word for word
parola per parola
palavra por palavra
wort für wort
palabra por palabra
mot pour mot 2025
word for word
parola per parola
palavra por palavra
wort für wort
palabra por palabra
mot pour mot
word for word
parola per parola
palavra por palavra
wort für wort
palabra por palabra
mot pour mot 2025
word for word
parola per parola
palavra por palavra
palabra por palabra
mot pour mot
foreword
word for word / 一字换一字
Columbia University School of the Arts
Fudan University
word for word / mot pour mot
Columbia University School of the Arts
Université Paris 8
word for word / wort für wort
Columbia University School of the Arts
Deutsches Literaturinstitut Leipzig
word for word / palavra por palavra
Columbia University School of the Arts
Instituto Vera Cruz Formação de Escritores
word for word / palabra por palabra
Columbia University School of the Arts
Universidad Diego Portales
acknowledgments
Word for Word is an exchange program that was conceived in 2011 by Professor Binnie Kirshenbaum, then Chair of the Writing Program in Columbia University’s School of the Arts. The exchange was created in the belief that that when writers engage in the art of literary translation, collaborating on translations of each other’s work, the experience will broaden and enrich their linguistic imaginations.
Since 2011, the Writing Program has conducted travel-based exchanges in partnership with the Deutsches Literaturinstitut Leipzig in Leipzig, Germany; Scuola Holden in Turin, Italy; the Institut Ramon Llull and Universitat Pompeu Fabra-IDEC in Barcelona, Catalonia (Spain); the Columbia Global Center | Middle East in Amman, Jordan; Gallaudet University in Washington, D.C.; and the University of the Arts Helsinki in Helsinki, Finland.
In 2016, the Word for Word program expanded to include a collaborative translation workshop that pairs Writing Program students with partners at two of these same institutions—the Deutsches Literaturinstitut Leipzig and Scuola Holden—as well as new ones: Université Paris 8 in Paris, France; Universidad Diego Portales in Santiago, Chile; and the Instituto Vera Cruz in São Paulo, Brazil. These workshop-based partnerships offer participants the chance to expand their horizons even without travel via personal and literary exchange and collaboration, establishing a new model for cross-cultural engagement. In 2022, we welcomed a sixth institutional partner: Fudan University in Shanghai, China.
The present volume offers selections from the works (originals and translations) written by members of the Spring 2025 Word for Word Workshop in the Columbia School of the Arts and their partners writing in Chinese, French, German, Portuguese and Spanish in Shanghai, Paris, Leipzig, São Paulo, and Santiago. This twelfth in our series of Word for Word anthologies collects the work of twenty
exceptionally talented writers, presented here in tribute to all the ways in which artistic exchange can build bridges between peoples and cultures. In a year that has seen freedom of expression under serious threat both on and off our campuses here and abroad, it is more important than ever to foster international communication and collaboration. I am grateful for the opportunity this project has given this group of emerging writers to forge new relationships and artistic collaborations around the world. Singly and together, these twenty new literary voices offer suggestions for how to reach across national borders and strive for a global community based not on political or economic advantage but on human connection.
Susan Bernofsky Director, Literary Translation at Columbia
word for word /
在《恶心学解析》这部第一人称视角的作品中, 主人公在叙述自己的成长经历中的中年人的婚外情 事件时,保持了一种冷静的叙述口吻。他感到痛
苦,并且有了暴食症倾向,但他依然在试图用病理 学、分类、问题归因的方式让自己置于一种合理化 的叙事处境,一种旁观的、解离的状态。我在翻译 时,会选择偏好文雅的、专业化的语言风格,在戏 剧冲突的情节之中制造反差。
在情绪递进的传达上,我希望用简单、准确的语 句制造一种节奏感。比如第五页的大段名次排列, 利用事物本身的属性传达出主人公对自我剖析的冷 峻。我会选择将恶心一次名动结合,在翻译时,不 破坏整体的排列视觉。中文是表形表意的文字,字 句的斟酌会影响语言的节奏。同样人称和时代的转 换在中文会显得比较含蓄,不需要特意标注,我会 在翻译时也做适当的删减。
这篇作品所展现的地域文化和我所在的中文创作 生态很不同。主人公一直在追问自己,甚至到了逼 问的程度。情绪的递进和自我暴露的真诚,这在中 文含蓄的语境中是少见的表达。正是这次翻译的机 会让我可以和英文写作的同龄人有了交流机会,教 学相长,收获颇多。
愿未来我们都能创作出让自己满意的作品。
Mom
Yesterday, with my mom, I saw my dad’s lover. They didn’t know each other. I was standing aside, pretending not knowing anything. It wasn’t the first time I saw my dad’s lover with my mom. His two-time wasn’t something unacceptable for me.
I became numb to middle-aged people fooling around as far back as nineteen years ago. That year I was six. My mom took me ice skating on Lake Ontario with her friend, a lady who had her eyes wide apart like a catfish. A man was accompanying her. Even though I couldn’t recollect her husband’s face, I was certain that man wasn’t him.
The four of us skated for a while. A wind picked up, and I felt the chill on my face. Mom pulled my wool hat down over my ears and took my hand to the shore. At Cherry Beach, there were a few food trucks parked around the area. My mother led me to the ice cream truck.
As I turned around I saw the catfish lady and the man held hands secretly by the lake shore. The winter breeze blew. The blinding white sunlight reflected off the lake’s surface as if something was trembling in the center. The vanilla ice cream melted and dripped down my hand. We left the beach, walked, and eventually stood under the unappealing CN Tower, breathing the tainted air between the men and women harboring secrets on this land.
I remembered the time when I was in elementary school. I was punished to copy Chinese characters repeatedly. As I wrote them over and over again, the characters became symbols leaping off the white plain, bouncing on my table. People were the same. As they passed by, I felt they were not human beings anymore. They were lumps of cells, flesh, held together by
昨天,我和妈妈在一起时,看见了我爸的情人。她们并不 认识彼此。我站在一旁,装作一无所知。这不是我们第一次碰 到我爸的情人。对我来说,他的双重生活并非不可接受。
早在十九年前,我就对中年人的婚外情感到麻木。那年我 六岁,妈妈带我去安大略湖滑冰。还有她的朋友,一个眼睛会 像鲶鱼一样分开的女人。一个男人陪着她。尽管我记不清她丈 夫的脸,但我确信,他不是那个男人。
我们四个滑了会儿冰。起风了,我的脸感到冷意。妈妈将 我的羊毛帽拉过耳下,拉起我的手,我们走向湖边。在樱桃海 滩附近有一些贩卖小食的摊车。妈妈带我走向冰激凌车。当我 回头时,我看到鲶鱼女士在湖边隐秘地牵着那个男人的手。冬 日的微风吹拂着。射在湖面上的白光眩目地在湖中颤动,像某 种生物。香草冰激凌融化,滴在我的手上。我们离开沙滩,走 着,最后停在毫无吸引力的加拿大国家电视塔前,一同呼吸着 这片地上男女隐秘而污浊的空气。
我记得读小学的时候,我被罚重复抄写汉字。当我把它们 写了一遍又一遍时,那些象形字变成了从白纸上跃出的符号。
人也如此。当他们经过时,我感受到的他们不再是人。他们是 一群由骨头黏合的细胞团、肉块,四肢像狗一样抽搐,眼球不 时地转动。靠近,我看到人类的肺泡在膨胀、收缩。浑浊的血 液在心脏的血管上被反复地吸入、抽出。填塞在附近的黄色脂 肪,在皮下滴滴如漏。我想这可以做成好多块肥皂。
bones. Their limbs flopped around like a dog. Their eyes rolled every now and then. Taking a closer look, I could see the alveoli of a human’s lungs bulging and deflating, the muddy blood that weaved in and out of the vessels around the heart, and around everything is the yellow fat, under the skin, droplet by droplet. I think it could be made into bars of soap.
We are all destined for death, and I couldn’t decide the better cause. Will I die from getting hit by a car or eventual organ failure? Like how my mom often cursed at my dad to get hit by a car? I didn’t know how my mom and dad met, and how they ended up married to each other. This was like the things on the other side of the black hole, a puzzle to me. They were incompatible like fire and water. They disagreed on everything except on criticizing the communists and my school grades. What did they fight about? Everything. The subject matter was a medium for them to hang their rage on. When they fought, my mom liked to smash things at hand and made everyone skip a heartbeat.
When my mom cursed my dad, she often said it with teary eyes and quivered lips. According to my mom, there were only barbarians where my dad was from, and my dad’s family had horrible genes that some of his uncle’s children were born deficient.
“I made such a mistake marrying you,” my mom said frequently.
“You’re just like your father.” She would scold me with a similar tone if I happened to be present.
Oedipus theory that all of the men want to commit patricide and marry our mothers had hit a wall with me. Every time I glanced at her aggrieved and vicious look, I became more convinced that they must have loved each other in a way of their own, a way that perhaps only a true philosopher could understand. I was able to grasp that “being in a bad family” and “Being in a bad family” was not too dissimilar no matter what Heidegger would say. Since I had been told that I was just like my dad, I got nauseated from time to time, usually in the dead of night. I attributed it either to a fatal disease or my mom’s cooking. Weirdly my yearly physical had me in good health.
我们都注定要死,我无法选择哪种死法更好。我会死于车 祸或是器官衰竭吗?就像我妈诅咒我爸会被车撞一样?我不知 道他们怎么遇见彼此,又怎么选择了对方结婚。这就像是黑洞 的另一边,一个谜题。他们水火不容,反对彼此的一切,除了 骂共产党和我的成绩。什么让他们争吵不停?一切。任何话题 不过是他们表达愤怒的一种介质。我妈喜欢在吵架时随手扔东 西,让大家的心像心悸一样狂跳不止。
当我妈诅咒我爸时,她总是哭着眼睛,颤着嘴唇说出那句 话。据我妈所说,我爸来自全是野蛮人的地方。我爸的家族有 着可怕的基因,一些他舅舅的孩子生下来就是有缺陷的。
“和你结婚是一个错误,”我妈经常说这句话。
“你就像你爸一样。”她会用同样的语气骂我,如果我碰 巧在场。
俄狄浦斯理论说,所有男人都想杀掉他们的父亲并且取而 代之,这在我这儿行不通。每当我的视线扫过她因受伤而扭 曲的脸时,我都更加确信,他们一定在用他们独有的方式爱着 彼此,一种也许只有真正的哲学家才能够懂得的方式。无论海 德格尔怎么说,在我的理解之中,“身处于一个糟糕的家庭” 和“存在于一个糟糕的家庭”并没有太大的差别。自从我被说 和我爸没有两样之后,我开始不时地呕吐,时间通常是深夜。
我将这归因于一种致命的疾病,或者我妈的厨艺。奇怪的是, 我每年的体检报告都显示健康状态良好。
I watched porn on my dad’s computer in the fourth grade. I would go through every video he had. The monitor wasn’t flat back then. It was a cube with a butt that ran Windows XP. One time, I found a new video. There was only a bed at first. Then a pair came in. It struck me that the pair on screen were my dad and a woman. The shock forced me to jump out of the chair and unplug the power. It was terrifying. I’d rather gouge my eyes out if I was forced to watch my dad’s sex tape. I had never touched his computer since. Though I wondered. Who was that woman? I didn’t remember much of her face. The DV camera didn’t have the best quality. After that my dad volunteered to go to the parent-teacher conferences, and I assumed from all the clues that the woman was my head teacher.
The more I thought about it, the more I thought it was her.
From then on, every time she stepped up to the podium, all I saw was her naked body. In the small town I was in, marriage couldn’t stop people from fucking with each other. I’d seen it myself so many times.
My cousin and his wife loved playing mahjong. They would invite their neighbors to play at home. Then his wife ran away with a man who had better skills.
One of my classmates’ father left him with a letter that said, “These depressing days are worse than death. I am going to find true love.” A year later, he was found two blocks away in a bed with a widow.
When I was in the fifth grade, my mom forbade me to play with the most beautiful girl in the class, because her mother maintained an affair with her superior for many years. After an anonymous report, she voluntarily resigned and disappeared. Later, she was found at a mahjong club taking drugs.
Around the year 2000, there were mahjong clubs everywhere in the neighbourhood. Middle-aged men and women gathered in the clubs, gambling and cheating on their spouses, and when they got tired, they switched to drugs.
My dad had a colleague addicted to drugs. Later we didn’t know whether it was prostitution or syringe injection, anyway, he contracted AIDS. My dad was so terrified when he heard
四年级的时候,我在父亲的电脑上看到了性录像。我浏览 了他电脑里的每一个视频。那时的显示器不是平面的。那是一 个凸起着屁股、运行着Windows XP 系统的方盒子。有一次, 我找到了一个新视频。画面的初始只是一张床。一对男女进来 了。我忽然意识到,屏幕上的那对男女是我父亲和一个女人。 这幅画面带来的惊吓迫使我从椅子上跳下并拔下了电源。感觉 非常糟糕。如果我被迫观看了父亲的录像带,我宁愿从眼眶中 挖出眼睛。从那以后,我再也没碰过他的电脑。尽管我一直在 想。那个女人是谁?我有点记不清她的脸了。DV机没有那么好 的画质。在那之后,父亲自愿参加了我的家长会,我从所有的 线索中推定出一个结论,那个女人是我的班主任。
我考虑的越多,我就越确信那个女人是她。
从那以后,每次当她走上讲台前,我只能看见她的裸体。
我生活的城市太小,婚姻无法阻碍人们交配。我见过很多次 了。
表哥和他老婆都爱打麻将。他们总是邀请邻居到家里来 打。后来,他老婆就和比他麻将打得好的男人跑了。
我一个同学的父亲抛弃了他,留下了一封信,“这种抑郁 的日子比死了还可怕。我要去寻找真爱了。”一年后,他被发 现和两个街区外的一个寡妇在一张床上。
当时我在读五年级,母亲禁止我和班里最漂亮的女孩一起 玩。因为她妈妈和上司搞了很多年婚外情。在一封举报信之 后,她主动离职并下落不明。后来,她被发现时正在麻将馆吸 毒。
大概是2000年左右,社区里到处都是麻将馆。中年男女们 聚集在一起,赌钱、出轨。等他们开始疲惫于此,他们转而开 始吸毒。
父亲的一名同事吸毒成瘾。我们不知道那是因为卖淫还是 毒品注射,总之,他后来得了艾滋病。父亲听到消息时吓得像
about it that he shat his pants. I thought my dad and the man had an affair too. Who knew that they only had dinner once. He needed to read more books.
One afternoon in my junior high, I skipped class and went to the internet bar. Several teenagers were injecting each other in the back alley. Same age as me, bone thin. Their teeth were rotten into black holes. The beautiful girl in the primary school was one of them. She asked me if I had some money. I gave her all that I had. She said she could have sex with me. I refused. Is she still alive?
They jeered at me. I wasn’t afraid of them. I thought they walked through a door. The door was there. Someone pushed the door, it opened, and they walked in. It was that simple. What’s on the other side of the door, I couldn’t say. Nor could I feel it. They wandered the streets, their presence repulsive yet evoking sympathy in me. For I dare to surmise, they’d never been loved, nor would they ever be. Not only were they emotionally impoverished. They were also penniless, wearing an animal-like grin on their faces, like forever. They were destined to die from the time they were born, like all of us. Only God allowed them to die sooner.
What did God give me, I didn’t know, maybe nausea. Sooner or later, I would die of nausea.
As I aged, the frequency of my nausea increased. It was not rhetorical; it was physical.
I felt nauseated when I walked in the market in Chinatown. I always stepped on fish guts mixed with blood and sludge. The stranded catfish looked at me sideways with one eye. The dead chicken was being bled out. The half-dead chickens screamed in their cages emitting foul odors, waiting to be beheaded. The air was filled with the stench of animal feces and the scent of fear. My legs became loose and my stomach lurched. These were reflective nausea.
Not long after starting high school, I frequently binge ate late at night. There was a time I felt like I wasn’t human anymore. I constantly overate at midnight. I became an animal, a pig, or a tapeworm. All the food I stuffed and swallowed made me feel great harmony. I woke up with nausea the next morning, ran to the toilet, wrapped my arm around it, and threw up.
拉裤兜子了一样。我还以为他们俩也有一腿。谁知道他们只不 过一起吃过一顿晚饭。他还是得多读点书。
初中时期的一次下午,我逃课去了网吧。一群人在巷子里 互相注射毒品。他们看起来和我一样大,一样的瘦。他们的牙 齿已经烂成了黑洞。小学时班里最漂亮的那个女孩也在其中之 一。她想问我要点钱。我给了她我身上的全部零钱。她说可以 和我上床。我拒绝了。她还“存在”吗? 他们对此嘲弄了我。我并不害怕。我认为他们穿过了一道 门。那扇门就在那里。一些人去推门,门开了,然后他们走了 进去。事情就是这么简单。我无法言说出门的那一侧是什么。 我感应不到。他们在街上徘徊。他们以令人厌恶的方式存在, 却激起了我的怜悯。我大胆地推测,他们不会爱彼此,也永远 不会爱。不仅仅是因为他们匮乏的情感。他们同样一文不值, 脸上挂着动物一样的傻笑,永远如此。他们从出生时就注定要 死,我们所有人都一样。只不过上帝允许他们早点死。
上帝给予了我什么?我不知道,也许是恶心感。我迟早或 死于恶心。恶心的频次在随着年龄增长。这不是修辞手法;这 是切肤之感。
当我走进唐人街的集市,我感到恶心。我总是踩到混着血 和淤泥的鱼内脏。被困的鲶鱼一只眼斜瞥着我。宰杀掉的鸡在 放血。待宰的鸡在笼子里尖叫、发臭,等待被砍头。空气中弥 漫着动物粪便的味道和恐惧的气息。我的双腿开始发软,胃袋 翻腾不止。
这是因反思产生的恶心。
上高中不久之后,我频繁地在深夜感到饥饿。有一段时 间,我感觉自己不再是人类。我常在午夜过食。我就像一个动 物,一头猪或者一条绦虫。我狼吞虎咽塞下的所有食物让我感 到一种极大的“和谐”。第二天一早,我在恶心感中醒来,我 跑到厕所,抱住马桶,吐了出来。然后我洗了把脸。我看向镜 子,却只看到了父亲的模样。
这是因条件反射产生的恶心。
Then I washed my face. I looked at the mirror, and I only saw my dad’s face.
These were conditioned nausea.
The nausea I often had was different. It had no signs and no reasons. At least, I didn’t know why. I didn’t step on anything, I didn’t smell urine or see blood, I didn’t overeat, and I didn’t talk to anyone.
Everything was disgusting. My dad. My relatives. All the humans in the world. Their existence and absurdity were beyond stinking, slimy, and dirty.
Animals. Breeding, multiplying, spreading. Disgusting. Plants. French Sycamore, hairy seeds floating. Heather, smelling like semen. Disgusting.
People having affairs. People teaching. The girl I liked. All living things. Disgusting. I closed my eyes and forced myself to think of random things. Math, the color black, the moon, underwear, the ocean, the sky. These things were a little bit better than humans and other living things because they were genderless. Still, I felt nauseated.
I had never even read Sartre’s Nausea. I swear to God.
Then I thought it was all because of my parents. They shouldn’t have sexual intercourse and give birth to me. It was all about sex. I had a feeling that maybe my symptom was about sex and reproduction, and it was innate. It was coded in my genes. I didn’t care how a Freudian psychoanalyst would explain it. That was how I felt.
Most of what my dad ever said to me was, “We brought you into this world. You should be grateful.” I asked why. He said I was an ungrateful son.
I asked, “Was I the one who wanted to come to this world? A world that I will never get comfortable with. A world that I will never understand. A world that I will never agree upon. A world that I will never forgive. Wasn’t it your decision? Did I have any chance to interfere?”
My mom said, “Stop it.”
When I was a sophomore in high school, my dad got an old film camera and often went out to take photos. I wasn’t curious about what he shot. Since I accidentally clicked on the sex tape, I never touched anything of his anymore.
我时常感到的那种恶心有所不同。它没有任何征兆和缘 由。至少我不知道它产生的原因。我没有踩到任何东西,没有 闻到尿液的气味,也没有看到血迹,没有暴饮暴食,也没有和 任何人交谈。但还是会感到恶心。
一切都恶心透了。父亲、亲戚们。世界上的所有人。他们 的存在以及那种荒诞的行为,远超过发臭、黏腻和肮脏的不 适。
动物。繁衍、增殖、扩散。恶心。植物。法国梧桐,毛茸 茸的种子四处飘飞。石楠花,闻起来有股精液的味道。恶心。
乱搞的人。教书育人的人。我喜欢过的女孩。所有活着的 生物。恶心。我闭上眼睛,强迫我去思考那些随机的事。数 学、黑色、月亮、内衣、大海、天空。这些事物比人类和其他 生物好点,因为它们是无性别的。但我仍然感到恶心。
我从未读过萨特的《恶心》。我向上帝发誓。
我认为这一切要归因为我的父母。他们不该发生性行为然 后生下我。一切都是关于性。我有种感觉,也许我的症状和 性、繁殖相关,并且与生俱来。它是我基因的编码。我不在 乎弗洛伊德派的科学家会如何做解释。这就我如何感受到的事 实。
父亲对我说的最多的一句话,“我们把你带到这个世界, 你应该学会感恩。”我总是问,为什么?他说,我是一个不懂 得感恩的儿子。
我问,“难道我想要被生在这个世界吗?”一个我从感到 舒服过的世界。一个我从未理解过的世界。一个我从未认同过 的世界。一个我从未原谅过的世界。这难道不是你的决定吗? 我有过任何可以干涉的机会吗? 母亲说,“别说了。”
高二的时候,父亲买了台老式胶片机,常带我出去拍照。 我从不好奇他在拍什么。从我点进他的性录像带后,我再也没 碰过他的任何东西。
不论如何,那天我在客厅看电视。父亲在他的新笔记本电
Anyway, I was watching TV in the living room that day. My dad was typing on his new laptop. When I got up from the couch, he closed the chat box. A picture then appeared. It was a short-haired woman under the CN Tower.
I glanced at it. I wished I didn’t. It was a nauseous burden for me. It was poorly composed, and definitely not a wallpaper downloaded from the internet. After a few days, he got a new pendant on his keys, and a glow on his face.
My anger toward my dad had reached its peak. Not because he cheated, but why was he cheating all the time? Who gave him the right to do that? Why didn’t he keep it low-key? Why did he treat me and my mom like fools? Why did I live with these dirty secrets? Why couldn’t I point at his face and yell at him?
Much later, I went to Toronto for college. I majored in Digital Future, the first time being offered by the school. Twenty-first century was the century of virtual insanity. Everything became digital. We were facing modernization. We were welcoming the digital world. We were walking towards the digital future. The school filled the program with the students rejected from their first major choices yet still chose to stay with the college.
My dad was always curious about what I was learning in college. I told him verbatim what our department head told us. It is the intersection of computer science, information technology, and the humanities. He told his coworkers that I was doing some IT-related stuff because he was ashamed of me. He believed that only women would study humanities.
I took a class called Ethnographic methods in my junior year. My assignment was to go to grocery stores, hair salons, coffee shops, and bookstores, peep on all kinds of people and record their behaviors. The goal was to produce a narrative account of a particular culture in different settings. At the end of the semester, I realized that everytime after I bought the newspaper, all I spent on the street zoning out was the time I had already completed the ethnographic project.
I enjoyed sitting down and observing people from a low vantage point, so I could see the face from the crevice of the mask. There were mostly three types of faces. The red-glowing: was mostly seen in those who cheated on their partners. The
脑上打字。当我从沙发上站起来时,他关闭了聊天框。一张 图片在屏幕上显露出来——一个短发女人在加拿大电视塔下。
我一眼瞥到了它。我真希望我没有看到。这对我来说是一 个恶心的负担。那张图片的构图很差劲,并且绝对不是从网 络下载的墙纸。几天后,他有了一个新的钥匙链,并且满脸得 意。
我对父亲的怒火上升到了极值。不是因为他的出轨,而是 为什么他一直在出轨?谁给予了他这样做的权力?他为什么不 能低调一点?他为什么对我和妈妈就像对待傻子一样?我为什 么要生活在这些肮脏的秘密之中?为什么我不能指着他的脸并 且朝他大喊大叫?
许久之后,我去多伦多上了大学。我主修数字未来专业, 这是学校首次开设的专业。21 世纪是疯狂虚拟的世纪。一切 都数字化了。我们正面临着现代化。我们正在迎接数字世界的 到来。我们正走向数字未来。学校拒绝了我们的第一志愿,把 仍选择这所学校的我们填进这个专业。
父亲总是好奇我在大学里学的东西。我一字不差地把系主 任告诉我们的话转述给他。这个专业是计算机科学、信息技术 和人文学科的交叉领域。他告诉他的同事,我在学一些和IT技 术相关的东西,因为他在为我感到羞耻。他认为只有女人会去 学人文学科。
大三的时候,我选了一门叫“人种志研究方法”的课程。 我的作业是去杂货店、美发店、咖啡店和书店,窥伺各种各样 的人并记录他们的行为。研究的目标是针对不同环境下的特定 文化生成一份叙述报告。在学期末的时候,我意识到每次我买 完报纸后,我花在在街上发呆的时间已经可以足够来完成我的 研究项目了。
我喜欢坐下来,从低视角观察人们,这样我就能从他们面 具的缝隙中看到真实的一面。人们的表情大多有三种类型。红 光满面型:大多出现在那些背叛伴侣的人脸上。痛苦面具型: 苦得就像吃了屎一样。面无表情型:比如我。
bittering: as bitter as eating shit. The expressionless: like me.
One afternoon several months ago. My dad was drinking on the couch in his underwear. I stared at the curve on his big belly, the beer foam on his double chin, his yellow teeth and the black calculus. I felt nauseated.
I stayed in front of the TV after hearing that a neighborhood VCD rental had been shut down for selling obscene content. The segment started with a shot of a movie poster for “The Seventh Seal.” Then it was a stack of mosaicked DVDs. The camera eventually landed on a man kneeling near the door with his face obscured. After the camera focused, I found he was the math teacher at my elementary school. I jumped up from the couch. What led him to sell porn?
My dad acted like he remembered something and tapped his head, “Aye, your head teacher, the good-looking one. What was her name again? Where did she go?”
I was stunned. Who the fuck are you trying to fool? “I don’t know. She was an idiot.” And you are an idiot too.
At that moment, I figured out why middle-aged people would have extramarital affairs. Because life was boring. There was no love, no tension, no nothing. A pool of stagnant water. But cheating was something else. It was a violation of the social norms. It was a deadly ecstasy. It was throwing a bomb into the water.
His beeper went off several times in a row, “I need to buy some eggs.” I immediately got up from the couch, “I’ll go with you.”
While I was still putting on my pants, my dad went out like a flash. I didn’t know where exactly my anger came from. I was going to yell at him from the balcony, but I only saw the smoke trail from his motorcycle.
Damn it! All my blood rushed to my head. My eyes soured. I couldn’t stand it. My poor mom. My affair-addicted dad. I felt nauseated again.
面无表情的那种:就像我一样。
几个月前的一个下午。父亲只穿着内裤坐在沙发上喝酒。 我盯着他肚皮上滚圆的曲线、双下巴上沾着的啤酒泡沫、他那 发黄的牙齿和黑色的牙结石。我感到恶心。
在听到附近一家租售影碟的店因为售卖淫秽内容被查封 了,我选择待在了电视机前。新闻片段先是拍到了一张《第七 封印》的电影海报。接着是一摞打了马赛克的影碟。镜头最后 落在一个跪在门边的男人身上,他的脸部模糊不清。镜头聚焦 后,我发现他是我小学时的数学老师。我从沙发上猛地站了起 来。是什么促使他去贩卖黄片?
父亲突然表现得像是想起了什么,他拍了拍脑袋,“哎 呀,你的班主任,长得好看的那个。她叫什么来着?她去哪儿 了?”
我惊呆了。你到底在糊弄谁呢?“我不知道。她是个蠢 货。” 而你也是个蠢货。
就在那一刻,我弄清了为什么中年人会有婚外情。因为生 活太无聊了。没有爱,没有紧张感,什么都没有。就如一潭死 水。但出轨是另一回事。那是对社会规则的背离。是一种致命 的快感。那就像是往水里扔了一颗炸弹。
他的传呼机接连响了几声,“我得去买些鸡蛋。”
我立刻从沙发上起身,“我和你一起。”
当我正在穿裤子时,父亲一下子就出了门。我不知我的怒 火从何而来。我从阳台上喊他,但我只看得到他摩托车的一溜 尾气。
真该死!所有的血涌上头顶。我眼睛发酸。我无法忍受。 可怜的母亲。婚外情成瘾的父亲。我再次感到恶心。
Translating 嬉戏 (“Frolic”) presented a series of exhilarating challenges and opportunities. The original text is rich with sensory detail, regional specificity, and tonal complexity—it moves fluidly between the grotesque and the tender, the surreal and the grounded. My goal in translating was to preserve the voice of the narrator: sly, observant, and deeply immersed in the peculiar world of the circus troupe.
The story is layered with social commentary, linguistic play, and cultural nuance. I made choices to preserve these layers where possible, while making the narrative accessible to English-speaking readers. I also chose to maintain certain expressions and idioms in culturally equivalent ways rather than literal ones, to retain the emotional resonance of the text.
Biggie (阿大) and Pickles (小勤) are more than animals in this story—they are symbols of intimacy, survival, and performance. I tried to honor the narrator’s complex relationship with them, keeping the undercurrents of care, trauma, and theatricality alive in the English version. I also played a little with the gender reveal of the two small animals. At first, the protagonist is unable to determine their gender, but later—through observation or hearsay—they are each assigned a gender within the story. Their gender, in turn, subtly shapes their personalities. Only the protagonist calls them by their genders while others treat them as animals with “it” or “its”.
Some parts of the original relied on sound, rhythm, or imagery specific to Mandarin Chinese. In these cases, I chose not to over-explain but to translate in a way that preserved the tone and texture, trusting the reader to experience the story on its own terms. My hope is that
this translation captures the strange beauty and dark humor of the original, and that it invites readers into its world with both clarity and mystery.
那天马戏团表演,广播一下午都绕着小镇播 放,我坐在后车厢听到很多人议论非洲大老鼠。我
们的车是一辆白色的皮卡,硫化味的篷布挡住许多 卖艺的动物。我们都害怕鼠疫和疟疾,老鼠是我从 邻镇夜市的下水道抓来的。井盖旁的摊位卖鸡货、
现烤活珠子,隔夜的下水一副副顺着下水道的缝隙 滑进,养活了一条街的老鼠。七月份下暴雨,反刍 的污水冲上地面,他们在大排档吃烧烤,我看见一
只大老鼠在荡漾的水涡中几次引体向上试图钩抓什 么,但是它不站在我的位置就没法看的自己选择了 一个荒谬的瞄点。当时我在塑料椅上已经拔掉了手 上所有的肉刺和发尾的分叉。后桌的男人们在喝 酒,脱下的上衣搭在椅背。我斜后身的男人喝的最 尽兴,脱了背心、解开了裤裆、也脱下了鞋。我假 装捡东西,划走了他的拖鞋,从他身后经过时,又 顺手借着他宽阔的后背拾走了背心,斜眼的一瞬间 我还数了下他后背有几颗红疖子。那老鼠好不容易 搭住了下水道口的一根铁栏杆,但水位起起伏伏一 直冒泡,它在水中借不到力。没有下一次了,只有 我知道它已经脱力几次、失败几次。
还好那时候抗击疫情,每家档口都放着酒精凝 胶,它也聪明,小爪子一下就扎进人字拖底摩擦颗 粒的缝隙,顺着拖鞋爬上来,被我用毛巾裹住也不 抖不慌。夜行动物都很擅长装死。我在网上学过,
On the day of the circus performance, our troupe’s speaker echoed around the town all afternoon. I sat in the back of our white pickup truck and heard people talking about African giant rats. A sulfurtinged tarpaulin stretched over the truck bed separated us from the performing animals. Everyone feared plague and malaria.
I had caught a rat from the sewers near a night market in the neighboring town. By the manhole, stalls sold chicken offal and sizzling baluts, while leftovers slithered through cracks into the sewers below. This greasy cascade sustained an entire street of rodents.
It was July. The heavy rain caused the sewage to surge back onto the streets. The troupe was enjoying grilled food under the giant umbrellas at the stalls. I saw a large rat stretching in the rippling vortex trying to hook something. Unless it could see from my angle, it couldn’t realize it was aiming at an almost impossible grab point.
Perched on a plastic chair, I had been picking at hangnails and split ends on my hair. Behind me, men at the next table drank themselves raw, their discarded shirts draped over chair backs like molted skins. The loudest one had shed his tank top, unbuckled his pants, and kicked off his shoes. I pretended to retrieve my dropped coins and swiped his flip-flop. Passing behind his chair, I lifted the tank top from the back of the chair—in that stolen glance, I counted seven carbuncles blooming across his shoulders like infected constellations.
The rat had finally hooked its claws around an iron bar of the sewer grate, but the churning water kept foaming, giving it no leverage. No further attempt was made. Only I bore witness to its exhausted tremors, the exact count of failures swallowed by those dark eddies.
I walked over and held out the flip-flop. The rat was clever, slipping its tiny paw into the crevice of the sole and climbing up along the strap. Even wrapped in the tank top, it remained calm and still.
Nocturnal animals are good at playing dead.
洗猫狗要用中性洗剂,人类适用的款式的碱性强或 是酸性强,它们的皮肤会刺痛。考虑到这一点,我 隔着背心给大老鼠均匀涂抹了酒精凝胶。它极力忍 痛装死,这一槛就是鲤鱼跃龙门。
从前,大老鼠它生于夜市,这里人生百态都进了 五脏六腑,余下的心肝脾肺都进了地道,它也算吃
着人剩,嚼着地沟油长大的,语言环境也充沛,喝 酒的人哪个兴致上来不漏短泄密的。它是一只寄生 在人生社会关节点上的老鼠。当下,它幸运或者不 幸地被我看见、打捞、清洁。
那天,我用了六条背心清洁我的新宠,第七条用 来遮盖它危险肮脏的毛发,那真是油亮油亮,喝醉 的人踩上一脚就要滑倒。
人们问我,你这老鼠真是去非洲抓的啊? 这是一个血统问题,不是一个地域问题,问题的
关键不在于我在非洲抓来了一只老鼠,而是我的老 鼠有没有非洲血统。大姨们纷纷称是。
正是如此,我坐在皮卡上掀开一角的篷布,露 出我染了毛色的大老鼠,它额头上一簇卷发斜斜穿 过,搭在它胸口。这是我在拼多多用三人团的惊爆 价空气刘海改造的。路人小声惊呼。我从旁解说, 前两年基因检测很火吧!我们团特意给每个动物都 抽了血,一个人一个名额,大老鼠的血就是拿我的 身份证检测的,结果很了然!78%的非洲土著血统, 这说明什么,这说明也许上个世纪它的祖先就是坐 着远洋轮船来的,甚至可能跟着你们的祖先闯关东 过来的!传奇的鼠生无需解释,欢迎各位今晚来看 我们马戏团表演。
老鼠名阿大,但这是一种掩耳盗铃。它不能有其 他的名字,非洲是噱头,老鼠是反差,只剩下个“
I’d also read online that cats and dogs need pH-neutral cleansers because the human formulas burn their skin with alkaline or acidic cruelty. Good thing was that we were battling the pandemic—every stall had alcohol gel. I applied the gel evenly over the rat’s body and took the opportunity to observe. She endured the chemical baptism, focusing on her death play, her performance so flawless that this torment became her metamorphosis. *
Born of the night market’s digestive tract—where human dramas were metabolized into offal—the rat grew up feasting on gutter oil and leftovers. The night market’s linguistic ecosystem thrived on drunken confessions dripping like grease from skewered meats. This was no vermin, but a parasite latched onto society’s pressure points.
Until now, by her luck or misfortune, I spotted her, salvaged her, and scrubbed her.
That day, I used six undershirts to clean my new pet. The seventh draped over her filthy, oil-slicked pelt—a coat so unnaturally glossy with grime.
People asked, “Did you really get the rat in Africa?”
“It’s a matter of pedigree, not geography,” I said, “The question isn’t whether I caught a rat in Africa, but whether my rat carries her bloodline!” The aunties nodded solemnly yet asked, “But have you ever had it tested?”
Exactly what I was waiting for! I sat atop the pickup truck and lifted a corner of the tarp to reveal my dyed rat. A tuft of curly fur slanted across her forehead and draped over her chest—a look I’d crafted using air bangs from a group-buy on Temu. The crowd gasped. I launched into my spiel: “Remember how genetic testing went viral a couple of years back? We blood-tested every animal we had! The rat was tested under my name. Results? Crystal clear: 78% indigenous African blood. Know what that means? It means her ancestors sailed here on cargo ships last century, maybe even trekked to the Northeast with your ancestors during the migration! Stop for a legendary rat. Come and see our show tonight!”
I named the rat Biggie, but that was nothing more than a distraction. As an “African giant rat,” she couldn’t have any other names than Biggie. Africa was merely a gimmick, and the rat existed solely as a
大”字,假装名字在宣传口号里。
阿大愿意躲进我怀里那天,我们团在杀狗。八月 份水库泄洪,比预计的量大,河底的淤泥顺着水势
冲上街巷,人们用了半个月清理低洼处的淤泥,建 筑垃圾堆成山,阿大每天在垃圾堆起起伏伏,自行 觅食。淤泥盖住它的小身躯,它那时候还不算一只
大老鼠,但它擅长闭气和打洞,嗅闻的本领也高。
不能巡演就没有收入,团里的人一半负责传销,一 般负责喂养动物。传销的管钱,负责表演后卖洗衣 凝珠,胶衣很差的那种,很容易堵塞排水管。团里 不赚钱的时候就一个个宰皮卡上的动物,从八月到 十月,皮卡越来越轻便,阿大也越来越大。那天快 到中秋,空气凉爽,我和阿大白天自行管理,我随 便找一户人家帮忙砌砖还是铲除淤泥,阿大趁机觅 食,下工后我带着点剩饭和它去水电站。那里废墟 一片,门口的铁门被冲垮,不知飘向何处。总会有 人捡到拿去卖铁。和奶奶相依为命的那几年,卖完 破烂我们都会去水果店,她给我买菠萝吃。我们骑 着破三轮车,我抱着扎手的菠萝,隔着塑料袋它在 我掌心颠簸,很破的沙土路,从来不会修。最后一 次,我们坐在水边的石头坡上,一早卖豆腐的人在 底下浣洗卤布。洪水把地翻来覆去,很不平整,阿 大在前,我在后,它喜欢玩水,我不介意卫生安 全,那时候我总能顺到一瓶免洗凝胶。回到团里时 气氛很凝结,小胡一直躺着,他们说。小胡是一只 狗。下午,小胡开始吐泡泡,有人翻皮卡上的存 货,看到倒地的瓦楞纸箱,胶衣破损的洗衣凝胶, 弹珠溶解般粘在褪漆的皮卡上。小胡很久没人喂 饭,好像太饿了。为了防止小胡吐出更多的泡泡, 那样子整个身体都是毒素了,就更不好废物利用。
天没黑,大家忙着借灶台、找空地,赶紧料理小胡
preconception. All it remained was “Big,” masquerading as a slogan.
The day Biggie burrowed into my lap for refuge, our troupe was eating a dog.
Without performances, there was no income. Half of our members were tasked with running pyramid schemes, while the other half cared for the animals. Those involved in the schemes sold laundry pods after shows—the kind with low-quality gel that easily clogged drains. But if the troupe wasn’t making money at all, they would put down the animals on the truck one by one.
From August to October, the truck became lighter and lighter, and Biggie grew bigger and bigger.
It all started with the flood in early August. The reservoir released more water than expected. The silt at the bottom of the river surged into the streets and alleys along with the current. It took people half a month to clean up the mud from the low-lying areas, leaving mounds of construction debris. Biggie roamed up and down these trash heaps, foraging on her own. Though the mud submerged her small body, Biggie excelled at holding her breath, digging tunnels, and had an exceptional sense of smell.
During the day when the air was cool, Biggie and I made ends meet on our own. I would go to a household to help with bricklaying or clearing out the mud, while Biggie took the chance to forage.
After my hard work, I’d take some leftovers and Biggie to the hydroelectric dam ruins. The iron gate at the entrance had been swept away. Its whereabouts were unknown, but I was sure someone would find it and sell it for scrap.
Back then when it was just me and Grandma, we’d always go to the fruit store after selling scrap. She’d buy me a pineapple. We’d ride a rickety tricycle on the dirt road that was rough and never repaired. I’d hold the spiny pineapple, though its sharp edges jostled against my palm through the thin plastic bag.
The last time Biggie and I roamed in the daytime, we sat on a stone slope by the flood. A tofu seller returning from the morning market was washing his brining cloth below us. The flood had left the ground uneven. Biggie jumped ahead, and I followed. She loved playing in the water. I didn’t mind the mess—I always had a bottle of hand sanitizer
的身体。阿大没有吃,很乖顺地躲在我怀里,把那 瓶透明身的酒精凝胶捂得很热,阿大得四肢尾巴紧 紧缠住瓶身,背部贴着我扁平得胸口,我的心脏在 它身后跳,我也没吃小胡。
奶奶后期喜欢吃稀罕的水果和俄罗斯的奶粉,她 的嗓子肿起来,高烧、瘫痪,不能说话,我把水果
切碎和老冰棍混悬,再次冻结成水果冰,不然她总 说热,吃了好几十个水果冰,一辆破旧人力三轮车 的价格,下葬那天是暴雨,一点都不热,蛮清爽的 空气。读初中的时候,一开始她在垃圾站前接我。
垃圾站是座水泥砌的小房子,大家谣传是对面稻田 的土地庙剩下的水泥被买来砌的垃圾站。要不然它 怎么是四方的形状,中空的洞口,垃圾塞满后就地 焚烧起来,好大的浓烟烈焰,在水泥筑心熊熊滚滚 地烧。她腿脚不好,走起来一条腿不能弯,会像不 倒翁。我不知道她是不想多走路还是怕我丢脸。
不要在这里接我,如果等太久你会累,就去小区 门口的便利店,如果不怕累就去校门口,大理石上
几枚鎏金的字,记得在两侧等我,最先冲出来的是 饥饿的中学生,他们横冲直撞不看路,要小心。
生病的前几年,她手里有一点积蓄,去县里做了 膝盖的手术,效果不如预期,软骨上打钉子,有金 属在她体内。焚烧后的骨灰在不锈钢托盘里,很大 很深的口径,我在那里扫了很久,外头下了暴雨, 我们加钱加塞是第一炉,这样干净些。我在灰白色 中扫出了那枚钢钉,它没被烧毁,不增不减。至今 仍在我的口袋里依存,阿大的口水巾,它常弯身耸 背,手脚并用地拢住它。
in my pocket.
When we returned to the troupe that evening, the air was tense. “Junior Hu has been lying there for a while,” they said. Junior Hu was the dog.
That afternoon, someone rummaged through the stockpile on the pickup truck and found a collapsed corrugated box. He found Junior blowing white bubbles beside the box. Junior hadn’t been fed in a long time and seemed to have eaten the gel out of desperation.
To prevent Junior from bubbling any further—then his entire body would become toxic and inedible—the troupe set up a stove and an open ground to prepare Junior’s remains before night fell.
Biggie didn’t eat. She burrowed into my lap, clutching the clear bottle of sanitizer tightly with her limbs and tail, warming it with her body. Her back pressed against my flat chest, and my heart beat just behind hers. I didn’t eat Junior either.
*
In her final days, Grandma craved rare fruits and Russian milk powder. Her throat swelled, her body feverish and paralyzed. She couldn’t speak, but always complained about feeling hot. I chopped the fruit into small pieces and mixed it with popsicles to make fruit ices. She ate dozens. The money came from selling the tricycle.
The day she was buried, it rained heavily. It wasn’t hot at all. The air was fresh and cool.
When I was in junior high, she used to pick me up in front of the dump. The dump was a small concrete structure—said to have been built from leftover cement meant for a land temple across the road in the rice fields.
“Don’t pick me up there—if you wait too long, you’ll tire yourself. Please, wait for me near the convenience store at the community gate. If you don’t mind a walk, go to the school gate, where gilt letters are inscribed on the marble. Wait by the roadside. Be careful, the first ones out will be starving middle schoolers, rushing without watching where they’re going.”
In the few years before she fell ill, she went to the county for knee surgery. The outcome wasn’t as expected. Metal nails were driven into her cartilage. Her legs remained weak. When she walked, one leg wouldn’t bend—like a cotton doll.
过了中秋节,事情好转,有商场开业搞活动,请
我们去耍猴戏,对方提供猴子和饭。我们出人出技 术,艺高人胆大,宝哥说我是山里抓来的不怕狂犬 病。
那个猴子擅长绕柱子,我叫它小勤,因为它一直 抓虱子,主人说他天生洁癖,经常半夜闯民宅害别 人以为闹鬼,其实技痒。其实人和动物表演是有脉 络可循的,专业的我不懂,但身体经验上来讲,我 都是先打听对方的癖好,在考虑表演效果等多方面 因素后,我都满足对手的需求。表演讲究对手戏, 我是最佳配角,才能屡屡登台。小勤开心坏了,它 闻得我身上阿大的味,阿大身上是死尸味,它钻洪 水垃圾两个月,身上两极对冲,高浓度的酒精味和
污染后的尸体粪便,泥巴又郁热异常,阿大的气质 已经混悬出来,前调后调都异常繁复,而我阳了后 鼻子一直不太灵敏,不失为一种纵容。表演前一
天,我自己去山里转了转,给小勤准备点小零食, 我穿着十六个口袋的改装夹克,惊喜满满。
阿大是我的最佳配角,我和小勤在红毯上耍猴
戏,阿大在钢架子底部啃咬红毯的纹理,耐心如食 草动物吮吸草茎。为防止表演疲软,阿大是后半程 开始劳作的。小勤视力很好,在我身上翻箱倒柜,
把我的头发抓成棉花糖,它也很会捕捉观众的反 应,一旦笑声低沉,它就变一种戏法作弄我。阿大 弄了两个小洞,鼠眼炯炯有神。小勤扫视到,倏地 从我身上后空翻,完美的回旋。小勤开始打地鼠。
我想得出阿大的姿态,反重力老鼠,仗着红毯纹理 的粗糙,它的后肢时而弹射,时而摩擦。小勤忙得 团团转,众人不解。我变了个小魔术,揪出一条红
After cremation, her ashes were placed on a large, deep stainlesssteel tray. I swept them with a brush for a long time. Outside, the rain poured down. We had paid extra to go first in line, so that the crematorium was a bit cleaner.
In the ashes, I found the metal nail—it had not been destroyed. It was unchanged. Even now, it remains in my pocket, along with Biggie’s little drool cloth, the one where Biggie often arches her back and clutches tight with all four limbs.
After the Mid-Autumn Festival, things took a turn for the better. A shopping mall held an opening ceremony and hired us to perform monkey shows. They provided the monkey and meals, while we contributed our skills and labor. Our manager assured them that I was from the countryside and wasn’t afraid of rabies.
I named the monkey Pickles because he was always picking lice and his little wink-wink. His owner claimed the monkey had been born with a need for cleanliness but at the same time he often broke into people’s homes and messed them up at midnight—when in fact he was just restless.
Performing with animals followed a certain logic. I wasn’t a professional, but based on my experience, I started by figuring out my partner’s quirks and making sure to accommodate its needs. A good show relied on interplay, and I prided myself on being the perfect supporting act—which is why I’m always on stage.
Pickles was thrilled when he sniffed out Biggie. Biggie had spent two months rummaging through flood-soaked garbage, and her body exuded an intense clash of odors: high-proof alcohol mixed with the polluted stench of decomposing corpses and excrement. Biggie’s aura had condensed into a peculiar blend, with complex top and base notes. My sense of smell had dulled after catching COVID, which, in a way, was a mercy.
The day before the performance, I went into the hills to prepare treats for Pickles. I returned full of surprises, from little bugs to wild berries, and hid them in a jacket with sixteen pockets. While Pickles and I performed tricks on the red carpet, Biggie lurked beneath the steel frame, patiently gnawing at the carpet’s texture as if grazing on
手绢,盖在小勤光滑的猴头上。阿大引导它完成猴 生二人转首秀。太棒了小勤!德艺双馨。
团长叫宝哥,他头上都是姐姐,所以家里单字一
个宝,不知道他姓什么,我宝哥宝哥地叫他。宝哥 的皮卡轻到不会发现有一只阿大,也轻到刚好买下 一只小勤。小勤刚来团里时,晚上都睡在外面,它
不是野猴子,从小睡在四方的房子里,有顶有梁有 窗柩,夏天的炕不烧火,它就钻进炕洞,把里面掏 得干干净净。所以一开始,它完全看不上我们的小 皮卡。原主人告诉宝哥,小勤没把自己当过猴子, 老百姓看的就是猴子闹人,最会闹人的猴子是当人 养大的。
宝哥,你可别把小勤关笼子里训,一日两餐照 给,这家伙表演型人格,它会听话的。 好的好的。
宝哥上了车反手把小勤塞给我。看管好它。
我把瓦楞纸箱的四周向里压,做成四方的开口, 侧面用裁纸刀划出一条窄门。然后把箱子倒扣在车 厢一角,小勤回来把箱子拎起来打量,左抠右抠很 是满意,时不时会进去午睡。它从小门进了箱内, 在里面拱着身子转箱子,把小门转到厢体那侧,堵 得死死的,再睡。它对我一点都不感兴趣,真是表 演型猴子。
是夜,我躺在车厢里数星星,阿大趴在我胸口, 呼吸绵长。轮胎传来轻响,小勤在找东西,自从它 发现轮胎会回弹,内部的空气就成了它着迷的存 在,它以为我睡了,就在那里扣扣索索。阿大睁开 豆眼,四肢摊开向我内口袋滑去,藏匿起来。哗啦 啦,钢链声在响。那条钢链是用来拖轮胎的,以前 也拿来训练动物,最后一次使用还是绑小胡。小勤 从哪里翻出来的呢?我轻轻起身,扒着车侧观看,
blades of grass, and only joined in the second half so the show wouldn’t drag.
Pickles’s tiny hands rummaged through my pockets. He had a knack for reading the audience. Whenever the laughter began to falter, he would switch up his tricks and tease me. While Pickles turned my hair into a cotton-candy mess, Biggie had chewed two tiny holes in the carpet, her bright, beady eyes gleaming with intent. Pickles saw Biggie, leapt off my head in a backflip, and launched into a game of whack-amole with Biggie.
I could almost imagine what the audience saw. A gravity-defying rat sprung off her hind legs, scraping across the carpet, while Pickles, completely engrossed with the play, dazzling the eyes. To add a touch of magic, I pulled a red handkerchief from my pocket and draped it over Pickles’s shiny monkey head. As Biggie emerged from beneath the fabric, she guided Pickles through the first-ever monkey duet.
Bravo, Pickles! A true paragon of talent.
*
Our ringleader was Brother Bao. His parents had blessed him with that single-character first name, meaning “Treasure,” after a string of daughters. I didn’t know his surname. I kept calling him Brother Bao.
Brother Bao’s pickup truck was so light that it barely felt Biggie’s weight, and it was no trouble to bring Pickles along with us, too.
When the owner handed Pickles over, he looked Bao in the eye and said, “Please don’t lock him up in a cage. Give him two meals a day. He has a real performer’s personality. He’ll cooperate.”
“All right, all right,” Bao replied.
Brother Bao plopped Pickles down as soon as he climbed on the pickup truck.
“You heard that guy. Take good care of it. We’ve got a performer.” He said.
For the first few nights, Pickles refused to stay in the pickup and slept outside. The former owner had told us that Pickles wasn’t a wild animal. Instead, from infancy he had slept in proper roofs, beams, and window frames. In summer, when the brick bed stayed unheated, Pickles would slip into the bed’s hollow, clean out the ashes, and leave the space spotless. It seemed Pickles looked down on our little pickup truck.
有点凉手。小皮卡的漆皮被洪水泡得脆脆的,我没 事就揪着玩,现在它好大的铁味。我吸着铁味,看 小勤拖着钢链,它还是细细地看,把弄扣和扣之间
的空隙,试图把自己的小指头穿进去,然后是小 掌,都畅通无阻。它比着自己的腰身揪起两枚铁 扣,试图扎个腰带,再打个结。小勤走几步,绊了
个狗吃屎。于是又细细地看,举起来看,借着月光 反射在银色的钢炼。
好多人把月光比喻过白纱,好像很轻柔,人们
路过河边都驻足,寓言故事也讲猴子捞月。猴群环 着手,一个搭一个逛荡成链条,去捞水中月,镜中 月。但我总觉得月亮不是柔软的事物,应该是铁锈
味,钢链的环扣摩擦时擦出的铁锈味。经血一样的 铁锈味,痛经的时候每一块肌肉都向内缩,缩出一 条窄窄的门,流出的血复把我箍紧成一条铁。
小勤把链身向上箍,举起一条手臂,穿过去, 又举起一条,穿过去。现在它把它戴在脖子上,打 的结放在前,试图再次前进。没走几步小勤就遭了 殃,堆在一块的链条没人梳理,根本走不动,小勤 努力把手抵在喉咙前,别压迫到自己,越的向前走 就绷得越紧,求生的本能逼上来,慌得只想向前 跑,两极拉扯,差点被自己吊死。
我从怀里取出奶奶的铁,钩起盘结的链扣,跷跷 板一端翘起,小勤猴子跳圈,就地脱身跑向旁边的 林子。再也不见。
皮卡上一个动物也没有了。宝哥打算去大连卖东 北麻辣烫,小皮卡顺势租赁给我,做什么都好,每 个月他在远方抽三成。
The owner also told us Pickles never thought of himself as a monkey. “People come to see monkeys as trouble-makers, and the ones raised among humans are the worst of all, in a good way.” He had said. *
Though we didn’t keep him in a cage, it didn’t feel right to leave him outside, especially with the cold nights.
I pressed the flaps of a cardboard box inward to form a square opening, then cut a narrow door into one side and flipped the box upside-down in the corner of the truck bed. When Pickles saw his new “house,” he lifted the box to inspect it, poking at the walls with a look of satisfaction. Finally, he crawled inside for a nap. He curled up, then spun the box until the door faced the truck wall, sealing himself inside. He had made himself a cage. He showed no interest in me whatsoever. He truly had a performer’s personality.
That night, I lay in the truck bed counting stars. Biggie sprawled across my chest, her breaths slow and even. A soft rustling sound came from the tires. Ever since Pickles discovered their springiness, he’d been obsessed with the air chamber, assuming I was asleep as he prodded them. Biggie opened her beady eyes, limbs splayed, and slid toward the inner pocket of my jacket to hide.
Then came the clink of steel chains. That chain had been used for dragging a tire—and once, to train animals; the last time, it had bound Junior Hu. Where had Pickles even found it?
I rose quietly and leaned against the side of the truck, my hand chilled by the cold metal. The floodwaters had left the pickup’s paint blistered and brittle—I found myself picking at it, savoring the sharp tag of iron. The metallic scent lingered in the air as I breathed it in, my gaze fixed on Pickles, who was dragging the steel chain behind him. He studied it intently, probing the gap between one link and the next. First, he tried his pinky, then his whole hand—both fit through easily.
He lifted two adjoining links, pressed them to his waist as if they were a belt and fumbled to knot them. A few steps later, he stumbled face-first into the mud. Undeterred, he examined the chain again, lifting it higher into the moonlight. The silver steel gleamed faintly in the soft glow, catching the night’s quiet breath.
I remembered how everyone compares moonlight to soft white
离开前夕,宝哥说善始善终,他既然把我从山 里带出来,怎么也要让我有个人样了,他才好说撒 手。他在抖音刷到哈三中成人式,说什么也要给我 办一个,当天就开车拉我去了镇上的夜市一条街, 烧烤大排档、火爆大鱿鱼、碳烤活珠子、冷面卷臭 豆腐,还有蜜雪冰城甜蜜蜜,宝哥都安排了,我们 坐在最火的一家大油边烧烤,折叠的塑料仿木纹方 桌,彩色的注塑叠椅,宝哥喝啤酒,我喝草莓摇摇 奶昔。他眼皮耷拉说话开始重复的时候,我偷偷在 桌底投喂阿大。能借他人的机会和阿大故地重游, 听宝哥说教的每个瞬间,阿大在我怀里假寐的身体 都熨帖得无比真实。阿大被我养久了,很像一只 猫。
我第一次看到猫,是在东四胡同口回收啤酒瓶的 一栋平房。那房子有蓝色的窗玻璃,啤酒箱累积到 棚顶,白天屋里的空气也发昏,绿玻璃、蓝玻璃、 下了孩子的母猫、小猫眯着眼喵呜喵呜地踩奶。我 挤在很多小孩子的身体里,想象那些猫的身体,我 伸出手去摸,只是太矮了什么都看不到。摸一只猫 的脉络从头开始,它的脊背,一寸寸捉下去到尾 椎,这才算摸到一次。
后来再也没看到过猫,黑龙江的冬天太冷,猫咪 都被独有,在某户人家的炕沿还是灶洞里蜷缩,并 不上街闲逛。阿大的鼠耳是圆形的,也有稀疏的聪 明毛从耳廓凸起。阿大的骨质很坚硬,但一只手就 刚好拢住它,阿大应该是属石头的,或者按照商品 属性,应该是牛津布一类,常被用来做行李袋。
宝哥说他这么多年一个人都交不下特别伤心。
我说宝哥,我口袋比脸还干净。
我哪次杀狗不是叫上十多个人。
宝哥有洁癖,我知道。他家院子水泥地铺的平平
gauze—how passersby pause by the riverbank, and how fables tell of monkeys forming a chain to scoop the reflected moon from the water. They link hands, drifting like a living necklace toward that silver promise.
But I have never believed the moon to be gentle. To me, it carries the taste of rust—the same metallic tang stirred up when steel links grind against one another. That rust reminds me of menstrual blood: when cramps seize every muscle, pulling inward, carving a narrow gate through me. The flowing blood drags me back into unyielding iron.
Pickles looped the chain upward. He slipped one arm through a link, then another, until the heavy steel draped around his neck, a clumsy knot tied at the front. He tried to step forward, but the unruly, tangled links refused to budge.
He froze, the chain slack yet oppressive, and pressed his hands to his throat as if shielding himself from the metal’s weight. With every step, the links tightened, the steel biting into his skin. Panic flared—survival instinct kicking in as he struggled to break free. His body surged one way, the chain pulled another, and for a moment, it seemed he might be strangled by his own creation.
I slipped my grandmother’s metal nail from my pocket and wedged it beneath the knotted links. With a careful twist, the chain gave way, one side lifting like a seesaw. In a single, fluid motion, Pickles sprang through the opening and bolted toward the trees at the clearing’s edge. The darkness swallowed him whole, and he never returned.
Not a single animal remained on the pickup. Brother Bao announced his plan to move to Dalian and sell Northeastern-style spicy hot pot. He leased the little truck to me, saying, “Do with it as you wish,” but each month, he would take thirty percent of my earnings remotely.
On the eve of his departure, Brother Bao insisted on finishing what he had started. After all, he’d pulled me out of the countryside—he wanted me to leave with a shred of dignity before cutting ties. While scrolling through Tiktok, he stumbled upon clips of a “Middle Schooler Coming-of-Age Ceremony” and decided, no matter what, that I needed one too. That very night, he drove me to the long row of stalls in the town’s night market: skewered barbecue, fiery grilled squid, cold noodles wrapped around stinky tofu, and even honey iced treats—Brother Bao had arranged it all.
We settled at a barbecue stall along the oil-slicked edge of the market: a folding plastic table with wood-grain print, and brightly
整整,垒了尺寸大到定制的灶台在菜地边,夏天杀 狗,冬天杀鹅,一物三吃,红烧、油烹还有炖汤。
镇上的男人都吃过宝哥炖的狗肉汤,也都给宝哥借 过钱。酒酣饭饱之后,大家都会动点真感情。宝哥 叫屈过许多人,只有我是真的吃了白饭。
表演开始前,我把小皮卡停在东四胡同前的小
广场,车厢做舞台,四角敞开,魔术玻璃桌子安在 上面,利用视差和阿大表演双簧。那是我在学校学 来的,两个要好的同学在一张椅子上表演,一个人
正坐在台前,一个人躲在椅背后。明明大家都看得 到是两个人,不是一个人,但还是笑得很开心、很 捧场。我坐在墙边观察椅背后的人什么时候露出破 绽,她尴尬的时候忘记台词,台前的人嘴巴还在做 出口型,大家的笑声就会像波浪一样猛烈地冲击地 面,肚子都笑痛了,他们说。
饭后消食的人们围着我的小舞台,问我,你这老 鼠是会跳火圈还是表演杂技啊?
我说,那算什么,我的老鼠会背古诗。
我蹲在玻璃的背板,磨砂的灰绿色将我包围。我 从举头望明月开始背,阿大也昂头,拨开脸前的朋 克风刘海,露出一双深沉的豆眼望月。我背到低头 思故乡时,将我发麻的腿盘起来,低头一看,我还 端坐在奶奶家的炕沿,对面是两扇方形的大窗,俄 式的天地锁,不知道是上面没锁紧,还是下面,有 风呼呼地吹。小勤从炕洞里钻出来,黑黢黢的,它 打开内侧的窗,跳上窗台,伸手摸到天锁时回头望 我,它发亮的眼睛好像玻璃体温计里的水银。
我真的走咯。它说。
你真的走咯。
阿大转头看向身侧的玻璃,车灯的光角把阿大的 影子投在墙上。阿大穿着拼多多十元三件的花枝鼠
colored stackable chairs. He drank beer; I sipped a strawberry milkshake. When his eyelids grew heavy and his words began to loop, I slipped morsels under the table to Biggie.
Biggie and I were given the chance to return to this place where she endured her chemical baptism. Biggie nestled in my arms. I sat up straight to listen to Brother Bao’s final lecture. Every word he spoke seemed to anchor me, as Biggie’s half-asleep weight pressed against me—soothing, familiar, and impossibly real. Over time, she had grown to resemble a cat, shaped by the care I’d given her.
The first time I saw a cat was at the entrance of the Dongsi hutong recycling center—a low, gray courtyard house with blue windowpanes. Stacks of empty beer crates towered to the eaves, and even at midday, the air inside felt heavy and dim. Behind the green and blue glass, a mother cat lay nursing her newborn kittens. Their eyes were barely open, their tiny bodies wriggling as they mewed softly.
I stood pressed among other children, imagining the warmth of those fragile bodies. I reached out, but I was too short to see them clearly. To truly know what it felt like to touch a cat, I thought, I’d have to trace its form—running my fingers from the crown of its head, down the curve of its spine, inch by inch, all the way to its tailbone. Only then would it count as touching one.
I never saw another cat after that. Heilongjiang winters were too harsh for them. They stayed hidden, curled up on someone’s brick bed bench or tucked inside a stove niche, never venturing into the streets.
Unlike most of the cats, Biggie’s ears were round, with sparse, fine hairs standing upright along the rim. Her bones felt solid beneath her fur, yet I could encircle her completely with one hand. She seemed carved from stone—or, if she were a material, she’d be canvas, like the sturdy kind used for travel bags.
Brother Bao confessed he’d never managed to keep anyone close all these years—and it broke his heart.
I told him, “Brother Bao, my pockets are emptier than my face.” I didn’t know why I said this.
He gave a bitter smile and continued his drunken rambling. “Every time I kill a dog and make a feast, I invite ten others over, but in the end, no one really…”
I know Bao has his quirks. He’s a germaphobe: his courtyard is pristine, the cement floor leveled to perfection, with a custom stove built right by his vegetable patch. In the summer, he slaughters dogs;
套装,礼服的廓形有人身的硬角,这种近似人影的 设置就是我苦思冥想的表演高潮。真正的表演艺术 家怎么只能靠滑稽取胜呢?
人声起伏不定,有些喧闹的意味,我听到他们 讲,好可怜的老鼠,也有人讲,好可惜的老鼠,还 有个声音蛮横些,好狠心的老鼠。
这从何讲起呢?不过我和阿大就这样吃了一顿又 一顿的饱饭。
in the winter, geese. Nothing goes to waste—braised, wok-fried, then simmered into soup.
Every man in town has tasted Bao’s dog-meat soup. Most had, more or less, lent Brother Bao money during his difficult times. After the feasting and the drinking, true feelings always surface. Bao has wronged many people, yet I’m the only one who ever ate without offering him a thing.
Before the performance began, I parked the little pickup in the small square in front of the entrance to Dongsi Hutong. The bed of the truck became the stage: its four sides folded down, and the glass-topped magic table was set at the center. I planned to perform a double act with Biggie, using perspective tricks I’d learned at school. Two friends would share one chair—one sitting in front, the other hidden behind the backrest. Everyone could see there were two people, yet they laughed all the more, delighted by the illusion. I sat against the wall, watching for the moment when the hidden performer would slip. When she grew embarrassed and forgot her line—while the front actor’s lips continued to shape the words—the audience’s laughter would crash like waves, and they’d clutch their bellies, saying it hurt to laugh so hard.
After dinner, those out for a digestive stroll gathered around my little stage and asked, “Does your rat jump through fiery hoops?”
I said, “That’s nothing—my rat can recite poetry.”
I crouched behind the frosted gray-green glass panel, the muted light enclosing me. I began:
“I raise my head to gaze at the bright moon; I lower it and think of home.”
Biggie lifted her head too, brushing aside her punk-style fringe to reveal a pair of deep, dark, bean-shaped eyes fixed on the moon. By the time I reached the line “I lower it and think of home,” my legs had gone numb, and I curled them beneath me. Looking down, I realized I was still seated on the edge of my grandmother’s brick bed. Opposite me were two square windows, their old Russian-style bolts—one of them not fully secured—through which a cold wind rushed in.
Pickles climbed out of the brick bed, his face dark and smudged. He pushed open the inner window, leapt onto the sill, and, when his paw touched the latch, he paused and looked back at me. His shining eyes
gleamed like mercury in a glass thermometer. “I really am leaving now,” he said. You really are leaving now.
Biggie turned to glance at the glass beside her. The car’s headlights cast her shadow onto the wall, the sharp angles of light highlighting his form. She wore a floral-patterned tracksuit—three pieces for ten yuan from Temu. The structured silhouette of the outfit gave her shadow a certain angularity, almost human in its precision. This mirage was exactly the climax of the performance I had painstakingly envisioned. How could a true performance artist rely on comedy alone to captivate?
The voices rose and fell unevenly, tinged with a faint chaos. I caught fragments of what they were saying: “Poor rat,” someone murmured. Then came a harsher voice, blunt and domineering: “Such a cruel rat.” What should I even say back? But this is how Biggie and I kept earning our meal after meal, until we were full again.
Je suis très heureuse d’avoir pu travailler avec Melissa Jenks dont les textes sont si différents des miens. Je suis heureuse de nos tentatives de traductions comme des bouteilles à la mer, je suis heureuse de nos moments de doutes et d’indécision. Je suis heureuse de nos solutions et de nos problèmes aussi. Je suis heureuse de nos compromis et des incompréhensions, heureuse des langues qui se sont mélangées et qui ont trouvé des chemins pour se dire.
Les deux nouvelles de Melissa Jenks que j’ai traduites frappent par leur tension feutrée, leur langue dense et précise, et leur capacité à évoquer l’intime sans jamais le figer. Il ne cesse de se mouvoir, se camoufle dans les plantes, se terre au fond du jardin en attendant d’être retrouvé, se dit dans les dialogues parfois lacunaires et rapides, les mots si forts et si justes.
À travers des récits d’apparence simple, Jenks déplie des états d’âme ambigus, des relations traversées par l’inconfort, l’attente ou l’inassouvi. Mon travail de traduction a consisté à tenter de rendre cette subtilité : préserver la sobriété du style tout en conservant l’intensité affective sous-jacente.
Le défi a été de trouver un équilibre entre fidélité à la forme anglaise – souvent elliptique, parfois brusque – et l’exigence d’un français incarné, fluide, mais qui sache résister à la tentation d’éclaircir ce que l’original laisse volontairement dans l’ombre. J’ai cherché à faire entendre une voix française qui respecte la franchise parfois très directe de la langue source tout en se tenant dans l’intimité de ses mouvements.
Les textes de Melissa Jenks sont si forts et si vrais que la difficulté résidait dans la retranscription sans les fioritures françaises. Il s’agissant de conserver la justesse de l’anglais, sa concision et sa fluidité, s’installer
à côté du texte pour en comprendre tous ses recoins et sa grande finesse.
originally published by upcountry journal, presque isle, maine
“Blight. It’s on the tomatoes,” Obadiah said as he came into the house.
It was noon, and I stood at the kitchen window doing breakfast dishes. It was the time of day when the sun shone directly behind the house, on the thin edge between the kitchen and the scrim of pine just beyond, where burdock always went to seed.
I’d been curious when we moved here to farm if his father would be right. He’d sat at the raw wooden table, nursing a cup of coffee, emanating waves of negativity so visceral I could smell them. We were kicking him out to move back into our house, and that last morning he’d sat there with his coffee for an age. Obadiah turned away from us, reaching his hands for the doorframe and curving them around it, so the lithe muscles in his back corded into ropes, the curves as sensuous as a woman’s, the curves I couldn’t see without wanting to touch. He was forever doing that, turning away to leave me alone to deal with his father, a crime for which his beautiful back did not atone. I told my father-in-law our plans to build a composting system from cedar slab cast off by the mill, and he spat.
“When I grew up we threw our garbage out the front door. Now that was a compost heap.” His swampyankee accent drew out garbage into gah-bage.
And that was his way with everything. Painting the halls, as I wanted to, was too expensive and would do no good, the bugs collected in the light fixtures were too much trouble to clean, the burdock would just come back anyway. I came in from my walk on our second
— Le chancre. Il est sur les tomates, dit Obadiah en entrant dans la maison.
Il était midi, et je me tenais à la fenêtre de la cuisine, terminant la vaisselle du petit-déjeuner. C’était l’heure où le soleil frappait directement l’arrière de la maison, juste à la lisière entre la cuisine et le rideau de pins, là où, toujours, la bardane germait.
Quand nous avons emménagé ici pour cultiver la terre, j’avais été curieuse de voir si son père avait raison. Il était resté assis à la table en bois brut, berçant de ses mains son café, irradiant une négativité si tangible que j’aurais pu la respirer.
Nous le chassions de la maison pour y revenir nous-mêmes, et ce dernier matin, il était resté là une éternité, serrant sa tasse de café.
Obadiah nous tournait le dos, les mains agrippées à l’encadrement de la porte, ses muscles fins se tendant en cordes, les courbes aussi sensuelles que celles d’une femme, des courbes que je ne pouvais regarder sans vouloir les toucher.
Il faisait cela sans cesse—me laissant seule avec son père, crime qui ne pouvait pas être compensé par la vision de la beauté de son dos.
J’avais expliqué à mon beau-père notre projet de construire un système de compost en planches de cèdre récupérées à la scierie. Et il avait craché.
— Quand j’étais gosse, on balançait nos ordures par la porte d’entrée. Ça c’était un vrai tas de compost.
Son accent yankee étirait le mot ordures jusqu’à le rendre méconnaissable.
C’était ainsi pour tout. Peindre les couloirs, comme je le voulais
week back with a gallon jug of wild raspberries and he squinched his nose at me, the wiry gray hair of his eyebrows wrinkling. The day was perfect, the sun a smooth disc, the clouds like a painted screen. Inside, I was singing.
He peered through his broken glasses, held together by duck tape.
“You’ll get sick of taking walks, you know. After you’ve been here long enough. You’ll get sick of the same scene, every day.”
I didn’t mention the partridge I’d heard, with heartbeat wings thrumming into the balsam, the harrier I’d seen lazily dip his wings. My hands sticky and fragrant with raspberry sap. I smiled and held my tongue.
So when he said they’d had blight every year, without fail, even the tomato plants of the Mennonites wiped out caustically, that the fungus was indestructible, making leaves and fruit shrivel with cancerous gray splotches, I didn’t believe him.
Now, two years later, I was angry. I turned from my dishes to Obadiah. “It’s not possible. We’ve used copper after every rain. We bought the resistant seed this year. The cooperative extension said it’s the best year in a long time.”
He shifted his back towards me, broad, lines of sweat darkening his spine, and reached his blackened fingers for the jamb, to hang there. Silence stretched between us. I turned again to my dishes. Already the sun had moved forward and the mossy strip behind the house was in shade.
“Even the ones in the row covers?” I asked, my voice strained.
“Even them,” he said, and we heard our boy cry. “I’ll get him,” my husband said, and I knew he meant it as a compassionate gesture, the only he’d offer.
Because of course his father had been right about everything. The compost apparatus wasn’t big enough for the garden scrap, which Obadiah heaped behind the
? Trop cher, et inutile. Nettoyer les insectes amassés dans les plafonniers ? Une vaine corvée. Se débarrasser de la bardane ? Elle reviendrait toujours. Une après-midi, à notre deuxième semaine ici, j’étais rentrée de promenade avec un gallon de framboises sauvages. Il avait plissé le nez, les poils gris et durs de ses sourcils se fronçant.
Le jour était parfait, le soleil un disque lisse, les nuages un décor peint. À l’intérieur, moi, je chantais.
Il avait plissé les yeux derrière ses lunettes cassées, rafistolées au ruban adhésif.
— Tu t’en lasseras, tu sais. De ces balades. Quand tu seras restée ici assez longtemps. T’en auras marre de voir la même chose, tous les jours.
Je n’avais pas répondu. Je ne lui avais pas parlé de la gélinotte que j’avais entendue, ses ailes battant le vent comme un cœur entre les sapins, ni du busard qui, paresseusement, avait incliné ses ailes. Mes mains collaient encore à cause du suc des framboises. J’avais souri. Et j’avais gardé le silence.
Alors, quand il avait dit qu’il y avait du chancre chaque année, que même les plants de mennonites n’y survivaient pas, que le champignon était indestructible, réduisant feuilles et fruits à des taches grisâtres, je ne l’avais pas cru.
Maintenant, deux ans plus tard, j’étais en colère. Je me tournai vers Obadiah, les mains encore occupées par la vaisselle — Ce n’est pas possible. On a mis du cuivre après chaque pluie. On a pris des semences résistantes cette année. L’office agricole a dit que c’était la meilleure saison depuis longtemps.
Il me tourna le dos, son large dos, sa sueur traçant des lignes sombres sur sa colonne, et il leva ses doigts noircis vers le chambranle de la porte, s’y suspendant. Le silence s’étira entre nous. Je me remis à ma vaisselle. Déjà, le soleil avait avancé, et la bande de mousse derrière la maison était à l’ombre.
— Même ceux sous les tunnels de culture ? demandai-je, la voix tendue.
— Même eux, répondit-il.
Et nous entendîmes notre garçon pleurer.
shed. Painting the old farmhouse walls moved lower on the list by the year, the fixtures collected black flies as fast as I could clean them, and we’d given up on burdock. I lost my walk during the pregnancy, when I was diagnosed with placenta previa, and the raspberry bushes my husband dug up and replanted didn’t fruit. I hadn’t made a raspberry pie since that day two years ago.
We walked down to the tomato garden, the three of us, Olaf sleepy from his nap. Yesterday the plants had been green and lush, fragrance of their hairy stems hanging heavy in the air. Today a full half were already wilted, and I could see telltale gray splotches on the second half, the bottom branches drooping downward, heavy with green fruit.
“Maybe if we pull the bad ones and spray again?” but Obadiah shook his head before I finished my sentence.
Olaf whined and pulled from my arms, spinning in the tall patch we’d left for wildflowers. Obadiah said I babied him, that he needed to toughen up. I said: he’s two.
“Don’t prance,” I said, and watched his twirling stop, his shoulders droop forward. I was trying to inculcate him with joy, not the heavy burden of despair he seemed born to, but just then I couldn’t help myself. I’d caught the despair, too.
“I’ll start pulling them out,” my husband said, “and save the green ones I can,” and when he came back to the house, laden with the scent of tomato stem, the spark had gone from him too and I saw what it had cost him. I didn’t know how long we could last like this. But I dutifully cut off the bad spots and fried the green ones for dinner, so that Olaf threw them on the floor, so sour and with just a hint of disease.
We’d deceived ourselves. This life was nothing but heartbreak. That night I went out in the dewy grass, when both of them slept, and I touched the pile of broken plants, polluting my fingers with blight, burying
— Je vais le chercher, dit mon mari, et je compris que c’était là tout ce qu’il m’offrirait comme tendresse.
Car bien sûr, son père avait eu raison sur tout. Le composteur n’était pas assez grand, et Obadiah entassait les déchets du jardin derrière la remise. Peindre les murs de la vieille ferme reculait dans notre liste de priorités, les plafonniers se remplissaient de mouches aussi vite que je pouvais les nettoyer, et nous avions renoncé à la bardane. J’avais perdu mes promenades durant ma grossesse, à cause du placenta prævia, et les framboisiers qu’Obadiah avait replantés n’avaient jamais fructifié. Je n’avais pas fait de tarte aux framboises depuis ce jour, il y a deux ans.
Nous descendîmes au potager, tous les trois, Olaf encore endormi de sa sieste. Hier encore, les plants étaient verts, luxuriants, leur odeur âcre flottant dans l’air épais. Aujourd’hui, la moitié était déjà flétrie, et je voyais sur les autres les tâches grises caractéristiques, les branches du bas s’affaissant sous le poids des fruits encore verts.
— Peut-être si on arrache les malades et qu’on traite encore une fois…
Mais Obadiah secouait la tête avant même la fin de ma phrase. Olaf se tortilla dans mes bras, voulant descendre, et tourna sur luimême dans la parcelle de fleurs sauvages que nous avions laissée pousser. Obadiah disait que je le couvais trop, qu’il devait s’endurcir. Moi, je disais : il a deux ans.
— Ne fais pas la danseuse, lançai-je.
Je le vis s’arrêter net, les épaules retombant. J’avais voulu lui apprendre la joie, pas la tristesse lourde qu’il semblait porter en lui depuis sa naissance, mais à cet instant, je ne pus m’en empêcher. J’avais été contaminée par ce désespoir, moi aussi.
— Je vais commencer à arracher, dit mon mari. Et je sauverai ceux qui peuvent l’être.
Plus tard, lorsqu’il revint, imprégné du parfum des tiges de tomates, la lumière s’était éteinte dans son regard, et je vis ce que cela lui avait coûté. Je ne savais pas combien de temps nous pourrions continuer ainsi. Mais je coupai les parties malades et je fis frire les tomates vertes pour le dîner. Olaf les jeta au sol, trop acides, avec
my face in the scent. I was weeping, enthralled by the grief of these dead plants, plants that I’d nestled in little plastic cartons, that I’d watched sprout pinkish fur, that I’d hoed and weeded and staked.
Arms wrapped around and lifted me.
“You weren’t in bed,” he said, gruff with sleep, his voice muffled against my shoulder. “I was worried. I thought you’d gone.”
“Is it worth it?” I asked. “This life. Is it worth it?”
“What do you mean?” he said. When he was angry he tinged toward sarcasm. “This is our life. We’ll make green-tomato salsa. What else are we going to do?”
Grief carried me forward to the dangerous questions. “Sometimes that’s not good enough. Sometimes I need more.”
He could hear tears in my voice, and often they hardened him against me.
“This is all we get,” he said. “This is all there is.”
ce léger goût de maladie.
Nous nous étions menti à nous-mêmes. Cette vie n’était que chagrin. Cette nuit-là, je sortis pieds nus dans l’herbe humide, quand ils dormaient tous les deux. Je m’agenouillai près du tas de plantes arrachées, et j’y plongeai mes doigts, les souillant du chancre, enfouissant mon visage dans leur parfum. Je pleurais, captivée par le deuil de ces tiges mortes, de ces plants que j’avais bercés dans leurs godets de plastique, que j’avais vus germer d’un duvet rose, que j’avais sarclés, désherbés, tuteurés. Des bras m’entourèrent et me soulevèrent.
— Tu n’étais pas au lit, dit-il, la voix épaisse de sommeil contre mon épaule. J’ai eu peur. J’ai cru que tu étais partie.
— Est-ce que ça vaut la peine ? demandai-je. Cette vie. Est-ce que ça vaut la peine ?
— Qu’est-ce que tu veux dire ? rétorqua-t-il, une pointe de sarcasme dans la voix, comme à chaque fois qu’il était en colère. C’est notre vie. On cuisinera de la salsa avec les tomates vertes. Qu’est-ce que tu veux qu’on fasse d’autre ?
Le deuil m’emportait vers des questions dangereuses.
— Parfois, ça ne suffit pas. Parfois, j’ai besoin de plus.
Il entendit les larmes dans ma voix, et, comme souvent, cela ne fit que le fermer un peu plus à moi.
— C’est tout ce qu’on a, dit-il. C’est tout ce qu’il y a.
originally published by thimble literary magazine
Milkweed grows all behind my mother-in-law’s house. As I grew up I thought the name sounded lovely—a plant grown from milk, poured in the shape of a pitcher. But she hates the stuff. Always bursting open and pouring into her beds of roses and tulips.
When I’m at her house I go for walks, down a small path among pines, along the ditch dug for drainage, and about a mile farther, to where the woods open up into a field. There I can walk or lay in the sun—if the bugs aren’t too bad—run my hands through the grass, take in the golden light. I always clean my body of ticks before I get back to the house, and if Eve knew I went all the way back there she’d have a conniption. As it is, she asks, “Did you come here to go for walks, or to see me?”
I want to say, To go for walks, but really I soothe her softly and we spend the rest of the day in cool darkness, playing cribbage and watching Hallmark movies. She keeps all of the blinds shut, all of the time, all the windows and doors cranked tightly down, so no light gets in. Light makes heat, she says. And yes, it is about five degrees cooler inside.
When I come in, back from my walk, it’s like stepping into air-conditioning, although she’d never pay for air-conditioning. Cheep, cheep, she says, like a bird, whenever anything costs too much. She’d rather live in a house as dark as a coffin. So in the field I feel free, coming home covered in dust and pollen and milkweed spores.
One day in the distance I saw something, a movement.
At first I thought it was an animal—maybe a big cat? Tthen I looked closer, came closer. I didn’t have any fear, for some reason, although my heart beat faster. I
Milkweed : de l’herbe à papillons. Ça pousse partout derrière la maison de ma belle-mère. En grandissant, j’ai toujours trouvé que son nom était joli — une plante née du lait, versée en forme de pichet. Mais elle, elle déteste ça. Ça éclate sans cesse et se déverse dans ses massifs de roses et de tulipes.
Quand je suis chez elle, je pars en promenade, longe un petit sentier entre les pins, suis le fossé creusé pour le drainage, puis marche encore un bon kilomètre, jusqu’à ce que le bois s’ouvre sur un champ. Là, je peux marcher ou m’allonger au soleil — si les insectes ne sont pas trop envahissants — passer mes mains dans l’herbe, m’emplir de lumière dorée. Je m’inspecte toujours pour enlever les tiques avant de rentrer à la maison, et si Eve savait jusqu’où je vais, elle piquerait une crise. Déjà, elle demande : « Tu es venue ici pour te promener ou pour me voir ? »
J’aimerais répondre : Pour me promener, mais à la place, je la rassure doucement et nous passons le reste de la journée dans l’ombre fraîche, à jouer au cribbage et à regarder des films Hallmark. Elle garde tous les stores fermés, tout le temps, toutes les fenêtres et portes hermétiquement closes, pour qu’aucune lumière ne filtre. La lumière, dit-elle, ça fait de la chaleur. Et en effet, il fait bien cinq degrés de moins à l’intérieur.
Quand je rentre, après ma promenade, c’est comme entrer dans une pièce climatisée, même si elle ne paierait jamais pour la climatisation. « Piou, piou », fait-elle, comme un oiseau, dès que quelque chose coûte trop cher. Elle préfère vivre dans une maison aussi sombre qu’un cercueil. Alors dans le champ, je me sens libre, revenant couverte de poussière, de pollen et d’aigrettes de l’herbe à papillons.
Un jour, au loin, j’ai vu quelque chose bouger.
D’abord, j’ai cru que c’était un animal — peut-être un gros félin ? Puis j’ai regardé de plus près, me suis avancée. Étrangement, je n’ai pas eu peur, même si mon cœur s’est mis à battre plus vite. J’ai continué sur mon sentier, scrutant les pistes croisées des cerfs à la recherche du moindre mouvement.
walked along my path, peering down crossed deer trails for any sign of movement.
Maybe it was just a deer, browsing here in the sunlit morning, beating another faint trail through grass. My heart calmed, and then I saw her, a barefoot girl in an eyelet dress, off towards the edge of pine. I’d never seen another girl-—no, another person—here before.
“Hello?” I called.
She didn’t answer, disappeared, barefoot, running away into the fallen needles. I said something to my mother-in-law when I got back.
I saw a child back in the woods. Does one of the neighbors have a daughter?
Her grey head shook a no, doubtfully, but she’s becoming forgetful.
“She seemed too young to be out by herself. Maybe someone’s grandchild?”
That didn’t seem right either. I thought through the neighbors. No one’s the right age. Then I poured myself a drink and forgot about it.
The next day, there she was again. This time she let me closer.
“Hello, little one,” I called.
Her face was grubby and it looked like she’d been crying.
“Can I help you find someone?” I asked, but she didn’t answer.
As I came closer, I stopped. She looked just like me. Clearly, I mean not like me now, with the extra twenty pounds around my ass I’m always trying to lose, acne scarring my face, my dulled hair. Me as I used to look.
It was like looking at a photograph of the past.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said, and held out my hand.
That was too much for her, and again she ran, turning tail. Her bare feet flashed white before she disappeared.
“I saw that girl again,” I said when I got back.
“What girl?” my mother-in-law answered.
“That child I told you about yesterday.”
Peut-être que ce n’était qu’un cerf, broutant là, dans la lumière du matin, traçant une nouvelle piste à travers l’herbe. Mon cœur s’est apaisé, et c’est alors que je l’ai vue : une fillette pieds nus, en robe ajourée, à la lisière des pins. Je n’avais jamais vu une autre fille — non, une autre personne — ici auparavant.
« Bonjour ? » ai-je appelé.
Elle n’a pas répondu, a disparu en courant, pieds nus, parmi les aiguilles tombées.
J’en ai parlé à ma belle-mère en rentrant.
— J’ai vu une enfant, dans les bois. Un des voisins a une fille ?
Sa tête grise a esquissé un non, dubitatif, mais elle oublie de plus en plus.
— Elle m’a semblé trop jeune pour être seule dehors. Peut-être une petite-fille de quelqu’un?
Ça ne me semblait pas juste non plus. J’ai repassé les voisins en mémoire. Personne ne correspondait. Puis j’ai pris un verre et j’ai oublié.
Le lendemain, elle était là à nouveau.
Cette fois, elle m’a laissée approcher.
— Bonjour, petite, ai-je dit.
Son visage était sale et elle avait l’air d’avoir pleuré.
— Tu cherches quelqu’un ?
Mais elle n’a pas répondu.
Je me suis avancée, puis me suis arrêtée. Elle me ressemblait. Clairement, je veux dire, pas comme je suis aujourd’hui, avec les vingt kilos en trop que je n’arrive jamais à perdre, les cicatrices d’acné sur mon visage, mes cheveux ternis. Elle était moi, telle que j’étais avant.
C’était comme regarder une photographie du passé.
— N’aie pas peur, ai-je dit, en tendant la main.
C’en était trop pour elle. De nouveau, elle s’est enfuie, pieds nus, disparaissant dans l’ombre.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. She gets angry when I remind her she’s forgetting.
“Never mind,” I said. “Cribbage?”
Next day I was ready. I walked quietly, stealthy. I wore my sandals. I came to the edge of the grass, drenched in golden light, so bright it almost hurt my eyes. With each silent step I stopped, carefully looking along each faint trace left by deer, in either direction towards forest.
Then I came to the flowers. If she’s really anything like me, I thought—she’ll want flowers. But the only ones I loved were milkweed with their slender stalks, waxy leaves, pods opening, billowing fecund ova. I picked a bouquet of weeds, choosing only the prettiest, arraying them, and she was the one that surprised me as I focused, coming behind me and brushing my waist with fingertips. I held out the bouquet and she laughed as she took it. Together we pulled pods apart,then blew fluff until it billowed against blue sky. I realized it was getting late.
“Can I take you back to your mom?” I asked.
She distended her lip, pouting.
“Let me help you, please,” I said.
She got up from where we sat, hugging our knees against ourselves, and began to walk, then run, back to the forest.
“Wait,” I said. “Wait.”
She stopped and turned.
“Here.” I held out the last blossom of milkweed, closed still, whole, and she took it, wrapped both fists around its milky stalk. Then she vanished back into shadow, lifting each foot as delicate as a pony. When I came into the darkened house, late, confused, I mixed myself a drink.
I examined my own face in the mirror for a long time. The lines in my face, the marks of age. Did the girl in the woods look like me, or just my idea of myself? I looked like her, and I didn’t.
In the hall, beside the mirror, hung a picture of
— Je l’ai revue, ai-je dit en rentrant.
— Qui ça ? a répondu ma belle-mère.
— L’enfant dont je t’ai parlé hier.
— Je ne vois pas de quoi tu parles, a-t-elle dit. Elle déteste qu’on lui rappelle qu’elle oublie.
— Laisse tomber, ai-je soufflé. Une partie de cribbage ?
Le lendemain, j’étais prête. J’ai marché doucement, en silence. J’avais mis mes sandales. Arrivée au bord du champ, baignée d’une lumière dorée si éclatante qu’elle en était presque douloureuse, je me suis arrêtée à chaque pas, observant les moindres traces laissées par les cerfs, scrutant la forêt dans un sens, puis dans l’autre.
Puis je suis arrivée aux fleurs. Si elle me ressemble vraiment, aije pensé, elle aimera les fleurs. Mais les seules que j’aimais étaient l’herbe à papillons, avec ses tiges fines, ses feuilles cireuses, ses gousses prêtes à éclater, répandant leur fécondité duveteuse. J’ai composé un bouquet de ces herbes, choisissant les plus belles, les arrangeant.
Et c’est elle qui m’a surprise cette fois. Pendant que je me concentrais, elle est venue derrière moi et a frôlé ma taille du bout des doigts. J’ai tendu le bouquet et elle a ri en le prenant. Ensemble, nous avons ouvert les gousses, soufflé sur les flocons jusqu’à les voir tourbillonner dans le ciel bleu.
Je me suis rendu compte qu’il se faisait tard.
— Je peux te ramener chez ta maman ? ai-je demandé.
Elle a gonflé les lèvres dans une moue boudeuse.
— Laisse-moi t’aider, s’il te plaît.
Elle s’est levée de l’herbe où nous étions assises, genoux repliés contre nous-mêmes, et a commencé à marcher, puis à courir vers la forêt.
— Attends, ai-je dit. Attends.
Elle s’est arrêtée, s’est retournée.
— Tiens.
Eve, looking more like the girl than I did. The film blurred by time. She held a flower out to the camera. An uncharacteristic act of ego for her to have hung it there, beside a photo collage of her nephews on the other side, her face younger, her hair a cropped helmet. They were all grown now. Plumbers.
Then I looked at my mother-in-law, there, in her chair. Both of us forgetting who we once were.
I went to the couch. Eve was eating soup from a TV tray, watching the news.
“How was your walk?” she asked.
“Fine,” I said.
“Oh well,” she said. She said it even when nothing was wrong. Then her deep intake of breath, an exhale through the teeth, a pulling down of the lower corners of her mouth.
I saw the vase on her end table. Inside, a single stalk of milkweed, the seedpod closed tight as a fist.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked. “Where?” She looked at it, eyes hazed by age.
“I don’t remember,” she said. “I don’t remember.”
J’ai tendu la dernière fleur d’herbe à papillons, encore close, intacte, et elle l’a prise, la serrant à deux mains autour de sa tige laiteuse. Puis elle a disparu dans l’ombre, ses pas aussi légers que ceux d’un poulain.
Quand je suis rentrée dans la maison obscure, tard, troublée, je me suis préparé un verre.
J’ai observé mon propre visage dans le miroir, longuement. Les rides, les marques du temps. Est-ce que la fille des bois me ressemblait vraiment, ou était-ce seulement l’idée que j’avais de moi-même ? Je lui ressemblais, et je ne lui ressemblais pas.
Dans le couloir, à côté du miroir, pendait une photo d’Eve. Elle ressemblait plus à la fillette que moi. L’image était floue, effacée par le temps. Elle tendait une fleur vers l’objectif. Un geste d’ego inhabituel, qu’elle avait pourtant exposé là, à côté d’un collage de photos de ses neveux, eux aussi devenus adultes. Plombiers.
Puis j’ai regardé ma belle-mère, là, assise dans son fauteuil. Nous étions deux à oublier qui nous avions été.
Je suis allée m’asseoir sur le canapé. Eve mangeait sa soupe sur son plateau-repas, les yeux rivés sur les infos.
— Ta promenade s’est bien passée ? a-t-elle demandé.
— Oui, ai-je répondu.
— Oh, eh bien, a-t-elle soufflé. Elle le disait même quand rien n’allait mal. Puis sa grande inspiration, l’air expiré entre les dents, le coin des lèvres qui s’affaissait.
J’ai vu le vase, sur sa table d’appoint.
À l’intérieur, une seule tige d’herbe à papillons, sa gousse encore fermée, serrée comme un poing.
— Où as-tu trouvé ça ? ai-je demandé. Où ?
Elle a posé les yeux dessus, son regard flou d’âge.
— Je ne me souviens pas, a-t-elle murmuré. Je ne me souviens pas.
“A Proposal in Text” explores the sentience of objects through the emotional history of our physical surroundings and the way they can elucidate, or obscure, memory. In the text the words slyly move us towards personal autobiography, a mother who speaks French and a father who speaks English, ending with a series of memories excavated from the objects within the author’s childhood home. Tatiana Besser is a hyphenated writer, half-American half-French, and her story functions as a hyphenated text, existing in the liminal space—what Besser calls “interstitial”—between fiction and essay. The story eludes genre, sliding away from prose to find poetry, playwriting, and bad puns: all in service of this grand vision—a simple proposal—that the past can be recaptured through things.
Like recently published stories in translation by Southeast Asian writers Prabda Yoon and Norman Ericson Pasaribu, the text takes as its subject text itself. It acknowledges its own reality as words on a page. Within the title exists this acknowledgment. “Proposition de Texte” is the French term commonly used for any proposal, the formal word used for a legal document, for a grant or another kind of application.
“A Proposal” is the most direct, simple translation for the title, but in the French there is that neat rhythm of texte at the end, and, more crucially, the up-front awareness that this project is textual: a project existing within the frame of the written word, and only there.
The title asks: is this even a story, or a genuine proposal offered to the reader? Do the opening pages function as fiction, or an invitation to read the story that begins on the third page, as the narrator enters the room? This ambiguity was one I wanted to keep, along with the multitudes of other productive ambiguities that exist within the work.
The text presented extreme challenges to the
translator. The difficulty of the language and complexity of thought constantly eluded vivisection, while seeming effortlessly simple in the French. It contained words that do not exist in English or only half-exist: the alpine mountains traversed by dust mites, for instance, are given the names l’adret et l’ubac, alpine terms with which I was not familiar: a name for the series of peaks that faces the sun, and the series of peaks that face away. Only one of these words exists in translation in the English dictionary, and then, one guesses, only familiar to the experienced mountaineer. The word pruine occurs twice in the original and at first I took for a typo for ruine—only later discovering the direct translation pruina also exists in English: the fuzzy whitish blush on just-ripened fruit. I could have used pruina, but would anyone have known what I meant? Untranslatable wordplay hovered for weeks in my mind: l’a peint for lapin — “painted it” homophonic for “rabbit” in French. I experimented with various puns involving bunnies, and finally decided that the paint was the essential part, finding a joke that hopefully resonated slightly with the paragraphs that went before, despite losing a much funnier pun.
Adret, ubac, and pruina all warrant more common usage in English, however; presenting to us the benefits as well as the complexities of translation. All these delicious new words, whole categories of concepts previously unnamed. I imagine houses built on adret slopes, in the interest of passive solar.
As the text progresses it becomes increasingly fragmented, finally bifurcating, losing its coherence in French and falling into English as the American father appears. (The text in English is indicated by sans-serif font, an imperfect solution.) The story exists as a hyphenated text even across language, cognizant of the constant duality of consciousness for someone bilingual, specifically the child raised in a bilingual household.
Perhaps the most overt hyphenation within the
text is the split between past and present. We exist only in the present, Besser says, beings doomed, in our constant tumult, to lose what we experience in the physical world immediately. We stir our memories immediately away into the brew of our consciousness. So the past disappears from us, and we exist only ever in the present. The objects that surround us, which Besser explores, function for her as the bridge across the chasm that splits us into two halves, one lost forever in time.
Il y a des gouffres qui aspirent plus que prévu, d’insolents moments d’oubli, des passages chevauchés par les doutes – sur l’heure, la teneur, le désir. D’autres qui se rallument et qui recousent d’eux-mêmes ces plaies pleines à ras bord des souvenirs que l’on pense oubliés à jamais.
Ici, les meubles sont des vecteurs de mémoire, des portails poussiéreux d’une histoire qu’on s’est autorisé à laisser tomber. Ce sont les détails d’une matinée pluvieuse et le rêve de la nuit d’avant qui se sont glissés là où l’on ne va jamais – dans cette zone d’invisible. Aucune manière d’aller volontairement repêcher quoi que ce soit, pas de clé, pas de serrure non plus pour intégrer ces espaces d’interstices.
Cependant, il nous arrive, quand un épais mélange de prosaïsme et de fonctionnalité obstrue ces portails mémoriels, de caresser la surface rugueuse de la table du salon de la maison d’enfance sans pour autant qu’elle nous revienne. Elle réside, accrochée au présent par une force d’enracinement temporel, enfoncée dans le tapis et dans son utile fonction de table. Elle n’est que le bois qui la constitue – rien d’autre.
Parce que le surgissement est toujours inattendu : les pavés inégaux de la cour de l’hôtel de Guermantes, la main qui érafle le bord du piano et en entend la musique. Soudain apparait cette claire conscience des souvenirs arrachés aux objets qui, eux aussi ont leur histoire et ne cessent de la donner – en énigmes sensorielles temporairement oubliées et réapprises avec la même stupeur chaque fois.
Les lieux qui ont vécus (comme ce salon de poussière) paraissent alors hantés d’un passé à fleur de peau : de celle de la laine du tapis ou du dossier en tissus de la chaise, il s’agit, pour vivre sans s’accrocher à toutes les histoires d’existence qui propulsent dans des abimes de tristesse, de joies, de peines antérieures, d’oublier que l’on écorche cette peau à répétition, d’oublier qu’elle est porteuse d’espaces entiers qui sont bien autre chose que ce que l’on connait: une autre réalité, une autre vie dans notre vie.
Mais que se passe-t-il quand on écoute les meubles qui nous entourent, qu’on réceptionne l’histoire et l’odeur, l’anecdote et les larmes – tout ce qui grouille
Sometimes chasms swallow more than expected—oblivious carefree moments, passages overlaid by doubt—about the time, the substance of events, desire. Other chasms close themselves over, stitching together this gash nearly overflowing with recollections that may be forever lost.
Here, furniture is the vector for memory, the dusty portal to a left-behind history. Where details from a rainy morning and last night’s dream have slid into a place no one ever goes—into that invisible zone. There is no way to retrieve what we seek there by force of will, no key and no lock either for this interstitial space. However, when a thick mix of the functional mundane obstructs the portal of memory, it happens that we can stroke the rough surface of the dining-room table in our childhood home without the table coming back to us. Clinging to the present, rooted by the force of time, it remains—stuck into the carpet and within its own utility as a table. The table is only the wood from which it was made—nothing more.
Because the emergence is always unexpected: uneven cobblestones in the courtyard of Guermantes Hotel, a finger whispering down piano keys to hear their music. Suddenly, awareness of a memory materializes, torn from these objects, each with their own history that they never stop uncovering for us— sensory enigmas temporarily forgotten and then recovered with identical amazement every time.
These lived-in places (like this room of dust) seem draped in raw-nerved skin, that of the carpet wool or the fabric back of a chair. In order to survive we have to live without attaching to all these life stories fallen into the abyss of sadness, of joy, of past pain. Forgetting that we scorch this skin by habit, again and again, forgetting that this space holds something else entirely than what we know: another reality, another life within our own.
et qui tente si désespérément de se faire écouter : c’est alors qu’on se demande si les lattes de planchers qui craquent et qui travaillent sans qu’on n’y prête attention ne seraient pas un appel à la sur-acuité mémorielle, une demande de l’objet envers un réceptacle voué à brasser ce qu’il reçoit immédiatement.
Les risques de cette vaste entreprise du soi varient de psychose à utopie. L’aliénation dans le passé ou dans l’immédiat instant que l’on écrirait continuellement alors qu’il se passe, l’illusion folle d’une mémoire indélébile, constante et entière : que l’on pourrait récupérer par les objets qui en ont porté jadis un morceau.
C’est le corps donc qui contient la mémoire, un corps qui pourrait s’immerger dans les espaces pour en recueillir un peu de lui-même.
Alors, comment faire éprouver les souvenirs dans un salon qui n’a de corps que dans l’esprit, qui n’a de meubles que par l’imagination, qui n’a de réminiscences que parce qu’on les invente ?
Il serait plus utopique encore de considérer que les meubles et l’espace
délivrent chronologiquement leurs informations, les servent sur le plateau doré de la cohérence avec une adresse particulière, une grille de lecture –chaque planche de bois contient les souvenirs de tous ceux qui l’ont touché, toutes les voix qui l’ont traversé, sans hiérarchie d’importance, de force ou de pertinence. Alors, pour entendre tous les souvenirs, pour construire, d’une multitude de réminiscences personnelles, une architecture complexe de mémoire collective, il faut s’armer de toutes les formes.
Le lieu, ici, est plus et autre chose qu’un décor. On n’y entre pas vraiment, c’est lui qui pénètre alors qu’on lui demande la permission – à répétition. Le personnel est arraché à lui-même, il n’y a de corps dans cet espace que par le bruit qu’il y fait en interrompant le travail du bois et la vie de la poussière. Plus de pensées individuelles dans cette marmite d’affleurement qui fait grouiller le passé, plus rien d’autre que ce qui est imposé par la pérennité immuable des meubles que l’on a posés là il y a des siècles. A mesure que « je » devient silencieusement « on », que le corps se fait arracher de luimême, pellicule par pellicule, organe par organe, la peau tirée brutalement pour ne révéler que les os, les nerfs, les muscles, le salon de poussière s’érige comme une chapelle en tendant cet épiderme fraichement collecté pour en faire son toit temporaire. Il est difficile de s’échapper d’un tel lieu de culte
But what happens when we listen to the objects that surround us? When we absorb their histories and smells, their anecdotes and tears—all that desperately swarms around trying to make us listen? It’s then that we wonder whether these cracking floorboards, which hold us up without being noticed, might be calling out to the hyperacute subconscious mind: an inquiry from those objects towards a subject doomed to shuffle what it receives immediately away.
The risks of this vast enterprise of self range from psychosis to bliss. Alienation from the past, or from this immediate instant that we continually overwrite the moment it passes—to the foolish illusion of a precise memory, constant and whole: that we could recover from within objects the piece that they once held.
The body, then, contains memory. Only a body can be immersed within a space to recover, there, a little of itself.
How can we experience memory in a room that only has body in the spirit, furnished only by imagination, that only contains recollections because they have been invented?
It would be too far-fetched to propose that the furnishings of a space could deliver their data in order, serving us the whole of a particular place on a golden platter, like an interpretative frame. Each wood plank holding the remembrance of all that has touched it, all the voices that have traversed it, without hierarchy or rank, strength or relevance. It is necessary, then, in order to listen to all these memories—to construct from many personal recollections a complex architecture made of collective memory—to arm ourselves with every detail of each shape.
A place then becomes something other, more than its decor. We don’t enter it, really. It enters us, as we ask for its permission, to go back. The personal has been removed; the only bodies making noise in this space are breaking into the woodwork and the life of the dust. No more stewpot bubbling over with individual thoughts, burbling over the past, nothing more than what is imposed by the immutable, fixed existence of objects positioned here for centuries. As “I” silently become “one,” as the body erodes, layer after layer, organ by organ, its skin rasped away brutally to reveal nothing but bones, nerves, muscles: a room made of dust standing like a chapel
alors on essaie de se cacher, se répéter ses souvenirs en boucle, les imaginer vivants. Ne rien donner de plus à ce gouffre que ce qu’il a déjà pris sans que l’on ne s’en rende compte.
Les premières impressions, quand on ne fait pas vraiment attention. Venir tout juste d’ouvrir la porte
Les quatre murs gris et la table.
Les quatre murs gris et le tapis.
Les quatre murs gris et quelque chose qui agite la poussière. Elle se soulève et retombe.
Gravée dans un des quatre murs : la fenêtre obstruée.
L’impression d’entrer dans une grande chapelle de la douleur qui aurait érigé ses idoles dans la crasse.
Le silence qui a son épaisseur presque opaque, une jungle de mutisme.
Pas d’explorateur.
Quand on marche – la messe qu’on interrompt
Les incrustations de souvenirs, sur les vieilles parois : des tableaux et leurs vallées d’acrylique. Noircies. Sévère par les années. Un relief agglutiné.
Les cadres sans doute dorés il y a vingt ans. Une charpente de contraintes, maintenant.
Les orteils qui butent contre le tapis d’orient. Les franges qui le bordaient ne sont plus que des lambeaux – témoin d’avant l’usure. La couleur aussi, aspirée par le soleil.
La laine rêche sous les pieds – pour quitter le plancher. Et puis le plancher – les lattes qui se rejoignent pour se quitter, gémissent.
Le temps long des espaces qui ont vécus des siècles. Le temps qui s’épuise, qui tasse, qui met tout à la même hauteur. Le corps disparait. Personne n’est important.
Ne pas pouvoir crier. Le blasphème par la présence. Avoir peur de déranger la respiration du tapis, le bois qui travaille, le moisi qui colonise.
of frail epidermis built into home, temporarily. It is hard to evade in this place of worship so we try to hide, repeat our looping memories, imagining them as life. Give nothing else to the chasm, nothing more than what it has already taken, with nobody keeping score.
First impressions, while not really paying attention. Coming in just after opening the door
Four gray walls and the table.
Four gray walls and the rug.
Four gray walls and something that stirs the dust. It rises and falls.
Embedded in one of the four gray walls: a blacked-out window.
The impression of entering into a great chapel of sadness with idols stuck in the filth.
A thick, almost opaque silence, a forest of muteness. No explorers.
Walking—interrupting the mass Memories embedded in the old walls: paintings and their valleys of acrylic. Blackened. Made severe by decades. A relief of coagulation.
Frames no doubt gilded twenty years ago. A constructed constraint, now.
Toes that dig into the oriental rug. Its fringed border is nothing more than tatters—bearing witness to what came before. The color also, bleached by the sun. Rough wool underfoot—separating feet from floor. And then the floor—the floorboards that come together and separate, moaning.
Time is long in places that have lasted centuries. Exhausted time, that packs down, that wears everything down to the same height. Bodies disappear. No one is important. It’s not possible to scream. To blaspheme with presence. For fear of disturbing the breath of the carpet, the work of the wood, the colonization of the mold.
Se cacher pour se faire oublier
La table gravée par les années et par les coups de fourchette. La cabane de souvenirs en dessous de la table. En dessous des cris, en deçà du temps.
La nappe migratrice qui construisait un mur instable.
Les gros pieds usés – la liberté. L’athéisme à l’abri des regards. Liberté de moins de deux mètres carrés.
La porte d’entrée de la cabane – oubliée / ne plus pouvoir en sortir alors
Le plafond bas, le sol en tapis – les doublons de la maison dans la maison.
S’en aller sans briser les murs et La fenêtre saturée de traces. Obstruée par un tissu fin. Un presquefoulard. Une chose beige, transparente.
Les champs dessinés en vert et en jaune
Le rebord extérieur de la fenêtre comme un cri de ralliement à la normalité. Toujours une petite fleur jaune, comme celle des voisins.
Comme pour dire « tout va bien ». Les araignées qui se promènent.
Le bois du châssis de la fenêtre rongé par les toutes petites mites– des milliers de maisons minuscules.
Le bois qui a volé l’odeur des cigarettes de l’enfance – celles qui trainaient par terre, qui trainaient sur la table, qui trainaient dans la bouche de la mère.
Et finalement vouloir partir de la pièce
Pas de chaise autour de la table.
Pas de cendrier alors qu’il faudrait.
La porte d’entrée qui devient porte de sortie, qui déborde du cadre dans lequel elle a été fixé.
La grosse poignée dorée – le seul objet seul.
The table engraved by years and forkmarks. A memory fort beneath the table. Underneath the shouting, below time.
The migrating tablecloth that made a movable wall.
Big worn-out feet—freedom. The atheism of shelter from observation. Freedom for less than two square meters.
A doorway into the fort—forgotten / impossible to leave
The low ceiling, the carpeted floor—the house’s double within the house.
Leaving without breaking the walls and
The window covered with fingerprints. Blocked by thin cloth. A quasi-scarf. Something beige, see-through. Fields outlined in green and in yellow
The windowsill like a rallying cry for normalcy. Always a little yellow flower, like that of the neighbors. To say “all is well.”
The wandering spiders. The wooden window frame gnawed by tiny termites—a thousand tiny homes.
The wood that wafts the smell of cigarettes from childhood— which lay over the ground, on the table, within the mother’s mouth.
No chairs around the table.
No ashtray where it should be.
An entryway that becomes an exit, out of the frame in which it was fixed.
The large golden door handle—the only thing alone.
Pourquoi « je » disparait dès lors que le seuil en lattes brunes est franchi, dès lors que l’on pénètre ? Pourquoi alors qu’on se dirige vers la porte pour s’extraire de cet espace « je » renait ? Le personnel s’évacue par les pores de la peau que l’on ne cesse d’oublier, par le battement des cils qui, d’un micromouvement chassent les yeux, fait voir autre chose que ce qui est là, par la transpiration, les lymphes et le reste, par tous les soubresauts. Ce salon n’est pas un lieu construit en l’honneur d’un culte du passé, il s’est sanctifié par la présence et l’ancrage des réminiscences au plus profond de la laine du tapis, du bois de la fenêtre, des pieds de la table. Alors que dans une église, il est coutume de choisir de perdre son corps devant l’autel, de renoncer à la chair, au soi et tout son étalage, ici, rien n’est un choix. Condition sine qua non de la réception, il faut vider pour remplir de nouveau, laisser tomber les artifices, déshabiller les os, être au monde. Se balader sans corps dans les esprits des matériaux puis revenir vers la porte pour s’échapper quand deviennent intenables les pulsations des pensées des autres, des souvenirs d’ailleurs dont on ne connait la teneur que parce qu’ils nous la crient, se lancent à l’assaut de notre visage vide qui ne se construit maintenant que par ceux des autres. La perte et le mélange sont les seules manières d’actionner les rouages d’une mécanique de la mémoire.
L’on revient au corps quand tout le reste s’échappe, quand la peau est assez loin de la fenêtre pour n’en capter que le soleil qui la perce et pas les histoires qui la hantent.
Je ne peut pas explorer, je partira.
Il faut regarder dans la mémoire pour comprendre les détails, observer les détails pour accéder aux souvenirs :
Why do “I” disappear as soon as I clear the threshold of brown floorboards, as soon as it is crossed? Why then, as I head towards the door, to extract myself from this place, is “I” reborn? People whom we keep on forgetting disappear through the pores of their skin, with the blink of each eyelash, which, in a searching micromovement, forces the eyes to see something other than what is there. Using sweat, lymphatic fluid, and the rest. Through all these shocks. This room is not a place built to honor a cult of the past; it is sanctified by the presence of the deepest memories anchored in the carpet wool, the window wood, the table legs. Whereas in a church, it is customary to leave the body at the altar, to renounce the flesh, the self and all its performances; here we have no choice. The sine qua non of being filled is to empty ourselves, let artifice fall away, undress our bones, be present in the world. To wander without a body within material minds, and then return to the door, escaping when the pulsing thoughts of others become unbearable; memories from elsewhere whose substance we only know because they cry out to us, launching an assault at our emptied face, now built only from those of others. Loss and mixture are the only ways to turn the mechanical cogs of memory.
It returns to the body when everything else escapes, when the skin is far enough away from the window to catch only the sun that pierces it and not the stories that haunt it.
“I” cannot explore here, “I” will leave.
We must look within a memory to understand its details, observe the details to access its recollections:
Les mites elles aussi ont des pattes – des petits batônnets ridicules qui les transportent dans les tunnels labyrinthiques et creusés, les allées étroites d’un bois volé – peut être plutôt colonisé, de tous les meubles qu’on laisse trop longtemps sans amour. Alors, comme un cœur que l’on désole, il va chercher la tendresse ailleurs que dans les bras de celui qui lui en a promis – ce sont les mites qui aimeront. C’est cet amour de consommation qui prend la place du mensonge que l’on se répète : mon amour inconditionnel.
Toute la structure de la fenêtre, ce châssis lourdement domicilié depuis des décennies entre ces murs, semble avoir subi la luxure brulante des bouches imperceptibles. Un gruyère de bois et de poussière. Sans doute les parasites eux aussi ont-ils des colocataires qui se cachent, terrés dans les méandres de cette immense structure microscopique. C’est sans doute aussi la reine des termites qui définit la sentence qu’il faut accorder aux parasites des parasites, qui fait respecter la loi, qui règne sur ce pays coincé entre le dehors et le dedans, éternellement voué aux courants d’air froid que l’on croirait venir tout droit des steppes. Ce sont ces vents dangereux qui risquent de ravager l’ordre des micro-meubles. Les troupes sont toujours décontenancées par les bourrasques, elles se disent que fort heureusement elles ont des ailes sans se rappeler qu’elles ne peuvent les déployer dans l’espace si étroit de cette cachette d’entre deux mondes. Alors elles dépêchent leurs pas à travers les galeries aux sinueux soucis d’isolation et parfois, un cerveau plus pragmatique propose de boucher les trous – on lui rit au nez.
La fenêtre est, sans hésitation aucune, l’hostilité même. Gelée en hiver, bouillante en été, le plafond des couloirs se délite, les araignées chassent aux portes de la ville, la vie y est mouvementée. On s’attèle à manger le coin extérieur droit, la traverse haute ou la paumelle – on rejoint le gond comme on retrouve sa terre d’origine, une seconde de répit. On se prend pour un oiseau migrateur quand nait un désir de table : de bois tendre et de couloirs larges, un désir bourgeois d’une vie sans l’ombre d’un effort. Mais pour y arriver il faut traverser la poussière, les nuages d’odeurs, les peurs. Et la vie est si courte, faut-il prendre la peine de la risquer, le risque de la peiner.
The termites also have paws—little ridiculous sticklets that carry them through labyrinthine tunnels and hollows, narrow alleys in stolen wood—or rather colonized, maybe—through all the furniture that has been left here unloved for so long. Eventually, like someone with a broken heart, they will move away from the arms of the one that promised them tenderness—these are termites who fall in love. A love of consumption replacing the often repeated lie: unconditional love.
The whole structure of the window, its frame housed heavily here for decades between these walls, looks like it has suffered the burning lust of imperceptible mouths. Swiss cheese of wood and dust.
Probably the parasites have roommates that hide, holed up in the meanderings of this immense microscopic structure. Probably also it’s the queen of the termites who determines the sentences for those parasites of parasites: the queen who upholds the law, who reigns over this country wedged between outside and inside, eternally doomed to currents of cold air that one would think come straight from the steppes. These dangerous winds could ravage the order of their micro-furniture. The troops are always disconcerted by the squalls. They say that luckily they have wings, without remembering that they can’t unfurl them in this narrow hiding place between two worlds. So they rush through tunnels sinuous with being worried in isolation and sometimes, some pragmatic brainiac proposes plugging the holes—everyone laughs in his face.
The window is, without any doubt, hostility itself. Frozen in winter, boiling in summer, the top of the frame disintegrating, spiders hunting at the city gates: life there is turbulent. They’re buckling down to eat the right outer corner, the high crossbeam or the split hinge—they return to the hinge like they’re reaching home ground, a momentary respite. They can be imagined as migratory birds longing for the table: a meal of softwood with wide corridors, a bourgeois desire for a life without any shadow of effort. But to get there they have to cross the dust, odiferous clouds, fear. And life is so short, should they take the trouble of the risk, the risk of the trouble.
Les mites elles aussi ont des pattes – des petits batônnets ridicules qui La poussière se soulève et retombe. Une valse qui se dépose sur la surface foncée de la grosse table de bois, la recouvre comme le ferait une nappe ou un tissu fin, comme le ferait un baiser ou une longue histoire d’amour. On s’imagine passer un doigt sur la strate épaisse et grisâtre de cette soupe de micro-levures, de cheveux, de pollen, d’années d’abandon. On se dit qu’on pourrait y inscrire notre prénom ou peutêtre seulement la première lettre en majuscule. On se dit qu’on ne peut pas. Il faudrait des mois pour que les tranchées se recousent, que les tous petits moutons reforment leur troupeau décimé par un index, par un seul geste de la main.
La surface de la table reste alors un mystère, une sensation interdite par le règne trop longtemps établi de toute la saleté. La dictature de la pruine et du rien, fermement installée, comme ce silence toujours oppressant des églises et des bibliothèques vides Jamais-fini-d’éradiquer.
Cette impression de n’avoir plus assez d’armes pour vaincre ce qui s’installera quoi qu’il advienne, qui fluera lentement sans vraiment qu’on s’en rende compte.
En dessous de la crasse l’on distingue tout de même quelques minuscules montagnes – l’adret et l’ubac qui se font face, quelques vallées inhabitées- pas de lumière aux fenêtres dans la clairière, pas de maison non plus. A croire que les acariens ne bâtissent pas de chaumières, ne vont pas skier quand bon leur semble sur les coulées de cette neige grise qui elle, ne fondra jamais. Maintenant, il n’y a plus de saisons dans ce monde émergeant, peut-être cette étendue de table a-t-elle connue des périodes plus fastes et plus variées, celles des repas pendant lesquels les miettes se coinçaient dans les rayures gravées à la fourchette et au couteau ou bien les moments de peinture ou les butes et les collines ont été recouvertes de cyan. La mémoire de cette surface, comme un grimoire d’étés et d’hivers, se lit dans les éponges qu’elle a usé, les dizaines de repas qu’elle a mis en scène, les bruits incalculables qu’elle a produits : les cuillères qui grattent les verres qui glissent, les assiettes qui frottent. La période de repos semble avoir été actée par l’abandon : jamais plus elle ne vivra de déjeuners.
Dust rises and falls. A waltz that settles on the dark surface of the large wooden table, covering it like a tablecloth or thin fabric, made of kisses or a long love story. Imagine dragging a finger through the thick grayish layers: a soup of micro-yeast, hair, pollen, years of abandonment. Thinking that we could write our name or maybe just the first capital letter. We see that we cannot. It would take months for those trenches to be stitched back together, for all the tiny sheep to regroup their flock decimated by one index finger, by a single swipe of a hand.
The surface of the table remains a mystery, its access forbidden by the reign established so long ago by all this dirt. The bloom off the rose and nothingness as dictators, immutably installed, like the silence of churches and empty libraries, always oppressive
Never-ending-eradication.
The impression of not having the weapons to defeat whatever comes and settles, a slow flow to which no one pays attention.
All the same underneath the filth, minuscule mountains can be found—angled towards the sun and away, facing each other, a few uninhabited valleys—no lit windows in the clearing, no houses either. To think dust mites don’t thatch cottages here, don’t ski down drifts of this never-melting grey snow whenever they like. There aren’t any seasons here in this jagged world: maybe this stretch of table once knew times more lavish and varied, meals during which crumbs were embedded into the grooves etched by a fork and knife, or a moment when someone painting spattered its hills and mounds in cyan. The memories of this surface, like a magic spellbook of summers and winters, can be read in the sponges that it wore down, the scores of meals that it staged, the incalculable noises that it produced: scraped across by spoons, slid across by glasses, clattered against by plates. Its rest period seems a setting of abandonment: never again will it see lunch.
La laine rêche sous les pieds, le chemin que l’on fait tous les jours sans s’en rendre compte – les orteils s’emmêlent dans cette palette de l’horreur : un rouge fracassé de taches de nourriture, cet à-peine orange qui, en plus d’avoir été lavé par un soleil persistant, semble se confondre au marron et au noir qui bordent les formes d’animaux et les motifs géométriques– les franges beiges qui se délitent. Ce sont les motifs d’orients qui font toujours dire aux visiteurs de la pièce que ça devait être joli avant la déréliction, avant le blues de la poussière et de la pruine. Les pieds de la grosse table se sont enfoncés si profondément dans le tapis qu’ils ont creusé leur tunnel jusqu’au parquet –aux grosses lattes de bois indisciplinées qui valsent maintenant doucement avec ces poteaux sans orteil qui soutiennent le vieux plan de travail. On regarde avec attention les coutures du grand tapis. On se dit que là aussi c’est dangereux d’y glisser sa main : qu’est-ce qu’on y trouverait ? Des blattes, des miettes, des vieux souvenirs. Qu’est-ce que ça nous ferait ? Sans doute pleurer parce que c’est ce qu’on faisait quand on était enfant – quand la laine était moins rêche, qu’on enterrait nos doigts et créait des tunnels pour y mettre nos billes. Les allées laineuses n’étaient jamais assez profondes, stoppaient les petites perles de verre assez rapidement mais c’était juste ce qu’il fallait pour rire. Inventer des histoires ou le tapis devenait un monde plat : le chameau à droite était un pays entier ou il faisait si chaud qu’il fallait se baigner constamment dans l’eau tiède du carré bleu qui le bordait – le bleu devenu gris maintenant, une mer qui a été polluée par les traces de pas. Les motifs rouge et orange : cette terre volcanique qu’on contournait pour ne pas bruler était, elle aussi entourée par l’océan azur – une aubaine car on n’aurait pas voulu se consumer.
Tout le pan droit du tapis est décoloré, il avait vécu aux tropiques pendant vingt ans, à côté de cette fenêtre à l’effet de loupe : peut-être qu’avec un peu d’effort il aurait été possible d’allumer vraiment un feu dans le pays volcanique.
MOI : j’ai perdu ma bille, c’est toi qui me l’as prise ?
TOI : je n’ai rien sur mon côté du territoire, peut-être qu’elle s’est noyée dans la mer !
MOI : non, non je l’ai perdue proche des volcans.
TOI : alors elle a sans doute fondu à cause de la lave.
Mon frère qui rationalisait mes pertes
Rough wool underfoot, a path walked everyday without noticing—toes tangled within a palette of horror: food stains smashed on red, fading towards orange. Besides having been washed by relentless sun, it seems to blend into the brown and black outlines of animal forms and geometric patterns— decaying beige tassels. These motifs from the orient were always what made visitors to the room say it was pretty, before the dereliction, before the blues of dust and the rose’s bloom. The legs of this heavy table are sunk so deeply into the rug that they’ve dug through to the floor—to the heavy slats of unruly wood now rubbing smoothly against the toeless posts that support the old work surface.
Pay attention to the seams of the large rug. It could be dangerous to slide a hand in there: what could be found? Cockroaches, crumbs, old memories. What would we do? Probably cry, because that’s what we used to do when we were a kid—when the wool was less rough. We buried our fingers in it, and built tunnels to push our balls through. The woolen alleys were never that deep, stopping the little glass marbles so quickly, but that’s what made us laugh. Tell a story where the carpet becomes its own flat world: the camel on the right is a whole country, or so hot that it has to take baths constantly in the bordering blue square of lukewarm water—a blue turned gray now, a sea polluted by footprints. The red and orange patterns: a volcanic terrain bypassed to keep from being scalded, surrounded by an azure ocean too—a godsend because we couldn’t let ourselves get burned up.
The whole right-hand side of the carpet has faded, after lying in the tropics for twenty years, next to a window like a magnifying glass: with a little effort maybe it really would be possible to start a fire in this volcanic land.
ME: I lost my ball, did you take it?
YOU: I don’t have anything on my side of the country, maybe it fell in the sea!
ME: no, no, I lost it near the volcanos.
YOU: then it probably melted in the lava.
My brother rationalizing my losses
Cadre doré, prison terne et boisée d’une laide peinture qu’on ne regarde plus –car c’est le sort des objets du quotidien : l’oubli.
Carré en bois construit par le père le dimanche. La structure qui se fend maintenant. On ne sait plus vraiment qui l’a peint.
MAUVAISE BLAGUE de mon frère toujours : Pourquoi le lapin est bleu ? parce qu’on l’a peint.
On ne sait plus vraiment qui l’a peint.
Les dorures s’effritent comme la peau en pellicule qu’on retirerait d’un pincement de doigt.
Extrait de journal intime 21/03/2010
On a joué à la chasse aux trésors. J’ai caché le premier indice derrière le cadre en bois du salon.
Derrière la cheminée, tu trouveras l’énigme que tu cherches.
C’est Sacha qui a trouvé le trésor parce qu’il est toujours plus rapide que les autres.
Il a même répondu rapidement à l’énigme Quelle est la lettre la plus tranchante ?
C’était H. Mais je pense qu’il a triché.
1 Il n’est pas question ici de la peinture. Pas question des croutes et des couleurs ternies, pas question d’en parler encore, pas question que quoi ce soit n’affleure maintenant. Le cadre en premier lieu, son intérieur par la suite.
A golden frame, a dull and woody prison for an ugly painting that no one looks at anymore—because that’s the fate of everyday objects: oblivion.
A square of wood built by Dad on Sunday. A structure now splintering. No one really knows who painted it.
My brother’s constant BAD JOKE: I tried to paint the ocean, but I blue it.
No one really knows who painted it.
The gilt flakes like dandruffed skin, sloughing off with the brush of a finger.
Diary excerpt 3/21/2010
We had a treasure hunt. I hid the first clue behind the wooden frame in the living room. Behind the fireplace, you will find the riddle that you seek. It was Ash who found the treasure because he’s always fastest. He answered the riddle really quickly Which letter is sharpest? The answer was (a)X. But I think he cheated.
1 Not the painting. No questions about its scabs of faded color, not yet, no discussion of what it means. First the frame, then its interior.
Le soleil s’écrase avec constance sur la terre déjà asséchée des champs espagnols transformés, le temps d’une saison, en désert. L’abandon et les rayons brûlants s’installent dans le silence des grillons assoiffés, se frayent une place sur la carcasse épaisse, la grignotent avec discrétion. C’est la déréliction qui creuse le métal, plonge ses dents dans la viande dure mais rouge de ce corps qui est condamné à disparaitre sans cacher sa putréfaction.
Pas de sépulture pour les tueries de bord de route : une décomposition lente, une agonie dans la chaleur colorée par les reflets de flammes. Il semblerait qu’une seule minuscule étincelle puisse allumer ce brasier de délabrement mais il subsiste, sec et vermillon, s’enfonçant dans le gravât comme pour fuir la honte de l’imperfection.
On ne l’imagine pas fonctionnel : cet amas de métal que la rouille colonise avec avarice n’est plus que les morceaux qui le constitue. La structure originelle de l’objet s’échappe dans l’imagination des quelques passants : était-ce une grue ou un véhicule ? Était-ce même un objet ?
En s’approchant de ce tombeau à ciel ouvert offert à tous les regards et les possibilités, on se conte l’histoire de la chute, de la fin de la vie d’une chose. Certains y voient un rubis brûlant presque la rétine, un talisman encombrant qui se serait égaré sur les poussières et entre les ronces d’un temps de la productivité, éparpillé comme un corps dont on n’arrive plus à voir la valeur.
Quand les yeux curieux confrontent le statisme exubérant de l’occupant, ils y croisent la pelade en pellicule de la vieille peinture coquelicot. On se dit que l’hémoglobine comblerait sans doute les cavités dénudées, qu’il suffirait d’une centaine de litres, d’entraide, d’espoir. Il n’y en a plus sur ce chemin consumé par la canicule, pas d’intérêt non plus pour cette machine dont on décide quand la vie s’arrête.
Comme une apostasie de la mécanique, l’habit rouge est abandonné, ne reste plus qu’une relique en martyr qui se décompose sans sa croix – le moteur a été volé, le corps blasphémé. Ne subsiste que ce dont personne ne veut, ce que personne ne veut voir, ce que la nature s’attèlera à démembrer année après année : une structure d’un temps qu’on a fait abdiquer face à la productivité.
Sun beats down on the already desiccated earth of the Spanish countryside transformed, for a season, into desert. Abandonment and scorching rays conjure in the silence thirsty crickets, making their way through a thick carcass, nibbling discreetly. Dereliction hollows metal, crunching its teeth into the hard but red meat of this body, condemned to disappear without its putrefaction hidden. No gravestones for the roadside massacre: a slow decomposition, an agony in heat as vibrant as the glint of flame. It seems like a single minuscule spark could ignite this decaying blaze but it survives, dry and vermillion, sinking into rubble as if fleeing the shame of imperfection.
Its function seems unimaginable: this clump of metal that rust colonizes greedily is nothing more than the pieces from which it was made. The original structure of the object boggles the mind of the few passersby: was it a crane or a vehicle? Was it even a thing?
Approaching this open-air tomb, exposed to all eyes and possibilities, we tell the story of its decline, of the end of life for an object. Some see a ruby almost burning the retina, a cumbersome talisman that will disappear into the dust, between the brambles of time and productivity, a scattered body now seen as worthless. When curious eyes confront the exuberant stasis of this occupant, their gaze crosses the balding filmstrip of old poppy paint. Likely hemoglobin would fill its bare cavities, enough for a hundred liters, of helpfulness, of hope. There isn’t anything else on this path consumed by waves of heat, and no interest either for this machine whose end-of-life we decide.
Like a mechanical heretic, red robe lying abandoned; only a martyr relic remains, decomposing without its cross—the stolen engine, the blasphemed corpse. Nothing survives except what no one wants, what no one wants to see; what nature will strive to dismember year after year: a structure from a time abdicated now in pursuit of productivity.
The hand, on the uneven surface, corroded by time and allowed its solitary decomposition, caught thinking of possibilities—
Maybe this rust could be used to repaint the walls—
Maybe this seat in the ruins could become a throne—
La main, sur la surface inégale, grignotée par le temps et laissée à sa désuétude solitaire, se surprend à penser les possibilités –
Peut-être que cette rouille pourrait repeindre des murs –
Peut-être que cette assise en ruines pourrait devenir un trône-
Que tout ce métal ferait la beauté d’une statue dont il manque un bras.
Elle ramasse donc un morceau d’acier souple, le tort jusqu’à l’effritement et le laisse se mêler aux pierres grisâtres et à l’humus flétri qui constitue le sol du tombeau de cette structure de nostalgie. Un embryon de carte se forme au sol, elle réarrange les restes abimés, suivra le chemin que lui indique le matériau, laissera cette charogne sévère s’effriter jusqu’à l’oubli dans sa triste mélancolie.
Ce tableau, peint depuis une quinzaine d’années était beau avant, n’est plus beau maintenant. Il dit toutes les histoires que l’on veut lui faire dire. Il est épais – de ragots et de croutes de peintures et de poussière. Il a perdu la bataille du temps.
Extrait de journal intime 08/09/2009
L’odeur du gâteau du dimanche soir dans tout le salon. C’est rare que tout le monde se parle sans hurler.
Sur le rebord de la fenêtre bouchée se trouve un plan que l’on n’ose effleurer.
De peur de le réveiller ? Qu’il sursaute et qu’il ne se déplie.
C’est pourquoi des mains courageuses – (sont-ce vraiment les nôtres ?)
Le saisissent avant qu’il ne s’échappe.
Le violent d’un geste pervers et inquisiteur :
Il est forcé à dire.
30 m2 de surface habitable – 1948
Fenêtre 1m X 75cm orientée Nord-Ouest
Parce que tout est mesurable et compté
Parce qu’on ne trouve de l’importance que dans les chiffres
That all this metal could have the beauty of a statue missing an arm.
So it remains—a bit of supple steel—destruction until it crumbles and mixes into grayish rocks and faded soil. These compose the floor of this tomblike structure built of longing. An embryonic map is formed on the ground; the steel rearranges its damaged remains, will follow the path shown by these elements, will allow this rotting carcass to crumble into austere oblivion within sad melancholy.
This tableau, paint that was beautiful fifteen years ago, is beautiful no more. It has told all the stories it can tell. It’s thick—with gossip and crusts of paint and dust. It has lost the battle with time.
Diary excerpt 9/8/2009
The smell of Sunday night cake throughout the living room. It’s rare that everyone talks to each other without screaming.
On the sill of the blocked window is a blueprint that we dare not touch.
Fear of waking it up? That it would open out and not refold.
That’s why brave hands — (are they really ours?) Snatch it before it can escape.
The violence of a perverse, inquisitive movement: It is forced to speak.
30 sq. meters of living space - 1948
Window 1m x 75 cm facing northwest
Because all is measurable and counted
Because only numbers are important
Les voix de la pièce. Les voix qui s’échappent des murs. Les voix qui s’entremêlent. Les voix que rien ni personne ne peut contenir. Il faut écouter les souvenirs.
ELLE : Et s’ils se mariaient plutôt ici ?
EUX : Ce n’est pas une église.
NOUS : A-t-on pensé à tout le monde qui …
IL : Elle a déjà sa robe alors pourquoi pas.
ILS : arrête de crier, tout le monde est heureux.
ELLE 6 ANS : rosa rosa rosam rosae rosae rosa rosae rosae rosas rosarum rosis
LUI 48 ANS : il en manque un.
ELLE 6 ANS : rosis
LUI 48 ANS : la deuxième
ELLE 6 ANS : je ne sais plus …
LUI 48 ANS : vous savez, dépêchez-vous.
MERE : combien il reste de pommes ?
FATHER : five or six I think
ELLE: tu fais une tarte ?
FATHER : don’t bother your mother
IL: j’ai le papier, tiens
FATHER : stop bothering your mother !
Tarte aux pommes
1 sachet de sucre vanillé
100 grammes de sucre en poudre
25cl de crème fraiche
1 pâte brisée
3 pommes
2 œufs
The voices in this room. Voices that escape these walls. Voices that intermingle. Voices that nothing and no one can contain. These voices must be heard.
HER: What if they got married right here?
THEM: This isn’t a church.
US: Did we think of everyone who…
HIM: She already has her dress so why not.
THEM: stop crying, everyone’s happy.
HER, 6 YEARS OLD: rosa rosa rosam rosae rosae rosa
rosae rosae rosas rosarum rosis
HIM, 48 YEARS OLD: you’re missing one.
HER, 6 YEARS OLD: rosis
HIM, 48 YEARS OLD: the second one
HER, 6 YEARS OLD: I can’t remember… HIM, 48 YEARS OLD: You absolutely can. Hurry it up.
MOTHER: how many apples are left?
FATHER (English): five or six I think
HER: you’re making a tart?
FATHER: don’t bother your mother
HIM: here’s the paper
FATHER: stop bothering your mother!
Apple Tart
1 packet of vanilla sugar
1/2 cup of powdered sugar
1 cup of cream
1 pastry crust
3 apples
2 eggs
Rhinestone suits and new shiny cars It’s been the same way for years We need a change I died a hundred times I am walking Out in the rain And I am listening to the low moan Of the dial tone again Can I scream? O Superman O Mom and Dad Mom and Dad Hi, I’m not home right now You saw what you wanted You took what you saw We know how you got it I bomb atomically Socrates’ philosophies and hypotheses Ten years on the road, makin’ one-night stands Speedin’ my young life away Can’t define how I be dropping these mockeries Lyrically perform armed robbery Me and my head high And my tears dry Get on without my guy Flee with the lottery, possibly they spotted me Battle-scarred Shogun, explosion when my pen hits But if you wanna leave a message Just start talking at the sound of the tone Hello? This is your Mother Are you there? Are you coming home? Got it in the mail one morning There was no return address Just my name in gold-leaf on the front Hello? Is anybody home? What y’all thought y’all wasn’t gonna see me? I’m the Osiris of this shit The waiting drove me mad You’re finally here and I’m a mess I take your entrance back Can’t let you roam inside my head Well, you don’t know me, but I know you And I am getting Nowhere with you And I can’t let it go I really didn’t stay too long there ‘Cuz No one was having much fun And I can’t get through... When the day is over, the doors are locked on us ‘Cause money buys the access, and we can’t pay the cost The old woman behind the pink curtains And the closed door And I’ve got a message to give to you Here come the planes So you better get ready, ready to go You can come as you are, but pay as you go Pay as you go And I said, “Okay, who is this really?” A gentle touch, a tender heart And the voice said As the world turns, I don’t wanna take what you can give I would rather starve than eat your bread I would rather run but I can’t walk Guess I’ll lie alone just like before I spread like germs Bless the globe with the pestilence The hardheaded never learn It’s my testament to those burned Play my position in the game of life standing firm “This is the hand, the hand that takes” It’s just an old war Not even a cold war Don’t say it in Russian Don’t say it in German Say it in broken English Smallpox champion u s of a Give natives some blankets Warm like the grave Your head is like a yoyo Your neck is like the string Your body’s like a camembert Oozing from its skin Your fanny’s like two sperm whales Floating down the Seine This is the pattern cut from the cloth This is the pattern designed to take you right out “This is the hand, the hand that takes” “This is the hand, the hand that takes” Great words won’t cover ugly actions
(English) Rhinestone suits and new shiny cars It’s been the same way for years We need a change I died a hundred times I am walking Out in the rain And I am listening to the low moan Of the dial tone again Can I scream? O Superman O Mom and Dad Mom and Dad Hi, I’m not home right now You saw what you wanted You took what you saw We know how you got it I bomb atomically Socrates’ philosophies and hypotheses Ten years on the road, makin’ one-night stands Speedin’ my young life away Can’t define how I be dropping these mockeries Lyrically perform armed robbery Me and my head high And my tears dry Get on without my guy Flee with the lottery, possibly they spotted me Battle-scarred Shogun, explosion when my pen hits But if you wanna leave a message Just start talking at the sound of the tone Hello? This is your Mother Are you there? Are you coming home? Got it in the mail one morning There was no return address Just my name in gold-leaf on the front Hello? Is anybody home? What y’all thought y’all wasn’t gonna see me? I’m the Osiris of this shit The waiting drove me mad You’re finally here and I’m a mess I take your entrance back Can’t let you roam inside my head Well, you don’t know me, but I know you And I am getting Nowhere with you And I can’t let it go I really didn’t stay too long there ‘Cuz No one was having much fun And I can’t get through... When the day is over, the doors are locked on us ‘Cause money buys the access, and we can’t pay the cost The old woman behind the pink curtains And the closed door And I’ve got a message to give to you Here come the planes So you better get ready, ready to go You can come as you are, but pay as you go Pay as you go And I said, “Okay, who is this really?” A gentle touch, a tender heart And the voice said As the world turns, I don’t wanna take what you can give I would rather starve than eat your bread I would rather run but I can’t walk Guess I’ll lie alone just like before I spread like germs Bless the globe with the pestilence The hardheaded never learn It’s my testament to those burned Play my position in the game of life standing firm “This is the hand, the hand that takes” It’s just an old war Not even a cold war Don’t say it in Russian Don’t say it in German Say it in broken English Smallpox champion u s of a Give natives some blankets Warm like the grave Your head is like a yoyo Your neck is like the string Your body’s like a camembert Oozing from its skin Your fanny’s like two sperm whales Floating down the Seine This is the pattern cut from the cloth This is the pattern designed to take you right out “This is the hand, the hand that takes” “This is the hand, the hand that takes” Great words won’t cover ugly actions
Good frames won’t save bad paintings I died a hundred times You ‘bout to feel the chronicles of a bionical lyric Lyrically splittin’, dismissin’ Could have come through Anytime Cold lonely Puritan Have you heard that there’s an ad Listed in the classifieds Your voice is like a long fuck
Et finalement vouloir partir de la pièce
Ne rien savoir de plus qu’en entrant Ne plus se poser la question.
Savoir qu’il y a et qu’il y aura toujours. Et que c’est sans doute suffisant.
Il y aura encore quand nous-on-je-vous sera parti
Il y aura encore dans toutes les tempêtes d’oubli, Encore dans les destructions mémorielles et les amnésies infligées
Encore toutes les voix
Good frames won’t save bad paintings I died a hundred times You ‘bout to feel the chronicles of a bionical lyric Lyrically splittin’, dismissin’ Could have come through Anytime Cold lonely Puritan Have you heard that there’s an ad Listed in the classifieds Your voice is like a long fuck
And finally wanting to leave the room
Nothing more known than when entering No more questions asked Knowing that it is and will be there forever. And that’s probably enough. It will still be there when we-I-you have left It will still be there through all the obliterating tempests,
Even within the destruction of memory and inflicted amnesia
Even there all the voices
Je suis si heureuse d’avoir pu rencontrer Brandon Kaye lors de cet échange. Je me sens extrêmement reconnaissante. Notre rencontre était tout à fait improbable — sauf dans le cadre de la littérature : elle, autrefois militaire de carrière, racontant son parcours en Irak ; moi, une femme transgenre, m’essayant à écrire une chanson d’amour. Pourtant, et je remercie nos universités respectives pour cette association, nous avons réussi, je crois, à nous comprendre — parce que, au-delà de la matérialité de nos existences, nous partageons un même désir d’humanité.
Je garde ce souvenir de nous deux, ordinateur à la main, nous montrant tour à tour la vue depuis nos appartements respectifs. Nos longues conversations autour de la traduction ont servi de prétexte à des digressions humoristiques, à des réflexions politiques et religieuses, à des découvertes multiples. Durant ces appels, alors que mes colocataires se plaignaient de mes rires trop bruyants, j’ai eu la chance de découvrir la personnalité de Brandon et son regard si unique, intelligent et curieux, sur le monde.
Du point de vue de la traduction, c’est ce que j’ai essayé de restituer — pour, j’espère, en faire profiter les lecteurs francophones. Nous voulions d’abord retranscrire l’univers militaire, avec son jargon et ses implicites, en veillant à ne jamais le transposer littéralement : il n’existe pas de corps des Marines en France. Et surtout, sans jamais interrompre la lecture par des notes de bas de page. Nous souhaitions que le lecteur reste à hauteur de la narratrice, sans avoir besoin d’érudition.
Nous tenions aussi à conserver les répétitions de la langue, pour restituer le fameux drum beat dont me parlait souvent Brandon. Alors que la répétition est souvent honnie en France, nous avions envie de déjouer ces attendus pour proposer une version assumée, fidèle
à la voix du texte — et quel plaisir de rompre avec cette obsession française ! De manière similaire, Brandon a été très attentive à traduire ma chanson en allant vers le vrai, et non vers l’idiomatique.
Enfin, nous partagions toutes les deux un goût pour la subtilité et la lumière. Il était très important de restituer la mesure des mots, l’émotion contenue, la tension, la présence allusive de la mort — tout en laissant entrer la beauté, le bon. L’équilibre entre le bien et le mal existe, même s’il est si difficile à créer aujourd’hui. Hier soir, quand je regardais Brandon chanter ma chanson a cappella, je crois avoir vu un peu de cette lumière.
The sky was black; the land was wide and big. Like a huge stage that would never end. It was the night before we were going to cross the Line of Departure and invade Iraq. It was as though I could see the whole world in an instant, like I could reach out and touch it. I was in charge of a camp of over 2,500 people. I had managed to find a place outside the camp where I could have a moment alone, that was deserted. I took it in. It was magnanimous. I looked out on to this desert. Tomorrow, we would invade Iraq. Tomorrow, we were going to cross the line of departure. The LOD. Tomorrow, the world was going to change. We were going to change. It felt wrong. All this buildup. All this prep. All this staging. Getting ready for the push. It just felt wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Just, a feeling. It might have been the right thing to do, who’s to say, but there were so many of my fellow servicemembers who hadn’t seen combat. There would be an emotional learning curve for all of us.
I had gone to see Alex and wish him well. I had gotten to see their chickens which were supposed to be used to detect chemical weapons, kind of like canaries in the mine shafts of Appalachia. All of their chickens, however, had died, almost all on the same day. They didn’t know why, but they did. So, they outfitted their armored vehicles with pigeons in cages instead. He was excited. Ready and excited. And I was scared for him. I didn’t want him to die. We had finally gotten to a good place. We were discussing baby names. We talked about how if we both made it out of this alive, how we were going to both get out of the military and go somewhere and be teachers or something and have a family and
Le ciel était noir ; la terre vaste, immense. Comme sur la scène d’un théâtre qui ne finirait jamais. C’était la veille du jour où nous allions franchir la Ligne de Départ et envahir l’Irak. J’avais l’impression d’avoir le monde tout entier devant moi, de pouvoir toucher les étoiles d’une main.
J’étais responsable d’un camp de plus de 2 500 personnes. J’avais réussi à me trouver un coin à l’écart du camp, un endroit où je pouvais m’isoler. Je me suis arrêté. J’ai tout absorbé. C’était magnanime. Je regardais le désert s’étendre devant moi. Demain, nous envahirions l’Irak. Demain, nous franchirions la Ligne de Départ. La LOD. Demain, le monde allait changer. Nous allions changer. Quelque chose sonnait faux. Toute cette tension. Tous ces préparatifs. Toutes ces répétitions à se préparer pour l’assaut. Ça sonnait faux. Je ne pourrais pas mettre mon doigt dessus. Un pressentiment. C’était peut-être la bonne chose à faire, allez savoir, mais tant de mes camarades n’avaient encore jamais connu le combat. Il y aurait pour nous tellement de choses à apprendre, tout un panel d’émotions à découvrir.
J’étais allé voir Alex pour lui souhaiter bonne chance. J’avais pu voir leurs poules, utilisées pour détecter les armes chimiques, un peu comme les canaris dans les mines des Appalaches. Mais les poules étaient toutes mortes, presque le même jour. Ils ne savaient pas pourquoi, c’était arrivé comme ça. Alors ils avaient équipé leurs véhicules blindés de pigeons en cage. Alex était enthousiaste. Prêt, et enthousiaste. Et moi, j’avais peur pour lui. Je ne voulais pas qu’il meure. On était enfin arrivés à un bon moment dans notre mariage. On avait discuté de prénoms pour un bébé. On parlait de tout ce qu’on ferait si on s’en sortait tous les deux vivants : on quitterait les Marines, on irait vivre ailleurs, on deviendrait profs ou autre chose, on fonderait
just be happy together, with our family. We had a plan. I had already been in country for nearly six weeks by that point. He had been there for two weeks. I was working 18-hour days every day. No days off. But I still managed to get out to his camp to see him a few times before they left. We wrote letters to each other. I kept mine very short. I was nervous for him. Stressed. I wanted him to focus. I wanted him to live. He was going to be in the first battalion in Baghdad. I was glad I was there, close, at least. I couldn’t imagine being home if he was here. I had to be as close to the fight as I possibly could get. I didn’t want him to be alone. All of the traning, the back-breaking training, the work, the hours, it was all worth it. For me, it was worth it if I could somehow be in the vicinity of where he was fighting, just somewhere close.
I can’t remember much about the next day except for my focus on something called Blue Force Tracker. It was this at the time new technology that helped to track where they were. There was a chat feature so that we could know what was going on and provide support as needed. I kept my ear to the proverbial glass against the door. They made it up to Baghdad quickly. Almost too quickly. One of their trailing units, Task Force Tarawa, I believe, had gotten hung up in An-Nasiriyah, and they were in some thick fighting, losing a lot of men. It was brutal. All of a sudden, a couple days into the drive north, the announcement was made, a Lieutenant in his company, KIA. Killed in action. Alex was a Lieutenant. I held my breath. I couldn’t breathe. But I couldn’t let my coworkers know how scared I was. Mission first. Mission focused. They couldn’t know that my attention was divided. Wife. Marine. I kept it to myself. I didn’t say anything to anyone. I clammed up and waited.
What was the name. What was the name. What was the name. What was the name. I was a wreck on the inside. It took about a day before a name came up. Childers. It wasn’t him. I went to my tent and buried my
une famille, et on serait juste heureux, ensemble, avec notre famille. On avait un plan.
J’étais déjà sur le terrain depuis presque six semaines à ce moment-là. Lui, ça faisait deux semaines. Je travaillais dix-huit heures par jour, tous les jours. Sans un seul jour de repos. Mais j’avais quand même réussi à m’éclipser jusqu’à son camp pour le voir, à plusieurs reprises, avant leur départ. On s’écrivait des lettres. Les miennes étaient succinctes. J’étais nerveuse. Stressée. Je voulais qu’il reste concentré. Je voulais qu’il reste en vie. Il était dans le premier bataillon à aller à Bagdad. J’étais contente d’être là, pas loin, à minima. Je n’aurais pas supporté d’être à la maison en le sachant ici. Il fallait que je sois aussi proche du combat que possible. Je ne voulais pas qu’il soit seul. Tout l’entraînement, tous ces entraînements exténuants, le travail, les heures… tout ça en valait la peine. Ça valait le coup, si ça me permettait, d’une manière ou d’une autre, d’être dans les parages, au plus près de là où il se battait.
Je ne me souviens pas très bien du lendemain, à part d’être focalisée sur un truc qu’on appelait le Blue Force Tracker. C’était une nouvelle technologie à l’époque, qui permettait de suivre leurs positions. Il y avait une fonction de messagerie, pour demander ce qui se passait, et envoyer du soutien si nécessaire. C’était comme écouter à travers les murs, un verre contre la porte. Ils sont arrivés à Bagdad rapidement. Presque trop vite. L’unité qui les suivait, Task Force Tarawa, je crois, s’est retrouvée bloquée à An-Nasiriyah. Ils étaient en plein combat. Ils perdaient beaucoup d’hommes. C’était brutal. Et puis, quelques jours après, au début de leur avancée vers le nord, l’annonce est tombée : un lieutenant de sa compagnie, KIA. Killed In Action. Mort au combat. Alex était lieutenant. J’ai retenu mon souffle. Je n’arrivais plus à respirer. Mais je ne pouvais pas laisser mes collègues voir à quel point j’avais peur. La mission d’abord. Rester concentrée. Il ne fallait pas qu’ils sachent que mon esprit était ailleurs. Épouse. Marine. Je gardais tout ça pour moi. Je ne disais rien à personne. Je me suis fermée, et j’ai attendu.
face in my sleeping bag and sobbed into it. So grateful it wasn’t him, but the fighting had barely begun.
I was the camp commandant for this camp of over 2,500 soldiers, sailors, and Marines.
Which meant that I had to deal with everyone’s BS. I was responsible for ensuring the camp was maintained every day. That the food was delivered. The fuel for the generators. The water. The trash collection. That the toilets were cleaned. It was disgusting and had to be done. What made it difficult was that the contractors who were local nationals who were hired to clean the shitters liked to take their shitter trucks to abandoned camps and “rack out,” or nap, all day long. So, pretty much every day I sent what I called my “contractor cowboys” to go “roundem’ up!” around 10am to ensure that these services happened every single day. And that was one of the many things that had to be done all of the time to keep the camp going, and that was by far not my only job.
One of the majors (O-4) (I was a captain (O-3) at the time) announced that he was going to be the Force Protection Officer, which was something that normally fell under my purview as Camp Commandant. I was de facto in charge of the security of the camp. But he outranked me and wanted a Bronze Star (which he did not earn) so he slapped that label on himself and enlisted the help of an MP (military police) Company from Kentucky who also were a bunch of reservists who didn’t know what they were doing. So, of course, by Day 2 of this idea, the reserve MPs had the contractors lined up like they were going to get executed, all of them messing their pants because these guys did not understand anything about tactful, relationshipbuilding yet vigilant force protection. Rank or no rank, I marched into the ops center and told that major he was fired, done, and if he had a problem with it to take it up with my boss, the Colonel (O-6). I then went to the MP Company commander and told him they were immediately relieved. I then got my original Sergeant
C’était quoi le nom. C’était quoi le nom. C’était quoi le nom. C’était quoi le nom. J’étais tellement anxieuse. Il a fallu un jour au moins, avant qu’un nom soit annoncé. Childers. Ce n’était pas lui. Je suis allée dans ma tente, j’ai enfoui mon visage dans mon sac de couchage, et j’ai éclaté en sanglots. J’étais tellement reconnaissante que ce ne soit pas lui, mais les combats ne faisaient à peine que commencer.
J’étais commandante, du camp, un camp de plus de 2 500 soldats, de marins et de soldats du corps des Marines. Ce qui voulait dire que je devais gérer les conneries de tout le monde. J’étais responsable de l’entretien du camp au quotidien. Pour que la nourriture soit livrée. Le carburant jusqu’aux générateurs. L’eau. La collecte des ordures. Le nettoyage des toilettes. Ils étaient immondes et il fallait que ce soit fait. Le plus difficile, c’était les prestataires — des civils du coin engagés pour nettoyer les chiottes — qui avaient pris l’habitude d’emmener leurs camions dans des camps abandonnés pour se caler une sieste toute la journée. Alors, presque tous les jours, j’envoyais ce que j’appelais mes « contractor cowboys » pour aller faire le « rassemblement ! » autour de 10 heures du matin, histoire de m’assurer que le travail soit vraiment fait. Et ça, ce n’était qu’une des nombreuses choses à faire tous les jours pour que le camp tourne. Ce n’était, de loin, pas mon seul boulot.
Un des majors (grade O-4) (j’étais capitaine (O3) à l’époque) a soudainement décrété qu’il allait être l’officier chargé de la protection des forces — un rôle qui, normalement, relevait de ma responsabilité en tant que commandante, puisque j’étais de facto en charge de la sécurité. Mais il était plus gradé, et il cherchait à se faire décorer d’une Bronze Star (qu’il ne méritait pas), alors il s’est auto-proclamé responsable, et a enrôlé une compagnie de MPs (police militaire) du Kentucky : des réservistes totalement inadaptés à ce genre de mission. Dès le deuxième jour de cette « brillante » idée, les MPs avaient aligné les prestataires comme s’ils allaient les exécuter — les civils étaient tous en train de se pisser dessus parce que ces types
of the Guard, an extremely impressive and mature sergeant who I had hand-picked for this job, who had been a policeman on the ground at 9-11 and ordered him to get the original guard back out there ASAP. I then had to get my contractor cowboys, a sergeant and corporal who worked in my office, to go back out to the contractors and profusely apologize and beg them to come back to our camp to service it. I ended up having to clean up many of these messes which at least made the time go by.
I was also a Company Commander in charge of nearly 400 sailors and Marines, who due to the nature of their jobs, were stretched from southern Kuwait to north of Baghdad, and I had to make sure that all of them were alive every day. That sometimes proved itself to be a challenge. As the headquarters company commander, some of the people in my company outranked me. Were my people safe, was the job getting done, and was my husband safe. That was my life. Wash-rinse-repeat. And occasionally Saddam would lob SCUD missiles at us, mostly in the middle of the night. We had built SCUD bunkers by constructing berms with earth moving equipment and filling thousands of sandbags by hand to reinforce walls. We had to have our gear close by and ready to don when the ground shook and the alarms sounded. “Gas! Gas! Gas!” Because we never knew if any of these attacks would be accompanied by any kind of chemical weapons. So many times, around 2:30 in the morning, the loud “BOOM! BOOM!” of the Patriot battery (thank God for the Patriot anti-air defense missile) and feel the ground shake as they were launched to hit the SCUDs in the air, and we had to gear up and go to the bunkers and get accountability and then sit and wait and pray. Initially it was scary. We didn’t know the effectiveness of anything. All of it was a guess. That’s the thing about war. You never stop training, and you have no idea what will happen next. While I was there, celebrities came to visit us once. Kid Rock, Jesse James, Jason Alexander (football),
n’avaient aucune idée de ce que pouvait être une relation de travail basée sur la confiance, et la vigilance, en terrain hostile. Grade ou pas grade, j’ai débarqué dans le centre des opérations, et j’ai dit à ce major qu’il était viré. Terminé. Et que s’il avait un souci, il n’avait qu’à en parler à mon supérieur, le colonel (O-6). Ensuite, je suis allée voir le commandant de la compagnie de la police militaire pour lui dire qu’ils étaient immédiatement relevés de leurs fonctions.
J’ai fait revenir mon sergent de garde d’origine — un sergent incroyablement doué et expérimenté, que j’avais moi-même choisi pour ce poste, et qui avait été flic le jour du 11 Septembre — je lui ai ordonné de remettre en place la garde d’origine, immédiatement. Puis j’ai dû envoyer mes « contractor cowboys, » un sergent et un caporal qui travaillaient dans mon bureau, pour retourner voir les prestataires, leur présenter des excuses en bonne et due forme, et les supplier de revenir s’occuper de notre camp. J’ai fini par devoir nettoyer la plupart de ces foutoirs — au moins, ça faisait passer le temps.
J’étais aussi cheffe de compagnie, responsable de près de 400 marins et Marines qui, en raison de la nature de leurs fonctions, étaient répartis du sud du Koweït jusqu’au nord de Bagdad. Et je devais m’assurer, chaque jour, qu’ils étaient tous en vie. Ce n’était pas toujours évident. Comme commandante de la compagnie de quartier général et bien que sous mes ordres, certains avaient un grade supérieur au mien.
Est-ce que mes gens allaient bien. Est-ce que le travail avançait. Est-ce que mon mari était sain et sauf. C’était ça, ma vie. Wash-rinse-repeat. De temps en temps, Saddam nous envoyait des missiles SCUD, et le plus souvent, en pleine nuit. Nous avions construit des bunkers anti-SCUD avec des bermes faites au bulldozer et remplis des milliers de sacs de sable pour renforcer les murs. Nos équipements devaient rester à portée de main, prêts à être enfilés dès que le sol tremblait et que les sirènes retentissaient. « Gaz ! Gaz ! Gaz ! » Parce que nous ne savions jamais si ces attaques allaient être accompagnées d’armes chimiques. Tellement de fois, vers deux heures et demie du matin, ce
and Brittney Murphy. I was put in charge of the coordination of the logistics at the camp, so we set up tents for them, tables, etc. I got into the second SUV in the convoy and turned around. Brittney Murphy was in the back. She said something like, “You’re beautiful!” which I found funny because she’s Britney Murphy and I had no makeup on, short hair for combat, and was geared up and smelled like the camp, but it was sweet. I could tell she was nervous to be there, with so many men around, so I was happy to help her if she needed. She kind of clung to me. I told her I was sorry for her breakup with Ashton Kutcher, and not to worry, that I was sure he wouldn’t make anything of himself. Little did I know. At one point, she had to go to the bathroom at one point and we had a port-o-john cleaned especially for these people, so I walked her across the gravel in her high heels, she put her tinted sunglasses on my flak jacket and went inside. They were all very nice. At one point this man came up to ask to take a picture with me. I asked him who he was, he said just some guy with tattoos. I found out later it was Jesse James. Occasionally we would have opportunities to send a couple Marines to another camp to see celebrities. I had a policy. “Lowest rank wins.” I figured it already sucks to be here, must suck even more to be at the bottom of the food chain. So, privates, PFCs, “fill your boots!”
Early on, once we crossed the LOD, that’s when combat operations were happening real time, it was very busy and our convoys were enormous and very late. Sometimes, as many as eight hours late. As if I didn’t have enough to do, I was put on the watch as a watch officer for a shift. This by its very nature was a very stupid construct. Back in the garrison, peacetime environment, commands stand up what’s called the watch. Everyone takes a turn. There’s something called a Watch Bill so you know when you have watch. I’ve had the Christmas duty more times than statistics would allow, but that’s another time for another discussion. Anyway, when you are at war, you
BOOM ! BOOM ! assourdissant des batteries de défense antiaériennes Patriot — merci Seigneur pour les missiles Patriot — le sol qui tremblait quand ils décollaient pour intercepter les SCUDs en vol, et nous, en train d’attraper nos équipements, de courir jusqu’aux bunkers, de faire l’appel, et d’attendre, et de prier. Au début, c’était terrifiant. Nous ne savions pas si quoi que ce soit allait marcher. Tout n’était que supposition. C’est ça, la guerre. On ne cesse jamais de s’entraîner, et on n’a aucune idée de ce qui va suivre. Pendant que j’étais là-bas, des célébrités sont venues nous rendre visite. Kid Rock, Jesse James, Jason Alexander (le joueur de football), et Brittany Murphy. On m’avait confié la coordination logistique au camp, on donc a dressé des tentes pour eux, des tables, etc. Je suis montée dans le deuxième SUV du convoi ; je me suis retournée. Brittany Murphy était à l’arrière. Elle a dit quelque chose comme « Vous êtes jolie ! » Ça m’a fait rire — parce que c’était Brittany Murphy, et moi je n’avais pas de maquillage, les cheveux courts pour le combat, en uniforme, et je sentais comme le camp. Mais c’était gentil. Je voyais bien qu’elle était nerveuse, entourée de tous ces hommes. Alors j’étais contente de lui offrir mon aide. Elle s’est un peu accrochée à moi. Je lui ai dit que j’étais désolée pour sa rupture avec Ashton Kutcher, et de ne pas s’en faire, que j’étais sûre qu’il ne réussirait jamais rien seul. Si seulement j’avais su… À un moment, elle a dû aller aux toilettes. Nous avions nettoyer des toilettes mobiles spécialement pour eux, je l’ai accompagnée jusqu’à la cabine, elle a traversé le gravier perchée sur ses talons, elle a posé ses lunettes de soleil teintées sur mon gilet pare-balles, puis elle est entrée. Ils étaient tous très sympas. Un homme est venu me demander s’il pouvait prendre une photo avec moi. Je lui ai demandé qu’il était, il m’a juste dit : « un type avec des tatouages ». J’ai découvert plus tard que c’était Jesse James. Parfois, nous avions l’occasion d’envoyer quelques Marines dans un autre camp pour rencontrer des célébrités. J’avais une règle : « le grade le plus bas gagne. » Je me disais si d’être ici était déjà dur, alors, que d’être tout en bas de la chaîne alimentaire, ça doit l’être encore plus. Donc les soldats, les
are supposed to collapse the watch and only have so many people who are always on watch. This becomes their only job. It’s normally handled by something called Current Operations, or Current Ops. This is done because during a time of war, especially when a unit is in a combat zone conducting combat operations, it is not efficient or effective for 30 or 40 people to rotate through a watch. Information is lost, you are having to constantly train people who know nothing about what is going on what it going on, what to do, etc. It is wholly ineffective but for whatever reason our commander allowed our operations to do this, so there I was, camp commandant, company commander, and now watch stander.
When I get angry, I stop worrying if what I do will tick someone off and I just do it. I start making sweeping changes until my boss stops me, and I see how far I can push the envelope. So, when I was put on watch, I learned three things: 1. The convoys were going out eight hours late. 2. No corpsman were going out on any of the convoys. And 3. The headquarters company for the reserve battalion was issuing their own orders which was confusing everyone. Thus, while I had the watch, I changed some things. I merged the HQ company with this ops center so they couldn’t order anything without their higher HQ knowing about it. I moved the staging area for the convoys to right in front of the ops center, so they’d go out on time. Third, I told the health services detachment commander that corpsmen would go out on every convoy. He had 22 people, plenty to go around. Things improved, and they never put me on watch again.
While we were in combat, I was also made the investigating officer for an international incident. Someone had plowed huge forklifts into tents that all caught on fire, which not only cost a ton of money but also became an international incident because it happened in front of foreign nationals who were scared, and it started to make all of the foreign nationals that
premières classes privées : « faites-vous plaisir ! » Au début, juste après qu’on ait franchi la LOD, les opérations de combat se déroulaient en temps réel. C’était intense, et nos convois étaient énormes… et toujours très en retard. Parfois jusqu’à huit heures de retard. Comme si je n’avais déjà pas assez de boulot, on m’avait assignée au service de garde. Une astreinte. Ça a toujours été un système stupide, si mal appliqué. En garnison, en temps de paix, les unités mettent en place un tour de garde. Tout le monde prend son tour. On respecte un planning. J’ai écopé de la garde de Noël un nombre incalculable de fois, bien plus que les statistiques ne devraient le permettre. En temps de guerre, quand une unité est en zone de combat, on est censé réduire à l’essentiel le système de garde. Seules quelques personnes restent de manière permanente. C’est leur seul boulot. En général, c’est géré par une cellule qu’on appelle « Current Ops, » le centre des opérations. Car ce n’est ni efficace ni pertinent de faire tourner 30 ou 40 personnes. On perd des infos, on doit tout le temps former des gens qui ne savent rien de ce qui se passe. C’est complètement inefficace. Mais pour une raison obscure, notre commandant a laissé faire. Donc me voilà : commandante du camp, cheffe de compagnie… et maintenant officière de garde. Quand je suis en colère, j’arrête de me demander si ce que je fais va déranger quelqu’un, je commence à opérer des changements radicaux, jusqu’à ce que mon supérieur me dise stop. Je teste les limites. Donc, une fois en poste, j’ai appris trois choses : 1. Les convois partaient toujours avec huit heures de retard. 2. Aucun infirmier militaire ne les accompagnait. Et 3. La compagnie du Quartier Général du bataillon de réserve émettait ses propres ordres, ce qui embrouillait tout le monde. Alors quand j’étais en poste, j’ai commencé à changer des choses. J’ai fusionné la compagnie QG avec le centre des opérations, pour qu’ils ne puissent plus donner d’ordres sans en référer au QG supérieur. J’ai déplacé la zone de départ des convois juste devant le centre des opérations, pour qu’ils partent à l’heure. Et j’ai dit au commandant du détachement médical que les infirmiers devaient accompagner chaque convoi. Il avait 22 personnes, il y avait
we were working with edgy. The Marines they suspected of doing it weren’t talking, so I got sent to investigate this incident. I simply brought in the Marines one at a time, there were eight of them, one by one, over and over again, and just kept asking questions until they cracked. Once one cracked so did the rest. My commander was in the middle of Iraq and wanted the report, so I hopped a four-day convoy up to the middle of Iraq to deliver it.
When I got there, I learned that my husband was in the area. I was excited to see him. He had lived through the attack, and we had not gotten to communicate since before he left. I got five minutes alone with him, in some trailer, in the middle of the day. He wasn’t the same. He seemed distracted. He seemed as if he just wanted me gone. I was confused, shocked, and devastated. I found out later that a peer and friend of mine who was from my command, who was there supporting his unit, also found out about his change, and stopped providing support to him. Unfortunately, it was the beginning of the end. Some casualties of war are so invisible, no one sees.
largement de quoi faire. Les choses se sont améliorées, et on ne m’a plus jamais mise de garde.
Pendant qu’on était en plein combat, j’ai aussi été désignée enquêtrice sur un incident international. Quelqu’un avait conduit d’énormes chariots élévateurs militaires dans des tentes, qui avaient toutes pris feu. Non seulement ça avait coûté une fortune, mais en plus ça avait eu lieu devant des ressortissants étrangers, qui avaient eu peur. Et ça avait tendu l’atmosphère avec les civils du coin qui travaillaient avec nous. Les Marines suspectés ne disaient pas un mot. On m’a donc envoyée enquêter. Je les ai convoqués un par un. Il y en avait huit. Je les ai interrogés, encore et encore, jusqu’à ce que l’un d’eux craque. Puis les autres ont suivi. Mon commandant, qui était en plein cœur de l’Irak, voulait le rapport. Alors j’ai sauté dans un convoi de quatre jours pour aller le lui remettre.
En arrivant, j’ai appris que mon mari était dans le secteur. J’étais excitée à l’idée de le revoir. Il avait survécu à l’attaque. On n’avait pas eu de nouvelles depuis son départ. J’ai eu cinq minutes avec lui, dans un conteneur aménagé, en plein jour. Il n’était plus le même. Il avait l’air distrait. Comme s’il voulait juste que je parte. J’étais confuse, choquée, dévastée. J’ai appris plus tard qu’un collègue et ami, de mon unité, qui était sur place pour le soutenir de manière logistique, avait remarqué lui aussi ce changement, et avait cessé de lui apporter son aide. Malheureusement, c’était le début de la fin. À la guerre, certaines blessures sont si invisibles que personne ne les voit.
I am grateful for the opportunity to work with the author and composer of a song, complete with descriptive information providing the context for its origin and development. A written song is such a personal form. To translate a song from one language to another, to mind the musicality of the language, how it sounds, as well as the imagery it evokes, requires arduous and excruciating work to discover the best combinations of words and phrases.
I went through this process by first looking only at the writing itself. I did my best to understand who my language partner was through the writing alone, and I translated it without reading anything else from the author beyond the text. Then, I learned about the author through communications to me. Further, I learned more through virtual meetings, speaking for hours, both about our works, but also about our lives and who we are. What surprised me throughout this process of translation was learning what I could glean about humanity even from just language and diction. I found my language partner Adèle to be personable, funny, highly intelligent, a fellow secret lover of the Twilight series, warm, and wonderfully complex with a kind heart.
Adèle is thirty-two years old and currently lives in the hometown of Paris. Adèle was mostly educated there, but also as a graphic designer in Amsterdam. As more meticulously explained by Adèle in this text, this is a composed love song bracketed by spoken words with underscoring, based on the optimistic musical movie, a French film called Golden Eighties, set in the 1980’s. Adèle’s song, by contrast, is set in a dystopia, reflecting an emerging darkness that serves as an unspoken undercurrent in our lives today. Even in this song, love’s embrace finds its joy. Adèle’s own words capture it best:
“My relationship with the English language is very similar to many of my friends here in France: from our childhood, we lived in the North American hegemonic culture, learning sometimes more about [the] political, justice or cultural systems [of the United States] than our own, through shows, movies or news coverage. Balancing through ambiguous emotions between fascination or contempt, using [American] words without truly understanding them (and still…), it’s been an ongoing process to see [this] country without those dazzling lenses.”
This experience was enriched by the collaboration and help from my fellow translators in my workshop. They provided me with the ideas to consider, and the mountains of mouths trying to help me discover the best, most truthful and resonant phrases for a song to sing proved overwhelming at times, but always useful. The more challenging aspects of this translation have been finding the right English words that capture similar feelings of internal and external rhymes and rhythms that listening to the feeling the French version of the song evokes.
I am forever grateful for this opportunity because I better learned how to get a sense for an author, as I tend towards translations of the classics, where the author is not around or alive to truly check in with. I always seek to translate the words of an author in a way that not only honors the text but honors who they are as people. Like this song so magically written, Adèle ultimately struck me as someone who acknowledges the darkness in the world, but who nevertheless finds its beauty and hope. How utterly remarkable, that these expressions and experiences of a biologically female combat veteran and nonfiction writer on one part of the globe and a transgender graphic designer and songwriter on
the other can communicate such similar truths about life and love. Truly, an honor.
Librement inspirée de « Plus rien ne compte » de Chantal Akerman & Marc Hérouet »
Tout est trop dur ici, le ciel blanc, le froid, les hommes qui aboient, les chiens errants. Dans les rues, on ne voit plus que des soldats, des policiers, des uniformes et des matraques. Je ne comprends pas la langue d’ici. Tout est trop petit, du coin de la rue au coin de ma chambre, pas un café où se retrouver ; la ville et ses dangers et pas un seul même pas un seul club, un bar, ou cabaret pour aller danser. Rien ne changera ici, rien n’est possible, plus rien à faire ou à penser…
Mais quand la lumière baisse…
Et que les rues se vident
Et qu’on se presse, qu’on s’presse
Pour courir jusqu’à un porche
Peu importe sous quelle porte
Cachées des regards
S’embrasser dans le noir
Oublier la douleur
Retrouver la couleur
De tes yeux glacials
Alors mon cœur s’emballe
Freely Inspired by “Nothing Matters Anymore”
By Chantal Akerman and Marc Hérouet
Everything is too hard here: the white sky, the cold, the barking men, stray dogs. In the streets, I now only see soldiers, policemen, uniforms, batons. I don’t understand the language here. Everything is too small. From the street corner to the corner of my room, not a single café exists in which to meet. This city with its dangers: not a single club, not a bar, not a cabaret in which to dance. Nothing changes here. Nothing is possible. Nothing is left to do or think...
But when the light fades...
The streets are empty And we rush, we rush, Running to a porch No matter what the door. Hidden from view, We kiss in the dark. We forget, we suffer To find the color Of your icy eyes, And then my heart racing tries.
Tout est possible
Une fois ensemble
Loin de la ville et ses dangers
Loin les soldats, les policiers
Les uniformes et les passants
Le ciel blanc
Les chiens errants
Tout est possible
Loin de cette ville
Il n’y a plus personne
Et nos ombres se cherchent
Et nos cœurs et nos corps
Qui les hantent
Il n’y a plus que nous
Nos mains, nos ventres doux,
Nos yeux, nos bras, nos cous,
Et mon cœur ralentit
C’est la nuit
Qui fait le jour avec toi
Tout est possible
Une fois ensemble
Loin de la ville et ses dangers
Loin les soldats, les policiers
Les uniformes et les passants
Le ciel blanc, les chiens errants
Tout est possible
Loin de cette ville
Everything’s possible When we’re an ensemble. Far from this city, its dangers, Far from police, and the soldiers, The uniforms, the passersby, The stray dogs, Under a white sky. Everything’s possible Far from this city.
No one’s left but us, Our shadows seek us, just Our hearts our bodies, too. These shadows haunt us, too. Only we are left, our hands, Our bellies under them, Our arms, our necks, your eyes, And my heart subsides. It’s these nights
That make the day with you.
Everything’s possible. When we’re an ensemble. Far from this city, its dangers, Far from police, and the soldiers, The uniforms, the passersby, The stray dogs, Under a white sky. Everything’s possible Far from this city.
Juste moi
Juste toi
Qui m’étreint, ma tête reposant sur ton sein, Nos poitrines battantes
L’une contre l’autre,
Lorsque doucement en toi
Doucement et puis plus fort…
Just me
Just you
You hold me, my head rests on your breast, Our beating chest, One against the other, When in you, tender, Tender, then stronger...
« Une comédie où les personnages parleraient vite, se déplaceraient vite et sans cesse, mus par le désir, les regrets, les sentiments et la cupidité ; se croiseraient sans se voir, se verraient sans pouvoir s’atteindre, se perdraient - sans que nous les perdions de vue - pour se retrouver enfin… »
Chantal Akerman, 1985, à propos de Golden Eighties, Œuvre écrite et parlée 1968-1991, Cyril Béghin, L’Arachéen
En 1985, Chantal Akerman réalisait la comédie musicale Golden Eighties. La première chanson est une ballade qui s’intitule Plus rien ne compte. C’est Sylvie, la gérante du snack-bar de la galerie marchande de la Toison d’Or à Bruxelles, qui l’interprète. Elle vient de recevoir une lettre de son fiancé, parti « faire fortune » au Canada. Dans cette lettre, celui-ci lui donne des nouvelles de « ce pays gigantesque » où « tout est possible ici, tout est plus grand, plus fort et plus puissant… ». Mais alors qu’il vante les bienfaits de l’industrie de l’amiante et de la pâte à papier, la chanson prend un tour plus dramatique : la nuit venue, Sylvie lui manque terriblement, au point qu’il serait prêt à abandonner toute son entreprise. Pourtant, il ne reviendra pas.
À première vue, on pourrait croire que Chantal Akerman - pourtant mal connue pour sa fleur-bleuterie - épouse les thématiques classiques du mélodrame : l’aventure et la conquête masculine d’un côté, l’attente et l’espérance féminine de l’autre. Cependant, l’interprétation de Myriam Boyer et la mise en scène de Chantal Akerman apportent une dimension radicalement différente. La chanson semble renversée : dès la fin du premier paragraphe, Sylvie lève les yeux de la lettre, se sert un verre de vin, puis commence à chanter de mémoire. Le comptoir du snack-bar devient sa scène ; ses propres clients, son public. L’adresse initiale de la chanson est détournée pour raconter, presque malgré
“This is a comedy where the characters speak quickly. They move quickly and constantly, driven by desire, regrets, feelings, and greed. They cross paths without seeing each other. They see each other without being able to reach each other. At times, they lose each other without us losing sight of them. And then, they finally find each other again...”
Chantal Akerman, 1985, description of Golden Eighties
Written by Cyril Béghin, L’Arachéen (1968-1991)
In 1985, Chantal Akerman directed the musical Golden Eighties. The first song is a ballad called “Plus Rien ne Compte” (“Nothing Matters Anymore”). It is performed by Sylvie, the manager of a snack bar in the Toison d’Or Shopping Mall in Brussels. She has just received a letter from her fiancé who has left to “make his fortune” in Canada. In this letter, he gives her news of “this gigantic country” where “everything is possible here, everything is bigger, stronger and more powerful...” But while he extols the benefits of the asbestos and the paper industries, the song takes a more dramatic turn. When night falls, her fiancé misses Sylvie terribly, to the point that he would be willing to abandon his entire business. However, he will not return.
At first glance, one might think that Chantal Akerman – although not especially known for her flowery sentimentality – embraces classic themes of melodrama here: adventure and male conquest on the one hand and expectation and female hope on the other. However, Myriam Boyer’s interpretation and Chantal Akerman’s staging take on a radically different dimension. The song seems to be inverted: at the end of the first verse, Sylvie looks up from the letter, pours herself a glass of wine, and then begins to sing from her
elle, une toute autre histoire : celle de la mélancolie et du désir de Sylvie, plutôt que les aventures de son fiancé au Canada.
Près de quarante ans plus tard, alors que les rêves d’Amérique se sont peu à peu réinventés dans les imaginaires de mes contemporains, j’ai eu envie de reprendre cette ballade de Chantal Akerman et de Marc Hérouet. M’essayer, à mon tour, à détourner une chanson d’amour. Transporter mon texte dans le sien pour le retourner, en quelque sorte, à l’envoyeur. N’ayant absolument aucune connaissance en solfège, j’imagine qu’il sera simple pour mon binôme d’en proposer une traduction. De mon côté, je me suis contentée de m’entraîner, ma voix toute cassée, à chanter par-dessus celle de Myriam Boyer, en respectant les rimes et les pied. Je trouve qu’il y a quelque chose de profondément réconfortant dans l’idée d’inventer une ballade à l’intérieur d’une autre, de confondre sa voix façon karaoké, plutôt que de s’essouffler à toujours tout réinventer.
memories. The snack bar counter becomes her stage: her own customers, her audience. The original addressee of the song is diverted to tell, almost despite itself, a completely different story: that of Sylvie’s melancholy and desire rather than the adventures of her fiancé in Canada.
Nearly forty years later, while the dreams of America have gradually been reinvented in the imaginations of my contemporaries, I wanted to revive and adapt this ballad by Chantal Akerman and Marc Hérouet. I wanted to try, for my part, to transform this existing love song. I wanted to weave her text with mine, to “RETURN
so to speak. Although I have absolutely no knowledge of music theory, I imagine it should be straightforward for my language partner to translate. For my part, I contented myself to practice with my broken voice, to sing over that of Myriam Boyer, respecting the rhymes and the rhythms of the song. I find something deeply comforting in the idea of inventing a ballad inside another, of mixing my voice “karaoke-style” rather than reinventing everything.
J’ai commencé cet exercice de traduction mutuelle dans l’idée de trouver un écho — à l’autre bout de l’Atlantique, une écriture à trouver, une autrice avec qui échanger, une langue à traduire.
La langue de Helen, et j’ai tout de suite été frappée par ça, est très riche, très dense. Il y a dans son emploi des adjectifs une grande liberté, dans les agencements de ses mots une vraie souplesse, et beaucoup d’idées sont relayées dans des phrases qu’elle garde concises et efficaces. Si j’écris souvent, moi aussi, avec des phrases et des tournures courtes, le français ne permet pas à mon sens de relayer autant d’idées en une si grande économie de mots. Il y avait un vrai défi à garder le plus intact possible les propos du texte sans pour autant devenir pompeuse, ou alourdir le récit.
J’ai choisi de traduire le prétérit par une combinaison de passé simple et d’imparfait — les temps classiques du récit en Français. Pour autant, il me semble que dans la littérature contemporaine on a tendance à basculer plutôt vers un usage plus fréquent du passé-composé — c’est moi-même le choix que j’opère la plupart du temps. Ici, le récit se situe dans les années 1930, et j’y trouve une préciosité, un souci du détail, un sens aigu de la description très appropriés à l’usage des temps classiques de la narration — qui semble ici faire le récit d’une époque presque révolue. Ce choix m’a même conduite à utiliser de l’imparfait du subjonctif, ce qui me plaît beaucoup — je trouve ça classe, j’écris juste ça pour me vanter.
Il y a dans le texte de Helen une grande notion d’implicite. À mes premières lectures, je réalise maintenant que je n’avais pas tout compris, ou plutôt pas tout saisi. Chaque chose, chaque expression est pensée sous les différents angles de ses double-sens. Le
grand vide de la maison des Yang. L’innocence heureuse et résignée de la narratrice. La mort — est-ce une mort ? de l’époux, en tous cas son processus de céramification et son après. Sa figure autour de laquelle tout tourne, pourtant effacée du récit. Le devenir de Brille-Prune. L’omniprésence du désert. Il était particulièrement difficile — et inspirant — d’essayer de relayer au mieux ces non-dits et ces implicites. Parfois, cela se fait au prix de tournures étranges, mais j’ai préféré cela à une forme de banalité ou d’opacité quand le texte original était si riche de sens et de mystères.
Les personnages féminins sont extraordinaires dans le récit. Elles ont, toutes, leurs particularités et leur façon d’être au monde, à ce harem. Leurs noms sont beaux et généreux, j’ai adoré leur trouver leur équivalent français. Seule Yu-er, la petite sœur, échappe au groupe nominal substantivé — comme on pressent qu’elle va échapper au harem. J’ai adoré l’univers dépeint par Helen, microcosme patriarcal et étouffant, et pourtant au sein duquel les femmes ont repris le contrôle et se forgent.
En sus de la langue de Helen, j’ai découvert tout un pan de la culture chinoise, dans cette ancienne grande maison à l’orée du désert. Cela amène un vocabulaire qui n’est pas des plus évidents à traduire. En anglais, m’a précisé Helen, ce sont des mots rares ou inusités : qui parfois néanmoins n’existent même pas en Français.
J’aime beaucoup les invitations que font ces expressions ou ces mots aux lecteur·ices : allez-donc voir, ce qu’est un chapeau-aux-phénix ou une veste au python. Invitation double donc, en terre et langue inconnues.
Je trouve qu’il a été important d’avoir l’avis de l’autrice dans le processus de traduction, et notamment pour clarifier et relayer ce que le texte avait parfois d’un peu obscur pour moi. Je crois qu’idéalement, il faudrait toujours traduire avec le concours de l’autrice ou de
l’auteur. Cela permet de mieux saisir cette langue si particulière, ce choix de mots, cette vision-là. Mais je crois que cela a aussi pu se faire car nous avions chacune connaissance du style de l’autre, et une grande confiance en sa capacité à traduire, dans sa langue, la nôtre.
originally published by the plentitudes
In the dark desert passage between Yilin and Langtougou, I tapped Plum-Bright on the shoulder and asked if she would stop stealing my husband-to-be away from me. If it was a matter of time, I wanted to be prepared. She glanced at me the way a locust sizes up a dung beetle, and the yellow sun looming worlds away dropped beneath her neck.
“That is not how it works.”
She brushed her hair behind her ears and went back to rinsing his utensils in a basin filled with a shallow strip of water. The wind whisked the sand thickly around her ankles, fixing her body into the dunes. But heaving and sighing Plum-Bright overcame the becoming of the desert.
“I only mean,” she said, before stamping out the fire, “that I will be the legitimate wife, even when you and your little sister marry in.”
The sun set, and she had no more to say. The water she poured out darkened and desiccated as soon as it touched the sand. When she crept into bed with him, he was curt, but over the last days his angularity – his prickly beard, his sudden elbows, had been sublimated into the whirlpools of yellow dust. Maybe it was also the ticking gaze of the stars that softened him, shepherded his sharp animal self onto its belly.
I sat unblinkingly awake in my tent, in my bridal skirt, listening to my sister’s shallow breathing. Underneath the vermillion veil everything was redtinted—the red rocks, the red wildlife faces, the sprawling auburn hills. That was the year I turned fifteen, and Yu-er was still eight. Mother had died and
Dans le passage sombre et désert entre Yilin et Langtougou, je toquai sur l’épaule de Brille-Prune et lui demandai si elle voulait bien cesser de me voler mon futur époux. Si ce n’était plus qu’une question de temps, je voulais y être préparée. Elle me dévisagea comme la sauterelle qui jauge le bousier, et le soleil jaune qui se dessinait à des milliers de mondes de là s’effaça derrière son cou.
« Ce n’est pas comme cela que ça marche. »
Elle passa ses cheveux derrière les oreilles et retourna aux ustensiles de mon futur époux qu’elle rinça dans une bassine remplie d’un maigre fond d’eau. Le vent ramenait le sable en couche épaisse autour de ses chevilles, emprisonnant son corps dans les dunes. Mais, en soufflant, en soupirant, Brille-Prune résista à la transmutation du désert.
« Ce que je veux dire », dit-elle avant d’étouffer le feu, « c’est que je resterai la femme légitime, même quand toi et ta petite sœur l’épouserez. »
Le soleil se coucha, et elle n’avait plus rien à ajouter. L’eau qu’elle versa sur le sable noircit et s’assécha aussitôt. Lorsqu’elle se faufila dans le lit à ses côtés, il fut abrupt, mais ces derniers jours son corps anguleux — sa barbe épineuse, ses coudes tranchants — avait été sublimé par les tourbillons de poussière jaune. Peut-être était-ce aussi la course inéluctable des étoiles qui l’amadouait, couchant son être animal et brutal sur le flanc.
Je m’assis dans ma tente les yeux grands ouverts, dans ma jupe de mariée, écoutant les faibles respirations de ma sœur. Sous le voile vermillon tout paraissait rouge — les rochers rouges, les multiples visages de la faune rouges, les vastes collines auburns. C’était l’année de mes quinze ans, et Yu-er en avait toujours huit. Mère était morte et père nous
father had given us away to the Yang family, prolific leathermakers in the region. “Just as water poured out cannot return to the basin,” father said, “a daughter married out cannot return home.” Last I had seen him, he was contentedly lying on the bedspread with his hawksbill opium pipe. And why shouldn’t he be sprawled somewhere, eyes closed, his far-off body waddling in low-flying clouds? There no weeping to be done about my engagement, no wintering birds or canyon echoes lingering on my departure. Everyone could see that I had the right constitution for being a concubine. In my young life I had already learned to submit to loneliness, the heaviest of human burdens— and I had no other virtues or talents.
So it made no great difference that the man I was to marry slipped into an incandescent fever overnight and was dead by dawn. When Plum-Bright woke she mentioned idly to the desert air that her left side was cold, as though she’d slept next to a fine slab of jade.
“Year of the snake,” Madame Yang tsked, standing blindly in the courtyard. Her thumb plucked at her chanting beads.
Stiffly, the old woman knelt down and felt the shape of her son’s smooth, sanded visage. Her household was weeping politely behind her, the sixteen men in the tannery, their seven wives and children, three servant girls, the wastoid uncle, the accountant-manservant, the vats of reddened oil and the one-armed cook. Racks of unfleshed hides hung from lines piercing across the estate. The halls seemed clogged up and sagging with processions of slow-moving Qing dynasty ghosts.
“Bad harvest. The wind’s brought in evil.”
Plum-Bright knelt before the body. His second wife, Weaving-Moon, hovered above us from the terrace, in a white gown, a phoenix coronet set crookedly on her
avait vendues à la famille Yang, des tanneurs prospères de la région. « Comme l’eau qu’on a vidée ne peut retrouver sa bassine, dit père, une fille qu’on a mariée ne peut retrouver sa maison. » La dernière fois que je l’avais vu, il était allongé, l’air satisfait, sur le couvre-lit avec sa pipe d’opium à écailles de tortues. Et pourquoi donc n’aurait-il pas le droit de s’affaler ici, les yeux clos, son corps s’abandonnant à ces lointains nuages bas ? Là, point de sanglots à verser pour mes fiançailles, pas d’oiseaux d’hiver ou l’écho d’un canyon pour se lamenter sur mon départ. Tout le monde pouvait voir que j’étais dans de bonnes dispositions pour être une concubine. Dans ma toute jeunesse j’avais déjà appris à me soumettre à la solitude, le plus lourd des fardeaux humains — et je n’avais aucune autre vertu ni talent. Alors, cela me fut égal que l’homme que j’allais épouser tombât dans une fièvre incandescente et mourût avant l’aube. Lorsqu’elle se réveilla, Brille-Prune évoqua à la brise du désert, nonchalante, que son flanc gauche était froid, comme si elle avait dormi aux côtés d’un bloc de jade pure.
« L’année du serpent, » tiqua Madame Yang, debout, aveugle, dans la cour. Son pouce faisait défiler les perles de son chapelet.
La vieille femme s’agenouilla avec raideur et palpa les contours doux et poncés du visage de son fils. La maisonnée pleurait poliment derrière elle, les seize hommes de la tannerie, leurs sept femmes et enfants, trois servantes, l’oncle saoul, le domestique-comptable, les cuves d’huile rougie, et le cuisinier manchot. Des rangs de peaux tannées pendaient sur des fils tendus à travers le domaine. Les galeries semblaient saturées de fantômes de la dynastie Qing en lentes processions tout autour, et crouler sous leur poids.
« Mauvaise récolte. Le vent a apporté le mal. »
Brille-Prune s’agenouilla devant le corps. La seconde épouse, Lune-Tisserande, apparut au-dessus de nous depuis la terrasse, dans une robe blanche, un chapeau-aux-phénix posé de travers sur la tête. Les lanternes autour d’elle en
head. The lanterns around her shivered. Madame Yang retreated to her seat and raised her teacup to her mouth, wetting her lips sparingly against the rim. The officiant and the ritualist fidgeted behind the pillars.
“Come now,” Madame Yang said, not looking up. “Let us all hear what must be done.”
The officiant stepped forward, his body prostrated.
“The wedding must take place by nightfall,” he declared, staring at me with bulging goldfish eyes. “The banquet must include three courses. You must slaughter a black chicken.”
Madame Yang set the teacup on the table. “And the other one?”
The ritualist took quick steps to stand before the matriarch, and cleared his throat.
“The funeral must take place by dawn,” he announced, his canine tongue barely clasped inside his mouth. “Joss paper must be burned until full moon. Those who keep vigil must not drink.”
He paused, tilting his chin as though mapping out some curve of the cosmos.
“His wives must be buried with him,” he added finally. “Within three days, to follow him and attend to his needs in the afterworld.”
Plum-Bright closed her eyes. Suddenly, WeavingMoon began tapping her feet, her body twisting in intricate patterns in contraposition to her beautiful flicking hands. She was singing the part of the whitebone demoness, an aria from some Peking opera. Her paper cut-out neck seemed translucent in the shadows. The albino peacock feathers tucked in her crown shook languidly with the movements of her long, hungry face.
Madame Yang sighed, wrinkling the corners of her mouth. Weaving-Moon’s singing crept to a rapid, percussive crescendo. Blue veins emerged on PlumBright’s clenched fists like rock-carving rivers.
“The myriad of things each have their way,” Madame Yang muttered. “Each will join where each must. See…”
tremblèrent. Madame Yang rejoignit son fauteuil et porta sa tasse de thé à la bouche, humectant ses lèvres sur le rebord. L’officiant et le ritualiste se manifestèrent derrière les piliers.
« Venez donc, dit Madame Yang sans lever les yeux. Que tous entendent ce qui doit être fait. »
L’officiant s’avança, le corps prostré.
« Le mariage doit avoir lieu d’ici la tombée de la nuit, déclara-t-il, me dévisageant avec les yeux globuleux d’un poisson rouge. Le banquet doit comprendre trois plats. Vous devez abattre un poulet noir. »
Madame Yang posa sa tasse sur la table. « Et l’autre ? »
Le ritualiste se présenta à pas rapides devant la matriarche, et s’éclaircit la gorge.
« Les funérailles doivent avoir lieu d’ici le lever du jour, annonça-t-il, sa langue canine à peine retenue par sa bouche. Des billets funéraires doivent brûler jusqu’à ce que la lune soit pleine. Ceux qui se chargent de la veillée ne doivent pas boire. »
Il s’arrêta, inclinant son menton comme pour décrire la courbe du cosmos.
« Ses épouses doivent être enterrées avec lui, ajouta-til finalement. Dans les trois jours, pour l’accompagner et pourvoir à ses besoins dans l’au-delà. »
Brille-Prune ferma les yeux. D’un coup, LuneTisserande tapa du pied, son corps se contorsionnant dans un mouvement étrange qui jurait avec ses belles mains ondoyantes. Elle commença à chanter le rôle de la démone aux os blancs, une aria d’un opéra de Pékin. Dans l’ombre, son cou de papier ciselé paraissait translucide. Les plumes de paon blanc plantées dans sa couronne suivaient langoureusement les mouvements de son long visage avide. Madame Yang soupira, plissant les commissures de ses lèvres. Le chant de Lune-Tisserande s’intensifia en un crescendo rapide et suraigu. Comme des rivières taillant la roche, des veines bleues émergèrent sur les poings crispés de Brille-Prune.
« Dans la myriade des choses du monde chacune a sa propre place, marmonna Madame Yang. Chacune prendra
Standing up before her household, she tossed her teacup on the ground, where it shattered with a splash. Then, she plucked a feather from her python jacket and blew it from her palm, where it joined with the wind. Her chanting beads turned, and again unturned.
“Let my son take whomever he wishes with him, go where he wishes to go. Let me have no part in those dealings,” she said finally, sitting back down and resting her hand on the lacquer table. The blue in PlumBright’s knuckles paled.
“And call the stonemason.”
The groom’s first body burned during the wedding banquet. As his bone fragments were ground into a limestone slurry and mixed into terracotta clay, I made three prostrations to the heavens and to the Yang family’s ancestors. Horns and firecrackers sounded across the village square. His ashes were poured into a glaze while the kiln licked with slow flames a molded facsimile of his appearance. Plum-Bright sat stiffly with Weaving-Moon, her gaze drifting to the kitchen. Yu-er wandered underfoot from table to table, stuffing candied haws in her mouth. I served rice wine to the guests while the groom’s face emerged under the chisel, with a round, merciful nose and luminous eyes. His queue braid was thick and glossy and perfectly coiffed. As the night settled in, my husband returned from the stonemason’s in his second body, hoisted by four men on an embroidered sedan seat. The guests cheered at his arrival, marveling at the fineness of his brows, the pearlescent generosity of his teeth. “A prosperous match indeed,” a distant relative conceded, stroking his beard as he encircled my husband with fault-finding candlelight.
“To which mistress’s quarters?” one of the sedan carriers piped, as the last lanterns were blown out.
But Madame Yang was already turning away,
celle qu’elle doit… Voyez : »
Se redressant devant la maisonnée, elle jeta sa tasse sur le sol, où celle-ci se fracassa en éclaboussures. Puis, elle arracha une plume de sa veste au python et souffla sur sa paume pour qu’elle s’envole au vent. Les perles de son chapelet roulèrent dans un sens, puis se déroulèrent dans l’autre.
« Laissez mon fils prendre qui il désire avec lui, aller où il désire aller. Laissez-moi me détourner de ces questions, » dit-elle enfin, se rasseyant et déposant sa main sur la table de laque. Le bleu des poings de Brille-Prune pâlit.
« Et appelez le tailleur de pierre. » ***
Le premier corps du marié brûla pendant le banquet du mariage. Tandis qu’on broyait ses os dans une bouillie calcaire et les mélangeait à la glaise, je fis trois prosternations aux cieux et aux ancêtres de la famille Yang. Des cors et des pétards retentissaient dans la place du village. On plongea ses cendres dans l’émail pendant que les lentes flammes du four à céramique pourléchaient un fac-similé modelé sur sa physionomie. Brille-Prune s’assit avec raideur auprès de Lune-Tisserande, le regard s’égarant vers la cuisine. Yuer rôdait dans nos pattes d’une table à l’autre, se gavant de cenelles confites. Je servais de l’alcool de riz aux invités tandis que du burin émergeait le visage du marié, d’abord le nez, rond et miséricordieux, et des yeux lumineux. Sa queue de cheval était épaisse et brillante et parfaitement tressée. La nuit tombée, mon époux revint de chez le tailleur de pierre dans son second corps, sur une chaise à porteurs brodée soulevée par quatre hommes. Les invités applaudirent son arrivée, s’émerveillant de la finesse de son front, de la nacre généreuse de ses dents. « Un mariage prospère en effet, » concéda un parent éloigné, caressant sa barbe tout en inspectant mon époux à la lumière inquisitrice d’une chandelle.
« Dans les appartements de quelle maîtresse ? » crailla l’un des porteurs, tandis qu’on éteignait les lanternes.
retiring to her own chamber. She waved her handkerchief indifferently. “Just take him, he will go.”
The sedan carriers looked at each other hesitantly. After a moment, they heaved the groom onto their shoulders, and each began walking soundlessly in the direction to which they felt compelled. The procession made confused loops and half-turns across the courtyard, nudging the pillars, encircling the estate twice before, drunkenly, or perhaps undecidedly, stumbling in front of my door.
My heart fluttered. I breathed heavily as I followed him to our bed. I drew the curtains shyly and, seeing no displeasure on his brow, made a slow feast of removing my garments.
But for the next two months my husband slept with Weaving-Moon. At sundown, the sedan carriers made the same meandering path across the estate, tearing out strings of curing hides, snagging on falling pomegranate branches, before settling in front of her door. Occasionally, having traced the courtyard too many times, the exhausted carriers fell to their knees and left my husband underneath the stars, where ice crystals gathered on his handsome face. At dawn, PlumBright and I hiked our solitary bodies up rolling hills to visit his headstone. We lit incense sticks and burned joss papers for him, while Weaving-Moon idled about her toiletry, humming and languidly massaging her shoulder. At mealtimes Madame Yang allowed WeavingMoon the first scoops of bone broth, even picking out heavy chunks of meat to place them into her bowl. As Plum-Bright and I scrubbed laundry, plucked chickens, dug for potatoes, she painted her brows with charcoal. Her flimsy frame seemed to grow increasingly palpable with each passing night.
“Let her be,” Plum-Bright said to me, as she vigorously scrubbed the burnt side of a pot in the
Mais Madame Yang se détournait déjà, se retirant dans sa chambre. Elle secoua son mouchoir dans un signe las de la main. « Là où vous l’emmènerez, il ira. »
Les porteurs se regardèrent avec hésitation. Après un moment, ils soulevèrent le marié sur leurs épaules, et chacun commença à marcher sans un bruit dans la direction vers laquelle il se sentait appelé. La procession fit des boucles et des demi-tours confus à travers la cour, heurtant les piliers, contournant deux fois le domaine avant de, par ivresse ou par doute, s’échouer contre ma porte.
Mon cœur vacilla. J’inspirai avec peine en le suivant dans le lit. Je tirai timidement les rideaux et, ne voyant nul mécontentement sur son front, me fis un plaisir de me dévêtir lentement.
Mais les deux mois qui suivirent cette nuit, mon époux dormit avec Lune-Tisserande. Au coucher du soleil, les porteurs répétaient le même trajet sinueux dans la cour, arrachant les fils desquels pendaient les peaux, s’écorchant aux branches des grenadiers, avant de s’arrêter devant sa porte. Parfois, ayant trop de fois parcouru la cour, les porteurs exténués s’effondraient à genoux en laissant mon époux sous les étoiles, où des cristaux de glace s’amassaient sur son beau visage. À l’aube, Brille-Prune et moi trainions nos corps esseulés de collines en collines pour visiter sa tombe. Nous allumions et brûlions pour lui des bâtons d’encens et des billets funéraires pendant que Lune-Tisserande se prélassait en faisant sa toilette, chantonnait, se faisait masser langoureusement les épaules. Lors des repas, Madame Yang réservait à Lune-Tisserande les premières cuillerées de bouillon d’os, y prélevant même les plus gros bouts de viande pour les lui donner. Pendant que Brille-Prune et moi décrassions le linge, plumions les poulets, récoltions les pommes de terre, elle maquillait ses sourcils au charbon. Ses contours frêles semblaient devenir de plus en plus palpables après chaque nuit.
« Laisse-la donc, me dit Brille-Prune alors qu’elle
courtyard. “She miscarried a son last spring. He was cold to her while she was ill.”
And yet whatever iciness that had formed between the couple seemed to long have thawed. Weaving-Moon walked around with newlywed jubilance, parading the stylish fox-pelt lined brocades that had been delivered in her favorite colors, tugging at the neckline in pretended absentmindedness to reveal the outline of my husband’s handprint hidden below her clavicle. The maids snickered behind my back. When I caught Weaving-Moon sifting through my and Yu-er’s dowry, examining our silver hairpins and carnelian earrings under the sunlight, she smirked and asked, “What use do you have with these, little girl? You cannot satisfy a man.” Hearing the commotion, Plum-Bright marched into her room and returned my jewelry to me. In her eyes there was a glint of something hot and windswept. That night, the stone man slept with her instead.
“Have I displeased you?” I asked, facing my husband, my breath frosting in the air. Yu-er was curled beside me on the bed, half asleep.
“Autumn has gone by since last you visited me. You must not even remember my name.”
The constant boredom of being a concubine, the necessary idleness of that very way of life, settled heavily in my stomach. Nothing had stirred my attention for weeks, save for briefly, when the onearmed cook suddenly disappeared from Langtougou. I dipped a cloth in warm water and ran it across my husband’s dust-ridden face.
“You are very fond of Weaving-Moon, yet look how she neglects you.”
I wrapped the sheets around us, feeling a soft glaze of moisture pass from my warm body to his. But sleep wouldn’t come. Some malignant, foreign species of yearning had roosted in me and killed that sweet
récurait vigoureusement le fond brûlé d’une casserole dans la cour. Elle a fait une fausse couche au printemps dernier, un fils. Il a été froid envers elle pendant qu’elle était convalescente. »
Et pourtant quelle que fût la froideur au sein du couple, elle paraissait avoir fondu comme neige au soleil depuis longtemps. Lune-Tisserande paradait avec la jubilation d’une jeune mariée, exhibant les élégants brocarts doublés de peau de renard qu’on avait fait faire dans ses couleurs préférées, tirant sur son décolleté dans une naïveté feinte pour révéler l’empreinte de la main de mon époux dissimulée sous sa clavicule. Les servantes ricanaient dans mon dos. Lorsque je surpris Lune-Tisserande à fouiller dans ma dot et celle de Yu-er, scrutant nos épingles à cheveux en argent et nos boucles d’oreilles en cornaline à la lumière du soleil, elle eut un sourire narquois et demanda, « Et quel usage en feras-tu, petite fille ? Tu ne peux satisfaire un homme. » En entendant notre dispute, Brille-Prune surgit dans la chambre et me rendit mes bijoux. Elle avait une lueur dans les yeux, quelque chose de chaud et de battu par le vent. Cette nuit-là, l’homme de pierre dormit avec elle.
« Vous ai-je déplu ? » Demandai-je à mon époux, face à lui, mon souffle se givrant dans l’air. Yu-er était roulée en boule à mes côtés dans le lit, à moitié endormie.
« L’automne a passé depuis la dernière fois que vous m’avez visitée. Vous ne devez pas même vous souvenir de mon nom. »
L’ennui constant d’être une concubine, l’oisiveté-même intrinsèque à ce mode de vie, me pesaient lourdement dans l’estomac. Rien n’avait retenu mon attention depuis des semaines, si-ce-n’est pour un instant, quand le cuisinier manchot avait soudainement disparu de Langtougou. Je trempai un linge dans l’eau tiède et le passai sur le visage constellé de poussière de mon époux.
« Vous aimez beaucoup Lune-Tisserande, et pourtant voyez comme elle vous néglige. »
pull of unconsciousness – I trembled at the thought of being abandoned on the morrow, made widowed again. I knew that he did not yet crave my company because he did not know me. His brightly polished eyes had not yet adjusted to my silhouette. Who was I, other than a woman younger and more fertile than his other two wives, qualities that no longer had any weight in his heart? Plum-Bright was bound to him as a proper wife, a part of his very soul. Weaving-Moon had trapped him, with her theatrical fingertips, her raw animal magnetism, he was her floorboard mouse. Inside the stone man’s harem I knew I had to forge myself, emerge from the fire as something legible to him. I dug my fingernails into my knees.
“Mother was a seamstress, but I was no good at it,” I started, staring down at the loose threads on my shirt. “She died just when the embroidery started making sense.”
I snuck a glance at my husband, finding him in his usual, compassionate expression. Reaching across the bed, I picked up the oil lamp and raised it to his face, watching the flames cast flickering shadows over his patient eyes. “Father always wanted the money for a concubine, to give him a son. He said both Yu-er and I were ugly,” I said, staring at him unblinkingly.
Still he sat listening with that neutral rapture. I took a deep breath.
“My cousin has a friend, her father sold off everything he owned, even his old pots, his winter boots, so she could go to university in the big city,” I spoke delicately, as though disrobing and revealing to him what no photograph or matchmaker’s charts could capture.
“She wrote back letters, said she was learning about equality between men and women – you know, those fashionable Western ideas. All the girls were jealous of her, said they didn’t want to marry, that it was better to be educated, join a revolution. And romance too, like in the Butterfly Lovers, stirred in the squat and the slim
Je nous entourais des draps, et sentis un léger voile de moiteur passer de mon corps chaud au sien. Mais le sommeil ne venait pas. Une néfaste et étrange espèce de manque était née en moi, et avait tué cette douce montée d’insouciance — je tremblais à la pensée d’être abandonnée au matin, d’être rendue veuve une nouvelle fois. Je savais que c’était parce qu’il me connaissait mal qu’il ne désirait pas encore ardemment ma compagnie. Ses yeux vernis et luisants ne s’étaient pas encore ajustés à ma silhouette. Qui étais-je, sinon une femme plus jeune et plus fertile que ses deux autres épouses, qualités qui ne pesaient désormais plus en son cœur ? Brille-Prune lui était liée en tant que véritable épouse, une partie de son âme-même. Lune-Tisserande l’avait envoûté, avec son doigté théâtral, son magnétisme animal cru, il était devenu la souris de son plancher. Dans le harem de l’homme de pierre, je savais désormais que je devais forger mon identité propre, émerger du feu comme quelque chose de lisible à ses yeux. J’enfonçai mes ongles dans mes genoux.
« Ma mère était couturière, mais je n’étais pas bonne à ça, amorçai-je, toisant les fils décousus de ma chemise. Elle est morte alors que je commençais tout juste à comprendre la broderie. »
Je regardai mon époux à la dérobée, et le trouvai dans la même expression compatissante que d’habitude. Depuis l’autre bout du lit, j’attrapai la lampe à huile et la levai face à son visage, observant les flammes dessiner des ombres vacillantes sur ses yeux patients. « Mon père a toujours voulu s’offrir une concubine, pour qu’elle lui donne un fils. Il disait que Yu-er et moi étions laides, » dis-je, le dévisageant sans ciller.
Et pourtant il resta assis, à écouter avec sa neutre béatitude. Je pris une grande inspiration.
« Mon cousin a une amie dont le père a vendu tout ce qu’il possédait, jusqu’à ses vieilles casseroles et ses bottes d’hiver, pour qu’elle puisse aller à l’université à la grande ville. » Je parlai délicatement, comme pour me dévêtir et lui dévoiler ce que ni la photographie ni le catalogue d’un marieur ne pouvaient saisir.
alike. ‘Let him care for me, admire my mind, and should fate tear us asunder, let us waste away to be reborn with wings,’ the girls said. ‘Let us escape,’ they said.”
I sighed, my ribcage tight around my heartbeat.
“They never resigned to fate. What more can be said about that?” I asked, lowering my cheek on his cool shoulder. Teardrops gathered in the corners of my eyes, and surprised, I blinked them away into his hands. I had always believed myself a conqueror of solitude— that strange, suckling beast.
“Do you think there’s enough in my dowry to send Yu-er off to school when she comes of age?” I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. “How much would it take? I have three silver pins, two small pearls, and three earrings with carnelians of different shades. You can’t possibly want her as a concubine anymore, in your state. Please, husband. Oh, I won’t ask for anything ever again. When the time comes, let me send her away.”
Yu-er stirred fretfully in her sleep, murmuring. “Who’s sending us away again, Sparrow-Thought?”
I bit my lip. “Nobody, dearest. Sleep now— tomorrow I will cut a pomelo for you, with sweet, fat flesh.”
I watched her lashes flutter, her mouth slightly ajar, and in that tender silence my heart swelled. My husband had promised to let Yu-er go, to satisfy himself with just me. Outside, against the backdrop of the ever-creeping desert, icicles melted from jasmine trees in a fragrant pitter-patter.
And there was room to dream in the Yang household. My husband’s affections were indifferent to my temperament – he visited me infrequently when I was sensuous, and infrequently when I was sullen. One night, on a whim, I announced to him that I was a bamboo-cutter laboring down in the south. “My callouses! How they harden in the winter months,” I
« Elle lui a écrit des lettres, elle disait qu’elle apprenait des choses sur l’égalité entre les hommes et les femmes — vous savez, ces idées à la mode en Occident. Toutes les filles étaient jalouses d’elle, disaient qu’elles ne voulaient plus se marier, qu’il valait mieux qu’elles soient éduquées, qu’elle rejoignent une révolution. Et le romantisme aussi, comme dans Les Amants Papillons, s’est emparé des grandes comme des petites. “Qu’il prenne soin de moi, qu’il admire mon esprit, et si le sort nous sépare, que nous nous consumions pour renaître avec des ailes,” les filles disaient. “Échapponsnous,” disaient-elles. »
Je soufflai, ma cage thoracique se resserra autour de mon cœur.
« Elles ne se sont jamais résignées à leur sort. Que peuton en dire de plus ? » demandai-je, tout en posant ma joue contre son épaule fraîche. Des larmes s’accumulèrent aux coins de mes yeux et, surprise, je les fis tomber dans ses mains en fermant les paupières. Je m’étais toujours vue en conquérante de la solitude — cette étrange et dévorante bête.
« Pensez-vous qu’il y ait assez dans ma dot pour envoyer Yu-er à l’école lorsqu’elle en aura l’âge ? » J’essuyai mes yeux de ma manche. « Combien cela coûterait-il ? J’ai trois épingles en argent, deux petites perles, trois paires de boucles d’oreilles en cornaline de différentes teintes. Vous ne devez plus vouloir d’elle comme concubine, dans votre état. Je vous en prie, mon époux. Oh, je ne demanderai plus jamais rien d’autre. Lorsque le temps sera venu, laissez-moi l’y envoyer. »
Yu-Er remua en geignant dans son sommeil, murmurant : « Qui nous envoie encore ailleurs, Pensée-Hirondelle ? »
Je me mordis la lèvre. « Personne, ma très chère. Dors maintenant — demain je te découperai un pamplemousse à la chaire sucrée et pulpeuse. »
Je regardais ses cils battre, sa bouche légèrement s’entrebâiller, et dans ce tendre silence mon cœur gonfla. Mon époux venait de promettre de laisser Yu-er partir, de se contenter de moi. Dehors, contre le désert rampant en toile de fond, les stalactites sur les jasmins fondaient en des
sighed with relish, waving my hands underneath his nostrils. Another night, I told him I was a court pipa player, with petal-red lips, being held hostage on enemy land. “How I wish to tune my instrument to the pitch of my native wind,” I languished, my bosom heaving with delicious grief. Sometimes, I cradled my belly, and teased my husband – “A boy, maybe? But you would care for me even if it were a girl. You would watch over a simmering pot of pork bone soup for me overnight, drop in fresh-cut daikon in the morning, even if I miscarried.” He still slept with Weaving-Moon on most nights, still her ricepaper-thin wrists gained opacity with each conjugal visit, still I was silkworm-sized in her eyes. And I was aggrieved by his passivity, his unfeeling, unneeding distance. He could not dampen my my forehead with a kiss, nor quiet my storm-ridden melancholy over my mother’s passing. He could not even soothe the festering wound of my felt ugliness with some occasional carnivorous wanting. But I warmed to his tepid silence, found my footing in his life, and slowly, we began to tolerate each other, in that rich, resigned manner that is truthfully a form of love.
* * *
Other than my stone husband, the only other evening visitor I had was Plum-Bright. She knocked on my door that spring night before she stopped stealing my husband away from me and left the Yang estate altogether. She carried all her belongings in two simple cloth satchels. We spoke quickly, in hushed voices, underneath flowering magnolias.
“You mustn’t fight with Weaving-Moon,” the legitimate wife said, radiant and warm. “She never learned how to be lonely. And please take care of Madame Yang, her legs are weakening.” She slid off the agate bracelet from her wrist, and pressed it into my palm. I shook my head, but she wrapped my hands firmly around the cool beads. I swallowed.
pétillements parfumés.
Et il y avait de la place pour rêver dans la maison Yang. Les humeurs de mon époux étaient indifférentes à mon tempérament — il me visitait peu quand j’étais sensuelle, et peu quand j’étais maussade. Une nuit, sur un coup de tête, je lui annonçai que j’étais un paysan coupeur de bambous travaillant dans le sud. « Mes cors ! Comme ils durcissent pendant les mois d’hiver ! » soupirais-je avec délectation, secouant mes mains sous ses narines. Une autre nuit, je lui dis que j’étais une joueuse de pipa à la cour, aux lèvres rouge pétale, qu’on retenait otage en terre ennemie. « Comme j’aimerais pouvoir accorder mon instrument au ton du vent de ma terre natale ! » me languissais-je, les seins soulevés par un délicieux chagrin. Parfois, je câlinais mon ventre, et taquinais mon époux : « Un garçon, peut-être ? Mais vous vous occuperiez de moi même si c’était une fille. Vous feriez mijoter une soupe d’os de porc pour moi pendant la nuit, y ajouteriez des morceaux de daïkon fraîchement coupés le matin, même si je faisais une fausse couche. » Il dormait encore avec Lune-Tisserande la plupart des nuits, dont encore les poignets fins comme du papier de riz s’opacifiaient à chaque visite conjugale, et encore je n’étais pour elle qu’un petit ver à soie. Et j’étais contrariée par la passivité de mon époux, par son indépendance et sa distance sans compassion. Il n’était pas capable d’humecter mon front d’un baiser, ni de calmer ma tempétueuse mélancolie quand je pensais à la mort de ma mère. Il n’était pas même capable d’apaiser par d’occasionnels désirs carnivores la plaie qui purulait en moi parce que je me trouvais laide. Mais je me réchauffais à son silence tiède, trouvais mon équilibre dans sa vie, et doucement, nous commençâmes à nous tolérer, de cette manière riche et résignée qui est, véritablement, une forme d’amour.
“The cook is waiting for you, isn’t he?”
Plum-Bright looked away, smiling. “The myriad of things each have their way.”
She slid her hand into mine, and I walked her as far as the grassland would reach. At the edge of the desert, where the yellow sand slowly overtook the vegetation, Plum-Bright embraced me one final time. “Please tell the family that I have gone to join my husband,” she whispered.
I nodded silently. And then, sitting down, I watched her silhouette shrink against the dunes, the wind whisking the sand thickly around her ankles. There, or perhaps elsewhere, all the time heaving and sighing, with the lingering of wintering birds and canyon echoes, Plum-Bright overcame the becoming of the desert.
Hormis mon époux de pierre, la seule personne qui me visitait était Brille-Prune. Elle toqua à ma porte cette nuit de printemps juste avant qu’elle ne cesse de me voler mon époux et quitta le domaine Yang dans la foulée. Elle emporta toutes ses affaires dans deux vulgaires sachets de tissu. Nous parlâmes vivement, en chuchotant, sous les magnolias en fleur.
« Tu ne dois pas te battre avec Lune-Tisserande, dit la femme légitime, radieuse et chaleureuse. Elle n’a jamais appris à être seule. Et s’il-te-plaît, prends soin de Madame Yang, ses jambes s’affaiblissent. » Elle fit glisser le bracelet d’agate qui ornait son poignet, et le pressa contre ma paume. Je secouai la tête, mais elle referma vigoureusement mes mains autour des perles froides. J’avalai.
« Le cuisinier t’attend, n’est-ce pas ? »
Brille-Prune détourna le regard, souriante. « Dans la myriade des choses du monde chacune a sa propre place. »
Elle glissa sa main dans la mienne, et je l’accompagnais aussi loin que la prairie le permettait. À l’orée du désert, où le sable jaune gagnait lentement sur la végétation, BrillePrune m’enlaça une dernière fois. « S’il-te-plaît, dis à la famille que je suis partie rejoindre mon époux », murmurat-elle.
Je hochai la tête en silence. Alors, assise, je regardai sa silhouette rétrécir dans les dunes, le vent ramener le sable en couche épaisse autour de ses chevilles. Là, ou peut-être ailleurs, tout en soufflant, en soupirant, avec les lamentations des oiseaux d’hiver et les échos du canyon, Brille-Prune résista à la transmutation du désert.
The task of the translator inevitably involves the undoing of another creator’s handiwork –pinning down each sentence like a butterfly on the vivisectionist’s board – ligament by ligament, reverse engineering each element of construction. Many questions of interpretation are unanswerable without this observation of language at its microscopic levels. Why the passive voice? Why this sticky rhyme? Why the indefinite article? Why a verb, this percussive verb, here and nowhere else? Why a sentence so short for this tender moment? What is reconstructed as a natural, seamless text for the reader of translation is in fact a multiply processed product, the cumulative result of many iterations of discovery.
And indeed a text in its ideal translated form should be discovered, rather than invented, the authority of the original regarded with special reverence when it draws from the writer’s personal life. Elsa Cellot’s “You in the Towers” is such a text where the writer as a personal figure takes center stage: a semi-autobiographical prose piece retracing the imagined relationship between the narrator and her estranged aunt. Told in a strikingly restrained voice, the narrator journeys with us to Tokyo in search of clues to her itinerant aunt’s decades-old decision to suddenly move to Japan and never return. In retracing her aunt’s steps amongst the crowds of Shibuya crossing, Elsa ponders the older woman’s reasons for leaving her previous life behind.
The pièce de résistance, the climatic center of this rumination, was also by far the most difficult scene to interpret. Set in a café “suspended in time”, our narrator’s timeline in the present is brought into convergence with fictional memories of her aunt in the past, coalescing into one singular coming-of-age experience shared between the two, a moment nostalgic yet playful. Both women, pressed onto the window at
the same spot in the café, grapple with the feeling of finding oneself in a foreign place, the voyeurism of observing others and being observed, the yearning for childhood and motherhood – a flurry of realizations executed in a voice which flirts effortlessly with past, present and future tenses. English, of course, lacks many of the fine-grained verb tenses available in French; tempering the necessary auxiliary words into the curated yet free-flowing rhythm of the original prose demanded surprisingly precise work. And it is above all this deliberate, delicate, disorientating poeticism which demands the reader’s attention, which brings to life this story about navigating the unknown about our loved ones and the ultimate understanding between those who are at once family and strangers.
Il y a devant moi les tours de Shinjuku qui disent halte-là regarde tu lui ressembles.
Je suis à l’autre bout du monde. et je pense à toi 2022.
Je me demande pourquoi je suis ici. Précisément ici. Je me demande si c’est pour toi que je suis là. Puisque tu n’étais pas vraiment dans ma vie. J’aurais tellement voulu que tu sois dans ma vie.
Tu vas venir me voir en avril, au moment des cerisiers. Tu m’as dit que tu redoutais un peu le voyage. Que tu avais peur que ça te plonge dans tes souvenirs. Je me demande de quoi ils sont faits, et pourquoi tu crains la résurgence.
J’essaie de t’imaginer. Peut-être 2002. Non, quand estce que tu es partie ? C’était en 2001.
Qu’est-ce que tu connais de ce pays ? Est-ce qu’il
translated
from the french by HELEN HAN WEI LUO
There stand before me the towers of Shinjuku saying stop behold you look like her.
I am at the other end of the world. and I am thinking of you 2022.
I wonder why I am here. Right here. I wonder if I am here because of you. Since you weren’t really in my life. I would have truly wanted for you to be in my life.
You’ll come visit me in April, when the cherry trees bloom. You told me you were a little apprehensive about the trip. You were scared it would plunge you into your memories. I wonder what your memories are made of, and why you fear their resurgence.
I try picturing you. Maybe in 2002. No, when did you leave? It was in 2001.
What do you know of this country? Does it echo in you, like
résonne en toi, comme en moi depuis l’enfance ? Est-ce que tu voulais partir si loin ? Ou est-ce que tu voulais partir et ne plus revenir ? Est-ce que tu savais que tu ne reviendrais pas ? Est-ce que tu savais que ce que tu quittais, tu ne le retrouverais pas, jamais vraiment comme avant ? Est-ce que tu as changé pour toujours, je crois que oui. Est-ce que tout a été différent. Est-ce que tu as été si triste que tu as eu besoin de te réinventer. Est-ce que tu as été si seule que tu ne savais plus vers quoi te tourner. Je crois que peut-être tu appelais, au fond, déjà le changement radical à naître en toi.
Je me demande si je serais là, si toi tu n’étais pas partie.
Je me demande où je serais.
Je crois que j’ai passé ma vie à vouloir être comme toi et à tout faire pour ne pas le devenir.
Et pourtant je suis là.
Devant les tours de Shinjuku. Devant les vitres qui reflètent et s’empilent jusqu’au ciel. Et je pense à toi
On m’a dit toute ma vie que je te ressemblais.
2001.
Je pense que tu es jeune presque autant que moi
Que tu as regardé ce monde avec les mêmes yeux, les mêmes questions
Je pense que tu cherchais à fuir, moi je pense à quand revenir
Dis-moi
Pourquoi n’es-tu jamais revenue ?
2001.
Tu es face au passage piéton, dans la multitude. Tu es grande et ta peau est pâle. Pâle blanc. Tu attends en regardant les voitures passer, tu es
it has in me since childhood? Did you want to go so very far away? Or did you just want to leave and never come back? Did you know that you would never come back? Did you know that you would never find again what you had left behind, never really like before? Did you change forever, I think so, yes. Was everything so different. Were you so sad that you had to reinvent yourself. Were you so lonely that you no longer knew where to turn. I think perhaps you were already calling, somewhere deep down, for a radical change to be born inside you.
I wonder if I would still be here if you hadn’t left. I wonder where I would be.
I think I’ve spent my life wanting to become like you and doing everything I could to avoid it.
All the same I am here.
In front of the towers of Shinjuku. In front of the reflecting glass windows that stack up one by one to reach the sky.
And I’m thinking of you
My entire life everyone told me I looked like you.
2001.
I think you’re quite young, just around my age
That you looked at this world with the same eyes, the same questions
I think you were trying to escape, while I am thinking of when to come back
Tell me
Why did you never come back?
2001.
You’re amongst the multitudes, facing the crosswalk. You’re tall and your skin is pale. Porcelain white. You wait as you watch the passing cars, you are
un peu perdue. Tu ne reconnais pas les visages. La foule est uniforme. Toi seule dénotes. On te voit de loin. Tu as les yeux clairs. Tu as les cheveux châtains. On t’observe furtivement. Tu essaies d’attraper les regards. Tu cherches à reconnaître quelqu’un·e. Mais ça ne vient pas, tout te reste étranger. Tu penses une phrase éclair « pourquoi je suis là » et la chasses aussitôt. Tu dois te concentrer. Tu arrives à lire certains panneaux. Les kanjis de Shibuya. Shibu-ya. Shibu, austère. Ya, vallée. Tu cherches pourquoi vallée austère. Ici tout claque. Les immenses écrans saccadent les rayons du soleil, les chanteurs les chanteuses dont les voix résonnent à travers le carrefour, et leurs visages en gros plan. Les signes lumineux qui clignotent s’entrechoquent. La foule grouille à chaque angle de la place. Tu souris. Shibu, austère, dépouillé. Shibui, l’art de la sobriété. Didong aigu, le feu piéton passe au vert. Les foules des quatre coins s’avancent, se font face… se fondent. Tu arrives devant la boutique. Tu cherches, « comment diton », tu n’as pas le temps, on t’accueille, on t’embarque.
Rentrée chez toi le soir, tu penses, « pourquoi je suis venue ici ». Pourquoi es-tu venue ici ? Tu penses à ta mère, à tes frères. Tu penses à ton père. Il s’est fait trois nouveaux enfants. Ils ont un, trois et quatre ans. L’âge d’Elsa, tu penses. Elsa ta nièce. Elsa, c’est moi.
2001.
Tu aimes cet homme, tu l’as choisi. Il est grand, pâle blafard, beau, drôle. Un peu étrange. Il ne sait pas bien dire je t’aime. Mais il est là, avec toi. Un matin, il t’a dit « j’ai une opportunité à Tokyo. Je pense accepter. Ça t’irait ? »
Tu as dit « oui ». Il a dit « tu veux qu’on prenne le temps d’y réfléchir ? » « Non. On peut y aller ».
a little lost. You don’t recognize the faces. The crowd is uniform. Only you stand out. You can be seen from afar. You have blue eyes. You have chestnut hair. People steal glances at you. You try to catch someone’s eye, anyone. You’re looking around for someone to recognize. But they never come, and everything here remains foreign to you. The thought “why am I here” flashes through your mind and you immediately chase it away. You have to concentrate. You manage to read a few signs. The kanji characters in ‘Shibuya’. Shibu-ya. Shibu – austere. Ya, valley. You wonder why austere valley. Everything here clatters. The massive screens rattle the rays of sunlight and the voices of singers cut through the intersection, their faces seen in close-up. The flashing neon lights clash with each other. The crowd swarms from every angle of the square. You smile. Shibu, austere, stripped bare. Shibui, the art of moderation.
Sharp di-dong, the pedestrian light turns green. From all four corners the crowds approach the intersection, faceto face, melt into each other. You arrive in front of the boutique. You’re looking for the words, “how do you say”, but you’ve run out of time, they’re already welcoming you in, taking you aboard.
When you return home in the evening, you think “why did I come here”. Why did you come here? You think of your mother, your brothers. You think of your father. He’s made three new kids for himself. They’re one, three, and four years old. Four years old, that’s the same age as Elsa. Elsa, your niece. Elsa – that’s me.
2001.
You love this man, you chose him. He is tall, ghostly pale, handsome, funny. A little odd. He’s not very good at saying “I love you”. But he’s here with you. One morning, he told you “There’s a job opportunity for me in Tokyo. I’m thinking of accepting the offer. Is that okay with you?”
Tu ne sais pas bien pourquoi. Un nouveau monde, tu voulais peut-être
Voir
Les tours de Shinjuku
Ces tours de Shinjuku
Les carrefours de Shibuya. Les visages les visages les visages différents. Un autre monde où l’air n’est pas le même. Où l’eau n’est pas la même. Où l’on respire autrement. D’un coup tu as senti la raison poindre en toi. Changer changer radicalement. Changer quoi, quelque chose, mais changer.
Tu as fait le tour des au-revoir. J’avais quatre ans. Tu m’as dit, « tata va partir très loin, mais je t’aime très fort et je penserai à toi souvent. »
Je ne m’en souviens pas.
2002.
Je crois que rien n’a beaucoup changé ici.
Je crois que cette ville est peut-être figée dans le temps. Ce café-là existait. Déjà vieux, suranné. Son odeur de grains brûlés, les serviettes en papier trop fines, les tasses en porcelaine, les vieilles dames du quartier qui discutent au comptoir. Je m’assieds à la même place que toi, nous choisissons toujours celle du fond, face à l’entrée. Nous aimons regarder le reste du monde. Écouter les conversations des tables alentours, qui parfois parlent de nous. Ce sont les yeux clairs. Bleus, verts. J’observe, tu observes les gens passer dans la rue, presque adossées à la fenêtre. Nous essayons de deviner les pensées qui transpirent sur les fronts pressés, qui surgissent dans les mouvements des mains, des lèvres, des sourcils. Quand on nous remarque, on rougit, parfois on baisse les yeux, la tête. Nous leur sourions juste. Il y a cette femme qui trottine, un peigne dans une main, l’autre cramponnée
You said “Yes.”
He said, “Do you want us to take some more time, think it over?
“No. We can go.”
You don’t know why, exactly. A new world, you wanted maybe To see
The towers of Shinjuku
These towers of Shinjuku
The crosswalks of Shibuya. The faces, the faces, the faces – all different. Another world where the air is not the same. Where the water is not the same. Where there is another way of breathing. All of a sudden the reason dawned on you. To change, change radically. Change what? Something, anything, but change.
You went around saying your goodbyes. I was four years old. You told me “Auntie’s going somewhere very far away, but I love you so much and will think of you often.”
I don’t remember this.
2002.
I think nothing has really changed here. I think this city is perhaps frozen in time. This café already existed. Already old, outdated. Its smell of burnt coffee beans, see-through paper napkins, porcelain teacups, the old ladies from around the neighborhood chatting at the counter. I sit down in your old spot, we always choose the seats in the back, facing the entrance. We like looking at the rest of the world. Listening to the chitchat from people at the neighboring tables, who sometimes talk about us. It’s the color of those eyes. Blue, green. I’m watching, you’re watching the people walking past us on the street, almost pressed against the window. We try to guess the thoughts sweating out from the hurrying foreheads, emerging in the gestures of the hands, lips, eyebrows. When they catch us staring, they blush, sometimes they lower their eyes, their heads. We just smile
au sac. Elle n’a pas l’habitude de porter des talons. Il y a une poussette. Dedans, un enfant aux grands yeux, la peau blanche, les cheveux bruns. Tu penses à moi, je ressemblais à ça il n’y a pas si longtemps. Je pense à ce que peut-être un jour j’aurai un enfant. Dans la rue le temps semble filer plus vite qu’ici. Dans ce café-tempssuspendu, il n’y a que des hommes. Il sont tous plus vieux que nous. Ils lisent le journal, boivent les yeux dans le flou. Il y a celui qui est toujours assis à la même place. Celui qui semble sur le fil. Il s’y accroche, mais quelque chose en nous comprend qu’il va tomber. Peu à peu, sombrer lentement, jusqu’au point où il sautera ou plutôt lâchera prise.
Nous aimerions lui parler lui tendre la main mais nous ne pouvons pas, nous ne le ferons jamais, jusqu’au jour où cet homme au café toujours assis là ne viendra plus, un matin pourtant comme les autres, un matin légèrement brumeux mais aussi plein d’espoir, le matin où tu te diras pour la première fois que tu as toi aussi envie d’avoir un enfant, un matin où quelque chose en toi d’infinitésimal se mettra en mouvement, ce matin-là où l’homme du café du coin ne viendra plus.
2002.
Tu es là pour Noël. J’essaie de mémoriser ton visage. Les inflexions de ta voix. Tu ris toujours fort, et tu brilles.
2003.
Tu ne te plais pas tant que ça dans ton travail. Tu n’arrives plus à savoir si tu es bien ici. La vie est confortable. Mais tu te ternis. Tu cherches autre chose. Une autre vérité. Une autre raison à pourquoi je suis là.
at them, that’s all. Here comes a woman trotting along, holding a comb in one hand and clinging to her bag with the other. She doesn’t wear heels often. Here comes a stroller. Inside, a baby with big eyes, pale skin, brown hair. You’re reminded of me, I looked like that not so long ago. I’m thinking about how, maybe, one day I’ll have a child. Time seems to pass more quickly out on the street than in here. In this café suspended in time, there are only men. They’re all older than us. They read the newspaper and drink while staring into space. There’s a man who always sits in the same spot. He seems to be dangling by a thread. He’s still clinging on, but something inside us knows that he will fall. Little by little, sinking slowly, to the point where he will jump or rather let go.
We would like to talk to him, offer him a hand but we can’t, we never will, not until the day when this man from the café still sitting there won’t ever come back, a morning like any other, a morning hazy yet hopeful, the morning where you’ll tell yourself for the first time that you too, would like to have a child, a morning where something infinitesimal inside you will start to stir, this morning where the man from the café down the street won’t ever come back.
2002.
You’re here for Christmas. I try to memorize your face. The inflections in your voice. You still have your booming laugh and you’re glowing.
2003.
You don’t like your job much. You no longer know if you’re okay here. Life is comfortable. Yet you’re becoming dull. You’re looking for something else. Another truth. Another answer to why am I here. The church you join is full of expatriates. Like you, they don’t plan on returning home.
L’église que tu rejoins est pleine d’expatrié·es. Comme toi, ils ne comptent pas rentrer. Tu trouves des réponses à tes questions.
Peut-être que c’est pour ça que je suis là. Pour essayer de comprendre. Ou de séparer ici enfin mon chemin du tien.
2004.
Tu as le « mal du pays ». Ça veut dire, d’un coup au détour d’un sourire, d’un carrefour, du chant d’un oiseau, d’une odeur subtile, la nostalgie. Tu ne savais pas ce que c’était. Mais c’est juste ça, un effluve du temps d’avant qui traverse. Le pire, ce sont les visages qui s’effacent. Ils sont devenus des voix, des voix grésillantes au bout du fil. Il y a aussi, la chaleur bien spécifique des corps de celles et ceux qu’on aime. Les gestes maladroits ou généreux des bras qui nous étreignent. Il y a ce quelque chose des autres qui se brouille. C’est ça, l’insupportable de la nostalgie.
2005.
Tu décides de partir. Tu ne respires plus, ça devient insupportable. Tu détestes tout, à commencer par celle que tu deviens. Tu sais que tu ne peux pas rentrer. Tu as compris que quelque chose est brisé. Quelque chose d’autre est apparu, et c’est tout. Tu décides. Tu acceptes un poste à Londres. Tu pars. Il te rejoindra. Tu fais le tour des au-revoir. Tu ne dis pas « je reviens bientôt ». Tu t’égares dans Tokyo. Tu redécouvres les visages. Les foules denses. Les regards furtifs. Les écrans géants. Les premiers rayons du soleil le matin très tôt. Le métro endormi de sept heures. Les queues devant les escalators. Les habitué·es du café que tu avais déserté. Les femmes qui se recoiffent se remaquillent dans les
You find answers to your questions.
Maybe this is why I am here. To try to understand. Or finally, to separate here my path from yours.
2004.
You’re ‘homesick’. This means, suddenly, around the corner of a smile, of an intersection, nearby the sound of birdsong or a subtle scent – nostalgia. You didn’t know what this was before. But that’s just it - a whiff of the past as it passes through. The worst is how the faces fade away. They’ve become voices, scratchy voices at the other end of the phoneline. And there’s that particular warmth in the bodies of our loved ones. Those movements, clumsy or generous, of the arms that embrace us. There’s something in others that’s becoming blurry. That’s it, the unbearable weight of nostalgia.
2005.
You decide to leave. You’re no longer breathing, it’s becoming unbearable. You hate everything, starting with the person you’re becoming. You know you can’t go home. You’ve understood that something has broken. Something else has appeared, and that’s it. You make the decision. You accept a job in London. You’ll leave. He’ll come find you. You go around saying your goodbyes. You don’t say “I’ll be back soon.” You get lost in Tokyo one last time. You find the faces again. The dense crowds. The stolen glances. The massive screens. The first rays of early morning light. The sleepy 7am subway. The lines in front of the escalator. The regulars from the café you’d left behind. The women touching up their hair and makeup in the station restrooms. The laundry hung out on balconies. The intersections in suspension, waiting for a green light. The garish signs everywhere. Strollers breaking up the rhythm of hurried footsteps. The big eyes of the babies strapped to their mothers’ chests. You rediscover this particular air.
toilettes de la gare. Le linge étendu aux balcons. Les carrefours suspendus en l’attente d’un feu vert. Les panneaux criards partout. Les poussettes qui brisent le rythme des pas pressés. Les grands yeux des bébés harnachés aux ventres des mamans. Tu redécouvres cet air si particulier. Le goût de l’eau. Les chants des oiseaux malgré la ville. Les feuilles dorées des gingkos qui scintillent. Les restaurants fumants. L’odeur du bœuf wagyu. Le bruit des nouilles brûlantes qu’on aspire goulûment. Le crépitement des mochis grillés au feu de bois. La vue miraculeuse du Mont Fuji bercé par le soleil rouge entre les buildings. Le goût pas si sucré de l’anko. Tu ne sais plus si tu dois, si tu veux
Partir quand tu regardes les tours de Shinjuku ces tours de Shinjuku et pour la première fois au creux de ton cœur naît ce goût de mélancolie que tu ne connaissais pas.
2022.
Je pense à ton visage qui ne change jamais. Sur toi comme sur Tokyo vingt ans n’ont pas laissé de traces.
Si je suis ici. C’est quelque chose en moi que tu as semé et qui reflue sans cesse. Dans ce pays étrange, cette langue inconnue, ce monde entier qui n’a d’écho nulle part ailleurs, ces milliers de fantasmes et de peurs conjugués, il y a toi que je cherche. J’essaie de te trouver entre les fentes étroites des immeubles, dans les pèle-mêles des fils électriques qui parcourent les rues, dans les rayons de soleils qui bercent les matins, dans les voix qui dégueulent des écrans de Shibuya, dans les vitres qui
The taste of the water. The birds singing despite the big city. The shimmering of the golden gingko leaves. The smoke wafting from restaurants. The smell of wagyu beef. The sound of piping-hot noodles being eagerly slurped. The crackling of mochi grilled over a wooden fire. The miraculous view of Mount Fuji cradled by the red sun in between buildings. The not-too-sweet taste of anko. You no longer know if you have to, if you want to
Leave when you look at the towers of Shinjuku these towers of Shinjuku and for the first time from deep inside your heart comes this taste of melancholy that you didn’t know before 2022.
I think of your face, which never changes. Much like on Tokyo, twenty years have left no trace on you. If I’m here. It’s something you placed inside me that ebbs and flows endlessly. In this strange country, this unknown language, this whole world that finds no echo anywhere else, these myriad fantasies and fears coalesced, there is you that I’m searching for. I try to find you, in the narrow gaps between buildings, in the tangle of electric wires running through the streets, in the rays of sunlight streaming gently in the morning, in the voices hurling out from the screens in Shibuya, in the reflecting glass windows, you somewhere in this dense crowd in the middle of the intersection, you somewhere here, in the towers you in the towers of Shinjuku.
reflètent, toi quelque part dans cette foule si dense au milieu du carrefour, toi quelque part ici, dans les tours, toi dans les tours de Shinjuku.
Epilogue
Le ferry trace son sillon d’écume et les vagues s’échouent sur la mer bleue comme sur le sable
Le monde est à l’envers et la côte s’éloigne doucement
Il y a sur le pont tes cheveux qui flottent tes yeux verts et tes cils battant le vent Nous sommes
Ici
Toutes les deux nous regardons la mer bleue
Epilogue
The ferry traces a path of foam and the waves crash in the blue sea like on the sand The world is upside-down and the coast recedes into the distance gently On the deck your hair blows your green eyes, your lashes fanning the wind, We are Here The two of us overlooking the blue sea
denke ich an KLAPPER SCHUH nämlich an Übersetzers Zunge : KLAPPER SCHLANGEN
ZUNGE : das Zünglein des Übersetzers, das Züngeln des Übersetzers, das gezüngelte Übersetzen, das Residieren des Übersetzers auf dem Stuhl der Pythia1
Die Stunden, in denen ich Olubunmi Adeloyes Text übersetzt habe, habe ich auf meinem eigenen Stuhl der Pythia verbracht: meinem Schreibtischstuhl, mit Blick auf die Bäume vor dem Fenster. Im Frühjahr noch kahl, bekamen sie während der letzten Feinarbeit Blätter. Sie haben sich verwandelt, sich ausgeformt. Eine Bewegung, die ich in „Eden“ stark wahrnehmen konnte: das Verwandeln, das Morphen von Wahrnehmung und auch von Welt.
Dass eine steinerne Statue vor den Augen zum Leben erwacht, ist womöglich Voraussetzung dafür, dass eine langjährige Freundschaft beginnt, sich aufzulösen.
Wo Wandel sichtbar wird, ist Wandel möglich. Wie Vorstellung und Realität in der Erzählerin des Textes ineinandergreifen und sich bedingen, hat mich fasziniert und herausgefordert.
Die Frage war auch eine Frage der Zeit: wer weiß wann was. Und wie äußert sich das?
Warum verhält Jay sich so nachtragend, und warum die Erzählerin so ergeben? Wer nachtragend ist, der muss einen Grund haben. Ein Problem. Eine Unzufriedenheit. Der muss etwas erkannt und bewertet, eingeordnet und abgestempelt haben.
Nachträglich ist die, die erzählt. Ihr fällt spät auf, was Jay schon die ganze Zeit über wusste. Jay straft sie für
1 Mayröcker, Friederike. 2014. brütt oder die seufzenden Gärten. S. 326.
etwas, von dem sie höchstens ahnt. Zum Glück? Ich überlege, wie nah sich nachtragend und nachträglich kommen können.
Wenn ich übersetze: „Jay und ich sind sehr verschieden“, dann geben sich nachtragend und nachträglich heimlich schon im ersten Satz die Hand.
Manchmal wartet man, dass alles heil bleibt, und manchmal wartet man, dass etwas bricht. Als der Bruch in „Eden“ passiert, bin ich erleichtert. Da steht ein Satz, den ich von allen Sätzen am liebsten übersetzt habe.
Gegen den sich nichts, kein Buchstabe, kein Satzzeichen, kein Zünglein gesträubt hat.
„Ich spürte einen Schmerz, der so groß war, dass ich nicht wusste, ob er ganz frisch, oder schon lange dagewesen und in mir gewachsen war.“
Die Arbeit an der Übersetzung von „Eden“ hat mich viel nachdenken lassen über das, was man „sich verlassen“ nennen könnte. Oder Freundschaft, Vertrauen, Verlassenheit. Darüber, wie sicher eine Welt wirken kann, und wie unsicher sie doch ist. Dass Gewohnheit keine Garantie ist. Dass ein Bruch etwas Schönes sein kann. Etwas freilegt.
Everyone says that Jay and I are such polar opposites that we were even born at opposite ends of the world.
We weren’t actually born at opposite poles. But we were born really far from each other. My mom once said it was a miracle that Jay and I ended up in the same city at the same time. I liked to think it was fate.
Jay’s full name is Lee Jae-Yeol. He was born in Korea but he never speaks Korean around me. His parents do, though. Jay’s dad is the nicest person I know. He works all the time, but whenever he’s home, he sits in front of the TV with a bottle of strawberry soju in his hands, and his dog Snowy by his feet. Whenever I go to their house, he winks at me and gives me a stick of gum. He’s only ever around on weekends. The rest of the time, it’s Jay’s mother that opens the door when I visit.
I’m not close to Jay’s mother. I think she might not like me. I know she loves Jay more than anything, but sometimes I think she doesn’t like him either. Most mothers I know smile a lot and hug you even when you don’t want them to. Jay’s mother just looks at you with this sad look on her face.
Jay’s family is nothing like mine. We aren’t Korean for one. We’re West African, from Nigeria to be exact. Jay’s father is an engineer and his mother is a secretary, while my father is a dentist and my mother is a consultant. Jay’s parents have opposite personalities but seem to like each other. I can’t imagine Jay’s father ever cheating on his mother. My parents are only together because, according to them, divorce isn’t an African value. I sometimes want to ask if cheating and hidden kids are African values, but I can’t risk it.
Jay und ich sind sehr verschieden. Zwischen uns liegt eine Welt. Es ist nicht so, dass er am einen Pol geboren wurde und ich am anderen. Aber es war weit voneinander entfernt. Meine Mutter meint, es sei ein Wunder, dass wir zur selben Zeit am selben Ort gelandet sind. Ich nenne es lieber Schicksal.
Jay heißt Lee Jae-Yeol. Er kommt aus Korea, spricht in meiner Gegenwart aber nie Koreanisch – im Unterschied zu seinen Eltern. Jays Vater ist der liebste Mensch, den ich kenne. Er arbeitet fast immer, aber wenn er zuhause ist, sitzt er mit einer Flasche Erdbeer soju in den Händen vorm Fernseher. Snowy, sein Hund, schmiegt sich an seine Füße. Wenn ich bei ihnen vorbeikomme, winkt mich sein Vater zu sich und reicht mir einen Kaugummi. Leider ist er nur an den Wochenenden da. An allen anderen Tage macht mir Jays Mutter die Tür auf.
Sie und ich, wir sind uns nicht nah. Vielleicht mag sie mich gar nicht. Ich weiß, dass sie Jay über alles liebt, aber manchmal bin ich mir auch da nicht so sicher. Normale Mütter lachen doch gerne und umarmen einen, wann immer sie können. Sie hat nur einen einzigen Gesichtsausdruck: traurig. Und mit dem schaut sie uns an.
Seine Familie ist völlig anders als meine. Erst einmal sind wir keine Koreaner. Wir sind aus Westafrika, aus Nigeria. Dann ist sein Vater Mechaniker und seine Mutter Sekretärin. Mein Vater ist Zahnarzt und meine Mutter Unternehmensberaterin. Jays Eltern sind verschieden, aber sie mögen sich wohl einfach gern. Sein Vater würde niemals fremdgehen. Meine Eltern sind nur deswegen noch zusammen, weil eine Scheidung nicht zu ihren afrikanischen Werten passt. Fremdgehen und Kinder aus den eigenen
I was reading my Space Atlas when I heard a sound come from my window. I panicked and calmed down when I realized it was just Jay climbing up the balcony. I usually keep my window closed just to force him to use the front door, but in summer without an AC, it’s too hot to close my windows.
“Hey,” Jay said, once he had gotten into my room. I could see his chest rising and falling too quickly from the effort of climbing up all those steps, but he was still doing his best to sound nonchalant.
“Do you need something?” I asked, just to annoy him. According to Jay, I never talked to him unless I needed something.
“Let’s go to the park,” Jay said casually.
I glanced at the clock mounted on my wall. It was shaped like an owl and it was the only decoration I had in my entire room. I liked getting posters, but I didn’t like mounting them on my walls.
“It’s midnight,” I said.
“So?”
“I’m not wandering the streets alone in the middle of the night. And it’s going to rain soon.”
Jay folded his arms. “You won’t be alone. I’ll be there too.”
I sighed, but I knew he would win the argument no matter what I said. Jay was good at that. He knew better than anyone how to make you do something you originally had no intention of doing. He was also good at being cruel. Jay could be the most mean-spirited person I know. He enjoyed inflicting his cruelty on everyone around him, but at least he was honest. Jay was good at being brave and saying what he thought of as the truth, even if it hurt other people’s feelings. His opinions never changed or wavered.
That infuriating trait was the best part about him. Unlike him, I had no strong opinions on anything because I tried not to have them. My beliefs and worldviews changed depending on who I was speaking to. According to Jay, it meant I was a people pleaser
Affären verheimlichen fallen da wohl auch darunter, denke ich – aber das traue ich mich nicht zu sagen.
Ich war gerade versunken in ein Buch über das Weltall, als ich etwas Komisches hörte. Kurz erschrak ich, aber dann sah ich Jay über das Geländer des Balkons zu mir klettern. Damit er die Haustür benutzt, halte ich mein Fenster normalerweise geschlossen, aber im Sommer ohne Klimaanlage geht das nicht.
„Hey“, sagte Jay, als er es in mein Zimmer geschafft hatte. Seine Brust hob und senkte sich vor Anstrengung, aber er bemühte sich, so lässig wie möglich zu klingen.
„Brauchst du was?“, fragte ich, um ihn zu nerven. Jays Ansicht nach würde ich nämlich nur dann mit ihm sprechen, wenn ich etwas von ihm wollte.
„Komm, wir gehen in den Park“, sagte Jay.
Ich warf einen Blick auf die Uhr. Sie hatte die Form einer Eule und war die einzige Dekoration in meinem ganzen Zimmer. Ich kaufte zwar gerne Poster, hing sie letztendlich aber nie auf.
„Es ist Mitternacht“, sagte ich.
„Na und?“
„Ich ziehe nicht mitten in der Nacht allein herum“, sagte ich. „Und es soll regnen“.
Jay verschränkte die Arme vor der Brust. „Du wärst ja nicht allein. Ich bin dabei.“
Es war völlig egal, was ich sagte, er gewann sowieso. Jay war gut in so etwas. Er verleitete einen dazu, Dinge zu tun, die man gar nicht tun wollte. Er konnte ziemlich gemein sein, grausam sogar. Es gefiel ihm, die Menschen um ihn herum zu quälen, aber immerhin war er ehrlich. Es fiel ihm nicht schwer, eine klare Haltung zu bewahren, ganz egal ob er damit die Gefühle anderer verletzte oder sich unbeliebt machte. Wenn er einmal von etwas überzeugt war, dann würde er seine Meinung nicht mehr ändern.
Das war beeindruckend an ihm. Ich selbst habe nie solche klaren Meinungen zu etwas gehabt, habe es nicht einmal versucht. Je nachdem, mit wem ich mich umgab, veränderten sich auch meine Sichtweisen. Jay nannte mich
with no backbone or moral convictions. I saw it as my attempt to keep the peace and to be kind to everyone. However you described it, I was a born liar. It was my worst trait.
“We can only stay for an hour,” I said. “Sure.”
Jay’s teeth looked large and white in my dimly lit bedroom. It made him look a bit like the wolf who ate the lying boy. Jay used to have dark hair like his parents, but he dyed it blonde a year ago and cut into blonde spikes that felt bristly when you ran your hands through it. I helped Jay pick the color, but I didn’t know how to bleach or dye his hair, so I waited in the living room and ate walnut cookies while his mother helped him. I didn’t think either of them liked the final result, but they didn’t speak about it any further.
Jay went down the stairs first, and I followed after him. Outside, the streets were empty, and the world was silent, but the moon was large and bright, almost as bright as the lights from the city in the distance.
“I’m going to live there soon,” Jay pointed towards the city.
“Where?”
Jay shrugged. “Anywhere is fine, as long as it’s not here.”
“I like it here,” I said honestly.
“I don’t,” Jay sounded almost angry. “This town is suffocating. I can’t stand it.”
“Maybe you can live with me when I go to school,” I said.
“Maybe,” Jay said. He looked away from me and suddenly stared at the road beneath us. I looked back to the moon as we continued to walk until we reached the garden gates.
Jay climbed over first with ease and watched me struggle to climb and land on my feet.
It felt like passing from the old world into a new one. The grass was still green and damp beneath my feet and the statues in the garden seemed animated at
gefällig, einen People Pleaser ohne Rückgrat. Dabei wollte ich einfach Harmonie bewahren und freundlich sein. Man konnte es drehen und wenden, Fakt war: Ich log viel. Ich war die geborene Lügnerin, und darauf war ich alles andere als stolz.
„Eine Stunde und nicht länger“, sagte ich.
„Klar doch“.
Er grinste. In meinem schlecht beleuchteten Zimmer sahen Jays Zähne unnatürlich groß und hell aus. Ich musste an den Wolf denken, der den lügenden Jungen frisst. So wie seine Eltern hatte auch Jay dunkle Haare. Vor einem Jahr hat er sie blond gefärbt und trägt sie seitdem stachelig und borstig. Mein einziger Beitrag damals war, bei der Farbwahl zu helfen. Da ich noch nie Haare gefärbt hatte, wartete ich im Wohnzimmer, während seine Mutter ihm half. Ich aß Walnußkekse, das weiß ich noch genau. Ich glaube, weder ihm noch ihr gefiel, wie die Frisur am Ende aussah, aber sie sprachen nicht mehr darüber.
Jay ging die Treppe hinunter, ich folgte ihm. Als wir draußen waren, lag die Straße wie leergefegt da. Es war völlig still, aber der Mond stand groß und hell am Himmel, beinahe so hell wie die Lichter der fernen Stadt.
Jay deutete in ihre Richtung und sagte, „bald wohne ich dort“
„Wo denn?“
Er zuckte die Schultern. „Irgendwo, hauptsache nicht mehr hier“.
„Ich mag es hier“, sagte ich, und meinte es so.
„Ich nicht“. Jay klang beinahe wütend. „Ich halte es nicht aus hier, es ist zum Ersticken“.
„Vielleicht können wir ja irgendwann zusammenwohnen“, sagte ich.
„Vielleicht“, sagte Jay. Er schaute weg, starrte auf die Straße. Ich blickte zum Mond und so wir gingen weiter, bis wir am Eingang des Parks ankamen.
Jay kletterte als erster über die Mauer. Ihm fiel es sichtlich leicht, während ich mich abmühte und mit einem schweren Plumps am Boden aufkam. Es war, als wäre ich in eine andere Welt gefallen. Das Gras war grün
night, as if they were about to wake up from a long dream and invite us to waltz with them.
“What are you looking at?” Jay asked.
“The statues,” I said. “They look alive.”
Jay stared at me like I was a walking statue myself. “What?”
“There’s a Greek myth that’s like that,” I said. If the Greeks said it too, then I couldn’t be called stupid. “Galatea and Pygmalion. We studied it in European history.”
“Whatever,” Jay said.
“If you could bring any statue to life, which would it be?” I asked.
Jay looked around and pointed to a statue of a wild woman beside a wolf. “That one. I’d make her my woman.”
Except he didn’t say the word woman and instead used a rude word that would make his mother angry to hear.
I liked that statue as well. The base of it was surrounded by roses with metal thorns and her hair seemed so defined it looked like it would be soft to touch, but I knew Jay didn’t care about any of that and was more interested in how she wasn’t wearing any clothes.
“I would choose that one.” I pointed to a statue at the other end of the garden. Jay followed my gaze and shook his head.
“It looks boring,” he said.
I didn’t know what to say back. There was a sign on the statue that revealed his name was just “The Young Poet” but I could have guessed that from his lyre. Most of the statues in the garden were clustered together and had joyful expressions on their marble faces. The young poet was the only one who was some distance away from the rest. Maybe it was so he could concentrate on his tender songs.
Yet he looked so lonely. His lips were pursed as if a heartfelt sigh could escape at any moment, and his
und feucht unter meinen Füßen, die vielen Skulpturen schienen lebendig, als stünden sie kurz davor, den Schlaf abzuschütteln und uns zum Tanz aufzufordern.
„Wohin schaust du?“, fragte Jay.
„Die Skulpturen wirken lebendig“, sagte ich.
Jay schaute mich an, als wäre ich selbst eine sprechende Skulptur. „Was?“
„Es gibt einen Mythos, in dem das passiert“, sagte ich. Wenn die Griechen schon davon geschrieben hatten, musste doch etwas dran sein. „Galatea und Pygmalion. Die Sage haben wir in Europäischer Geschichte durchgenommen.“
„Was weiß ich“, sagte Jay.
„Welche würdest du erwecken, wenn du könntest?“ fragte ich.
Jay schaute sich um und zeigte auf eine Frau neben einem Wolf. „Diese hier. Ich würde sie zu meiner Frau machen“.
Er sagte allerdings nicht Frau, sondern etwas anderes, abfälliges, das seine Mutter nicht gern hören würde.
Und ich? Mir gefiel die Statue ja auch. Um den Sockel schlangen sich metallene Rosen, das Haar der Frau war so genau gearbeitet, dass es geschmeidig und weich aussah. Die Details faszinierten mich, aber Jay waren sie egal – er fand einfach gut, dass sie nackt war.
„Und ich würde ihn nehmen“. Ich deutete zu einer Skulptur am anderen Ende des Parks. Jay folgte meinem Blick und schüttelte den Kopf.
„Der ist doch langweilig“, sagte er.
Ich wusste nicht, was ich darauf erwidern sollte. An einem Schild, das an der Skulptur angebracht war, stand „Der junge Dichter“, aber das war wegen der Lyra in seiner Hand ohnehin klar. Die meisten Skulpturen standen nah beieinander und schauten sich mit freundlichen Gesichtern an. Der junge Dichter war der Einzige, der weit vom Rest entfernt war. Er brauchte den Abstand vielleicht, um seine sanften Lieder singen zu können.
Er sah einsam aus, als könnte jederzeit ein tiefer Seufzer aus ihm dringen. Ich fuhr seine feinen Lippen mit meinem Blick nach und wartete nur darauf. Dann wanderte ich
brows furrowed as if the weight of the world rested on them. It made me sad to look at him, yet I couldn’t stop staring. If he was the only statue that was unhappy, perhaps he knew secrets about the world that none of the others did. I would have given anything to bring him to life and sit down with him so that he could share some of his burdens with me.
“I like it,” I eventually settled on saying. “You like everything,” Jay smiled. “Yet nothing likes you back.” “Don’t you like me?”
“I’m the only one.”
I stayed silent again. It hurt to hear, but it was just Jay being truthful once more.
I’ve always thought the world was full of contradictions and Jay was the most mysterious of them. How could someone so cruel also be kind? He would call me cruel names, then get my favorite muffin for me an hour later.
Jay knelt suddenly and picked a white feather. He blew at it and sent it floating towards me, but it felt to the ground before it could reach me.
“An angel must have dropped it,” Jay smiled again. He looked sweet when he did that. It reminded me of the five-year-old boy I had befriended on the first day of elementary school.
“Since when have you believed in angels?” Jay shrugged. “I believe they’re all around us now. They’re watching us.”
The thought sent shivers down my spine. I didn’t think of blonde babies with wings. Instead, I thought of grand figures with sharp teeth and flaming swords. I could see through their invisibility, and they suddenly surrounded me with their hands out to snatch me.
I found myself running behind the statue of the poet. He would be the one to shield me from and make sense of the terror. I heard Jay’s footsteps, a break in the silence of the garden, follow after me. It felt like an eternal dance, only stopped when Jay grabbed my hand. Together, we fell on to the damp grass. The
nach oben, zu seinen Brauen, die nah beieinanderstanden, so als müssten sie die Last der Welt tragen und einander dabei stützen. Ihn anzublicken machte mich traurig, aber ich konnte nicht davon ablassen. Wenn er die einzige unglückliche Skulptur hier war, dann musste er doch Dinge von der Welt wissen, die niemand sonst wusste. Könnte ich ihn bloß zum Leben bringen und ihm zuhören!
„Ich mag ihn“, sagte ich, und durchbrach die Stille.
„Du magst alles und jeden“. Jay grinste. „Aber niemand mag dich“.
„Magst du mich auch nicht?“
„Schon. Aber ich bin der Einzige.“
Ich wurde still. Es tat weh zu hören, aber ich wusste, dass Jay recht hatte.
Es gab so viel, das ich nicht verstand. Für mich war die Welt voll von Widersprüchen, und Jay war der größte davon. Wie konnte jemand so grausam, aber so liebenswürdig zugleich sein? Wenn er böse zu mir war, kehrte er immer schnell wieder um. Er brachte mir einen Muffin, und alles war wieder gut.
Jay kniete sich zu Boden und griff nach einer weißen Feder. Er bließ darauf, wollte sie zu mir schweben lassen, doch sie sank hinab und erreichte mich nicht.
„Die ist wohl einem Engel heruntergefallen“. Jay grinste. Er sah süß aus. So erinnerte er mich an den fünfjährigen Jungen, mit dem ich mich am ersten Schultag angefreundet hatte.
„Seit wann glaubst du denn an Engel?“
Jay zuckte die Achseln. „Jetzt zum Beispiel. Sie sind um uns. Beobachten uns“.
Die Vorstellung ließ mich erschauern. Ich dachte nicht an harmlose blonde Babys mit Flügeln, sondern an unheimliche Gestalten mit scharfen Zähnen und Schwertern. Ich konnte sehen, wie sie auf mich zu kamen, mich mit ihren starken Händen packen wollten.
Meine Beine begannen, sich zu bewegen. Sie ließen mich hinter den Dichter stürzen, er war derjenige, der mich jetzt schützen würde. Ich hörte Schritte. Es war Jay, der die Stille durchbrach und mir hinterherlief. Was passierte,
lingering scent of rain mixed with earth was all I could think about, even when Jay moved closer to me and put his head on my shoulder. When we were children, we would have sleepovers and fall asleep in the same bed. Now we were too big to fit into each other’s beds, but the garden was big enough for us to stay together.
I looked back at the statues and imagined they had joined us in our dance. All of a sudden, the garden was transformed into a ballroom from an old movie. The women were in elaborate ballgowns while the men wore tuxedos. I could hear the violins sing as the guests waltzed up and down the hardwood floor. Yet the ballroom had fallen into decay, and the guests were merely shadows. The dream slipped away from me and all that remained were the statues, forever frozen in place.
I thought about all the people that had stepped foot in this garden. From the children who would run around and melt into sunlight, to the secret lovers that would pick flowers and meet at midnight where the moon was their only witness. I thought of the picnics that had been held here, the poetry that had been read, the tenderness that had been given, and the pain that had been felt. There must have been someone taking care of this garden through the years. Where was everyone now? The weeds seemed to transform the garden into a graveyard, yet I couldn’t see this decay as anything other than the remnants of love lost.
The overgrown grass and weeds took on a new beauty in my eyes. The ladies and gentlemen had fled. They left this place to be reclaimed by nature, and the ones who were unafraid of the dark. It was they who tended to the earth without demanding payment from it. I thought of the wild women who dreamt complete dreams and howled their strange songs at night, passing down stories of life and death to those who would listen. I felt my soul, and the flesh and bones that encased it, stir and call out to them.
Jay looked at my face, no doubt seeing my eyes that
erinnerte an einen Tanz, für einen Moment wurden Zeit und Raum undeutlich. Dann unterbrach Jay das Ganze. Er griff nach meiner Hand.
Wir fielen ins feuchte Gras. Ich nahm nichts wahr außer den starken Geruch von Regen und Erde. Auch als Jay näherkam und seinen Kopf auf meine Schulter legte: Regen und Erde. Als wir klein waren, kam es vor, dass wir beieinander übernachteten. Über die Jahre sind wir zu groß geworden, um gemeinsam Platz in einem Bett zu finden. In der Weite des Parks ging es plötzlich wieder.
Ich warf einen Blick nach oben, zu den Skulpturen. Sie hätten bei unserem Tanz dabei sein können. Vor meinen Augen verwandelte sich der Park in einen Ballsaal. Damen mit aufwendigen Kleidern und Herren in Smoking schritten umher. Ich hörte sogar Geigen, die den Takt vorgaben, in dem sich die Besucher auf und ab bewegten. Ich starrte sie an, wollte jemanden erkennen, doch jede Einzelheit, auf die ich mich konzentrierte, entglitt mir sofort wieder. Der Raum verblasste und die Tanzpaare wurden zu sich wiegenden Schatten. Ich blinzelte noch einmal, und da standen sie wieder, stille Statuen, für immer an ihrem Platz. Wie viele Menschen schon in diesem Park gewesen sein müssen. Kinder, die im warmen Sonnenlicht über die Wiese laufen, Liebespaare, die sich heimlich bei Mondschein treffen. Freunde, die eine Decke ausrollten, um gemeinsam zu essen oder sich Gedichte vorzulesen. Ich spürte, wieviel Zärtlichkeit und Schmerz hier schon empfunden worden war. Jemand musste sich über all die Jahre gekümmert, die Wiesen gemäht und die Büsche geschnitten haben. Wo waren diese Menschen jetzt? Unkraut wucherte, es war wie auf einem Friedhof. Ich sah den ganzen Verfall und dachte an das Vergehen von Zeit, letztlich das Vergehen von Liebe. Plötzlich aber sah ich die Schönheit im Wuchern der Gräser und Büsche. Die Damen und Herren hatten sich aus dem Staub gemacht, den Ort wieder der Natur überlassen, und denen, die sich vor der Dunkelheit nicht fürchteten. Jene waren es schließlich, die sich der Erde zuwandten, ohne etwas von ihr zu verlangen. Ich dachte an die wilden Frauen, ihre vollen Träume und eigenwilligen Lieder. Dass
were starting to prick up with tears.
“Why are you crying?” He asked. He sounded sincerely interested, but there was a hint of discomfort in his words.
“I feel bad for them. The weeds and the statues both,” I said. Even the weeds just wanted to live. I couldn’t hate them for doing the only thing they knew.
Jay stared at me in confusion, then stood and picked up a rock. He rolled it around like he was a child playing with colorful clay before he closed an eye and threw it at my beloved poet. He narrowly missed his face. He picked up another one then and took aim once more.
“What are you doing?” I rushed to my feet. I grabbed his wrist so that the rock fell back to the ground.
The dull thud shattered the fragile magic of the midnight garden. I was all too aware that it was late, and I was standing in the middle of a decrepit park that had already been condemned.
“I was just joking,” Jay said. He looked at me in disappointment, like I was the one that had done wrong. I felt something break between us then, or maybe it was something that was always broken, but I hadn’t allowed myself to realize.
“I want to go home,” I said.
“Then go.”
Jay started walking first, so I looked like I was following him. We climbed over the gate and silently walked until we got to the intersection where we would have to go in separate directions to arrive home. I thought of saying something, but I couldn’t find the words.
I am struck by the realization that our childhood will be ending with the summer. We’re meant to become wiser over the years, but I no longer know how to do something as simple as talk to my friend.
Jay turns his back to me and walks away before I can try to speak to him. I watch Jay’s back as he recedes
sie Geschichten vom Leben und Tod zu erzählen hatten, wenn man willig war, zuzuhören. Ich spürte meine Seele, das Fleisch und die Knochen, die sie umschlossen, sich regen und nach diesen Frauen verlangen.
Jay schaute mich an, während mir stechend Tränen in die Augen traten.
„Warum weinst du?“ fragte er. Er klang ehrlich interessiert, doch da war auch eine Spur von Unbehagen in seiner Stimme.
„Sie tun mir leid. Die Skulpturen und das Unkraut genauso“, sagte ich. Das Unkraut wollte doch auch nichts anderes als leben. Es wuchs, weil es wachsen musste.
Ich merkte, dass Jay mich irritiert anstarrte. Er rappelte sich auf und griff nach einem Stein. Als würde er aus Knete eine Figur formen, rollte er den Stein in seinen Händen. Dann, plötzlich, kniff er ein Auge zu und schleuderte den Stein auf meinen geliebten Dichter. Gerade so verpasste er sein Gesicht. Jay bückte sich schon nach einem neuen Stein und wollte eine zweiten Wurf versuchen, da sprang ich auf. „Was tust du?“ schrie ich und packte instinktiv seine Handgelenk. Sein Griff lockerte sich und der Stein fiel mit einem dumpfen Schlag zu Boden.
Der Zauber war endgültig gebrochen. Es war spät und ich stand in einem Park, der so verfallen war, dass sein Abriss nicht mehr lange dauern konnte.
„Ich mach doch nur Spaß“, sagte Jay. Er schaute mich enttäuscht an, so als wäre ich diejenige, die sich die ganze Zeit über komisch verhalten hatte. Zwischen uns brach etwas. Ich spürte einen Schmerz, der so groß war, dass ich nicht wusste, ob er ganz frisch, oder schon lange dagewesen und in mir gewachsen war.
„Ich will heim“, sagte ich.
„Dann geh.“
Anstatt mich gehen zu lassen, setzte Jay sich selbst in Bewegung. Er ging einfach los und ich folgte ihm. Wir kletterten über die Mauer, gingen stillschweigend nebeneinander her, bis zu der Kreuzung, an der sich unsere Wege immer trennten. Er musste in die eine, und ich in die andere Richtung, um nachhause zu kommen. Als wir da
into the night. I have the oddest desire to run after him. But I keep walking home.
I feel water on my cheek. The rain must have started early. They said the rain would last all night, but does that mean it’ll end in the morning? Can anything in the world, even loneliness or late August rain, last forever? I get a painful foreboding that things won’t be the same, and our last conversation might have passed without me realizing.
As children, we would play a game where we pretended to explore a world that was both new and ancient. I imagine us as wanderers once again. With full bellies and empty hearts, we shall roam this dying earth until the day we rediscover what we lost. Our paradise.
standen, wollte ich etwas sagen. Ich dachte nach, aber kein Wort schien mir passend, und so blieb ich stumm.
Die Erkenntnis, dass unsere Kindheit mit Ende des Sommers vorbei sein wird, macht mir zu schaffen. Mit den Jahren müssten wir doch weiser werden, aber gerade weiß ich nicht einmal mehr, wie ein einfaches Gespräch mit einem Freund gehen soll.
Selbst als Jay sich wegdreht und losgeht, bleibe ich stumm. Er geht in seine Richtung, verschmilzt mit der dunklen Straße. Ich sehe ihn davongehen und möchte ihm nachlaufen, zu ihm aufschließen. Aber ich gehe nachhause.
Wasser läuft meine Wange hinab. Der Regen kam wohl früher als gedacht. Er war für die ganze Nacht angesagt, aber bedeutet die ganze Nacht auch, dass er am Morgen vorbei sein wird? Dauert irgendetwas auf der Welt ewig? Spätsommerregen, oder Einsamkeit? Dinge ändern sich, das spüre ich ganz deutlich. Vielleicht ist unser letztes Gespräch passiert, ohne dass ich es bemerkt habe.
Als Kinder spielten wir ein Spiel, waren als Forscher in einer erfundenen Welt unterwegs, die nichts mit unserer Welt zu tun hatte. So wie damals könnten wir noch einmal umherwandern. Mit vollen Bäuchen und leeren Herzen über die sterbende Erde streifen, bis wir finden, was wir verloren haben. Unser Paradies.
Is grief a presence or an absence? What shape does it take? Can we ever hope to fill it? These are some of the questions that Carla Lorenz’s “Wood Pigeon” invites us to consider.
In “Wood Pigeon”, a nameless narrator observes Lux, the cat that belongs to their roommate, during her last days. The narrator seems cold and distant at first, to both Lem and to us as readers, but when we hold this narrator up to the light and look at the refracted colors, we realize that the narrator is trying to cope with this tragedy in their own way. For them, this means disassociating and not encouraging Lem to acknowledge his own grief.
There’s a tender dance between the narrator and Lem. Lem seems to openly care for the narrator and constantly does things to try to help them and take care of them, but the narrator doesn’t want any of this. The narrator keeps Lem at an eternal distance, not because of hatred or disdain, but because they don’t know how to deal with him and his grief. Lem is a caretaker who attempts to dote on both Lux and the narrator. Lux appreciates this doting behavior during her last days. Her bowl is constantly filled, and she’s carried around. However, the narrator doesn’t want to be treated like this. Lem already makes himself greet the narrator and their friends like a doorman even before Lux dies, but this behavior seems to intensify after Lux dies. The narrator has to drink milk in secret because otherwise Lem will buy them milk until they can no longer stand it.
How we respond to grief is at the heart of the story. The title is taken from Lem’s nickname for Lux, and we find out that Lux is ill the moment we meet her. The narrator is in a rush to move on, while Lem seems stuck in place and unable to move forward. It’s almost like he’s trying to use the narrator as a replacement for
Lux, which is why the narrator has to flee from him to retain their independence. Yet Lem persists in his attempts to take care of them, even from a distance.
Translating “Wood Pigeon” is trying to peel back the butterfly wing-thin layers of the piece, while preserving the poetic core. It’s a timeless exploration of not only grief, but of love, because grief is the price we pay for love. The narrator in “Wood Pigeon” never directly names what they’re feeling; nevertheless, they still feel it. And so do we.
Lem raucht nur neben der Regentonne. Er stützt sich nicht ab auf ihr und er dämpft seine Zigarette auch nicht in ihrem Wasser aus, aber ich weiß, dass sie da sein muss.
Die Regentonne verträgt er, aber uns als Zuschauer verträgt er nicht. Es ist nicht schade, dass er raucht. Schade ist, dass er sich neben eine Regentonne stellt und glaubt, versteckt zu sein.
Ihm zu versichern, du brauchst diese Regentonne nicht, du brauchst uns, würde zu weit gehen. Vor Schreck könnte Lem auch noch versuchen, sich vor der Regentonne zu verstecken. Er würde sich abwenden. Wir könnten ihn dann nicht mehr sehen.
Er ist fast immer zuhause. Hier hat er seine sicheren Plätze. Im Arbeitszimmer steht ein Tisch mit Stuhl, und knapp dahinter, so dass es gerade noch möglich ist, den Stuhl zurück zu schieben, in Enge aufzustehen: die froschgrüne Couch. Ob er das Grün der Couch hinter sich mag, weiß ich nicht. Er hat sich diese Couch besorgt, und seitdem steht sie ihm im Rücken.
Wenn er dort sitzt, wirkt er wie ein Pförtner. Ich komme nachhause, allein oder mit einem Freund. Wir ziehen die Schuhe aus, die Jacken. Ein großer Spiegel hängt im Eingang, der übersprungen werden muss, um sich nicht zu sehen. Geht man weiter, sitzt da er. Der Mensch im Spalt zwischen Tisch und Couch. Wenn er tatsächlich sitzt, und nicht schon im Begriff ist, aufzustehen, mich zu begrüßen, dann zwingt er sich dazu, denke ich. Wenn er sitzen bleibt, macht er, was ich mir wünsche. Ich will von keinem Pförtner begrüßt und begleitet werden. Ich kenne mich aus hier.
Das Erdgeschoss heißt unten. Von unten muss alles erst geholt werden. Unten ist der Eingang. Unten ist der Technikraum: mit
translated from the german by
Lem will only smoke next to the rain barrel. He doesn’t lean on it or put out his cigarette in its water, but I know he needs it there.
He tolerates the rain barrel, but he doesn’t tolerate us as spectators. It isn’t a shame he smokes. It’s a shame he stands next to the rain barrel and believes he is invisible.
To reassure him, “You don’t need the rain barrel, you need us,” would be going too far. If startled, Lem could try hiding even from the rain barrel. He would turn away from us. Then we wouldn’t be able to see him anymore.
He is almost always at home. Here, he has a safe place. In his study, there is a table with a chair, and right behind it, so you can push the chair back and squeeze into the tight space when standing up, is the frog-green couch. I can’t tell if he likes the green of the couch behind him. He bought the couch, and since then, he’s kept it behind him.
When he sits there, he looks like a porter. I come back home alone or with a friend. We take off our shoes and our jackets. A large mirror hangs in the entrance, which we have to circumvent to avoid being seen. Any further and he’ll be sitting there. The man in the space between the table and the couch. If he’s actually sitting and isn’t already preparing to stand up to greet me, I think he forces himself to do so. What I want is for him to remain sitting. I don’t want to be greeted and accompanied by a porter. I know my way around.
The ground floor is called downstairs. Everything is downstairs. Downstairs is the entrance. Downstairs is the equipment room full of ski suits, ski boots, and skis
Schianzügen, Schischuhen und Schi, als wohnten wir mitten im Schnee. Unten ist die Wäschekammer. Unten sitzt Lem. Und Lux, die Katze, von ihm angelockt. Kunststücke werden geübt.
Ich habe nie oben zu oben gesagt. Entweder bin ich da, oder ich gehe runter.
Du kleiner Sängerknabe, du. Lem nennt die Katze wirklich Sängerknabe. Später wird er sie Ringeltaube nennen. Weil sie gurrt, sagt er. Weil sie so lieb gurrt.
Dünn ist sie geworden, aber bin ich ihr böse? Wie ich es einem Menschen wäre, vielleicht, wie ich es meiner Schwester wäre, und sie mir. Dünn ist sie geworden, die Katze, aber niemand hat ihr dabei vorwurfsvoll zugeschaut. Ich streichle sie oder ich streichle sie nicht, je nachdem, ob sie da ist.
Mich geht das alles so wenig an. Mitten im Zimmer stehend löffle ich meinen Brei und betrachte Lux. Da liegt sie. Ausgestreckt. Ihr Atem geht schwer. Wild hebt und senkt sich der Bauch. Es kommen Geräusche von dort, die größer sind als sie. Mich geht das alles so wenig an, denke ich, und dass ich entsetzt sein könnte oder verworfen, eine Schneewehe. Bin ich aber nicht. Ich bin völlig plan. Ich bin eine planierte Piste, während sich die Katze durch die letzten Tage beißt.
Die Zeit der Kunststücke ist vorbei, sagt er. Man kann sie da oder dorthin heben.
Weil Lux so durstig ist, stellt Lem das Haus mit Gläsern voll. Sie warten am Tisch verteilt, auf Fensterbänken, in Nischen. Ich meine, es könnten bis zu zwanzig Gläser sein. Das sind die Stationen. Er befüllt sie. Lux kommt und beugt sich. Wenn sie sich beugt, sieht man, dass sie stirbt. Sie trinkt zärtlich. Dann dreht sie sich weg vom Glas, legt sich nieder, hat genug. Sobald
as if we live in the midst of the snow. Downstairs is the laundry room. Downstairs is where Lem sits. As well as Lux, the cat, who is lured by him. They practice tricks. I’ve never referred to upstairs as ‘upstairs’. I’m either already there, or I’m heading down.
You small choir boy, you. Lem really calls the cat a choir boy. Later, he calls her a wood pigeon. Because she coos, he says. Because she coos so sweetly. She has gotten thin, but am I angry with her? As I would be with a human, perhaps. As I would be with my sister, and she with me. The cat has become thin, but no one has gazed at her reproachfully. Stroking her, or not stroking her, it depends on whether she’s there. It doesn’t really concern me. Standing in the middle of the room, I spoon my porridge and look at Lux. There she lies. Stretched out. She breathes with difficulty. Her stomach rises and sinks wildly. The noises come from there, ones that are bigger than her. It doesn’t really concern me, I think, and maybe I could be horrified or discarded, like a snowdrift. Yet I am not. I am completely flat. I am like a flattened ski slope, while the cat claws her way through her last days.
The time for tricks has passed, he says. She has to be carried everywhere.
Lux is thirsty, so Lem keeps jars all over the house. They wait, spread on the table, on windowsills, in recesses. I believe there could be as many as 20 jars. They are way stations. He fills them up. Lux comes and bends down. When she bends like that, you can see that she is dying. She drinks tenderly. Then she turns away from the jar and lies down. She’s had enough. As soon as the level drops, it will be refilled to the brim. The water she drinks is never wholly fresh, I think; she always gets some of what came before.
There is my little wood pigeon!
Stubbornly, she still walks around. She remains close to the walls, turning with momentum as if she
der Spiegel ein wenig gesunken ist, wird wieder bis oben hin angefüllt. Nie ist es ganz frisches Wasser, das sie trinkt. Sie bekommt immer etwas von vorher mit.
Da ist ja die Ringeltaube!
Stur geht sie umher, immer noch. Hält sich nah an den Wänden, biegt ab mit Schwung, als würde sie aus etwas auftauchen. Ihr Kopf hebt sich, sie holt Luft. Ich sage ihr das, wenn sie um die Ecke kommt: Du kommst daher, als würdest du emportauchen. Du kommst nicht wie eine Katze daher.
Als ich mich nackt ausziehe und sie schnappe, mir auf den Schoß setze – wärst du ein Kind, denke ich, ein kleines, ich würde dich reiten lassen, aber du bist eine Katze, ich kann dich nur festhalten – erst da wird mir klar, dass sie ein Tier ist. Sie war eine Katze und ist jetzt ein Tier. Immer gestreichelt, nie gewusst, ich streichle ein Tier. Erst als die Nackte ich bin, hat sie auch Krallen und Fell. Sie schlüpft mir aus den Armen, huscht aus dem Raum. Selten war ich so nackt wie nach dem Abgang der Katze. *
Ein kaum dreckiger Tennisball unter einer Sitzbank. Ziemlich gelb noch. Wo ein Ball liegt, da war einer, denke ich, und sitze noch zehn Minuten da und schaue.
Wem fehlen die Kunststücke jetzt: Lux oder Lem, dem Tier oder der Hand, die Zeichen gibt, die Katze leicht berührt. Hat sie ihm immer Gefallen getan, frage ich, um wen hat er denn geweint.
Überall sehe ich Fell, Teile der Katze. Ich umarme eine Freundin und der Hut fällt ihr vom Kopf, ich hebe ihn auf, halte dabei Lux in der Hand. Unvermutet taucht sie auf, ist wieder da, ohne zu fragen. Jede Stelle Fell gehört der Katze.
Ich warte, dass etwas haftet, einrastet. Das dürfte jederzeit
were trying to emerge from something. Her head lifts; she takes a breath. I tell her when she comes around the corner: You come as if you’re surfacing. You don’t come like a cat.
When I take off my clothes and grab her to put her on my lap - if you were a child, I think, a small one, I would let you go on a ride, but you are a cat, all I can do is hold you - then it becomes clear to me that she is an animal. She was a cat, and she’s now a creature. Without knowing, I’d been stroking a creature. When I’m naked, that’s when she has claws and fur. She slips from my fingers, scurrying out of the room. Rarely have I been so naked as I am after she leaves.
A rather dirty tennis ball under a bench. It is still somewhat yellow. Where this ball lies, there used to be someone else, and I sit there and watch for ten more minutes.
Who misses the tricks now: Lux or Lem, the animal, or the hand that gives the signal, lightly touching the cat? Has she always done favors for him? I wonder who he cried over.
There is fur everywhere I look, parts of the cat. I embrace a friend, her hat falls from her head, and I pick it up, but suddenly find myself holding Lux in my arms. Unexpectedly, she surfaces and is there again without question. Every piece of fur belongs to the cat. I wait for something to stick and snap into place. It might happen at any moment. I am ready. I don’t want to think about a grave. I’ll collapse by the grave, I think. I wasn’t there, nor did I want to go there. Nor can I picture Lem at the grave, nor at the grave, nor at the grave.
I must ask him. I imagine his face, but it’s a tired face that is on guard against all questions. His guard is lowered slightly, but it’s still there. I don’t ask how he and the cat are. How is he, in summer, no longer with the cat, I stumble, not knowing how to pose these ques-
passieren, ich bin bereit. Ich möchte nicht an ein Grab denken, ich scheitere am Grab, denke ich. Weder war ich dabei, noch möchte ich hin. Weder kann ich mir Lem am Grab vorstellen, noch am Grab, noch am Grab.
*
Ich müsste ihn fragen. Ich stelle mir sein Gesicht vor, aber sein Gesicht ist müde und gegen jede Frage. Zwar nur leicht nach unten gewandt, doch stark genug. Ich frage also nicht, wie es ihm und der Katze geht. Wie es ihm, im Sommer, nicht mehr mit der Katze, ich stolpere, weiß nicht, wie ich diese Frage stellen kann. Wie geht es dir mit nicht mehr Lux? Kann ich Tod sagen, nein.
Er schafft gerade so ein Und, wartet. Ich schaffe es nicht, zu antworten. Ich schaue mir auf die Hände, will lieber weg. Ich mache mit den Lippen das Geräusch für zwei Küsse und lege auf.
Meine Finger sind offen. Ich hoffe darauf, mit Lem zu reden. Am Anfang hoffe ich wirklich darauf. Das Gespräch steht im Raum, riesig und grau. In meinem neuen Zimmer, riesig und grau. Erst schaue ich es an und bekomme Bauchweh. Dann schaue ich es an und bemerke es nicht. Das Gespräch mit Lem wird zu einem Möbel. Ich bin abgelenkt und eifrig, vom Morgen an. Was auszuführen ist, zu finden.
Ich entdecke die Milch. Lem weiß es nicht. Würde ich ihm erzählen, ich habe die Milch entdeckt, würde er meinen, ich trinke jetzt Milch Er würde Milch kaufen und kaufen, bis ich sie nicht mehr mag. Also halte ich sie bei mir. Meine Milch, denke ich, wenn ich davon in die Tasse gieße, muss nicht ihm gehören. Meine Milch, denke ich, muss nicht mehr er kaufen. Ich weiß, wo es sie gibt, ich kann sie selbst über die neuen Treppen tragen. Die Milch entdecken, kennen lernen, wieder vergessen: es geht nur allein.
Und, sagt er, wartet. Ein neuer Versuch. Ich bin schon Wochen
tions. How are things now that Lux is no longer here? Can I say dead? No.
He manages to say and then waits. I can’t bring myself to respond. I stare at my hands, wanting to leave. I use my lips to make a kissing sound twice and hang up. My fingers are open. I’m hoping to speak with Lem. At first, that’s what I hope for. The conversation is in the room, vast and grey. In my new room, vast and grey. First, I stare at it and get a stomachache. Then I stare at it without noticing it. The conversation with Lem becomes furniture. I have been distracted and busy since the morning, figuring out what needs to be carried out.
I discover milk. Lem doesn’t know. If I told him I had discovered milk, he would take it to mean I’m drinking milk. He would buy and buy milk until I no longer like it. So I keep it to myself. My milk, I think, when I pour it into a cup. It must not belong to him. My milk, I think. He doesn’t have to buy any more. I know where it is, I can take it up the new stairs myself. Discovering milk, becoming acquainted with it, forgetting again: It can only be done alone. And, he says, waiting. A new attempt. I’ve already been away from the house for weeks. I left quickly and came straight here. Good, I say. There aren’t any knives in the new apartment. I can’t cut myself.
I still yearn for halves. I just want to notice more pairs in halves. It’s clear someone left a trail of them for me, just like it’s clear that each half is lying on its own. Even if worn, a pair of children’s shoes would be picked up immediately. A pair of gloves, ones lying on the power box, wouldn’t remain there for long. Therefore, there’s always something to begin. If I go days without seeing a half, I become uneasy. I almost begin to start looking out for them. If a half flashes, even if on the sidelines, I immediately recognize it as such. Like a familiar body, the tail of a cat. It takes a mere moment, and I’m almost stuck, I’m certain. If I see another proud left or an equally proud right shoe on the staircase, something loosens, becomes soft. They
von zuhause weg. Schnell gegangen und angekommen. Gut, sage ich. Es gibt keine Messer in der neuen Wohnung. Ich kann mir nichts schneiden.
Dabei sehne ich mich nach Hälften. Ich will nur mehr halbierte Paare bemerken. Es ist klar, dass mir jemand eine Spur mit ihnen gelegt hat, wie es klar ist, dass diese Hälften eben einfach einzeln daliegen.
Ein, wenn auch abgetragenes, Paar Kinderschuhe würde direkt mitgenommen werden. Ein Handschuhpaar, auf dem Stromkasten abgelegt, läge nicht lange dort. Damit ist etwas anzufangen. Begegne ich tagelang keiner Hälfte, werde ich unruhig. Ich beginne fast, Ausschau zu halten. Blitzt eine Hälfte auf, auch nur am Rand, erkenne ich sie sofort als solche.
Wie ein vertrauter Körper, der Schwanz einer Katze. Es braucht nur kurz, und ich hafte fast, bin sicher. Wenn ich wieder einen stolzen linken, oder einen genauso stolzen rechten Schuh auf einer Treppe stehen sehe, löst sich etwas ein, wird weich. Es gibt sie noch, die Hälften.
Er sagt, ich habe dir Nüsse geknackt und geschickt. Ich habe die Messer gut eingepackt. Ich weiß, wie klein diese Nüsse sind, wie lang es dauern muss, sie aufzuknacken.
Es ist Arbeit, aber es ist schön, wenn man weiß, für wen man es tut, höre ich ihn sagen, nicht zu mir. Er packt die Messer so ein, dass sie unmöglich etwas verletzen können. Sich nicht selbst aus dem Paket nach draußen schneiden.
Das Paket bleibt heil und kommt lange nicht an. Als es da ist, sage ich danke. Er sagt, die Messer sind scharf. Alles ist gut. Wir haben heute gegessen, was du gestern gehabt hast. Was denn, frage ich. Ei, sagt er. Du isst doch auch immer Ei. Ich weiß, er sitzt jetzt am Stuhl zwischen Tisch und Couch, hat sich selbst eingebaut. Gesichert oder gefangen.
still remain, the halves.
He says, I’ve cracked and sent these nuts to you. I did a good job packing the knives. I know how small these nuts are, how long it must take to crack them.
It’s my job, but it feels good when you’re aware of who you’re doing it for, I hear him say, not to me. He packs the knives so that it’s impossible for them to hurt anything. Be careful not to get hurt when taking them out of the packet.
The package stays intact and doesn’t arrive for a long while. When it’s here, I say thank you. He says, The knives are sharp. Everything is fine. Today we ate the same thing you had yesterday. What now, I ask. Eggs, he says. You’re always eating eggs, right? I know he’s now sitting on the chair between the table and the couch, the one he installed himself. Secure or trapped.
I’m left out of the choreography of dogs. The humans are so upright as they hold a leash. I hold a leash, they say, and they hold nothing. I let go of the leash for a mere moment. Next to a cat, whether standing, sitting, or lying down, we all seem like we’re stooping. Ever since Lux left, Lem once more appears larger to me. Sadly, larger. Maybe Lux made him small.
The sleeve of a fur coat hangs from the luggage rack and dangles to and fro, as if we were driving around a narrow curve. A piece of the cat, I think, hangs from the luggage rack of the train, and colors my morning. The lid of a lunch box will always remain the lid of a lunch box, even if it’s lying somewhere else. And I use a bit of force to close the box, and my sleeve dangles as if it belongs there, in the middle.
I have my milk, he sent me knives and nuts. I look at them, next to each other. I don’t think about the cat or about Lem, I only look at milk, knives, and nuts. I’m practically alone. The knives, I need them, the halves. The milk I’m unable to cut, and still it belongs there. I look and put everything in its proper spot. Something
Choreografie der Hunde, ich bin außen vor. Sie sind so aufrecht, die Menschen, während sie Leine halten. Ich halte eine Leine, sagen sie, und halten sie keine: ich habe die Leine nur kurz losgelassen.
Neben einer Katze aber, ob stehend, sitzend, liegend, wirken wir alle gebückt. Seit es Lux nicht mehr gibt, kommt Lem mir wieder größer vor. Traurig, größer. Vielleicht hat Lux ihn klein gemacht.
Der Ärmel eines Fellmantels hängt von der Gepäckablage und baumelt hin und her, als würden wir enge Kurven fahren. Ein Stück Katze, denke ich, hängt von der Gepäckablage des Zugs und färbt meinen Morgen. Der Deckel einer Jausenbox wird immer der Deckel einer Jausenbox bleiben, auch wenn er anderswo liegt. Und ich wende ein wenig Kraft auf und schließe die Box, und der Ärmel baumelt, als gehöre er mitten hinein.
* Ich habe meine Milch, er hat mir Messer und Nüsse geschickt. Ich schaue sie an, nebeneinander. Ich denke nicht an die Katze oder an Lem, schaue nur Milch, Messer und Nüsse an. Fast bin ich allein. Die Messer brauche ich, die Hälften. Die Milch kann ich nicht schneiden, und doch gehört sie dazu. Ich schaue hin und schiebe alles in Ordnung. Etwas rastet ein.
Statt nach der Katze frage ich Lem nach seiner Couch. Wieso besorgst du dir Möbel, die zu groß und zu grün sind für dich, frage ich. Du bist eingebaut, ich kann das sehen. Ich kann aufstehen, sagt er. Das reicht doch.
clicks into place.
Instead of asking about the cat, I ask Lem about his couch. Why do you buy furniture that’s too big and too green for you, I ask. You’re locked up, I can see that. I can stand up, he says. That is enough.
Lara Waas absolviert derzeit ihren MFA in „creative writing“ an der Columbia University, New York City. Die gebürtige Deutsche hat mehrere Kurzgeschichten in Anthologien und Online-Magazinen veröffentlicht, u.a. in der Fiction-Sammlung Future Brain des Heyne Verlags. Ihre Novelle Miss Do-Gooder gewann den Story.One 2023 Book Award in der Kategorie “A New Generation of Books”. Im Rahmen des “Word for Word” Programms durfte ich als ihre Tandempartnerin einen Text von ihr ins Deutsche übersetzen.
Der Auszug aus dem längeren Prosaprojekt „Quiet Coyote“ ist eine schrittweise, aber zielgerichtete Einstimmung auf eine größere Geschichte. Er beginnt wortwörtlich auf der Mikroebene mit dem zarten Korpus einer Mücke und bewegt sich langsam aus dem Zimmer hinunter in den unteren Stock des Hauses der Adoptiveltern unserer Protagonistin. Gegen Ende des Auszuges, nachdem die Familie zu Abend gegessen hat und die Protagonistin das Okay ihrer Adoptivmutter für einen vermeintlichen Roadtrip bekommen hat, öffnet sich der Text und gibt eine Vorahnung auf ein größeres, ambivalentes Gefüge, dem die Protagonistin angehört.
Bei der Übersetzung habe ich versucht, den richtigen Ton für die Erzählstimme zu treffen. Etwas zwischen in-sich-zurückgezogen, alles aus einer gewissen Distanz beobachtend, manchmal ironisch und insgesamt jung. Nicht zu jung vielleicht? Der Text deutet an, dass da viel mehr unter der Oberfläche ist, als die Protagonistin nach außen hin zeigt, in ihrem relativ beschaulichen Alltagsleben mit den beiden umsorgenden Adoptiveltern. Zusätzlich ist die Protagonistin auch schon 27 Jahre alt und ich frage mich, welcher Erzählton sich aus so einer Situation ergeben würde. Dann stellt sich natürlich auch die Frage nach einer „jungen
Sprache“, welche Anglizismen also dürfen es auch in die deutsche Übersetzung schaffen? Ich übernehme „sorry“ und „Mom“. Insgesamt scheint mir für den Text, der inhaltlich ein relativ statisches Setting gewählt hat, wichtig, dass sich die Sprache auch im Deutschen flüssig und entschlossen „nach vorne“ bewegt. Deshalb habe ich viel auf reibungslose Übergänge geachtet.
Unklar war mir, ob bei der Beschreibung des selbstgemalten Bildes ein ironischer Unterton der Erzählstimme in Bezug auf das eigene Werk besteht. Ist das Bild gut oder ist das nur die erwartbare Reaktion einer (Adoptiv)mutter? Findet die Erzählstimme vielleicht selbst, dass sie mit 27 Jahren zu alt für selbstgemalte Bilder ist? Das könnte man aus den vielen Bildern, die der Kühlschrankmagnet kaum noch halten kann, herauslesen, ich wollte den Tonfall aber möglichst wertfrei in die Übersetzung übernehmen. Im zweiten Teil verändern schnelle Dialoge die Dynamik des Textes und beleuchten das soziale Gefüge innerhalb der Kleinfamilie. Hier wollte ich mit den Kosenamen den liebevoll besorgten Ton der Adoptivmutter einfangen, ohne sie zum Klischee zu überzeichnen, ein schmaler Grad, den die Erzählstimme im Englischen behutsam einschlägt. Liebe? Liebstes? Liebling? Schatz? Insgesamt hat mir die klare und präzise Sprache das Übersetzen erleichtert, einige Fragen konnte ich auch direkt mit der Autorin klären. Mich haben das Selbstverständnis des Textes, die leicht abgeklärte Innensicht der Protagonistin, vermischt mit fast zärtlichen Einschüben in Bezug auf die Adoptivmutter, sehr interessiert und es hat mir Freude bereitet, sie beim Aushandeln der Situation begleiten zu dürfen. Danke Lara Waas für die schöne Zusammenarbeit und den Austausch, alles Gute für das Projekt.
chapter 1
I watch the mosquito that’s been whirring around the room since last night land on my hand and, with the precision of a seasoned nurse, insert its needle-like proboscis into my skin. As the blood exits my body, the mosquito fattens, growing round like a swollen berry. It doesn’t hurt, or maybe I’m used to the pain. It’s the third time the mosquito has taken my blood. I hover my free hand a few inches over the mosquito’s delicate thorax. If I were to lower it in one swift movement, all that would remain of the insect is a dark mash speckled with blots of blood, but I can’t do it.
She wouldn’t even harm a fly.
That’s what they used to say about me at school. It’s how they pitched me next to my yearbook photo. As if it were some great achievement not to harm a fly. Not harming the innocent is easy. Not harming a mosquito is another matter entirely, standing by impassively as it sucks you dry, drop after drop of blood.
“Dinner’s ready!” I flinch at the outside voice. The mosquito leaps off my hand and sits on the wall instead.
“Sorry for disturbing your meal,” I mumble.
“Susie, you coming?” The voice is closer now, echoing from the hallway by the stairs.
Susie is not my name. “Coming,” I reply regardless. I learned early in life that sometimes it’s best just to play along. Playing along has, after all, kept me here for the past eleven years. And anyway, I don’t mind. Susie and Sylvie sound close enough. Sometimes I wonder whether my name is the reason Margo and Rob chose to adopt me over any of the other girls. Because they could justify turning a Sylvie into a Susie, but not, say, an Anne or a Joan.
Ich beobachte, wie die Mücke, die seit letzter Nacht durch den Raum schwirrt, auf meiner Hand landet und mit der Präzision einer erfahrenen Krankenschwester ihren nadelartigen Saugrüssel in meine Haut sticht. Während das Blut meinen Körper verlässt, wird die Mücke immer fetter, schwillt zu einer prallen Beere an. Es tut nicht weh, oder ich bin mittlerweile an den Schmerz gewöhnt. Es ist das dritte Mal, dass mir die Mücke Blut aussaugt. Ich lasse meine freie Hand ein paar Zentimeter über dem zarten Körper der Mücke in der Luft schweben. Würde ich sie in einer schnellen Bewegung absenken, wäre alles, was von dem Insekt übrigbliebe, ein dunkler Brei, einzelne Blutspritzer. Mein kleiner Finger zuckt ein- oder zweimal, aber ich kann es nicht. Sie würde nicht einmal einer Fliege etwas zuleide tun.
Das haben sie in der Schule immer über mich gesagt. So wurde ich neben meinem Jahrbuchfoto vorgestellt. Als wäre es eine große Errungenschaft: einer Fliege nichts zuleide tun. Unschuldigen nichts zuleide zu tun ist einfach. Einer Mücke nichts zu tun, ist eine ganz andere Sache, teilnahmslos danebenzustehen, während sie einen aussaugt, Tropfen um Tropfen.
„Essen ist fertig!“
Die Stimme, die durch die Tür dringt, lässt mich zusammenzucken. Die Mücke fliegt von meiner Hand auf und setzt sich stattdessen an die Wand.
„Sorry, dass ich dich beim Essen gestört habe“, murmele ich.
„Susie, kommst du?“
Die Stimme hört sich jetzt näher an, sie kommt aus dem Flur nahe der Treppe.
Susie ist nicht mein Name. „Komme“, antworte ich trotzdem.
Downstairs, the table is already set. Margo and Rob sit at either side, waiting for me to take my place in the middle. An elaborate casserole is steaming on the table. I can’t cook for my life. The only dish I manage to make is pasta with ketchup, which happens to be my favorite, so I’ve never felt the need to learn other recipes.
Margo’s face lights up when I enter the room. She has pleasant features and a smile that would make any stranger feel welcome. As always, her hair is fixed in a tight bun just above her neck. I believe her bun is why, from the moment we met, I could never be mean to her, no matter how hard I tried. Whenever I caught a glimpse of her hair, arranged with such diligence and meticulous care, I was reminded of a warm, welcoming place I used to know and that softened my most ill intentions.
I once asked Margo why she always wore her hair like that. I don’t like to wear my hair in a bun, or even a ponytail. It tugs at my scalp, like an invisible string pulling me back. Margo explained that the bun prevents her hair from getting into the food. She’s practical like that.
Rob’s different. He’s more detached, a balloon floating away the second Margo lets go of his ribbon. He’s here, but also not here. I wonder if he’s always been like that, but I don’t think so. I once found an old family album, from before I was adopted. The man in the photos appeared more alive than the man sitting across the table every evening—almost as if real-life Rob were the portrait, static and flat, and the portrait was reality.
“How are you feeling, sweetie?” Margo asks, spooning a portion of casserole onto my plate. It smells of rosemary and cheese.
“Good,” I lie. I despise myself for being dishonest with her, but Margo believing in my well-being is crucial for gaining her approval tonight. “I made you something.”
I hand Margo a watercolor picture I painted. It
Ich habe früh im Leben gelernt, dass es manchmal am besten ist, einfach mitzuspielen. Mitzuspielen hat mich immerhin die letzten elf Jahren hier gehalten. Und überhaupt, es macht mir nichts aus. Susie und Sylvie klingen einigermaßen ähnlich. Manchmal frage ich mich, ob mein Name der Grund ist, warum Margo und Rob mich allen anderen Mädchen vorgezogen haben. Weil man rechtfertigen kann, aus einer Sylvie eine Susie zu machen, aber nicht, sagen wir, aus einer Anne oder einer Joan.
Unten ist der Tisch gedeckt. Margo und Rob sitzen zu beiden Seiten und warten darauf, dass ich meinen Platz in der Mitte einnehme. Auf dem Tisch dampft ein aufwendiger Auflauf in seiner Form. Was Kochen betrifft, bin ich völlig unbegabt. Das einzige Gericht, das ich zubereiten kann, sind Nudeln mit Ketchup, was ohnehin mein Lieblingsessen ist, daher hatte nie das Bedürfnis, andere Rezepte zu lernen. Margos Gesicht hellt sich auf, als ich den Raum betrete. Sie hat liebliche Züge und ein Lächeln, das jedem Fremden das Gefühl geben würde, willkommen zu sein. Wie immer sind ihre Haare im Nacken zu einem strengen Dutt zusammengebunden. Ich glaube, ihr Dutt ist der Grund, warum ich von dem ersten Kennenlernen an nie gemein zu ihr sein konnte, egal wie sehr ich mich bemühte. Wann immer ich einen Blick auf ihr Haar erhaschte, das mit solcher Sorgfalt und akribischer Genauigkeit zurechtgemacht war, erinnerte es mich an einen warmen, einladenden Ort, den ich einst kannte und das milderte meine übelsten Absichten.
Ich habe Margo einmal gefragt, warum sie ihre Haare immer so trägt. Ich trage meine Haare ungern als Dutt, noch weniger als Pferdeschwanz. Es zerrt an meiner Kopfhaut, wie eine unsichtbare Schnur, die mich zurückzieht. Margo erklärte, dass der Dutt verhindern soll, dass ihre Haare im Essen landen. Das ist ihre Art zu denken. Rob ist anders. Er ist losgelöster von den Dingen, ein Ballon, der davonschwebt, sobald Margo die Schnur loslässt. Er ist da, und gleichzeitig nicht da, könnte man sagen. Ich frage mich, ob er schon immer so war, glaube es aber nicht. Einmal habe ich ein altes Familienalbum gefunden, aus der Zeit vor der Adoption. Der Mann auf den Fotos wirkte lebendiger als der, der jeden Abend am Tisch sitzt.
„Wie geht es dir, meine Liebe?“, fragt Margo und löffelt eine Portion Auflauf auf meinen Teller. Es riecht nach Rosmarin und Käse.
„Gut“, lüge ich. Ich hasse mich dafür unehrlich zu ihr zu ihr zu sein, aber
shows the house we live in on a warm summer day. The ivory-white facade gleams in the sun, but the focus is the garden Margo is so proud of. I took special care with the flowers, layering bright yellow marigolds among vivid red roses and mingling a couple of frail-looking daisies between clusters of pensive purple lavender. The colors blur and blend, creating some unexpected combinations more striking than they would be in isolation.
“So you can always see the flowers,” I somehow feel the need to explain. “Even in winter, when they don’t bloom.”
“Oh, sweetie, that’s beautiful,” Margo says and kisses me on the forehead. “Every time I think you can’t possibly get any better, you outdo yourself.”
“Very pretty,” Rob agrees.
Margo gets up and sticks the painting to the fridge with a magnet. It barely holds against the weight of all my other paintings stacked beneath. I finish one every other week or so. Painting is one of the few things, maybe the only thing, that has stayed with me from childhood. It’s not even the act of painting I cherish so much, but rather the joy on the faces of those I gift my paintings to.
When Margo sits back down, I take a deep breath. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“That so?”
Despite having rehearsed what I’m about to say for the past few days to make the request as casual and inconsequential as can be, my throat feels dry. The words come out stiff and practiced.
“I was wondering, seeing as you will be going on your trip tomorrow, if it might be possible for me to borrow your car?” Margo and Rob were heading to visit his family. They’d take his convertible, leaving Margo’s SUV free. “Just for a week, ten days at most.”
“A week?” From the corner of my eye, I notice Margo’s right foot starts tapping the floor. Tap, tap, tap. “Where do you want to go for a week?”
“To visit a friend.”
um heute Abend ihr Einverständnis zu bekommen, ist es entscheidend, dass Margo von meinem Wohlbefinden überzeugt ist. „Ich hab etwas für dich.“
Ich gebe Margo ein Aquarellbild, das ich gemalt habe. Mein neuestes Kunstwerk. Eine Außenansicht von dem Haus, in dem wir leben. Es ist ein warmer Sommertag, und der weiße Lattenzaun glänzt in der Sonne. Besonders Mühe gegeben habe ich mir mit dem Garten, auf den Margo so stolz ist. Hellgelbe Ringelblumen vermischen sich mit wunderschönen roten Rosen, ein paar zerbrechlich aussehenden Gänseblümchen und verträumtem lila Lavendel. Die Blumen stehen einzeln, aber ich habe ihre Farben vermischt, sodass ein Spektakel entsteht, bei dem einige einzigartige Kombinationen noch schöner leuchten als die ursprünglichen Töne.
„Damit du die Blumen immer sehen kannst“, setze ich hinterher. „Auch in im Winter, wenn sie nicht blühen.“
„Ach du Liebe, wie schön“, sagt Margo und gibt mir einen Kuss auf die Stirn. „Jedes Mal wenn ich denke, besser kann es gar nicht mehr werden, übertriffst du dich selbst.“
„Sehr hübsch“, stimmt Rob zu.
Margo steht auf und befestigt das Bild mit einem Magneten am Kühlschrank. Er kann das Gewicht kaum halten zusammen mit all meinen anderen Bilder darunter. Ungefähr alle zwei Wochen male ich eines fertig. Das Malen ist eines der wenigen Dinge, das einzige vielleicht, das mir aus meiner Kindheit geblieben ist. Es ist nicht einmal das Malen selbst, das mir so viel Vergnügen bereitet, sondern die Freude in den Gesichtern der Menschen, denen ich die Bilder später überreiche.
Als Margo sich wieder hinsetzt, atme ich tief durch.
„Ich wollte dich etwas fragen.“
„Ja?“
Obwohl ich in den letzten Tagen geprobt habe, was ich gleich sagen werde, um die Bitte, die ich gleich vorbringen werde, so lässig und belanglos wie möglich klingen zu lassen, fühlt sich meine Kehle trocken an. Die Worte klingen steif und einstudiert.
„Ich habe mich gefragt, nachdem ihr morgen in den Urlaub fahrt, ob es vielleicht möglich wäre, dass ich das Auto bekomme? Nur für eine
“A friend?”
“From school.”
Silence. Rob’s brow twitches. He picks up his fork and starts picking at his piece of casserole. Margo and Rob don’t like to be reminded of how I entered their lives, avoiding all topics regarding my adoption like obstacles on a road.
“Well, sweetie, I didn’t know you had any friends,” Margo finally says. “You’ve never mentioned a friend, let alone contacted anybody.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay quiet.
“And where does that friend of yours live?”
“Williston.” I force myself to have a piece of casserole, still trying my best to appear nonchalant. A memory pops into my mind: Liz, in the forest where we used to hide, saying, “Nonchalance is not a matter of effort, it’s a matter of attitude.” Perhaps it was to her. My heart beats so fast I fear it will burst through my rib cage.
“Williston where?”
I had hoped Margo wouldn’t ask, but now that she had, there was no use in trying to keep it secret.
“Williston, North Dakota.”
“North Dakota! Do you know how far that is?”
I nod. “I’ve picked out some hotels along the way. I’ll be paying for them with the pocket money I’ve saved, and I promise to check in with you every night.”
“I don’t know.” Margo glances at Rob for help. He shrugs. He’s never been into parenting much. Not me, anyway. “How about this: once we return from our holiday, we’ll drive you to Williston. We could make it a family trip.”
“No,” I say a little too decidedly. Margo tilts her head to the side. She looks hurt, and her foot taps even faster. “I’m sorry. I just mean…I have to do this on my own. Isn’t that what young girls are supposed to do, at least once in their life—go on a road trip across the country?”
“Hm.” She ponders this for a few moments. “Are
Woche, höchstens zehn Tage.“
„Eine Woche?“ Aus dem Augenwinkel bemerke ich, wie Margo beginnt, mit dem rechten Fuß auf den Boden zu tippen.
Tapp, tapp, tapp...
„Wohin willst du denn für eine Woche?“
„Eine Freundin besuchen.“
„Eine Freundin?“
„Aus der Schule.“
Stille. Robs Augenbraue zuckt kurz, dann nimmt er seine Gabel und fängt an, in seinem Stück Auflauf herumzustochern. Margo und Rob mögen es nicht, daran erinnert zu werden, auf welche Weise ich in ihr Leben getreten bin. Ich vermeide alle Themen rund um meine Adoption wie Hindernisse bei einem Parcours.
„Sowas, Schatz, ich wusste nicht, dass du noch Freunde hast“, sagt Margo schließlich. „Du hast noch nie einen Freund erwähnt, geschweige denn jemanden kontaktiert.“
Ich weiß nicht, was ich dazu sagen soll, also schweige ich.
„Und wo wohnt diese Freundin von dir?“
„Williston.“
Ich zwinge mich, einen Bissen Auflauf zu essen, und versuche immer noch mein Bestes, möglichst lässig zu wirken. Eine Erinnerung taucht in meinem Kopf auf: Liz in dem Wald, wo wir uns manchmal versteckten, wie sie sagt:
„Lässigkeit ist keine Frage der Anstrengung, sondern der Einstellung.“ Vielleicht war es das für sie. Mein Herz schlägt so schnell, dass ich Angst habe, es könnte jeden Moment meinen Brustkorb durchbrechen.
„Williston wo?“
Ich hatte gehofft, Margo würde nicht fragen, aber jetzt, da sie es getan hat, ist es sinnlos zu versuchenes weiter geheim zu halten.
„Williston, North Dakota.”
„North Dakota! Weißt du, wie weit das ist?“
you sure you are well enough?”
“Absolutely,” I say.
“What if you run out of gas in the middle of nowhere?”
“We can put a fuel container in the trunk.”
“And if there’s a GPS glitch and you get lost?”
“I’ll take a map, just in case.”
“How about wild animals? Are they dangerous in North Dakota?”
“I’ll be careful, Mom.”
This is how the rest of dinner goes. Every time I think I’ve answered all her questions, Margo comes up with another hazard for me to consider. What if get a flat tire, or the car hydroplanes, or I eat too much junk food and end up with an upset stomach? I start thinking she’ll never let me go, that she’ll find some ridiculous reason like me dying of hypothermia because I didn’t pack enough socks, when she finally says, “Okay.”
“Okay?” I repeat. I must’ve misheard.
“You may go visit your friend. But we expect you to call in every night, no exceptions. And your dad will show you how to change a tire, just in case.”
I want to jump out of my seat and shower Margo with kisses, but manage to contain myself. “Thanks, Mom. I promise you won’t regret it.”
She strokes my palm with the soft fingers she lotions every night before bed. Silver tears glisten in her eyes. “I know we won’t. Just look, Rob, our little girl’s growing up.”
At 27 years of age, I can hardly be considered a little girl, but I smile nonetheless. I was fortunate enough to have been adopted by decent folks like Margo and Rob. Not many of us were as lucky. Certainly none of my friends.
We have chocolate cake for dessert. Margo’s an excellent cook and an even better baker. She keeps lecturing me on how to react if a strange man approaches me or if delinquents try to shake me down for money, but I barely listen. My mind’s far away, simultaneously
Ich nicke.
„Ich habe einige Hotels rausgesucht, in denen ich auf dem Weg übernachten kann. Ich bezahle sie mit dem Geld, das ich gespart habe, und ich verspreche, mich jeden Abend zu melden.“
„Ich weiß nicht…“
Margo sieht sich hilfesuchend nach Rob um. Er zuckt mit den Schultern. Er hat sich nie besonders für Erziehung interessiert. Jedenfalls nicht für meine.
„Wie wäre es damit: Wenn wir aus dem Urlaub zurückkommen, fahren wir dich nach Williston. Wir könnten daraus einen Familienausflug machen.“
„Nein“, sage ich etwas zu entschieden. Margo legt den Kopf schräg. Sie sieht verletzt aus, und ihr Fuß beginnt noch schneller zu klopfen.
„Es tut mir leid. Ich meine nur... Ich muss das hier alleine machen. Ist es nicht das, was junge Mädchen auf jeden Fall zumindest einmal in ihrem Leben tun sollten - einen Roadtrip quer durchs Land?“
„Hm.“
Sie denkt einige Augenblicke darüber nach.
„Bist du sicher, dass es dir dafür gut genug geht?“
„Auf jeden Fall“, sage ich.
„Was ist, wenn dir mitten im Nirgendwo der Sprit ausgeht?“
„Wir können einen Kanister in den Kofferraum packen.“
„Und wenn es ein GPS-Loch gibt und du dich verfährst?“
„Ich nehme eine Karte mit, für alle Fälle.“
„Was ist mit wilden Tieren? Gibt es wilde Tiere in North Dakota?“
„Ich werde vorsichtig sein, Mom.“
So geht es von da an weiter. Jedes Mal, wenn ich denke, dass ich alle ihre Fragen beantwortet habe, fällt Margo noch eine weitere potenzielle Gefahr ein, die ich in Betracht ziehen muss. Was ist, wenn das Auto einen Platten hat, oder ich ins Rutschen gerate, was wenn ich zu viel Junk food esse und mir den Magen verderbe?
in the past, at Brightwood where we all met, and in the future, in those distant cities where we’ll soon meet again. What if they don’t want to see me? What if they turn me away at the door like a stranger? After everything that’s happened, it wouldn’t be surprising. I decide not to think about it too much. I tend to dwell on things so long that I forget to act, and when I finally remember to, the moment’s gone.
Margo still looks anxious when she gets up to clear the table. A strand of her bun has come loose and now drapes over her neck. She hasn’t noticed. I would’ve preferred not to make her worry. But sometimes you can’t make everybody happy.
As a child, I imagined happiness as a thick, golden substance stored in a jar, much like honey. Each person had their own jar, filled to the brim from birth. Over time, with every genuine laugh and moment of joy, the golden substance slowly diminished, and one day, everybody’s jar would be empty. Refills didn’t exist. Whenever I had a bad day, I thought of my jar and how full it must still be. I told myself the bad feelings didn’t matter. I was saving my happiness for later.
Today, I know happiness doesn’t work that way. Who gets to be happy and for how long is entirely random. And sometimes, one person’s happiness means another’s sorrow. If my trip to Williston were only about me, I could’ve set it aside, if simply to avoid upsetting Margo. But it’s not just about me. It’s about all of us: Liz, Rosie, Leo, and Clara. Most of all, it’s about Clara.
Langsam aber sicher glaube ich, dass sie mich niemals gehen lassen wird, dass sie irgendeinen lächerlichen Grund finden wird, wie dass ich an Unterkühlung sterben könnte, weil ich nicht genügend Socken eingepackt habe, da sagt sie schließlich:
„In Ordnung.“
„In Ordnung?“, wiederhole ich. Ich muss mich verhört haben.
„Du kannst deine Freundin besuchen. Aber wir erwarten, dass du jeden Abend anrufst, keine Ausnahmen. Und dein Vater wird dir sicherheitshalber zeigen, wie man einen Reifen wechselt.“
Ich möchte am liebsten von meinem Stuhl aufspringen und Margo mit Küssen überschütten, aber ich beherrsche mich.
„Danke, Mom. Ich verspreche dir, du wirst es nicht bereuen.“
Sie streichelt meine Handfläche mit ihren weichen Fingern, die sie jeden Abend eincremt. Silberne Tränen glitzern in ihre Augen.
„Ich bin sicher, das werden wir nicht. Schau nur, Rob, unser kleines Mädchen wird erwachsen.“
Mit 27 Jahren kann man mich kaum noch als kleines Mädchen bezeichnen, aber ich lächle trotzdem. Ich hatte Glück, von anständigen Leuten wie Margo und Rob adoptiert worden zu sein. Nicht viele hatten dieses Glück. Definitiv keiner meiner Freunde.
Zum Nachtisch gibt es Schokoladenkuchen. Margo ist eine ausgezeichnete Köchin, und eine noch bessere Bäckerin. Immer wieder bläut sie mir ein, wie ich reagieren soll, wenn ein fremder Mann auf mich zukommt oder Kriminelle mir Geld abknüpfen wollen, aber ich höre kaum zu. In Gedanken bin ich weit weg, zeitgleich in der Vergangenheit, in Brightwood, wo wir uns alle zum ersten Mal getroffen haben, und in der Zukunft, in jenen fernen Städten, in denen wir uns bald wieder treffen werden. Was, wenn sie mich nicht sehen wollen? Was, wenn sie mich am Eingang abweisen wie eine Fremde? Nach allem, was passiert ist, käme es nicht überraschend. Im Laufe der Jahre habe ich zahlreiche Briefe abgeschickt, die alle unbeantwortet geblieben sind.
Ich beschließe, nicht zu viel darüber nachzudenken. Ich neige dazu, so lange über Dinge nachzudenken, dass ich vergesse zu handeln, und wenn ich mich endlich daran erinnere, ist der Moment vorbei.
Margo sieht immer noch besorgt aus, als wir aufstehen, um den Tisch abzuräumen. Eine Strähne ihres Dutts hat sich gelöst und fällt nun an ihrem Hals herab. Sie hat es nicht bemerkt. Ich hätte ihr lieber keine Sorgen bereitet. Aber manchmal kann man nicht alle glücklich machen. Als Kind stellte ich mir Glück vor wie eine dicke, goldene Flüssigkeit, die in einem Glas aufbewahrt wird, ähnlich wie Honig. Jeder Mensch hat sein eigenes Glas Glück, das bei seiner Geburt bis zum Rand angefüllt ist. Mit der Zeit, bei jedem aufrichtigen Lachen und jedem Augenblick der Freude, schwindet die goldene Substanz langsam, und eines Tages ist das Glas leer. Nachschub gibt es keinen. Wann immer ich einen schlechten Tag hatte, dachte ich an mein Glas und wie voll es wohl immer noch sein musste. Ich sagte mir, dass die schlechten Gefühle egal waren, denn ich hob mir mein Glück für später auf.
Heute weiß ich, dass Glück so nicht funktioniert. Wer wie lange glücklich sein darf ist völlig zufällig. Und manchmal bedeutet das Glück des einen das Leid des anderen. Wenn es bei meinem Ausflug nach Williston nur um mich gehen würde, hätte ich ihn beiseiteschieben und vergessen können, und wäre es nur, um Margo nicht zu verärgern. Aber es geht nicht nur um mich. Es geht um uns alle: Liz, Rosie, Leo und Clara. Vor allem geht es um Clara.
The first time I read Wakashu, I paused halfway through. There was something in the way the sentences moved—tender and unsettling, familiar and strange. It reminded me of being a teenager, trying to make sense of the world; of what I had chosen, what had simply happened to me, and how we need language to understand any of it.
Meister writes with a visceral precision that’s hard to describe and even harder to translate. Her images are clean, her syntax restrained, and yet the emotional undertow is fierce. Her prose is often marked by fragmentation, repetition, and the layering of image and memory—drawing the reader into psychological states rather than narrative clarity. In Wakashu, she brings this style to bear on a story of intimacy, power, and language, weaving together coming-of-age, trauma, and myth in a voice that is both very intimate and quietly destabilizing.
Born in Carinthia, Austria, Meister studied Human Medicine in Vienna and, since fall 2022, has been pursuing a degree in Creative Writing at the German Literature Institute Leipzig. Meister works across multiple forms—short prose, spoken word, and drama—and her writing has received wide recognition. Her debut spoken word collection Geschafft, Sonne was published in 2023, and her first novel Proben appeared with Residenz Verlag in 2024.
Wakashu centers on a young woman who becomes entangled in a sexually and emotionally charged relationship with a younger lover whom she names “Wakashu,” after the historical Japanese term for male youths who occupied an ambiguous social and erotic status in Edo-period Japan. The relationship is tender, uneven, and ultimately haunted by past harm. The
narrator assumes the role of initiator and guide, yet her own language repeatedly falters. As the story unfolds, we learn about her childhood in a rural village where girls were touched but not touched, and how those early experiences shaped her understanding of desire and care. Through this lens, Wakashu explores themes of gender, agency, naming, and the failure of language to protect or contain what it names.
One of the central pleasures of translating Wakashu was immersing myself in Meister’s prose rhythms: the sentence fragments that gather emotional force through repetition, the shifts between immediacy and memory, and the deliberate destabilization of subject positions. There are moments in the story where it’s unclear who is speaking, or whether a line is thought, said, or remembered. Rather than “fix” this ambiguity, I tried to preserve it, trusting that its disorientation was part of the emotional truth the text offers.
At the same time, the story posed many challenges. The most significant one—linguistically and thematically— was the translation of the German verbs anfassen and berühren. Both can be translated into English as “to touch,” but they carry distinct connotations: “anfassen” implies physical contact that is often external, objectifying, or even violent, whereas “berühren” can signal an emotional or internal resonance; a touching that moves someone inside, not just their body. This distinction is central to Wakashu, where the narrator laments the experience of being “touched” without being “touched.” In the English version, I decided to translate “anfassen” as “touching” and “berühren” also as “touching,” but italicized, to preserve the emotional nuance. This duplication—with its slight visual shift— felt true to the confusion the narrator tries to name.
Ultimately, what made this translation joyful was also what made it hard: the slipperiness of language, the elliptical structure, the silences between the lines.
Meister’s story is one of blurred edges—between genders, between past and present, between pain and intimacy. Translating it meant stepping into that blur and trying to carry its atmosphere across languages.
I’m deeply grateful to Tara Meister for trusting me with this haunting, generous text. I also want to thank Alyson Waters, whose insight, clarity, and encouragement made every version of this translation stronger, and my classmates in Columbia’s “Word for Word” seminar, who approached this piece with such thoughtfulness and care. You made an otherwise lonely process collaborative, challenging, and joyful.
And to the reader, I hope you have as much fun with this text as I did.
Ich erinnere mich an das Rehkitz in der Kiste neben dem Herd auf einem der Nachbarshöfe. Es hatte im Feld gelegen und der Bauer hatte es nicht gesehen, hatte es mit dem Traktor angefahren und ihm ein Bein abgetrennt. Wir Kinder durften es füttern mit der Flasche, eine Weile lang. Aber das Kitz hatte nur drei Beine. Wenn ich die Erwachsenen fragte, was mit ihm passieren würde, schwiegen sie. Irgendwann war der Platz neben dem Herd leer.
Seine Augen sind gelb, wie Butterblumen. Sein Ohr ist entzündet, als wir das erste Mal miteinander schlafen, aber das sagt er mir erst hinterher. Ich frage, ob es jetzt wehtut, ob es wehgetan hat beim Sex, er sagt nein, nein.
Irgendwo schwirrt eine Mücke. Sein Körper liegt unter meiner Hand, warm.
Sonst dürfen wir es nicht, sage ich, wenn es wehtut, dürfen wir es nie. Was? fragt er und dreht den Kopf, wendet mir das gesunde Ohr zu, damit er mich verstehen kann. Ich bin sein erstes Mal und später werde ich darüber denken, dass es töricht war. Genau dieses Wort: töricht. Ich spüre einen Stich, klatsche, zerreibe die Mücke zwischen den Fingern. Wie sagst du hierzu, fragt er. Wozu, frage ich zurück. Es ist dunkel, er schweigt. Wir ziehen die Decken ab und schlafen in den leeren Bezügen.
Ich erzähle es der Freundin, erzähle ihr: Ich habe jemanden… Ich habe jemanden.
Und dass er aufgetaucht ist, wie die Figuren auftauchen in Geschichten, aus dem Nichts. Sein suchender Blick und dass er jung ist, unbeschrieben.
Dann beschreibe ihn doch du, antwortet sie.
Wozu, frage ich. Dass es keinen Sinn macht, dass ich müde geworden bin und nach nichts mehr suche. Die Freundin
translated
I remember the fawn in the box by the stove at one of the neighboring farms. It had lain in the field and the farmer hadn’t seen it, he had run over it with the tractor and severed one of its legs. We kids were allowed to feed it with the bottle, for a while. But the fawn only had three legs. When I asked the grown-ups what would happen to it, they stayed quiet. One day, the place next to the stove was empty.
His eyes are yellow, like buttercups. His ear is infected when we sleep together for the first time, but he only tells me that afterward. I ask if it hurts, if it had hurt during sex; he says no, no. His body is warm beneath my hand. A mosquito buzzes somewhere.
Or else we’re not allowed, I say. If it hurts, we never are.
What? he asks and turns his head, offering me his healthy ear so he can better understand me. I am his first and later I will think it was fatuous. That exact word: fatuous. I feel a sting, then slap, squash the mosquito between my fingers.
What do you call this? he asks. To what? I ask back. It is dark, he stays silent. We remove the duvet and sleep inside its empty cover.
I tell my friend, tell her: I have someone… I have someone.
And that he showed up like the characters in stories do, out of nowhere. His searching gaze and how he is young, unwritten.
Then write him, she responds.
antwortet: Dinge haben einen Sinn, oder sie ergeben einen.
Bald darauf sagt er Liebe. Er sagt es auf dem Dach eines baufälligen Hauses, wir sind hinaufgeklettert über die Mauer und die Feuerwehrleiter und ich schaffe es nicht, ihm zu erklären, dass das verboten ist. Also sage ich: auch. Unter unseren Füßen bröckelt Zement und im Gestrüpp kreischen die Grillen. Ich lege die Hände an die Ohren, die Mutter hat früher gesagt, dass man dann das Meer rauschen hört. Jetzt weiß ich: es ist nur das eigene Blut. Ich höre die Mutter im Blut, sie sagt: Glücklich wird, wer vergisst, was nicht zu ändern ist.
Man kann nicht beides gleichzeitig: vergessen und von dem erzählen, was vergessen werden soll. Wir schlittern auf dem Weg nach unten.
Seine Entzündung bleibt, spreche ich auf dieser Seite, versteht er mich kaum. Willst du das nicht behandeln lassen, frage ich. Was? fragt er und neigt den Kopf. Ich betaste seinen Mund, versuche den Unterschied zu erklären zwischen Anfassen und Berühren. Dass es zwei verschiedene Dinge sind zu sagen: jemand hat mich berührt oder jemand hat mich angefasst.
Er fragt, warum ich weine, und ich fahre ihm über den Mund. Ich sage nicht: ich wollte das nie wissen. Seine Wangen glühen. Er flüstert etwas. Ich verstehe, dass er begierig ist, dass er es lernen will, das Körper-sein, das Körper-teilen, das Sprechen darüber. Aber er will ein anderes Sprechen, will nicht wie gehabt. Das sagt er nicht, das höre ich. Und ich antworte ihm nicht: woher soll ich sie nehmen, diese neue Sprache.
Bald schicke ich ihm Worte in weißen Umschlägen, die ich dreimal ablecke und zuklebe. Weiß, dass er sie sammeln wird, studieren. Später tauchen die Worte dann auf in unseren Gesprächen, er reiht sie vor mir aneinander und wirft mir fragende Blicke zu. Was gut und was schlecht ist, bestimme ich. Vor dem Fenster gurren die Tauben.
Why? What for? I ask. It won’t mean anything, I’ve grown tired and am no longer on the lookout for anything. The friend responds: Things have a meaning, or they create meaning.
Soon after, he says love. He says it on top of the roof of a ramshackle house; we had climbed up over the wall and the fire escape and I can’t explain to him that it’s forbidden. So I say: as well. The cement crumbles beneath our feet and crickets screech in the undergrowth. I place my hands over my ears; my mother used to say that this way you can hear the roaring of the ocean. Now I know: it is only my blood.
I hear mother inside my blood, she says: Happy are those who forget what can’t be changed.
One can’t do both at the same time: forgetting and talking about what should be forgotten. We slide all the way back down.
His infection lingers. If I speak on this side, he can barely understand me. Don’t you want to get it treated? I ask. What? he says and tilts his head. I run my fingers over his mouth, try to explain the difference between touching and touching. That there’s a difference between saying: someone has touched me or someone has touched me.
He asks why I’m crying, and I trace his mouth with my hand. I don’t respond: I never wanted to know that. His cheeks glow. He whispers something. I understand he is eager, that he wants to learn about being a body, sharing a body, the talking about bodies shared. But he wants a different kind of talking, not like before. He doesn’t say that, but I hear it. And I don’t answer him: where could I find it, this new language.
Soon I send him words in white envelopes, which I lick three times and seal. Knowing that he will collect them, study them. Later the words appear in our
Die Freundin schweigt. Wir sitzen am Bordstein und halten die Augen gegen die Sonne geschlossen. Wer ist schuld, will ich die Freundin fragen, dass wir angefasst und nicht berührt wurden. Und ob es sein kann, dass es allein an den Worten lag.
In dem Dorf, in dem wir aufgewachsen sind, gab es fünf große Höfe. Einen Gasthof, zwei Bildstöcke, die Kirche. Kühe, Hühner, Schweine, Katzen, ein altes Pferd. Es sah anders aus als die bunten Bauernhöfe in den Bilderbüchern. Die kleinen Kinder zeigten auf die Hartkartonseiten, sagten: Kuh. Huhn. Schwein. Katze. Aber es war nicht dasselbe. Wir wuchsen und wurden für Bilderbücher zu groß. Worte für Körper gab es keine. Wenn wir gegenseitig auf unsere Körper zeigten, deuteten wir daneben und riefen Scheußlichkeiten.
Ich rufe ihn an und er meldet sich mit meinem Namen. Und dass er Fieber hat seit drei Tagen, hohes Fieber, und die Wohnung nicht verlässt. Ich komme vorbei am nächsten Morgen und bringe einen Kürbis mit. Als ich dann in der Tür stehe, sehe ich, was er sehen muss - aus einem Fiebertraum geschreckt von der Klingel und dann ich in dem hellen Mantel im Türstock, wie ein Engel, sagt er, ein Engel, mit einem leuchtend orangenen Kürbis unter dem Arm. Es ist einer der ersten Kürbisse des Jahres, es ist gerade so Herbst. Ich weiß nicht, wo ich ihn ablegen soll in der Wohnung, die Laken im Zimmer sind dunkel geschwitzt, in der Badewanne steht kaltes Wasser und der Hahn tropft.
Er sagt: gib mir einen Namen. Ich überlege drei Tage und drei Nächte. Dann nenne ich ihn: Wakashu.
Wir höhlen den Kürbis von innen aus, schnitzen ihm ein Gesicht. Wir zünden eine Kerze an und stellen sie in den leeren Kopf, wie einen Gedanken. Gelbe Augen, lodernder Blick.
Wir stellen ihn vor die Türe, er wird böse Geister fernhalten.
conversations, he strings them together in front of me and throws me questioning glances. I determine what is good and what is bad. Outside the window, the pigeons coo.
My friend keeps silent. We sit on the curb and keep our eyes shut against the sun. I want to ask her, who is to blame for us being touched but not touched. And whether it could have been only because of the words. The village where we grew up had five large farms. An inn, two wayside shrines, the church. Cows, chickens, pigs, cats, an old horse. It looked different from the colorful farms in picture books. The small children would point at the hard cardboard pages, saying: Cow. Chicken. Pig. Cat. But it wasn’t the same. We grew and got too big for picture books. There were no words for bodies. We would point at each other’s bodies, but missing them, shouted nasty things.
I call him up and he answers with my name. Says he’s had a fever for three days, a high fever, and is not leaving the apartment.
I come by the next morning and bring a pumpkin. When I stand in the doorway, I imagine what he must see—startled from a fever dream by the doorbell, and then me in my bright coat in the doorframe, like an angel, he says, an angel, with a bright orange pumpkin under my arm. It’s one of the first pumpkins of the year, autumn’s just arrived. I don’t know where to put it. The sheets in the room are dark with sweat. The bathtub is filled with cold water and the faucet is dripping. He says: give me a name.
I think for three days and three nights. Then I name him: Wakashu.
We hollow out the pumpkin, carve it a face. We light a candle and place it in the empty head, like a thought. Yellow eyes, gaze blazing.
We set it in front of the door, it will keep evil spirits away.
Wir tauschen. Erst Löffel, dann Kleider. So schön, sage ich, sagt er, bist du. Es rauscht.
Sage ich Nähe, sind wir nah. Sage ich Tier, wird er zum Tier. Sage ich dunkel ist es dunkel.
Was hat das zu bedeuten, fragt die Freundin.
Wir gehen durch den Park. Unter dem Mantel halte ich weiße Umschläge versteckt, sie knistern. Die Freundin hinkt. Ich antworte, dass die Wakashu Jünglinge waren, nicht Kind, nicht Mann, spezielle Kleider trugen, und dass sich die Älteren, Männer wie Frauen, Wakashu als Liebhaber nahmen. Sie schüttelt den Kopf: Ich meine- was hat das zu bedeuten?
Nachdem es uns im Dorf zu still geworden ist, sind wir aus den Feldern und zu den Männern hin und haben um Worte gebettelt. Für unsere Körper, weil wir sie so dringend brauchten. Sie haben sie uns hingeworfen, wie wir den Säuen das alte Brot. Wir haben uns darum gerissen, geneidet, wir haben uns die Finger in den Hals gesteckt gegenseitig. Wir tragen die Spuren davon.
Die Freundin fragt, warum jetzt, warum er jetzt komme, so spät, und warum zu mir.
Ich lege die Hände an die Ohren und höre das Blut.
Ich sage: Wir haben gehungert.
Er sagt: Wir haben –
Ich sage: Nein. Dieses Wort bekommst du nicht. Dieses wir nicht.
Einmal hat sich die Freundin ins Feld gelegt und gesagt: Ich will tot sein. Ich werde hier warten.
Die Rehe im Feld, die sieht man nicht, wenn das Gras hochsteht im Sommer. Vielleicht kann der Bauer nichts dafür. Wenn wir uns zueinander beugten, uns duckten und flüsterten, sind sie über uns hinweggefahren, die Männer im Dorf.
Aus meinen Sätzen nimmt sich Wakashu, was er braucht. Er legt sie über meinen Körper, wie einen Schutzfilm.
We swap. First spoons, then clothes. How beautiful, I say; he says, you are. Everything roars.
When I say close, we are close. When I say animal, he becomes an animal. When I say dark it is dark.
What does that mean, asks the friend.
We walk through the park. Under my coat I hide white envelopes, they rustle.
The friend limps. I answer that the Wakashu were youths, neither child nor man, wore special clothes, and older people, men and women, took Wakashu as lovers. She shakes her head: I say—what does that mean?
After the village became too quiet for us, we walked away from the fields towards the men and begged them for words. For our bodies, because we needed them so desperately. The men threw them at us the way we tossed stale bread at the pigs. We fought over them, in envy, shoved our fingers down each other’s throats. We still bear the marks of it.
The friend asks why now, why he’s coming now, this late, and why to me.
I press my hands to my ears and hear my blood.
I say: We were starving.
He says: We were— I say: No. You don’t gain that word. Not that we.
Once, the friend lay down in the field and said: I want to be dead. I’ll wait here. The deer are invisible in the tall summer grass. Maybe it’s not the farmer’s fault. When we bent toward one another, ducked and whispered, the village men passed in their vehicles right over us.
Wakashu takes what he needs from my sentences. He lays them over my body like a protective film. He laughs at his own body like a child who’s just beginning to realize it has a shape. Later, the child will see it can’t shed that shape and the laughter stops. May I enter
Über seinen eigenen Körper lacht er, wie ein Kind lacht, das gerade anfängt, sich seiner Form bewusst zu werden.
Später merkt das Kind, dass es sie nicht ablegen kann und das Lachen hört auf. Darf ich in deinen Körper, fragt er.
Er bekommt Fieber von meinen Worten, und Fieber aus Sorge, sie könnten mir ausgehen.
Willst du das nicht, frage ich, behandeln lassen? Tut das nicht weh?
Ich sage zärtlich und er sagt zärtlich und dann sage ich jetzt. Später sagt er: Jetzt will ich zärtlich mit dir sein, aber eigentlich habe ich das gesagt.
Wenn er mir einmal die Tür aufhält oder in den Mantel hilft, ist er danach minutenlang geschüttelt vor Lachen. Wenn ich sage: Sag mir, dass alles gut ist, friert er in der Bewegung ein, kann nicht mehr sprechen. Er spürt es, wenn ich Mann denke. Er wird unruhig im Schlaf, nervös unter meinem Blick. Also denke ich: Reh.
Sein Herzschlag wird ruhig. Das Reh rollt sich neben mir zusammen, frisst aus meiner Hand.
Mmh, sagt er, die sind gut, die Heidelbeeren. Als er es zum dritten Mal sagt, antworte ich, dass das Trauben sind, schwarze Trauben, und wir sind beide verwirrt.
Wir wussten, dass es gefährlich war in den Feldern. Die Alten im Dorf erzählten von Mädchen die zwischen den Ähren verschwunden und nie zurückgekommen waren. Die Freundin wollte immer weiter hinein. Im Geheimen hockten wir dort, saugten am Ampfer und gaben uns Namen, andere Namen als die uns hingeworfenen. Heute sage ich Kinder, sage Neugier, Unschuld, und der Mund der Freundin bleibt geschlossen. Er hört alles, erinnert sich an jedes Wort. Also werde ich vorsichtiger. Ich bin sein erstes Mal gewesen und frage mich bald, ob ich dabei meine Unschuld genommen habe. Hinein in seinen Körper hätte ich ihn beschworen, wie einen Dämon, und nun könne er nicht mehr hinaus, und nun sei er mein Diener und nun solle ich mir nur wünschen. Hat er gesagt, irgendwie. Zum Mann gemacht, das sagt niemand mehr, denke ich.
your body, he asks.
He gets a fever from my words, and a fever from the fear they might run out. Don’t you want to, I ask, have that treated? Doesn’t it hurt?
I say tender, and he says tender, and then I say now. Later he says: Now I want to be tender with you, but really, I was the one who said that.
Whenever he holds a door for me or helps with my coat, he shakes with laughter for minutes afterward. When I say: Tell me everything’s alright, he freezes in place, can’t speak any more. He senses it when I think: man. He grows restless in his sleep, skittish under my gaze. So I think: deer.
His heartbeat calms. The deer curls up beside me, eats from my hand.
Mmh, he says, these are good, the blueberries. When he says it a third time, I tell him they’re grapes, black grapes, and we’re both confused.
We knew the fields were dangerous. The village elders told stories of girls who vanished between the stalks and never came back. The friend always wanted to go further. We crouched there in secret, sucking on sorrel, giving each other names—names other than the ones thrown at us. Today I say children, I say curiosity, innocence, and the friend’s mouth stays closed.
He hears everything, remembers every word. So I grow more cautious.
I was his first, and soon I wonder if I took my innocence doing it. Called him into his body like a demon, and now he can’t get out. Now he is my servant. Now all I have to do is wish. That’s what he said, or something like that. Made him a man. No one says that anymore, I think. I didn’t do that, I think. I didn’t! I tell him.
He got spooked. That word I only find months later, by chance, during a walk. Spooked by what burst out of him that first night, I think. I tell no one.
Das habe ich nicht, denke ich. Das habe ich nicht! sage ich ihm.
Er hat sich erschrocken. Das Wort finde ich erst Monate später, zufällig, bei einem Spaziergang. Erschrocken vor dem, was da hervorgebrochen ist aus ihm in der ersten Nacht, denke ich. Sage ich niemandem.
Und du? fragt die Freundin. Und ich?
Wie hat er dich genannt?
Ich erinnere mich an den Tag, als der Bauer das Rehkitz im Feld angefahren hat und wie die Bäuerin es auf ihren Armen nachhause trug. Später wusch sie sich das Blut vom Busen.
Er steht im Türstock in meinen Kleidern, mit meinen Worten und einem Blumenstrauß.
Ich überschlage die verbleibenden Tage. Ich zähle 67 Muttermale. Er stellt mir keine Fragen. Das Zimmer geht nach Norden raus, morgens dauert es lange, bis es hell wird. Eine ganze Weile können wir uns nicht sehen, nur tasten. Er will gehalten, gestreichelt, geschaukelt, getröstet, begrenzt, berührt, benetzt, liebkost, angebetet, eingebettet, angerufen werden. Erstreichelt, beregt, zerrührt, verherzt, angebettet, eingebetet, beschaukelt.
Er will, dass ich die Welt erzähle, dass ich damit das Fieber fernhalte. Also erzähle ich Nacht um Nacht, rede und rede, bis meine Lippen Bläschen schlagen, bis meine Zunge stolpert, als würde es um unser Leben gehen.
Einmal hat sich die Freundin ins Feld gelegt und gesagt: Ab heute habe ich einen anderen Namen.
Wieder und wieder musste ich ihren neuen Namen sagen. Aber wer im Dorf seinen Namen ablegt, ist tot. Die Freundin versprach, sie würde aus den Feldern auferstehen.
Wir steigen auf einen Jägerstand und er klammert sich am
And you? the friend asks. And me?
What did he call you?
I remember the day the farmer hit the fawn in the field, and how the farmer’s wife carried it home in her arms. Later she washed the blood from her breast.
He stands in the doorway wearing my clothes, with my words and a bouquet.
I tally the days I have left. I count 67 moles. He asks no questions.
The room faces north. In the mornings, it takes a long time to get light. For quite a while we can’t see each other, only feel. He wants to be held, stroked, rocked, comforted, contained, moistened, caressed, adored, nestled, called. Stroked again, rained on, stirred up, fondled, prayed to, swaddled, rocked once more.
He wants me to tell the world to keep the fever away. So I tell, night after night, speak and speak, until blisters bloom on my lips, until my tongue stumbles, as if our lives depended on it.
Once the friend lay in the field and said: From today on, I have a different name. I had to repeat her new name over and over. But whoever sheds their name in the village is dead. The friend promised she would rise again from the fields.
We climb up a hunting tower. He clutches the railing. It’s windy; below us branches, brambles, hazel. He wears my sheets around his waist, my skirt as a scarf. For a moment the fabric catches in the thorns.
On the way back we hear a gunshot from deep within the forest.
It’s rutting season, I say.
He’s wild, and I see he doesn’t want to be. You made me wild, he says accusingly.
Geländer fest, es ist windig, unter uns Geäst, Brombeerranken und Haselstrauch. Meine Laken trägt er um die Hüften, meinen Rock als Schal um den Hals, kurz bleibt der Stoff in den Dornen hängen.
Auf dem Heimweg hören wir tief aus dem Wald einen Schuss.
Dabei ist Brunft, sage ich.
Er ist wild und ich sehe, dass er es nicht will. Du hast mich wild gemacht, sagt er, vorwurfsvoll. Aus meiner Hand frisst er die Geschichten in mundgerechten Stücken. Vieles lasse ich weg.
Einmal haben die Freundin und ich uns bis spät in den Feldern versteckt. Das Gras stand ganz hoch und was wir taten, war verboten, weil wir mit unseren Körpern die Halme plattdrücken würden. Wir küssten uns, nur so, weil wir es wissen mussten. Niemand sah uns dort liegen, zwischen den Butterblumen. Später im Bett schämten wir uns jede für sich und dachten angestrengt an einen Prinzen. Dass er nur bald kommen möge.
Wieso jetzt? fragt die Freundin. Ich will ihr sagen: Ich mache es wieder gut. Das Verstecken in den Feldern, das Liegen und Warten, das Dröhnen des sich nähernden Traktors, die groben Hände, das Angefasstaber nie Berührt-werden, das Schweigen, die Sprachlosigkeit. All das mach ich durch ihn wieder gut. Versprochen. Ich antworte: Das weiß ich nicht.
Dann legt sich etwas in seine Stimme. Später in seinen Blick.
Zum ersten Mal höre ich es, nachdem er in der Straßenbahn auf eine Horde Fußballfans gestoßen ist. Es ist nur, sage ich, ein bisschen Bier auf der Jacke, nur ein paar laute Stimmen. Er sagt nichts, oder: warum hast du so große Hände?
Er weiß es, sage ich der Freundin. Er hat das Haus gesehen und die Höfe rundum. Er weiß, dass in meinem Kopf Bau-
He eats my stories from my hand in bite-sized pieces. I leave out a lot.
Once the friend and I stayed hidden in the fields until late. The grass was so tall and what we were doing was forbidden because we’d bend the stalks with our bodies. We kissed, just to do it, because we had to know. No one saw us lying there, between the buttercups. Later, in bed, we each felt ashamed, thinking hard of a prince. That he might come soon.
Why now? the friend asks.
I want to tell her: I’m making it right. The hiding in the fields, the lying and waiting, the drone of the approaching tractor, the rough hands, the being touched but never really touched, the silence, the speechlessness. I’m making all of it right, through him. Promise. I answer: I don’t know.
Then something settles into his voice. Later, into his gaze.
I hear it for the first time after he runs into a group of soccer fans on the tram. It’s just, I say, a little beer on your jacket, just some loud voices. He says nothing, or: what big hands you have!
He knows, I tell the friend. He saw the house, the yards around it. He knows that in my mind, farmers slaughter sows with big hands and crackling beards. He heard them calling, from far across the fields.
After that, the fever rises. The words he gathered from me begin to slip away. He drops them, doesn’t notice when I step on them, when I hurt myself in the process.
Now everything startles him. If I touch his arm, if I let myself fall while dancing. I try talking him out of it like a madwoman. I offer him the we. I tell him of a house, an old door, a world without eyes. I think: if
ern Säue schlachten mit großen Händen und knisternden Bärten. Er hat sie von Weitem rufen gehört, über die Felder.
Von da an steigt das Fieber. Die Worte, die er von mir gesammelt hat, beginnt er zu verlieren, sie fallen ihm runter und er scheint nicht zu bemerken, wenn ich darauf trete, mir wehtue dabei.
Alles erschreckt ihn nun. Wenn ich seinen Arm umfasse, wenn ich mich fallen lasse beim Tanzen.
Ich rede wie wild dagegen an. Ich schlage ihm das wir vor.
Von einem Haus erzähle ich, der alten Tür, einer Welt ohne Blicke. Denke: wenn ich nur dieses eine Reh retten kann, wären alle, die je unter die großen Räder des Traktors gekommen sind, erlöst.
Er reibt sich den dunklen roten Lippenstift von seinen Lippen, immer fester. Wieso, fragt er, ist das so schwer? Ich weiß, hauche ich, ich weiß.
Schlaf mit mir, sagt er.
Nein, sage ich.
Bitte.
Du hast Fieber. So dürfen wir es nicht. Du musst dich behandeln lassen.
Mach mich gesund.
Das hat er nicht gesagt. Ich sage der Freundin: das hat er nicht gesagt. Aber seine Rehaugen.
Ich frage ihn: Warum hast du so gelbe Augen? Komm näher, damit ich dich besser sehen kann.
Vielleicht, sagt die Freundin, vielleicht bist es ja du. Wer? frage ich. Was? frage ich.
Ich fange an die Freundin zu meiden.
Er ruft an. Er sagt: Ich bin zu weit gegangen.
Er sagt vielleicht etwas anderes. Ich verstehe das.
„Ich verstehe das“, sage ich.
„Was?“, fragt er.
Was wird aus dem Kitz? wollten wir wissen.
I could just save this one deer, all that ever got caught under the big tractor wheels would be saved. He rubs the deep red lipstick off his mouth, harder and harder. Why, he asks, is this so difficult? I know, I whisper. I know.
Sleep with me, he says. No, I say. Please.
You have a fever. We’re not allowed to, not like this. You need help. Make me better.
He didn’t say that. I tell the friend: He didn’t say that. But his deer eyes.
I tell him: What yellow eyes you have! Come close, the better to see you with.
Maybe, says the friend, maybe it’s you. Who? I ask. What? I ask. I start avoiding the friend.
He calls. He says, I went too far. Maybe he says something else. I understand that. “I understand that,” I say. “What?” he asks.
What became of the fawn, we wanted to know.
I visit the friend’s grave in the village. Her old name is on the stone. On my way there I picked flowers.
The deer retreats deeper into the forest, and I follow.
Branches snap beneath us, needles rain down. He flinches at every movement.
I put on green clothes. I walk quietly. I blend into the thicket of his room. I wait. The deer shakes during the night. It’s grown so thin. Almost transparent now, my face shines in his feverish eyes. The deer recoils from
Ich besuche das Grab der Freundin im Dorf. Dort steht der alte Name. Auf dem Weg habe ich Blumen gepflückt.
Das Reh zieht sich tiefer in den Wald zurück und ich folge ihm.
Die Äste brechen unter uns, die Nadeln rieseln zu Boden.
Bei jeder Bewegung schreckt er auf. Ich ziehe mir grüne Kleidung an, ich mache leise Schritte. Ich verschmelze mit dem Dickicht in seinem Zimmer. Ich warte. Das Reh zittert in der Nacht, es ist ganz dünn geworden. Irgendwann fast durchscheinend, in den fiebrigen Augen glänzt mein Gesicht. Das Reh schreckt vor mir zurück, es flüchtet sich ins Unterholz.
Es verwechselt mich, denke ich, mit dem Jäger.
Wo führst du mich hin, möchte ich fragen, aber vielleicht bin ich es, die es treibt.
Ich rufe seinen Namen.
me, flees into the underbrush. He’s mistaking me, I think, for the hunter. Where are you leading me? I want to ask, but maybe I’m the one driving it forward. I call his name.
Wie kann man von einem ganzen Leben auf wenigen
Seiten erzählen? Wie kann man die Tragödien und die Freuden darin begreifen, aber nicht bei ihnen verharren? Und vor allem, wie erzählt man von der Alltäglichkeit eines Lebens, wie erzählt man seine beständige Gewöhnlichkeit, das Hundertmal-schonDagewesensein, mit dem großen, tiefen Interesse, das dem gewöhnlichen Menschenleben gebührt – ganz ohne innezuhalten?
Regan Mies gelingt das, glaube ich, in Sebastian auf zweifache Weise: Sie hat einerseits Sätze, die lange fließen können, ganz leicht schwebend sind und zugleich profund, deren (Lebens-)Gewicht man in ihren Bewegungen kaum spüren kann. So gleitet in Sebastian alles dahin, wie die Welt vor den Fenstern einer Straßenbahn dahingleiten kann; immer in Bewegung, leicht schwankend, aber immer auch irgendwie robust, so robust eben etwas verläuft, das sich auf Schienen bewegt. Ein Leben also, das in gewisser Weise alle seine Stationen schon kennt, sie in anderen Leben schon unzählbar oft angefahren hat. Das einzigartige und normale Leben von Sebastian, um das es hier geht, ist das von jemandem, der nirgendwo aussteigt und ruhig seine Stationen abfährt. Mies begegnet dem mit einer Stimme, die so unaufgeregt ist wie nah an ihm dran. Ich spüre eine große Zärtlichkeit, die sich in noch größerer Zurückhaltung übt. Und ein feiner melancholischer Ton begleitet die Windungen und Wendungen von Sebastians Fahrt. Was nämlich nicht schon vorhergesagt ist, ist welche Menschen an den einzelnen Stationen in die Waggons einsteigen werden, wie sie ein- und warum sie wieder aussteigen werden, auch nicht, was wir durch die Fenster der Tram sehen können: alles eine Gruppe von Konstanten, sure, but the light is ever changing. Ich habe versucht, das – insbesondere Mies‘
Sprachrhythmus und die zarte, feste Haltung, die in ihrem Ton liegt – beim Übersetzen zu erfassen.
Manchmal wollte es mir nicht ganz gelingen, zum Beispiel an der Stelle, in dem sich eine Depression einschleicht, voll Einzug nimmt und wieder endet, alles in einem einzigen Satz, der nicht einmal lang ist. Ich hoffe, auch im Deutschen kann man dennoch jetzt lesen, wie ungewöhnlich schön Regan Mies von Sebastian erzählt.
When he was too young, his mother had said, The sand is white because it’s made of everybody’s bones. They’re dried up by the sun and saltwater, yes? And they’re tossed around and around and around until they crumble into dust. She held his frame in her cross-legged lap, her breath warm on his ear. Your grandmother and grandpapa, their grandmothers and grandpapas, all tossed around. Just dust. She kissed his cheek. He cried with each step of bare foot against cold sand on their way from shore to boardwalk.
She asked him pointedly, a couple of years later, Why don’t you like the beach, Sebi? Why don’t you play in the sand with your brothers?
He preferred the streetcar to the beach, and on the days Sebastian handed over his pocket change to his brothers, they’d count the silver guilder and let him stay on as they raced out to the sea. At home in the evenings, the three older boys were scraped-up, sunburnt, sandy, and Seb, small, pale, clean, would nod along as they described to their mother the seagulls and relays, white caps and ballgames, Waves the size of tsunamis, really! But we swam in them anyway, Sebi nearly froze himself solid.
Oh? Yes, he does look very cold, doesn’t he?
He does, he does! they chorused, so Seb wrapped his arms around himself and feigned a shiver, tried his hardest not to grin. What deception!
When his mother tucked him into bed those nights, she said, Be sure not to get sand in your sheets, did you wash it from your fingernails and hair? to which Sebi would reply, Mama, I stayed on the tram today, and she would kiss his cheek.
The tram swayed gently as it moved. Its interior
Als er noch zu jung dafür war, hatte seine Mutter zu ihm gesagt: Der Sand ist weiß, weil er aus den Knochen der Leute besteht. Sie wurden von der Sonne und dem Salzwasser ausgetrocknet, siehst du? Und sie werden so lange im Meer hin- und hergeworfen, bis sie zu Staub zerbröseln. Sie saß im Schneidersitz und hielt seine schmale Gestalt auf ihrem Schoß, ihr Atem warm an seinem Ohr. Deine Großmutter und dein Großpapa und deren Großmütter und Großpapas, alle wurden sie durcheinander geworfen. Sind nur noch Staub. Sie küsste ihn auf die Wange. Er weinte bei jedem Schritt, den er mit seinen bloßen Füßen durch den kalten Sand auf dem Weg vom Ufer zur Strandpromenade tat.
Einige Jahre später fragte sie ihn unverblümt: Warum magst du den Strand nicht, Sebi? Warum spielst du nicht mit deinen Brüdern im Sand?
Er mochte die Straßenbahn lieber als den Strand, und wenn Sebastian seinen Brüdern sein Kleingeld aushändigte, zählten sie die Gulden und ließen ihn an diesen Tagen weiterfahren, während sie zum Meer hinunterrasten. Abends zu Hause waren die drei älteren Jungs zerschrammt, sonnenverbrannt und sandig, und Seb, klein, blass und sauber, nickte immerzu, während sie ihrer Mutter die Möwen und ihre Staffelläufe, die Schaumkronen und die Ballspiele beschrieben, Wellen so groß wie Tsunamis, wirklich! Wir sind aber trotzdem drin geschwommen und Sebi ist fast erfroren. Oh, ist er? Ja, er sieht wirklich durchgefroren aus, nicht wahr? Ja, tut er, tut er!, riefen sie im Chor und Seb schlang seine Arme um sich und täuschte einen Schauder vor, während er mit aller Kraft versuchte, sich ein Grinsen zu verkneifen. Was für ein Schwindel! Wenn seine Mutter ihn an diesen Abenden ins Bett brachte, sagte sie, Gib Acht, dass du keinen Sand ins Bett trägst, hast du ihn dir aus den Fingernägeln und aus den Haaren gewaschen? Worauf Sebi immer antwortete, Mama, ich bin heute in der Straßenbahn geblieben, und sie ihn auf die Wange küsste.
was a brighter green than grass. It ambled through the city along stone walls that drooped with ivy. It ambled under treetops that glowed with sunlight. The branches reached, wove, sprawled, and sometimes seemed to make emerald tunnels; these were Sebastian’s favorite sights on the route. Some days he brought a comic and studied its pages but also studied the way the light came and went, lit up the colors in watery, flickering patterns. Sebastian preferred superhero comics to the funnies.
The girl with whom he would have his first kiss introduced herself by passing a note in grade eight. She said to him that afternoon, I think you’re sweet and funny and so quiet. I like that your hair’s almost white. Especially when you sit by the window at that desk in the sun.
Her lips were chapped when they kissed briefly on the pier, and when boarding the streetcar afterward, the conductor said, Have a nice day, Sebastian and lady friend, and Sebastian said something like, Thank you, sir, and the girl laughed in her seat, said, How does he know your name?
Sebastian met Anna in university and found her lively and loud at a time when the girls he knew preferred to be perceived as dainty, demure. It was at a social event that she asked him what he studied, and he told her Politics, and she replied, Pol-i-tics, so Sebastian said, What do you study? to which she responded with a turn of phrase that made heat rise to his cheeks.
Anna became a professor of biology. Sebastian studied the law, enjoying most its precision and straightforwardness. Anna held her husband’s hand when they sat on the streetcar in the mornings and evenings; Sebastian listened intently to his wife as she read and reread her abstracts aloud in their bedroom.
Are my arguments clear? Brilliant.
The wording? Perfect.
Die Straßenbahn schwankte sanft während der Fahrt. Ihr Innenraum war von einem leuchtenderen Grün als Gras. Sie zuckelte durch die Stadt, vorbei an Steinmauern, von denen Efeu herabhing. Sie zuckelte unter Baumkronen hindurch, die im Sonnenlicht glühten. Die Äste streckten und verflochten sich, schwärmten aus und manchmal schienen sie zu smaragdgrünen Tunneln zu werden; das waren Sebastians liebste Ausblicke auf der Strecke. An manchen Tagen nahm er einen Comic mit und studierte die Seiten, studierte aber auch, wie das Licht kam und ging, wie es die Farben in laufenden, flimmernden Mustern aufleuchten ließ. Sebastian zog Superhelden-Comics den lustigen vor.
Das Mädchen, mit dem er seinen ersten Kuss haben würde, stellte sich ihm in der achten Klasse mit einem Zettel vor. Sie sagte zu ihm an diesem Nachmittag: Ich finde dich süß und lustig und so ruhig. Ich mag, dass deine Haare fast weiß sind. Besonders, wenn du an diesem Tisch am Fenster in der Sonne sitzt. Ihre Lippen waren spröde, als sie sich auf dem Kai kurz küssten, und als sie danach in die Straßenbahn stiegen, sagte der Schaffner: Einen schönen Tag noch, Sebastian und kleine Freundin, und Sebastian sagte so etwas wie: Vielen Dank, und das Mädchen lachte in ihrem Sitz und sagte: Woher kennt der deinen Namen?
Sebastian lernte Anna an der Universität kennen und anders als die Mädchen, die er kannte, die zu dieser Zeit anmutig und zurückhaltend wirken wollten, war sie lebhaft, laut. Bei einer Abendveranstaltung fragte sie ihn, was er studierte, und er antwortete ihr, Politik, und sie erwiderte, Po-li-tik, sodass Sebastian sagte, Was studierst du?, worauf sie mit einer Wendung antwortete, die ihm die Hitze in die Wangen steigen ließ.
Anna wurde Professorin für Biologie. Sebastian studierte Jura; er genoss vor allem die Präzision und Geradlinigkeit des Rechts. Anna hielt die Hand ihres Ehemanns, wenn sie morgens und abends in der Straßenbahn saßen; Sebastian hörte seiner Frau gespannt zu, wenn sie im Schlafzimmer ihre Abstracts laut vorlas.
Sind meine Argumente nachvollziehbar?
Brilliant.
Die Formulierungen auch?
Perfekt.
Nachdem sie das Abstract noch ein- oder zweimal vorgelesen hatte, warf sie die Papiere auf ihren Schreibtisch und presste beide
After repeating herself once, twice, she’d toss the papers to her typing desk and press both hands to Sebastian’s cheeks. Her kisses were harder than he sometimes wished they’d be.
Sebastian did not grow to like the beach. Of course, there came a point when he realized the sand was not the bones of those long dead. In his early teens, he had attended the funeral of a distant cousin, and it came suddenly to him that bodies were buried in coffins in cemeteries, deep in the ground. Or, they might be burned. The important thing was that the dead were not rolled down the beach and into the ocean and tossed around and around until they crumbled into dust.
Although he did not grow to like the beach, he came to love its wind, heavy and thick, like something you could run your fingers through or taste on your tongue. Anna would swim every morning if she could. Sebastian did not swim with her but watched her dive into the water and climb out of it. He watched her throw herself against the waves time and time again. They were at the beach when Anna told him she was pregnant. A warmth bloomed in his stomach before he saw tears on her cheeks. He had never seen his wife cry. Not on the day they were married nor the day her parents passed. He did not ask, Are you sad or happy? because he was too afraid to know the answer.
Did you know, he began, that sand is made of bones?
No, it isn’t.
Yes, everybody that lived before us, the saltwater dries them up. They’re tossed in the waves until they become dust.
No, Sebastian, that’s not what sand is. Anna rested her chin on her bent knees.
When she was three months pregnant, Anna was let go from her position; her dismissal coincided perfectly with the end of a term. When Thomas was born, he had Sebastian’s pale, golden hair and his mother’s tight ringlets.
Anna smiled at the baby often; she smiled at her
Hände an Sebastians Wangen. Ihre Küsse waren härter, als er es sich manchmal gewünscht hätte.
Sebastian freundete sich nicht mit dem Strand an. Natürlich kam der Tag, an dem ihm klar wurde, dass der Sand nicht aus den Knochen der Verstorbenen bestand. Als Teenager nahm er an der Beerdigung eines entfernten Cousins teil, und plötzlich fiel ihm auf, dass Leichen in Särgen auf Friedhöfen, tief unten in der Erde begraben wurden. Man konnte sie auch verbrennen. Das Wichtige war, dass die Toten nicht über den Strand ins Meer gerollt und dort hin- und hergeworfen werden, bis sie zu Staub zerbröseln. Obwohl er sich nicht mit dem Strand anfreundete, begann er den Wind dort zu lieben, der schwer und dick war, wie etwas, durch das man mit dem Finger fahren oder das man auf der Zunge schmecken konnte. Anna wäre jeden Morgen schwimmen gegangen, wenn sie gekonnt hätte. Sebastian schwamm nicht mit ihr, aber er sah ihr zu, wie sie ins Wasser eintauchte und wieder herausstieg. Er sah zu, wie sie sich wieder und wieder gegen die Wellen warf. Sie waren am Strand, als Anna ihm sagte, dass sie schwanger war.
Wärme blühte in seinem Bauch auf, bevor er die Tränen auf ihren Wangen sah. Er hatte seine Frau noch nie weinen gesehen. Weder am Tag ihrer Hochzeit noch am Tag des Todes ihrer Eltern. Er fragte sie nicht, Bist du traurig oder glücklich?, denn er fürchtete sich zu sehr vor der Antwort.
Wusstest du, fing er an, dass der Sand aus Knochen besteht?
Nein, tut er nicht.
Doch, das Salzwasser trocknet alle Leute, die vor uns gelebt haben, aus, und sie werden in den Wellen umhergeworfen, bis sie zu Staub geworden sind.
Nein, Sebastian, das ist nicht, was Sand ist. Anna legte ihr Kinn auf die angezogenen Knie.
Als sie im dritten Monat schwanger war, wurde Anna ihrer Position enthoben; ihre Entlassung fiel genau mit dem Ende des Semesters zusammen. Als Thomas geboren wurde, hatte er Sebastians blasses, goldenes Haar und die Ringellocken seiner Mutter.
Anna lächelte das Baby oft an; ihren Mann lächelte sie seltener an. Ich will kein weiteres Kind, sagte sie eines Abends zu ihm. Als sie entbunden hatte, war er nicht im Kreißsaal gewesen, aber von einer der Krankenschwestern war ihm zugeflüstert worden: Sie hat Glück gehabt.
husband less. I do not want another child, she told him one night. He had not been in the delivery room when she gave birth but had heard from one of the nurses, hushed, She was lucky.
Of course, he agreed, let’s not have another child.
As a toddler, Thomas ate only fruit and fruitflavored ice cream. Anna grew frustrated when her husband indulged their son, buying peaches and apples but forgetting the broccoli.
Slowly and then all of a sudden, Anna became quiet, became sullen, did not care whether Thomas ate broccoli, until one day she walked through their flat’s front door like a firework. She would begin teaching again in October, she declared. Beaming, Sebastian congratulated her, and Thomas clapped sticky toddler hands. Anna tousled her son’s hair, ran her fingers through her husband’s, and kissed them each on the forehead in turn.
My sunshine boys.
After just months back in her position, Anna met another man, a professor of art history who taught a course as a visiting lecturer. When he returned to his university two cities over, Anna left with him. The transition was quiet and sudden; Sebastian recalled Anna’s blushing cheeks on the occasions she’d spoken of her colleague. He had never seen his wife blush, not the day he proposed nor when her sister told stories of rowdy childhood mischief at dinner parties.
I didn’t plan for it to happen like this, you know.
I know.
Soon, Anna’s letters stopped coming. It had been difficult enough to read them aloud to Thomas, who, at five, was only just learning the alphabet. It was more difficult still to explain why there were no more letters at all. The idea crossed Sebastian’s mind to write his own letters in neat cursive, pretend they arrived by postman, and unseal them before his son’s wide eyes.
My most darling Thomas, I am traveling to America this week! Next week, I am off to China. Then I plan to
Natürlich, stimmte er zu, lass uns kein weiteres Kind bekommen.
Als Kleinkind aß Thomas nur Obst und Eis mit Fruchtgeschmack. Anna reagierte frustriert, wenn ihr Mann nachsichtig mit ihrem Sohn war, Pfirsiche und Äpfel kaufte, aber den Brokkoli vergaß.
Schleichend zunächst wurde Anna stiller, wurde mürrisch, und dann mit einem Mal kümmerte sie sich nicht mehr darum, ob Thomas den Brokkoli aß, bis sie eines Tages durch die Wohnungstür geschritten kam wie ein Feuerwerk. Sie würde im Oktober wieder zu unterrichten beginnen, verkündete sie. Sebastian beglückwünschte sie strahlend und Thomas klatschte mit klebrigen Kleinkindhänden. Anna zerzauste das Haar ihres Sohnes, fuhr mit den Fingern durch das ihres Mannes und küsste nacheinander beide auf die Stirn.
Meine Sonnenscheinjungs.
Nur wenige Monate, nachdem sie ihre Stelle wieder angetreten hatte, lernte Anna einen anderen Mann kennen, einen Professor für Kunstgeschichte, der als Gastdozent einen Kurs gab. Als er an seine Universität zwei Städte entfernt zurückkehrte, ging Anna mit ihm. Der Wandel ging leise und plötzlich vonstatten; Sebastian erinnerte sich, wie Annas Wangen sich gerötet hatten, wenn sie von ihrem Kollegen gesprochen hatte. Er hatte seine Frau nie erröten sehen, nicht an dem Tag, an dem er ihr einen Heiratsantrag gemacht hatte, noch wenn ihre Schwester auf Dinnerpartys Geschichten von wilden Kindheitsstreichen erzählte. Ich habe nicht geplant, dass es so kommt, weißt du. Ich weiß.
Bald kamen keine Briefe von Anna mehr. Es war schwierig genug gewesen, sie Thomas vorzulesen, der mit fünf Jahren gerade erst das Alphabet lernte. Noch schwieriger war es zu erklären, als es gar keine Briefe mehr gab. Es kam Sebastian in den Sinn, selbst Briefe in sauberer Schreibschrift zu verfassen, so zu tun, als seien sie mit dem Postboten angekommen, und sie dann vor den großen Augen seines Sohnes zu öffnen.
Mein liebster Thomas, diese Woche reise ich nach Amerika! Nächste Woche geht es weiter nach China. Dort plane ich, an Bord eines anderen Schiffes zu gehen, mit dem ich einmal ganz Afrika umrunden werde. Meine nächsten Briefe werden Stempel aus Kairo haben! Schau jeden Tag in den Briefkasten, mein Liebling!
Als Teenager wuchs Thomas in seinen Körper hinein, wie Sebastian es nie getan hatte. Thomas trug seine breiten Schultern voller
board another boat that will take me all the way around Africa. My next letter will be postmarked from Cairo! Check the postbox every day, my love!
Thomas, in his teens, grew into his frame in a way that Sebastian never had; Thomas knew how to hold his broad shoulders with confidence, and Sebastian wondered where he had learned. There seemed always to be classmates at his side, in the flat after class, kicking sneakers off by the door, grabbing orange juice from the fridge. Sebastian tried but could not remember the names of the ever-changing cohort of young men — each lean, loud, quick to laugh.
He couldn’t keep up either with the girls that Thomas introduced him to nonchalantly, continuously. Yes, Leila again, we’re doing schoolwork. Sarah’s coming over for a project tomorrow. Sebastian nodded, chimed, They seem very nice, when he could fit the words in.
The cases took up most of Sebastian’s time. He held a seat, for a period, in the chamber of the international court, busying himself with border disputes. Burkina Faso and the Republic of Mali. My most darling Sebi, he might hear in Anna’s bright voice, especially when worn-down, over-worked. I have arrived in West Africa! You could not imagine all this sand, no water in sight, no North Sea to dive into, no salty breeze, can you believe such a place exists, my love!
When his mother finally passed, after having grown confused and small with age, Sebastian stood with Thomas in the same cemetery where he buried a cousin. The oldest of Sebastian’s brothers, brawny and red-cheeked, stood beside him. The second-oldest brother, living now in Germany with his wife and young children, could not make it to the Netherlands in time. The third brother, closest to Sebastian in age, had died unexpectedly of a heart attack three years earlier. Levi and Sebastian and Thomas rode the city streetcar back to the flat. If you’ve got some guilder, Sebi, Thomas and I might let you stay on and ride the rest of the day, we won’t tell mother. A teasing wink. The interior of the tram was
Selbstbewusstsein und Sebastian fragte sich, woher er das hatte. Es schienen immer Klassenkameraden an seiner Seite zu sein; nach dem Unterricht traten sie an der Wohnungstür ihre Turnschuhe ab und holten sich Orangensaft aus dem Kühlschrank. Sebastian gab sich Mühe, aber konnte sich die Namen der ständig wechselnden Kohorte aus jungen Männern nicht merken – jeder von ihnen schlank, laut und immer zum Lachen aufgelegt.
Auch bei den Mädchen, die Thomas ihm laufend und ungezwungen vorstellte, konnte er nicht mithalten. Ja, Leila wieder, wir machen Hausaufgaben. Sarah kommt morgen für ein Projekt vorbei. Sebastian nickte, Sie wirken sehr nett, schaltete er sich ein, wenn er es schaffte, die Worte dazwischenzuquetschen.
Die Fälle nahmen den Großteil von Sebastians Zeit in Anspruch. Er hatte eine Zeit lang einen Sitz in der Kammer des Internationalen Gerichtshofes inne und beschäftigte sich mit Grenzstreitigkeiten. Burkina Faso und die Republik Mali. Mein liebster Sebi, konnte er Annas helle Stimme hören, besonders wenn er aufgerieben und überarbeitet war. Ich bin in Westafrika angekommen! Du kannst dir das nicht vorstellen, all dieser Sand, kein Wasser in Sicht, keine Nordsee zum Reinspringen, kein salzige Brise, ist es nicht unglaublich, dass es so einen Ort gibt, mein Lieber!
Als seine Mutter schließlich starb, die im Alter verwirrt und klein geworden war, stand Sebastian mit Thomas auf demselben Friedhof, auf dem er seinen Cousin begraben hatte. Der älteste von Sebastians Brüdern, wuchtig und rotbackig, stand neben ihm. Der zweitälteste Bruder, der jetzt mit seiner Frau und kleinen Kindern in Deutschland lebte, schaffte es nicht rechtzeitig in die Niederlande zu kommen. Der dritte Bruder, der Sebastian altersmäßig am nächsten war, war drei Jahre zuvor unerwartet an einem Herzinfarkt gestorben. Levi und Sebastian und Thomas fuhren mit der Straßenbahn zurück zur Wohnung. Wenn du ein paar Gulden hast, Sebi, lassen Thomas und ich dich vielleicht hier bleiben und den Rest des Tages weiterfahren, wir werden es Mutter nicht erzählen. Ein schelmisches Augenzwinkern. Der Innenraum der Straßenbahn war so grün wie er es immer gewesen war.
Levi blieb noch zwei Tage und als er ging, fragte Thomas, Wo wohnt er? Ist er verheiratet oder was? Sebastian stellte fest, dass er keine Ahnung von dem Leben seines ältesten Bruders hatte.
Sebastian sah seine Ex-Frau nach der Scheidung nur einmal wieder,
as green as ever.
Levi stayed two more days, and when he left, Thomas asked, Where does he live? Is he married or what? Sebastian realized he didn’t know a thing about his eldest brother’s life.
Sebastian saw his ex-wife only once after their divorce, years later, on a crowded sidewalk. She held hands with a small girl whose ringlets shone. Briefly, he imagined her daughter was his own. He heard Anna’s voice in his mind, and she said to their daughter, My sunshine girl, and he watched their backs as they walked away, watched their legs step in time.
After his mother’s funeral, Sebastian did not like to go to sleep and instead stayed up into the night with hot tea and paperwork in English and French. Eventually, his eyes would shut, and he’d dream of his mother’s pale face in the waves, tumbling around and around and around —
When he awoke, he appreciated the soft, thumping bass of Thomas’ music, which traveled from his son’s bedroom door, down the old hallway, and into the dark of his room, even at the early hours when the boy should have been long asleep.
Thomas met a girl while on exchange in the United States in his third year of university. He studied music, and so did she. It was a subject Sebastian knew nothing about, and he felt embarrassed, sometimes, as a result.
She’s really great, Thomas told his father over the phone. Really great, Dad.
She seems very nice. Be good.
Sebastian watched as his son peppered the years with transatlantic flights, and when Thomas and Emily visited the flat together, having dated three years, Sebastian knew what they would announce.
You’re so young to get married! He laughed, they laughed with him, and when Thomas told his father he planned to live in Washington with his fiancé, he placed a hand over his father’s, a rare touch between them, and said, You’ll visit, though both of them knew Sebastian
Jahre später, auf einem belebten Bürgersteig. Sie hielt die Hand eines kleinen Mädchens, dessen Ringellocken glänzten. Kurz stellte er sich vor, ihre Tochter sei seine eigene. Er hörte Annas Stimme in seinem Kopf, wie sie zu ihrer gemeinsamen Tochter sagte, Mein Sonnenscheinmädchen, und er blickte ihnen nach, während sie davongingen, sah zu, wie ihre Füße im gleichen Takt aufsetzten. Nach der Beerdigung seiner Mutter wollte sich Sebastian nicht schlafen legen, mit heißem Tee und Büroarbeit auf Englisch und Französisch vor ihm blieb er bis in die Nacht hinein wach. Irgendwann fielen ihm die Augen zu, und er träumte vom blassen Gesicht seiner Mutter in den Wellen, wie es hin- und hergewirbelt wurde und gewirbelt und gewirbelt–Als er aufwachte, war er dankbar für den weichen, pochenden Bass von Thomas Musik, der von der Schlafzimmertür seines Sohnes den alten Flur hinunter bis in die Dunkelheit seines eigenen Zimmers drang, selbst in diesen frühen Morgenstunden, in denen der Junge längst hätte schlafen sollen.
Thomas lernte ein Mädchen kennen, als er in seinem dritten Studienjahr als Austauschstudent in den Vereinigten Staaten war. Er studierte Musik, und sie auch. Musik war etwas, von dem Sebastian nichts verstand, und er fühlte sich verlegen deshalb, manchmal zumindest.
Sie ist wirklich toll, erzählte Thomas seinem Vater am Telefon. Wirklich toll, Dad.
Sie scheint sehr nett zu sein. Sei brav.
Sebastian sah zu, wie sein Sohn die Jahre mit Transatlantikflügen sprenkelte, und als Thomas und Emily, nachdem sie drei Jahre zusammen waren, gemeinsam zu Besuch in die Wohnung kamen, wusste Sebastian, was sie verkünden würden.
Ihr seid so jung für eine Heirat! Er lachte, sie lachten mit ihm, und als Thomas seinem Vater erzählte, dass er vorhatte, mit seiner Verlobten in Washington zu leben, legte er eine Hand auf die seines Vaters – eine seltene Berührung zwischen ihnen – und sagte: Du wirst zu Besuch kommen, obwohl sie beide wussten, dass Sebastian nicht in ein Flugzeug steigen konnte oder wollte.
Anna antwortete nicht auf die Einladung zur Hochzeit. Sebastian hatte keine Ahnung gehabt, dass sein Sohn versucht hatte, Kontakt aufzunehmen, und er wusste nicht, wie er an eine Adresse gekommen war. Ich weiß nicht, was ich von ihr erwartet habe, sagte Thomas am
could not or would not get on a plane.
Anna never responded to the wedding invitation. Sebastian had no idea his son had reached out, didn’t know how he had found an address. I don’t know what I expected from her, Thomas said over the phone.
Sebastian sometimes caught himself wondering, in the slow hours of midmorning, especially, where Anna’s disinterest had arisen from. He had not known her to be emotional, but she had been intense and thorough. Did she think of them? Had she simply forgotten?
Thomas and Emily held a small ceremony in Scheveningen with Sebastian and Thomas’ childhood friends, too, those gangly, juice-drinking teenage boys who had grown into men. A handful of colleagues and family friends came by to congratulate Sebastian, to pat his back, to say, what a beautiful match, look how he’s grown up taller than the rest of us.
Sebastian, Thomas, and Emily rode a streetcar to the pier. I always sat in the window seat, the one right behind the conductor, and I’d crane my neck to watch over their shoulders, pretend I was the one driving. Sebastian observed the way his son sweetly leaned in toward his wife when he whispered, his forehead pressed flush against her temple.
Sebastian looked out the window and tried not to eavesdrop. Strange how, when he spoke English, his son no longer sounded like his son, that giggling spoiled boy.
My dad, he’s always preferred the tram like this. I can’t tell you how many afternoons we sat and rode loops and loops around the city, eating ice cream all the way.
Sebastian ordered vanilla, Thomas strawberry, and Emily stracciatella. They all sat hip-to-hip-to-hip on a bench off the boardwalk and watched the seagulls and white caps, watched a cluster of kids running relays and playing ball.
I love this beach, Thomas said to them both, to no one in particular. How it looks like it goes on forever.
Sebastian did not grow to like the beach, but his lab could run for hours in the sand. So he stood patiently,
Telefon.
Manchmal ertappte Sebastian sich dabei, besonders in den langsamen Stunden des Vormittags, wie er sich fragte, woher Annas Gleichgültigkeit gerührt hatte. Er hatte sie nie als emotional erlebt, aber sie war intensiv und sorgfältig gewesen. Dachte sie an sie beide? Hatte sie sie einfach vergessen?
Thomas und Emily hielten in Scheveningen eine kleine Zeremonie ab, an der auch Sebastian und die Kindheitsfreunde von Thomas teilnahmen, jene schlaksigen, Saft trinkenden Teenager, die zu Männern herangewachsen waren. Eine Handvoll Kollegen und Freunde der Familie kamen vorbei, um Sebastian zu gratulieren und ihm auf die Schulter zu klopfen und zu sagen, Was für ein schönes Paar, seht mal an, er ist größer geworden als wir anderen alle. Sebastian, Thomas und Emily fuhren mit der Straßenbahn zum Kai. Ich saß immer auf dem Fensterplatz, direkt hinter dem Schaffner, und verrenkte mir den Hals, um ihm über die Schulter zu gucken, und tat so, als würde ich selbst fahren. Sebastian beobachtete, wie sich sein Sohn beim Flüstern zärtlich zu seiner Frau hinlehnte, seine Stirn flach gegen ihre Schläfe drückte.
Sebastian sah aus dem Fenster und versuchte, nicht mitzuhören. Seltsam, wie sein Sohn, wenn er Englisch sprach, nicht mehr wie sein Sohn klang, dieser glucksende, verhätschelte Junge.
Mein Papa mochte die Straßenbahn immer am liebsten. Ich kann dir gar nicht sagen, wie viele Nachmittage wir damit verbracht haben, hier drin zu sitzen und Runde um Runde durch die Stadt zu fahren und dabei Eis zu essen.
Sebastian bestellte Vanille, Thomas Erdbeere und Emily Stracciatella. Sie saßen dicht nebeneinander auf einer Bank abseits der Strandpromenade und beobachteten die Möwen und die Schaumkronen und sahen einer Gruppe Kinder dabei zu, wie sie Staffelläufe machten und Ball spielten.
Ich liebe diesen Strand, sagte Thomas zu beiden und an niemand Bestimmten gerichtet. Dass es so aussieht, als würde es ewig so weitergehen.
Sebastian freundete sich nicht mit dem Strand an, aber sein Labrador konnte stundenlang durch den Sand rennen. Also stand er geduldig da, hob den durchweichten Tennisball auf, warf, wartete, hob ihn auf und begann von vorn. Der Hund war eine gute Idee von Thomas gewesen. Wenn der Hund zu seinen Füßen schlief, träumte
picked up the soggy tennis ball, threw, waited, picked it up, and repeated. The dog had been Thomas’ good idea. Sebastian did not dream at all when the dog slept at his feet.
On Sundays, Sebastian ate at the cafe at the end of the boardwalk. It was small and wood-paneled, friendly and old. It reminded him of Tuesdays and of afternoons in September. In the back, two glass doors opened to a view of the sea. The waitress had copper-red hair worn long and loose, and on empty, dreary days, she lingered at Sebastian’s table.
He thought once, correctly, that she was making eyes at him, though he must have been at least the age of her father. His fine blonde hair, thinner now, more closely resembled silver. He had deep creases across his cheeks when he smiled and when he did not smile. Crow’s feet spread outward from the corners of his eyes. He had gained some weight over the years, though not much; he had become softer, though he had always been soft.
The copper-haired waitress hovered and chatted, said, You didn’t bring your dog today, to which he responded, She was slow to get up this morning, under the weather. It was the rain.
The first and only time he and the copper-haired waitress slept together, it was at her place when her roommate was out. When it was over, she complained, You’re too polite, it was almost funny, and he laughed, she laughed, and he slipped on his shoes and slipped out the door.
It was only mid-afternoon, and Sebastian chose to walk along the beach rather than the boardwalk or street. He carried his shoes pinched heel-to-heel, dangling, socks tucked neatly under leather tongues. He would catch the streetcar at the next stop, not this one, not yet.
Call them trams, busses even, the waitress said one Sunday. Say streetcars, and you sound ancient, way older than you are.
Sebastian überhaupt nichts.
Sonntags aß Sebastian in dem Café am Ende der Strandpromenade. Es war klein und holzvertäfelt, freundlich und alt. Es erinnerte ihn an Dienstage und an Nachmittage im September. Im hinteren Bereich gaben zwei Glastüren den Blick auf das Meer frei. Die Kellnerin hatte kupferrotes Haar, das sie lang und offen trug, und sie verweilte an leeren, trüben Tagen lange an Sebastians Tisch.
Er dachte einmal, zu Recht, dass sie ihm schöne Augen machte, obwohl er mindestens so alt sein musste wie ihr Vater. Das Blond seines feinen Haars erinnerte jetzt, da es dünner geworden war, eher an Silber. Er hatte tiefe Falten in den Wangen, wenn er lächelte und wenn er nicht lächelte. Krähenfüße führten von seinen Augenwinkeln weg. Er hatte im Laufe der Jahre etwas zugenommen, wenn auch nicht viel; er war weicher geworden, auch wenn er immer schon weich gewesen war.
Die kupferhaarige Kellnerin schwebte herbei und plauderte, sagte, Du hast deinen Hund heute nicht mitgebracht, worauf er antwortete, Sie war heute Morgen langsam beim Aufstehen, sie war nicht ganz auf der Höhe. Es war der Regen.
Das erste und einzige Mal, dass er und die kupferhaarige Kellnerin miteinander schliefen, war bei ihr zu Hause, als ihre Mitbewohnerin nicht da war. Als es vorbei war, beschwerte sie sich, Du bist zu höflich, es war fast lustig, und er lachte, sie lachte, und er schlüpfte in seine Schuhe und schlüpfte zur Tür hinaus. Es war erst Nachmittag und Sebastian entschied sich, unten am Strand entlangzugehen, statt auf der Promenade oder der Straße. Seine Schuhe baumelten herab, zwischen drei seiner Finger geklemmt, die Socken ordentlich unter die Lederzungen gesteckt. An der nächsten Haltestelle würde er in die Straßenbahn steigen, aber nicht an dieser, noch nicht. Du kannst sie Trams oder sogar Busse nennen, hatte die Kellnerin eines Sonntags gesagt. Wenn du Straßenbahn sagst, klingst du uralt, viel älter als du bist.
Eines Sonntags war sie einfach fort. Die Frau hinter der Theke machte einen Espresso und erklärte, die Kellnerin habe hier aufgehört, sie sei mit ihrem Freund auf Reisen gegangen, habe gesagt, sie wolle eine Band gründen und beim Eurovision singen. Dampf kam zischend aus der Espressomaschine. Hat sie eine Nachricht für mich hinterlassen?, wollte Sebastian
One Sunday, she was simply gone. The woman behind the counter made an espresso, explained the waitress had quit and gone traveling with her boyfriend, had said she wanted to start a band, sing Eurovision. Steam hissed from the espresso machine.
Did she leave a message for me? Sebastian wanted to ask, but he didn’t, because he was too afraid to know the answer.
Emily was pregnant with twins, due in December. Sebastian shook when the plane took off and shook when it landed. The dog stayed with a colleague whose six-year-old son was overjoyed. Sebastian met his granddaughters, held them each in turn, and he shook when the plane took off, shook again when it landed.
You’ll stay longer next time, Thomas said over the phone.
Next time the four of you will come to visit me. We’ll go to the beach.
Days grew longer when there was less to fill them with. Sebastian’s hours at the court were reduced gradually. He took to riding the tram on long afternoons, and the dog was content to nap with her chin on his feet.
Some days, he brought a book, and he studied its pages but studied also the shadows the rain made against the window against the text. Some days, he let the car lull him to sleep.
In the evenings, he drank his tea and listened to songs Thomas said he might like. He wrote notes that said, Call in the morning, because he didn’t want to forget.
fragen, aber er tat es nicht, denn er fürchtete sich zu sehr vor der Antwort.
Emily war schwanger mit Zwillingen, im Dezember war der Geburtstermin. Sebastian zitterte, als das Flugzeug abhob, und zitterte, als es landete. Der Hund blieb bei einem Kollegen, dessen sechsjähriger Sohn überglücklich darüber war. Sebastian lernte seine Enkeltöchter kennen, hielt sie abwechselnd im Arm und zitterte, als das Flugzeug abhob, und zitterte wieder, als es landete. Nächstes Mal bleibst du länger, sagte Thomas am Telefon. Nächstes Mal kommt ihr vier mich besuchen. Wir gehen an den Strand. Die Tage wurden länger, als es weniger gab, womit sie zu füllen waren. Sebastians Arbeitsstunden am Gericht wurden schrittweise reduziert. Er gewöhnte sich an, an langen Nachmittagen mit der Straßenbahn zu fahren, und der Hund war zufrieden damit, mit ihrem Kinn auf seinen Füßen zu dösen.
An manchen Tagen nahm er ein Buch mit und er studierte die Seiten, aber studierte auch die Schatten, die der Regen durch das Fenster auf den Text warf. An manchen Tagen ließ er sich von dem Fahrzeug in den Schlaf wiegen.
Abends trank er seinen Tee und hörte sich Songs an, von denen Thomas sagte, dass sie ihm gefallen könnten. Er schrieb sich Zettel, auf denen stand, Ruf morgen früh an, denn er wollte es nicht vergessen.
What is happiness? Is it joy, thrill, cheer? Contentment, satisfaction, or something else entirely? Perhaps solitude, or companionship, or belonging? And while we’re at it—what is friendship? There’s that saying: “You’re the average of the five people you spend the most time with,” but Theresa Luserke’s fiction asks what might happen if you spend your time with just one. The Berlin-based writer’s short story “Happiness” is about the tumult and intensity of friendship in young womanhood. It’s about care and estrangement, about dependence, independence, codependence, and the potential for change.
Through vivid reflection, the story’s unnamed protagonist chronicles a summer with her best friend Leyla and the many “types of happiness” they can experience, foster, and seek. And amid that happiness, there is stuckness, helplessness, groundlessness. Luserke moves through the rituals and routines of her characters’ intertwined lives, including moments both of the beautiful and not so beautiful. The two young women wander supermarkets, shopping malls, spend time in the same coffee shops, parks, and apartments. They are young and lost and wondering what it means to live their lives. They wonder, too, about their magnetic closeness. Is it benefitting them? Could it be harming them? Without each other, do they even exist?
While translating, I prioritized carrying over into English the youthful, tumbling rhythm of Luserke’s sentences, as her protagonist descends into and pulls herself out of memory. She captures glimpses of experience, observation, and sensation, as she attempts to puzzle meaning from her emotions and relationships. The narrator is fascinated by Leyla, loves her dearly, but sees sides of herself reflected back too. These are sides that sometimes scare her, and she begins retreating from the relationship until she’s tugged back into orbit.
As a translator, I was challenged by this occasional near-intertwining of characters and ultimately chose to preserve it: dialogue remains unmarked by quotations or italics, and pronouns for both characters bump against each other in scenes they share. The prose and syntax of “Happiness” mimic the story’s content; the narrator is spiraling, sometimes alone, sometimes alongside Leyla, a back-and-forth of giving and receiving care, until finally, she surfaces.
In addition to being a short story writer, Luserke is first and foremost a poet, and I did my best to preserve the resulting lyricism of her fiction. Despite the third-person perspective, “Happiness” is somehow diaristic, nearly stream-of-consciousness in the way it weaves between moments in time. But the work also has a fabulist, nearly fairytale bent. Is there a lesson to be learned? A climactic decision? A revelation? While my first instinct says no—this account is an everyday one—change still exists in these pages. We might be formed by the people we surround ourselves with, but, as I believe the protagonist comes to realize, this does not mean we cannot still be ourselves. She can be Leyla, she can be lost, she can be “a person in progress.” And still, through it all, she is herself.
Zwei Monate vorher war noch Spätsommer gewesen. Es war ihr vorgekommen, als sei es schon lange klar gewesen: dass sie sich nie würde verändern können. Sie war nicht dumm. Es kam weder Luft rein, noch ging welche hinaus. Man nannte das: Nichts. Steckengeblieben. Ihr Raum, der sie war, war warm und die Luft bereits vollständig ein- und ausgeatmet. Sie war steckengeblieben, aber sie wusste nicht, zwischen was und was. Etwas mit ihrer Mutter, die sie so lange nicht gesehen hatte. Etwas mit ihr selbst. Aber sie verstand nicht, was es war.
Sie hatten vergessen, wozu sie sich getroffen hatten, Leyla und sie. Nicht nur, was sie hatten unternehmen, auch wo sie hatten hingehen wollen. Jetzt waren sie in dem neuen Supermarkt. Sie folgten einander durch den Eingang der großen Markthalle aus Backstein, vorbei an einem Deli mit Tischen und Stühlen davor, der durch eine irgendwie schillernde Glaswand von ihnen abgetrennt war, vorbei an zwei langen, langen wartenden Schlangen von Einkaufswagen. Sie liefen durch die Schranken hindurch zu den breiten Regalreihen, nach oben sehend zur Decke, die so hoch war, geschwungen, von Holzstreben durchzogen – hatten sie etwas zu essen kaufen wollen? – und bogen wie von selbst beide nach rechts ab und einige Schritte weiter noch einmal nach rechts und fanden sich vor einer Ansammlung von Dekoartikeln wieder. Sie war nicht besonders groß. Aber es war genug. Oh, sieh mal!, rief Leyla aus. Sie ließ ihre Hand in eine Art Goldfisch-Glas mit gläsernen bunten Meerestieren tauchen, krebsrote Korallen, tiefdunkle Quallen, orangefarbene Seesterne, blaue Delfine, durchsichtig-grüne Algenarme, gestreifte Fische. Die hatte ich als Kind… Die Glasstücke lagen kühl, hart und glatt auf der Hand wie Stücke von Wasser, um die man die Finger schließen konnte. Es gab
from
Two months earlier had still been late summer. It had occurred to her as if it had always been clear: that she would never be able to change. She wasn’t stupid. Air came neither in, nor out. That was called: Nothingness. Stuckness. Her room, which was her, was warm, its air already fully breathed-in and breathed-out. She was stuck but didn’t know between what and what else. Something to do with her mother, whom she hadn’t seen in so long. Something to do with herself. She just couldn’t see what.
They had forgotten what they’d met up for, she and Leyla. Forgotten not only what they’d been planning to do, but where they had wanted to go. Now, they were in the new supermarket. They followed each other through the entrance of the big, red-brick market hall, past a deli with tables and stools out front, separated from them by a somehow shimmering glass wall, past two long, long lines of shopping carts waiting. They walked into the wide aisles, looking up to the ceiling, so high, curved, crossed with wooden beams – hadn’t they wanted to buy something to eat? – and they both turned to the right without thinking, a few steps farther, right again, and found themselves before an array of knick-knacks and home goods. It wasn’t particularly large. But it was enough. Oh, look! Leyla exclaimed. She let her hand dip into a kind of goldfish bowl full of colorful glass sea animals, crab-red coral, dark deep-sea jellyfish, orange starfish, blue dolphins, transparent green algae, striped fish. I had these when I was a kid… The glass pieces lay cool, hard, and smooth in her hand, like pieces of water
außerdem gebündelte buschige Federn in Neonfarben neben Sträußen von Trockenblumen, über und über mit Strass besetzte Spiegelchen, Haarreife und Bürsten, Drahtherzenund sterne, auch Hirsch-, Tannen-, Schlittenanhänger aus geflochtenem Stroh, eine Unmenge Sets von glitzernden Stickern, kleine und große Lampions, lange Kerzen in allen Farben, eine Schale voller mit funkelndem Puder überzogener Orangen, Pflaumen, Pfirsiche, Äpfel, Traubensträuße… Leyla und sie versanken darin. An jedem kleinen Gegenstand ließ sich ein Detail finden, an dem sie einen Moment von Schönheit festmachen konnten. Zu jedem winzigen Ding fiel ihnen wie von Zauberhand etwas ein, etwas Sprachliches, eine Beobachtung, eine Bemerkung, deren Wörter noch unnützer und schöner als die Dinge selbst waren, die Freude, sie zu teilen, in ihnen zu einer Erregung gesteigert, die aus ihren Körpern herausplatzen wollte. Zu der ganzen Welt ließ sich zusammen etwas sagen, sie sagten etwas und die andere ergänzte etwas Leuchtendes. Es gab nichts, was nicht eine große Besonderheit sein konnte.
So war es immer mit Leyla, alles, worüber man mit ihr sprach, wurde bedeutungsvoll. Manchmal trat es ihr beinahe wie eine Art Wunder entgegen, und sie nahm es an, und vermutete, Leyla erging es genauso, dieses Staunen über das unverhoffte große Glück, einander begegnet zu sein. Vor allem, weil sie Leyla zunächst nicht einmal gemocht hatte, als sie sie bei einem Lesekreis kennengelernt hatte. Sie hatte Leyla irgendwie vulgär und fortwährend überraschend gefunden und Leyla sie vermutlich steif und langweilig (eher geheimnisvoll-intriguing, hatte Leyla später zu ihr gesagt, in ihrer typisch charmanten Weise). Sie stritten beide gerne mit Vehemenz bei dem Lesekreis, wenn auch selten gegeneinander, aber sie konnte sich nicht erinnern, wie Leyla und sie sich letztlich angefreundet hatten, bei der Arbeit an irgendeinem Projekt vielleicht. Irgendwann jedenfalls musste der Moment gekommen sein, an dem sie voreinander saßen, und Leylas Augen leuchteten, ihr eigenes Gesicht glühte, sie beide vor Aufregung, in die sie einander brachten, kaum sitzen bleiben konnten. In vielerlei Hinsicht war
she could wrap her fingers around. Beyond these, there were bundles of bushy feathers in neon colors alongside bouquets of dried flowers; little mirrors set with rhinestones, one after another; headbands and brushes; hearts and stars made of wire; reindeer, fir trees, sleighs of braided straw; sheets upon sheets of sparkling stickers; paper lanterns small and large; tall candles in every color; and a bowl of oranges, plums, peaches, apples, and bunches of grapes coated in glittering powder. She and Leyla took it all in. With each little item, they allowed themselves to find a detail around which they could craft a moment of beauty. For every tiny object, something came to mind as if by magic, something to do with language, an observation, a remark, in which the words became more useless and more beautiful than the objects themselves; the joy of sharing these somethings excited them until the thrill nearly burst from their bodies. Together, they could say something to the entire world; one of them would begin, and the other would complete the idea with a glowing phrase. Anything could be made special. It was always like that with Leyla, everything you talked about became meaningful. Sometimes the amazement, the sheer luck of having met Leyla seemed like a miracle, and she embraced it, and assumed Leyla was doing the same. Particularly because she hadn’t liked Leyla one bit in the beginning, when they’d first met at reading circle. She had found Leyla somewhat vulgar and perpetually surprising, and Leyla had found her, presumably, stiff and boring (actually, mysterious and intriguing, Leyla had told her later, in her typical charming way.) At the reading circle, they were both eager to argue with vehemence, even if seldom with each other, but she couldn’t remember how she and Leyla had finally become friends––by working together on some project, probably. At some point, in any case, the moment must have come when they sat facing each other, and Leyla’s eyes gleamed, her own face glowed, both of them could hardly sit still because of the excitement
es wie Verliebtsein, und sie fühlte sich auch, als hätte sie jemanden, den sie liebte, zurückgelassen, wenn Leyla und sie sich trennten, und sie plötzlich ins Nichts des Einzigseins entlassen auf dem Bahnsteig stand, die Hitze zu heiß, die Geräusche der Vorbeigehenden aufdringlich laut, ihr Körper zu schwach, um noch viel länger zu stehen als es dauerte, bis die Bahn einfuhr.
Man könnte es Happiness nennen, aber es war die Art von Happiness, die sich um einen schlingt wie ein lebender Kokon, die Sorte, die Teile des Gehirns kreieren, wenn man etwas unbedingt vergessen will, was in diesem Fall, so empfand sie es, ihr Leben an sich war, womit sie seine Forderungen meinte, all diese jeden-Tag-Verantwortung, die sie und Leyla zerdrückten, bis nur noch diese Happiness übrig blieb, die sie heraufbeschwören konnten, wenn sie zusammen waren, für ein paar Stunden zumindest, bis alles wieder in sich zusammenfiel, und sie voller fiebriger Nervosität in ihrer Wohnung endete, während Leyla erschöpft auf ihrem eigenen Bett endete, nicht imstande aufzustehen, für einen Tag oder zwei, diese kleine Verrücktheit, wenn man das so nennen will, bloß ein neuer kleiner verrückter Plan, der sie happy machte, für ein paar Tage, während sie einen Trainingsplan aufstellten, und dann fielen sie zurück auf ihr Leben, in dem nichts passierte, weil sie nichts taten.
Seltsam eigentlich, sie sprachen nicht häufig über ihre Probleme. Manchmal taten sie es. Aber da sie ja voneinander wussten, von den Gewaltvorkommnissen, wie sie sagten, und der Verlassenheit und dem Unentwirrbaren, wie sie sagten, befand sich das im Hintergrund, weit irgendwo hinten abgelegt, wie die unter einer Treppe auf einen Haufen geworfenen Taschen und Rucksäcke bei einer Party. Happiness als einziger Ausweg. Und Happiness zwischen ihnen konnte fast alles sein. Sie sprachen oft über Politisches, über Bücher, Künstlerinnen, über Theorien, irgendwelche, ungeordnet, über Trivia, sprangen von Autorin zu Autorin, von Thema zu Thema. Dann drehten
they sparked in each other. In hindsight, it was like being in love, and she felt, too, like she was leaving behind someone she loved whenever she and Leyla parted, when she was suddenly released into the nothingness of being alone on the train platform, the heat too hot, the sounds of passersby invasive and loud, her body too weak to stand much longer than it would take for the train to arrive. You could call it happiness, but it was the type of happiness that wraps itself around you like a living cocoon, the kind that parts of your brain create when you really want to forget something, which in this case, she felt, was her entire life, by which she meant its demands, all those day-to-day responsibilities that crushed her and Leyla until only this happiness was left, which they could conjure whenever they were together, for a couple hours at least, until everything collapsed again, and she ended up in her apartment, filled with feverish anxiety, while Leyla landed exhausted in her own bed, unable to get up for a day or two. This little madness, if that’s what it could be called, was just a crazy new routine that satisfied them for a few days, until they could put together a game plan and fall back into their real lives, in which nothing happened, because they did nothing.
Strange, actually, that they didn’t often talk about their problems. Only sometimes. But they knew enough about each other already, about the so-called incidents of violence, and the abandonment and inseparability, as they called them; it was all pushed into the background, discarded somewhere far off, like the pile of bags and backpacks tossed under the staircase at a party. Happiness as the only way out. And, between them, happiness could be almost anything. They often talked about politics, about books, women artists, about theory, about anything, no matter how arbitrary, about trivia, leaping between female writers, from topic to topic. They always got riled up, they talked too loudly, too quickly, they talked over each other, and Leyla would suddenly burst into such loud laughter that the
sie immer weiter hoch, sie sprachen zu laut, sie sprachen zu schnell, sie überschlugen sich im Sprechen, Leyla lachte plötzlich so laut auf, dass sich an den anderen Café-Tischen erschrocken zu ihnen umgedreht wurde. Sie nahm es kaum wahr. Das war auch eine Variante von Happiness. Aber wenn normalerweise Happiness einen sich voller fühlen lässt, fühlte sie sich leerer, ausgehöhlt, wenn sie in der S-Bahn zurück zu sich saß, wenn sie sich zurück bei sich auf den Teppich legte.
Sie dachte immer, dass Leyla mehr aus sich machen könnte, etwas aus sich machen könnte, dass das, was sie wollte, und das, was sie konnte, eins waren; aber irgendwie stand sich beides gegenüber wie Schwarz und Weiß auf einem Schachbrett, so stellte sie sich Leylas innere Vorstellung ihrer Zukunft vor, und sie würden interagieren, aber dabei würden sie sich gegenseitig besiegen müssen, das war einfach, wie das Spiel funktionierte. Also bewegte Leyla die Schachfiguren nie; sie warf einen Blick auf das Schachbrett und legte sich dann aufs Bett, tagelang; sie versuchte, das Schachbrett in ihrem Zimmer unter einem Berg von Klamotten und allem möglichen anderen Kram, den sie beide nicht identifizieren konnten, zu begraben; sie ließ die Vorstellung des Schachbretts hinter sich, wenn sie sich trafen, sogar wenn sie darüber redeten: Ach, ich weiß nicht. Als allererstes muss ich mein Zimmer aufräumen, weißt du. Das stellte sich als unmögliche Aufgabe heraus, Leylas Zimmer aufräumen, selbst wenn es nach größter Anstrengung einmal aufgeräumt war, fiel Leyla dann innerlich zusammen –weil da nichts ist, woran du dich halten kannst! dachte sie, jetzt auch nicht mehr das – und alles war innerhalb einer Woche wie zuvor. Es schmerzte sie. Es machte ihr außerdem Angst. Leyla war ein Spiegel, vor dem sie immer öfter zurückweichen wollte. Sie fühlte sich manchmal selbstsüchtig ihr gegenüber, dann wieder als würde sie zu viel für sie aufgeben. Fühlte Leyla sich genauso?
Dann, an einem Dienstagmorgen nach einer Party, passierte etwas, sie erinnerte sich plötzlich, wie in einem langgezo-
other tables at the café, shocked, would all turn their way. She hardly noticed. That was another kind of happiness.
But if happiness typically left you full, she instead felt empty, all hollowed out, when she was sitting alone on the S-Bahn again, when she was back home and lying on her carpet.
She always thought that Leyla could make more of herself, could make something of herself, that what she wanted and what was possible were one; but somehow the two forces stood opposite each other like black and white on a chessboard. That’s how she imagined Leyla’s inner idea of her future: those forces would come together, but in doing so, one would have to defeat the other—that was simply how the game worked. So Leyla preferred not to play it; she would toss a glance toward the chessboard and then lie on her bed for days; she would try to bury the board under a mountain of clothes and bedroom junk, a mess jumbled stuff. She didn’t often bring the idea of the chessboard up around Leyla, but when they did talk about it: Oh, I don’t know. First thing, I’d have to clean my room, you know. Tidying up Leyla’s room turned out to be an impossible task, and only after incredible exertion did it become neat, and then Leyla collapsed in on herself – because there’s nothing you can hold onto! Leyla thought, not anymore – and within the week, everything was just as it always had been. It hurt her to witness. It scared her, too. Leyla was a mirror before her from which she, more and more often, wanted to back away. Sometimes she felt selfish, like she was giving up too much for Leyla. Did Leyla feel the same?
Then, on a Tuesday morning after a party, something happened; she remembered suddenly – in one long, suspended flash – a channel of raging chaos toward the mother who had left her. She sat in her room on the floor, exactly where she’d come in from outside, from the party, and the feeling swept through her, her fear of her mother’s aggression, her cruelty, her disap-
genen Flash, einer Röhre voll wütendem Chaos an ihre Mutter, die sie verlassen hatte, sie saß in ihrem Zimmer auf dem Boden, so wie sie von draußen reingekommen war, von der Party, und es rauschte durch sie hindurch, ihre Angst vor ihr, ihre Aggression, ihr Entsetzen, ihre Enttäuschung, ihre Verzweiflung, ihre Trauer, ihr Gesicht, ihre Schuld. Ein oder zwei, vielleicht sogar drei Stunden saß sie so da, starr, gerade, als könnte sie sich nicht mehr bewegen, ich sehe ihren Atem gar nicht, sie ist so abwesend, dachte ich von außen blickend, ich, die Erzählerin, und niemand ist bei ihr, nicht einmal sie selbst ist bei sich.
Am Abend wars dann wie nicht geschehen, ihr Atem wie zuvor, wie gestern Abend, sie stand wie am Dienstag davor, als hätte in ihr nichts begriffen; ihr Körper, dass er immer noch derselbe war; oder ihr unverständiges Gesicht auf ihrem Handy, ihr Mund, sein insektenartiges Rot, seine Form. In einer langen, unbestimmten Bewegung zog sie einmal durch ihr mit Gegenständen gefülltes Zimmer hindurch. Sie verstand die Art der Gegenwart der Dinge in diesem Raum nicht mehr, was sie von ihr wollten und, wie ein Vogelschwarm, was sie von ihnen wollte. Eine beklemmende Stille, ein totes Schweigen erstreckte sich zwischen allen Anwesenden. An der Kommode nahm sie einen der Lippenstifte und ließ ihn aus der geöffneten Hand fallen, er stellte sich wieder auf Kommode. Ihre Hand stellte ihn wieder auf Kommode? Hob oder fing sie ihn sogar auf mit ihrer Hand aus der Luft heraus auf und stellte ihn wieder in die Mitte der Kommode? Weder sie noch der Lippenstift weiß das. Er steht wieder da. Sie nimmt einen Nagellack, den meerfarbenen, in ihre andere Hand (die andere Hand?) und wirft ihn. In einer leichten Flugkurve bewegt er sich in die Mitte des Zimmers hinein und fällt hinunter in den tiefen Teppich. Sie beobachtet ihn, befremdet, merkwürdig befriedigt.
Sie war überall jetzt scheinbar, überall erkannte sie in den abwesenden Gesichtern vorbeieilender Frauen, in den Gesichtern der Mädchen, die im Kaufhaus mit dem gleichen
pointment, her exasperation, her sorrow, her face, her guilt. She sat there for one or two, maybe three hours, stiff, upright, as if she could no longer move. She’s so absent I can’t even see signs of breath, I thought from the outside looking in––I, the narrator, since nobody is there with her; she’s not even with herself.
In the evening it was as if nothing had happened, her breathing like it always was, like yesterday evening’s breath; she stood there as if it were the Tuesday before, as if nothing within her had understood: not her body, still the same as ever, or the incomprehensible face reflecting back from her phone, or her mouth, its insect-like redness, its shape.
In a drawn-out, indefinite movement she pulled herself through her object-filled room. She no longer understood the nature of these things in this room, their presence, what they, like swarming birds, wanted from her, or what she wanted from them.
A nightmarish stillness, a dead silence extended through everything present. She picked up one of the lipsticks from the dresser and let it fall from her open hand; it placed itself back on the dresser. Had her hand placed it back on the dresser? With her hand, had she picked it up or even caught it out of the air to place it back on top of the dresser? Neither she nor the lipstick knew. It just sat there. She picked up a nail polish, the ocean-colored bottle, in her other hand (the other hand?) and threw it. In a gentle arc, it flew toward the center of the room and fell down into the deep carpet. She watched it, disconcerted, strangely pleased.
She was seemingly everywhere, now, she recognized herself everywhere, in the absent faces of women hurrying past, in the faces of the girls in the department store who, with those same absent expressions, lifted sweaters from tables, which unfolded before them in single languid movements and hung between their hands like nets. She sat in a café on the corner and wasn’t anywhere anymore; all these people, talking to each other with animated expressions, took little sips from their
abwesenden Gesicht einen Pullover vom Tisch hochnahmen, der sich in einer gemächlichen Bewegung vor ihnen entfaltete, zwischen ihren Händen hing wie ein Netz, sich selbst wieder. Sie setzte sich in ein Café an einer Ecke und war nirgendwo mehr; alle diese Leute, die mit angeregter Miene miteinander sprachen, einen kleinen Schluck aus ihren Tassen nahmen, bevor sie in ein erheitertes Lachen ausbrachen. Es gab ein Problem mit ihr und dem Sprechen. Eines, das sie jetzt nicht weiter erkunden wollte. Sie stand auf und ihr Rücken fühlte sich so kalt an, während sie zur Tür und dann hinaus ging, als wäre er gefroren worden, aber es gab keinen Grund, warum er so kalt sein sollte, dachte sie, gefrorenes Fleisch, es war reine Einbildung.
Als sie zusammenbrach und bei Leyla unterkam, war Leyla so großzüzig wie sie es immer war. Du hast mindestens zehn Tage Zusammenbruch-Vollversorgung bei mir gut, sagte sie. Leyla erinnerte sie daran, als sie zusammengebrochen war vor einiger Zeit und sie versucht hatte, sich um Leyla zu kümmern, eher hilflos würde sie denken, bis Leyla schließlich doch in eine Klinik gegangen war. Aus einem anderen Zimmer holte Leyla eine schwere, raue Decke und legte sie ihr über die Schultern. Sie stellte sich hinter sie und rieb kräftig über ihre Oberarme, immer kräftiger, bis sie anfing zu lachen, dann zu weinen, sich nach hinten in Leylas Umarmung fallen ließ. Du solltest zu einer Beratung gehen, glaube ich, sagte sie.
Als sie am nächsten Tag durch die Tür nach draußen in den vernachlässigten Hinterhof trat, den Müll in der Hand, fiel dort der seltsamste Regen, langsam und vereinzelt wie leichter Schnee, aber es war schon längst zu warm für Schnee. Sie stellte die Tüten neben den übervollen Tonnen ab und ließ die Schwebegebilde aus dem Himmel in ihre offenen Hände fallen. Sie würde sich nie verändern können, das war ihr schon lange klar gewesen.
Das war das Schlimmste an ihrer Freundschaft, dass der Boden, auf dem sie stand, reine Hilflosigkeit war, dachte
mugs before breaking into amused laughter. A problem persisted between her and her ability to speak. A problem she didn’t want to explore any further. She stood up and her back felt so cold as she walked out the door, as if it were frozen, but there was no reason it should have been so cold, she thought, frozen flesh, merely her imagination.
When she broke down and took shelter at Leyla’s, Leyla was as generous as ever. You’re good for a ten days’ supply of full breakdown care, she said. Leyla reminded her of when she’d had a breakdown herself, a while ago, and she’d taken care of her, rather helplessly she’d thought, until Leyla finally admitted herself to a clinic. Leyla came out of the other room, carrying a heavy, fuzzy blanket to lay over her shoulders. She stationed herself behind her and rubbed firmly up and down her upper arms, massaging with increasing vigor, until she started to laugh, and then cry, then let herself fall back into Leyla’s embrace. Leyla said, I think you should go to counselling.
The next day, when she stepped out through the door to the neglected backyard, garbage in hand, that strange kind of rain was falling, slow and scattered like the softest snow, though it’d been too warm for snow for some time. She set the trash bag next to the overfull bin and let the floating forms fall from the sky into her open hands. She would never be able to change, that had long become clear.
The worst aspect of their friendship was that they stood on a foundation of pure helplessness, she thought, all this helplessness and groundlessness, and through everything, they were both always on the hook for—no, at the mercy of—their own incomprehensible needs. She sensed rage circulating inside her and, with it, fought against a rising feeling of shame. Or, the worst of their friendship wasn’t the helplessness, she meant their eternal reluctance to have a different fundamental basis: gestures and words could be withheld or dismissed, and then faded away, like everything they
sie, diese ganze Hilflosigkeit und Weltlosigkeit und sie beide dadurch immer am Haken ihrer ganzen abgründigen Bedürfnisse, ausgeliefert. Sie spürte die Wut in sich zirkulieren und stemmte sich damit gegen ein aufkommendes Gefühl der Scham. Oder nicht der Boden, sie meinte diesen ewigen Unwillen, ein anderes Fundament zu haben, Gesten und Worte, die zurückgehalten oder abgetan wurden, und verhallten, alles, was sie behaupteten zu wollen und dann verlachten; und mehr als das, dachte sie, die Konsequenzen, die durch alle ihre Zeit miteinander klangen, schrille Alarmglocken, die sie sich nicht eingestanden.
Auf dem Weg nach Hause lächelte sie ein Mädchen an, das an ihr vorbeilief, das sie anstarrte. Es war größer als sie und trug einen langen Mantel und eine braune Tüte von Zara gefaltet unter ihrem Arm, in die Achsel geklemmt, als wäre es eine Aktentasche, für die sie keine Hand frei hatte. Es sah sie mit braunen, starren, großen Augen an und bewegte ihr Gesicht kein bisschen.
Sie saßen im Café und lasen nebeneinander. Leyla nahm einen großen Schluck von ihrer Cola, sammelte die Eiswürfel, die sie eben erst aus dem Glas gefischt hatte, von dem Unterteller daneben wieder ein und ließ sie nacheinander sprudelnd in die Flüssigkeit fallen. Wir sind verloren, dachte sie, ihre Augen starr auf den Tisch gerichtet, jeden Tag sind wir verloren und deshalb sind wir hier. Letztendlich interessieren wir uns nicht füreinander, interessiert sich niemand für uns, sind wir nicht mal Personen, wir haben nichts, es gibt nichts, wofür wir uns interessierten könnten, Leyla, abgesehen davon, dass du dir gerne meine Fantasien anhörst, dich lächelnd an sie lehnst, während ich spreche, und mich bemitleidest dafür, dass ich sie habe, deine elegante Hand deine Augen beschattend.
Weißt du, ich habe das Gefühl, wir schmilzen, sagte sie zu Leyla. Sie nahm eines der Bücher, Rahel Varnhagens Briefe, von dem Stapel zwischen ihnen hoch, legte es wieder zurück. Leyla sah sie an. Ihre großen aufmerksamen Augen.
claimed to want and then ridiculed; and more significant, too, she thought, were the consequences ringing through all of their time together, shrill alarm bells they refused to acknowledge.
On the way home she smiled at a girl walking by who was staring. The girl was taller than her and wore a long coat, held a brown Zara tote folded under her arm, clamped under her shoulder as if it were a briefcase for which she didn’t have a free hand. The girl looked at her with big, staring brown eyes and an expression that didn’t so much as flicker.
They sat in a café next to one another, reading. Leyla took a long sip from her cola, gathered the ice cubes from the saucer next to the glass, the ice cubes she’d first had to fish out, and let them fall, fizzingly, back into the liquid one by one. We’re lost, she thought, her eyes fixed on the table; every day, we’re lost and that’s how we end up here. Ultimately, we aren’t interested in each other, nobody is interested in us, we are not even people, we have nothing, there’s nothing to be interested in, Leyla, apart from the fact you like to listen to my fantasies, you lean smiling against them while I speak, and you pity me for having them, while your elegant hand shades your eyes.
You know, I feel like we’re melting, she said to Leyla. She pulled one of the books from the shelf between them, the letters of Rahel Varnhagen, then put it back. Leyla watched her. Her great vigilant eyes.
Do you know the story of the Steadfast Tin Soldier, Leyla asked after a while.
No, she said. She was surprised to sense the rage she’d just felt ebbing away. Do we maybe want to – let’s walk a bit and you can tell it to me?
Later they lay by a canal, in one of the meadows next to the kilometer-long walking path through half the city. They’d been silent on the way there and, at some point, had stopped and stretched out on the trodden grass.
So, the Tin Soldier and the Paper Ballerina are a
Kennst du die Geschichte von dem Standhaften Zinnsoldaten, sagte sie nach einer Weile. Nein, sagte sie. Sie spürte wie die Wut, die sie eben gehabt hatte, verebbte, ganz plötzlich. Wollen wir vielleicht – lass uns ein Stück gehen und du erzählst sie mir dabei?
Später lagen sie beim Kanal, auf eine der Wiesen neben dem kilometerlangen Spazierweg durch die halbe Stadt. Sie hatten auf dem Weg hierher geschwiegen und irgendwann angehalten und sich auf dem zertretenen Gras ausgestreckt. Also, der Zinnsoldat und die Papierballerina sind ein Liebespaar, sagte Leyla, als hätte es keine Unterbrechung gegeben. Anfangs werden eine Reihe Zinnsoldaten aus alten Löffeln gegossen, glaube ich, und weil das Zinn beim Standhaften Zinnsoldaten nicht mehr ausreicht, hat er nur ein Bein bekommen. Und die Papierballerina schwingt eines ihrer Beine so hoch in die Luft, dass es ist, als habe auch sie nur ein Bein. Deshalb sieht es aus, als würden sie wunderbar zueinander passen und sie verlieben sich ineinander. Und am Ende werden sie zusammen in einen Ofen geworfen und –
Ah, sie schmilzen!, sagte sie. Sie verbrennen zusammen. Sie verbrennen zusammen, bestätigte Leyla. Also – es ist natürlich schrecklich, weil Andersen ein Monster ist – sie knäulen sich im Ofen ineinander und es bleibt nur ein kleines grauflüssiges Herz von ihnen übrig.
Ich dachte daran, ihre Augen zu schließen und hinter ihren Lidern würde der scharfe Schattenriss der Sonne nachleuchten.
Ich möchte die Geschichte übrigens nicht als Version von uns verstanden wissen, sagte Leyla. Sie sah Leyla an, die den Kopf zu ihr drehte, und lächelte. Es fiel mir ein wegen des Schmilzens. Ich auch nicht, sagte sie.
couple, said Leyla, as if there hadn’t been any interruption. At the beginning, a row of tin solders is being cast out of old spoons, I think, and because there isn’t quite enough tin by the time they get to the Steadfast Tin Soldier, he only gets one leg. And the Paper Ballerina swings one of her legs so high into the air that it’s like she only has one leg. Which is why they look like they’d suit each other wonderfully, and they fall in love. And at the end, they’re thrown into an oven together, and –Oh, they melt! she said. They burn together. They burn together, confirmed Leyla. So – of course it’s terrible, because Andersen is a monster –they clump together in the oven until all that’s left is a liquidy gray heart.
I thought about the two of them closing their eyes, and behind their eyelids, the sharp silhouette of the sun would still glow.
I don’t want the story to be taken as a version of us, by the way, said Leyla. She looked over at Leyla, who turned toward her and smiled. It just occurred to me because of the melting. Neither do I, she said.
A tradução que ofereço é a de uma crônica ambientada na famosa Calçada da Fama, em Hollywood. A personagem-narradora-autora conta, com sensibilidade e afeto, episódios cotidianos que poderiam passar despercebidos – e certamente passam–aos olhares desatentos dos inúmeros turistas que por ali passeiam em busca da “magia do cinema”. Em vez do mundo limpo, roteirizado e dirigido que idealizam, encontram sujeira, pessoas em condições de trabalho precárias e um circo de atrações de rua formadas por pessoas que são invisíveis aos olhos dos passantes, mas não escapam aos da narradora, que percebe neles os verdadeiros artistas que proporcionam algum entretenimento – sem edições ou retoques – àquele lugar.
A linguagem coloquial, o pudor ao usar asteriscos para esconder os palavrões ou termos racistas proferidos pelas personagens, a hesitação entre os tempos verbais, como se a autora mesma por vezes voltasse à experiência no tempo presente, sem conseguir imprimir qualquer afastamento entre os fatos narrados e o ato de narrar, propiciaram ao trabalho de tradução um caráter especialmente prazeroso. As questões raciais presentes no contexto norte-americano – pessoas brancas, pessoas negras e pessoas latinas em constante tensão –trouxeram alguma dificuldade de transposição para o contexto brasileiro, que espero ter conseguido superar. Por fim, a marca por vezes quase jornalística do texto, notadamente nos trechos em que a autora corrige com colchetes as falas incompletas das personagens, me pareceu especialmente interessante, pelo que optei por manter os colchetes no texto traduzido.
O ponto que mais me chamou a atenção na crônica é seu caráter prosaico e, ao mesmo tempo, violento. Mais de uma vez, ao longo do texto, o leitor tem a sensação
de que se a polícia fosse chamada a intervir, vários dos episódios narrados poderiam acabar em tragédia. A impressão que se tem é que por muito pouco não acabaram.
Tucked into 6741.5 Hollywood Boulevard, Vanato Gelato makes its station as an intersection of geographic, racial, and economic differences in the touristy heart of Hollywood. It stands one block from the corner of Hollywood and Highland, where vacationers turn in Groupons to visit Ripley’s Believe it or Not! Museum and take photos with waxen celebrities. The storefront beckons overheated pedestrians with promises of “Italian handcrafted gelato,” but as I learn on the first day of the job, the gelato is processed at a facility in nearby Reseda, CA. Vanato’s owner, Mike, is a fauxGucci-wearing Armenian with the birthname Mushegh. He drives a monster-sized black pickup and wears a thick gold chain around his neck. When he hires me, he wants to make sure I won’t smoke marijuana in front of customers, otherwise he’ll be forced to fire me as he did my young female predecessors. Illegally, I am to earn $11 an hour and the W-4 is never introduced into the conversation. Later, less than two months after taking on the job and when I am the most senior employee at the shop, the lack of bureaucracy makes some level of sense.
Vanato is one of hundreds of small businesses along the Walk of Fame that together curate a hodgepodge experience for tourists in a Hollywood a bit grittier than a non-local might imagine when thinking of cinema magic. Its immediate human microcosm includes Bryan of Star Track Tours, where every single day tours of celebrity homes come at half-price. Bryan is never seen without his plain blue ballcap, so much so that when he removes it for the first time to douse his head with cold water against the summer heat, his baldness comes
Apertada no número 6741.5 da Hollywood Boulevard, a Vanato Gelato sobrevive como ponto de encontro de diferentes geografias, raças e condições econômicas no coração turístico de Hollywood. A sorveteria fica a uma quadra da esquina da Hollywood com a Highland, onde turistas apresentam cupons de desconto para tirar fotos ao lado das desgastadas celebridades de cera no museu “Acredite se Quiser”. A fachada atrai passantes morrendo de calor com a promessa de “gelato artigianale italiano”, mas, descubro no primeiro dia de trabalho, a massa é processada ali mesmo na Califórnia, em uma cidade próxima. O dono, Mike (embora a certidão de nascimento diga Mushegh), é um armênio que veste roupas Gucci falsificadas, dirige uma caminhonete monster-truck e usa uma corrente grossa de ouro em volta do pescoço. Quando me contrata, quer ter certeza de que não vou fumar maconha na frente dos clientes, porque senão ele vai ser obrigado a me mandar embora, igual às moças que me antecederam. Em desrespeito à lei, vou ganhar 11 dólares por hora. Formulários e documentos são sequer mencionados. Mais tarde, menos de dois meses após começar no emprego, quando sou a funcionária mais sênior da loja, começo a entender o desprezo pela burocracia.
A Vanato é uma das centenas de pequenos comércios ao longo da Calçada da Fama que, juntos, proporcionam aos turistas uma salada mista de experiências em uma Hollywood um pouco mais áspera do que os não iniciados fantasiam quando pensam na magia do cinema. Esse microcosmo humano inclui o Bryan, da
as a total surprise. “Your boss is a douchebag who only hires young girls to take advantage of them,” he says, informing me and my coworker Susanna of the periodic breaks to which we’re legally entitled. Susanna is a first-year student at Los Angeles City College never seen without exquisitely painted liquid eyeliner. She strategically befriends the boys at Juicy Wingz next door to score free chicken and stay afloat during solo shifts. Most of the shop’s clientele fits into one of two categories: people who linger in the general area and grow into recognizable features of the space, or tourists. Few, if any, local Hollywood residents seem to seek their ice cream fix from Vanato. From the category of lingerers, there is a deaf gentleman who communicates by writing on flyers that read, “God has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men.” The first time I meet him, he writes, “Dipped Cone.” I write back: “We don’t have those today, but I can give you a cone with toppings for $3.22.” He blinks and informs me that “wow, [he] only has $1,” and I sell him this hypothetical $1 ice cream cup because the alternative seems too cruel for a hot day––and too cruel for someone who, as his other scribbles on the same flyer indicate, just tried to purchase an iPad at the electronics store across the street for that same dollar.
My other coworker, Amanda, is a cheery woman in her late 40s who wears a flower-adorned hairclip to push her overgrown beach-blonde bangs out of her face. She readily shares her opinions about the customers in the latter category: the tourists. At the start of my employment, Amanda had already worked at the shop for almost a full year, far surpassing any previous record, and often links her experience of divorce to her general distrust of male customers that wander as midnight approaches. “The Mexicans will buy all of your cones,” she would say with an unidentifiable twang. Amanda’s approach to staying late at the shop is one of self-preservation and survival, showing the least bit of patience for familiar late-night visitors who
Star Track Tours, onde todos os dias são vendidos, “pela metade do preço”, passeios pelos muros das casas. Bryan nunca aparece sem seu boné azul. Quando, pela primeira vez, ele o retira para se refrescar jogando água sobre a cabeça, a aparição da sua careca causa completa surpresa. “Seu patrão é um babaca que só contrata moças para tirar vantagem delas”, ele diz quando conta para mim e para a minha colega Susanna dos intervalos de descanso a que teríamos direito por lei. Susanna é aluna do primeiro ano em uma universidade municipal de Los Angeles e não sai de casa sem delinear perfeitamente os olhos. Estrategicamente, se enturma com os vizinhos da Juicy Wingz para comer frango frito de graça e sobreviver aos turnos em que trabalha sozinha. A maioria da clientela se encaixa em uma de duas categorias: gente que fica perambulando pela área até se tornar parte da paisagem, ou turistas. Poucos residentes de Hollywood, se é que tem algum, vão atrás da Vanato para matar sua vontade de sorvete. Dentro da categoria dos que passam o tempo por ali, tem um senhor com deficiência auditiva que se comunica rabiscando em folhetos em que está escrito “Tudo fez Deus formoso no seu devido tempo; também pôs a eternidade no coração do homem.” A primeira vez que o encontro, ele escreve: “Casquinha de chocolate”. Eu escrevo de volta: “Está em falta, mas posso te dar uma normal com cobertura por $3.22”. Ele pisca os olhos e me conta que “Nossa, [ele] só tem $1,” e eu vendo a hipotética casquinha simples de $1 porque a alternativa me parece muito cruel para um dia tão quente – e cruel demais com alguém que, pelo que vejo dos rabiscos, acaba de tentar comprar um iPad na loja de eletrônicos do outro lado da rua com aquela mesma nota de um dólar.
Minha outra colega, Amanda, é uma mulher bemhumorada já perto dos cinquenta que usa uma piranha de cabelo enfeitada com uma flor para manter seus cabelos queimados de sol afastados do rosto. Ela logo compartilha suas opiniões sobre os clientes da segunda
make comments on her bosom. I find a handwritten note of hers written to my coworker, Cece, a student at UC Riverside:
“Cece, Hi! Be careful. People trying to give fake twenties and that Black guy was super mean tonight, in case he comes in -- I think he’s on Meth!”
For all of her problematic generalizations on the folk that frequent the area at night, Amanda shows concern in a motherlike and genuine way, stemming from the rampant sexism on display every single day. One man, entirely clothed in brown cotton, once leaned against the doorframe and made comments on the women passing by one by one. “I want to f*** her without a condom so bad,” he announced to no one in particular. He wandered in and I resolved to interact with him precisely in the same way I would any other customer, to no avail. He told me that I “looked so innocent, like [I’ve] never been laid, like [I’m] a virgin.” Wanting to dissolve the situation as quickly as possible, I abided by his request to let my hair down when he asks about its length. I hate that I did this as I did it. I rode the Metro home that night thinking about how Amanda or Susanna would never have taken their hair down in front of this man––they would have told him to leave immediately. Instead, I held a conversation with him, asking what it felt like to be 27 years old, since he’d just shared this number with me unprompted. “Lonely,” he said, perhaps deciding that the tables had turned on a conversation initially designed to make me feel uncomfortable. “Stay blessed,” he said as he left.
Given Amanda’s age and tenure, she’s bestequipped to handle the boss, Mike, when he raises his voice about the size of gelato scoops or the cleanliness of the counter. But the concerning nature of the comments directed towards myself and my coworkers isn’t limited to outsiders to the shop. I’m surprised by how deeply disappointing it feels when Susanna tells me that Bryan of Star Track Tours, who would deliver sandwiches for us from Starbucks at lunchtime
categoria: os turistas. Quando comecei, Amanda já vinha trabalhando ali por quase um ano inteiro, ultrapassando de longe qualquer recorde anterior, e com frequência culpa seu divórcio pela desconfiança geral em relação aos homens que perambulam por ali quando vai dando meia-noite. “Os ‘mexicanos’ acabam com as casquinhas”, ela reclama, com um sotaque difícil de identificar. Quando fica até tarde, Amanda prioriza a autopreservação e a sobrevivência, sem paciência alguma com os visitantes noturnos que fazem comentários sobre seus seios. Eu encontro uma anotação dela, feita à mão, para minha outra colega Cece, uma estudante na Universidade da Califórnia em Riverside: “Oi, Cece! Toma cuidado. Gente tentando pagar com notas falsas de vinte. Caso ele apareça, aquele senhor negro foi super grosseiro hoje à noite –acho que ele está drogado!”.
Apesar das problemáticas generalizações que faz das pessoas que frequentam a região à noite, Amanda demonstra preocupação maternal e genuína com o machismo desenfreado que se escancara todos os dias. Uma vez, um homem em um uniforme marrom se encostou no batente da porta e começou falar das mulheres que passavam em frente à loja, uma a uma. “Quero tanto c***-la sem camisinha”, ele soltava no ar, como se não falasse para ninguém. Ele se esgueirou para dentro da loja e eu tomei a decisão de falar com ele da mesma forma que faria com qualquer outro cliente; em vão. Ele disse que eu “parecia tão inocente, como se [eu] nunca tivesse transado, como [se eu fosse] uma virgem”. Procurando me livrar da situação o mais rápido possível, obedeço e solto o coque quando pergunta sobre o comprimento dos meus cabelos. Odeio ter feito isso. Voltei de metrô para a casa naquela noite pensando como Amanda e Susanna jamais teriam soltado os cabelos na frente daquele cara – elas o teriam chutado para fora. Em vez disso, eu fiquei dando papo, perguntando como era ter 27 anos, algo que ele tinha
and drive away lecherous wanderers, once slapped her on the behind. “He told me that ‘he didn’t see that my butt was there,’” she shared matter-of-factly. Moreover, Mike––himself married with two children––would tell her she “looked sexy” and ask what she was doing that night. Mike comes as less of a surprise than Bryan: for the entirety of the time I worked at the shop, a glossy flyer advertising the Deja Vu Showgirls’ “Booty Camp Weekend” on Hollywood and Vine lay on a table in the back. If you went to Booty Camp Weekend, you could revel in the Best Chest Push-Up Contest, and, in a whirl of juxtaposed ethics, do so for free before midnight with a military ID. Susanna seemed repulsed but relatively unfazed by Mike’s behavior. Even after she quit as the summer ended and her semester was beginning, she wandered in on a slow weekday afternoon a couple weeks later. “Why would you come back here?” I asked. “I’m so bored,” she told me. “And I love Hollywood.”
The Hollywood that Susanna loved, at least from the vantage point beyond the counter through the sliding glass doors of the shop, was full of people who deserved both compassion and a stern talking-to from Amanda. Mike was a stickler for 102.7 KIIS FM being blasted uncomfortably loudly from the speaker from open to close every day in order to draw in customers. One man requested that I pause the music so he could “rap and tap” outside because “that’s how he made money,” and at risk of getting reprimanded, I happily obliged. Gelato also proved to be a unifying force among people from different walks of life. It was another slow day when a man with thick-framed glasses and a Beatles shirt guided in another man with one arm and told me to give his companion whatever he wanted. “My name’s Gambino. Put it on my tab if he ever comes in.” Buoyed by the notion of running up a tab at a gelato shop, and by someone showing kindness by way of a sweet treat, I let the man sample many more flavors than Mike would have ever allowed had he been present. I overheard Beatles man tell his new friend that “no one would f***
acabado de me contar, sem eu pedir. “Solitário”, ele respondeu, talvez percebendo que eu tinha virado a mesa em uma conversa cujo objetivo inicial era me deixar desconfortável. “Fique com Deus”, ele disse ao sair.
Amanda, pela idade e tempo de casa, tem mais estofo para lidar com o chefe, Mike, quando ele levanta a voz para reclamar do tamanho das bolas de sorvete ou da sujeira do balcão. Mas a natureza preocupante dos comentários dirigidos a mim e às minhas colegas não se limita aos visitantes da loja. Fico surpresa com o tamanho da minha decepção quando Susanna me conta que o Bryan, da Star Track Tours, o mesmo cara bacana que trazia sanduíches da Starbucks pra gente na hora do almoço e espantava tarados, deu um tapa na bunda dela. “Ele disse que foi sem querer”, ela contou, sem drama. Pior ainda, o Mike – que era casado e tinha dois filhos – vivia dizendo que ela “estava sexy” e perguntando o que ela faria à noite. Mike decepciona menos que Bryan: durante todo o tempo em que trabalhei naquela loja, sobre a mesa do seu escritório tinha um panfleto brilhante de uma boate na Hollywood com a Vine. Se você assistir as Deja Vu Showgirls, dizia o panfleto, você vai se divertir com o “Concurso de Melhor Decote”. Num redemoinho de sobreposições éticas, se você for militar e chegar antes da meia-noite, não paga a entrada. Susanna parecia sentir repulsa, mas seguia um tanto indiferente ao comportamento do Mike. No final do verão, algumas semanas depois de ter se demitido, quando o semestre acadêmico estava começando, ela apareceu na loja em uma tarde modorrenta de um dia de semana. “O que está fazendo aqui?”, perguntei. “Estou entediada”, ela respondeu. “E amo Hollywood”.
A Hollywood que Susanna amava, ao menos do ponto de vista de quem a vivenciava detrás de um balcão que ficava atrás de uma porta de correr, vivia cheia de gente que recebia ao mesmo tempo compaixão e um papo reto da Amanda. O Mike insistia em manter
with him” any longer, and I wondered what could’ve happened for some Balsamic Fig Mascarpone to have been the perfect solution to street bullies.
As most people who have ever worked in food service probably know, strange questions arise from people considering an edible purchase. I worked hard to keep my face expressionless when someone asked me if the gelato was cold (it sat within a freezer visibly lined with ice crystals), whether we sold an olive oil flavor (does this exist, or am I simply not sophisticated enough?), or if sorbet contained eggs. But the shop was unusual in that it was across from a Scientology Information Center, next to Walt Disney’s star, flanked by a woman selling bacon-wrapped hotdogs, and a stone’s throw away from the highest concentration of men distributing their mixtapes than anyone ever asked for. It’s a place where one woman, who lived in a nearby homeless encampment, thought an entire medium cup-full of gelato was the sample size. I just gave it to her free of charge partially because at that point, the prevalence of fruit flies in the shop was going increasingly unaddressed to the point where the legitimacy of Mike’s business seemed less and less probable. But more importantly, I felt that giving her free “product,” as Mike called it, was the right thing to do after she told me through spittle and unprovoked anger that she “just wanted to make sure I didn’t think she was a piece of shit.”
Around the time that Labor Day came and went and the crowds thinned, the waffle cone mixer began to suffer. One morning, it lay in a shallow pile of what appeared to be black dots, reminiscent of artificial rubber turf. The fruit fly invasion was still in its nascent stages, but I figured they had laid claim to the dried sugary mix crusted inside the machine. Upon closer inspection, I realized the black dots were actually plastic shavings carved out of the area where the metal whisks attached to the machine: the overnight work of rodents most unwelcome. In a kitchen where
o rádio sintonizado na 102.7 KIIS FM todos os dias, no último volume, da abertura da loja ao fechamento, para “atrair os clientes”. Uma vez um rapaz pediu que eu abaixasse a música para que ele pudesse batucar na calçada porque “era assim que ele fazia grana”. Mesmo correndo o risco de tomar uma bronca, atendi, feliz. O sorvete também se mostrava uma força que juntava pessoas de diferentes tribos. Foi em um outro dia modorrento que um homem que usava óculos de armação grossa e vestia uma camiseta dos Beatles trouxe para dentro da loja um outro cara que tinha apenas um braço e me pediu que desse tudo o que ele quisesse. “Meu nome é Gambino; coloque na minha conta se ele voltar”. Inebriada com a ideia de abrir uma conta em uma sorveteria e com o fato de alguém demonstrar compaixão por meio de uma guloseima, eu deixei o homem experimentar muito mais sabores do que o Mike teria aprovado. Ouvi por alto o homem da camiseta dos Beatles dizer para seu novo amigo “ninguém vai f**** com você de novo”, e fiquei imaginando qual foi a treta que só uma casquinha cheia de Mascarpone com Figo e Redução de Balsâmico pode resolver. Como a maior parte das pessoas que trabalha no ramo da restauração provavelmente sabe, as pessoas fazem perguntas esquisitas quando compram comida. Eu tentava manter meu rosto inalterado quando alguém me perguntava se o sorvete estava gelado (eu ficava sentada atrás de um freezer visivelmente marcado por cristais de gelo), se tinha sorvete de azeite (será que isso existe, ou eu que não sou sofisticada o bastante?), ou se tinha ovos no sorbet. A localização era sui generis: a loja ficava em frente a um centro de informação de Cientologia, perto de onde fica a estrela do Walt Disney na Calçada da Fama, ladeada por uma mulher que vendia cachorros-quentes enrolados em bacon e próxima da maior concentração de homens distribuindo fitas demo que ninguém quer escutar. É um lugar em que uma mulher, que vivia em uma ocupação próxima, achava que uma taça média cheia de sorvete
dead fruit flies on the equipment were the lesser of two evils, continuing to serve gelato to people in need of a cold treat felt part of an underfunded yet committed performance. Our storefront was as much a part of a grand illusion as the man spray painted in gold or the neverending hip-hop cypher parked half a block from the Dolby Theatre. The stars of the show on Hollywood Boulevard are reliable character actors who show up every day, sometimes in literal costume, to do the work of curating an experience for visitors who arrive with a certain notion of what Hollywood excitement should be. Occasionally, that excitement is exactly what they might expect: the filming of Once Upon a Time in Hollywood along Hollywood Boulevard, for example, brought a bunch of metallic low-riders and neon signs to a blocked-off portion of the street, necessitating a pack of P.As to shoo away delighted pedestrians. The main difference between Tarantino’s film crew and the people selling mixtapes, hotdogs, celebrity impersonations, tour bus tickets, or gelato: the former produces an artistic product which people then flock to see. The latter, of which I had the unique privilege to observe, brings itself to the people of its own volition and does not have a behind-the-scenes to fall back upon; there are no do-overs or touch-ups. This rang true, for example, of one woman decked out in a polkadot dress who stood outside of the shop and announced that she was “ready for her audition.” Bryan at Star Track Tours requested I turn off the Top 40 radio station to spare her the embarrassment of continuing to crawl on the ground sans undergarments. These types of events are fairly common enough that it becomes part of the daily play-act, an intermission before the bill of scheduled events.
Even the regularly scheduled events in the area would be considered anomalous in most other parts of town, to the degree that a very blurry line separates the typical from atypical. I frequently accepted pamphlets placed carefully on the countertop warning of “HELL,
era amostra grátis. Eu dei a taça para ela sem cobrar em parte porque, naquele momento, a presença de moscas na loja estava sendo negligenciada a tal ponto que a própria existência do negócio do Mike se mostrava mais e mais improvável. Mas, ainda mais importante, eu senti que dar de graça a “mercadoria”, como Mike chamava o sorvete, era a coisa certa a fazer depois de ela cuspir com raiva desnecessária que “só queria ter certeza de que eu soubesse que ela não era invisível”. Um pouco depois do feriado que antecedia a volta às aulas, quando a multidão começou a diminuir, a máquina que usávamos para fazer as casquinhas começou a desandar. Certa manhã, formou-se em torno dela uma pequena montanha de bolinhas de borracha, parecidas com aquelas encontradas em gramados artificiais. A invasão de drosófilas ainda estava nos estágios iniciais, mas eu logo inferi que elas tomaram posse da crosta de açúcar que tinha se formado dentro do aparelho. Depois de uma inspeção mais detalhada, percebi que as bolinhas pretas eram, na verdade, pedacinhos de plástico que tinham se soltado da área onde os fuês de metal se prendiam à máquina: trabalho de malquistos roedores noturnos. Em uma cozinha onde moscas-de-frutas mortas no equipamento eram o menor dos problemas, continuar a servir sorvete para as pessoas que precisavam de uma guloseima parecia parte de um espetáculo teatral de segunda linha que se levava a sério. Nosso cenário era parte da montagem tanto quanto o homem pintado de ouro ou a eterna roda de hip-hop que ficava a meia quadra de distância do Dolby Theatre. As estrelas do espetáculo do Hollywood Boulevard são atores que comparecem ao trabalho todos os dias, de forma constante, às vezes vestidos a caráter, com figurino completo, para fazer o trabalho de mediação da experiência para visitantes que chegam com um certo ideal do que deve ser o frisson de Hollywood. Às vezes, a visita guiada é exatamente a que eles esperam: a filmagem de “Era Uma Vez em Hollywood” na Hollywood Boulevard,
an everlasting place where there will be a weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth” without blinking an eye. About once a week, Cameron the aspiring actor would visit. Always cloaked in a visible layer of sunscreen, we would offer him encouragement and reassure him that yes, it was the right decision to pursue his dream. He’d worry about eating through his savings from working a corporate job while Amanda dished out some tough motherly love: “no one owes you anything,” she would say. Cameron, a lovable nuisance, offered reprieve from long stretches without customers, but other visitors kept us on our toes. On one occasion, I was helping a family of tourists in Spanish. Another man entered the store and physically loomed over the father in that family, staring him down inches from his face without provocation. It was a clearly uncomfortable scene and I decided to address it.
“Can I help you with something?” I asked, now in English. He calls me a mestiza, a laughably medieval and historically inaccurate comment given my lack of Native lineage, and says: “oh, so that’s what it is. You think a n****r can’t stand here and pay.” The accusation is so unfounded that simply say I will help him once I do the others before him. Once I hand him a heaping cup, I then take his card, which declines. I patiently enter the card information manually, but he says he does not understand what a billing postal code is and cannot provide that information. I’m standing there, weighing the factors of the situation: the man’s hostility since walking in, the improbability that he doesn’t know what a postal code is, the chance that he might not have a permanent postal code. Not in the mood for an escalated scenario, I tell him to just take the gelato. Bryan at Star Track Tours notices the man and pushes him out the door––apparently, he had pulled the same trick on my coworkers the day before. Most of my frustration over the scenario is inwardly directed: Amanda or Susanna would never have just given away the gelato, not yet melting and still unpaid for. As a
por exemplo, trouxe um monte de carros com rabos de peixe e letreiros de neon para uma parte da rua fechada ao trânsito, o que demandou um bando de assistentes de produção para espantar os pedestres extasiados. A principal diferença entre a equipe de produção do filme do Tarantino e o povo que vendia fitas demo, cachorros-quentes, imitações de celebridades, bilhetes de passeios de ônibus turísticos “pela metade do preço”, ou sorvete: a primeira faz um produto cultural que as pessoas vão depois assistir aos bandos. Já a segunda, que eu tive o privilégio único de observar, vai até o público por vontade própria e não tem bastidores para se esconder. Não tem segundas chances nem edições. Isso me pareceu especialmente verdadeiro quando uma mulher do lado de fora da loja, toda produzida em um vestido de bolinhas, anunciou que estava “pronta para brilhar”. Bryan, da Star Track Tours, pediu que eu desligasse o rádio (que estava na estação Top 40) para poupá-la da humilhação de continuar a se arrastar no chão sans roupas íntimas. Eventos desse tipo são tão comuns que se tornam parte da encenação diária, como intervalos na programação.
Até mesmo os acontecimentos corriqueiros ali seriam considerados anômalos no resto da cidade, a ponto de a linha divisória da normalidade ficar borrada e cinzenta. Eu aceitava sem pestanejar que deixassem folhetos sobre o balcão com o aviso: “INFERNO, um lugar em que o fogo nunca acaba, onde haverá choro e ranger de dentes”. Mais ou menos uma vez por semana, Cameron, o aspirante a ator, nos visitava, sempre coberto por uma camada visível de protetor solar. Nós o encorajávamos e lembrávamos que, sim, perseguir seu sonho era a decisão correta. Ele demonstrava preocupação com gastar todo o dinheiro que tinha guardado em um emprego corporativo e Amanda o advertia, com sua sabedoria maternal: “ninguém te deve nada”. Cameron era amável e, mesmo atrapalhando nosso trabalho, trazia alívio em períodos longos sem clientes, mas havia visitas que nos deixavam em estado de alerta. Em uma
natural converging point for all kinds of inequities, the shop forced the question of whether it was worse to assume someone could benefit from acts of charity or not engage with them at all, if they weren’t there for the express purpose of a business transaction. Whatever the answer, my newest colleague, Wendy, would never so much as allowed him to set foot in the store. Wendy’s rapid rise and fall as an employee brought my time at the store to an unexpected end…
ocasião, eu ajudava uma família de turistas que falava espanhol. Um outro homem entrou na loja e encarou o pai, medindo-o de cima para baixo, encarando-o a centímetros do rosto dele, sem qualquer provocação. A cena era desconfortável, e resolvi fazer alguma coisa.
“Posso ajudar com algo?”, perguntei, agora em inglês. Ele me chama de mestiza, um comentário risível, medieval e historicamente impreciso – dada a minha ausência de ascendência indígena – e diz “Ah, então é isso. Você acha que um n****r não pode entrar aqui e pagar a conta.” A acusação é tão absurda que respondo simplesmente que vou ajudá-lo assim que terminar de atender os clientes que estão à sua frente na fila. Passo a ele o copinho transbordando e pego o cartão de crédito para passar. Negado. Começo a inserir os dados manualmente com toda a paciência. Peço a ele o código de endereçamento postal. Ele diz que não sabe o que é isso não tem como fornecer essa informação. Fico ali parada analisando as circunstâncias: a hostilidade daquele homem desde que entrou na loja, a improbabilidade de ele realmente não saber o que é um código postal, a possibilidade de ele não ter um código postal permanente. Sem querer escalar o conflito, digo a ele que fique com o sorvete. Bryan da Star Track Tours o reconhece e o coloca para fora – aparentemente, ele tinha aplicado o mesmo golpe nas minhas colegas no dia anterior. Grande parte da minha frustração com aquele episódio teve a ver comigo: nem Amanda nem Susanna entregariam o sorvete de graça. Como um ponto natural de convergência de todos os tipos de inequidade, aquele lugar trazia à tona uma questão ética: qual seria o mal menor, admitir que alguém poderia precisar de caridade, ou simplesmente não interagir com quem não estivesse ali para consumir. Qualquer que fosse a resposta, minha nova companheira de trabalho, Wendy, não teria sequer deixado ele colocar o pé ali dentro. A ascensão e queda de Wendy como funcionária da loja deu fim ao meu tempo na sorveteria de forma inesperada...
The text I have translated constitutes the opening pages of a longer novel, but the intrigue it generates is self-contained. We encounter the protagonist in a moment of high confusion: his girlfriend had invited her female friend into their bedroom, but it seems the encounter didn’t end after his girlfriend had to leave early the next morning. Readers alternate between the protagonist’s emotional spiraling––was he done for? How would his girlfriend respond? How did he end up in this situation, anyway?––and literary flashbacks to his family’s own past. One moment, we’re listening in on a tense phone call between the protagonist and his girlfriend post-ménage à trois; the next, we’re getting a front-row seat to the trauma incurred by an abusive father figure. Teetering in between these two realities, our protagonist simultaneously questions the foundations of his romantic relationship and of his relationship to his own manhood, if such a thing can even be defined.
The challenge of translating Álvaro’s text was in finding the appropriate tonal balance between the protagonist’s present-day circumstance and his forays into bygone scenarios. The former often unfolds in coarse, pointed bursts of feeling, movement, and speech; the latter is comparatively poetic in quality, but refers to traumatic occurrences of marital rape. In other words, one of the most interesting aspects of the story––the fact that the fallout of the protagonist’s threesome, and his attempts to process this fallout, can be understood in relation to generations of men in his family––is exactly that which made translating this text a singular exercise. In one of our early conversations, Álvaro and I discussed the fact that we were translating each other’s renderings of markedly gendered experiences with which neither of us had
personal familiarity, which added a layer of personal curiosity to the task of translation.
Dormíamos abraçados, os corpos grudados pelo suor seco. Virei devagar para ficar de costas para a janela. A claridade da manhã incomodava mais que o normal. Luiza despertou com meu movimento, ajeitou o corpo e, ao perceber meu pau duro, levantou levemente a perna esquerda, encostou a bunda na minha virilha, desceu a mão pelo ventre, esticou o braço até alcançar meu quadril, me puxou, empurrou a lombar e me colocou dentro dela com força.
O leite da minha mãe secou quando meu pai entrou no quarto da maternidade e, ao vê-la amamentando meu irmão, gritou:
— Tire esse bezerro daí.
Minha mãe, quando me contou, pediu segredo. Mesmo assim, dividi a história com minha irmã.
— Ana?
Silêncio. Fui até o banheiro, só a toalha no chão. O celular tocou várias vezes antes de ela atender. Perguntei onde estava.
— No térreo.
— Vou descer.
Vesti uma bermuda e uma camiseta, calcei meus chinelos e desci os três lances de escada. Ela aguardava na calçada, de frente para a rua. Um táxi encostava. Corri e a alcancei antes que fosse embora. Estava pálida. Minha aparência não devia estar melhor. Como se não
translated from the portuguese by
We slept in each other’s arms, our bodies stuck together with dried sweat. I slowly turned my back to the window. The morning light was more irritating than usual. Luiza stirred when I moved, adjusted herself onto her side, and, noticing my hard-on, lifted her left leg slightly, brought her butt against my crotch, moved her hand down her stomach, stretched her arm backwards around my hip, pulled me closer, pushed against my pelvis, and took me into her forcefully.
*
My mother’s milk dried up the moment my father entered the maternity room. When he saw her breastfeeding my brother, he shouted, “Get that calf off of her.”
When my mother told me the story, she swore me to secrecy. I shared it with my sister anyway.
*
“Ana?”
Silence. I checked the bathroom and saw nothing but a towel on the floor. The phone rang several times before she picked up. I asked where she was.
“Downstairs.”
“I’ll be right down.”
I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, slipped into my flip-flops, and descended the three flights of stairs. Ana was waiting on the sidewalk, facing the street. A taxi approached. I ran up to her before she could leave. She
soubesse a resposta, perguntei se ela estava bem.
— Eu avisei que tinha horário. Pego as crianças agora cedo. Volta para a cama, está tudo bem.
A gente se beijou, as bocas secas. Ela entrou no carro. Ergui a mão para me despedir. Não retribuiu. Olhava para a frente quando o motorista acelerou.
Esperei o carro se afastar antes de tomar o rumo de volta, dessa vez passando pelo jardim lateral do prédio, as cores parecendo mais vivas que de costume.
A cabeça ameaçava doer quando entrei em casa. Pensei em passar um café bem forte, mas preferi voltar para a cama. Cheguei no quarto e encontrei Luiza nua, descoberta, os olhos fechados, o corpo esparramado sobre o lençol. Tinha mudado de posição, passando para o outro lado da cama, onde Ana costumava dormir.
Tirei a roupa e me deitei ao lado dela.
— Está tudo bem? — perguntou, aninhando-se no meu ombro.
Menti.
*
Meu pai tem próstata.
Meu pai tem testículos.
Meu pai tem pau.
Meu pai passou por uma cirurgia de fimose quando menino (não sei se essa é uma informação relevante).
Meu pai se identifica como homem.
Meu pai, fosse perguntado o que faz dele um homem, diria, penso eu, que o que faz dele um homem é não ser uma mulher, é ter uma próstata, dois testículos e um pau — sem prepúcio.
*
Já eram nove horas quando Luiza decidiu tomar uma ducha. Entreguei a ela uma toalha e a escova de dentes nova, comprada com os vinhos, os pães, os queijos e os preservativos que Ana tinha me pedido para
was pale. I probably didn’t look much better. As if I didn’t already know the answer, I asked if she was okay.
“I told you my schedule. I pick up the kids early now. Go back to bed, it’s fine.”
We kissed, our mouths dry. She got into the car. I raised my hand to wave goodbye. She didn’t return the gesture. She looked straight ahead as the driver pulled away.
I waited until the car moved into the distance before turning back, this time walking through the building’s side garden. Its colors seemed more vivid than usual.
A headache loomed when I reentered the house. I thought about making a strong cup of coffee but decided I’d rather go back to bed. I reached the bedroom and found Luiza naked and uncovered, eyes closed and body sprawled across the sheets. She had shifted to the other side of the bed, the side where Ana normally slept.
I took off my clothes and lay down next to her.
“Everything okay?” she asked, nestling into my shoulder. I lied.
*
My father has a prostate.
My father has testicles.
My father has a dick.
My father was circumcised as a boy (I don’t know if this is relevant information).
My father identifies as a man.
My father, when asked what makes him a man, would say, I think, that what makes him a man is not being a woman, is having a prostate, two testicles, and a dick— without a foreskin.
*
It was already nine when Luiza decided to take a shower. I handed her a towel and a new toothbrush—
providenciar, e fui para a cozinha passar aquele café. A mesa estava posta quando ela entrou na sala, enrolada na toalha, recolhendo as roupas espalhadas pelo chão. Ofereci uma camisa limpa, se quisesse, mas preferiu vestir a mesma roupa da noite anterior. Pediu ajuda para fechar o vestido, abotoado pelas costas. Foi ao banheiro pendurar a toalha e voltou trazendo uma escova que Ana mantinha na minha casa. Penteou-se e deixou os cabelos secarem naturalmente. Com o café, comemos um queijo quente e fumamos. Não lembro se falei de mim. Devo ter falado, se tem uma coisa que faço, quase sem perceber, é falar de mim. Sei que falei da Ana, do quanto eu estava apaixonado por ela, torcendo para que Luiza, quando a encontrasse, falasse das coisas bonitas que eu disse e, quem sabe, omitisse que continuamos transando depois de Ana ter ido embora. Contei que, de início, eu estava relutante com a ideia de uma relação aberta, mas, se a proposta era aquela, de liberdade com afeto e confiança a ponto de a minha namorada, depois de organizar um ménage, me emprestar para a amiga e emprestar a amiga para mim, e quando precisa ir embora de manhã deixa o namorado e a amiga transando, saindo sem dizer nada, para não atrapalhar, e quando o namorado desce com culpa — essa parte da culpa eu não falei para Luiza — para encontrá-la, diz que está tudo bem e o manda subir tranquilo e — essa parte também não falei — o namorado finge que acredita e sobe tranquilo, a ideia de uma relação aberta não parecia tão ruim. Lembro-me de ter dito isso antes de Luiza perguntar as horas e dizer que ia embora e eu perguntar o que ela ia fazer no resto do dia e ela responder nada e eu ter morrido de vontade de convidá-la para passar o resto do dia comigo porque eu estava sem meus filhos e ela estava sem o filho dela, mas fiquei calado. * Tenho próstata.
which I’d bought alongside the wine, bread, cheese, and condoms Ana had asked me to pick up—and went to the kitchen to brew some coffee.
I’d already set the table by the time she came in wrapped in a towel, gathering the clothes scattered across the floor. I offered her a clean shirt, but she chose to wear the same clothes from the night before. She asked for help fastening her dress, which buttoned down the back. She went to the bathroom to hang up the towel and returned carrying a hairbrush that Ana kept at my place. Luiza brushed her hair and let it air-dry.
We ate queijo quente with our coffee and smoked.
I don’t remember if I talked about myself. I must have; if there’s one thing I do, almost without realizing, it’s talk about myself. I know I talked about Ana, about how much I’m in love with her, hoping that when Luiza met up with her again, Luiza would mention the nice things I’d said—and maybe leave out the fact that she and I kept having sex after Ana had left. I said at first, I was reluctant about the idea of an open relationship, but if the proposal were one of freedom, affection, and trust to the point that my girlfriend, after organizing a threesome, were to lend me to Luiza and Luiza to me––and if when my girlfriend needed to head out in the morning, she were to quietly leave her boyfriend and friend having sex so as to not get in the way––and if when the boyfriend came downstairs to meet her, feeling guilty (I didn’t tell Luiza about the guilt), she were to say that everything was fine and tell him to go upstairs calmly and her boyfriend were to pretend to believe her (I didn’t tell her this part either), then the idea of an open relationship didn’t seem so bad. I remember saying this before Luiza asked what time it was and then said she was leaving. When I asked what she was going to do for the rest of the day and she replied “nothing,” I was dying to invite her to spend the rest of the day with me because I didn’t have my kids and she didn’t have her son, but I stayed quiet. *
Tenho testículos.
Tenho pau.
Passei por uma cirurgia de fimose quando menino (não sei se essa é uma informação relevante).
Identifico-me como homem.
Se fosse capaz de nomear o que faz de mim um homem, penso que não ser uma mulher não seria a melhor resposta. Tampouco penso que o que faz de mim um homem é ter uma próstata, dois testículos e um pau — sem prepúcio.
Sou incapaz de nomear o que faz de mim um homem.
Luiza e eu fomos juntos até o portão e nos despedimos com um beijo. Antes de voltar para o apartamento, sentei em um dos bancos do jardim para olhar as árvores. Naquela hora, embalado pelo álcool, convenci-me que fosse o contrário, fosse eu quem tivesse que sair de manhã cedo, ficaria feliz de saber que Ana e Luiza teriam um momento só delas. Fosse eu que, ao acordar, deparasse com as duas transando, teria ficado bem. Cheguei a pensar que, se Ana um dia sugerisse um ménage com um homem, eu toparia. Mais ainda, tivéssemos feito um ménage com um homem, e não com Luiza, eu também teria ficado feliz pelo gozo da Ana e de quem quer que fosse o cara, tanto quanto eu tentava acreditar que Ana tinha ficado com o meu e o de Luiza. Foi mais ou menos enquanto eu pensava essas coisas que subi as escadas de volta para o apartamento. Queria ligar para Ana, dividir com ela meus pensamentos edificantes. Queria inundar a cabeça de Ana para que ela não parasse para pensar – porque, no fundo, eu sabia que, se ela parasse para pensar, eu estaria fodido. Fui até o quarto buscar o celular e só então vi a mensagem: — Pedro, Luiza ainda está aí?
*
Meu bisavô paterno, por parte de avô, se chamava
I have a prostate. I have testicles.
I have a dick.
I was circumcised when I was a child (I don’t know if this is relevant information).
I identify as a man.
If I were able to say what makes me a man, I don’t think that “not being a woman” would be the best answer. Nor do I think that what makes me a man is having a prostate, two testicles, and a dick—without a foreskin.
I cannot say what makes me a man. *
Luiza and I walked to the gate together and said goodbye with a kiss. Before I went back to the apartment, I sat on one of the garden benches to look at the trees. Just then, dulled by the alcohol, I convinced myself that if it had been the other way around––if I were the one who had to leave early in the morning––I would’ve been happy to know that Ana and Luiza had a moment just to themselves. If I were the one who had woken up to find the two of them having sex, I would’ve been just fine with it. I even thought if Ana ever suggested a threesome with a man, I would take her up on it. Besides, if we’d had a threesome with a man instead of with Luiza, I would’ve been happy for Ana and the guy, happy for their pleasure, whoever the guy was––just as much as I tried to believe that Ana had been for me and Luiza.
It was more or less while I was thinking all these things that I climbed the stairs back to the apartment. I wanted to call Ana, to share my uplifting thoughts with her. I wanted to flood Ana’s mind so she wouldn’t stop to think. Deep down, I knew that if she stopped to think, I’d be screwed. I went to the bedroom to get my phone, and only then did I see the message: “Pedro, is Luiza still there?”
Pedro.
Meu bisavô Pedro tinha próstata.
Meu bisavô Pedro tinha testículos.
Meu bisavô Pedro tinha pau.
Meu bisavô Pedro era escravo liberto.
Meu bisavô Pedro era mateiro de profissão.
Meu bisavô Pedro era contratado para abrir fazendas. Ele abria com fogo. Era mais vantajoso usar um mateiro que um escravo porque, se o escravo morresse, o prejuízo era do fazendeiro. Se o mateiro morresse, o prejuízo era do mateiro, já que o contrato era de risco e o serviço era pago só no final.
Nunca discutimos regras. A linha divisória era o bom senso, Ana dizia. Estávamos saindo havia pouco mais de três meses, eu não conhecia ainda os limites e nunca tive bom senso. Senti medo. Sabia que estava fodido. O que eu tinha acabado de fazer, acordar e transar com a convidada, ignorar minha namorada e ainda transar de novo com a amiga dela depois de ela ter ido embora, isso que eu tinha acabado de fazer não cabia em nenhum combinado.
Esperei uma hora para a ressaca começar a passar antes de escrever de volta:
— Bom dia! Luiza foi embora faz tempo. Tudo bem por aí? Saudade.
Não respondeu. Mandei áudio, desses que geminiano manda, culpado, longo, dividindo minhas reflexões obsessivas sobre o que aquela noite significou para mim e o que eu achava que significava para nós. Não mencionei Luiza.
A voz dela chegou rouca, como a minha.
— Preciso de um tempo para processar o que aconteceu hoje cedo, mas acho que está tudo bem.
O tom dúbio não me acalmou, mas disfarcei.
— Tá bem. Vou comer algo na padaria. Falamos mais tarde.
*
My paternal great-grandfather on my grandfather’s side was named Pedro.
My great-grandfather Pedro had a prostate.
My great-grandfather Pedro had testicles.
My great-grandfather Pedro had a dick.
My great-grandfather Pedro was a freed slave.
My great-grandfather Pedro was a woodsman by trade.
My great-grandfather Pedro was hired to clear land for farms. He cleared them with fire. It was more advantageous to use a woodsman than a slave because if the slave died, the loss was the farmer’s. If the woodsman died, it was the woodsman’s own loss; the contract was risky, since the work was paid only at the end.
*
We never discussed rules. The boundary was common sense, as Ana would say. We had been dating for just over three months; I didn’t know the boundaries yet and never had any common sense. I was scared. I knew I was screwed. What I had just done––waking up and having sex with the “guest,” ignoring my girlfriend’s text, and then having sex again with her friend after she had left––what I had just done didn’t fit into any agreement.
I waited an hour for the hangover to start passing before replying:
“Good morning! Luiza left a while ago. Everything okay over there? Miss you.”
She didn’t respond. I sent a voice message, one of those long, guilty ones that Geminis send, sharing my obsessive reflections on what the night meant to me and what I thought it meant for us. I didn’t mention Luiza.
Her voice came through hoarse, like mine.
“I need some time to process what happened this morning, but I think I’m fine.”
Her unconvincing tone didn’t calm me down, but I
— Te ligo depois.
Minha mãe foi penetrada pelo meu pai na manhã seguinte ao meu parto, ainda na maternidade. Ela pediu segredo quando contou para os meus irmãos, mas minha irmã achou importante que eu soubesse.
Foi na padaria que a culpa bateu forte. Antes de Luiza e eu transarmos, Ana dormia de lado, virada para a janela, de costas para mim. Não deve ter demorado para acordar com o barulho que Luiza e eu fazíamos. Talvez tenha nos assistido, por algum tempo. Talvez quisesse participar quando montou no meu corpo, beijou meu rosto e tentou, com carinho, fazer com que eu virasse em sua direção. Talvez tenha se sentido rejeitada quando virei o pescoço para o lado oposto e enterrei o rosto nos cabelos de Luiza. Talvez tenha se esforçado para não demonstrar ciúmes na frente da amiga. Talvez tenha se esforçado para não demonstrar ciúmes na minha frente. Talvez tenha se esforçado para não sentir ciúmes. Talvez tenha sentido raiva antes de me dar um beijo na nuca, levantar-se da cama e sair do quarto. Talvez tenha chorado enquanto tomava banho. Talvez, antes de ir embora, tenha parado na porta do quarto. Talvez tenha passado um tempo olhando meu pau entrando e saindo da buceta da Luiza. Talvez tenha reparado no corpo de Luiza. Talvez tenha se sentido velha.
Não sei se eu estava no quarto quando meu pai estuprou minha mãe na maternidade. O leite dela não secou. Ao que me consta, fui amamentado, ao contrário do meu irmão. Às vezes tento imaginar o estado em que
didn’t let on.
“Okay. I’m going to get something at the bakery. We’ll talk later.”
“I’ll call you later.”
*
My mother was penetrated by my father in the maternity ward the morning after I was born. She swore my siblings to secrecy when she told them, but my sister thought it was important for me to know.
*
It was at the bakery that the guilt hit hard. Before Luiza and I had sex, Ana was sleeping on her side, facing the window, her back to me. It couldn’t have taken her long to wake up from the noise Luiza and I were making. Maybe she watched us for a while. Maybe she wanted to join in when she climbed onto my body, kissed my face, and tried, gently, to turn me toward her. Maybe she felt rejected when I turned my head away from hers and buried my face in Luiza’s hair. Maybe she tried not to look jealous in front of her friend. Maybe she tried not to look jealous in front of me. Or not to feel jealous at all. Maybe she was angry before she kissed the nape of my neck, got out of bed, and left the room. Maybe she cried in the shower. Maybe, before leaving, she stood at the bedroom door. Maybe she spent some time watching my dick going in and out of Luiza’s pussy. Maybe she noticed Luiza’s body. Maybe she felt old.
*
I don’t know if I was in the room when my father raped my mother in the maternity ward. Her milk didn’t dry up. As far as I know, I was breastfed, unlike my brother. Sometimes, I try to imagine the state my mother was in––twenty-seven years old, recently postpartum, after being raped by her husband in her hospital room––
minha mãe, aos vinte e sete anos, no puerpério, depois de ser estuprada pelo marido no quarto do hospital, me recebeu para a amamentação, seu terceiro filho, um bebê do sexo masculino, com próstata, testículos e pênis, terceiro filho que ela já não queria após passar por um aborto espontâneo no ano anterior, terceiro filho que era puro desejo de meu pai, terceiro filho que carregava como segundo nome o primeiro nome do pai, terceiro filho que pode bem ter nascido de outro estupro.
Quando voltei para casa depois de comer, Ana e eu tivemos uma conversa por telefone. Ela tinha falado com Luiza e estava com raiva. Me acusou de não ter sido parceiro. Tentei me defender. — Quem propôs esse encontro, foi você — eu disse. — Quem mandou a Luiza me pegar no bar enquanto você ia ao banheiro porque eu estava com vergonha, foi você — eu disse. — Quem passou a noite toda mandando eu comer a sua amiga, foi você — eu disse. — Ninguém me avisou que o ménage acabava de manhã — eu tive o descaramento de dizer. — Não dá para você soltar um pinto no lixo e esperar que ele volte com hora marcada — eu disse, mas não tenho certeza de na hora ter usado esse exemplo do pinto no lixo. — Eu estava bêbado.
Ana ouviu calada, até que respirou fundo e respondeu:
— Tudo isso é verdade, mas vocês sabiam que eu tinha que ir embora e eu esperava que vocês me vissem, aliás, esperava que você, que é meu namorado, me respeitasse. E, por favor, não venha com essa estória de que só fez o que fez porque estava louco, eu não mereço.
*
Meu pai sente atração por mulheres. Meu pai sente atração por mulheres com expressão de gênero masculina.
when she started breastfeeding me, her third child, a male infant, with a prostate, testicles, and a penis; a third child she no longer wanted after a miscarriage the previous year; a third child who was purely my father’s wish; a third child who bore his father’s first name as his middle name; a third child who may well have been born of another rape.
*
When I got back home from the bakery, Ana and I talked on the phone. She had spoken with Luiza and was angry. She accused me of not being a good partner. I tried to defend myself.
“You were the one who proposed the hookup,” I said.
“You were the one who sent Luiza to pick me up at the bar because I was feeling shy while you went to the bathroom,” I said.
“You were the one who spent the whole night telling me to fuck your friend,” I said.
“No one told me the threesome would be over in the morning,” I had the nerve to say.
“You can’t just toss a dick in the trash and expect it to come back by appointment,” I said, but I’m not sure I actually used that “dick in the trash” line at the time. I was drunk.
Ana listened in silence until she took a deep breath and replied,
“That’s all true, but you both knew I had to leave, and I hoped you would notice. And by the way, I hoped you, my boyfriend, would have some respect. And please, don’t come at me with a story like that. You didn’t do what you did because you were high. I don’t deserve that.”
*
My father is attracted to women. My father is attracted to masculine women.
Meu pai sente atração por mulheres com traços autoritários.
Meu pai se declara heterossexual. Meu pai, fosse perguntado o que faz dele heterossexual, diria, eu penso, que o que faz dele heterossexual é o desejo que ele, aos noventa, ainda sente pela minha mãe, trinta e cinco anos depois de ter sido colocado para fora de casa por ela.
Ana tinha razão. Eu não podia admitir, mas quando entrei no quarto, depois de me despedir dela no térreo, temi que Luiza estivesse se trocando para ir embora e fiquei feliz ao perceber que ela não tinha um caráter melhor que o meu, que continuava na cama. Fiquei feliz quando começamos a nos masturbar um para o outro e em seguida voltamos a transar. Fiquei feliz por termos transado por mais de uma hora até que, exaustos, cochilamos um pouco, antes de ela se levantar para tomar banho. Gostei de ficar a sós com Luiza. Gostei de dar a ela toalha e escova de dentes nova. Gostei de vê-la entrando no banho. Gostei de preparar o café, dividir um queijo quente, conversar e fumar com ela. Por mim, passaria o resto do dia com Luiza e à noite, quem sabe, encontraríamos Ana e os filhos dela para comer pizza. Não pode repetir, eu pensava. Se repetir, alguém vai acabar se apaixonando e vai dar merda. Não gosto de lembrar, mas foi Luiza quem percebeu primeiro que Ana havia saído, ao ouvirmos a porta do apartamento bater com força. Só depois chamei por Ana. Não gosto de admitir, mas só dei conta de ver as duas transando por que estava maluco. A verdade é que, não fosse o álcool, eu teria dado defeito já na sala de casa, antes mesmo de irmos para o quarto, quando percebi que Luiza tirou a calcinha da Ana. Teria dado defeito quando, mais tarde, Ana pediu para eu sair de dentro dela, porque queria sentir só Luiza chupando seu peito. Teria dado defeito quando me dei conta de que Ana falava o nome
My father is attracted to women with authoritarian traits.
My father identifies as heterosexual.
My father, when asked what makes him heterosexual, would say, I think, that what makes him heterosexual is the desire he—at ninety—still feels for my mother, thirtyfive years after she threw him out of the house. *
Ana had been right. I couldn’t admit it, but when I came back to the bedroom after saying goodbye to her downstairs, I was afraid that Luiza might be getting dressed to leave. I was happy to see that she was no more virtuous than I was––she was still in bed. I was happy when we started masturbating each other and then had sex again. I was happy we had sex for over an hour until, exhausted, we dozed off for a bit before she got up to take a shower. I liked being alone with Luiza. I liked giving her a towel and a new toothbrush. I liked watching her get into the shower. I liked making coffee, sharing a queijo quente, talking, and smoking with her. If it were up to me, I’d have spent the rest of the day with Luiza and in the evening, who knows, maybe we’d have met up with Ana and her kids to have pizza. It can’t happen again, I thought. If it happens again, someone’s going to end up falling in love and it’s going to go to shit. I don’t like thinking about it, but it was Luiza who first realized Ana had left when we heard the apartment door slam. Only then had I called out for Ana. I hate to admit it, but I now realize I was able to watch the two of them having sex only because I was drunk. The truth is, if it hadn’t been for the alcohol, I would’ve “malfunctioned” right there in the living room, before we even got to the bedroom, when I noticed Luiza taking off Ana’s panties. I would’ve malfunctioned later, when Ana asked me to pull out because she wanted to only feel Luiza sucking her breast. I would’ve malfunctioned when I realized Ana had been saying Luiza’s name the whole time—without
de Luiza o tempo todo, sem falar o meu uma única vez. Teria dado defeito logo na calçada em que Luiza nos encontrou, quando as duas começaram a se beijar enquanto eu parava um táxi para irmos até a minha casa. Não fosse o álcool, eu teria dado defeito naquela noite, assim como dei defeito todas as vezes, durante a minha relação com Ana, em que me dei conta de que os encontros com Luiza não eram sobre mim.
saying mine even once. I would’ve malfunctioned right there on the sidewalk where Luiza found us, when the two of them started kissing while I hailed a taxi to take us to my place. If it hadn’t been for the alcohol, I would’ve malfunctioned that night—the same way I malfunctioned every time during my relationship with Ana when I realized the encounters with Luiza weren’t ever really about me.
En mi traducción procuré ser lo más fiel posible, y buscar equivalencias a la mayor cantidad de hechos posibles, para conservar la esencia del texto a pesar de la diferencia idiomática. “All Black”, el primer capítulo del libro Sister Song, se ha transformado en uno de mis textos favoritos, no solo por la tensión constante que maneja, también su delicadeza al narrar la compleja situación de los personajes tras una pérdida y exponer cómo viven a pesar de ella, a través de los ojos de la narradora, todos los miembros de esta familia.
En su obra, Nandi Kiana logra transmitir el dolor de la pérdida sin caer en lo morboso, reflejando este “vacío” presente en el texto de forma poética y al mismo tiempo física, que arrastra al personaje de Louis hacia un dolor silencioso que, a pesar de no expresar con palabras, está reflejado en sus movimientos, en su presencia, que le recuerda constantemente a la narradora ese falta de la que no se habla. El color negro toma forma como recurso literario, cubriendo todo en este pesar y como se vive el duelo, trasformándolo en parte de la rutina cotidiana. Nandi logra, a través de la mirada de “Amaree” o solo “Maree” la completa carga emocional del duelo, no solo el propio, sino de su entorno, posicionando a la ausencia como una figura más en el texto, y la dificultad de superar este dolor reprimido para comenzar nuevamente.
La traducción fue compleja, tanto por la carga emocional del texto como por los diálogos e incluso de las expresiones propias del español al inglés. Inicialmente, utilicé un gran diccionario del inglés al español, y complicaba su función, pero con el paso del tiempo y al releer mi trabajo supe que no era suficiente. Debido a esto me permitió escuchar a mi alrededor, poniendo especial atención a niñas de la edad de la narradora del texto, que no utilizan un lenguaje formal,
para poder traducir de mejor manera las conversaciones de los personajes, e incluso su lenguaje corporal, que es de suma importancia para la narración del texto y mantener su mensaje. Además, decidí mantener el título en inglés, ya que “All Black” encierra diversos temas, tanto al ámbito cultural, comunitario, y referente al luto, debido a eso, no existe equivalente, al menos en Chile, para retratar todo lo que “All Black” representa. Temía cambiar demasiado y perder los simbolismos y la sutileza de la narración de Nandi. Pero finalmente comencé a explorar para hallar un punto medio entre el texto en inglés y lo que sería el texto en español.
Trabajar con Nandi, la escritora de “All Black” fue una experiencia nueva y gratificante, tanto por el interés de ambas de dar lo mejor de nosotras mismas para lograr que nuestros textos pudieran transmitir de la mejor manera la esencia del material original, coordinar nuestras reuniones e intentar darnos a entender al responder las preguntas de la otra acerca de los modismos y expresiones varias, y aprender que cosas funcionan al inglés o al español. Compartir esta experiencia con Nandi fue increíble y estimulante, no solo porque la admiro de sobremanera por como maneja su escritura, fue una compañera paciente, siempre dispuesta a resolver mis dudas, responsable y con la mejor disposición posible. Agradezco profundamente su interés en mi trabajo, me alegra que mi texto haya captado su interés y que le removiera tantas cosas como el suyo me provocó a mí.
Reitero lo agradecida que estoy por haber tenido esta oportunidad de trabajar en el área de la traducción, aprendí mucho al leer, escuchar y comprender cómo expresar la emoción y los simbolismos al traducir y utilizaré esta experiencia para seguir aprendiendo a traducir cada vez mejor.
Louis comes around on Sundays, and Mom says we still have to make him a plate. Then Daddy agrees. And I have to smile when I open the door and say, “Evening, Louis.”
And he’d say, “Evening, Maree.”
Louis is brown-skinned with freckles all across his cheeks and nose. And tall. Taller than Daddy, and definitely taller than Junior. But Louis has these dark, puffy circles under his eyes, and his shoulders drop when he kicks off his shoes. I close the screen door behind him, waiting for the slam before turning the lock.
“It smells good in here,” Louis adds, setting his sneakers by the wall.
“Yeah.” I reply.
It always smells good when Mom cooks, and Louis always says so. He rubs the back of his neck, and halfway smiles, but it’s really all teeth. Kima liked the way Louis smiled. She’d said so, looking up at the ceiling while she twirled a piece of hair around her finger. Now all he looks like is a kicked puppy. We walk down the main hallway, away from the closed doors Junior’s and my parent’s bedrooms, and straight towards the kitchen. Louis keeps his massive body to the left side, like before. We finally reach the corner where the bathroom lives on one side next to Kima’s room, and the living room on the other.
Louis stops and I keep going; his swinging right arm comes too close to the space between us and his elbow almost smacks my head.
Louis viene los domingos.
Mamá dice que tenemos que darle un plato de comida, papá está de acuerdo, así que tengo que sonreír cuando abro la puerta y decir “¿Qué tal, Louis?” para que él responda “Hola, Maree.”
Louis es moreno, y tiene las mejillas y nariz llenas de pecas. Es alto, más alto que papá, y mucho más alto que Junior, pero Louis tiene esas oscuras e hinchadas ojeras bajo sus ojos y deja caer sus hombros cuando se quita los zapatos. Cierro la mosquitera tras él, esperando por el portazo antes de ponerle el pestillo a la puerta.
“Huele rico” dice Louis, dejando sus zapatillas contra la pared.
“Mmm… sí” le contestó. Siempre huele bien cuando mamá cocina, Louis siempre lo dice. Se toca la parte de atrás de su cuello con una sonrisa a medias, pero que aun así muestra todos sus dientes.
A Kima le gustaba la forma en que Louis sonreía, había dicho eso mientras enredaba un mechón de pelo alrededor de su dedo. Ahora, él se ve como un perro mojado.
Caminamos a través del pasillo principal, lejos de la habitación de Junior y mis papás, derecho a la cocina. Como antes, Louis inclina su enorme cuerpo a la izquierda, hasta que alcanzamos la esquina donde está el baño, al lado de la habitación de Kima, con el living al otro lado.
Louis para, y yo sigo caminando, su brazo derecho se balancea entre nosotros, y su codo casi me pega en la cabeza.
“¡Perdón, yo…!” él alza la voz, pero no puede terminar, salta hacia atrás y su hombro se desliza por la pared, intentando escapar. Pero Louis se tropieza intentando enderezarse, uno de sus pies se enreda con el otro, mientras que con sus brazos, trata de mantener
“Sorry! I––” He cries.
Louis doesn’t get to finish because he jerks backwards, his other shoulder skidding against the wall. His escape. But Louis stumbles to catch himself, one big foot running into the other big foot while his arms try to keep steady. I hold onto his elbow, but Louis is too heavy, and I end up on my tippy-toes.
“You’re gonna make us fall like this,” I squeeze out. My feet are starting to get tired.
I pull on his elbow again, and this time Louis sets himself straight, bowing his head and wincing. I bounce backwards, gripping Louis’s sleeve tighter so I don’t hit the ground in my own house. He holds me up this time.
“Sorry, Maree! Are you okay?” Louis asks.
I crinkle my nose at him, snatching my hand away.
“I’m fine.”
Louis drags behind me once we pass the corner. He goes to the bathroom, I cut through the living room to the kitchen.
Mom’s already set both our plates out. Louis’s has a fat chicken thigh and drumstick to go with his yellow rice and greens. And a glass of water from one of Daddy’s good glasses, too. The ones with his name on it, written in little white cursive on the side. I slide into my seat where my plate sits, in between Mom’s chair, an empty chair, and me.
The empty is everywhere.
“Girl, you wore that shirt last week,” Mom whispers after checking the hallway for Louis,
“He’ll think we don’t buy you no clothes around here!”
I look down at my shirt. Black, with little white flowers sewn on. And my pants, black, kind of faded on my right knee more than my left one. I swallow a forkful of rice before Louis comes back and Mom can’t talk about it anymore.
“Thank you for this, Mom, really.”
Louis calls my mom his mom, and it is the only word he gets all shaky about. His hands shake, his voice
el equilibrio. Trato de sostenerlo por el codo, pero Louis es muy pesado y término de puntillas.
“Vas a hacer que nos caigamos” Digo, con la voz apretada.
Mis pies empiezan a cansarse, así que tiro de su codo otra vez, y Louis por fin se endereza, arqueando su cabeza y haciendo una mueca. Caigo hacia atrás, agarrando la manga de Louis para no pegarme con el suelo de mi casa, y ahora él me sostiene.
“¡Perdón! ¿Estás bien, Maree?” pregunta Louis, yo arrugo la nariz y le quito la mano de mi brazo.
“Estoy bien.”
Louis se arrastra detrás de mí cuando pasamos la esquina, va hacia el baño y yo cruzo por el living hacia la cocina. Mamá ya puso los platos, el de Louis tiene gran muslo de pollo, arroz amarillo con verduras, y el vaso es uno de los más finos de papá, uno con su nombre escrito con letra blanca en cursiva al costado.
Me deslizo hacia mi asiento, donde está mi plato, entre la silla de mamá y una vacía.
El vacío está por todas partes.
“Usaste esa polera la semana pasada” mamá me susurra después de mirar hacia el pasillo buscando a Louis.
“Va a pensar que no te compramos ropa”
Miro mi polera, negra con florecitas blancas bordadas, y mis pantalones, negros con la rodilla derecha más descolorida que la izquierda, y me trago el tenedor lleno de arroz antes que Louis llegue, y mamá ya no puede hablar más de eso.
“De verdad, gracias por esto, mamá” Louis le dice mamá a mi mamá, y es la única palabra que lo hace temblar, dejando su voz y sus manos tiritando. Pero cuando la llama “mamá” ninguno de
shakes, but when Louis says Mom, neither of us tell him not to. So he says it, and Mom squeezes his arms when he comes up to her. Louis makes our kitchen look smaller with him and Mom in it. His shoulders droop even more with her, hunching down to reach her better. Mom’s forehead stops right at Louis’s chest, and still, he bows his head to her.
And she eats it up from the kitchen counter, leaning over her own plate by the sink.
“You know you’re welcome anytime, love. You must get tired of sandwiches.” Mom tells him.
Louis nods and hums a little response. Now that he’s closer, a seat away from me, I see the sweat start at his hairline. He keeps it short and faded, but Louis’s forehead is shiny under the light.
“I try to mix it up, but cold cuts aren’t the same. Not like your food, Mom,” he says.
I wonder if Louis’s mom knows he calls my mom his mom.
“And my baby can cook, can’t she, boy!”
Daddy’s voice rolls in from the front hallway, his keys jiggling with the lock. Louis perks up, leaning in to hear Daddy’s footsteps come closer and closer. I do, too.
By the time he hits the living room, his oil-stained work shirt is already coming off, leaving a white undershirt underneath. His uniform has his name patch in little red cursive.
“What up, family?” Daddy says, hugging Mom from her spot by the sink. She smiles while she scrubs a dirty spatula clean.
“Booker, if you don’t get that nasty ass shirt out my kitchen.”
Usually, Daddy tosses his dirty shirts after he gets through the door, but sometimes like this time, he goes straight to Mom instead. They fit together, all lovey dovey.
“Can I be with my woman in peace?” he asks, tucking his work shirt in his back pocket before nuzzling
nosotros lo corrige, así que él solo lo dice y mamá le aprieta el brazo cuando se acerca a ella.
Louis hace que la cocina se vea más pequeña con él y mamá dentro, sus hombros se caen todavía más cuando está con ella, y se encorva para ponerse a su altura. La frente de mamá le llega justo a la mejilla de Louis, pero de todas maneras él se agacha.
Mamá come sobre la encimera de la cocina, inclinada hacia el lavaplatos.
“Sabes que puedes venir cuando quieras, mi amor. Debes estar cansado de tanto sandwich” dice mamá, y Louis asiente, murmurando una respuesta.
Ahora está más cerca, a un asiento de mí, y veo el sudor bajándole desde el pelo hasta la frente. Louis mantiene su pelo corto, y desteñido, pero su frente brilla bajo el sol.
“Trato de ir variando, pero las vienesas no se comparan con tu comida, mamá” le dice él. Me pregunto si la mamá de Louis sabe que le dice mamá a mi mamá.
“¿Y mi amor puede o puede cocinar, niño?” La voz de mi papá llega por el pasillo, girando las llaves en la cerradura. Louis se levanta, asomándose cuando escucha los pasos de papá cada vez más cerca, y yo también lo hago.
Cuando entra a la sala, papá se está sacando su camisa manchada de aceite, dejando solo su polera blanca, su uniforme tiene su nombre bordado en un parche, con letras rojas en cursiva.
“¿Qué paso, gente?” dice papá mientras abraza a mamá, aún parada junto al lavaplatos, mientras ella sonríe, escobillando una espátula sucia.
“Booker, si no sacas esa camisa asquerosa de mi cocina…” Papá, apenas pasa por la puerta, tira sus camisas sucias al lavado, pero otras veces, como hoy, va directo con mamá.
“¿Puedo estar con mi mujer en paz?” dice, metiéndose su camisa
deeper into Mom’s neck.
“Thank you, Booker,” Mom replies, leaning on him. They never keep the touchy-feely to themselves. Like never. That must be why Louis watches them and he looks sick, worse than in the hallway.
“Good to see you, sir!” He says, meeting Daddy’s eyes. They nod at each other, and the coast is clear to speak. But when Daddy sees Louis and me at the table, he lands on another empty chair. Junior’s. Junior barely eats dinner at the table with the rest of us anymore since he got a summer job downtown.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Hey, kid…”
Daddy is talking to me, but he keeps frowning at Junior’s empty chair. Mom, psychic in all things, answers the question Daddy doesn’t ask.
“He’s at a friend’s tonight, babe,” she tells him. Daddy huffs and lets go of her, leaving the kitchen towards the table. Daddy daps Louis up since he’s closer.
“You look good, man. Eat up!”
Louis scarfs down rice by the mouthful in between bites of chicken. I didn’t know how he could be so skinny all the time and eat like that.
“I couldn’t never get away from the dinner table like that! We had to…”
Daddy continues on about Junior’s missing butt in his empty chair as he heads back to the kitchen for the plate Mom makes for him.
But Junior’s empty is not the same as Kima’s. Empty is the chair in the middle of me and Louis. So empty I stare at it, then through it. My fork scrapes across my plate when I see Louis looking at me in his Louis way.
It doesn’t last. It doesn’t last because Louis goes back to eating, clearing the rest of his greens and chicken. He doesn’t like looking at me. My eyes and nose and cheekbones were Kima’s before they were mine, and Mom’s before they were Kima’s. Louis doesn’t like
de trabajo en el bolsillo trasero, antes de acurrucarse aún más en el cuello de mamá.
“Gracias, Booker” responde ella, apoyándose en él.
Nunca dejan de mostrarse amor, nunca. Debe ser por eso que a Louis le da nervios cuando los ve, y siente más vértigo que cuando estaba en el pasillo.
“Que bueno verlo, señor” dice él, mirando a papá a los ojos. Se saludan asistiendo con la cabeza y ya reina la calma. Hasta que papá nos ve a Louis y a mí en la mesa, y su mirada se fija en otra silla vacía, la de Junior.
Junior apenas cena con nosotros desde que encontró un trabajo de verano en el centro.
“Hola papá”
“Hola enana” Papá me habla, pero sigue mirando fijamente la silla vacía de Junior, con su frente arrugada. Pero mamá, que todo lo sabe, responde la pregunta silenciosa de papá.
“Va a quedarse en la casa de un amigo hoy en la noche, amor.” dice ella. Papá suspira fuerte, y la suelta, saliendo de la cocina hacia la mesa. Y como Louis está cerca, papá se le acerca.
“Te ves bien” lo felicita “¡Come, hombre!” agrega, y Louis devora el arroz con el pollo. No sé cómo puede ser tan flaco y comer así.
“Yo jamás hubiera podido faltar a la comida así como así. Nosotros teníamos que…” Papá no deja de hablar de la desaparición de Junior con su silla vacía, mientras vuelve a la cocina, a buscar el plato que le hizo mamá.
Pero la ausencia de Junior no es igual a la de Kima.
La silla entre Louis y yo está vacía, tan vacía que podría atravesarla con la mirada. Y arrastro mi tenedor por el plato al darme cuenta
looking at Mom, either.
He finishes his food before I do, before anyone, really. First in, first out I guess. But Mom’s already packed our leftovers for him. Two full tupperware containers inside a plastic bag wait on the counter next to Daddy. Louis dumps the bones in the trash and his empty plate and glass in the sink, scrubbing the evidence clean. The dishes sit on the dishrack as Louis wipes his hands dry.
“See y’all next week,” he adds.
“Goodnight, brotha,” Daddy echoes.
Louis nods at him again. He holds the leftover bag from the bottom, his one hand is big enough to carry the whole thing. He fixes his lips to say thank you, but Mom holds out a hand to stop him.
“Don’t you worry about this. Have a good night.”
Mom is sweet with Louis. She hugs him goodbye and her eyes promise another Sunday as she walks him to our front door. Louis gives us all our goodbyes, but I take a big bite, too much to swallow at once. I drink some water to help it go down, but by that time, Louis is already gone. Our house feels bigger already.
Daddy nudges my arm the second the screen door slams.
“All black still?”
He laughs at my scowl, pieces of rice sticking to his bottom lip while others fly back down to the rice pile already on his plate. I look down again, at my all black clothes. I see some rice on my pants legs, and it’s already starting to stain yellow. But that could be washed, and the smudge would go away. The thing about black clothes is that they go with everything, and I never go out looking crazy. Daddy stopped wearing black after a month, but he has work clothes so he doesn’t count.
Junior wears one of Kima’s necklaces or her bracelets almost every day, but not black. Mom…Mom stopped wearing black after the funeral.
“I told her I’m throwing all that away when I find one of them bins!”
Mom reappears in the doorway with her arms folded
de que Louis me mira de esa forma. Pero no dura, porque Louis vuelve a comer, limpiando los restos de verdura y pollo. A él no le gusta mirarme, porque mis ojos, mi nariz, mis pómulos, antes de ser míos, fueron de Kima, y primero fueron de mamá.
A Louis no le gusta mirar a mamá tampoco.
Él termina antes que yo, antes que todos, supongo que el primero que se sienta es el primero que se va. Pero mamá ya guardó algunos restos para él, dos cajas llenas dentro de una bolsa plástica sobre el mesón junto a papá, esperando. Louis tira los huesos al basurero, y el plato y el vaso en el lavaplatos, borrando sus huellas.
Los platos se quedan en el escurridor mientras Louis se seca las manos.
“Nos vemos la otra semana” agrega.
“Buenas noches, hermano” responde papá.
Louis asiente otra vez, y sostiene la bolsa de las sobras por abajo con una mano, pero una sola es suficiente para llevar todo. Él aprieta sus labios, preparándose para decir gracias, pero mamá levanta su mano para detenerlo.
“No te preocupes, por eso. Buenas noches.” Mamá es dulce con Louis, lo abraza, prometiéndole otro Domingo como este mientras lo acompaña a la puerta.
Louis se despide de todos, pero yo me lleno la boca de comida, demasiada para tragar de una cucharada. Tomo un poco de agua para que baje, pero en ese momento Louis ya se ha ido. Y nuestra casa se siente más grande.
Cuando la puerta se cierra, papá me da un codazo en el brazo.
“¿Todavía de negro?” él se ríe cuando arrugo la frente, unos granos de arroz se quedan pegados en su labio inferior, mientras los otros vuelan a su plato.
Vuelvo a mirar mi ropa negra, y veo un poco de arroz en las piernas
across her chest and lips pursed together. I don’t have it in me to scowl at her when she is looking at me like that. Not even Daddy would’ve tried it.
Mom threatens to pack all my black clothes into her car and drive around until she finds a donation bin, but she’ll never find one in time. Mom doesn’t know I have better hiding spots than she does. And Junior washes his own clothes now, and I could get him to teach me how to do mine, too. Junior had better help. If I wash my clothes, Mom couldn’t touch them, couldn’t take them. No clothes means no bin and no bin means they stay all mine.
“I’m so seri—”
My plan and Mom’s voice stop at a loud honk from outside. Then another honk sounds. Daddy hurries to the front door, sweeping Mom behind him. I get up too, but Daddy puts out a hand and I freeze. The honks go on. Lights, porch lights, kitchen lights all switch on, stretching down the block to join the streetlights.
Even Mrs. Martin comes down the steps of her townhouse three houses down.
“Some people got work in the morning!” she calls, pulling her robe tighter. Pink curlers peek out from her headscarf and wiggle some when her chin moves up and down.
Voices get louder, but I can’t see anything past Mrs. Martin with my parents in the way. So I take off down the opposite end of the hall, where their bedroom window can see all the way down to Magnolia Shores Apartments, its side face busy with people coming and going in the dark.
I see the red flash of car lights next door. Not a car, but a truck parked half on the curb, half in the street. It’s sideways, cutting through one full lane and Miss Vera’s driveway. There’s no smoke or panic, but passing cars honk and curse at the driver, a dark-skinned woman I have never seen before. The good drivers squeeze past and keep going when they can, others just quit and turn around.
de mi pantalón, que ya empieza a manchar la tela de amarillo. Pero eso puede lavarse, y la mancha desaparecerá. Lo que pasa es que la ropa negra combina con todo, y así no parezco una loca cuando salgo a la calle.
Papá dejó de usar ropa negra hace un mes, pero usa un uniforme, así que no cuenta. Y Junior no usa nada negro, solo se pone los collares o las pulseras de Kima, casi todo el tiempo.
Y mamá…
Mamá dejó de ponerse negro después del funeral.
“¡Te dije que te voy a regalarla toda cuando encuentre alguien que me la reciba!”
Mamá amenaza con tomar toda mi ropa negra, subirla al auto y manejar hasta llegar a algún lado hasta encontrar donde pueda donarla. Pero no va a encontrar mi ropa, tengo buenos lugares para esconderla. Y ahora Junior lava su ropa, podría pedirle que me enseñe, y más le vale que me ayude. Pero si yo lavara mi ropa, mamá no va a poder quitármela y donarla, va a seguir siendo mía.
“Estoy hablando enser…” Mi plan y la voz de mamá se detienen con un bocinazo afuera, y después vinieron más. Papá se levanta y corre hacia la puerta, con mamá siguiéndolo detrás. Yo también me levanto, pero papá me frena con una mano.
Los bocinazos siguen, las luces de la entrada y de la cocina se encendieron, multiplicándose a lo largo de la cuadra para finalmente unirse a la luz de la calle. Incluso la señora Martin sale de su casa, dos calles más abajo.
“¡Hay gente que trabaja mañana!”, grita mientras se arregla la bata, con los tubos rosados saliéndose del pañuelo en su pelo, y se mueven más cuando gira la cabeza.
Las voces suenan más fuerte, pero no veo nada más que la señora Martin con mis papás entremedio, así que salgo, cruzando el
The longer I look, I realize it is Miss Vera’s truck, the one she’s not allowed to drive anymore. Miss Vera is standing outside the front door of her two-story duplex, wiping her glasses with her shirt.
“Park! Park!” Miss Vera cries out once she sets her glasses on her face, and sees the crazy parked car, asking to get hit. It was completely sideways, taking up both sides of the street with no way out. Miss Vera is the only white lady in Magnolia Shores besides the few in the apartments. And she is ancient. Daddy says Miss Vera has been here since before he was born, after coming all the way from Russia. Only one of her three sons even lives nearby.
“Sorry! I learned on the right!” The woman in the truck hollers, loud, but still lively and sweet sounding. Not from here, though. Not at all. The truck jerks to a stop at an angle this time, and the woman slowly waddles out. She’s big and pregnant, almost ready to pop. And there’s someone else, too. A tall, slim girl with a short afro, her forehead wrapped in a colorful cloth.
Her high, elegant cheekbones and full lips are almost identical to the woman’s.
“Maree!” Mom calls from the front door, “I know you ain’t on the bed I just made!”
“No!”
I scramble off the bed, my hands and knees denting the fabric as I go. Mom calls my name again and I’m back in the hallway, speeding towards her. Daddy raises an eyebrow at me and Mom fixes my shirt. I don’t like the look in her eye while she smooths down her own flyaways in one hand, and takes Daddy’s in the other.
“Let’s go introduce ourselves!”
Absolutely not. Miss Vera and this woman and Mom would talk forever. I wish Junior were here to talk her out of it and deal with them in the morning.
“I thought you said I couldn’t wear black anymore. I can’t meet strangers in it.”
It’s a good try. Daddy smiles. Mom bunches her lips together so all I can see are slivers of her front four
pasillo hasta la habitación de mis papás. Desde su ventana, uno alcanza a ver hasta los departamentos de Magnolia Shorts, y en la oscuridad, la gente viene y va, pasando frente a la fachada de los departamentos.
Veo parpadear las luces rojas del vehículo de al lado, no un auto, una camioneta, estacionada a medias en la vereda y el resto en la calle. Está de lado, atravesando una pista completa y la entrada de la señora Vera. No hay gritos ni humo, pero algunos pasan y tocan la bocina, y putean a una mujer morena que nunca he visto antes, otros pasan como pueden para seguir, y los demás solo se dan media vuelta.
Cuanto más la miro, me doy cuenta de que esa es la camioneta de la señora Vera, la que ya no le dejan manejar, y ella está ahí, parada frente a su casa mientras se limpia los lentes con la blusa.
“¡Estaciona, estaciona!” grita cuando se pone los lentes y ve la camioneta tapando los dos lados de la calle sin salida, rogando que la choquen.
La señora Vera es la única mujer blanca en Magnolia Shores, además de las pocas que viven en los departamentos, y es muy vieja. Papá dice que está aquí desde mucho antes de que él naciera, después de salir de Rusia, y solo uno de sus hijos vive cerca.
“¡Perdón! ¡Es que aprendí por la derecha!” grita con fuerza la mujer en la camioneta, que, aunque suena simpática, es obvio que no es de aquí. Ella detiene el auto bruscamente, ahora bien estacionado, y sale con lentitud. Es enorme, tan embarazada que pareciera que va a estallar.
Pero entonces veo que hay alguien más en el auto. Una niña alta, delgada, con un afro corto, y con un pañuelo de colores atado en la frente, con pómulos, firmes y elegantes, y labios gruesos, casi iguales a los de la mujer.
“¡Maree!” grita mamá desde la entrada “¡Sé que no estás en la cama que hice recién!”
teeth.
“Amaree Jaylene, girl, if you don’t fix your face. They look like new neighbors and we’ll treat them like some, you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mom softens just a little. Daddy rubs her shoulders like a traitor instead of saying I can go to my room now.
“It looks like her daughter’s with her, and it’ll be nice to meet her. Now come on.”
I look away for my health, lagging behind my parents as they walk hand in hand towards the new people.
“¡No!” me muevo de la cama, dejando las manos y las rodillas marcadas cuando me paro. Mamá me llama de nuevo, y yo corro de vuelta al pasillo, hacia ella.
Al llegar, papá me mira, levantando una ceja, mientras que mamá arregla mi polera, aunque no me gusta ni un poco su mirada cuando ella arregla la suya, dándole la mano a papá.
“Vamos a saludarlos”
No, no, no. La señora Vera y esa mujer podrían quedarse hablando toda la vida con mamá, ojalá Junior estuviera aquí para convencerla de que no lo haga y conocerlas mañana en la mañana.
“Pensé que habías dicho que no podía ponerme ropa negra. No puedo conocer a nadie así”
Lo intento, pero papá solo sonríe, mientras que mamá aprieta los labios, dejando ver un poco de sus dientes delanteros.
“Amaree Jaylene, cámbiame esa cara. Parece que son nuevas vecinas y vamos a recibirlas bien. ¿Me escuchaste?”
“Sí, señora”
Mamá se calma un poco, y papá, como un traidor, le soba los hombros en lugar de decirme que puedo irme a mi habitación.
“Parece que su hija está con ella y sería bueno conocerla ¿o no? Ya, no te pongas así.”
Por mi bien, miro hacia el otro lado, quedándome atrás de mis padres mientras ellos caminan de la mano hacia esas nuevas personas.
Empty Shell is a short story that takes advantage of the quiet, crafting a surrealist portrait of the female body and Chilean young womanhood during a medical abortion. The seriousness of the subject matter and the bittersweet, elevated language all depended on capturing the tone of María José García’s words. Tone, more than anything, governed the heart of this piece. María José García is an emerging multi-hyphenate poet, author, and screenwriter at Universidad Diego Portales, where she is currently pursuing an MFA degree. As a work of translation, maintaining the sense of desolation and decay that seems to linger over the narrative was key to honoring a fragility and weariness the narrator lives through. Empty Shell investigates a young woman’s unfiltered view of herself, to access a voice that has been pushed to the margins. To translate this voice was to widen its scope, and share the visceral, unflinching reality stamped into the prose, and anchor an English speaking audience into the world of that voice.
La fría lluvia se filtraba silenciosamente en la casa a través de las grietas en el techo, recorriendo un largo camino hasta caer abruptamente sobre el suelo de madera, que se hinchaba a medida que las gotas se convirtieron en charcos, dispersos por todo el lugar.
La tela desgastada de los desteñidos cojines del sillón verde comenzaba a mojarse, adquiriendo un tono aún más oscuro, con el relleno sobresaliendo a través de los múltiples agujeros. A pesar de su evidente deterioro, Macaria no estaba dispuesta a reemplazarlo por uno nuevo, las diversas marcas de cigarrillo, maquillaje y tierra, junto a otras manchas de las cuales desconocía su procedencia, lograban hacerla añorar el pasado con fuerza.
Mientras el sol permanecía oculto por los cúmulos de nubes grises, el cansado cuerpo tiritaba sin cesar bajo un ligero chaleco de algodón descosido en los bordes, que no brindaba protección suficiente ante la corriente de aire que se colaba por la puerta. Su piel se erizaba mientras caía en el sillón bruscamente, entre pequeños sollozos, sin preocuparse en absoluto por el nauseabundo y penetrante olor a humedad de lo que alguna vez fue dulce aroma floral del suave terciopelo.
Mantuvo abiertos sus ojos cafés, enmarcados por ojeras violetas, con la mirada fija en la ventana, observando como el viento azotaba brutalmente los bellos árboles verdes, que se resistieron a doblegarse, mientras respiraba erráticamente.
En un desesperado intento por mantener su mente clara y resistir al cruel frío primaveral, Macaria se abrazó a sí
translated from the spanish by
NANDI KIANA
The cold rain filtered quietly into the house. Cracks in the roof traveled a long path before falling down abruptly onto the wooden floor—which swelled to the extent that the drops themselves became puddles, scattered everywhere.
The worn fabric of the faded green armchair cushions began to get wet, acquiring an even darker tone; the stuffing was sticking out of multiple tears. Macaria was not willing to exchange it for a new one, in spite of the obvious deterioration. In spite of its various cigarette burns, makeup and dust, and other stains, whose origin she did not know. The stains managed to make her deeply long for her past.
The sun stayed hidden by cumulus grey clouds; frayed at the edges, her tired body shivered ceaselessly. It couldn’t provide enough protection against the draft passing through the door. Her skin got goosebumps. She suddenly fell back on the armchair, between little sobs. Unbothered by an utterly nauseating, penetrating must—once the smell of the sweet floral aroma of a soft terciopelo plant.
She kept her coffee colored eyes—framed by purple bags—open, her gaze fixed on the window. She was observing how the wind whipped the beautiful green trees brutally. They resisted, never yielding. Macaria breathed erratically.
In a desperate attempt to keep her mind clear, and resist the cruel spring chill, Macaria hugged herself tightly, head lowered, to hide her sorrow. To distance
misma con fuerza, con la cabeza baja para esconder su aflicción. Y para alejarse de una angustia inmovilizadora, se clavó las uñas disparejas en la tierna carne de los brazos, deteniéndose cuando el dolor era insoportable. Pero la histeria comenzaba a dominarla, hubo momentos en los que no pudo controlarse, manchando sus piernas y los cojines con débiles hilos rojo oscuro.
Su cabeza comenzaba a palpitar a un ritmo aún más acelerado que el propio corazón, el sudor caía por su piel sangrante, estallando mientras las preguntas no paraban de acosarla, secando su boca, que ansiaba gritar por la angustia, pero que no podía, debido a que se encontraba frente a un peligroso abismo, a tan solo unos pasos de romper la delicada imagen de sí misma que había forjado con el pasar de los años.
¿En qué momento se había destrozado todo?
El punzante escozor que invadía el estómago de Macaria era insoportable, se retorció lentamente con los ojos rojos, impregnados de dolor y rabia, mientras los gritos que había retenido por tanto tiempo se adueñaron de la maltrecha casa. Jamás podría quererle, cada parte de ella le rechazaba, deseaba profundamente escapar, pero esa cosa la seguiría donde fuera, comenzando a crecer, expandiéndose lentamente hasta que cada parte de su cuerpo estuviera esclavizada, sin posibilidad de volver atrás. Necesitaba algo para arrancar de su agitado cuerpo esa cosa que se había adherido a ella y que no le pertenecía, esa masa palpitante que si continuaba en su vientre la desgarraría completamente, dando paso a un monstruo dominado por el resentimiento y el asco. Estaba dispuesta a arriesgar todo lo que poseía, antes de convertirse en un cascarón vacío, condenado a extrañar sus posibilidades de vida, observando a la miseria, consumirla con lentitud hasta devorarla, incapaz de hacer algo si esa cosa se incrustaba de forma permanente en su útero.
herself from a paralyzing anguish, her lopsided nails sinking into the tender flesh of her arms, stopping when the pain became unbearable. The hysteria started to dominate; there were moments she wasn’t able to control herself, staining her legs and pillows with faint, dark red trickles.
Her head started to throb at a rhythm even more accelerated than her own heart, sweat flowed down her bloody skin, bursting. Her dry mouth, eager to yell in anguish, wasn’t able to. All the while, questions hounded her. Macaria found herself before a dangerous abyss, steps from breaking the delicate image of herself that she had forged in her past.
At what moment had she ruined everything?
The sharp stabbing that invaded Macaria’s stomach was unbearable; she writhed slowly, eyes red and full of pain, of rage. The screams she held back for so long took over her battered dwelling. She could never love it; every part of her rejected it. She wanted to escape, profoundly, but that thing would follow her anywhere— she was starting to believe so, spreading slowly until each part of her body was enslaved, without the possibility of turning back. She needed something to root out that thing which didn’t belong, that had stuck to her agitated body. A palpitating mass that would tear her apart completely if it stayed in her belly, giving way to a monster, dominated by resentment and disgust. She was willing to risk all she possessed rather than turn into an empty shell, condemned to miss out on her life, her possibilities. She would observe the misery consuming her—slowly, until it devoured her. Because of the thing that permanently embedded itself in her uterus, she was unable to do anything.
Without taking her eyes off the kitchen, Macaria began to yield to a constant dizziness, supporting her
Comenzaba a ceder ante los constantes mareos, apoyando su cabeza en el respaldo del sillón sin despegar los ojos de la cocina, donde las pastillas amarillentas descansaban en un plato sobre la mesa, en lugar de cualquier comida.
Esperaban realizar su entrada a la boca de Macaria, traspasando su inflamada garganta hacia su estómago, y solo sería cuestión de tiempo para que realizaran su labor, liberando su cuerpo del servicio eterno.
La decisión estaba clara, debía enclaustrarse en su propia soledad, alejarse de los ojos del mundo para ejecutar su cometido, ignorando las advertencias de aquel extraño, que entregó el medicamento con una mirada de lástima, sobre la necesidad de compañía para sostener sus manos temblorosas y limpiar el sudor de su frente cuando la sustancia se disolviera hasta alcanzar el torrente sanguíneo.
Con los ojos hinchados, Macaria observó a su alrededor, durante un instante, la desolada casa, la fruta que comenzaba a pudrirse y una pequeña planta sin hojas eran los únicos espectadores de su tormento, la recibían en silencio, sin caricias ni el calor que ansiaba desesperadamente. El agua sucia del techo intentaba limpiarla y suplir las caricias ausentes, dejando una sensación de vacío acrecentada por el frío de las gotas. Acompañada solo por el sonido de la lluvia golpeando los vidrios de la ventana, se levantó sin ánimos de caminar, forzando sus pasos a la cocina, desprovista de alimentos en buen estado, parándose frente a la mesa con pequeñas migajas de pan y una olvidada taza de café con una espesa capa de hongos verdes, que Macaria desechaba con rapidez, junto con el líquido oscuro por el desagüe del lavaplatos, con ansias de deshacerse de ese pequeño ecosistema putrefacto.
Tomó las pastillas del trizado plato con cansancio y sus lastimados pies recorrieron el pasillo mojado hasta el estrecho y descuidado baño con la pintura blanca
head on the back of the armchair. Instead of any food on the countertop, the yellowish pills rested on a plate instead, waiting to get into Macaria’s mouth: passing through her inflamed throat, towards her stomach.
It was only a matter of time before they carried out their task, freeing her body from its eternal service.
The decision was clear. She should close herself in her own solitude, to get away from the eyes of the world, to carry out her task, ignoring the warnings of that stranger who gave her the medication with a pitiful look. About the need for company to hold her trembling hands and wipe the sweat from her forehead when the substance inevitably dissolved into her bloodstream. With swollen eyes, Macaria looked at her surroundings. For an instant, the desolate house—the fruit that had started to rot, and the little leafless plant were the only spectators to her torment. They greeted her in silence, without the touch or warmth she desperately yearned for. The dirty ceiling water tried to cleanse her and replace that touch—leaving an empty sensation, heightened by the cold droplets.
Accompanied only by the sound of the rain beating on the window panes, she got up with no desire to walk. Forcing her way into the kitchen, which was devoid of any edible food. Standing in front of the table, some breadcrumbs and a forgotten coffee cup that had a thick layer of green mold. Macaria quickly threw the dark liquid down the drain, eager to rid herself of that putrid ecosystem.
Exhausted, she took the pills from the chipped plate. Her sore feet went down the wet hallway to the narrow, messy bathroom. Peeling white paint left behind little fragments covering the tiled floor, and the large mirror resting on the wall.
descascarada, dejando atrás pequeños fragmentos que cubrían las baldosas, y un gran espejo reposando en la pared. Macaria observó el reflejo de su figura temblorosa, con los ojos oscuros fijos en su estómago, oculto por una gran camiseta negra que se negaba a levantar, temerosa de ver una curvatura en el lugar donde esa amenazante masa reposaba, aguardando el momento preciso para destruir cada parte de su ser.
Desconocía el rostro pálido que le devolvía la mirada, con un enfermizo tono amarillento y una expresión de aflicción, sus brazos ensangrentados extrañaban un cálido toque que jamás volvería. Obligada a continuar, sumergida en una soledad absoluta, abrió su puño con cuidado con las pastillas descansando en la palma de su mano, y al llevarlas a su boca tres cápsulas diminutas se posaron sobre su lengua, un gusto amargo la invadió mientras los comprimidos se deslizaban con dificultad por su tráquea. Las ansias por vomitar la invadieron, pero su respiración la forzó a calmarse, limpiando con rudeza las lágrimas, dominadas por el miedo al incierto futuro que la aguardaba, pero todo valdría la pena cuando esa palpitante masa abandonara su cuerpo. Y cuando las pastillas se disolvieron, se dio cuenta que al fin podía sentir calor.
Macaria observed the reflection of her trembling figure, her dark eyes fixed on her stomach—hidden by a big black t-shirt she refused to lift. Scared, to see a curve in the place where that threatening mass rested, waiting for the exact moment to destroy every part of her being.
She didn’t recognize the pale face looking back at her, with its sickly yellow hue and a sorrowful expression. Her bloodstained arms longed for a warm touch that would never be returned. Forced to continue, submerged in absolute solitude, she carefully opened her fist. With the pills resting in the palm of her hand, she brought the three tiny capsules to her mouth. They settled on her tongue. A difficult, bitter taste overwhelmed her as they slipped down her throat.
The urge to vomit invaded her senses, but her breathing calmed her down. Roughly wiping tears, dominated by the fear of the uncertain future awaiting her.
It would all be worth it when that throbbing mass left her body. And when the pills dissolved, she realized she could finally feel warmth.
Mia O´Neill es una escritora viviendo en la ciudad de Nueva York. Su trabajo ha aparecido en la revista Narrative y otras publicaciones. Originaria de Virginia, ella actualmente cursa una maestría en Bellas Artes en ficción en la universidad de Columbia. Cuando recibí su texto por primera vez siempre tuve la intención que en la traducción debe mantener una atmósfera lo más cercana al texto original. Quiero que el lector sienta al texto muy cercano a su realidad aunque en un idioma distinto. Para ello tuve que poner atención al vocabulario y particularidades de cada cultura para negociar el lugar desde el cual va hablar la traducción. El cuento es poético y creativo, con descripciones de paisajes que me tuvieron un largo tiempo pensando sobre cómo lo diría en mi idioma, cómo traducir su prosa. Me encantó.
En su obra, Mia O´Neill, puede reflejar el paso desde la adolescencia a la adultez, cómo la inocencia se quiebra en nuestro enfrentamiento hacia la vida, cómo los recuerdos nos reconfortan sobre lo que fue el pasado y cómo es nuestro lugar de protección, que reposa sobre una ilusión de nuestras memorias. Mia logra conectarnos con lo que fue nuestra transición, a través de sus diálogos, personajes y su relación poética con el paisaje. Destaco su maravillosa prosa que logra asemejar la sensación de los lugares que nos muestra en su obra.
Uno de mis mayores desafíos fue cómo traducir su narración descriptiva, cómo Mia O’Neill logra encarnar la sensación de un atardecer. Para ayudarme acudí a la poesía chilena, porque tenía que encontrar una sensibilidad equivalente en un lenguaje local. Utilice a Jorge Teillier para poder guiarme, su poesía me ayudó a inspirarme y traducir la descripción para encajarla con
nuestro paisaje.
Trabajar con ella fue una experiencia nueva, tener que estar atenta a nuestros horarios para coincidir, revisar palabras, modismos y lo que queríamos comunicar para lograr la mejor manera para trabajar. Compartir nuestras historias, los simbolismos que escondemos debajo de las palabras de las obras que hemos escrito. Fue una experiencia increíble, trabajar con una persona comprometida, responsable y que estaba interesada en mi obra. Agradecida con la maravillosa experiencia que he tenido trabajando en traducción, y recordé con cariño cada palabra que he leído y traducido.
originally published by narrative magazine
Teddy, the new sous chef with the crooked teeth, is on fire again. It’s the second time in a week. I’m not even supposed to be here, but I’ve agreed to cover my cousin Megan’s shift because she has a date tonight with a townie named Ralph. Jessica, the other hostess on duty, smelled burning and went into the kitchen to help, so I’m all alone greeting people—which strictly speaking isn’t allowed until your tenth shift, and this is only my fifth. But there’s no one else.
It’s July third, a Sunday, and the place is packed. The Catfish Grille doesn’t take day-of reservations, so anyone else who’s managed to get a table must have waited in line or else slipped a big one to Cody, the skinny afternoon bartender who mans the greeting stand before the hostesses clock in at six. Argus, a tall, mustached waiter with a vaguely European accent, carries plates of crab cakes and coconut shrimp back and forth from the dining room as if nothing’s happened. Like most people here, he generally ignores me.
Out the window the sun is starting to set, leaving a tail of white-pink light that ripples across Currituck Sound like a flame. Smoke curls around the railings of the boardwalk that encircles the nearby shops, chasing the last few visitors indoors. All summer a gray haze has hung over the beaches and the dunes, the air reeking of the ash that blows up over the ocean from the south. Jessica, who grew up here and whose parents still live in a tiny duplex in Kill Devil Hills, said recently that it was from wildfires down along the Hatteras National Seashore. I told her that when I used to come here on vacation as a kid, the sky was so clear you could see the stars even in daytime, that my father would hoist
publicado originalmente en inglés en revista narrativen
Teddy, el nuevo sous chef con los dientes torcidos, está que arde nuevamente. Es la segunda vez en la semana. Yo ni siquiera debería estar aquí, pero accedí a cubrir el turno de mi prima Megan porque ella tenía una cita esta noche con un local de nombre Ralph. Jessica, y los otros anfitriones en turno, huelen el quemado, y se adentran para ayudar. A si que me encuentro sola saludando a las personas – lo que en estricto rigor no está permitido hasta el décimo turno, y este es mi quinto. Pero no hay nadie más.
Es el tercero de julio, un domingo, y el lugar está repleto. El Catfish Grille no toma reservas para el día, así que cualquier persona que haya conseguido una mesa debió haber esperado en la línea o deslizó algunos billetes a Cody, el delgado barman de la tarde, quien atiende la recepción antes que los anfitriones que marcan su entrada a las seis. Argus, el camarero alto con bigote, y con un vago acento europeo acarrea platos con pastel de cangrejo y camarones fritos en coco de un lado a otro del comedor como si nada pasara. Como la mayoría de aquí, él usualmente me ignora.
Desde la ventana el sol comienza a esconderse, solo dejando una línea blanca rosácea que se enrosca a través de la costa de Currituck como una flama. El humo se arrima alrededor de las barandas del malecón que se extiende por las tiendas cercanas, alejando a los últimos visitantes hacia el interior. Durante todo el verano la neblina gris ha cubierto las playas y sus dunas, el aire apesta al carboncillo que se disipa sobre el océano proviniendo desde el sur. Jessica, quien ha crecido aquí, y sus padres aún viven en el pequeño dúplex en Kill
me onto his shoulders to point out a constellation that looked like a swan. “Cygnus,” she said, nodding in recognition. For a moment I thought maybe we’d be friends.
At thirty-two, Jessica could technically be my mother, if she’d been sixteen like me when she had me. I’m desperate for her approval. Unlike the rest of us, who come from elsewhere, Jessica works at the Catfish Grille year-round, driving over the bridge from the mainland each evening in her beat-up purple Chevy. She has a five-year-old son, Jackson, who has some disease that makes him snore while he’s awake, and she often works double shifts to cover his medical care.
“Fire’s out,” Argus says to Leroy, the evening bartender, leaning against the counter. “New oven’s busted, though.”
Leroy’s at work on an elaborate blue cocktail that Megan told me is called a Blue Whale and is threequarters vodka. “How is he?” he says, meaning Teddy. Argus shrugs. His hand brushes Leroy’s shoulder and lingers there for a second. I watch to see if Leroy reacts, but he’s focused on making the cocktail. Megan says that Leroy and Argus are dating, but Jessica says that’s impossible because if people at the restaurant were dating each other then she would know about it. Megan says Jessica’s just jealous because she hates being left out of any gossip.
Somehow the line has grown in the past few minutes, five or six parties stretching out the front door. They’re mostly old, my grandparents’ age, at least, which seems strange because this isn’t how I remember the Outer Banks from when I was little, but Jessica’s said that the tourist population is getting older, that rental prices are up the wazoo. With some horror I realize that I’ve forgotten to apply eyeliner, which always makes me seem more grown-up, because despite my height I look younger than sixteen and still have my braces. I think maybe I’ll be found out, though for what I’m not sure.
A short elderly man in a yellow polo shirt steps up
Devil Hills, dijo que ha sido debido a los incendios forestales a lo largo de la costa nacional de Hatteras. Le dije que cuando venía aquí de vacaciones, siendo niño, el cielo era tan claro que se podían ver las estrellas incluso durante el día, que mi padre me levantaba sobre sus hombros para señalarme una constelación que parecía un cisne.
— Cygnus —, dijo, asintiendo con la cabeza en señal de reconocimiento. Por un momento creí que tal vez seríamos amigos.
A los treinta y dos años, Jessica podría ser técnicamente mi madre, si me hubiera tenido a los dieciséis. Estoy desesperada por su aprobación. A diferencia del resto de nosotros, que venimos de cualquier otro lugar, Jessica trabaja en el Catfish Grille todo el año, cruzando el puente desde el continente todas las noches en su destartalado Chevy violeta. Tiene un hijo de cinco años, Jackson, que tiene una enfermedad que lo hace roncar mientras está despierto, y a menudo trabaja turnos dobles para cubrir sus tratamientos.
— El fuego está apagado —, dice Argus a Leroy, el barman de la noche, apoyado contra el mostrador. — Pero el horno nuevo está roto, pero bueno.
Leroy está trabajando en un elaborado cóctel azul que Megan me dijo que se llama Blue Whale y que tiene tres cuartas partes de vodka.
— ¿Cómo está? —, dice, refiriéndose a Teddy.
Argus se encoge de hombros. Su mano roza el hombro de Leroy y se queda ahí por un segundo. Observó para ver como Leroy reacciona, pero está concentrado en preparar el cóctel. Megan dice que Leroy y Argus están saliendo, pero Jessica afirma que eso es imposible porque si la gente del restaurante estuviera saliendo, entonces ella lo sabría.
Megan dice que Jessica está celosa porque odia ser dejada de lado en cualquier rumor.
De alguna manera, la fila ha crecido en los últimos minutos, cinco o seis grupos se extienden hasta la puerta principal.
to the greeting stand. “Table for two,” he says. “We’ll take that one.” He points to a large open table by the window, which a bachelorette party of fifty-something women has just left. Next to him is a little girl, eight or nine years old with pale blonde hair and glasses, who shrinks shyly into the folds of the old man’s khaki shorts.
“Sorry,” I say, eyeing several large groups in line behind them. “You’ll have to wait for a smaller table.”
The man asks me my name. He has one of those country-club old man voices that echoes a little, like he’s trying to leave a part of himself behind to be remembered by. He pulls out a twenty-dollar bill and winks at me, a little menacingly. The girl, silent, works her small fingers deeper into the creases of his shorts. I shake my head. The man takes a step closer, pulls out another twenty. Maybe he’s testing me, I think, so that everyone will see how young I am and that I know nothing. Which is true.
“What do you say?” He’s close enough that I can smell the cologne on his neck. It smells like mint mixed with something stronger, like the hard candies they used to have at the front desk of the racquet club we belonged to in Charlottesville when I was younger. Once, after a tennis lesson, I ate twelve of them in a row while waiting for my mother to pick me up and got a stomachache. That was when I was eight, the first time my father went into the hospital, after he swallowed too many pills. He was there for nine days, and afterward we all went to Lake Winnipesaukee and things were better for a while. Usually my mother is never late.
“That’s okay,” I say to the old man, shaking my head at the money. “You can have the table.”
It was Megan’s idea for me to come here with her. Her roommate at Duke, Clara, worked at a restaurant down the shore last summer and said you could make a killing. Megan and Clara planned to rent an apartment together this year and get hostessing jobs. But at the last
La mayoría son mayores, al menos de la edad de mis abuelos, lo que parece extraño porque no es así como recuerdo los Outer Banks de cuando era pequeña, pero Jessica ha dicho que la población turística está envejeciendo, que los precios de los alquileres se han disparado. Con algo de horror me doy cuenta de que me he olvidado de ponerme delineador de ojos, que hace parecer más adulta, porque a pesar de mi altura parezco menor de dieciséis años, y todavía tengo frenillos. Creo que tal vez me descubran, aunque no estoy segura de por qué.
Un hombre mayor de baja estatura con un polo amarillo se acerca al puesto de recepción. — Mesa para dos. —, dice. — Tomaremos esa. — . Señala una gran mesa junto a la ventana, de la que acaba de irse una despedida de soltera de mujeres de cincuenta y tantos años. A su lado hay una niña de ocho o nueve años, de cabello rubio pálido y gafas, que se encoge tímidamente entre los pliegues de los pantalones cortos color caqui del anciano.
—Lo siento —digo, viendo a varios grupos grandes que estaban en fila detrás de ellos—. Tendrás que esperar a que te den una mesa más pequeña.
El hombre me pregunta por mi nombre. Tiene una de esas voces de anciano de country club que resuena un poco, como si intentara dejar atrás una parte de sí mismo para ser recordado.. Saca un billete de veinte dólares y me guiña el ojo, un poco amenazante. La chica, en silencio, hunde sus pequeños dedos más profundamente en los pliegues de sus pantalones cortos. Sacudo la cabeza, negándome. El hombre se acerca un paso más y saca otro de veinte. Tal vez me esté poniendo a prueba, pienso, para que todos vean lo joven que soy y que no sé nada. Lo cual es verdad.
— ¿Qué dices?
Está lo suficientemente cerca como para que pueda oler la colonia en su cuello. Huele a menta mezclada con algo
minute Clara got offered an internship in Washington by her uncle who works at CNN, so Megan was left with a one-bedroom sublet and rent due the first of June. “It’ll be fun,” she said.
Sometimes I try to imagine what I would have done if I’d stayed behind in Virginia instead. But I can’t. The Antolini twins I used to babysit have moved away. Ella and Jade, my two real friends, are gone for the summer— Ella to the sleepaway camp she’s been to every year since she was ten (this time as a counselor) and Jade to California, to some genius convention she got into by placing second in the state science fair for making a potato explode. Maybe I’d have walked people’s dogs for cash, or wandered up and down the Downtown Mall, peering into the windows of shops and the old ice rink, where on my seventh birthday I was traumatized after changing out of my skates before cake and presents to find the costume of the rink’s polar bear mascot, Icy, hanging limp and lifeless over a chair, head crumpled like a popped balloon. My father gathered me into his arms. That was back when I could squeeze my father as tight as I wanted without worrying he’d crumple too.
Before we got our jobs at the Catfish Grille, Megan and I worked for a few weeks at Pete’s Ice Cream across the street, scooping frosty globes of rocky road and mint chip into waffle cones for kids in J.Crew bathing suits, with deep tans and sun-bleached hair. They would swarm us at the close of beach hours like angry bees: waving wads of dollar bills in the air, parents and grandparents chuckling from a distance in the shade. “Those greedy motherfuckers,” Megan would mutter whenever we got off work, though I’d remind her that she was one of them once.
In a few weeks Megan will head back to start her junior year of college, and I’ll trade my hostess dress in for my private-school uniform: blue-and-greenplaid skirt and that gray blazer that never seems to lose its stiffness no matter how many times I scuff it up sprinting down the road to Starbucks with Ella and
más fuerte, como los caramelos duros que solían tener en la recepción del racket club al que pertenecíamos en Charlottesville cuando era más joven. Una vez, después de una lección de tenis, me comí doce mientras esperaba a que mi madre me recogiera y me dolió el estómago. Tenía ocho años, la primera vez que mi padre ingresó al hospital, después de tomar demasiadas pastillas. Estuvo nueve días, y después todos fuimos al lago Winnipesaukee y las cosas mejoraron por un tiempo. Normalmente, mi madre nunca llega tarde.
— Está bien. —, le digo al anciano, sacudiendo la cabeza al ver el dinero. — Puedes quedarte con la mesa.
Era idea de Megan que viniera aquí. Su compañera de habitación en Duke, Clara, trabajó en un restaurante en la costa el verano pasado y dijo que podías hacerte rico. Megan y Clara planeaban arrendar un departamento juntas este año y conseguir trabajos de anfitrionas. Pero en el último minuto, Clara recibió una oferta de pasantía en Washington por parte de su tío, que trabaja en CNN, por lo que Megan debió subarrendar el otro dormitorio porque el alquiler vence el primero de junio.
— Será divertido —, dijo.
A veces trato de imaginar lo que habría hecho si me hubiera quedado en Virginia, pero no puedo. Los gemelos Antolini a los que solía cuidar, se mudaron. Ella y Jade, mis dos mejores amigas, se fueron de vacaciones. Ella fue al campamento de verano al que ha asistido todos los años desde que tenía diez (esta vez como consejera) y Jade a California, a una convención de genios a la que fue seleccionada por alcanzar el segundo lugar en la feria de ciencias del Estado cuando hizo explotar una papa.
Tal vez hubiera paseado a los perros por dinero, o hubiera recorrido de un lado a otro por el centro comercial Downtown Mall, mirando las ventanas de las tiendas, y la antigua pista de hielo, donde celebré mi séptimo cumpleaños. Quedé traumada después de quitarme los patines antes de la torta
Jade or getting cozy in a boy’s car—exactly twice, once with Jimmy Gould during spirit week and the other with Matt Ortega after the earth science camping trip, both of which ended in my abrupt and unexplainable departure, as if the feelings I felt were somehow deeply wrong and Jimmy and Matt and this school with its cone-shaped boxwoods and fake gargoyles were already pieces of a past that was receding before my very eyes while my whole future stretched before me, if only I could claim it.
y los regalos. Encontré el traje de la mascota de la pista, el oso polar, Icy, colgando flácido y sin vida sobre una silla, con la cabeza arrugada como un globo pinchado. Mi padre me abrazó. Eso fue cuando podía apretar a mi padre tan fuerte como quisiera sin preocuparme de que él también se arrugara.
Antes de conseguir nuestros trabajos en el Catfish Grille, Megan y yo trabajamos durante algunas semanas en Pete’s Ice Cream al otro lado de la calle, sirviendo helados rocky road y menta chocolate en conos de waffle para niños en trajes de baño de J. Crew, con bronceados dorados y cabello desteñido por el sol. Nos acosaban al final de las horas de playa como abejas enojadas: agitando los fajos de billetes de dólar en el aire, y bajo la sombra padres y abuelos riéndose a la distancia.
— Esos weones creidos. —, murmuraba Megan cada vez que salíamos del trabajo, aunque yo le recordaba que ella alguna vez fue una de ellos.
En unas semanas, Megan volverá a empezar su tercer año de universidad, y yo cambiaré mi vestido de anfitriona por mi uniforme de escuela privada: falda de cuadros azules y verdes y ese blazer gris que nunca parece perder su rigidez sin importar cuántas veces lo estropee corriendo por la calle hacia Starbucks con Ella y Jade. O poniéndome cómoda en el auto de un chico, exactamente dos veces, una con Jimmy Gould durante la semana del espíritu y la otra con Matt Ortega, después del viaje de campamento de ciencias de la tierra. Ambos terminaron en mi abrupta e inexplicable partida, como si los sentimientos que sentía fueran de alguna manera profundamente equivocados, y Jimmy y Matt y esta escuela con sus arbustos con forma cónica, y sus gárgolas falsas ya fueran piezas de un pasado que se alejaba ante de mis propios ojos mientras todo mi futuro se extendía ante mí, como si tan solo pudiera reclamarlo.
“Letters to Deborah” is a riveting short story from a talented new voice in translation, Naomi Epstein Garnitz. Told in the form of letters from a spirited pre-teen girl to her runaway sister, this unforgettable work of fiction blends coming-of-age, suspense, and family drama, and is certain to enthrall readers of all persuasions.
Epstein has always loved literature and expressing herself through words. She was born and raised in Santiago, Chile, and is currently studying literature at Universidad Diego Portales. On the pursuit of writing, she says that possibilities opened up to her when she first began to see her work as more than a hobby, and that at that point the stories she wrote became much more complex. A versatile writer whose influences range from Jane Austen to George R.R. Martin, in “Letters to Deborah” Epstein brilliantly traverses the realms of domestic drama, surrealism and fantasy to create a powerful epistolary narrative.
Hadassah is the youngest daughter in a large Orthodox Jewish family in Chile. She’s fed up with always being treated as an afterthought—particularly compared to her brother Jacob, who, despite only being one year older, is favored by their father for being the only boy. All Hadassah wants is to be given the same opportunities, especially when it comes to education—and to believe that she has a future beyond the traditional expectations of marriage. While their father takes Jacob under his wing to study the Torah, Hadassah reads novels and complains about her circumstances in letters to her older sister Deborah. Deborah has run away from home after a fight with their parents, over a secret which is revealed near the end of the story. Hadassah implores Deborah to return and help her as things at home have become worse, particularly after their mother’s cancer diagnosis.
Meanwhile, the family is planning an extravagant bar mitzvah for Jacob, while Hadassah is told that between the costs of Jacob’s party and her mother’s treatment, the family cannot afford to throw her a bat mitzvah of her own.
Will Hadassah manage to convince her father that she deserves an education, too? How will her mother’s illness impact the family? Will Deborah manage to make amends with her estranged parents? Will Jacob always get his way? This is a gripping and beautifully told story that offers a poignant look at growing up as an ambitious young woman within a society whose expectations do not mirror one’s own.
It has been a joy to translate Epstein’s beautiful words, and to help bring Hadassah’s singular voice to life for an English-speaking readership. Along with the ambitious scope of the piece, I was delighted by this narrator’s humor, and how she manages to poke fun at herself and her surroundings in a way that still feels loving and playful, befitting of a precocious and lively twelve-year-old. It was important for me as a translator to stay true to the voice of this young girl, and I am grateful to both Epstein and to my translation class for their thoughtful feedback on passages where I was trying to work out the right register for the prose in English. I was also very conscious that I was working with a piece not only in a different language, but which explored a culture and religious background different to my own. I wanted to make sure that I was being thoughtful and faithful to the experience of a young Orthodox Jewish girl growing up in Chile, and am deeply grateful to both Epstein and to my colleagues at Columbia for their care and attention to my inquiries.
I’m delighted and honored to have the opportunity to bring you this English translation of “Letters to Deborah.”
7 de Mayo
Deborah te has ido, me has dejado sola y desamparada, pero he tenido sueños extraños. Estoy sola, veo un vacío, y todo está en oscuridad, no veo nada más que el negro pesadilla que recorre mis malos sueños. Manos transparentes me sujetan, creo que he muerto. ¿Esto es morir? Supongo que la dama oscura ha venido por mí, la muerte ha llegado como un mensaje imprevisto y extraño. Siento la necesidad de levantarme, pero mi cuerpo está sujeto a las cadenas frías, ásperas y dolorosas. He muerto y mi cuerpo no lo quiere aceptar. Creo que nuestro padre ha estado equivocado, el infierno católico existe y yo estoy ahí, en esa pesadilla donde, sumergiéndome en las humeantes llamas frías. Sigue la sangre corriendo por mis venas, mi corazón latiendo al ritmo del lento tambor. Entonces abro los ojos solo para encontrarme que sigo con vida, y estoy aún en el mundo de los vivos. Eso es extraño, porque a veces siento que no puedo despertar.
20 de Mayo
Deborah, te extraño. Necesito que vuelvas. Ya sabes qué mamá está enferma, papá tenía una horrible cara y tan pronto el doctor se fue de la casa, el también lo hizo junto a Jacobo, fue una noche de estudio entre los dos. Buenos hombres judíos que estudian la Torah, siempre cuando vuelven, papá tiene mejor ánimo. Ya sabes como siempre, Jacobo era su niño pródigo, el heredero. Es todo lo que nosotras no somos, lo que yo jamás llegaré a ser, especialmente porque no tengo una salchicha colgando entre mis piernas. Eso me da gracia, he intentado que me lleve con él, pero papá dice no es una obligación de las mujeres, y aunque soy madura para cuando ellos lo necesitan es distinto cuando me rehusó, me tachan de caprichosa. Muchos me
translated
May 7th
Deborah, you’ve gone; you’ve left me alone and helpless. But I’ve had strange dreams: I’m alone, I see an empty void and everything’s dark. I see nothing more than the terror that infuses my nightmares. Transparent hands hold me; I think I’ve died. Is this dying? I suspect that the lady of death has come for me; that death itself has arrived like a strange and unexpected message. I long to get up, but my body is held back by cold chains, rough and painful. My body does not want to accept that I’ve died. I suspect that our father was wrong, that the Catholic hell does exist and I’m there, sinking into the smoking, cold flames. Blood still runs through my veins, my heart beating to the rhythm of a slow drum. Then I open my eyes just to find that I’m still alive, that I’m still in the world of the living. It’s curious. Sometimes I feel like I can’t wake up.
May 20th
Deborah, I miss you. I need you to come back.
You already know that Mom is sick. Dad had a horrible look on his face and the doctor left the house quite suddenly. Dad did too, along with Jacob. It was a night of studying between the two of them: good Jewish men who study the Torah. When they return Dad is always in a better mood. You know how Jacob was always his favorite son, his heir. He’s everything that we girls are not, that I’ll never be, especially because I don’t have a wiener between my legs. That makes me laugh. I’ve tried to get Dad to bring me with him, but he says it’s not an obligation for women to study. And although I’m grown-up when they need me to be, it’s different when he turns me away. Everyone dismisses me as capricious. I’ve always been told I’m too smart for
dicen que soy demasiado inteligente para mi bien como si acaso eso fuera malo. Jamás he entendido que significaba aquello, no es acaso lo que los rabinos siempre hablan del estudio, o aquello solo estaba reservado hacia los jóvenes muchachos hijos de sus padres, pero no aquellas hijas que también son su sangre. Deborah te extraño, me siento sola.
2 de Junio
No sabes cuanto te extraño Deborah, tú deberías estar aquí En un par de días más Jacobo cumplirá trece años, se celebrará su Bar mitzva. Habrá casi cien invitados, y casi todos le han dicho que sus regalos serán más ostentosos que cualquier chico judío haya visto antes. Yo cumpliré doce, pero para mí no habrá fiesta, ni regalos lujoso. Al pareces después de cinco mujeres, y el niño elegido, para mí no queda nada más que ser la séptima hija de una familia judía. Le he preguntado a rab Katz sobre porque a los niños se celebra más que a las niñas, yo también quiero tener regalos. Sabías que la bubbe le regalara una moneda oro, yo también quiero tener una. El rab Katz me dijo que era porque las mujeres estamos mucho más cercas espiritualmente, por eso mismo no estamos obligadas a estudiar como ellos. No quise seguir preguntando porque parecía harto de todos, pero no quede satisfecha.
Sabes, comencé a leer el libro que me diste. Demian de Hesse, cuando papá me vio me dijo que ahora sería igual de pretenciosa y tarada como tú, le respondí que al menos nosotras Sabíamos leer bien (ya sabes, por su tartamudeo). Se enojó mucho, Yael tuvo que intervenir. Me fui rápido, sabía que nunca tenía buena suerte cuando contestaba. Después vino mamá, ya no tiene ningún pelo en su cuerpo desde empezó su quimio, vino a decirme que no podía ser así con mi papá, que se les debe respeto a los padres. ¿Acaso yo no merezco respeto? El empezó, pero mamá se enojó porque según ella estaba siendo insoportable igual que tú. Yo siempre soy insoportable, insufrible, y odiosa, hago lo que quiero cuando quiero, pero estoy condenada a diferencia a Jacobo, porque soy una más de mis hermanas, una más de las hijas de mi padre, mi voz encadenada a los gritos
my own good, as if that were at all a bad thing. I’ve never understood what it meant. Don’t the rabbis always talk about studying? Or do fathers only mean that for their young sons, but not for those daughters who are also their blood? Deborah, I miss you. I feel alone.
June 2
You don’t know how much I miss you, Deborah. You ought to be here.
In a short time Jacob will turn thirteen, and will celebrate his bar mitzvah. There will be almost one hundred guests, and almost all have told him that their present will be more ostentatious than what any Jewish boy has seen before. I will turn twelve and should have my bat mitzvah, but for me there will be no party, nor fancy gifts. It seems that after five girls, and the chosen boy, there remains nothing more for me than to be the seventh child of an Orthodox family.
I’ve asked Rabbi Katz why boys are honored more than girls. I want presents as well! (Did you know that Grandma is giving Jacob a gold coin? I want one, too.) Rabbi Katz told me that it was because women are more naturally spiritual; for that reason we don’t have to study like men do. I didn’t want to keep asking because he seemed fed up with everyone, but I wasn’t satisfied.
You know, I started reading the book you gave me. Demian by Hesse. When Dad saw me, he told me that now I’d be just as pretentious and silly as you. I replied that at least we knew how to read well. (You know, because of his stutter.) He got very angry; Yael had to intervene. I left quickly; I’ve never had good luck arguing with him. Then Mom came in. She has no hair anywhere on her body now that she’s started chemo. She came to tell me not to act like that with my father, that parents deserve respect. Don’t I deserve respect? He started it. But Mom got angry because according to her, I was being just as insufferable as you. I’m always insufferable, unbearable and hateful; I do what I want when I want. But I’m condemned to be different from Jacob, because I’m just another one of my
femeninos de la casa, pero el discurso que mi hermano da en la mesa cada vez que habla y se aplaude. Yo sé que tú me apoyarías Deborah, nosotras seriamos las más insoportables y pretenciosas.
28 de Junio Ay Deborah.
El Bar Mitzva se celebrará en octubre, el día domingo. Creo que debo aceptar que este año mi cumpleaños no será importancia. Hanna y Leah le comentaron a la mamá que cuando viniera a Chile saldríamos a comer, y Rebecca me comprara un nuevo teléfono, pero aun así siento raro. Tengo los regalos que te decía, pero no lo siento bien, siento que son regalos cargados de culpa que aceptaré y estaré feliz. Es raro. ¿Cómo fue cuando tú cumpliste doce? Mamá me dijo que no tendré fiesta, ya es mucho gasto con Jacobo y su quimio, que haríamos algo. Igual la escuché hablando con el papá, simplemente comento que a ninguna de sus hermanas se les hizo algo cuando cumplieron doce, ninguna tuvo nada especial. Me siento extraña, olvidada y descuidada, tengo todo, pero quiero lo que tiene Jacobo, esa admiración que recibe cada vez que es recibido, lo peor es que no puedo ocultarlo. Mi rostro se enrojece, el corazón se aplasta porque cada vez que somos vistos los ojos son dirigidos a él. Alabándolo sobre cuanto ha estudiado, que sí ha practicado y todo lo demás. Es hostigante, nadie pregunta como me va en el colegio, porque cuando se trata de mí solamente se habla cuando me casaré y con quién. He estado leyendo Demian, creo que entiendo a Sinclair, aunque es extraño. Sinclair al menos tenía una salchicha que respaldaba sus opiniones, porque si Demian tuviera una protagonista mujer no sería un libro de formación o filosófico sino romántico. Ahora entiendo porque siempre decías que odiabas a los hombres. Deborah deberías volver, contigo no es lo mismo. Hanna no se quedará mucho tiempo, sus hijos la necesitan, Leah tiene un bebe en camino, Rebecca está casada y sé irá con Jonathan a estudiar un postgrado en Inglaterra (les pedí que me llevarán, pero dijeron que no), Yael se comprometió
sisters, just another one of my father’s daughters, my voice just another shrill feminine scream in the house. But every time my brother gives his little speech at the table, he’s applauded.
I know that you’d support me, Deborah. We’d be the most insufferable and pretentious together.
June 28
Oh, Deborah. The bar mitzvah will be celebrated in October, on a Sunday. I think I should accept that this year, my birthday won’t be important. Hanna and Leah told Mom that when they got back to Chile we’d go out to eat, and Rebecca will buy me a new phone. But I still feel strange. I have the presents that I told you about, but I don’t feel good. I feel like they’re presents given out of guilt, which I should accept and be happy with. It’s odd. What was it like when you turned twelve? Mom told me I won’t have a party, it’s already too expensive with Jacob and her chemo, but that we’d do something. I also heard her talking with Dad, she just said that they never did anything for any of my sisters when they turned twelve, none of them had anything special. I feel different, forgotten and uncomfortable. I have everything, but I want what Jacob has: that admiration he gets every time he appears in the room. The worst thing is that I can’t hide it. My face gets red; my heart is crushed because every time we’re seen together, all eyes are on him. Praising him about how much he’s studied, how he’s practiced and everything else. It’s maddening; no one asks me how school is going, because when they talk about me it’s just about when I’ll get married, and to whom.
I’ve been reading Demian. I think I understand Sinclair, although we’re different. At least Sinclair had a wiener to support his opinions, because if Demian had had a female protagonist, it wouldn’t have been a coming of age or a philosophy book, but a romance. Now I understand why you always said you hated men.
Deborah, you should come back. It’s not the same without you. Hanna won’t be here much longer—her kids
y estará casada antes que termine el año. No quiero quedarme sola con Jacob, a veces cuando estamos solos jugamos y es divertido, a veces el finge ser un paciente y me deja hacerle una cirugía (falsa obviamente), el problema es cuando los papas están ahí. Jacobo es la luz de mi padre, el niño que recibe su bendición y mamá… No sé, ella es rara además que está enferma, a veces ella me adora y otras solo sigue su camino.
15 de Julio
He vuelto a tener pesadillas, pequeños hombres con cola de flechas me siguen mientras corro dentro de la sinagoga, está reventado de personas, colapsado de hombres con sus enormes shtreimel tapan la luz, no te veo Deborah ni a ninguna de mis hermanas. Quiero huir, pero esas densas y ásperas cadenas vuelven a asentarse en mis muñecas, esta vez no siento frío desolador si no un calor agobiante, sofocante y exhaustivo. Por algún motivo intento huir, llego hacia los vitrales, esos coloridos vidrios que forman figuras. Ahí hay un hombre, no sé su cara, no lo reconozco ni sé quién es, pero me empujan hacia adelante y veo que estoy en una chuppah. Los de cola de flechas me miran sonrientes, desde el fondo detrás de todos los hombres está la dama oscura, aquella que viene cuando tu tiempo ha terminado. El matrimonio para mí, es el fin de mi vida, porque ya no seré Hadassah hija de Isaac sino la esposa de un hombre. Creo que me di cuenta de algo peor, nunca seré Hadassah, sino que mi nombre siempre estaré ligada al nombre de alguien más.
1 de Septiembre
La primavera se acerca, y sigo sintiéndome sola. Mamá cada vez está más enferma, según el doctor, ella resistirá más hasta final de año. Su cáncer ya hizo metástasis, eso significa que no hay opción y su cuerpo ya está debilitado. Hanna vino antes para ayudar a cuidarla. Ella sigue siendo igual de seria y amargada, aunque creo que ser madre, la ha hecho cambiar. Al menos evita que el papá me diga cosas cuando estoy leyendo Demian, siempre pienso que Max y
need her. Leah has a baby on the way; Rebecca is married and is going with Jonathan to England for his postgraduate studies (I asked them to take me with them, but they said no); Yael got engaged and will be married before the year ends. I don’t want to stay here alone with Jacob. Sometimes when we’re alone together we play and it’s fun, sometimes he pretends to be a patient and lets me be a surgeon (a fake one, obviously). The problem is when our parents are around. Jacob is the light of my father’s life, the boy who receives his blessings, and Mom… I don’t know, she’s strange on top of being sick. Sometimes she loves me and other times she just follows her own path.
July 15th
I’ve started having nightmares again. Little men with devils’ tails follow me while I run through the synagogue. It’s bursting with people, collapsed with men with their enormous shtreimels blocking the light. I don’t see you, Deborah, or any of my sisters. I want to flee, but those dense and rough chains return to settle on my wrists; this time I don’t feel the desolate cold but an oppressive heat, suffocating and exhausting. For some reason I try to flee; I make it to the stained glass windows, those colored glass panels that form figures. There’s a man there; I don’t know his face. I don’t recognize him or even know who he is, but they push me forward and I see that I’m in a chuppah. The devil-tailed men look at me, smiling. In the background, behind all those men, is the dark lady, that one who comes when your time has run out. Marriage for me is the end of my life, because I won’t be Hadassah, daughter of Isaac, but the wife of some man.
I think I’m realizing something worse; I’ll never just be Hadassah, but rather my name will always be linked with the name of someone else.
September 1
Spring is coming, and I still feel alone. Mom is getting sicker; according to the doctor, she’ll only live through the end of the year. Her cancer has metastasized, which means
Emil se terminaran dando un beso, pero creo que el libro es mucho mejor que eso. Me gusta la idea de Caín y Abel, el hecho que Caín no es tan malvado, como es distinto a su hermano, sabes tengo miedo de ser Caín, ser distinta y ser castigada por ello. No quiero que mamá muera odiando a dos hijas, supongo que una es suficiente. Deborah, deberías volver. Por lo menos para despedirte.
15 de Octubre
Fue el Bar Mitzva de Jacobo, fue divertido. Creo que nunca había bailado ni comido tanto. La bubbe estaba feliz, tanto que pregunto por ti y dijo que quería verte, y Mamá se siente algo mejor, ella dice que vivió para ver a su único hijo convertirse en hombre y vivirá para ver a Yael casada, no me atreví a preguntarle sobre si estaría con vida cuando cumpla doce. Sentí que era egoísta. Deborah, querida hermana mayor que no has vuelto. Hazlo, por favor hazlo. Sé que debería decirte que hazlo por la mamá, pero no. No puedo. No quiero estar sola cuando ella se vaya, tu compañía, tú eres quien me queda, quién sé que estará conmigo cuando ella muera.
12 de Noviembre
Yael se casó en una hermosa chuppah, repleta de flores violetas y rosadas. Papá tomo tanto que tuvieron que levantarlo y llevarnos aparte. Yael se veía hermosa con su vestido, ella vivirá acerca de nosotros y hasta me mostró su peluca, es larga y castaña. Sigo diciendo que mi cabello natural es más bonito, pero me lo mantengo para mí. Sé que debes estar harta, pero me di cuenta en Demian sobre algo, el hecho de este es la del pájaro que rompe el cascarón para nacer. El pájaro simboliza como las personas deben romper lo que las encarcela, esas limitaciones del mundo que nos han impuesto. Quiero romper el cascarón donde estoy Deborah, quiero ser alguien.
19 de Diciembre.
Mamá ha muerto, sé que papá te ha hablado para que vengas al funeral. Espero que lo hagas, Ella no pudo vivir
there are no options left and her body is growing weaker. Hanna came earlier to help and to care for her. She’s still serious and bitter, although I think that becoming a mother has changed her. At least this keeps Dad from saying things to me while I’m reading Demian. I always think that Max and Emil will end up kissing, but I think the book is much better than that. I like the idea of Cain and Abel, the fact that Cain isn’t so wicked, how he’s just different from his brother. You know I’m afraid of being Cain, of being distinct and punished for that fact. I don’t want Mom to die hating two of her daughters; I think that one is enough. Deborah, you should come back. At least to say goodbye to her.
October 15
We had Jacob’s bar mitzvah; it was fun. I don’t think I’ve ever danced or eaten that much. Grandma was happy, so much so that she asked about you and said that she’d like to see you. And Mom feels a little better. She says that she lived to see her only son become a man and that she’ll live to see Yael married. I didn’t dare ask her if she’d be alive when I turn twelve. I felt that would be egotistical. Deborah, dear older sister, you have not come back. Do it, please do it. I know that I should tell you to do it for Mom, but no. I can’t. I don’t want to be alone when she goes. Your company—you’re the one who stays with me, the one I know will be with me when she dies.
November 12
Yael got married in a beautiful chuppah, covered in violets and roses. Dad drank so much that they had to carry him and drive us back separately. Yael looked lovely in her dress. She will live close to us and she even showed me her wig; it’s long and brown. I keep saying that my natural hair is prettier, but I keep that to myself. I know you must be tired of this, but I realized something in Demian; the fact of the bird that breaks through its egg to be born. The bird symbolizes how people should break from what imprisons them, these limitations of the world that they’ve
más, supongo que vio todo excepto a su última hija cumplir doce años, ha muerto según ella haciendo todo lo que quiso ante de irse, pero creo que no estuve dentro de esa lista. Deborah realmente no me importa que haya pasado, tienes que venir, es lo mínimo. Dame el placer de verte, no me importa si te gustan las mujeres, ya aquello no interesa, por favor ven. Estoy sola, no soy una mujer, pero tampoco una niña, mamá me ha dejado, papá tiene a su hijo y yo aquí vago, deambulando como una perra sin gracia, que nadie quiere porque es la última de su camada, porque en un tiempo será vista como la compañía femenina del macho. Estoy marginada, el mundo donde vivo no acepta que una mujer sea vista hasta que se case. Eres lo único que puedo llorar y rogarle, porque tú y yo sabemos como es, como no cambiara y como esos pequeños hombres de cola de flechas me perseguirán… Pero supongo que tú ya tomaste una decisión, yo no estoy ahí. Deborah te extraño, pero me has dejado sola y me toca aceptarlo… Esta es la última carta, no creo que te interese recibir más.
imposed on us. I want to break from the prison where I am, Deborah. I want to be somebody.
December 19
Mom has died. I know Dad has asked you to come to the funeral. I hope that you do. She could not live longer; I suppose she saw everything except her last daughter turning twelve. According to her she’s died having done everything she wanted to before she went, but I don’t think I was on that list. Deborah, to me it doesn’t really matter what has happened; you have to come, it’s the least you can do. Give me the pleasure of seeing you; it doesn’t matter to me that you like women; that’s not important now. Please come. I’m alone. I’m not a woman, but I’m also not a girl. Mom has left me, Dad has his son. And here I am, wandering like a clumsy dog, who no one loves because she’s the last of the litter, because in time she’ll be seen as the female company of a man. I’m excluded; the world in which I live doesn’t accept that a woman can be seen until she gets married. You’re the only one I can cry and pray for, because you and I know how it is, how it won’t change and how those little men with the devil’s tails chase me…but I suppose that you made your decision, and I’m not there. Deborah, I miss you. But you’ve left me alone and I have to accept it… this is the last letter; I don’t think you want to receive more.
Columbia University and the other participants in the 2025 Word for Word workshop would like to thank the following individuals for supporting the collaborative exchange that made these translations possible, and the publication of this anthology:
Sarah Cole, Deans of the School of the Arts
Deborah Paredez, Chair of the School of the Arts Writing Program
Susan Bernofsky, Director of Literary Translation at Columbia, School of the Arts Writing Program
Stephanie Cuepo Wobby, LTAC Coordinator, School of the Arts Writing Program
Franklin Winslow, Director of Academic Administration, School of the Arts Writing Program
William Wadsworth, Former Director of Academic Administration, School of the Arts Writing Program
Binnie Kirshenbaum, Professor of Fiction, School of the Arts Writing Program
Jörn Dege and Ulrike Draesner, Deutches Literaturinstitut Leipzig
Hongtu Wang and Tao Lei, Fudan University
Rodrigo Rojas, Universidad Diego Portales
Lionel Ruffel and Vincent Broqua, Université Paris 8
Safwan Masri, Executive VP, Columbia Global Centers and Global Development
Thomas Trebat, Director, Columbia Global Centers | Rio de Janeiro
Karen Poniachik, Director, Columbia Global Centers | Santiago
The Master of Fine Arts Writing Program at Columbia University School of the Arts was founded in 1967, and is one of the foremost creative writing programs in the United States. Students in the Program pursue degrees in fiction, poetry, or creative nonfiction, with the option to pursue a joint course of study in literary translation. The Program is distinguished by the intellectual rigor of its curriculum, the eminence of many of the writers on faculty, and the significant number of its alumni who have gone on to become eminent authors in their own right.
The Escuela de Literatura Creativa at Universidad Diego Portales was founded in 2003, the first of its kind in Chile. The program offers an undergraduate major and two graduate programs in which students pursue degrees in publishing or writing. Translation workshops are part of the curriculum in all three programs. The students work with noteworthy writers from the Spanish-speaking world and beyond, thanks to Cátedra Abierta UDP, international lecture series in homage of Roberto Bolaño that has invited more than 150 writers.
Established in 2011, the MFA in Creative Writing at Instituto Vera Cruz focuses in two areas: Fiction and Nonfiction, with secondary concentrations in Writing for Children and Young Adults and Creative Writing Methodology. Vera Cruz was founded in 1963 and started offering undergraduate and graduate courses in 2005. The MFA has 80 students now enrolled in an intensive two-year course, with a faculty of award-winning and recognized writers. It is among the most renowned in Brazil.
The Deutsches Literaturinstitut Leipzig is a central institution at the Universität Leipzig, providing the only degree course for writers in the making in Germany since 1995. Alongside the three-year BA in Creative Writing, focusing on poetry, prose, and drama, an MA in Creative Writing has also been offered since winter of 2009. This is a two-year degree designed as a novel workshop. The aim of the program is to provide students with highly professional writing skills and creative competence, along with a knowledge of literary history and theory.
Founded in 2009, the Creative Writing program at Fudan University is the first professional master's degree program in mainland China devoted to cultivating literary talents. Unlike traditional academic programs in literary studies, this program is explicitly designed to educate creative practitioners of the literary arts. Graduates of the program go on to work at the highest level as writers, teachers, researchers, critics, journalists and other media professionals in a wide range of professional contexts including arts organizations, theaters, colleges and universities, museums, scholarly institutes, media, and government-related agencies.
The Master in Creative Writing at Université Paris 8 was founded in September 2013, with the goal of allowing students the opportunity to start or continue a work of literary creation. While programs of this type are common, especially in the United States and Great Britain, they are still rare in the French academic system. The Master in Creative Writing is therefore destined to play a pioneering role in the Francophone world.