Portuguese-English translation by Michael McCaffrey

passing of time and the changes that come with it, he realizes that just as the old tortoise has shown him, he cannot stop it.

ENGLISH The Old Tortoise’s Parable

translated by Michael McCaffrey

Ulume, the man, looks out upon his world.

At times, this land seems foreign to him. It sits upon an endless plateau— although it is well known that everything ends at the ocean. Savannahs and nullahs cover the land. Along the rivers are forests that thin to brush in the low humidity. The land is flat, except for the Munda which cuts through the earth from north to south. You can never see the top of the Munda as it is always concealed by thick fog. His village is located at the foot of the Munda—another word for mountain—situated at the base of a hill topped by grey and blue boulders. From the top of the hill flows a gentle stream that seeks refuge in a faraway and otherworldly river: the powerful and magnificent Kuanza. From this stream comes the water that brings life to the vegetables and white corn of the village’s gardens. The cattle, too, drink from this stream. Even in the worst of droughts, the stream never falters. At the top of the hill is a grotto from which an enormous tortoise emerges every morning to go and drink from the source. Palm trees with restless leaves border the village; mango and banana trees intertwine to paint dark green the yellows and faded greens of the grass and corn.

In this familiar scene, something makes the land turn foreign all of a sudden. It is a singular moment in the middle of the afternoon in which everything seems to stop: the wind no longer disturbs the leaves, the birds pause their songs, the bright sun shines in a blue sky without a single flash. The buzzing of insects fades away into inaudibility. It is as if life itself has been put on hold, standing alone, in the light of a torrid sky.

PORTUGUESE Um instante apenas. E nem sempre acontece. O tempo precisa de estar limpo, de preferência depois de uma chuvada, a Lua tem de aparecer apesar do Sol, e no peito deve ter a angústia da espera.

Todos os dias sobe ao morro mais próximo, senta nas pedras a fumar o cachimbo que ele próprio talhou em madeira dura, e espera. A passagem do cágado velho, mais velho que ele pois já lá estava quando nasceu, e o momento da paragem do tempo. É um momento doloroso, pelo medo do estranho. Apesar das décadas passadas desde a primeira vez. Mas também é um instante de beleza, pois vê o mundo parado a seus pés. Como se um gesto fosse importante, essencial, mudando a ordem das coisas. Odeia e ama esse instante e dele não pode escapar.

Quando ainda muito jovem, falou disso aos outros. Ninguém notara, imaginação só dele. Também era o único que ia para o cimo do morro observar o vale e o mundo. Os amigos conheciam a existência do cágado velho, mas preferiam as cercanias do kimbo, onde brincavam e tentavam namorar as raparigas que iam ao regato. Assim, o cume do Mundo ficava só para ele. Nunca mais falou desse estranho instante, nem a Munakazi. Ela perguntou no princípio da vida comum, mas que hábito é esse de ires todos os dias para cima do morro à tarde? E ele respondeu é só um hábito desde criança. Tentou ligar essa sensação a coisas que lhe sucediam depois, como predição do que vai vir. Mas nada. Não havia ligação possível de adivinhar. As coisas iam e vinham, boas ou más, quer chegasse o instante quer não.

Acontecia apenas. No seu rabo não parecia trazer o bem ou o mal, o desejado ou o temido. E continua a acontecer, de vez em quando. Talvez mais frequentemente agora. E Ulume fica apenas vazio, numa grande paz intranquila.

ENGLISH It lasts perhaps only an instant and is never guaranteed, for the weather must be clear, preferably right after it rains; the moon needs to be visible even with the sun out; and one’s chest has to be filled with the anguish of longing.

Every day, Ulume goes up the closest hill, sits down on the stone, smokes the pipe that he made himself from strong wood, and waits. The passing of the old tortoise—who is much older than Ulume, for it was alive at the time of his birth—is the moment when time stops. It is a painful moment that evokes the fear of the unknown despite many decades having passed since it first occurred. But it is also a beautiful moment in which he can watch the world stop below him. It is as if this gesture was important, even essential, to change the order of things. He hates and loves this inescapable moment.

While still in his youth, he described this moment to others. No one paid him any mind; it was just his imagination. But he was the only one that would make the climb to the top of the hill to look upon the valley and the land below. His friends knew of the existence of the old tortoise, but they preferred to concern themselves with matters closer to the village. They would play together and try to flirt with girls who were on their way to the stream. So, the top of the hill was left to Ulume. He never again spoke about this strange moment, not even to Munakazi. At the beginning of their shared life she had asked him what kind of habit it was to climb up the hill each afternoon? And his response was that it was merely a habit from his childhood. He had tried to link this feeling to things that had happened to him before, like a prediction of what is to come. But nothing. There was no connection to discover. Things come and go, good or bad, whether that moment comes or not.

And it rarely does happen. Upon his tail, the tortoise brings neither the good nor the bad, the desired nor the feared. And it will continue to happen every once in a while. Maybe more frequently now. And Ulume becomes empty, in a great restless peace.

ITALIAN Dall’immagine tesa

Clemente Rebora

Dall’immagine tesa vigilo l’istante con imminenza di attesa –E non aspetto nessuno: nell’ombra accesa spio il campanello che impercettibile spande un polline di suono –e non aspetto nessuno: fra quattro mura stupefatte di spazio più che un deserto non aspetto nessuno. Ma deve venire, verrà, se resisto a sbocciare non visto, verrà d’improvviso, quando meno l’avverto. Verrà quasi perdono di quanto fa morire, verrà a farmi certo del suo e mio tesoro, verrà come ristoro delle mie e sue pene, verrà, forse già viene il suo bisbiglio. This poem was written by the Italian author Clemente Rebora in 1920. It is about the eager anticipation of the fulfilment of a prophecy, highlighted