Tom Veber (born 1995 in Maribor) is an artist who works at the junction of theatre, music, visual arts, and literature. His poems have been published in Croatia, Hungary, Greece, France, Austria, Germany, Russia, and China. He has published two collections – The Breaking Point published in 2019 by Literarna Družba Maribor publishing house, and in Up to Here Reaches the Forest, published last year by ŠKUC – Lambda.
Ratatouille
(translated by Brynne Rebele-Henry)
After all the coincidental walks along the river Ljubljanica, the strategic ignoring at Tiffany’s* and the apple bobbing at the market, you finally asked me out on a date and then on another one. At first I didn’t really know what exactly I should think about you. You always seemed so unapproachable. Even when we were hugging tightly in the evenings waiting for the last bus, I always felt like you weren’t really with me. I wrote poetry, you wrote columns for Jana and Cosmopolitan, which I found extremely amusing, perhaps a little too much so in your opinion. And then you asked me out again that Friday. We went to Metelkova, it was raining and I wanted to dance, so we ended up at Tiffany’s again.
After a couple of hours I managed to get so professionally drunk that I successfully passed out in front of the club entrance. Your paternal instincts kicked in and you took me home, dragged me like a soaked puppy to the sofa, took off my shoes and gave me a drink of salt water. I vomited on your Persian carpet; you weren’t angry. When I finally came to my senses, I was struck by how similar you actually are to your own flat. The white plaster, the high ceilings, the chandelier and the frescoes by the arches. Lots of greenery and light, without mirrors, of course, you told me on our first date that you thought they were a big waste of space. Lots of books you’ve probably never read, beech wood and the smell of you at every turn, a peculiar mixture of patchouli and soft melancholy.
The first outlines of morning were coming through the window, but we still didn’t feel tired. You took me by the hand and led me to the kitchen, sat me down in a chair and asked me: ‘Lasagne or ratatouille?’ I smiled and jokingly poked you, “Oh, you can also cook? Ratatouille sounds great.” You could see in your shoulders that you don’t stand in the kitchen every day, and the initial confusion made you even more attractive. The sounds of stepping on tiles, lifting heavy pots and nervous sniffing echoed pleasantly through my intoxicated body. When you brought the knife down on the first onion, slicing into it raw and hard, I saw your animal side for the first time, the veins in your arms swelling so nobly that I wanted to paint and frame you.
The kitchen sizzled, the windows steamed up and my taste buds did too. You added courgettes, tomatoes and rosemary to the pot, poured two glasses of merlot and we were transported to Provence. With every breath I took, the apartment seemed more familiar and you more accessible. For the first time I saw you in a tracksuit and a white T-shirt that was getting more red stains with every second. Slowly, steam began to rise from the pot, filling the room with the smell of the familiar and the desire that we would be something more. You removed the hot pot from the fire and began to layer the vegetables on two plates with your bare hands, I didn’t mind you touching the food, I didn’t mind the streaky hair and the shallow columns anymore. I wanted to be with you, fully, with stains on your shirt, with the damp patches under armpits. You giggled like a little boy: ‘Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have something on my nose?’ You served me food and a smile full of lust, the sun rose from behind the horizon and filled the room with yellow desire.
* a gay club in Ljubljana.
~
RATATOUILLE
Po vseh naključnih sprehodih ob Ljubljanici, strateškemu ignoriranju v Tiffaniyu in obmetavanju z jabolki na tržnici si me končno povabil na zmenek in potem še na enega. Sprva nisem točno vedel, kaj bi se začel s teboj. Zmeraj si deloval tako nedostopen. Tudi, ko sva ob večerih tesno objeta čakala na zadnji avtobus, se mi je zmeraj zdelo, kot da nisi zares z mano. Jaz sem pisal poezijo, ti si pisal kolumne za Jano in Cosmopolitan, kar se mi je zdelo izjemno zabavno, po tvojem mnenju morda malo preveč. In potem si me tisti petek povabil spet ven. Šla sva na Metelkovo, deževalo je in jaz sem hotel plesat in tako sva spet pristala v Tiffaniyu.
Po nekaj urah se mi je uspelo tako profesionalno napiti, da sem uspešno zakomiral pred vhodom v klub. V tebi se je prebudil očetovski nagon in tako si me pripeljal k sebi domov, kot premočenega cucka si me zvlekel na kavč, mi sezul čevlje in mi dal piti slano vodo. Potem sem pobruhal tvojo perzijsko preprogo, nisi bil jezen. Ko sem se končno spravil k sebi, me je prešinilo, kako si pravzaprav podoben svojemu stanovanju. Bel omet, visoki stropi, lestenec in freske ob obokih. Veliko zelenja in svetlobe, seveda brez ogledal, že na prvem zmenku si mi razkril, da se ti zdijo velika potrata prostora. Veliko knjig, ki jih verjetno nisi nikoli prebral, bukov les in vonj po tebi na vsakem koraku, svojevrstna zmes pačulija in mehke melanholije.
Skozi okno so se risali prvi obrisi jutra, midva pa še zmeraj nisva bila zaspana. Prijel si me za roko in me popeljal v kuhinjo, me posedel za stol in me vprašal: » Lazanja ali ratatouille?« Nasmehnil sem se in te šaljivo podrezal » A kuhati tudi znaš? Ratatouille se sliši odlično.« Na ramenih se ti je videlo, da ne stojiš prav vsak dan v kuhinji, začetna raztresenost te je delala še bolj privlačnega. Zvoki stopicljanja po ploščicah, dvigovanja težkih loncev in živčno sopihanje so prijetno odzvanjali skozi moje opito telo. Ko si se spravil nad prvo čebulo, surovo in trdo si zarezal vanjo, sem prvič videl tvojo živalsko plat, tako plemenito so ti nabreknile žile po rokah, da bi te najraje naslikal in uokviril.
Zacvrčalo je po kuhinji, orosila so se okna in moje brbončice. V lonec si dodal še bučke, paradižnik in rožmarin, nalil še dva kozarca merlota in preselila sva se v Provanso. Stanovanje se mi je z vsakim vdihom zdelo bolj domače in ti vedno bolj dostopen. Prvič sem te videl v trenerki in beli majici, ki je z vsako sekundo dobivala več barvnih madežev. Iz lonca se je počasi začela dvigati sopara, prostor je napolnil vonj po poznanem in željo, da bi bila nekaj več. Vroč lonec si odstranil z ognja in začel z golimi rokami plastit zelenjavo na dva krožnika, ni me motilo, da si se dotikal hrane, niso me več motili štrenasti lasje in puhle kolumne. Hotel sem biti s tabo, v celoti, s packami na majici, z vlažnimi madeži pod pazduhami. Zahihital si se kot majhen fantek:« Ja kaj pa me tako gledaš, a imam kaj na nosu?« Postregel si mi s hrano in s poželjivim nasmehom, sonce je vstalo iz za obzorja in napolnilo prostor z rumenim hotenjem.