Nocturne (English version)

by Viola Victor

13 - Gentleman, maybe

  It was her birthday. We dined on the Tower, for the last time.

  "Do you remember," she said, "when I came here?"

  Of course I remembered her, as he popped up from the trapdoor. How much time had passed?

  Really so much? I forced her apart. Why had she given me that kiss I didn’t want, before leaving?

  "It’s time," I said with a quick look to her eyes, really too black.

  She stared at me for a long time, as if she wanted to say something. Like at the beginning, when I always made her angry. But she said nothing and went downstairs to take her things.

   

  This led me to feel the tower, the clock and the moon even more needed than before she came. How lucky I was, not having to leave them to go somewhere.

  How could I leave the moon? I haven’t written for it the poem I want yet, the one I’ve been searching and searching for so much time but I haven’t yet found. Alone, on the tower, instinct put me back on the trail of other verses.

   

  "Forget it. The girl is right. You are no good. Moreover, you're starting to bore me."

  And with a yawn the moon disappeared behind a cloud.

   

  "And you, clock? I took care of your hands, your gears, for so long! How could you work without me?"

   

  "Do not be presumptuous. Time flows without maintenance. It's not the clock that needs you. It is you who need it! Didn’t you know?"

  "You mean that..."

  "Dong!" the clock chimes.

   

  Martina is at the door. I hold the reins of the horse as she mounts.

  " Farewell Luppolo!"

  "Martin," she insists. "So farewell, Viktor. Thanks for everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you..."

  She has a tremor in her voice. It's not like the voice of the moon or the clock: her voice sets a fire.

  The coal, I mean. Behind the oblique openings – just eyes, really? – mountains of dark coal are set aflame. She's there, remember? I told you already. She’s there and she doesn’t know how to save herself: everything is burning.

  I tighten the reins, I watch the fire blaze, take her away. And I say: "A gentleman would never allow a girl to go out alone at night."

  The fire seems to be tamed, she smiles, the moon leaves the cloud, no longer annoyed.

  Martina and I will leave together.

   

  Am I really becoming a poet?

  A poet I don’t know, maybe a gentleman.