Čez igrišča za kriket so stari valjar še zmeraj vlekli možje,
vpreženi kot skupina volov pred trmasto železno kolo.
Trava je dišala, kot diši trava, vsa bujna pod popoldanskim soncem –
vročina se je bliskala na tleh kot slepeč lesket jekla.
Tu so bila vsa igrišča – precej manjša kot v spominu –
tista za ragbi in nogomet nerabljena, da je z apnom zarisane črte
izpral dež, toda imena mrtvih jezuitov na znamenjih
so še vedno stala na obrezanih robovih – v tradicionalni beli in rdeči.
V vidno polje se je dvigal markantni kamniti stolp skupaj z vsemi sanjami
o plezanju po hladnem spiralnem stopnišču do vrha,
kjer so se misli na polja, mehka od tople sape šopulje, dotikale
neba z upanjem in v iskanju zavetja. Toda to so bile le šolarčkove sanje,
ki jih je vzbudil pogled na velikansko bronasto ploščo s svetim Jurijem,
ki zabada s svojo sulico in ubija naš strah pred zmajem.
Čeprav so te bedarije s časom izginile, je bil junak na kovani
plošči še vedno eden tistih starih mitov, ki jih imajo jezuiti radi.
»Rad bi pregledal Letopis. Od leta 86 do srede devetdesetih.«
Receptorka je siva in napol gluha, jaz očitno govorim po tiho –
zato precej ponavljanja, ki ga spremljajo grimase in opravičila.
»Rad bi pregledal Letopis.« »Ja,« na naslednje vprašanje,
»pred nekaj leti sem tu hodil v šolo. Ja, stari jurjevec, stari fant.«
Telefon počasi potuje k njenemu ušesu, medtem ko govori nekaj
o obiskih in čudnih prošnjah tujih novinarjev, ki želijo
biti zraven pri pouku ali na samem intervjuvati dečke.
»Penny? Ja, Penny, jaz sem. Tule imam enega, ki je po mojem v redu.
Rad bi pregledal Letopis. Nekaj v zvezi s poezijo.«
Ob tem dvigne svoje drobne oči. »Saj se še spomnite, kje je knjižnica?«
Pozabil sem, a potem v glavi znova prehodim pot do nje.
Iz vsake učilnice se skozi neoedvardijanska okna razlega glas,
zloščena rdeča tla mi zvenijo pod nogami in napolni me občutek
sladke blaženosti, da ne sedim v teh potilnicah znanja, senc
mojega otroštva, in sanjam o novem svetu po prvem poljubu.
Čitalnica je izgubila vse svoje klopi in v njej je zdaj zbirka glasbil
in stolov za klasične glasbenike. Vodometa na dvorišču ni več,
in sprva mi to ni pomenilo čisto nič, potem pa me je zgrabila nerodna
zbeganost, ko je skušal spomin najti svoje mesto v odsotnosti; in nisem
si mogel predstavljati, kako so ga odstranili – zelenica je bila kot nedotaknjena.
Soba za fitnes, kjer smo imeli roke vse plave od usnja,
kjer so se v vročih popoldnevih dvigale uteži, je bila zdaj čista,
vonj po znoju in usnju pa so zamenjali furnirani separeji z računalniki.
Pred kabinetom je deček privzdignil kapo in rekel »Dobro jutro« na tak način,
da sem podvomil, kaj je sploh rekel. Šele ko sem pogledal nazaj,
sem opazil napetost na njegovem obrazu, njegove solzne oči in veliko črno
besedo, vtrto v njegov prsni koš: PEDER. Jasno mi je bilo, kako zlahka
so ga pritisnili k tlom. Drevo, pod katerim smo sedeli med odmorom in se trudili
pozabiti barvno progo, ki na drugi strani kovanih vrat še ni zbledela, je bilo še tu;
vonj po listih msase in starih olupkih pomaranče so oživili mrtvo bolečino,
ki se mi je razrasla po trebuhu: jezna množica pred laboratoriji, pesti drugih otrok …
Ko sem prišel do Penny, se je nasmehnila, in nekaj mi je reklo,
da nisem bil prvi, ki je želel priti sem in pregledati Letopis.
Zvezke je imela zložene na mizi, v kronološko urejenih kupih –
stolpih spominov, imen in datumov v črni in beli pred mano.
Usedel sem se, polistal po knjigah, in fotografije so oživele v moji glavi;
in po uri potopljenosti v živopisno tišino je zazvonil zvonec:
še vedno isto visokotonsko brenčanje, ki je nekoč s svojim petjem
po dolgih hodnikih nosilo olajšanje, a obenem tudi nekakšen občutek groze.
Prevod: Jernej Župančič
They still drew the old roller over the cricket pitches with men
yoked like a team of oxen to the stubborn iron wheel.
The grass smelt as the grass did, all rich beneath the afternoon sun –
the heat flashing off the ground like a blinding flick of steel.
All the fields were there – much smaller than remembered –
the rugby and football grounds unused, the powdered lime lines
washed out by the rains, but the names of dead Jesuits, on signs,
still stood on the preened edges – in traditional white and red.
Up into view the memorable tower of stone rose with all the dreams
of climbing up the winding cool stairwell, up to the top of the turret
where thoughts of fields, soft with warm breaths of red-top, met
the sky with hope and refuge. But those were just a schoolboy’s dreams
brought on by the sight of the huge bronze plaque of St George
plunging his spear, extinguishing our fears of the dragon.
Though all that bullshit vanished with age, the hero on the forged
plaque still remained some old myth the Jesuits liked to work on.
‘I’m here to go through the Chronicles. ’86 to the mid 90s.’
The receptionist is grey and half-deaf, I’m apparently soft-spoken –
so there’s a lot of repetition accompanied by grimaces and apologies.
‘I’m here to go through the Chronicles.’ ‘Yes,’ to another question,
‘I did attend here some years back. Yes, an Old Georgian, an old boy.’
The phone slowly goes up to her ear as she mentions something
about visits and strange requests from foreign journalists wanting
to sit in on classes or have private interviews with the boys.
‘Penny? Yes Penny, it’s me. I seem to have a safe one here.
Wants to go through the Chronicles. Something about poetry.’
Her small eyes look up. ‘You do remember the way to the library?’
I had forgotten, but then retrace the steps in my mind to get there.
Each class I pass, a voice spills from the mock-Edwardian windows,
the red polished floors tap under my feet, and a sweet blessedness
fills me that I’m not sitting in those sweat-rooms of learning, shadows
of my youth, daydreaming about a new world after the first kiss.
The study-hall has lost all its desks and holds an array of instruments
and chairs for classical musicians. The fountain in the quad is gone now,
and at first it didn’t mean a thing to me, but then a crude bewilderment
took hold when a memory tried to find its place in the absence; and how
on earth they removed it had me lost – the lawn was perfectly smooth.
The weights room, where our hands were beaten blue by a leather wad,
where iron was pumped on hot afternoons, was now clean and had
the smell of sweat and leather replaced by veneered computer booths.
Outside an office, a boy lifted his hat and said ‘Good morning’ in a way
that had me question what he’d said. It was only when I looked back
that I noticed the strain on his face, his rheumy eyes and the big black
word scoured across his chest, FAGGOT. I could see how easily they
could have pinned him down. The tree was there where we sat at break
trying to forget the colour bar that still hasn’t faded outside the gates;
the smell of msasa leaves and old orange peels revived a dead ache
that filled my belly: a mob outside the science-labs, fists of other kids…
When I met Penny she smiled, and something told me
it wasn’t a strange request to come here and go through the Chronicles.
She had them stacked up on her desk, all piled up chronologically –
towers of memories, names and dates in black and white at my disposal.
I sat down, leafed through the pages, the photographs alive in my head;
and after an hour of being immersed in the vivid quiet, the bell rang:
it was still that same high-pitched drill that once brought relief as it sang
through the long corridors, but also brought with it a certain dread.
