Харуки Мураками - В год спагетти - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Spaghetti in the year

1971 was the year of Spaghetti.

In 1971, I cooked spaghetti to live, and lived to cook spaghetti. For me, the steam, rising from the pan, was the subject of pride, and the tomato sauce, languishing over low heat, was the object of lust.

I acquired an aluminum pot of such a size that it was possible to atone for a German shepherd, acquired a special chronometer for Professional cooks and amateur cooks, in the supermarket, where foreigners go for food, I gained different spices with wise names, in the bookstore I found a special book About spaghetti, bought a dozen tomatoes.

The smells of garlic, onions, vegetable oil and God the news of which broke up into atoms and scattered through the air, and then, connecting in complete harmony, filled every corner of my room with six tatami [28]. The amber turned out, as in the ancient Roman sewer.

It was a thousand nine hundred and seventy of our era in the year, in the year of Spaghetti.

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Actually, I cooked and ate spaghetti alone. Sometimes, however, it happened to share this pleasure with someone, but I liked them to absorb them much more. I think that spaghetti is a dish that a person should eat alone. Why? Don't know.

Spaghetti always relied on tea and salad. I poured three tablespoons of black tea into the kettle and prepared a salad that consisted only of brass and cucumbers. He gently placed everything on the table and, glancing in a glazing in the newspaper, slowly, in proud loneliness, ate spaghetti. This ceremony continued from Sunday to Saturday, after which a new Sunday came, and with it - a new round of spaghetics.

When I sat lonely behind Spaghetti's plate, it seemed to me that now a knock on the door and someone would enter. Most often, such a feeling visited me on rainy days in the afternoon.

Every time they were different people. When a stranger, and when - a person known to me. That girl with such thin legs that it was scary to look (at school I set her a date, one single), then I myself, as it was a few years ago. Or William Holden with Jennifer Jones [29].

William Holden?

But none of them came to me. In indecision, they stomped at my door and left somewhere, without knocking.

And outside the window is rain.

Spring, summer, autumn ... I cooked everything and cooked spaghetti. It was as if I took a revenge for something. He cooked them, like a devoted lonely woman, in batches, throwing love letters from a former boyfriend into a stove. He blinded in a bowl of a German shepherd from the shadows printed in time, threw it into boiling water, and salt it. Holding long sticks in my hands, I didn’t move a step away from the pan in anticipation until the kitchen timer published its sad Bip.

Spaghetti is a terribly insidious thing, so I did not lower my eyes from them. They all strove to cross over the edge of the pan and get lost in night darkness. The night was ready to quietly accept them, just as tropical jungle dissolve in the eternity of multi -colored butterflies.

Spaghetti Bolognaze

Spaghetti Basilico

Spaghetti with beef tongue

Spaghetti with mollusks in tomato sauce

Spaghetti carbonar

Spaghetti with garlic

And Spaghetti, who could not boast of such sonorous tragic names, because they went the remnants of all sorts of things that were littered in the refrigerator.

Spaghetti were born in the clouds of steam, like a water stream along the river channel, glided along the slope of the times, called 1971, and disappeared.

I mourn them.

Spaghetti 1971.

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