ترجمة الأستاذ عبد اللطيف غسري لقصة “نوح.. والبيانوللا” بقلم الأستاذ مجدي سـالم
نوح و البيانوللا
لا يعرف لماذا اختار له أبوه هذا الاسم.. “نوح”.. من بين كل أسماء البشر.. وكان بعض الأشقياء من مدعي العلم.. في المجمع بجواره.. ينطقون اسمه هازلين بطريقة توحي بالاسم، وكأنه مرادف لمعنى (البكاء) .. ولا يعرف أيضًا لماذا اختار له القدر هذه المهنة.. عازف البيانوللا.. ليكون الراوي والمطرب والمهرج.. وكان جسده لا يمنحه قوام المهرج المعتاد.. وصوته محشرج لا يصلح للغناء.. وملابسه التي يرتديها كل يوم ولا تتغير،قد صارت كشراع مركب في مهب الريح.. يدل عليه نظارة مصطنعة يدعي بها العلم.. ولا يعرف لماذا اختاره مرض الجدري.. هو بالذات.. في طفولته التعيسة.. ليترك كل هذه الأخاديد في وجهه.. ولا يعرف من أين جاءه ادعاء هذا الفن.. وهذه “المفهومية”.. كما يسميها.. مع أنه لا يتقن أي عمل آخر.. مازال “نوح” ينتظر الأطفال كل صباح في الميدان.. يسمعهم أغانيه وأشعاره حتى بح صوته.. على أن أعدادهم باتت تتناقص كل يوم بسبب أنه قد قلت أو انعدمت قروشهم.. في ظل ضيق حال أهلهم.. يجلسهم “نوح” فوق دكته الخشبية التي قست عليها الشمس والسنون، فكستها الدهون السمراء.. يدير لهم نفس الأسطوانة.. بينما يتعالى صوت – أو بالأصح – حشرجة.. البيانوللا.. مع صيحات سكان مباني الميدان العتيقة الساخطة،ورواد المقاهي، وموظفي المجمع.. ويتأفف منه الواردون إلى الجامعة الأمريكية القريبة.. ويتعالى سباب الباحثين عن النوم إلى ساعات متأخرة من الصباح وقد عز العمل.. حتى المتحاورون بعنف من البائعين الجائلين في الميدان ،وهم يشكون ضيق الحال والأعطال، كانوا يسخرون من.. “نوح” والبيانوللا.. كانت بيانوللا “نوح” قد صارت مادة خصبة للنكات وسيئ التعليقات.. وقد علاها الصدأ،وتآكلت أسطوانتها القديمة.. حتى أضحى صوتها وموسيقاها كدحرجة الحجارة فوق ألواح الصاج.. ويصاحبها “نوح” بإيقاع أصابعه الهزيلة، يدق على الصندوق، ويتظاهر بأنه يتراقص.. وهو يزهو في حلة الكمساري القديمة الرثة.. وينشد بصوت كأنه يأتي من كهوف حفرها الجوع.. يسمعهم “نوح” ذات اللحن ويكرر أبياته الركيكة.. التي لا يعرف أحد من كتبها له.. لكنه كان يتندر بإنها “قصيدة الزمان” السياسية لشاعر مغمور.. ويتعالى صوته..
ماأحلاه موكب الأميرة.. عربتها من الذهب.. تجرها الخيول زينة العرب..
ويحمل العبيد محافات الجواري.. ويحرس الفرسان الركب من الشغب..
تعدو صفوفهم خلفها كالضواري.. والموكب الرهيب يزلزل البراري..
ومردة سود أشداء يزأرون كالأسود.. ويحف المشهد.. حملة الصواري..
ومن خلف الركاب تأتي الكلاب.. تجري وتنبح، وتلهث .. وتثير التراب..
ولطالما شكت الكلاب مرار العذاب.. فوهبتهم الأميرة.. عظام الكباب..
ثم توقفت البيانوللا يومًا.. ماتت موسيقاها في صندوقه.. وانطفأت القصيدة في حلقه.. وراح “نوح” يحاول أن يصلحها.. بينما يتصايح الأطفال للنهاية غير السعيدة.. لكنهم يتعجبون من غناء “نوح”.. ولا يرون دموعه.. كانوا يتعجبون كل يوم من ثرثرة “نوح” مع الناس.. عن ضيق الحال والإتاوات التي تأتي على رزقه.. عن هروبه كل يوم من موضع إلى آخر.. ويتعجبون من شكايته للناس من أناس بعينهم يسلبونه قروشه القليلة.. فماذا يعني عند الأطفال العذاب أو الحياة في التراب.. أواللهاث خلف اللقمة أوالرغيف.. وماذا يعنيهم ضيق “نوح” بمن ينازعونه الموضع ومكانه على الرصيف.. ومن يطردونه هنا أو هناك.. لكن.. في اليوم التالي.. لا يعرف “نوح” ويا للعجب.. كيف اجتمع كل هؤلاء الناس في ذات الميدان.. حتى ضاق بهم المكان.. ولا من هم.. ولا يعرف كيف أتت الجرأة الشباب والبنات على التغني بأغنيته على الملأ.. وعلى التهكم على أميرته.. وعلى عظام كبابه وعلى كلابه.. عجب “نوح” من بشر ملأوا كل الميدان.. يأتون من كل الشوارع الموصلة للميدان وسرعان ما يجمعهم الهتاف والصياح.. والنداء والصراخ.. ولا يعرف كيف بهذه الجموع ترفع كل هذه اللافتات والصور والرسومات المضحكة.. ولا تنتهي بينهم أبدا المناقشات.. ولا يعرف من أين أتت كل هذه الأغاني والقصائد التي لا تشبه أغنيته.. وراح يتعجب “نوح” لماذا تغير سلوك الجنود فأصبحوا يطاردون هؤلاء الشباب.. بدلا من مطاردته هو والبيانوللا.. ولا فهم “نوح” لماذا بقي كل هؤلاء الناس في الميدان كل يوم ليلا ونهارا.. لا يكفون عن الضجيج.. يقاتلون الجنود والقيود ويقاتلون حتى الإبل والجمال التي لا يعرف لماذا جاءت إلى الميدان.. ولا يعرف لماذا سال كل هذا الدم.. ولماذا مات كل هؤلاء الناس.. ياالله.. لماذا مات منهم أولاد وبنات ورجال ونساء.. لكنهم لم يتركوا الميدان ولم يكفوا عن الضجيج.. لكن كان الكل يتحدثون عن “الغد”.. حتى “نوح” راح يتعلم منهم ويتعلق بالأمل في الغد.. حين جاءته إحدى الفتيات ذات صباح بإسطوانة جديدة للبيانوللا.. وتفجرت الدموع حوله بينما ارتفع صوته وصوت البيانوللا من جديد.. وراح يصدح ويهلل.. وينشد معه كل الناس بلحن قديم تعزفه الأسطوانة الجديدة.. “بلادي .. بلادي……..”
Nooh and the Pianola
A short story by MAGDI SALEM
Translated from Arabic by ABDELLATIF RHESRI
He did not know why his father had chosen that name for him -Nooh (Noah)- of all the human names. Some miserable, falsely knowledgeable people in the complex nearby would pronounce his name scornfully in a way that implied that the name was a synonym of weeping. And also he did not know why fate had chosen that job for him: a pianola player. He was a narrator, singer and clown, though his body’s height was not suitable for clowning. His voice, too, was harsh and not suitable for singing. The clothes he wore everyday never changed. They became like a sail set to be drifted by the wind. His typical token was a pair of eyeglasses made up for a falsely knowledgeable person. He did not know why smallpox had picked him of all people to infect him during his miserable childhood, leaving all those grooves on his face. Likewise, he did not know where he had got that pretence of knowledgeability from; that claim of smartness, as he called it, even though he was good at nothing.
Nooh would wait for kids in the Square every morning to make them listen to his songs and poems until his voice got harsh. Yet, their number began to dwindle everyday due to their lack of money and their families’ lack of resources. Nooh would bid them sit on his wooden bench that had been worn away by the sun and time, and looked smeared with black grease. He would play the same disk for them. The harsh sound of the pianola would be heard loud accompanied by the indignant shouts of the inhabitants of the nearby old buildings of the Square, and those of the cafe customers and the complex employees. Even those heading for the nearby American University would show signs of disgust. Sleep seekers would utter insults until very late hours of the morning, for there was a lack of work. Even street vendors who were engaged in violent conversations in the Square, complaining of poverty and joblessness, would scoff at Nooh and the pianola.
Nooh’s pianola had become object of jokes and bad comments. It was covered with rust, and its old disk had been corroded, until its sound had become similar to the sound of stones rolling down on blocks of teak.
Nooh would accompany its sound with the rhythmic flicks of his skinny fingers. He would click on the box feigning to dance. He would strut in an old shabby garment similar to a ticket man’s outfit, singing in a voice that came out of caves dug by famine. Nooh made them listen to the same song, repeating its broken words whose writer he ignored though, he would claim that it was the greatest poem of all time written by an unknown poet. He would cry out:
How sweet the princess’s procession is
Her carriage is made from gold
Drawn by horses;
The typical ornament of the Arabs
The slaves carry the maids’ canopies
And the knights guard the procession
From hooligans
They run after it in rows
Like troops of wild beasts
The awesome cavalcade rocks the deserts
They are black giants
Who roar like lions
The whole scene is surrounded
By masts’ holders
Then right behind
Dogs come running
Barking and wheezing
And raising dust
How often dogs complain
Of the pains of famine
And the princess grants them
Bones and leftovers of grilled kebab
Then, one day the pianola stopped.
Its music died out in his box. And the poem died away from his throat. Nooh tried to repair it amidst the kids who were screaming for the unhappy end. Yet, they marvelled at Nooh’s singing, without seeing his tears. They used to marvel everyday at Nooh’s chat with people about his misery and the taxes he had to pay on his livelihood. About his daily escape from a place to another. They also marvelled at his complaints to people about some individuals who robbed him of his few pennies. For, what would suffering and living in the dirt mean for kids? Or running breathlessly after a crust of bread? Why would they care about Nooh’s annoyance with those who disputed with him for a place on the pavement and those who chased him away from everywhere?
However, on the next day, it was astonishing that Nooh did not know why all those people were gatheing in the same square untill the whole place was overcrowded with them. He did not know who they were or why girls and boys dared sing his song in public, and mock at his princess, his bones and kebab, and his dogs.
Nooh was surprised to see the Square getting filled with people coming via the adjacent streets just to engage in screaming and shouting. He did not know why all those multitudes were lifting signboards, pictures and caricatures. They were engaged in endless talks. He did not know where all those songs and poems had come from. They were not similar to his song. He started to marvel at the solders’ change of behaviour, too. For they began to chase those youths away instead of chasing him with his pianola. Nor did he understand why all those people stayed in the Square day and night, fighting with the soldiers and the fetters, and fighting even with the camels which he did not know where they had come to the Square from. He did not know why all that blood had been shed, and why all those people had died. O God! How many boys and girls, and men and women had died, and yet nobody thought of leaving the Square or stopping the noise.
Nevertheless, so many people were talking about “tomorrow”. Even Nooh began to learn from them and have hopes for the future. One day morning, one of the girls brought him a new disk for the pianola. Tears gushed out around him, while his voice was raised along with the sound of the pianola again. He sang loud and rejoiced, and all the others sang with him an old tune played by the new disk. “My homeland.. My homeland..”
التعليقات مغلقة.