Lagramyncki ôbsztalunek / Terms of Commerce (cz. 1)

LAGRAMYNCKI ÔBSZTALUNEK

Lōncetlorz musi sie gibać. Ôstatni cug nazod mo za godzina abo cosik wele tego. Nale Boquin, kej ciśnie na banhof, zowdy rod sie trocha posmyko po tym, co sie ôstało ze staryj tajle miasta, chocioż wszandy naôbkoło już ino sztokowce. Hned zleszujōm te ôstatnie kōncki „starego piyrwyj”, coby zrobić plac do moderny i postympu. Na sōm kōniec byjamtry dali zwola, coby to ôstawić jeszcze na trocha. Przepasowali buddyjskigo mnicha, kery stoji na winklu po fechcie z miskōm w rynce i kłōnio sie galantnie swojōm glacatōm gowōm. Jego szaty bōntne choby apluzina – na dole potargane i zmaraszōne – furgajōm wele jego chudych szłapōw, ôblyczōnych we modre plastikowe zandale. Stoji podle srogigo klōna, kerego czerwōnawe na podzim liście pōmogo mu wpasować sie w cōłki tyn landszaft.

Małowiela ludzi, kere cisnōm do roboty, wybiero tyn skrōt. Eli ftoś niy zno dobrze tych uliczek, gibko sie tukej idzie stracić. „Możno to by niy było take złe, roz za kej wziōńś i sie stracić” – pōmyślōł Boqin i wejzdrzōł w bok na mnicha. Bez sztopniyńcio wcis mu do rynki dwa juany. Miōł gyfil, co tedy ôwdy to ôn je richtiś taki choby-flâneur; tak Francuzy godajōm na mamlasōw, kere smykajōm sie bez cweku. Nawet terozki niyrod to godo. Dyć zowdy akuratno baba ôd Boqina ôstawiyła go prawie skuli tego, co ôn bōł kyns mamlasa. Kero baba by strzimała ze takim nizdrzałym gryncbōłōm? Zouwizou, Boqin niy poradzi pedzieć tego do porzōndku. Lepij jak te zachodnie buchsztaby ôstanōm ino zawarte rajn w jego gowie.

Te buchsztaby spōmniały Boqinowi letki wiater, kery dźwigo z ziymie kōncki marasu i nylōnbojtle, kere ftoś ôstawiył leżeć podle borsztajna. Tańcujōm trocha naôbkoło, zaczym ślecōm nazod na dziurawy asfalt. Mo sie gyfil, choby auta larmowały kajś po drugij zajcie epnego szklannego ôkna. Boquin prziszōł ku tymu, co przeca możno ôn i tyn mnich mogōm być rōwnioki. Fto wiy, eli niy łaziyli do jednyj a tyj samyj szule. Nale zoboczcie, dyć przeca terozki jejich żywobycie je blank inaksze.

Trzidziści lot do zadku Boqin to bōł durś mody karlus, kery prawie skōńczył sztudiyrować socjalistyczno ekōnōmijo na kerymś uniwersytecie fōrt daleko ôd cyntrum. Iks lot reformy i cōłki kraj bōł wtynczos inkszy, pōmału ôdmykōł sie na burżujski świat. Boqin bōł na przodku nowyj lynije ôd swojij partyje: „dać niyftorym sie zbogacić nojprzōd”. Terozki stykło ino ciś tōm nowōm cestōm i rzykać, coby ôn bōł jedyn z tych, kere piyrsze przidōm dran. We Banku Agrokultury żodnego wtynczos do roboty niy szukali. Jedyn kamrat, modszy niż wyglōndōł, kery dowōł pozōr na sztand z trzyma babami w jednakich uniformach, pedziōł Boqinowi, co mo sie pytać ô nowy gyszeft za winklym. Zgrzipiōncym głosym kurzoka wyciuciōł mu, co łōńskigo miysiōnca ta fyrma ôtwarła nowy rachunek w jejich banku. To je prywatny gyszeft, kery sztartnōł ôficyr Armije Ludowyj. Bezma szukali chopa, kery poradzi godać po angelsku ô biznesie.

Boqin gynau im spasowōł i ôd tamtego czasu richtiś patrzōł swojij roboty. Durś mo ciynżko godać z auslyndrami, lepij mu idzie z papiōrami z frachtu i colu, jak z cōłkōm tōm chińsko-angelskōm godkōm do szkubaczki. Robotnego karlusa, kery rod siedziōł w papiōrach, gibko sztajgli. „Ôriyntalno Kōmpanijo Maszinowo” – tak by szło przekłodać na nasza godka ôficjalne miano fyrmy „Dongfang jixie gongsi”. Kamrat Ôficyr Dyrechtōr Ng rod suchōł klangu tego miana, beztōż napoczli je używać we wszyskich papiōrach. Dyrechtōr nerwowōł sie na Boqina, kej tyn mianowōł go podle tego hōnorowego mustra.

– Styknie, jak bydziecie mie mianować „Kamrat Dyrechtōr” – padōł mu.

Nale Boqin bōł staromodny, kej rozchodziyło sie ô autorytety. Do niego Ng zowdy bōł „Kamrat Ôficyr Dyrechtōr”, egal, co Ng niy bōł już przi Armiji Ludowyj, kej chyciył sie za prywatny gyszeft. Trocha niyskorzyj Ôrientalno Kōmpanijo Maszinowo do porzōndku wlazła na rynek z piyrszym srogim kōntraktym.

Chocioż piyrwyj go to szterowało, Ng yntliś zaczōn być rod, co Boqin mo w takij zocy jego sużba przi wojsku. Kej prziszło do biznesowych trefōw i epnych ôbiadōw niyskoro w nocka, Boqinowe „Kamrat Ôficyr Dyrechtōr” zowdy stykło, coby żodyn frechowny klijynt wiyncyj sie niy ôpowożył robić go za bozna. Wojokōw kożdy uwożōł. Legitka wojskowo to zowdy bōł wiynkszy trōmf jak ańfachowo legitka partyjno.

(z angielskygo na ślōnski przełożōł Marcin Melon)

Terms of Commerce

The salaryman has to hurry. The last train home is leaving in an hour or so. But on the way to the railway station Boqin likes lingering in what remains of the old quarter, now surrounded by the high rises. Soon the remnants of the old times will be razed, giving way to modernity and progress. In the place’s final days the authorities let it be. A Buddhist monk has evaded their watchfulness and stands still at the street corner with the begging bowl extended in his handsome hand, his shaven head bowed in quiet humility. The monk’s orange robe – faded and fraying at the bottom – billows gently around his unmoving lanky legs, his feet in blue plastic sandals. Under the limbs of the large maple tree, the reddish shock of its autumnal leaves camouflages the monk in the scene’s background.

Few commuters choose this shortcut. Unless they know the winding alleys well, they may get lost. ‘Perhaps losing yourself is not so bad,’ thinks Boqin, glancing sideways at the monk. He puts a two-yuan bill in the monk’s bowl without interrupting his leisurely stroll. In such moments Boqin sees himself as a flâneur, one of these fancy French words they were taught to despise. Even now, he prefers not to utter it. His no-nonsense wife left Boqin on account of his dreaminess. She would not put up with such irresponsible behavior. Anyway Boqin is unsure how to pronounce the word correctly. The image of the term’s Western letters is better left encased in his mind.

These letters remind Boqin of a gentle wind, whose rare quicker blows now and again raise fine dust particles and a plastic bag from the crooked pavement. They dance for a while in a circle, before collapsing onto the potholed tarmac. The unceasing din of rush-hour traffic feels as though coming from behind a huge glass window. Boqin smiles at the thought that he and the monk are peers. They could have attended the same elementary school. But their lives couldn’t be more different.

Thirty years ago Boqin was young; an ambitious graduate straight from a backwater university’s department of socialist economics. The previous decade’s reforms had changed the country, cautiously opening it to the bourgeois world. Boqin was at the forefront of the party’s new line: ‘let some people get rich first.’ It was his responsibility to follow this novel path, hoping that he might be one of the chosen, too. They didn’t have any openings in the Bank of Agriculture. The prematurely aged comrade in charge of the three customer service desks staffed by demure women in similar uniforms, advised Boqin to inquire with a new business round the corner. He confided to Boqin in a chain cigarette smoker’s hoarse whisper that a month earlier this company had opened an account with the bank. It was a private enterprise run by a People’s Army officer. They needed a new-style office employee with some knowledge of business English.

Boqin fit the job description perfectly and has remained faithful to it. He continues to have troubles talking to foreigners outside of the office, being much better at filling in freight and customs documents in Sino-English than at small talk. During his early career this diligence with onerous paperwork carried Boqin effortlessly from one position to another. ‘The Oriental Machinery Company’ was how he translated the enterprise’s official registration name, Dongfang jixie gongsi. Comrade Officer Director Ng liked the sound of it, so the English name was adopted in the company’s official paperwork. The director chastened Boqin for using the entire honorific form while talking to him. ‘Comrade Director is entirely sufficient,’ he kept repeating. But in his submission to authority Boqin was old-fashioned. For him Ng remained ‘Comrade Officer Director,’ even when Ng left the People’s Army to keep a better eye on the growing business. It was shortly prior to the first big contract that properly launched the Oriental Machinery Company onto the market.

Although tut-tutting at his stubborn insistence, with time Ng learned to appreciate Boqin’s reverent joining of his name with the People’s Army. At business meetings and during follow-up late night lavish dinners thrown to celebrate signed deals, Boqin’s grandiose ‘Comrade Officer Director’ never failed to put cheeky contractors in their place. No one dared to fool around with army people. The military ID trumped a mere party membership card.