DOMNUL PETZI.Cat de importanti sunt oamenii din jurul nostru.Mai ales cei alaturi de care crestem. Unii lasa o amprenta asupra formarii noastre intelectuale fara sa-si doreasca. Sunt oameni educati, elite care isi doresc sa lase discipoli in urma lor. Am intalnit si oameni de genul asta. Nu-mi plac. Nu tin cont de propria individualitate a tanarului si incearca oarecum sa impuna curentul ideologic pe care ei insisi l-au urmat. E ceva fortat aici.
Vreau sa ma refer la oamenii simpli pe care-i intalnim si care prin atitudinea si comportamentul lor natural marcheaza spiritual si moral un tanar.
Domul Dumitru Petzi ( asa isi scria numele, „un pezzo , due pezzi , Steliana”, imi spunea batranul octogenar) venea in anii’80 la Baile Reci de la Techirghiol pentru cure de namol. Nici nu stiu cum a gasit familia noastra la care locuia in fiecare vara impreuna cu sotia, profesoara de limba engleza. De la dumneaei am invatat primele cuvinte in limba engleza si cantecelul Brother John in timp ce mai traziu faceam la scoala lectii de rusa despre muncitorii din uzine si tractoristii de pe camp.
Parca evadam intr-un alt univers pe perioada cat domnul Petzi statea la noi, un univers al cartilor si calatoriilor care l-au format ca om , animat de conversatii indelungi si spumoase in care erau mereu inserate citate din oameni celebri („cate limbi cunosti de atatea ori te numesti om”)ii placea sa povesteasca istorii inedite din viata lor tumultoasa: casa demolata de comunisti in care – intr-o vizita la Bucuresti de atunci – am vazut pentru prima data un pian si in peretele careia era zidita cureau de fost tanar rebel legionar, cocoseii de aur ce valorau enorm confiscati de securitate ce nu a reusit sa ii recupereze nici in anii 90, unchiul capitan in armata albaneza, sederea impreuna cu parintii la Sofia,cina cu Mussolini, broderille mamei, vaduva inca de tanara, ce nu a vrut sa se recasatoreasc dedicandu-se celor doi fii Paul si Dumitru.
Domnul Petzi impreuna cu o matusa –tanti Tasa (Anastasia Cealera Bacola) – au fost oamenii care mi-au povestit pentru prima data despre aromani si viata lor din Pind. Ei au insuflat in mine dorinta de a cauta mai departe adevaruri si de a lua initiativa. Asa am inceput voluntariatul de mai tarziu pentru comunitatile aromane din Bucuresti si Techirghiol.
„Care este regula lui SI conditionnel in limba franceza, Steliana?” ma intreba cu autoritate domnul Petzi pentru a-mi verifica cunostintele privind gramatica limbii franceze.Ii raspundeam corect ei observand la mine aplecarea catre limbi straine.
ORACOLUL. Era 11 septembrie 2001.Bucuresti. In ziua atacurilor teroriste asupra SUA eu primeam cartile despre aromani ale lui Dumitru Petzi de la dna Petzi, dumnealui decedand intre timp. Stia ca urma sa moara. Cu desavarsita credinta in Dumnezeu, astepta momentul cu intelegere, in liniste, rugandu-se.Mainile albe, masive impreunate pe piept.Dumnezeu sa il odihneasca!
Cartile erau asezate ordonat intr-o cutie imensa. Tot acolo se afla si cutia de brodat din catifea culoarea prunei a mamei sale. O pastrez si acum si am aratat-o mereu in expozitiile mele vizitatorilor de stand in cadrul Zilele Orasului Techirghiol. In fiecare vara obisnuiam sa etalez pe masa si cartile de la 1900 despre aromani. Alaturi de cutia de brodat in aceeasi cutie cu carti se afla si teza lui de doctorat „Finantarea in caz de razboi”, 5 caiete scrise de mana, doctorat pe care nu a reusit sa il sustina din cauza contextului istoric de dupa 1945.
La sfarsit, doamna Petzi imi spune: „Steliana, am si un caiet cu amintri inceput de Mitica in 1925 pe cand era elev la Scoala Comerciala de la Salonic.Pastreaza-l tu.” L-am deschis. Papagheorghe Gheorghe, Biciolla, Caraluzi, Mihalecu, Atanasescu Aurel, Papahagi Anastase, Badralexi Niculae,Paul C. Petzi - toti colegi si prieteni cu autorul Oracolului. Il rasfoiesc cu grija. Aflu ca acesti adolescenti erau preocupati de lucruri majore privind formarea lor intelectuala si evolutia istorica a tarilor din jur.Si asta in timp ce citeau Alfred de Musset, Jean Jacques Rousseau,Batzaria, Creanga, Eminescu, Tolstoi, Guy de Maupassant si ascultau Aida, Simfonia 9, Cavaleria Rusticana sau doine si cantece populare „albanezesti”.
Dupa 10 ani petrecuti pe raftul din biblioteca, acest oracol ajunge in fata voastra. Poate printre cei care completeaza oracolul sunt rude sau oameni pe care-i cunoasteti.
Savurati aceast bijuterie de epoca!
I breathe by Matilda Caragiu-Marioteanu, translated by Steliana Gima
A leaf fell on my nape
dry
heavy due to the burden of the year that passed
yellow
light due to its thin beauty, without the body nature gave it.
I breathe
Me.
Why me?
How it is me who breathes?
Why do I breathe
the wind/the air brought
by the dying leaf
that fell on my nape?
Why it is me who gathered
all the joy of the gale
of leaf without breath, dying that fell on my nape?
I breathe…
I breathe!
Such a joy!
dry
heavy due to the burden of the year that passed
yellow
light due to its thin beauty, without the body nature gave it.
I breathe
Me.
Why me?
How it is me who breathes?
Why do I breathe
the wind/the air brought
by the dying leaf
that fell on my nape?
Why it is me who gathered
all the joy of the gale
of leaf without breath, dying that fell on my nape?
I breathe…
I breathe!
Such a joy!
My church by Matilda Caragiu-Marioteanu, translated by Steliana Gima
My church is the sky
It is the wind that blows
Between me and Him
Without walls
Without towers
Without roof
My heart as a bell
That exhausts beating
With love.
My church is the sky,
The stings of the mind
Ripping the clouds
I rise
I elude the cloths
The people
The dust
Of anything that creeps on the earth
my church is the sky
since the son of Man
is caught and crucified on earth
It is the wind that blows
Between me and Him
Without walls
Without towers
Without roof
My heart as a bell
That exhausts beating
With love.
My church is the sky,
The stings of the mind
Ripping the clouds
I rise
I elude the cloths
The people
The dust
Of anything that creeps on the earth
my church is the sky
since the son of Man
is caught and crucified on earth
My fate by Matilda Caragiu-Marioteanu, translated by Steliana Gima
It appeared in my dream
All white clothed
A snow garland
On its bottom hair
Twisted to its waste also
-lest it may stumble?
Hanging flowers
Eyelash by eyelash
Red flakes
-earings in its ears
Basil in the nostrils
- so green now that is winter!
White flocks of wood
Flowing threads and threads
By fingers
Icy turned into stone lips
„Come on!” it said.
It was my fate.
All white clothed
A snow garland
On its bottom hair
Twisted to its waste also
-lest it may stumble?
Hanging flowers
Eyelash by eyelash
Red flakes
-earings in its ears
Basil in the nostrils
- so green now that is winter!
White flocks of wood
Flowing threads and threads
By fingers
Icy turned into stone lips
„Come on!” it said.
It was my fate.
AROMANIAN POEMS by Matilda caragiu Marioteanu, translated by Steliana Gima
Testament for my daughterMy daughter, my adored
Who was born neither in Gramoste
Nor in Samarina
Nor in Hrupisti
Nor in Perivoli
Who did not drink water carried with buckets
From Dolta
From Bucuvala’s fountain
From Vergina’s little creek
Who knows neither the meaning
Of the Argos lamb
Of the baking tin pie. crust baked
Of the „bread juice”
Made by Aromanian mother,
Of sweet „bucuvala”
Of „butter green cheese”
Who did not kissed the hand of an old man
Of a grandfather
Of golden hands
Of venerable mothers
Who did not stay hidden, your betrothed to appear
Who was not a bride without knowing her husband
Who doesn’t even know what
The eye when whitens means
Due to such a long waiting
And due to such a love
My daughter, my gentle sheep
My snowball
Bead like eye
Hazel tree body
Turtle dove like voice
Hold me, hold my hand.
Who was born neither in Gramoste
Nor in Samarina
Nor in Hrupisti
Nor in Perivoli
Who did not drink water carried with buckets
From Dolta
From Bucuvala’s fountain
From Vergina’s little creek
Who knows neither the meaning
Of the Argos lamb
Of the baking tin pie. crust baked
Of the „bread juice”
Made by Aromanian mother,
Of sweet „bucuvala”
Of „butter green cheese”
Who did not kissed the hand of an old man
Of a grandfather
Of golden hands
Of venerable mothers
Who did not stay hidden, your betrothed to appear
Who was not a bride without knowing her husband
Who doesn’t even know what
The eye when whitens means
Due to such a long waiting
And due to such a love
My daughter, my gentle sheep
My snowball
Bead like eye
Hazel tree body
Turtle dove like voice
Hold me, hold my hand.