Ένα υπέροχο μικρό χιουμοριστικό διήγημα από το Woody Allen στο τελευταίο τεύχος του New Yorker.
Δύο φίλοι μετά το θάνατό τους επιστρέφουν στη γη σαν… αστακοί σε ένα ακριβό Νεοϋορκέζικο εστιατόριο, έτοιμοι να γίνουν το πρώτο πιάτο του ανθρώπου που τους εξαπάτησε! Ο Woody Allen γράφει περίπου όπως κινηματογραφεί: γεμάτος ρυθμό, κομψότητα αλλά πάνω απ’ όλα αδυσώπητο χιούμορ. Χαρείτε το διηγηματάκι:
TAILS OF MANHATTAN
by Woody Allen
Two weeks ago, Abe Moscowitz dropped dead of a heart attack and was reincarnated as a lobster. Trapped off the coast of Maine, he was shipped to Manhattan and dumped into a tank at a posh Upper East Side seafood restaurant. In the tank there were several other lobsters, one of whom recognized him. «Abe, is that you?» the creature asked, his antennae perking up.
«Who’s that? Who’s talking to me?» Moscowitz said, still dazed by the mystical slam-bang postmortem that had transmogrified him into a crustacean.
«It’s me, Moe Silverman,» the other lobster said.
«O.M.G.!» Moscowitz piped, recognizing the voice of an old gin-rummy colleague. «What’s going on?»
«We’re reborn,» Moe explained. «As a couple of two-pounders.»
«Lobsters? This is how I wind up after leading a just life? In a tank on Third Avenue?»
«The Lord works in strange ways,» Moe Silverman explained. «Take Phil Pinchuck. The man keeled over with an aneurysm, he’s now a hamster. All day, running at the stupid wheel. For years he was a Yale professor. My point is he’s gotten to like the wheel. He pedals and pedals, running nowhere, but he smiles.»
Moscowitz did not like his new condition at all. Why should a decent citizen like himself, a dentist, a mensch who deserved to relive life as a soaring eagle or ensconced in the lap of some sexy socialite getting his fur stroked, come back ignominiously as an entrée on a menu? It was his cruel fate to be delicious, to turn up as Today’s Special, along with a baked potato and dessert. This led to a discussion by the two lobsters of the mysteries of existence, of religion, and how capricious the universe was, when someone like Sol Drazin, a schlemiel they knew from the catering business, came back after a fatal stroke as a stud horse impregnating cute little thoroughbred fillies for high fees. Feeling sorry for himself and angry, Moscowitz swam about, unable to buy into Silverman’s Buddha-like resignation over the prospect of being served thermidor.
At that moment, who walked into the restaurant and sits down at a nearby table but Bernie Madoff. If Moscowitz had been bitter and agitated before, now he gasped as his tail started churning the water like an Evinrude.
«I don’t believe this,» he said, pressing his little black peepers to the glass walls. «That goniff who should be doing time, chopping rocks, making license plates, somehow slipped out of his apartment confinement and he’s treating himself to a shore dinner.»
«Clock the ice on his immortal beloved,» Moe observed, scanning Mrs. M.’s rings and bracelets.
Moscowitz fought back his acid reflux, a condition that had followed him from his former life. «He’s the reason I’m here,» he said, riled to a fever pitch.
«Tell me about it,» Moe Silverman said. «I played golf with the man in Florida, which incidentally he’ll move the ball with his foot if you’re not watching.»
«Ο Γούντι Άλεν μιλάει για το σεξ»