Catullus 16 Literal English Translation Original Latin Line I will sodomize you and face-fuck you, Pēdīcābō ego vōs et irrumābō 16.1 cocksucker Aurelius and butt-boy Furius, Aurēlī pathice et cinaede Fūrī, 16.2 who think, from my little verses, quī mē ex versiculīs meīs putāstis 16.3 because they're a little soft, that I have no shame. quod sunt molliculī, parum pudīcum. 16.4 For it is right for the devoted poet to be chaste Nam castum esse decet pium poētam 16.5 himself, but it's not necessary for his verses to be so. ipsum, versiculōs nihil necesse est 16.6 [Verses] which then indeed have taste and charm, quī tum dēnique habent salem ac lepōrem 16.7 If they are delicate and have no shame, Sī sint molliculī ac parum pudīcī 16.8 And because they can incite an itch, et quod prūriat incitāre possint 16.9 And I don't mean in boys, but in nōn dīcō puerīs sed hīs pilōsīs 16.10 Those hairy men who can't move their loins. quī dūrōs nequeunt movēre lumbōs. 16.11 You, because [about] my many thousands of kisses Vōs quod mīlia multa bāsiōrum 16.12 You've read, you think me less of a man? lēgistis male mē marem putātis? 16.13 I will sodomize you and face-fuck you. Pēdīcābō ego vōs et irrumābō. 16.14 Excerpt from Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman He was baffled to know that apricot trees existed in, of all places, our orchard. On late afternoons, when there was nothing to do in the house, Mafalda would ask him to climb a ladder with a basket and pick those fruits that were almost blushing with shame, she said. He would joke in Italian, pick one out, and ask, Is this one blushing with shame? No, she would say, this one is too young still, youth has no shame, shame comes with age. I shall never forget watching him from my table as he climbed the small ladder wearing his red bathing trunks, taking forever to pick the ripest apricots. On his way to the kitchen— wicker basket, espadrilles, billowy shirt, suntan lotion, and all— he threw me a very large one, saying, “Yours,” in just the same way he'd throw a tennis ball across the court and say, “Your serve.” Of course, he had no idea what I'd been thinking minutes earlier, but the firm, rounded cheeks of the apricot with their dimple in the middle reminded me of how his body had stretched across the boughs of the tree with his tight, rounded ass echoing the color and the shape of the fruit. Touching the apricot was like touching him. He would never know, just as the people we buy the newspaper from and then fantasize about all night have no idea that this particular inflection on their face or that tan along their exposed shoulder will give us no end of pleasure when we're alone. Yours, like Later!, had an off-the-cuff, unceremonious, here, catch quality that reminded me how twisted and secretive my desires were compared to the expansive spontaneity of everything about him. It would never have occurred to him that in placing the apricot in my palm he was giving me his ass to hold or that, in biting the fruit, I was also biting into that part of his body that must have been fairer than the rest because it never apricated— and near it, if I dared to bite that far, his apricock. In fact, he knew more about apricots than we did—their grafts, etymology, origins, fortunes in and around the Mediterranean. At the breakfast table that morning, my father explained that the name for the fruit came from the Arabic, since the word— in Italian, albicocca, abricot in French, aprikose in Ger- man, like the words “algebra,” “alchemy,” and “alcohol”—was derived from an Arabic noun combined with the Arabic article al- before it. The origin of albicocca was al-birgug. My father, who couldn't resist not leaving well enough alone and needed to top his entire performance with a little fillip of more recent vintage, added that what was truly amazing was that, in Israel and in many Arab countries nowadays, the fruit is referred to by a totally different name: mishmish. My mother was nonplussed. We all, including my two cousins who were visiting that week, had an impulse to clap. On the matter of etymologies, however, Oliver begged to differ. “Ah?!” was my father’s startled response. “The word is actually not an Arabic word,” he said. “How so?” My father was clearly mimicking Socratic irony, which would start with an innocent “You don’t say,” only then to lead his interlocutor onto turbulent shoals. “It's a long story, so bear with me, Pro.” Suddenly Oliver had become serious. “Many Latin words are derived from the Greek. In the case of “apricot,” however, it’s the other way around; the Greek takes over from Latin. The Latin word was praecoquum, from pre-coquere, pre-cook, to ripen early, as in ‘precocious,’ meaning premature.” The Byzantines borrowed praecox, and it became prekokkia or berikokki, which is finally how the Arabs must have inherited it as al-birquq.” My mother, unable to resist his charm, reached out to him and tousled his hair and said, “Che muvi star!” “He is right, there is no denying it,” said my father under his breath, as though mimicking the part of a cowered Galileo forced to mutter the truth to himself. “Courtesy of Philology 101,” said Oliver. All I kept thinking of was apricock precock, precock apricock. One day I saw Oliver sharing the same ladder with the gardener, trying to learn all he could about Anchise’s grafts, which explained why our apricots were larger, fleshier, juicier than most apricots in the region. He became fascinated with the grafts, especially when he discovered that the gardener could spend hours sharing everything he knew about them with anyone who cared to ask. Oliver, it turned out, knew more about all manner of foods, cheeses, and wines than all of us put together. Even Mafalda was wowed and would, on occasion, defer to his opinion—Do you think I should lightly fry the paste with either onions or sage? Doesn't it taste too lemony now? I ruined it, didn’t I? I should have added an extra egg—it’s not holding! Should I use the new blender or should I stick to the old mortar and pestle? My mother couldn’t resist throwing in a barb or two. Like all caubois, she said: they know everything there is to know about food, because they can’t hold a knife and fork properly. Gourmet aristocrats with plebian manners. Feed him in the kitchen. With pleasure, Mafalda would have replied. And indeed, one day when he arrived very late for lunch after spending the morning with his translator, there was Signor Ulliva in the kitchen, eating spaghetti and drinking dark red wine with Mafalda, Manfredi, her husband and our driver, and Anchise, all of them trying to teach him a Neapolitan song. It was not only the national hymn of their southern youth, but it was the best they could offer when they wished to entertain royalty. Everyone was won over.
