Bella Akhmadulina – Racconto sulla pioggia / Tale about the rain

Paul Gustave Fischer (1860-1934), Rainy Day

All morning I’ve had this Rain around me.
Rudely, I kept on saying: Leave me alone!
So it drew back, but soon there it was again
as sad and loving as a little daughter.
Rain. On my back. Stuck there like a wing.
I reproached it: Here, you
shameless, useless thing!
Think of the tears of some market gardener
and water the flowers.
What do you find in me?
Meanwhile a heatwave was burning everywhere
which the rain ignored. And kept on until
there were children whirling all around me
as if I were some kind of water-sprinkler.
Then I became crafty. Went in a cafe.
Sat myself down at a quiet corner table.
But there was the Rain again. Through the glass.
Motioning towards me, like a beggar.
So I went outside. And at once my face
felt a wet slap. Immediately
(sorry and bold together) the Rain licked
my lips, smelling warm as a wet puppy.
I must have looked stupid. As I
tied a damp headscarf round my neck.
The Rain sat splayed on my shoulders like a monkey.
And the town was embarrassed by the whole thing.
While the Rain was delighted to find me helpless.
It tickled my ear gently with a child’s finger. And
all the while everywhere else dried out.
Except me. I was soaked to the skin.

( Transl. by Elaine Feinstein)

Tutto il giorno la pioggia non mi lascia.
“Vattene!”, io le dico rozzamente;
fa quattro passi indietro, poi, devota,
mesta mi segue come una bambina.
Come un’ ala, la pioggia alla mia schiena
s’è incollata. “Vergognati!”, le dico;
“L’ortolano t’ invoca lacrimando,
corri dai fiori! Che hai trovato in me?”
Intanto in giro regna un’ afa cupa;
dimenticando ogni altra cosa al mondo,
la pioggia è qui con me, mentre d’ intorno
mi danzan i bambini, quasi fossi
la macchina per innaffiare i prati.
M’ infilo in un caffé, dentro una nicchia.
Alla finestra, come un accattone,
mi aspetta. Ed all’ uscita mi castiga
con uno schiaffo umido sul viso;
ma subito la pioggia audace e triste
mi lascia sulle labbra un bacio fresco,
che ha il profumo del cucciolo bagnato.
Son buffa col mio fradicio scialletto
legato al collo, mentre sulla spalla
siede la pioggia come una bertuccia,
e la città si turba; con un dito
mi solletica un lobo. Tutto è secco.
Io sola son bagnata fino alle ossa.