Recipe for Indifference
We saw them, hungry, and spoke
Uninterrupted about a healthy diet.
They weren’t our problem,
It’s just that we couldn’t bear to watch how
Day by day, hour by hour,
Their children were decaying like paper.
We spoke louder, no, they weren’t our problem,
We exchanged recipes for specialties,
Attended cooking classes and grumbled
About the high prices of tuna and truffles.
We knew some of the hungry by name
Or we knew someone whose relatives were starving,
Or we knew someone who knew someone
Who, despite our strong dietary standards,
Despite the fact that their distress didn’t concern us,
Allowed themselves to raise their voices, to protest,
Even to spit into the fat face of the world
And also demand food for those who,
Day by day, hour by hour,
Were becoming skeletons before our eyes
While we, wearily,
Because we knew its bitter aftertaste
And ultimately it wasn’t our affair,
Digested the number 43 or 128 or 17 or 99
Of those dead from hunger in the last 24 hours.
No, we were not allowed to ignore them,
Even though they weren’t our numbers,
We didn’t cause their distress, we didn’t add them up,
At most, the weight of unbearable scenes was forced on us,
So burdensome for the undisturbed digestion
And healthy appetite of all us democratic and peaceful people.
Why did we have to look at them?
None of us really knew.
Looking at them, we raised our voices even more,
Yelling at each other, increasingly deaf to what was being said,
What to call the latest culinary trends
And where are the best traditional dishes?
But we couldn’t stop looking at them.
We also saw them when we looked into our tureens,
When, our eyes half closed, we chewed roasted meat
Or when, eyes closed, we tasted the most delicate desserts.
They were increasingly alien and increasingly irritating to us,
Even though they’d never been our concern, at most a nuisance.
Their cooks cooked hunger,
Their mothers seasoned starvation,
Their fathers, empty-handed, brought death
From their shops, which were no longer there,
And their gardens, which were no longer there,
And their towns, which were no longer there,
They brought the number 56,000
Or the number 127,000 or the number 246,000.
Their hunger was being added up
In the large, luxurious gardens of the dead,
In the vast, spacious fields of the dead,
In the bursting, growing plantations of the dead,
Ours, however, in the checks at select restaurants.
Day by day, hour by hour
We ate and watched them and suffered greatly,
So that despite the tastelessness of what we saw
We managed to eat everything.
We wiped our mouths, paid, tipped double,
Shouted in the doorway We’ll come back tomorrow,
But be merciful, trust us with the recipe
For how to stay the way we’ve always been.
Translated from the Slovenian by Brian Henry
Recept za brezbrižnost
Videli smo jih, lačne, in govorili
Nemoteno dalje o zdravi prehrani.
Niso bili naš problem,
Le da nismo ne mogli gledati, kako so
Iz dneva v dan, iz ure v uro,
Njihovi otroci postajali prepereli kot papir.
Govorili smo glasneje, ne, niso bili naša težava,
Izmenjevali smo si recepte za specialitete,
Obiskovali kuharske tečaje in godrnjali
Nad visokimi cenami tune in tartufov.
Nekatere od lačnih smo poznali po imenu
Ali pa smo poznali nekoga, čigar sorodniki so stradali,
Ali pa smo poznali nekoga, ki je poznal nekoga,
Ki je kljub našemu solidnemu standardu prehranjevanja,
Kljub dejstvu, da se nas njihova stiska ne tiče,
Dovolil povzdvigniti glas, protestirati,
Celo pljuniti v tolsto lice sveta
In zahtevati hrane tudi zanje, ki so,
Iz dneva v dan, iz ure v uro,
Postajali skeleti pred našimi očmi,
Medtem ko smo mi, naveličano,
Kajti poznali smo njen trpek priokus
In nenazadnje ni bila naša stvar,
Prebavljali številko 43 ali 128 ali 17 ali 99
Umrlih od lakote v zadnjih 24 urah.
Ne, ni nam jih bilo dano prezreti,
Čeprav niso bili naše številke,
Nismo mi zakuhali njihovih stisk, jih ne seštevali,
Kvečjemu nam je bila vsiljena teža neznosnih prizorov,
Hudo obremenilnih za nemoteno prebavo,
In zdrav apetit vseh nas demokratičnih in miroljubnih ljudi.
Zakaj smo jih morali gledati?
Nihče od nas ni zares vedel.
Ob pogledu nanje smo še bolj povzdignili glas,
Vpili drug drugemu, vse bolj gluhi, kaj pravi,
Kako poimenovati zadnje kuharske trende
In kam po najboljše tradicionalne jedi?
A jih nismo mogli nehati gledati.
Videli smo jih tudi, ko smo pogledali v jušnike,
Ko smo napol priprtih oči mleli pečenje
Ali ko smo zaprtih oči okušali najbolj delikatne sladice.
Bili so nam vse bolj tuji in vse bolj nadležni,
Čeprav niso bili nikdar naša skrb, kvečjemu naša nadloga.
Njihovi kuharji so kuhali lakoto,
Njihove matere so začinjale stradanje,
Njihovi očetje so praznih rok prinašali smrt
Iz njihovih trgovin, ki jih več ni bilo,
In njihovih vrtov, ki jih več ni bilo,
In njihovih mest, ki jih več ni bilo,
Prinašali so številko 56.000
Ali številko 127.000 ali številko 246.000.
Njihova lakota se je seštevala
Na velikih, razkošnih vrtovih mrtvih,
Na širnih, prostranih njivah mrtvih,
Na buhtečih, rastočih plantažah mrtvih,
Naša pa v računih izbranih restavracij.
Iz dneva v dan, iz ure v uro
Smo jedli in jih gledali in se pošteno namučili,
Da nam je kljub neokusnosti videnega
Uspelo pojesti prav vse.
Obrisali smo se okrog ust, plačali, dali dvojno napitnino,
Zakričali med vrati Jutri pridemo ponovno,
A bodite usmiljeni, zaupajte nam recept,
Kako ostanemo taki, kot smo zmeraj bili.
