Lagramyncki ôbsztalunek / Terms of Commerce (cz. 9)
Publikujymy kolejny kōnsek jednej ze siedmiu ôpowiŏstek Tōmasza Kamuselle ze ksiōnżki “Styknie / Limits“. Ôpowiŏstki te we ôryginale bōły pisane po angielsku, a na ślōnski przełożōł jy Marcin Melon, kery tyż po ślōnsku napisoł dō nich stymp.
Dzisiej ôstatni (dziewōnty) fragmynt ôpowiŏstki, kerŏ ôpublikujymy we kōnskach całŏ.
Sam ôsmy kōnsek.
Wersyjŏ ślōnskŏ: LAGRAMYNCKI ÔBSZTALUNEK
Wtynczos, w roku 1994, Boqin pedziōł sie, co bydzie unikōł telefōnōw. Co mo być, to bydzie, lagramyncke wiadōmości i tak go znojdōm, ino pojakymu mo sie ô tym dowiedzieć za wczas? Boqin niy chciōł, coby go ôbudziyli postrzodku nocy telefōnym, po kerym za chwila ludowo policyjo zaklupie do jego dźwiyrzi. Jego serce by tego niy sztrzimało. Terozki, kej gospodarka richtiś sie dźwigła, potrzebowali coroz to wiyncyj nowych heresztantōw w cyntrach reedukacyjnych. Technologijo produkcyjno tyż sie dźwigała, beztōż było klar, co potrzebowali wiyncyj szpecōw jak piyrwyj. Taki Boqin na zicher by sie im przidōł. Gibcij abo niyskorzyj keryś byjamter wysznupie w archiwach Ministerstwa Bezpieczyństwa, co Boqin miōł cosik spōlnego z tym, co sie wtynczos wyrobiało. Dostowali culaga do geltagu, kej keryś poradziył wysznupać jakoś ôstuda, nojlepij jak skuli tyj ôstudy dało sie znojś chopa, co dźwignie produkcyjność krajowyj gospodarki. Ze wszyskich dyrechtorōw i kerownikōw, kere rzōńdziyli Ôriyntalnōm Kōmpanijōm Maszinowōm we 1993 i 1994, ôstōł sie ino Boqin. „Kej majōm mie znojś, to niych mie chycōm w biyrze abo w cugu. Miyndzy ludziami. Coby kożdy widziōł. Wtynczos niy poradzōm mie capnōńć tak gibko, byda miōł czas, coby naciś knefel alarmowy na iPhonie. Jo u żodnego niy mōm żodnego borgu, rozchodzi mi sie ino ô Bo. Niy bydzie tak, co ôroz jij sie straca boroczce” – myśli sie Boqin i drałuje coroz to gibcij. Prawie leci na wiyrch schodami ku głōwnymu ajnfartowi na banhofie. Na perōnie, kaj prask ludziōw czeko na cug, Boqin myśli sie, wiela by dōł, coby być tym buddyjskim mnichym, kerego przōdzij trefiył we staryj tajli miasta. Stykło by ino, coby sie ôpowożył ciepnōńć robota i partyjno legitka, coby prziś dran za nowicyjōna – szami. Boqin nawet nauczył sie godać do porzōndku ôryginalny wyraz we sanskrycie: Śramanera – buddyjski nowicyjōn. Prziszło mu to snadnij niż niyftore francuske wyrazy, możno pani Wu miała recht, kej tak wajała, co tyn Zachōd to je ino ôstuda. Supergibki cug ciśnie bez perōn, ani niy sztopnie, lautszprecher pado pasażerōm, co majōm dować pozōr i stoć fōrt ôd glajzōw. Boqin chce iś do zadku, jak kożōm, nale zatōmkany we swojim sztaunowaniu robi to ô mōmynt za niyskoro. Ściana skōmpresowanego luftu, twardo choby ôceaniczno wela, pcho go do przodku, pod cug, kery karusi dwiesta sześćdziesiōnt sztyry kilōmyjtry na godzina. Boqin chwiygoto sie i kolybie. Pasażer podle niego, taki sōm lōncetlorz choby ôn, wyciōngo rynka, coby go chycić. „Chytej mie!” – myśli Boqin. Ino że ta rynka, kero mo go chycić, jeszcze go sztucho, beztōż Boqin sie ôbalo. Kej ślatuje prawie pod sztalowe kōłka, wcisko knefel alarmowy swojigo mobilnioka. „Wzmocniōny karbōnowy sztal” – to je jego ôstatnio myśl. Ekspres za chwila już ciśnie fōrt do Szanghaju. Fechtniynte pasażery sztopli godka. Lagramyncko cisza ôtuchła cōłki perōn, kej ôroz posłyszeli klang Mozartowego 5. Kōncertu krzipkowego, kery roztargōł luft, roz, a za chwila, choby lajera, drugi roz. Na ekranie mobilnioka miechto sie rozśmiōno gymba ôd Bo. Żodyn niy ôdbiero. Policaje po cywilu znajōm procedury, gibko ôdgrodzajōm plac tyj lagramynckij utropy. Zdorzo sie. Zacofane pampōnie niy dowajōm sie rady z postympym. Yntliś rozhajcowane pasażery napoczli godać jedyn do drugigo. Keryś ôficyr śloz na glajzy po mobilnioka, palce Boqina trzimały go z cōłkij siyły. Wyłōnczył lajerka, coby larmo niy szterowało ludzi, dyć kożdy mo swoje sprawōnki. Pasażery pokazujōm palcami na wyzgernego ôficyra. Za chwila przijedzie drugi cug. Wele norodu zaś sie bydōm mieszać, jedna z drugōm, ta, kero wsiado i ta, kero wysiado. Terozki już nazod je ordnōng. Normalne żywobycie fōnguje sztyjc. Żodyn cajtung ô tym zajtry niy napisze, bo tak po prowdzie to przeca psinco sie podzioło. (z angielskygo na ślōnski przełożōł Marcin Melon) |
English Version:Terms of Commerce
After that, this that of 1994, Boqin avoided telephones whenever he could. You cannot escape fate, but why to make its job easier. Bad news will never fail to find you. Boqin didn’t want to be woken up in the dead of night by an ominous telephone ring, shortly followed by people’s police knocking hard at his door. His heart was too weak for that. With the highest economic growth in the world, reform through labor centers needed more inmates than ever. The sheer variety and technological advancement of produce turned out there also required more specialized work force than ever before. Boqin would be a worthwhile catch. Sooner or later an information retrieval clerk in the archive of the Ministry of State Security would make the connection between Boqin and that. They were paid fat bonuses for improving productivity of the country’s economy, so understandably the clerks were always busy sniffing out irregularities. From all the management who had run the Oriental Machinery Company in 1993 and 1994, only Boqin remained in the enterprise. ‘If they seek me out, let them apprehend me in office or on the train. Among people. In full view. Then they won’t be able to pounce on me, so I should have a moment to press the alarm button in the iPhone. I owe nothing to anyone, but to Bo. I’m not going to disappear on her,’ thinks Boqin and hastens his step. He is almost running up the stairs leading to the main entrance of the railway station. At the platform, waiting in the seething crowd for the train, Boqin wishes he were this Buddhist monk he met in the old quarter. That he could muster courage to give up on his job and his party membership card in order to become a novice, or shami. Boqin even learned the correct pronunciation of the original Sanskrit term Śramanera for a Buddhist novice. It was easier than any French word, so perhaps Mrs Wu was right to dislike his infatuation with the West. A superfast express is passing through the station without stopping, the passengers waiting at the platform are sternly told to move away from the rails. Boqin wants to step back as told, but wavers for a second. The wall of compressed air pushed by the front of the express’s engine is speeding at two hundred and sixty-four kilometers per hour, as hard as a freak wave in the ocean. It catches Boqin off balance at the platform’s edge. He is tottering. A passenger standing next to him, another salaryman like Boqin, immediately extends his right hand to, ‘Help me,’ thinks Boqin. But the hand, in a flash, has just pushed him, preventing Boqin from regaining his footing. While falling under the advancing steel wheels, Boqin has convulsively pressed the alarm button on his mobile. ‘Reinforced carbon steel,’ is his last thought. The express is gone in the blink of an eye on its way to faraway Shanghai. Aghast at what they’ve witnessed, the commuters stopped talking. The deafening silence that has descended on the platform is immediately shattered by the ringing melody of Boqin’s iPhone, the piercing crescendo finale of Mozart’s Violin Concerto Number Five, repeated time and again. Bo’s happy icon is flashing up. No one is answering the phone. In the oft-repeated mundane procedure, plainclothes are already cordoning off the place of this tragic accident. Such things happen. Backward villagers haven’t got used to progress yet. Now the passengers have started talking to one another in agitated voices. An officer has jumped into the rails trench and retrieved the buzzing mobile with Boqin’s fingers clutched tightly around it. He has switched it off, so everyone can continue going about their business undisturbed. Passengers are pointing at the brave officer. In no time a commuter train has arrived. Waves of humanity trade places on board, getting off and on. Order has been restored. Life continues as normal under a peaceful heaven. Tomorrow no newspaper will bother with reporting this incident of no importance. |
Kōniec
Tomasz Kamusella “Styknie / Limits“, Silesia Progress 2019
Cena: 34 złote, obecnie u wydawcy w promocji za 22 złote.