Alan Brownjohn

Marechiare

By Tosti. Lousiest of love songs, and on Radio Three
At that! But my finger pauses an inch
Away from the button because I've remembered something.
I've remembered my daily journey to that school
In the late nineteen-fifties, with that colleague

In the same eight-seat compartment, smog-stained windows,
Soiled upholstery, seaside pictures, Elmers End,
Eden Park , West Wickham , Hayes . All the time,
My companion, the cynical music master,
Would drone and hum and smile and apologise

– Lesson preparation. The suburban landscape
Would modulate through Macmillan 's constituency
From inner to outer, and 'You could call that countryside,
For a yard or two,' he'd say. And throughout one week,
When we had the Parents' Evening on the Friday,

Having sung at Glyndebourne, and being capable
Of presenting himself as a decent tenore robusto,
He practised Tosti's ballad for the Parents,
Its fustian intro, its maudlin vocal acrobatics...
The windows rattled on their leather straps.

Scrubland with never-inhabited workshop ruins.
Golf-course with flags in holes on pallid greens.
– He practised for the Parents as it all went by,
'And who cares! Honestly, Brownjohn, who fucking cares!'
He would say, with the formality of the age.

At Elmers End, if I'm right, on the Friday morning,
With 'another day opening its squalid legs
For us to squander ourselves in', he got out,
And 'not to ruin your entire bloody journey', he
Climbed into the next compartment, which was empty.

– But now I'm back in the present, my pausing finger
Still allowing the song to go on to its awful end
On the radio fifty years later; and I believe
I can still hear him singing over the slow wheels
That carried us on to a place he said 'didn't deserve us',

His howling impassioned tenor heard through a wall
On which they'd put, as in most of those compartments,
A mirror, a small clear mirror, for combing
Your hair in or pulling your face into shapes
Better suited to facing interviews or girlfriends

Or just teaching spelling... Which I see myself in today,
As I was at twenty-six and am no longer;
And I find I'm crying at these two swooping voices,
Jim Farr's and Tito Schipa's, reminding me
That like Tosti's fishes I go on 'gasping for love.'

Arina Lungu

Alan Brownjohn

Marechiare¹

De Tosti. Jalnic cantec de dragoste, si pe deasupra sa-l mai aud
Si la Radio Trei!Dar mana imi ezita
Pe buton pentru ca m-a lovit o amintire.
Mi-am amintit de scoala la care faceam naveta zilnic
In anii 50, si de colegul acela

Cu care imparteam compartimentul cu opt locuri, geamuri imbacsite,
Tapiterie soioasa, si vederi de la malul marii. Treceam prin Elmers End
Eden Park, West Wickham, Hayes². Tot timpul
Colegul meu, cinicul profesor de muzica,
Mormaia si fredona si zambea si se scuza

– Imi pregatesc lectiile. Peisajul suburban
Se schimba in patria lui Macmillan³
Din centru in periferie, si “poti sa zici ca esti la tara
Vreo cativa metri” , zicea el. Si in saptamana
In care vinerea aveam spectacol,

Deoarece cantase la Glyndebourne⁴, si se simtea indreptatit
Sa se prezinte ca tenor dramatic cu oarecare merite,
A exersat balada lui Tosti pentru parinti –
Preludiul ei pretentios, vocalizele ei siropoase –
Se zguduiau ferestrele in garniturile de piele.

Un maidan cu ateliere in ruine in care nu lucrase nimeni niciodata.
Un teren de golf cu steaguri zdrentuite pe iarba ofilita
– Toate treceau pe langa noi, in timp ce el repeta pentru parinti
“Si cui ii pasa! Cinstit, Brownjonh, cui ii pasa cat negrul sub unghie?”
Spunea, cu nonsalanta varstei.

In gara Elmers End, daca nu ma insel, vinerea dimineata,
Intr-o “alta zi care-si desface pulpele sordide
Ca sa ne irosim vremea prin ele ”, a coborat,
Si “ca sa nu-ti stric toata calatoria”
A urcat in compartimentul vecin, care era gol.

– Dar acum sunt din nou in prezent, degetul meu sovaitor
Inca mai lasa cantecul sa inainteze spre sfarsitul sau patetic
La radio cinzeci de ani mai tarziu; si cred
Ca inca ii aud glasul acoperind huruitul rotilor lenese,
Care ne duceau spre un loc “care” – zicea el – “nu ne merita”.

Urletul lui pasional de tenor auzit printr-un perete
Pe care pusesera, ca in toate compartimentele,
O oglinda minuscula, ca sa-ti poti aranja parul
Sau chipul in ipostaze potrivite
Pentru interviuri sau intalniri romantice

Sau doar pentru lectia de ortografie…Oglinda in care ma vad azi,
Asa cum eram la 26 de ani si nu mai sunt acum,
Si ma trezesc ca-mi dau lacrimile la duetul asta
– Jim Farr si Tito Schipa – care-mi aduce aminte
Ca si eu – ca pestii lui Tosti – n-am incetat “sa ma sting dupa dragoste”.

¹Compozitie pentru voce si pian/orchestra de Paolo Tosti (1846-1912).

²Statii de cale ferata la periferia Londrei.
³Harold Macmillan, premier conservator (1957-1963), a reprezentat in Parlament cirumscriptia Stockton-on-Tees din nord-estul Angliei.
⁴Cladire istorica si opera renumita in East Sussex (sudul Angliei).