trop accuser le coup la nuit venue.
Il a trop la banane dernièrement
Quand je rentrerai de la pêche, il faut que tu l’assommes.
C’est convenu, il faut serrer les coudes et non pas les dents.
Je me demande si on aura du pot.
Elle accepte les pots de vin pardessus tout.
C’est pour faire belle figure, figure-toi!
Mais non elle l’a échappé belle! Elle veut juste faire la fine bouche pour se vanter de n’avoir jamais dû pâtir des peines ordinaires. C’est une étourdie, une végane. Elle ne ferait jamais de mal à une mouche, t’as fais mouche.
Elle prend tout au pied de la lettre et puis exécute une pirouette, prend ses pieds à son cou et se faufile dans mes veines.
Veinard!
Le sang qui coule dans tes veines te fait honneur. Prends ton courage à deux mains et n’y vas pas de main morte.
Tu l’auras. Chose promise chose due.
C’est à dire? Ne tire pas trop sur la corde.
Ne t’inquiète, c’est dans mes cordes de payer de mine. Tu n’auras que dormir sur les deux oreilles et avoir bonne mine le matin. La bouche à l’oreille s’occupera du reste.

Translation: The Canary Prince as told by Italo Calvino, Part 3

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Proserpine, 1882

This is Bora Mici's original translation from Italian into English of the fairytale The Canary Prince, Il Principe canarino, as told by Italo Calvino. It tells a story of treachery, love, bravery and ingenuity that integrates many traditional fairytales, including Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Rapunzel and lesser known ones.

The Canary Prince by Italo Calvino, Part 3

At the dogs’ wailing, the other hunters arrived, rescued him, and carried him on a stretcher made of tree branches, without even looking up at the window of his beloved who was still terrified by pain and fear.

Back in his kingdom, the Prince did not give any signs of recovery, and the doctors did not know how to bring him any relief. The wounds would not close and continued to hurt. His father, the King, put up signs in all the street corners promising treasures to whomever figured out how to heal him; but no one could be found.

In the meantime, the Princess was heartbroken that she could not be near her beloved. She began to cut her sheets into thin strips and tie them together in order to make a very long rope, and one night, she used this rope to come down from the very high tower. She began to walk along the hunters’ path. But it was completely dark and the wolves were howling, so she thought it would be better to wait for morning and found an old oak with an opening in it, went inside and curled up in there, falling asleep immediately since she was dead tired. She woke up in the middle of the night and thought she had heard a whistle. She put her hand to her ear and heard another whistle, then a third and a fourth one. And she saw four candle flames approaching. They were four Old Hags, who came from the four corners of the world and had decided to meet under this tree. From a slit in the trunk, the Princess, invisible, spied on the four old women with the candles in their hands, who were having and party and cackling, “Hah! Hah! Hah!”

They lit a bonfire at the base of the tree and sat down to warm up and roast a couple of bats for dinner. After they had eaten their fill, they began to ask each other what they had seen that was remarkable around the world.

“I have seen the Turkish Sultan who bought himself twenty new wives.”

“I have seen the Chinese Emperor who had grown his braid by three meters.”

“I have seen the King of the Cannibals who ate his own Chamberlain by mistake”

“I have seen the nearby King, whose son is ill, and no one knows the remedy except for me.”

“And what is it?” asked the other three Witches.

“There is a loose tile in his room. All you have to do is lift up the tile and you will find a vial. In the vial, there is a potion that would make all his wounds disappear.”

From inside the tree, the Princess was about to scream out with joy. She had to bite her finger in order to keep quiet. At that point, the Old Hags had said everything they had to say to each other, and each went on its way.

The Princess jumped out of the tree, and at the light of dawn, started walking toward the city. At the first secondhand shop, she bought an old doctor’s smock, a pair of eyeglasses, and she went and knocked on the palace doors. At the sight of this paltry doctor, the servants did not want to let him enter, but the King said, “As things are, he cannot harm my son any further, because it’s impossible for him get any worse. Let this one try too.” The false doctor asked to be left alone with the patient, and it was granted.

When she was at the side of her lover, who was moaning unconscious in his bed, the Princess wanted to burst out into tears and shower him with kisses, but she contained herself because she had to quickly follow the Witch’s instructions. She began to walk up and down the room until she found the loose tile. She lifted it and found a small vial full of potion. She started to rub the Prince’s wounds with it. All she had to do was put her hand covered with potion on them and the wounds would disappear. Completely satisfied, she called the King, and the King saw his son without wounds, with the the color back in his cheeks, sleeping quietly.

“Ask me for what you wish, doctor,” said the King. “All of the riches of the State treasury are yours.”

“I don’t want any money,” said the doctor. “Give me only the Prince’s shield with the family emblem, the Prince’s banner and his yellow jacket, the bloody torn one.” And with these three objects in hand, she left.

Three days later, the King’s son was out hunting again. He passed by the castle in the middle of the woods, but he did not even lift his gaze toward the Princess’s window. She immediately took the book, turned the pages, and even though he was upset about it, the Prince was forced to transform into a canary. He flew into her room, and the Princess made him turn into a man again. “Let me go,” he said. “Isn’t it enough that you speared me with your pins and caused me so much suffering?” As it turns out, the Prince no longer felt any love for the girl, thinking she had been the cause of his misfortune.

The girl was about to faint, “But I saved you! I was the one that healed you!”

“It’s not true,” said the Prince. “The one who saved me was a foreign doctor, who wanted no other reward than my emblem, my banner and my bloody jacket.”

“Here is your emblem, here is your banner, and here is your jacket! I was that doctor. The pins were my stepmother’s cruelty!”

The Prince looked her in the eyes for a second gobsmacked.

She had never seemed so beautiful to him. He fell to her feet asking for forgiveness and declaring all his gratitude and love.

That same night, he told his father that he wanted to marry the girl from the castle in the woods. “You must only marry the daughter of a King or an Emperor,” said his father.

“I am marrying the girl who saved my life.”

And the wedding preparations were under way. All the Kings and Queens from the nearby surroundings were invited. The King who was the Princess’s father also came unwittingly. When he saw the bride walking to the altar, he exclaimed, “My daughter!”

“What do you mean?” asked the King who was the host. "My son’s bride is your daughter? Why did she not tell us?”

“Because,”—said the bride. “I no longer consider myself the daughter of a man who allowed my stepmother to imprison me.” And she pointed at the Queen with her index finger.

After hearing about all of his daughter’s misfortunes, the father was filled with compassion for her and contempt for his treacherous wife. And he did not even wait to return home to have her arrested. And so the wedding was celebrated with happiness and joy by all, except for the disgraced one.

Translation: Mamma's Cat by Giovanni Arpino, Part 1

Woman with Cat, Kees van Dongen, 1908

This is Bora Mici's original Italian to English translation of the short story Il gatto mammone or Mamma's Cat (in English) by the Italian 20th century writer Giovanni Arpino. It's a comically absurd but touching story of the relationship of a cat with her two diametrically opposed owners.

Mamma’s Cat by Giovanni Arpino, Part 1

If they refer to him as Your Excellence at the table, he barely squints, electrically shakes his left whiskers, then leans over his plate with exaggerated caution, grabs a piece of meat, sits up again and chews slowly, staring into the void.

He is huge, neutered, has never left home, and paces between the living room and the hallway like a Chinese Mandarin. He especially likes to look at himself in the mirror, or motionlessly stop before a composition of butterflies trapped under a piece of glass. He winks at the butterflies, shakes his left whiskers, and suavely moves his rich tabby tail. Like this, he waits for five o’clock, when finally they turn on the television for him, and alone, with abandon on the couch, he looks at the black and white movements on the screen, ready to pretend to suspend his interest as soon as the noise level surpasses his limit of tolerance.

He does not respond to being called, but is alert every time the phone rings, every time the intercom makes a sound, every time the doorbell goes off. Because he does not like strangers, people who can take over his couch, turn off the television, steal his place at the table, where he sits to the right of his mistress and never extends even so much as a nail toward his plate if everyone else has not started eating yet.

—One day or another I’ll kill you—mumbles the man at the other side of the table.

—Oh, don’t say these things to him, you know he gets offended—his wife tries to make peace between them.

—One day or another I’ll hang you. You are my brother, but then you’ll see. I will hang you—repeats the man.

Then he pulls his head back into his neck and mutters something, immediately stopping to eat. He knows very well that the man of the house is joking, but he does not like his tone of voice and particularly that he keeps repeating these jokes. What’s more, he can sense how it will all end in the evening. And this annoys him because he does not feel like repeating himself and drawing commentary.

—See? Now he is not eating anymore—the woman complains sweetly.

—Fatty! You’re a fatty. Sooner or later, I will put a bomb under you so you explode—the husband starts up again.

Then he lazily comes down from the chair and walks away, and goes and posts himself in front of the butterflies under the glass in the hallway.

—There—the maid interjects abruptly:—We’re back at it. Then he takes it out on me. Why do you always insult him? Miss, please say something, tell the mister to stop. I always get caught up in the middle of it for hours and hours.

Leaving behind the butterflies, because he is irritated despite his cautious step and long thick fur, he goes to the kitchen, sits in front of the window and starts growling.

It’s a deaf moan, with unexpected dark lows, with a hint of wailing that also contains a threat, contempt, livid hostility toward the gestures, words and attempts of others.

He is capable of going on like this for an entire afternoon. On the other side of the window’s glass frame, there is a small terrace that ends in a yellow wall over which the shadow of a swallow or a dove rarely glides.

But nothing, neither calling out to him nor flying shadows shake up his rigidity, hunkering down with enmity. Not even the sounds coming from the bathroom, where his mistress washes her hands before going back out to return to the office.

Bye—says the wife as she puts on her light coat:—Remember to make that phone call.

—Ok, Ada. Bye. See you later—responds the husband as he looks around his newspaper for a moment.

If they had not mocked him with those assassination threats, he would have started behind Mrs. Ada, would have accompanied her to the door, would have shaken his whiskers in resignation at seeing her go out.

But with everything that had happened at the table, he will not leave the kitchen until dark. He will give up television, the couch, solemn walks in front of the mirror.

—Here we go again—says the maid pouring the man’s coffee as he reads the newspaper:—He is offended to death. Come on, do something. Otherwise he will mope around all day.

—Oh yeah?—the man laughs with the coffee cup in his hand:—Listen here, Your Excellence. Come here. Now! Otherwise I’ll get up and strangle you.

—You know what you are? A headstrong troublemaker—the maid lights up.

The man keeps laughing as he mixes the sugar into his coffee, but he has heard him from the kitchen, and now increases his growling, his tail going from the most stone stiff immobility to shivering brief flicks, and his eyes are angrily palpitating.

—Calm down, come on, calm down. You should not pay attention to that hardhead. He does it on purpose. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you like this—the maid tries to pacify him in the kitchen.

It’s an impossible undertaking because he won’t give in. Even if they had left him alone at home, he would have still stayed in the kitchen motionless, ignoring the butterflies, the couch, the television, the mirror, waiting for Mrs. Ada to come back and bring with her or invent a little bit of peace.

—Dear young lady, I’m going out—the man notifies her laughing from the hallway:—Have a good afternoon. Tonight we’ll get down to business.

—Did you hear? He left. Come on, stop it. Be nice—says the maid in the kitchen, as soon as the door has closed behind them.

But she would never dare touch him. Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps it’s that more complicated diffidence that certain women feel towards cats. For sure, she would never pick him up in her arms to move him away from the window. She can speak to him, yes. But she also knows that her voice, her opinions and her consolations count for nothing for those tense ears, that spine curved with well-nourished fur.

And he looks out and waits, and sits with his growling that seems to come from faraway muffled bronzes.

Translation: Guido Gozzano Grandmother Hope's Friend, Part 2

Maxfield Parrish, The Sugar-plum Tree, 1904

This is Bora Mici's original Italian to English translation of the poem L'amica di Nonna Speranza or Grandmother Hope's Friend by the Italian poet Guido Gozzano. This is Part 2. The poem describes the homecoming from school of a young boy's grandmother Speranza (Hope) and her best friend Carlotta, the romantic center of the boy's eclectic but familiar home life of mismatched objects and savory characters just before Italy's unification. The poem is peppered with literary allusions as well as historical ones. 

Grandmother Hope’s Friend by Guido Gozzano, Part 2

“Radetzki? What say you? The armistice…the peace, the peace that now reigns…
That young king of Sardaigne is a man of great judgment indeed!—

“He is certainly a tireless soul…—he’s strong, he’s vigilant, he’s quick!—
“Is he handsome? — Not handsome not a bit…—He likes women above all…

“Hope!” (slowly leaning forward in a sibylline tone, as if begging your pardon)
“Carlotta! Go down into the garden: go and play badminton, go on!”

So the happy friends with a curtsey, in perfect poise,
respectfully leave the noise, of the uncles and aunts in a frenzy.

Alas! While they were at play, a birdie, that was hit much too hard,
never again came downward, from a nearby chestnut tree!

The friends lean over the balustrade, and look out at the Lake,
they dream of love awake, in lustrious daydreams in the shade.

“…if you only saw what teeth, what a smile! — How old? — Twenty-eight.
— A poet? She frequents of late, the salon of the Maffei countess. Been a while.

It certainly won’t die, the day won’t languish. It lights up the lawn
in velvet; like dawn, with bloody stigmatas of anguish;

finally it goes out, but slow. The mountains darken in a chorus:
the Sun sheds its gold flawless, the Moon dons silver aglow.

Oh Romantic Moon, behind a wispy cloud, you kiss the treetops
of the poplars arched in crops, like a child puzzled, young browed.

An entire past’s dream, settles into your crescent:
you are perhaps reminiscent, of the prints in a literary magazine.

Have you perhaps seen the empty houses, of Parisiana La Bella?
Perhaps in the latest novella, you are that which Young Werther espouses?

“Future dreams to come, sigh. — The lake has become more dense
with stars—…what do you think?…— I cannot dispense…—How would you like to die?

“Yes!—It seems like the sky reveals, more stars in the water, brighter.
Leaning over the rails feeling lighter, we dreamed between two azurine seals…

“It’s like I am floating: I am soaring above!… Do you know Mazzini…
— Do you like him?— What divine terzini… He gave me that book on love,

remember? that tells about how a guy, in love but without a farthing,
he kills himself for a darling, a darling who had the same name as I.

Carlotta! A name not elegant but sweet! Which like the perfumes I don’t disparage
you bring to life the carriage, the scarves, the crinoline, what a feat…

Oh grandmother’s friend I know, the flowerbeds where you were reading
the story of Jacopo misleading, in the tender book by Foscolo.

With such sadness and sorrow, in my notebook I mark the date:
the year is eighteen fifty on June twenty-eight, I immortalize you for the day and the morrow.

You stand as if ravished in a hymn; looking deeply into the sky,
and your index on your lip as you try a demeanor romantic and dim.

That day—Woe me!—you were wearing a pink gown,
to have your portrait taken down, by a photographer—What novelty!

But I can no longer see you in the flower, oh Grandmother’s friend! Where are you?
oh alone—so that maybe I too—may love out of love’s power.

Read Part 1.