The artist Marek Zulawski, translation & Polish-British culture

Happy New Year!

For some reason, I thought I'd translate something about somewhere nice in Italy and checked to see if my father had written anything in his autobiography about Rome or Venice or the like. I found this about his stay in Florence.

But it's not really about Florence.

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"Married men of middle age," I add unconvincingly

Manarola in Cinque Terre, Italy, photo by Chait Goli via Pexels

It’s the year 1952. I’m back in Florence. I came with Manuele, who was abandoning London with disgust, having lived there a few years, and was now returning to his homeland. On the surface, Manuele is intelligent, but only within a certain scope. His twin brother Alberto is wiser, but who notices things like that in their youth? Both are painters. They love each other dearly. They dote on each other. "Manuelino Caro," says Alberto to his brother. "Albertino Caro," Manuele replies. They are identical in appearance. Round-faced, dark-haired, dark-eyed, strong as two young bulls, and fond of laughter.

When they were students, they dressed identically and wore ties of the same colour. This wasn’t done without some thought behind it. Their likeness granted them certain privileges, both at school, where they could answer for each other without fear of recognition, and beyond. 

When they became interested in women — which happened quite early — they frequented local brothels separately but would skilfully cross paths at the door, to the astonishment of the ladies, as Alberto would seamlessly continue Manuele’s work. They seemed to multiply in the eyes of others. Having invented the shared pseudonym "Anselmo" early on, the notoriety of this double youth grew immensely in certain circles.

But in London, I was only friends with Manuele. He was my exact age. When I'd met him, he was already suffering from nostalgia. For him, life in London was made up of a stream of absurd situations. When we travelled by train from Genoa to Pisa, he sat there with his cheek pressed against the window — you couldn't tear him away from the glass.

Sestri Levante, Camaiore. The Apennines plunge directly into the sea, scattering rocks left visible in the transparent water, while the silence of vineyards and silvery olive trees reigns. The train dives into short rocky tunnels and then jumps out into the sunlight, into celebration, into hope. Below, tiny white waves gently caress the sharp edges of rugged capes. Manuele is feverish, rejuvenated, happy.

"How can one live elsewhere? You’d have to be mad.... Cinque Terre, Cinque Terre," he repeats endlessly, "How could anyone leave such a land?"

Then we wander all over Florence. Manuele weeps with joy, caressing every stone with his hands, showing me the paths of his youth. We are already forty-four, but our eyes are eager, our hearts still warm.

"I’ll show you a wonderful place where Alberto and I once enjoyed special privileges," he says. "Of course, we won’t take an active part. Those days are over," says Manuele with one of his most absurdly serious expressions. "Of course," I reply, "because how could we?" 

"Married men of middle age," I add unconvincingly.

The place is indeed charming. Mosaic patterns inspired by Pompeii, carpets, fringed curtains, candelabras, ottomans. Italian baroque. And everywhere, not just at the entrance, red light. Atmosphere. Young men wait their turn with feigned nonchalance.

Every few minutes, a scantily clad girl appears in the salon — pale ones, rosy ones, tawny, dark, slender as Diana or voluptuous like a harem houri, dark-eyed or gazing with green-blue eyes. Some have their hair flowing loose like a woodland sprite, others wear it pinned up with shiny combs. Either their breasts are visible through the thinnest veils, or they cover themselves up to the chin like nuns. 

The young men are full of hesitations. The madam encourages the hesitant, emboldens the overly timid, restrains the overly aggressive. She leaves us alone, as Manuele had warned her in advance that we were only here to reminisce about our past — we, mature men, serious painters, have no need for frivolous amusements. We sit and exchange observations, behaving in the silliest manner, and increasingly feel the inappropriateness of our actions.

Then, suddenly, there she was in the salon doorway.

"La Veneziana," the madam announces, turning her head toward us.

After that moment, I don’t remember what happened to Manuele or to anyone else in the room. I stood up as if hypnotised and approached the girl. She was practically naked, draped in some kind of shawl, flushed as if returning from haymaking, she had a storm of dark auburn hair, that unique colour we call Titian. She looked ahead indifferently, without any coquettishness, like someone who knows for certain they will soon be thrown onto a bed. She didn’t even step into the salon, just stood in the doorway. 

Several young men leapt up from their seats immediately. I was faster. I don’t know what I was thinking. Perhaps I wanted to shield her, to take her out of this market — to save her. 

In other words, I fell in love at first sight.

"What’s your name?" I asked. 

"Paola," she replied, gently taking my hand, as if to ensure no one else would claim her at that moment. "And what's your name?" she asked in turn. 

She was born in the shadow of the Lion of Saint Mark and first sold her body in the square of that name. So my name held a special meaning for her, she said.

What followed was one of those rare moments in life when enthusiasm just envelops you. I was utterly enchanted. When I left, she bid me farewell like a lover: "Come back to me — come tomorrow..." And yes, for the rest of my stay in Florence, I returned to her every day. 

Obsessed, I planned on doing the impossible. Paola begged me to take her to London. She spoke of the exploitation she suffered. I writhed in anguish. She spoke of her longing for the great world — for freedom. I wept. For her and for myself. I promised to take her from this den of humiliation. I suffered more and more at the mere thought that someone else might — that every day — many times... 

"It’s only my body," she said. "My heart is with you..."

Back at the hotel, I persuaded myself that the whole plan to take her from Florence was insane, that it shouldn’t be done, that it wasn’t allowed. Because what would become of her in London? But when I held her hands and looked into her tormented face, I promised her again. 

"It’ll work out somehow," I thought.

What happened during that time beyond that, I don’t remember at all. I only know that on the last day... yes, on the last day, at the very last hour before departure, when the evening sun cast golden grains of sand on the hair of passersby, when long shadows crossed the streets, and the great dome of the Duomo gleamed with a ruddy glow... that on that final evening — oh, shame — I didn’t even go to say goodbye to her. 

I didn’t have the courage to look her in the eyes. I wimped out.

Florence in the golden evening sun, by Jeff Ackley on Unsplash

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Some buttery Polish news

They say that the masses need bread and circuses to remain obedient to the law. Well, it seems that the people of Poland need butter for their bread too.

To stop angry Poles taking to the streets over Christmas, the Polish government is desperately trying to lower the cost of butter - prices have inflated madly in a short space of time.

While it sells off its reserve butter, it does makes me wonder what other dairy products the Polish civil service is sitting on. I bet they have a tonne of kefir 🤔

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That's all for this week. Many thanks for reading. If you want to support the newsletter, please forward it to a friend or donate here.

Adam

Adam Zulawski

TranslatingMarek.com / TranslatePolishMemoirs.com / Other stuff

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