Un moment perfect

Ieri, la supermarket, nu stiam ce banda de la casierie merge mai repede, asa ca le-am verificat pe toate inainte de a alege una. In fata mea era un barbat simplu, cu trasaturile grele si cu fata plina de linii. Genul muncitor cu ziua. Sarac. Simteai cumva ca viata nu a fost blanda cu el. Cred ca avea 45 de ani, dar parea de 60. Poate chiar 65. Imbatranit inainte de vreme. M-am asezat dupa el. Avea doua paini albe si o punga cu boabe pentru pisici. M-am uitat la el, m-am uitat la punga. Iar m-am uitat la el si iar m-am uitat la punga. Nu ai fi zis ca e genul care are grija de o pisica. Nu in genul ca le face rau, dar cu siguranta nu mi-ar fi trecut prin cap, daca nu era punga cu bobite, ca ar putea avea asemenea gingasii bine ascunse intr-o fizionomie care il facea sa para mai aspru si mai batran.

Si mi-am adus aminte de o povestire scrisa de Hemingway, despre un barbat care avea grija de animalute-The old Man at the Bridge, pe care o puteti citi la finalul postarii. Toata lumea din jurul lui fugea, se retragea, era razboi, iar el era singurul care statea si se intreba ce o sa faca el fara animalele de care a avut grija toata viata. Care este de fapt rostul lui, daca animalele lui nu vor mai fi...

Apoi, ca sa intru in vorba cu el, l-am intrebat pe barbatul din fata mea cate pisici are. Prima oara nu mi-a raspuns. Mi-a aruncat doar o privire rapida, pe sub gene. Cred ca nu i-a venit sa creada ca vorbeam cu el. Am repetat intrebarea. Fata i s-a luminat instantaneu, a intinerit  si mi-a raspuns ca patru. Doi mari si doi mici, care s-au pripasit in ograda lui. Apoi a scos o punga din buzunar, ponosita de atatea refolosiri, ca sa nu mai plateasaca si acea ecotaxa la supermarket.
L-am rugat sa ma lase sa platesc eu mancarea pisicilor si painile. Nu am avut impresia ca dau de pomana (eu chiar nu dau bani cersetorilor), ci fac un lucru firesc, la fel cum firesc este sa ai grija de patru pisoi care s-au pripasit pe la tine prin ograda, oricat ai fi de amarat.

A plecat uluit, multumind incontinuu, iar mie mi s-au umplut ochii de lacrimi.

“The Old Man at the Bridge” 
by Ernest Hemingway

An old man with steel rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was a pontoon bridge across the river and carts, trucks, and men, women and children were crossing it. The mule- drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. The trucks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded along in the ankle deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was too tired to go any farther.
It was my business to cross the bridge, explore the bridgehead beyond and find out to what point the enemy had advanced. I did this and returned over the bridge. There were not so many carts now and very few people on foot, but the old man was still there.
"Where do you come from?" I asked him.
"From San Carlos," he said, and smiled.
That was his native town and so it gave him pleasure to mention it and he smiled.
"I was taking care of animals," he explained.
"Oh," I said, not quite understanding.
"Yes," he said, "I stayed, you see, taking care of animals. I was the last one to leave the town of San Carlos."
He did not look like a shepherd nor a herdsman and I looked at his black dusty clothes and his gray dusty face and his steel
rimmed spectacles and said, "What animals were they?"
"Various animals," he said, and shook his head. "I had to leave them."
I was watching the bridge and the African looking country of the Ebro Delta and wondering how long now it would be
before we would see the enemy, and listening all the while for the first noises that would signal that ever mysterious event called contact, and the old man still sat there.
"What animals were they?" I asked.
"There were three animals altogether," he explained. "There were two goats and a cat and then there were four pairs of pigeons."
And you had to leave them?" I asked.
"Yes. Because of the artillery. The captain told me to go because of the artillery."
"And you have no family?" I asked, watching the far end of the bridge where a few last carts were hurrying down the slope
of the bank.
"No," he said, "only the animals I stated. The cat, of course, will be all right. A cat can look out for itself, but I cannot think
what will become of the others."
"What politics have you?" I asked.
"I am without politics," he said. "I am seventy-six years old. I have come twelve kilometers now and I think now I can go
no further."
"This is not a good place to stop," I said. "If you can make it, there are trucks up the road where it forks for Tortosa."
"I will wait a while," he said, " and then I will go. Where do the trucks go?"
"Towards Barcelona," I told him.
"I know no one in that direction," he said, "but thank you very much. Thank you again very much."
He looked at me very blankly and tiredly, and then said, having to share his worry with someone, "The cat will be all right, I
am sure. There is no need to be unquiet about the cat. But the others. Now what do you think about the others?" "Why they'll probably come through it all right."
"You think so?"
"Why not," I said, watching the far bank where now there were no carts.
"But what will they do under the artillery when I was told to leave because of the artillery?" "Did you leave the dove cage unlocked?" I asked.
"Y es."
"Then they'll fly."
"Yes, certainly they'll fly. But the others. It's better not to think about the others," he said.
"If you are rested I would go," I urged. "Get up and try to walk now."
"Thank you," he said and got to his feet, swayed from side to side and then sat down backwards in the dust.
"I was taking care of animals," he said dully, but no longer to me. "I was only taking care of animals."
There was nothing to do about him. It was Easter Sunday and the Fascists were advancing toward the Ebro. It was a gray
overcast day with a low ceiling so their planes were not up. That and the fact that cats know how to look after themselves was all the good luck that old man would ever have.