Текст и перевод песни Javier Corcobado - François de Vacaciones

François de Vacaciones

François se despertó con el escozor de sus ingles
Se quitó el bañador, aún húmedo,
Recordando su sueño incómodo de verano:
Un coito no consumado con una mujer fumadora de nubes
De cuerpo desnudo cubierto por decenas de pequeñas tetas,
Tumbada sobre las rocas mojadas
Por la espuma rabiosa de las olas.
El se acercaba a ella y tocaba en el pianito de sus pies.
Entonces se despertaba.

Cogió la pistola somnolienta de debajo de la almohada.
Comprobó que estaba cargada
Y la envolvió con la toalla
Recordando la escena del sueño.
El amor le resultaba lejano y extraño.
Se puso una camiseta con una sirena serigrafiada.
El bañador de repuesto también estaba húmedo,
Pero no le importó; se guardó en la cintura
Un paquete de cigarrillos y un encendedor.

Salió al comedor
Su madre estaba sentada pelando verduras.
François la besó en la frente y ella sonrió en silencio.
Estaban veraneando en un pueblo de la costa mediterránea.
Dos semanas en un apartamento de alquiler pequeño y acogedor
Escalera de caracol hasta la azotea,
Dos dormitorios, salón con cocina y baño.
No se veía el mar.
Su padre fingía leer el periódico
En su silla de ruedas con su mirada helada y muda.
François se acercó a él y le dejó un cigarrillo
Sobre las rodillas sin que su madre lo viera.

François bebió de su tasa palpo el arma entre los pliegues de la toalla
Miro a su padre y luego a su madre,
Sus ojos verdes espejos irritantes de realidad
Destellaron espejismos de piedad
Primero apunto a su madre a la cabeza, agachada sobre las peladuras
Le disparo en el centro del cráneo, se oyó un grave silencio
Inmediatamente después le alcanzo a su padre en el centro del pecho
François se levanto y salió corriendo del apartamento.

Bajo las escaleras y salió a la calle sin mirar atrás
Llego hasta la playa de agosto cientos de turistas infectados de cremas
Meandose en el agua del mar exhibiendo sus cuerpos deformes
Y vergonzosos e irritados por la invasión de dulces medusas iris aras
Las mujeres enseñando al sol sus nuevas remodelaciones quirúrgicas
Los hombres sus sacrificios de gimnasio.

Olores cosméticos engendrando ira, castillos de arena enfermos
Sombrillas inseguras claudicando ante el viento,
Teléfonos buceando entre las faldas de las algas
La gente asándose, hambrienta y sedienta de obsesivo descanso antinatural
François planto su toalla cerca ese matrimonio con dos hijas gemelas
Adolecentes, rubias de pelo y tostadas de piel
Esas muchachas tenían el mismo rostro que la mujer de su sueño
Ellas eran su anhelo, las culpables de sus orgasmos involuntarios
Las musas de su amor abortado
François contemplo con sus ojos verdes la epidermis del mar
Infestado de colchonetas, balones de plástico, lanchas a lo lejos.

François asió fuertemente la empuñadura del arma
Casi sin apuntar comenzó a disparar a la familia
Se oyeron agudos chillidos femeninos, llantos de bebe, gruñidos de hombre
Se puso de pie y empezó a disparar a su alrededor
El griterío invadió la playa, pero se podía oír el bostezo del sol.

François cogió su toalla y empezó a pasear por la orilla
Disparando a todos y todas a su paso hasta las cañas de los pescadores
Sin la adrenalina, sin miedo
En su corazón de diminuta guerra hormigueaba ingenua y perversa la emoción
En su mente algunos equinados pensamientos.

Volviendo al apartamento percibió en su boca el frágil
Sabor amargo del ruido de su alma
Prendido de la adolescencia
Subió las escaleras a pata coja
Abrió la puerta y vio a su madre de pie.
El volvió a dispararle en el corazón
El arma ya estaba descargada
François se acerco al fregadero y la volvió a llenar
Con jabón y agua.

François on Vacation

François woke up with a stinging sensation in his groin.
He took off his swimsuit, still wet,
Remembering his uncomfortable summer dream:
Unconsummated intercourse with a woman who smoked clouds
Her naked body covered by dozens of small breasts,
Lying on the rocks wet
From the furious foam of the waves.
He approached her and played on the little piano of her feet.
Then he woke up.

He took the sleepy pistol from under his pillow.
He checked that it was loaded
And wrapped it in the towel
Remembering the scene from the dream.
Love seemed distant and strange to him.
He put on a t-shirt with a mermaid screen-printed on it.
The spare swimsuit was also wet,
But he didn't care; he tucked away in his waistband
A pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

He went out to the dining room
His mother was sitting there peeling vegetables.
François kissed her on the forehead and she smiled silently.
They were vacationing in a town on the Mediterranean coast.
Two weeks in a small and cozy rental apartment
Spiral staircase to the roof,
Two bedrooms, living room with kitchen and bathroom.
You couldn't see the sea.
His father pretended to read the newspaper
In his wheelchair with his icy and mute gaze.
François went over to him and left a cigarette
On his knees without his mother seeing.

François drank from his cup, felt the weapon between the folds of the towel,
Looked at his father and then at his mother,
Their green eyes—irritating mirrors of reality—
Flashed mirages of pity.
First he pointed at his mother's head, bent over the peelings,
He shot her in the center of the skull, a grave silence was heard.
Immediately afterwards he reached his father in the center of the chest.
François got up and ran out of the apartment.

He went down the stairs and went out into the street without looking back,
Arrived at the August beach, hundreds of tourists infected with creams
Peeing in the seawater, exhibiting their deformed bodies
And embarrassed and irritated by the invasion of sweet jellyfish, iris aras.
The women showing their new surgical remodellings to the sun,
The men their gym sacrifices.

Cosmetic odors engendering anger, sick sandcastles,
Unsafe umbrellas collapsing before the wind,
Telephones diving among the seaweed skirts,
People roasting themselves, hungry and thirsty for an obsessive unnatural rest.
François planted his towel near that married couple with two twin daughters,
Teenagers, blonde-haired and tanned,
Those girls had the same face as the woman in his dream.
They were his longing, the culprits of his involuntary orgasms,
The muses of his aborted love.
François contemplated the epidermis of the sea with his green eyes,
Infested with mattresses, plastic balls, boats in the distance.

François gripped the handle of the gun tightly,
Almost without aiming he began to shoot at the family.
High-pitched female shrieks, baby cries, male grunts were heard.
He stood up and started shooting around him.
The screaming invaded the beach, but you could hear the sun's yawn.

François took his towel and started walking along the shore,
Shooting at everyone in his path, all the way to the fishermen's canes,
Without adrenaline, without fear.
In his heart of tiny war, the emotion—naive and perverse—teemed.
In his mind, a few equine thoughts.

Returning to the apartment he perceived in his mouth the fragile
Bitter taste of the noise of his soul
Clinging to adolescence.
He climbed the stairs with a limp.
He opened the door and saw his mother standing.
He shot her again in the heart.
The gun was already unloaded.
François approached the sink and filled it again
With soap and water.