The Bum at the Bookstore
Patrizio Zurru
Collaborative translation from the Italian (edited by Emanuele Pettener)
At mid-morning, a man covered in trash bags of all colors entered, he hung them around his neck, full of who-knows-what, all tied to other empty trash bags, but firmly held together. He had them also on his sides and on his ankles, as well as one under his cap, and came through out from his neck to protect him from the summer heat, I think. It smelled of piss, fresh piss that dripped down his leg towards his stained shoes, from the street he walked from, from gardens where he stretched out to protect him from the heat of July. He smelt of red wine that stained his beard and linen dress shirt that could only be seen through the garbage bags he wore like a scarf. He entered the bookstore and searched between the shelves, sending away those who would go near. He began to fill a trash bag, drawing attention, before putting the books away he took the dust off the tops of them with a handkerchief of clean fabric, holding it in a little red pocket that, maybe, was used only for this. The owner of the bookstore was scared, or maybe not, maybe it was just his vomit-provoking smell that made her cover her nose and mouth. The smell was nauseating, it really sucked. She asked me to keep an eye on him, then to go get in his way to make him go away. Then I saw the books he chose. Many of them were ones that I had also read recently, and I felt like talking about them. I did not close my eyes, much less my ears. He told me about the poison which led him to the streets: a romantic disappointment. A delusion of love, he tells me that the rest wasn’t important, he didn’t care about teaching anymore, with his heart that was stolen, wrapped up and thrown away in the street, eaten up by the strays and the seagulls, he didn’t see a future for himself. Then he gets closer to the register, the line makes way for him immediately, everyone there turns to him, even the people at the far away shelves. Then he took off his shoe, his left, shifting his weight to the side, using one of his bags as a cushion. He pulled out a bag of money from his shoe, talk about “dirty money”! He spent more than all the others in only one day. I then saw him again, picking up trash bags in the corners of streets, trying to find his heart that was thrown away.
Il barbone in libreria
A metà mattina entrò questo tipo interamente coperto di buste di tutti i colori, le aveva appese intorno al collo, piene di chissà cosa, legate l’un l’altra con altre buste vuote ma salde a tenerle insieme. Ne aveva anche sui fianchi e alle caviglie, ne aveva una sotto il cappello di stoffa a visiera, spuntava sul collo, a ripararlo dal caldo d’estate, credo. Puzzava di piscio rappreso, di piscio fresco che colava lungo la gamba sugli scarponi di pelle macchiati dalle strade che aveva percorso, dai giardini dove si era sdraiato a ripararsi dal caldo di luglio. Puzzava di vino rosso, che macchiava la barba e la camicia a righe di lino che si intravvedeva attraverso le buste che gli facevano sciarpa. Entrò in libreria e si mise a frugare fra gli scaffali, facendo allontanare chi gli capitava vicino. Iniziò a riempire una busta, facendo attenzione, prima di riporli, di togliere la polvere di sopra con un fazzoletto di stoffa pulito, lo teneva in un taschino che forse usava solo per quello. La padrona della libreria aveva paura, o forse no, solo l’odore che aveva le faceva portare le mani al naso e alla bocca, provocava il vomito, lo schifo, davvero. Mi chiese di sorvegliarlo, poi di bloccarlo per farlo andar via. Poi vidi i titoli scelti, molti erano quelli che avevo preso anche io negli ultimi tempi, e mi misi a parlarci. Non chiusi gli occhi, tantomeno le orecchie. Mi raccontò il veleno che lo aveva portato in strada, una delusione d’amore, mi disse che il resto era poca cosa, non gli andava più di insegnare a scuola, che col cuore che gli era stato rubato, imbustato e gettato per strada, mangiato dai gatti e dai gabbiani, non vedeva il domani. Poi si avvicinò alla cassa, la fila fu subito libera per lui, chi c’era riprese a girare fra gli scaffali lontani. A conti fatti si tolse una scarpa, la sinistra, rovesciando il peso di lato, assorbito dal contenuto delle buste che gli facevano da cuscino. Tirò fuori un mazzo di soldi che giustifica il detto. Spese più di tutti gli altri in una sola giornata. L’ho rivisto ancora, raccoglie le buste negli angoli a cercare il suo cuore buttato per strada.
[Patrizio Zurru, from Endecascivoli, Miraggi, 2021]
Patrizio Zurru, born in Iglesias (Sardinia, Italy) in 1965, won the title of Best Bookseller in Italy in 2012. Today, he holds the position of Press Office, Communication and Events Manager at Arkadia Editore, where he is also the editor of the SideKar series. He is the author of Endecascivoli (Miraggi, 2021), a collection of stories, among which “The Bum at the Bookstore”.
About the Translators: This story has been translated from Italian by the students in “Reflections/Riflessioni. Italian Translation”, taught by Emanuele Pettener at Florida Atlantic University in Fall 2022. These are their names: Isabella Abbatiello; Calli Abisognio; Natalia Acosta; Maya Ashley; Francesca Cella; Francesca Cocilovo; Angelina Guglielmo; Peter Halpern; George Mazzei; Victoria Nunez; Noah Passadore; Michael Pontillo; Laura Possu Zapatoski; Orianna Soublette.