2026 Word for Word Anthology

word for word

parola per parola

palavra por palavra

wort

für

wort

palabra por palabra

mot pour mot

2026

word for word

parola per parola

palavra por palavra

wort für wort

palabra por palabra

mot pour mot

table of contents

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

word for word / parola per parola

Columbia University School of the Arts

Scuola Holden

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 2026 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 thirteenth in our series of Word for Word anthologies collects the work of twenty-

four 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-four 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 /

Columbia University School of the Arts Fudan University

译者注

本次翻译以安迪·曾的短篇小说《Leaving Katherine》为底本，中文篇名译为《离开凯瑟琳》 ，在翻译的过程中，我试图保留原作的叙事结构、 人物心理、文化底色。面对文本兼具美式青春叙 事、亚裔跨文化身份、港片意象交织的特点，我尝 试使用风格统一的的文学语言贯穿，力求在中英文 的表达习惯之间找到平衡。

小说中，大量文化负载词与专有意象，我均采 用固定译法与语境适配相结合的方式处理，佛教 概念“karmic

credit”“yin guo”分别译为“

业力”“因果”，呼应主角阿尔文的家庭文化背 景；“reverse Rapunzel”直译为“倒置的长发公 主”，依托上下文情节自然完成释义，不破坏童话 典故的反讽意味。对于原文中密集的影视互文，包 括王家卫电影、金城武、《重庆森林》《春光乍 泄》等，均使用华语圈通用标准译名，还原阿尔文 与凯瑟琳共通的文化记忆，也贴合两人亚裔混血成 长的身份设定。哲学术语与学术专有名词严格遵循 学界通用译法，德里达的核心概念“différance” 译为“延异”，而非字面的“差异”，精准体现 男主角的较真性格。此外，生活化词汇与口语 表达则以自然贴合中文语境为原则，日语外来 语“konbini”转化为通用的“便利店”，美式校 园食物“tater tots”译为“土豆球”，东亚饮 食“gimbap”“onigiri”分别译为“紫菜包饭”“ 饭团”，保留文化符号的同时不产生阅读障碍。与 此同时，网络文化符号“Wojak meme”译为“沃杰 克表情包”，符合当代青年的表达习惯，还原人物 对话的真实感。

情感与心理描写的翻译是本次文本的核心难点， 原文以细腻笔触刻画男主角七年卑微又执着的爱 恋，以及凯瑟琳骄傲疏离下的柔软，翻译中力求精

准传递情绪层次，“masochistic fellow-feeling” 译为“近乎受虐的共情”，不简化语义也不夸大情 绪；“erotic melancholia”译为“情欲的忧郁” ，还原青春期混杂欲望与失落的复杂心境。句式层 面，原文长短句交错，叙事舒缓、对话锋利，译文 将英文复合长句拆分为符合中文阅读习惯的短句， 保留逻辑链条的同时，让叙事节奏更自然，对话保

持短促直白，不刻意书面化，还原人物交谈的真实 语气。针对原文少量情绪强烈的表达，译文做了适 度弱化处理保留情绪强度的同时契合中文文学作品 的表达规范。译文中出现的重复语句属于文本疏 漏，翻译时依据原文逻辑进行合并精简，保证行文 流畅。整体而言，本次翻译完整保留了原作七年爱 恨纠缠的情感主线、男女主截然不同的性格反差、

亚裔跨太平洋成长的身份冲突，以及哲学、电影、 宗教多重意象交织的文本层次，最终落脚于“停留 与远行”的核心主题，以克制又饱满的中文文学语 言，实现了原文语义、情感与文学性的统一，让中 文读者能够完整感知原作的文字魅力与情感内核。

ANDY QIFENG ZENG

LEAVING KATHERINE

Seven years of Katherine, on and off, and I’d racked up enough karmic credit for the rest of my life. The off was mostly her doing; I was consistent. I showed up, I called, called back, wooed her with all I had. I stripped the seeds off her strawberries and kept fresh lilies on her windowsill. I read everything I could get my hands on just to catch what she let slip. Before every date, I’d sit behind a konbini like Kaneshiro in a Wong Kar-wai flick, memorizing fun facts. By all this art, I’d even penetrated a little into the human condition, awakening to a kind of masochistic fellow-feeling with all existence. But she would disappear for months, then show up waving in front of my 5th-floor East Village walk-up, a reverse Rapunzel.

We met in high school, sophomore fall, when she landed in our Midwestern suburban town of cul-de-sacs. We didn’t have a cafeteria, so during lunch all the kids ran out into the courtyard to line up for tater tots, and there she was, leaning against her locker and reading a book. She had a short bob with bangs, not unlike a flapper girl, and a face that went soft around the cheeks. I stood there for a while, staring like an idiot. She turned a page, then another.

“You’re still here,” she said, without looking up.

“What are you reading?” I pressed. She flashed the cover— The Great Gatsby. I said something about the green light and hoped for the tuning-fork to strike upon a star; no reverberation, and she went back to reading.

“Oh come on now,” I said.

“You can play with the white kids too.”

“But they’re so bland.”

She laughed, not unkindly, and closed her book. “Okay. Tell me something interesting.”

I told her that interest rates in Ancient Greece remained

翻译 : FANG YI

离开凯瑟琳

我和凯瑟琳纠缠了七年，分分合合，攒下的业力，已经够 我后半辈子挥霍。我们的“分”，多半是她的主意，我对她的 感情始终如一。我总是随叫随到，给她拨去电话、回拨她的电 话，把自己能给的所有都拿来追求她。我替她把草莓籽一颗颗 剔掉，在她的窗台放下新鲜的百合。我拼命读书，只为了接住 她偶尔提及的只言片语。每次约会前，我都像王家卫电影里的 金城武一样，坐在便利店后门，记诵趣闻。靠着这些努力，我 甚至参透了些许人类处境的本质，对整个世界生出一种近乎受 虐的共情。可她总会消失上好几个月，然后又突然出现在我东 村五楼的公寓楼下，朝我挥手，恰如“长发公主”的故事发生 了倒置。

我们是在高中认识的。高二那年秋天，她转学来到我们那 个位于美国中西部、遍地死胡同的小镇。学校没有食堂，所以 午餐时间，孩子们会涌到庭院里排队买土豆球。只有凯瑟琳独 自靠着储物柜看书。她留着短短的波波头和齐刘海，像二十年 代的“飞来波女郎”，脸颊的线条十分柔软。我痴痴地站在那 里，盯着她看了半天。看她翻过一页又一页。

“你怎么还在这儿？”她头也不抬地说。

“你在看什么？”，我追问道。她把封面亮给我看——是《 了不起的盖茨比》。我随口说了点关于书中的“绿光”，希望 也能像音叉击中星星一样，同她产生震荡与共鸣，结果她毫无 反应，继续低头阅读。

“别这样嘛。”我说。

“你也可以去跟那些白人孩子玩。”

“可他们太无趣了。”

她笑了，不算刻薄，把书合上。

“好吧。说点有意思的给我听。”

stable for hundreds of years and that loans made by the Temple of Apollo on Delos were fixed at 10 percent. This time, the tuning fork struck, and she pulled out her pink Hello Kitty thermal lunch box, gesturing for me to sit.

That was when all the trouble started. The trouble was that Katherine didn’t believe in love of the petty variety. She believed in being grand, being difficult, and being larger than life at sixteen. Accordingly, she pushed and pulled at people until they stood at just the right distance to admire her. For me, the right distance meant sometimes lover, sometimes court eunuch, and sometimes royal griot commissioned to supply her with Wikipedia non sequiturs. Over lunch, she asked me what I was reading, and I said Freakonomics, which she had already apparently finished, kickstarting the excellent tradition of her always being one step, one book ahead of me. I thought that intimacy bored her precisely because it failed to intimidate. It must have had something to do with her transpacific upbringing, how she was equally at odds in both Illinois and Shenzhen. I couldn’t name a region of the world where she didn’t have an uncle or aunt, and once her cousin from Frankfurt really did visit and take us out to dim sum.

The first time we hooked up was junior year, in the back of my Honda Civic parked behind the Wendy’s on Route 59, after sharing some homemade gimbap. The Earth had peeled open like a tangerine after the morning rain, and we were debating what the precipitation smelled like.

“The human nose is very sensitive to spores that the soil emits after a fresh rain,” I said. “Like a shark to blood in water.”

“And what do the spores smell like?”

“One gigantic fungal fart.”

“Then you can kiss my ass,” she said, and I did.

She didn’t speak as she rebuttoned her blouse. I respected the silence, observed it with deference, and undermined myself with a load of heavy thinking. When she finally called, a week later, I was drowning in erotic melancholia, but she worked me over with oolong milk tea and fresh-boiled H-mart tapioca. I understood then that this was going to be the pattern: every time we got close, she found reasons to leave. The reasons were good ones but I never believed them. Instead, I would chalk

我告诉她，古希腊的利率几百年来几乎没有发生过改变， 德洛斯岛阿波罗神庙发放的贷款，利率固定在百分之十。这一 次，音叉终于震响了。她拿出粉色的凯蒂猫保温饭盒，示意我 坐下。

麻烦就是从那个时候开始的。凯瑟琳从不相信琐碎庸常的爱 情，十六岁的她，追求盛大、难测、超凡脱俗。她对人若即若 离，直到对方站在恰好的距离仰望她。而对我来说，站在“合 适的距离”，代表我对她而言，有时像情人，有时像侍从，有 时则是她的御用说书人，专门替她提供维基百科式的冷知识。

午饭时，她问我最近在读什么。我说《魔鬼经济学》，而她显 然早已读完。从此，她开启了永远比我快一步、多读一本书的 惯例。我想，亲密关系之所以让她厌倦，大概是因为无法让她 心生敬畏。这或许和她跨太平洋的成长经历有关——无论在伊 利诺伊还是深圳，她都显得格格不入。我想不出世界上还有哪 个地方没有她的亲戚；有一次，她那个来自法兰克福的表亲居 然真的来探望她，带我们去吃了中式点心。

我们第一次发生关系是在高三。在我那辆本田思域车的后 座，我将车停在59号公路旁温蒂快餐店的后面。我们之间的亲 密，发生在分食完自制的紫菜包饭之后。刚下过一场晨雨，大 地像橘子皮一样翻卷开来，我们随后又争辩起雨后的气味。

“人的鼻子对雨后土壤释放出的孢子特别敏感，”我说，“ 就像鲨鱼能闻到水里的血。”

“那孢子闻起来像什么？” “一场巨大的真菌屁。”

“那你可以去亲我屁股了。”然后我真的亲了。

她重新扣衬衫纽扣时，一句话也没说。我尊重那份沉默，恭 敬地守候，却又被沉重的思绪彻底击溃。一周后她终于打来电 话，我早已沉溺在情欲的忧郁里，而她用乌龙奶茶和韩亚超市 的现煮珍珠安抚好了我。那时我就明白，我与凯瑟琳的相处会 成为一种固定模式。每当我们靠近，她就会找理由离开。那些 理由看似都相当合理，但我从未真正相信。我只会把一切归结 于业障。我信佛的父母总在强调“因果”，所以我学会接受所 有发生的事，把它们当成不知多少世之前，种下的苦甜果实。

them up to bad karma. My Buddhist parents were always talking about yin guo, so I learned to accept whatever came as bittersweet fruit I had sown god knows how many lifetimes ago. Score 1580 on the SAT and she’d vanish; get passed over for a club and she’d appear waving at the other end of the sidewalk. Katherine’s father was Orthodox Christian, which maybe had something to do with it. I read somewhere that certain Medieval heretics believed God controlled all events but the devil controlled the timing—which explained the diabolical arrhythmia.

I followed her to NYU, declining Cornell, a slight my mother would carry into her next incarnation. She studied philosophy; I picked economics because it seemed like a track where she couldn’t lap me. It was my habit to sign up for a course and then commit myself to another field of study, so when I was done fooling around in Game Theory, I’d come find her in Bobst and follow her discursive drift through Simone de Beauvoir, Simone Weil, and Saint-Simon, jotting down little Katherinisms in my Moleskine planner. She’d run off whenever I filled about two pages, usually with a new boy. A poet, a filmmaker, a guy with a bomber on a motorcycle. But she came back.

Tonight was an on night. We were at a house party hosted by sand-colored, cashmere-turtleneck Jason. The apartment smelled of expensive cheese. I was drunk. Not stumbling, sluryour-words drunk, but lucid, vibrating drunk, where you feel smarter than everyone in the room and are not afraid to say so.

“Be nice,” Katherine whispered, leaning into me, her breath bubbly with champagne. “Stop doing the thing with your jaw.”

“What thing?”

“Grinding your teeth. Because you want to tell Jason that his take on Derrida is derivative.”

“It’s différance, not difference. The man literally spelled it out.”

“If you can’t be nice, Alvin, at least be quiet.”

“You don’t even like these people.”

“And you know that how?” she said, turning to a Harvard sweater. “It’s not always you versus the world.”

So that was the crux of it: Katherine had learned to play the game. She’d struggled, fought, taken matters into her own

学术能力评估测试（SAT）考到1580分，凯瑟琳消失了； 社团竞选落选，她又会在街道另一头朝我挥手。凯瑟琳的父亲 是东正教徒，也许和一切有关。我曾读到，中世纪某些异端认 为：上帝掌控一切事件，但魔鬼掌控时机——倒是很适合解 释，她那恶魔般的无常节奏。

后来我跟着她去了纽约大学，拒绝了康奈尔。这份忤逆， 大概会让我母亲记到下辈子。她学哲学，我选了经济学，因为

那似乎是个她没法轻松超越我的领域。我总习惯选一门课，却 埋头钻研另一个领域。博弈论课结束后，我会跑去鲍勃斯特图 书馆找她，跟着她一路从西蒙娜·德·波伏娃谈到西蒙娜·薇 依，再到圣西门，把她说过的话一条条记进我的笔记本，统称 为“凯瑟琳语录”。每当我记满两页，她就会离开，身边通常 会出现新的男孩：诗人、导演、又或者是穿飞行员夹克骑着摩 托的人。但她总会回来。

今晚是相聚的时刻。我们出现在杰森的家庭派对上，杰森 穿着沙色的羊绒高领衫，公寓里则弥漫着昂贵奶酪的香气。我

喝醉了，但不是东倒西歪、口齿不清的醉，而是清醒、亢奋的 醉，我觉得自己比在场所有人都聪明，也敢于直言。

“乖一点。”

凯瑟琳轻声靠向我，香槟的气息带着气 泡，“别再用下巴那个动作了。。”

“什么动作？”

“磨牙。因为你想告诉杰森，他对德里达的解读纯属照 搬。”

“那是‘延异（différance）’，不是‘差异 （difference）’。人家自己都拼写出来了。”

“如果你不能友善点，阿尔文，至少安静一些。”

“你根本不喜欢这些人。”

“你怎么知道？” 她转向一个穿哈佛卫衣的人，“不是永 远只有你和世界作对。”

这就是问题的核心：凯瑟琳学会了游戏规则。她挣扎过、反 抗过、主动掌控过。而在某个时刻，她开始爱上这场游戏，或 者说爱上憎恨它，就像她曾在我破旧的思域副驾上对我说的那 样。而我，根本不该参与这场游戏，因为我太容易沦陷。于是

hands—and somewhere along the way she’d grown to love it, or loved to hate it, as she’d tell me in the shotgun of my beat-up Civic. I, on the other hand, had no business playing, because I was a sucker. So I stood in the corner, the only place a single man could linger without looking like a loafer, back straight, hoping my body would give way and be worked over by the dazzling brilliance of my soul.

“You were truly awful tonight,” she said, fingering the lapel of her fur coat as we came out the pivot door. “You’ve outdone yourself again!”

Outside, the wind was sharp and cold, slicking the Bowery.

“I was charming,” I said. “I didn’t even tell Jason how his beloved Proust got off to caged rat fighting.”

Then the light turned yellow. Katherine bolted across the street, fur coat billowing. “Catch me if you can!” she called.

But the light had already flipped. Nothing to do now but walk parallel on my side, the two of us separated by a river of headlights, the click-clack of our boots on the wet pavement keeping time. Then she picked up her phone and called out something in rapid Cantonese—some serious-sounding business I couldn’t follow. I caught up to her at the door, and upstairs, I shut the loose window as Katherine spread herself out on my bed.

“Who were you on the phone with?”

“My mom.”

“At midnight?”

“She’s in Shenzhen.”

“What did she want?”

“Nothing. Just checking in.”

“On what? Your next boyfriend?”

She kicked off her heels, letting them clatter on the woodboard.

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

“It’s exhausting, Alvin.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know…Maybe you. You sulking. You standing in the corner all evening like that Wojak meme.”

我站在角落，那个单身汉唯一不会显得游手好闲的地方，挺直 脊背，盼着肉身能被灵魂耀眼的光芒所折服。

“你今晚真够糟糕的。”

我们走出旋转门时，她抚着皮草 大衣的翻领说，“你又刷新纪录了。”

门外寒风凛冽，刮过包厘街。

“我很有魅力。”

我说，“我甚至没告诉杰森，他崇拜的 普鲁斯特喜欢看斗鼠。”

信号灯转黄。凯瑟琳冲过马路，大衣随风扬起。“来追我 啊！” 她喊道。

可灯已经变红。我只能在街这边与她平行行走，我们被车流 隔开，靴子踩在湿滑路面的咔嗒声，像替我们打着拍子。凯瑟 琳拿起手机，飞快地说了一串粤语——语气严肃，但我一句都 听不懂。我在公寓门口追上她，上楼后，我关上松动的窗户， 凯瑟琳舒展地躺在我的床上。

“你刚才在跟谁打电话？”

“我妈。”

“在半夜？”

“她在深圳。”

“她找你干嘛？”

“没什么。只是问问近况。”

“问什么？你下一个男朋友吗？”

她踢掉高跟鞋，鞋子啪得一声，落在木地板上。

“我是认真的。”

“我知道你是。”

“什么意思？”

“我觉得很累，阿尔文。”

“你在累什么？”

“我不知道……也许是因为你吧。你那副闷闷不乐的样子。

整晚站在角落里，像那个沃杰克表情包。”

我转头看她。她美得很疲惫，而疲惫又让她更动人。这让我 心头一紧，“那你又为什么还总邀请我？你明知道我是什么样 的人。我就像那条你不停丢残羹剩饭的丧家犬。”

她坐起来，抱住膝盖，腿上满是淤青，看上去既漫不经心，

I turned to her. She looked so beautiful and tired, more beautiful when tired. Something about it chafed. “Then why do you keep inviting me? You know who I am. I’m the Russian dog you keep feeding scraps to.”

She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest, legs bruised, so careless, carefree. “Because,” she said softly. “Because you get it.”

“Get what?”

“Get me. Get why I do what I do. That I’m not just—”

“Not just what?”

She shook her head. “You know what.”

“Knock it off, Kat,” I said. “You’re just making your way up in the world like everyone else.”

“Right. Like everyone else,” she replied, reaching for the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. I knocked her hand away.

“So, what are we doing? Are we doing this again? The whole ‘us’ thing?”

Katherine was smiling now, looking at me with those hard, watery eyes, but her posture grew tense—bracing, as if on the verge of something.

“My father’s stepping down,” she said. I blinked. “Wait—so you actually are some big-shot K-drama heiress!”

“Knock it off yourself. If that were true, I’d be too good for you.”

“You don’t know that. How do you know I’m not some billionaire Rhodes Scholar?”

“You pretended to like Happy Together.”

“Okay, you got me there.”

“Now there’s my Midwestern boy.”

“But seriously—”

“Alvin, I am serious. He wants me back home.”

“Home home?”

“Home home.”

A gust of wind blew the window wide open and carried away my exhaustion. My brain threatened to pop right out of my cranium. The Jasons, Simones, and all the cheese—was that just her passing through?

“Come now, don’t give me that look. Take it out on the one-

又自由自在。“因为，”她轻声说，“因为你能理解。”

“理解什么？”

“理解我。理解我为什么那样做。理解我不只是——”

“不只是什么？”

她摇摇头。“你知道的。”

“别这样，凯特”，我说，“你不过是在往上爬，跟所有人 一样。”

“对。跟所有人一样。”她说着，伸手去拿床头的威士忌。 我把她的手拍开。

“所以，我们现在算什么？还要继续这样吗？继续我们从前 那套？”

她笑了，用坚硬又湿润的眼睛看着我，可身体却渐渐紧绷， 像在准备迎接什么。

“我爸在准备退位了。”她说。

我愣住了。“等等——所以你其实真是什么韩剧里的财阀千 金？”

“别闹了。真那样的话，我早嫌你配不上我了。”

“那可不一定。你怎么知道我有没有拿过价值亿万元的罗德 奖学金呢？”

“因为你假装喜欢《春光乍泄》。”

“好吧，被你看穿了。”

“这才是我的中西部男孩。”

“但说真的——”

“阿尔文，我是认真的。他想让我回家。”

“哪个家？”

“真正的家。”

一阵风猛地吹开窗户，把我最后一点疲惫卷走。我的脑袋几 乎要炸开。杰森也好，西蒙娜也好，还有那些昂贵奶酪，难道 都只是她人生途中的中转？

“别这副表情。要怪就怪独生子女政策。” 可我无法接受。“那你的读博计划呢？芝加哥大学？那个著 名的社会思想项目？”

“我拒了。”

child policy.”

But I was having none of it. “Well, what about the PhD? Chicago? The famous Committee on Social Thought?”

“I turned it down.”

“You turned it down,” I heard myself say. “You turned it down, alright. You got into the best program in the country, and you fucking turned it down to run a—what is it that you’re running? A warehouse? A bitcoin farm?”

“Don’t be an ass, Alvin.”

“I’m not. I’m just—” I rubbed my face. “So all this,” I said, knocking Kierkegaard off the table, “this was just pastime? A layover?”

“Stop it. It’s my life.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

“You didn’t have to.” Her French-tipped nails dug into the blanket. “It’s right there in the way you look at me.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Isn’t it? Every time I switch to Cantonese on a call, every time I dress up for one of these parties—”

“I don’t judge like that!”

“Yes you do! And it makes me feel like I’m always keeping something, hiding something from you.”

She sat up straighter, voice rising. “But you love that about me, don’t you? The rootlessness. It makes you feel grounded. But what have you done except watch me?”

Thoughts sloshed in my skull. Words tugged at the corner of my mouth but refused to be marshaled into a sentence. I remembered the Chinese course I’d dropped, my broken Duolingo streak, all those characters I’d copied out and forgotten.

“Sorry, I lost my temper. When do you leave?”

“August.”

“Okay,” I said, mulling it over. “August. That gives us what? Five months? We can do a lot in five months. Bet we can learn wen yan wen in three.”

She shook her head, a slow, sad movement. “No, Alvin. I can’t do the on-and-off anymore. I can’t pack you up and fly you to Hong Kong like a sweater.”

“Yes, you can,” I said. “It’s a big Rimowa you have. Besides,

“你拒了。”

我听见自己的声音，“你考上了全国最好的 项目，却他妈拒了，去经营…… 经营什么？一个仓库？或者是 什么比特币矿场？”

“别耍混了，阿尔文。”

“我没有。我只是……”

我揉了揉脸，“所以这一切，” 我碰掉了桌上的克尔凯郭尔，“都只是消遣？只是中转？”

“别说了。这是我的人生。”

“我没说不是。”

“我不是。我只是——”我揉了揉脸，“所以这一切，”我 把桌上的克尔凯郭尔碰倒在地上，“这一切都只是消遣？一次 短暂的路过？”

“别说了。这是我的人生。”

“我又没说不是。”

“你不用说。”她的法式美甲深深掐进毯子，“你看我的眼 神里早就写着。”

“这不公平！”

“不是吗？每次我打电话切换成粤语，每次我为了这些派对 盛装打扮——”

“我不会那样评判你的！”

“你就是！而且你让我觉得，我总在对你隐瞒什么、藏着什 么。”

她坐得更直，声音提高：“可你偏偏喜欢这一点，不是吗？ 喜欢我的漂泊无根。那会让你觉得自己很安稳。可你呢？除了 看着我，你又做过什么呢？”

无数念头在我脑子里翻涌。话堵在嘴边，拼不成完整句子。

我想起自己放弃的中文课，断掉的多邻国打卡，还有那些我抄 过又忘掉的汉字。

“抱歉，我刚刚失控了。你什么时候走？” “八月。”

“好。”我喃喃道，“八月。那我们还有多久？五个月？五 个月能做很多事。说不定三个月就能学会文言文。”

她缓慢而悲伤地摇头，说：“不，阿尔文。我没法再继续这 种聚散无常了。我不能把你像毛衣一样塞进箱子飞去香港。”

I could get a job. Let ambition be my folly—let me come at the king, dance with the devil. I already followed you to New York. I’m sure they have a Chinatown in China, too.”

Katherine nodded quietly, which drove me crazy. I had no clue what sort of effect my impassioned speech produced on her. The commitment, now voiced, weighed on me thick and heavy. Finally, she reached over the world and put a hand on my leg.

“Forget it, Alvin. You’re not sixteen anymore.”

The wind was knocked out of me. What did she mean by this? I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that I could change, that I’d always in my own confused way tried to strive for some higher purpose, that I would follow her anywhere, to the Great Wall and back if need be. But the words caught in my throat. Quite true: I was in love with my own stagnation. But what genius didn’t wallow a little in feeling indignant about the world? It’s some world we live in.

“So this is it? Cursive ‘the end’ from Tom and Jerry?”

She stood up straight, brushing my arm and lighting a cigarette by the open window. I remembered how tall she was as she leaned forward, blowing wisps of smoke into the cool air.

“Let me stay the night,” she said.

Oh, come on now—this was no fair. It was the siren song that had kept me crashed on these rocks for seven years. This and the home cooking, the gimbap and the onigiri. But she was already pulling off her Alhambra earrings and rubbing the pouchy spot where the post had pressed too long. She’d worn them all night, for the party, and now she was taking them off in my apartment, in the dark, with the absent-minded tenderness people only show when they think they’re alone.

“Okay,” I said, taking a drag of her cigarette.

She took my hand and led me away from the window. We lay down in the dark, tangling our limbs like roots of trees fighting for the same patch of soil.

“Do you remember,” she said, suddenly, “the first time we watched Chungking Express?”

“You cried!”

“I did not.”

“You cried at the part with the canned pineapples.”

“可以的。”我说，“你的那只日默瓦很大。再说了，我也 能找工作。让雄心壮志成为我的痴念吧——我甚至可以去挑战 权威，与魔鬼共舞。我都已经为你来到纽约了。我想，中国肯 定也有唐人街吧。”

凯瑟琳安静地点头，这让我快疯了。我根本不知道自己这番 慷慨陈词对她产生了什么作用。这份说出口的承诺，沉重地压 在我心上。终于，她像是越过一整个世界般，把手放在我的腿 上。

“算了吧，阿尔文。你已经不再十六岁了。”

我瞬间喘不过气来。凯瑟琳这话什么意思？我想争辩，想告 诉她，她错了，我可以改变，我一直以混乱的方式，在努力追 求更高的目标，我愿意追随她去任何地方，哪怕到长城再折返 也行。可话堵在喉咙里。可她又说得没错：我沉溺于自己的停 滞。可哪个天才不曾沉溺于对世界的不平呢？这世界本来就够 荒唐。

“所以就这样了？像是《猫和老鼠》里潦草的‘结局’ 吗？”

她站直身体，拂过我的手臂，在敞开的窗边点燃一支烟。她 俯身吐烟时，我想起她原来这么高。她俯身向前，烟雾一缕缕 吹进冷空气里。

“让我今晚留下过夜吧。”她说。

唉，别这样——这太不公平了。七年来，正是这塞壬般的呼

唤，让我一次次触礁。还有她做的家常菜，紫菜包饭和饭团。

可她已经摘下四叶草耳环，揉着被耳针压出痕迹的耳垂。她为 了派对戴了一整晚，而现在却在我昏暗的公寓里摘下来，带着 一种只有独处时才会流露的，漫不经心的温柔。 “好。”我吸了一口她的烟。

她牵着我的手，把我从窗边带走。我们在黑暗里躺下，四肢 缠绕在一起，像争夺同一片土壤的树根。

“你还记得吗，”她忽然说，“我们第一次看《重庆森林》 的时候？”

“你哭了！” “我才没有。”

“It’s the dialogue.”

“Yes, I know, Kat. May 1st, everything expires.”

She smiled, she must’ve, but it was dark, and the moon was hiding in her hair, blotting out her face.

“You always let me explain things,” she said. Even when you already knew.”

“I liked hearing you talk.”

She squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “For leaving.”

“Don’t be.”

“I knew what I was doing.”

“I let you. I had it in me.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No, it was meant to be. I needed to put myself through the suffering, bank all those credits with the Buddha. And now you’ll never see it coming when I cash my check.”

“Well, this one surely earns its spot in the Katherine planner,” she laughed, jabbing me in the ribs with a finger.

With that, she turned on her side to face me. In the blanched moonlight, she looked young, younger than I’d seen her in years. The hardness in her eyes had worn off. This was the Katherine who’d taught me that the Chungking Express was not a train but a residential building in Kowloon.

“What are you going to do?” she said, cutting through my reverie. “After I leave.”

“I don’t know. Keep working. Keep my parents American-dreaming.”

“You could write,” she said. “You have a knack for picking out fun facts. Whip that Moleskine of yours into a manuscript.”

“I’m not a writer.”

“How do you know? You’ve never tried.”

“Exactly.”

She laughed softly. “God, you’re impossible.”

“I know.”

She kissed me, her soft tongue soothing my chapped

“凤梨罐头那段你明明哭了。” “是台词的问题。”

“我知道，凯特。五月一号，一切都会过期。”

她一定笑了。但屋里太黑，月光藏在她头发里，把她的脸全 部遮住。

“你总是让我解释。”她说，“哪怕你其实早就知道。”

“我喜欢听你说话。”

她捏了捏我的手，“对不起”，她说，“对不起，我总是离 开。”

“别这样。”

“我知道自己在做什么。”

“是我让你这么做的。我心甘情愿。”

“那也不代表这样是对的。”

“不，这是命中注定。我需要经历这些痛苦，好往佛祖那里 攒功德。等我兑奖那天，你会大吃一惊。”

“这句绝对能进《凯瑟琳语录》。”她笑了。用手指戳了戳 我肋骨，

她侧身面对我。惨白月光里，她看起来很年轻，比这些年来 我见过的任何时候都年轻。她眼里的坚硬已经消退。这是那个

曾告诉我“重庆森林不是列车，而是香港九龙一栋住宅楼”的 凯瑟琳。

“那你之后打算怎么办？”她忽然问，把我从恍惚里拉出 来。“等我走以后。”

“不知道。继续工作吧。继续替我爸妈圆美国梦。”

“你可以写作。”她说，“你很会挑那些趣闻。你可以把你 那本笔记本里的东西整理成稿子。”

“我又不是个作家。”

“你怎么知道？你又没试过。”

“正因为没试过。”

她轻轻笑了。“天啊，你可真是无可救药。” “我知道。”

她吻我。柔软的舌尖抚平了我干裂的嘴唇。我也同样回吻 她。

lips. I kissed her back.

Later, after she fell asleep, I lay awake watching shadows dance on the cracks in the ceiling plaster. Well, Katherine was right to leave. She was right to take the flight or board the train because I was in love with my own station. I had made a home of it, furnished it with the comfortable fiction that I was too smart for the world rather than too scared of it. That was home home for me, goddamn it, and we’d both been complicit. She needed someone to witness her becoming. I needed someone to justify my not becoming. And yet knowing this changed nothing—they were but ideas in my head. But that’s just the thing about ideas: they seem to grow so fierce as they take root, sapping my strength. Change doesn’t owe insight a thin dime. I got up quietly and went back to the window. It was raining again, a slow, unrhythmic drizzle. The Moleskine was still on the ledge. Seven years of Katherinisms.

Katherine stirred. “Come back to bed,” she murmured. “Okay,” I said, sliding it onto the pillow beside her.

后来，她睡着了，而我一直醒着，看影子在天花板的裂缝上 跳舞。凯瑟琳的离开是对的。她理应该搭上飞机，或者登上火 车，因为我喜欢在原地驻留。我早已把停滞当成家，用一种舒 适谎言把它粉饰得妥妥当当：不是我太聪明不属于这个世界， 而是我太害怕这个世界。

这才是我真正的家，该死，我们俩都心知肚明。她需要一个 人见证她的成长，我需要一个人证明我的停滞。可即便明白这 一切，也毫无用处——这些只是我脑中的想法。但想法就是这 样：一旦生根，便会疯狂生长，耗尽我的力气。改变从不亏欠 顿悟一分一毫。

我悄悄起身，回到窗边。外面又下雨了，缓慢而无规律的细 雨。笔记本还在窗台上。七年来，那里面写满有关她的全部。

凯瑟琳动了动。“回床上来。” 她迷迷糊糊地说。

“好。”

我把笔记本放在她枕边，走了回去。

Translator’s Note

A few notes may help orient the reader. Fang Yi’s story is set in Shanghai, but opens in a mall basement designed to resemble Republican-era architecture— “Republican” here referring not to American politics, but to the Chinese Republican period, the Minguo era, roughly 1912–1949. As such, the streets and buildings named in the opening (Ninghai Road, Yihe Road, Mogan Road, Jiangsu Road, Chen Bulei’s residence, the Rabe’s Marshall Mansion) evoke the historical texture of Concession-era Nanjing, the capital of China at the time.

As for the “Guling Street” reference, the murder alluded to is the killing at the center of Edward Yang’s film A Brighter Summer Day—whose Chinese title is A Guling Street Youth Murder Case / 《牯岭街少年杀人事件》

In the original, the “tape” thrown away is not a tape of the film itself, but the cassette listened to by a character inside Yang’s film. This matters because Fang’s fictitious anime, The Marble Club, later restages a similar murder case, while the mall recreates the anime’s Republican setting. The story thus moves through several layers of simulation: historical Nanjing, Edward Yang’s film, the anime’s reenactment, and finally the mall’s theme-park replica.

One of the central translation challenges was the phrase 收复数, which I render as “collecting plurals.” In Chinese fan-merchandise culture, this refers to buying multiple copies of the same piece (one to use, one to display, one to preserve, and so on). I chose the slightly strange “plurals” over smoother options like “multiples” because I wanted to preserve the original’s subcultural oddness and its grammatical metaphor. Xiang Yi is not merely buying duplicates, but trying to turn singular beloved objects into a stable, repeatable order.

Stylistically, the original is dense, recursive, and highly observant, but also sometimes deliberately aloof, as though its emotional life has been displaced into objects. I have taken some liberties in breaking or tightening syntax where the English risked becoming opaque, but I tried to preserve the original’s accumulative pressure. In this respect, I found myself returning to Schleiermacher’s distinction between bringing the reader toward the writer and bringing the writer toward the reader. My approach has been closer to the former. Rather than fully domesticating Fang’s fanculture terminology and historical abstractions, I have tried to leave some of their foreignness intact, while offering just enough contextual clarity for the reader to move through the story without losing the thread. In sum, my hope is that the English reader can feel both comfortable and unsettled: aware of the references, but still caught inside Fang’s mirrored world of replicas, doubles, and imperfect “plurals.”

FANG YI

收复数

上一次见到南戈，向宜同她在大楼底下兜了好几 圈。

微缩的地下一层，故意设计成民国的建筑风 貌，正中央仿建的宁海路环岛，向四面八方输送着 颐和路、莫干路、江苏路几条错综的血管，穿过十 二片区一路向西，依稀能辨别出陈布雷寓所和马歇 尔公馆的门牌。宁海路五号在《拉贝日记》中被亲 切地称为“我们的宫殿”，鹅黄的油漆把腔壁晕染 得和实物无二。在牯岭街的路牌前，南戈特地停了 下来，和向宜一样，也想到了那桩唏嘘的杀人事 件。“我就跟这个世界一样，是不会改变的”，细 密的铺陈在少年捅向小明的七刀后潦草收尾，所有 的郁结都随着那盘《阳光灿烂的夏日》一起，被警 员随手丢进垃圾桶。

雷同的案情，在她们钟爱的《弹珠俱乐部》的最 新一季被重新搬演，剧情更新的余温尚未褪却，商 场为了这部炙手的动画，将原本乏善的“韩国街”

缔造成了复刻故事发生地的虚拟乐园。改造一经完 成，慕名而来的观众，自然为几近萧索的地下空 间，带来了点喧嚷的朝气，甚至牯岭街的导引牌下 还排起了合影的长列。

她们好不容易找到一处游人疏落的角落坐下短 憩，南戈的手里自始至终都拎着一个藕色行李箱， 眼影和睫毛还残余着婚礼妆造特有的钻石粉。坐定 后，她当着向宜的面开始卸妆，熟练地从箱子里顺 出各色工具，捆束刷头的收纳包密麻地刺着几排外 形一致的胸针，向宜就是在那时，才知晓了她的名 字。

translated from the chinese by ANDY QIFENG ZENG

COLLECTING IN PLURALS

The last time she saw Nan Ge, Xiang Yi did a few laps around the building’s basement with her for a while.

The basement level, built in miniature, had been deliberately styled after Republican-era architecture. At its center, a replica of the Ninghai Road roundabout fanned outward into a tangle of arteries—Yihe Road, Mogan Road, Jiangsu Road—threading westward through District Twelve, where one could just make out the nameplates of Chen Bulei’s residence and the Marshall Mansion. Five Ninghai Road, affectionately called “our palace” in The Diaries of John Rabe, was coated in goose-yellow paint, rendered virtually indistinguishable from the real thing. At the Guling Street street sign, Nan Ge made a deliberate stop. Like Xiang Yi, she too was thinking of that gut-wrenching murder mystery: “I’m just like this world—I’ll never change.” After the boy plunged his knife into Xiao Ming seven times, the meticulous buildup collapsed into a hasty ending; all that pent-up anguish was discarded along with the cassette from Edward Yang’s A Brighter Summer Day, tossed into the trash by a police officer without a second thought.

A similar case had been reenacted in the latest season of The Marble Club, the anime they both loved. The afterglow of the new episodes had not yet faded, and the mall, capitalizing on the show’s popularity, had transformed its formerly lackluster “Korea Street” into a virtual theme park modeled on the anime’s setting. Once the renovation was complete, fans drawn by the show brought a little noise and vitality to the previously half-deserted underground space; there was even a long line of people waiting to take photos beneath the Guling Street sign.

Finally, the pair found a sparsely populated corner and sat down to rest. The whole time, Nan Ge had been carrying a lotusroot-colored suitcase; traces of diamond powder particular to bridal makeup still clung to her eyeshadow and lashes. Once seated, she began taking it off right in front of Xiang Yi, deftly producing an

又或许，南戈压根不是她的本名，只是她万千代 号的其中之一，她们之间的不相熟，用无关痛痒的 谎来填缀交流的必须，并非不妥。

起初是向宜先叫住的她。

电梯轿厢的排风口渗出凉风，涌向她的脖颈， 涌向她的背，她思忖再三，颤悠地对南戈的背影问 好，语词间的怯软，同平日烂熟于心的周到判若两 人。

是南戈领口的徽章，最先引起了她的注意，透明 的釉质将宝珈的剪影似琥珀般定格，掐丝的金边反 射着顶灯的炫目。出于司空见惯的麻痹，向宜很少 会让目光在密闭的电梯多作流连，但那一次的不留 神，让她瞄见了宝珈的虚影。

仿珐琅质地的徽章甫一发售就遭到了哄抢，可 那天恰逢向宜值班，她当然不能忤逆森严的规定，

从她需要站满八小时的轿厢逃窜到休息室，翻出手 机对着付款界面一通猛烈敲击，交接班后再回望库 存早已被扫空。隔了许久，她终于在惯用的二手回

收平台“收”来了一枚旧物，可她偏又喜欢好事成 双，单一个不好，起码凑成一对才算了结心事。在 那个更恣意随心的二元世界，大家会不言自明地切

换到另一套活泼的语言体系，他们将这样总想重复 购买某个同款周边的消费称作“收复数”，显然向 宜对“收复数”保有某种难分难舍的执念。

她们默契地忽略掉初次交流的局促，谈论起这枚 仿珐琅的徽章有多么难得，南戈笑了，单薄的体腔 像是产生了某种微妙的共鸣，闭塞的空气里回荡着 好听的“咯咯”声。电梯到了一楼，门开了合，合 了又开，她们还没有从热切的讨论里回过神。楼上 楼下都没有其他人按下启动的按钮，向宜与南戈都 还站在悬停的轿厢，谁都没有想要中断的意味。

其实这并非向宜与南戈第一回打照面，她在约莫

assortment of tools from the case. The roll-up pouch bundling her brushes was densely studded with rows of identical brooches. It was only then that Xiang Yi learned her name.

Or perhaps Nan Ge wasn’t her real name at all, merely one alias among a sea of user IDs. Given how little they knew each other, it seemed harmless enough to pad their necessary exchanges with small white lies.

It was Xiang Yi who had stopped her first.

Cool air had seeped from the elevator’s AC vent, prickling her neck and back. She hesitated for a long while before offering a tremulous greeting to Nan Ge’s retreating figure, her voice timid and soft, nothing like the practiced attentiveness she knew by heart from work.

It was the pin on Nan Ge’s collar that had first caught her attention. A transparent glaze sealed Bao Jia’s silhouette in amber, the filigree gold rim refracting the dazzle of the ceiling lights. Out of the numbness born of habitual indifference, Xiang Yi rarely let her gaze linger on strangers inside the confined elevator, but that one moment of inattention let her glimpse her favorite character Bao Jia’s phantom image.

The faux-enamel pin had been mobbed up the instant it was released. But Xiang Yi had been busy at work that day, and she could hardly defy the workplace’s strict code of conduct—abandon the elevator car where she had to stand for eight full hours, flee to the break room, dig out her phone, and stab wildly at the checkout screen. By the time her shift ended, the stock had long been swept clean. After a considerable wait, she finally collected one secondhand from the resale platform she frequented. But she had a fondness for things coming in pairs—one alone felt incomplete, and only a matching set could put her mind at auspicious ease. In the freer, more permissive world of anime fandom, everyone tacitly shifted into a livelier register: this habit of buying the same piece of merch again and again was called “collecting plurals.”

Presently, with tacit understanding, the two women politely bypassed the awkwardness of a first meeting and plunged into discussing just how hard it was to procure this faux-enamel pin. Nan Ge laughed, and a pleasant giggle poured out from her slight frame, reverberating in the stale air. Meanwhile, the elevator had reached the first floor, and the doors opened and closed, closed

三周以前就发现，南戈是除了自己与同事之外，罕 有的几个会在轿厢里重复出现的人，而她每一次搭 乘的终点，都是在二十三层的宴会厅。

这不是一幢招商简净的大楼，商场、影院、酒 店、写字楼盘踞各方，楼层规划的不精明让正确地 乘坐电梯成了一件不轻松的事。南戈一个月会来两 到三次，日期不定，星期也不定。她猜不出南戈的 动机，不像职工，自然也不是食客，若非她领口间 的宝珈，向宜兴许会让种种猜想继续混杂下去。向 宜显然不只是想同南戈萍水相逢地搭讪，她蹲守了 她好多天，近来她并不如之前那样来得那么勤，上 一次她本想拦下她说出细想下来有些唐突的开场 白，但那天南戈离开得很早，她没办法在自己还身 穿品红制服的时候与来往的人多作攀谈。

南戈的喋喋不休有些出乎她的预料，向宜看向那 枚觊觎良久的徽章，她本想在程式化的几个来回就 讲出她难以开口的请求，南戈的对答让她一时间找 不到恰如其分的切口，向宜刚想打断，停滞良久的 电梯又向负一层滑去，门开了，与《弹珠俱乐部》

的故事发生地如出一辙的迷你街巷横陈在她们眼 前，算是应景，也算是不应景。

发现自己“复数成瘾”，是在向宜成为“电梯 司机”的半年后。她喜欢这么自称，尽管从未向旁 人如此介绍过自己，无论是“导梯员”的呆板，还 是“电梯小姐”的古怪，都比不过假使自己是位驾 驶员来得自如。轿厢的楼层按钮上方安放着一块默 不作声的显示屏，修护乳液与新式腕表的广告交替 滚动，偶有视频网站的新片预告插播其间，她就是 在两处美好幻境的缝隙，瞥见了神色张皇的宝珈。

向宜记下那部动画的名字——《弹珠俱乐部》， 是位沉寂良久的漫画家的复出新作，依然延续着先 前诡谲不定的风格：坐落于民国公馆旧址的街区案

and opened again, but neither wanted to break off their fervent discussion. No one on any floor had pressed a call button, so both Xiang Yi and Nan Ge remained standing in the suspended car, with no sign of stopping.

In truth, this was not the first time Xiang Yi had laid eyes on Nan Ge. Some three weeks earlier, she had noticed that she was one of the rare few, besides her colleagues, who came repeatedly into the elevator, and every time, her destination had been the banquet hall on the twenty-third floor. Now, this was no simple commercial building: a mall, a movie theater, a hotel, and haphazard office spaces each claimed their separate territories, and the scrappy floor plan made taking the right lift no easy task. Nan Ge came two or three times a month, on no fixed date or day of the week. Xiang Yi tried very hard to make out her purpose—she didn’t seem like an employee, nor a diner. Had it not been for the Baojia pin at her collar, Xiang Yi might have let all her speculations continue to run amok. Clearly, she wished for more than a passing exchange of pleasantries. She had kept watch for Nan Ge for days, but lately Nan Ge had not come as often as before. The last time they met, Xiang Yi had meant to stop her with an opening line that, in retrospect, seemed rather forward, but Nan Ge had left unusually early that day, and Xiang Yi could not afford to chat with passersby while still wearing her magenta uniform.

And now, Nan Ge’s chattering caught her off guard. Xiang Yi eyed the pin she had coveted for so long. She had planned to steer through a few formulaic courtesies before voicing her difficult request, but Nan Ge’s tireless responses left her without an opening. Just as Xiang Yi felt forced to interrupt, the long-stalled elevator slid down to the basement level. The doors opened, and the theme park streetscape mirroring The Marble Club sprawled before them— fitting, in a way, and in another, not at all.

Indeed, Xiang Yi had discovered her addiction to collecting plurals half a year after becoming an elevator commander. She liked calling herself that, though she had never once introduced herself in those terms; neither the stodginess of “attendant” nor the quaintness of “stewardess” could rival the ease she felt picturing herself in the cockpit. Above the car’s buttons for the floors sat a screen on which ads for restorative lotions and new-model wristwatches doom-scrolled endlessly, punctuated now and then by

件层出，总与灵异事件打交道的宝珈临危受雇为调 查员。他以“地下偶像”的身份自居，奇异的禀赋 为他带来难以仿效的便捷，他总能在落幕休息的闲 暇游走在他人的意识空间，靠拼凑一段又一段断裂 的记忆，找寻还原真相的可能。俱乐部周遭新罪频 出，但每一要案都是对经典作品的再度演绎，虽假 借了大致的框架，但宝珈似乎每一次，都推演出了 不同原典的结局。

她本就有看动画的习惯，但只是寻常消遣，算 不上沉迷。向宜曾自认为能将现实与故事之间区隔 出泾渭，她爱看解谜故事，虽然并不会在看的时候 腾出思维的空间，随宝珈一齐挖掘隐蔽的暗潮，她 的更多观测，放在了对宝珈本人。她对他的青睐， 很难被任何明晰的情感状态定义。宝珈能力傲人， 可眼睛里总是有团挥之不散的霾，在故事中却是孑 然的所在，在不同人的意识空间，他会换上迥然的 装束，他性情难以捉摸，但又自得且自洽，他明白 自身的局限，知分寸，懂进退。他似乎从来没在一 切探听明了后恍然大悟的得意，更多的是在凝望深 渊后，难以名状的黯然神伤。《弹珠俱乐部》单元 故事的剧情模式，让宝珈几乎成了动画里唯一的主 角，好在造型上的灵活百变，没让周边设计师感到 难为无米之炊的困窘。

南戈同向宜一样喜欢“收复数”，但她俘获的战 利品，显然没有向宜的多。

向宜每隔一段时间，都会给出租屋里的那处玻 璃展台拍一张“证件照”。她在屋内找到了一个最 佳的视点，很久没上过蜡的地板留有她贴的一片荧 光地贴。只要站在那里，展台上的一切都能被收容 进相机的屏幕：铁皮徽章、亚克力立牌、手机壳、 流沙麻将、冰箱贴、毛绒人偶、纸票、方巾、钥匙 扣、文件夹、杯垫、粘土人、印花口罩……她动用

trailers for upcoming releases on streaming platforms. It was in the sliver between two such sumptuous illusions that she first caught an image of Bao Jia, his expression stricken with alarm.

Xiang Yi instantly committed the anime’s title to memory. The Marble Club was the comeback work of a washed up manga artist who remained stubbornly faithful to his passé, inscrutable style: in a fictional neighborhood erected on the ruins of Republicanera mansions, paranormal cases started springing up in endless succession, and Bao Jia, a self-appointed “underground idol,” was pressed into service as a detective of the occult. His uncanny powers afforded him a convenience no one could imitate—during the idle stretches after the curtain fell on one of his performances, he could drift through other people’s consciousness, piecing together one fragmented scrap of memory after another. Fresh crimes cropped up ceaselessly around the Marble Club itself, yet each one proved a clumsy restaging of a classic like A Brighter Summer Day, the murder mystery on Guling Street. Though each borrowed the original’s general skeleton, Bao Jia seemed, every single time, to deduce an ending that diverged from its source.

She’d always watched anime, but only casually—nothing that bordered on obsession. Xiang Yi once believed she could mark the boundary between reality and fiction as cleanly as parting the Jing and Wei rivers. She loved whodunits, though she’d never, while watching, expended the mental energy to excavate alongside Bao Jia the hidden undercurrents of the unconscious. Indeed, the lion’s share of her attention fell upon Bao Jia himself. Her fondness for him resisted definition. Bao Jia’s talents were formidable, yet a smog that refused to lift perpetually clouded his eyes; within the story he was a solitary presence, donning radically different attire inside different people’s consciousness—his temperament was impossible to pin down, yet he was self-content and self-consistent. He understood his own limitations, knew the measure of things, when to press forward and when to withdraw. He never seemed to relish the triumphant epiphany that followed every act of decipherment; what surfaced, instead, after he had gazed into the abyss, was a desolation beyond the reach of language. The episodic, repetitive format of The Marble Club rendered Bao Jia virtually the sole recurring character of the anime—mercifully, the protean flexibility of his ever-shifting disguises spared the poor merchandise

了几乎全部的天资，将这些从天南地北收回来的物 什分门别类，界门纲目科属种。

五层的展架，她恪守颜色、图样、国别等编码索 引，划出透明的边界。向宜将玻璃展台后铺上一层 镜面，像是对于自己工作场域的滑稽复刻，为了让 封锁空间看起来不幽闭，利用反射来欺骗视觉自是 伶俐又讨巧。和大楼的电梯一样，还要在镜面前， 抓准精巧的角度，装上暖黄的顶灯，只有这样，镜 头里的它们，才会看起来饱满矍铄。

她拆开过不少陌生人寄送的快递，大多来源于在 二手交易平台认识的同好，只不过他们在“出”， 向宜在“收”。每次撕开沾灰的塑胶袋，她都会先 瞟一眼“复数”原先都来自哪里。有许多她没有听 说过的城市，她没曾造访，可她的战利品们却周游 过那些角隅，有时候她觉得，自己对于地理方位的 认知，是依托这些印迹模糊的单据来建构的。

造物主创世花了七天，而向宜已经记不清她是从 什么时候开始下定决心动工的。在漫长的研判与取 材中，她在某一天惊异地察觉，自己简直是在对那 栋深恶腻烦的大楼进行拙劣戏拟。楼层分区、记熟 内容、同目光所及的每一人鞠躬致意，完全是日常 的翻版，但恐惧并没有在她的心间多作停留，一种

僻静的成就感会让她在看到自己的“摆阵”后感到 瑰异的满足。她通晓所有物件的来历，尤其是居住 在顶层的那些“限量款”，每一个都历经了不为人

知的迂回与蜿蜒。向宜没有细究过她的满足到底从 何而来，但只要眼神与她布下的“摆阵”交汇，怦 然的喜悦会一下子扫除积攒的怠惰。她会随心将形 状不一的它们归置成满意的形状，这是只有拥有“ 复数”才能够体验到的兴味，哪怕她根本用不上五 个钥匙扣与八个手机壳，但似乎就是在这没必要的 重复里，向宜窥见了一种稳固的、安如磐石的秩 序。

designers from becoming cooks with no rice.

Nan Ge, like Xiang Yi, was also fond of “collecting plurals,” though the spoils she had amassed were plainly fewer than Xiang Yi’s. Every so often, Xiang Yi would take an “ID photo” of the glass display case in her rented room. She had found the perfect vantage point in the apartment and marked it with a strip of fluorescent tape on the long-unwaxed floor. As long as she stood on that mark, everything on the shelves could be gathered into the camera’s frame: tin badges, acrylic standees, phone cases, liquid-glitter mahjong tiles, refrigerator magnets, plush dolls, paper tickets, handkerchiefs, keychains, file folders, coasters, clay figurines, printed face masks… She had marshaled nearly all her native ingenuity to sort these objects, retrieved from every farflung corner of her world, into their proper taxonomy—kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, species. Across the display case’s five tiers, she observed a strict index of color, motif, and country of origin, drawing transparent borders between them.

To keep the sealed case from feeling too claustrophobic, she placed a sheet of mirror behind the glass, using reflection to deceive the eye. Like the building’s elevator, the sealed display required its own choreography of reflection and light. She had to find the precise angle before the mirror and install a warm yellow overhead lamp; only then would the objects appear through the lens full and wondrous.

She had opened a good number of packages sent by strangers, mostly fellow fanatics she’d met on secondhand trading platforms— only they were “listing,” and Xiang Yi was “bidding.” Each time she tore open a dust-filmed plastic bag, she would first glance at where the goods had originally come from. There were many cities she’d never even heard of, yet her spoils had traveled from those far-flung corners of the country. Sometimes she felt that her entire sense of geography was constructed upon these package receipts.

The Lord had taken seven days to create the world; Xiang Yi could no longer remember when she had decided to begin making hers. After a long period of planning and gathering materials, she realized one day, with some alarm, that she was producing a crude parody of the very building where she so hated working. Dividing the space into tiers, memorizing what belonged where, bowing in greeting to everyone who entered her field of vision—it

她甚至还心血来潮，想增补一项“扎痛包”的手 工技艺。她开始也不理解，为什么挂满动漫人物徽 章或玩偶的背包，会被称之为“痛包”呢？原因没 有很复杂，只是因为在日语里，“让人觉得夸张和 奇怪”与日语的“痛”有词义上的重叠。她添置的 玩偶，足以挤满背包的透明隔层，可她临了还是舍 弃了要将“复数”们带携出门的念头。她怕意外的 蹭挂带来的“痛”，或许，那些每日僭越她心理安 全距离的乘客，也怕这般晃眼的“痛”。

南戈在向宜的手机相册中观赏了很久她的“摆 阵”，倘若是她在社交媒体上不经意浏览到了向宜 的功勋墙，她们一定会在谁也不认识谁的评论区分 享各自的回收体悟。可南戈并不会安放一个晶莹的 玻璃柜，将每一只来之不易的“单数”铺排成合唱 团般的恢弘。

她还没到向宜那般不可自拔，南戈自以为还算清 醒，每一样周边商品，她只克制地购买两份，一份 随意拨弄，一份收藏吃灰。她也并非在沉迷《弹珠

俱乐部》的最初就尝到了“收复数”的甜头。只是 一次偶然的购买重复，让她体察到了一股细小但足 够强劲的安全感。如果一定要描述，大概就是给了

南戈一个“可以选择退路”的自由，她可以不计较 丢失、不畏惧脏污、不担心蹭刮、不必为本该无拘 束的宝珈穿上浆硬的塑料衣，无论邂逅了何种无妄

之灾，那个未经世事的“复数”都会让南戈拥有劫 后余生般的侥幸。出于职业的自由，南戈从不为自 己在装扮上的小心思感到耻感。她将他的面孔别在

领口、挂在腰间、悬在胸口，哪怕不得不换上伴娘 的统一着装，她都会将扎起碎发的发绳，换成有宝 珈侧影特写的那一根。

南戈几乎没带犹疑地就答应了向宜想“收”那只 徽章的请求，价格与市值同价，倒不是因为对比购

was practically a copy of her daily routine! But the alarm did not linger. Whenever she looked at the “formation” she had arranged, a private sense of accomplishment soon rose up to fill her.

She knew the provenance of every object, especially the limited edition ones residing on the top floor. Xiang Yi had never closely examined the source of this satisfaction, but whenever her gaze met the “formation” she’d laid, a sudden joy swept away all her lethargy. She would rearrange the variously shaped objects into configurations that pleased her on a whim. a pleasure only the possession of multiple copies— “plurals”— could afford. She had no earthly use for five identical keychains and eight indistinguishable phone cases, and yet it was precisely in this needless repetition that Xiang Yi found a kind of stable order.

She had even been seized by the impulse to craft her own ita-bag. At first, she too could not understand why a backpack covered in anime badges and dolls would be called a “pain-bag.” The explanation was simple: in Japanese, the word ita, meaning “painful,” could also suggest something so exaggerated or strange that it hurt to look at. The small dolls she had amassed were more than enough to fill the bag’s transparent compartment, but in the end she gave up on carrying her plurals out into the world. She feared the pain of accidental scrapes and snags—perhaps the same dazzling kind of pain felt by the elevator passengers who trespassed each day on her sense of personal space.

Nan Ge spent a long time admiring Xiang Yi’s formation in her phone gallery. Had she stumbled upon Xiang Yi’s treasures while idly scrolling social media, the two of them would surely have exchanged collecting insights in the comments section as strangers. But Nan Ge would never install a gleaming glass cabinet and arrange every hard-won “singular” into something as grand as a choir.

She had not yet sunk as deep as Xiang Yi. Nan Ge considered herself still fairly rational: for any given piece of merch she bought at most two copies—one to handle freely, one to collect dust in storage. Nor had she tasted the sweetness of “collecting plurals” from the very first days of her obsession with The Marble Club. It was merely an accidental duplicate purchase that made her perceive this slight thrill: if pressed to describe it, she would say it granted her a kind of freedom, to shrug off loss, muck, scratches, and the need for stiff plastic sleeves. Whatever misfortune befell her, that

买价她能小赚一笔，她只是觉得身旁抿住嘴唇四顾 无措的向宜，可能比自己更需要这枚她已经丧却新 鲜感的徽章。成交来得也没有来得绝然爽快，到了

最后，南戈还是幽幽地说了一句，那你可不可以也 答应我一个请求？

宝珈生日的前一周，向宜收到了南戈发来的短 讯，是一份未曾设想到的邀约，南戈想同向宜一起 为宝珈庆生。她的请求并不逾矩，向宜申请了换 班，毕竟有言在先，她特地腾出了一整天时间。

约定的地点在距离大楼不远的“世纪眼”，算 是近郊的一处还不错的放松地，游乐设施、公园湖 泊，寻常的休闲都能在这找到栖息所。她没有想到 南戈会将宝珈的生日看得此般煞有介事。

向宜是添加了南戈的联络方式后，才明白她屡屡 奔赴二十三层宴会厅的缘由。南戈素在做“职业伴 娘”，二十三层的宴会厅的婚宴不断，她的出场也 不断。也是通过南戈，向宜才意识到，以体面和扮 演作为第一要旨的婚礼，并不是每一场都能邀请到 合适的伴娘。南戈发布在社交平台的简介，她身高 一米六三，机敏灵活，会来事，属相牛，有丰富的 伴娘经验，熟悉婚礼的各项流程。她还将做“职业 伴娘”挣得的花销，用来添置与宝珈有关的一切。

南戈从她身后拍了拍她的肩膀，没了厚重的婚礼 妆，她的面庞看起来多了点丰润的血色。她比在大 楼里看着有生气，只不过紧随其后的，还有两个让 向宜向后倒退了几步的人。

是两个“宝珈”。

南戈狡黠地咧了一下嘴角，似乎对向宜的反应有 所预判，眉目间的洋洋自得仿佛在期待向宜能抛来 喜不自胜的感激。向宜愣神了几秒，大抵猜到了今 天南戈究竟想如何为宝珈庆生。

untouched duplicate would grant Nan Ge the reprieve of someone who’d survived a catastrophe. Given the freedom of her profession, Nan Ge never felt shame about these small sartorial devotions. She pinned Bao Jia’s face to her collar, hung him at her waist or over her chest. Even when she had to change into a bridesmaid’s matching dress, she would swap out the tie binding her flyaway hairs for one printed with Bao Jia’s close-up.

Nan Ge agreed to Xiang Yi’s request to buy her badge at market value without hesitation—not because she stood to turn a small profit over what she’d originally paid, but simply because Xiang Yi, standing beside her with pressed lips and darting, helpless glances, probably needed this badge more than her. Still, the transaction did not end quite so cleanly. At the last moment, Nan Ge said softly, “Could you agree to one request of mine, too?”

A week before Bao Jia’s birthday, Xiang Yi received an unexpected text from Nan Ge. Only then did she learn what the request was: Nan Ge wanted them to celebrate their idol’s birthday together. Well, it wasn’t unreasonable, so Xiang Yi applied to swap shifts (after all, she had given her word) and cleared her schedule. They agreed to meet at Century Eye, a decent spot on the near outskirts equipped with the ordinary diversions. She had not expected Nan Ge to treat Bao Jia’s birthday with such dead earnest.

It was only after adding Nan Ge’s contact to her phone that Xiang Yi figured out why she so often made her way to the banquet hall on the twenty-third floor. Nan Ge was a “professional bridesmaid.” It was also through Nan Ge that Xiang Yi came to realize that weddings—whose first imperative is “gaining face”— could not always secure a suitable bridesmaid. The profile Nan Ge posted on her social media page read: five foot four, quick-witted and agile, socially adept, born in the Year of the Ox, with extensive bridesmaid experience and familiarity with every phase of wedding procedure. Naturally, she funneled everything she earned into acquiring anything and everything related to Bao Jia.

Nan Ge tapped her on the shoulder from behind. Without the heavy wedding makeup, her face looked fuller, almost ruddy. She was more alive than she did inside the building—only what followed close behind her made Xiang Yi stagger back several steps.

Two Bao Jias!

Nan Ge cracked a sly grin, as if she’d been expecting Xiang Yi’s

南戈挽着左侧的“宝珈”，将右侧的那位塞给向 宜，她似乎没有担心过向宜的抗拒。

对于两个“宝珈”的精挑细选，让她在过去的这 几天拒绝了两单婚礼的邀请。南戈找了许久既在外 形条件吻合角色的扮演者，又对《弹珠俱乐部》的 情节了然于心的角色扮演者。她不遗余力地与候选 人们“面试”，她让扮演者们无论是从假发、衣着 还是语调都要无限逼近宝珈本人，她甚至摘录出动 画里情感激荡最剧烈的桥段，像剧本围读般与扮演 者一一过招。她在宝珈生日前对他们一再嘱托，要 沉浸，要入戏，要有信念感，要将自己就幻化成角 色本人，几番折腾之后，南戈的选择余地，只剩下 这对凑出来的“复数”。

向宜与她的“宝珈”之间始终保持距离，她发现 自己几乎没有同他主动搭过话，她旁观另一边的南 戈已经跑得很远了，虽然没有在婚礼现场，她还是 很快就能明白她扮演的究竟是谁。南戈与“宝珈” 挨个体验了“世纪眼”的游乐设施。向宜一直没从 初见时的惊异中缓过情绪，她看了看自己身边的“ 宝珈”额间冒汗。

南戈提议要步行到走上通往湖心的桥，那是“

世纪眼”的地标，两个不规则的圆被丝线拖举成异

样的弧度，天色将晚的时候，两个被拉扯着的圆会 被霓虹灯染上相同的颜色，虽然没有交集，但未免 不会形单影只。他们走进其中一个圆的内里，向宜

走在队伍的最后远远看着南戈为两个“宝珈”留下 笑颜，他们全程都没有跳脱出角色，不知道的或许 会真的以为他们像是从二元世界被抖落了出来。仔 细看下来，他们的五官还是差别蛮多的，只是一层 皑白的粉蔽住了本应挺括的线条，他在笑，他也在 笑，他们是彼此并不完美的复数。

那天她们说不上不欢而散，不过向宜确实很久没

reaction, the smugness printed on her face awaiting an outpouring of gratitude and delight. Xiang Yi stood dazed for several seconds before roughly guessing Nan Ge’s intentions. Nan Ge took the arm of the Bao Jia on her left and pushed the one on her right toward Xiang Yi. It didn’t seem to have occurred to her that Xiang Yi might refuse.

Her meticulous selection of the two Bao Jias had cost her two wedding bookings. Nan Ge had searched at length for cosplayers who not only resembled their idol but also knew the plot of Marble Club by heart. She spared no expense in her auditions, insisting that from wig to wardrobe to vocal inflection they approximate Bao Jia as closely as possible. She even excerpted the best scenes from the anime and ran them through with each performer as though conducting a table read. In the days before Bao Jia’s birthday she urged them again and again to immerse themselves, commit with conviction, become the character himself. After all this trouble, Nan Ge’s finally selected this cobbled-together pair of “plurals.” Xiang Yi kept her distance from her Bao Jia the entire evening. She didn’t even say a word. Off to one side she watched Nan Ge, who ran up ahead; though they were not at a wedding, it was apparent what role she was now playing. Nan Ge and her Bao Jia worked their way through Century Eye’s amusement rides one by one. Xiang Yi still had not recovered from the shock of that first sight. She glanced at the Bao Jia beside her, sweat beading at his temples.

Nan Ge proposed they walk out to the bridge leading to the landmark at the center of the lake. Two irregular circles were hoisted by cables into an arc; as dusk gathered, neon lights would dye the suspended circles the same color, and though they never intersected, neither seemed entirely alone. Now they walked into the interior of one circle. Xiang Yi trailed behind, watching from a distance as Nan Ge photographed the two cosplayers’ smiling faces. Neither had broken character the entire time; an unknowing passerby might truly have believed they had been shaken loose from a two-dimensional world. On closer inspection, though, their features were quite different, concealed only by a layer of snowwhite powder. One was smiling. The other was smiling too. They were each other’s imperfect “plurals.”

It was not exactly an unhappy parting, though Xiang Yi did

再遇见过南戈。许多个周而复始、辨不清次序的夜 晚，她在“摆阵”前端详着自己的战利品。南戈留 给她的徽章不知什么时候被蹭掉了漆，削掉了宝珈 看不出轮廓的颧骨，她罕有地将徽章从功勋墙上拿 起，只是套弄了几下背后的铁针，指肚竟被扎出了 一个细小的血眼。她在那一瞬间，觉得自己也像是 一只被铁针刺穿的“痛包”，锐利的尖端不留情面 地戳破布料的纤维，向宜第一次在这栋自己的造物 前感到了疼，她想定睛与居住在第四层的一对手办 对望，但努力再三，瞳孔只能聚焦在他在镜像中， 万花筒般叠落错综的背影。

她破天荒地，从第五层的展柜捏出她最开始“

收”来的那个仿珐琅的徽章，向宜留下了南戈的那 只同款，将成色光亮如新的那个挂上了二手回收平 台。刚开始的几天无人问津，她觉得讶异，但仔细 想想也没什么说不通。《弹珠俱乐部》的作者宣布

又要休息一阵子，宝珈的故事停驻在了牯岭街，在 这一季的尾声，宝珈丧失了先前的奇异能力，动画 断更在在他命悬一线之际，电梯的广告屏没再出现

过宝珈的任何宣传，仿佛他唯一存在过的证据就只 有向宜的一整柜，数不胜数的“复数”。

她继续驾驶电梯，穿梭在大楼的各层，她依然不

喜欢别人称呼自己为“电梯小姐”，也仍旧希望能 早一点换掉夏季限定的品红色老派制服。向宜每天 共享着同一套表情，门开了，她会殷切地询问每一

位乘客想要抵达的楼层，有条不紊地为他们按下终 点的数字，门关了，她会再端量一遍那些刻有盲文 的楼层按钮，出神地睇看镜子里的自己。

入秋了，她戴上春秋制服搭配的黑色圆帽，将扎 破过指肚的那枚徽章别在了靠近耳畔的帽檐，不仔 细看，旁人大概都不会留意。直到有一天，她发布 在二手回收平台的帖子终于等来了留言，头像是两 个用铅笔勾勒出来的，不规则的圆。

not see Nan Ge again for a long time. On many indistinguishable nights, she stood before her “formation,” studying her spoils. At some point, the badge Nan Ge had given her had been scuffed so badly that its enamel had worn away, shaving Bao Jia’s cheekbone past the point of recognition. In a rare gesture, almost surprising herself, she lifted the badge from her wall of honors and idly fiddled with the iron pin on its back. The pin pricked her fingertip, drawing a little blood. In that instant, she felt that she herself was an itabag, the sharp point of the needle mercilessly piercing her stitched fibers. For the first time, Xiang Yi felt pain before this creation of her own. She tried to steady her gaze and meet the eyes of the pair of figurines on the fourth tier, but no matter how hard she tried, her pupils could only focus on Bao Jia’s reflection in the mirror, his silhouettes multiplying and folding over one another like the turning patterns of a kaleidoscope.

For the first time ever, she plucked from the fifth tier the fauxenamel badge she had originally collected. Xiang Yi had kept Nan Ge’s copy of the same design and listed the one in pristine condition on the secondhand platform. For the first few days no one inquired. She was surprised at first, but made sense of it on further thought. The creator of Marble Club had announced yet another hiatus. Bao Jia’s story had stalled on Guling Street; at the close of this season he had lost his superpowers, and the anime cut off just as his life hung in the balance. The elevator’s doomscrolling screen no longer displayed any trace of Bao Jia, as though the sole evidence he had ever existed was Xiang Yi’s curious cabinet of innumerable “plurals.”

She went on commanding the elevator, shuttling it between the building’s floors. She still did not like being called an “elevator girl,” and still wished she could change out of the summer-edition magenta uniform sooner. Every day she wore the same set of expressions. The doors opened, and she would attentively ask each passenger which floor they wished to reach, pressing the numbers of their destinations in methodical succession. The doors shut, she would study once more the floor buttons embossed with Braille, gazing absently at her own reflection.

Autumn arrived. She put on the black round hat that came with the spring-and-autumn uniform and pinned the badge that had once pricked her fingertip to the brim near her ear. Unless one

某一天，电梯的轿厢空有向宜一人，电梯从二十 三层一路下坠，她有种轻盈的失重感，向宜好像从 没在驾驶电梯时，转过身俯瞰过楼下的景致，她甚 至都快忘了，这是一部有一半透明玻璃围筑的观光 梯。她探头眺望，无数个神情一致的宝珈向楼下蜂 拥而来，仿佛散落了一地的弹珠，滚动着的行军密 密麻麻，每一个都一模一样。而他们走路的队列， 与向宜在玻璃展柜中陈列的“摆阵”并无二致。

一楼到了，门开了，卷席来的凉风钻进她袖口 的空隙，她在浮动的冷意中闻到了某种低烈度的甜 腻，苦如醋栗。

looked closely, no one would likely notice. One day the listing she had posted on the secondhand platform finally received a message. The inquirer’s profile picture was two irregular circles sketched in pencil.

One day, the elevator car held no one but Xiang Yi. As it descended from the twenty-third floor, she felt a light, floating weightlessness. It occurred to her that in all her time operating the elevator, she had never once turned around to look down at the view below. She had almost forgotten: this was a sightseeing elevator, half-enclosed in transparent glass. She leaned forward and gazed out.

Countless Bao Jias, all wearing the same expression, were surging toward the foot of the building, like marbles scattered across the ground. Their rolling procession formed a dense, teeming column, each one exactly like the next. And the formation of their march was no different from the formation she had arranged inside her display case.

The elevator reached the first floor. The doors opened. A gust of cool wind slipped through the gap at her cuff, and in the drifting chill she caught a faint, cloying sweetness, bitter as gooseberries.

译者注

在阅读这篇作品时，我仿佛被拽入一个漩涡，被 某一股力量反复拉扯、回旋。整篇文章试图做到的 是：回到一个现场。那个现场在时间上已经与当下 拉开距离，然而身体感受却如此明晰，似乎从未从 生命中远去。叙述者不断推敲其中的某一个细节， 想找到被忽略的破绽，却屡遭挫败。

我们常有某个被卡住的瞬间，记忆在端点处阻滞 不前，脑海中的真相永远无法理顺。对于叙述者来 说，这个症结便是核磁共振机器的盖子。在叙述者 的印象里，在被推入机器进行治疗时，感受到了盖 子关上的瞬间，但在后来求证的过程中，这个想法 被不断地被推翻——核磁共振机器根本没有盖子。

在探讨爱伦·坡的作品时我们总是探讨其中“

物”的力量，“物”是神秘的、有灵性的，不可能 完整被把握或再现。作品中的盖子也使我产生类似 的感觉。再反复的推敲中，没有人可以再回到曾经

的现场，一切都只存在于回忆中，无从求证。然而 可以肯定的是，盖子真实地存在于叙述者的意识 中，它被关上的瞬间意味着将叙述者与外部世界阻 隔开来。这种被拒绝的体验是真实的，因而“盖 子”也是真实的。

作品中充满了身体感觉的书写。身体感受往往 是人们容易忽略的部分，而作者不断带领我们回到 过去，沉浸于那一天的身体感受中。震耳欲聋的声 响、冰冷的空气、鼻翼的刺痛，每一件都在叙说着 一种无可辩驳的真实。

翻译的过程使我和叙述者一起进入那个现场， 奇妙的遐想与独特的修辞使我不断驻足，推敲如何 使用最合适的词句，几处实验性的格式安排像一些 特别的光点。我仿佛同样置身于一场没有结果的追 寻。

KATHERINE LYU

QUANTUM COLLISION

At first, body is invisible. It dissolves into everything, including thought. It measures 1.1 meters, with two arms, two hands, one head, feet tucked into wool socks that somehow still cold. It lies flat, resting on a narrow, trail-like surface inside the machine. Then it stretches, elongates, as a fruity taffy, or a spaceman, as its head squeezed into a plastic hood. The body has no clue—it has been thrown into a formicary, a bathtub where water keeps swirling, or the filled in between clusters made with clouds, airstreams and nebula. It cannot register its surroundings; and when it gets darker, darker still, when the force holds to its peak, on the eve of chance, it compresses—smaller and smaller—into a particle.

That is the origin of the universe.

Singularity. Beginning of everything. E equal MC square.

Reasonably, I often feel that the narrow trail inside that medical machine is more like a vagina than the universe. To know is not the same as to be aware, said skeptics, ‘You gotta figure it out yourself.’

What if all the attempts are to make the “thrownness” bearable? My parents told me we were going out to have fun — and then I have been taken to an MRI exam. I was three. I kept my eyes open the entire time, from beginning to end to confront a chance to be weaponized. I did not know what was left behind, or what had happened, especially when it came to the body. The testimonies processed through reason would not seem more convincing than what the body roared for, but everything was interrupted, while doctors opened the door, gave me earplugs, “Will be very loud in there.”

翻译 : PAN YUN

量子碰撞

起初，身体是隐形的，它消融于万物中，包括思绪。身体1.1米 长，有两条手臂、两只手、一个头，双脚裹在羊毛袜中，却仍 旧寒冷。它平躺着，休憩于机器内部如小径般狭窄的表面。而

后它伸展着自己，像水果味太妃糖，也像宇航员——它的头颅 挤进一个塑料罩子。它被扔进蚁巢和漩涡不止的浴缸，或被填 充进由云团、气流与星云构成的星群。它无法感知周遭环境； 当它愈发黯淡，力量攀至顶峰，在机缘降临前夜，它不断压 缩——越来越小——最终凝成微粒。

那是宇宙的起源。 奇点。万物之始。

E=MC²

我常常感觉，医疗机器内的那条狭窄小径更像阴道，而非宇 宙。怀疑论者说，知晓不等同于觉察，你必须自己领悟。

倘若所有尝试都是为了使“被抛性”变得可以忍受呢？父母告 诉我我们要出去玩——而我却被带去做了核磁共振检查。那时 我三岁。我一直睁着眼，自始至终防御着被利用的可能。我并 不知道什么东西遗滞于此、什么事情已然发生，尤其是关于身 体。经由理性加工的证词并不比身体的咆哮更有说服力，但一 切都被打断了，医生进门给了我一对耳塞，说外面会非常吵 闹。

The hatch hasn’t closed yet, as the body been told, it’s a semitranslucent sliding cover. Later, when it shuts with a loud slam (a very loud slam), the capsule seals with a hiss. The dim-grey dome becomes its own sky.

Click. Click. Click. (a rapid noise)

A buzzing swarm, shattering brick, hitting metal, blurring inside the muffling of earplugs.

Click. Click. Click. (another rapid noise)

This is a mysterious cave where light barely reaches, until dim red hues seep slowly into the dome, the sky. An ant crawls into the ear canal, exhales, and leaves behind a raw itch.

When I was lying in that machine a few hours earlier, I had been happy about going to a playground and having fun—just as they told me. Then I realized that not every human tells the truth, including parents.

What about the body? How does it make up a comfort—a palmsized carton of almond milk. I wouldn’t have taken it if I were happy, regular, on the street, because it tasted as radical as chewing a bee. Or maybe I simply preferred orange juice to almond milk. Back to the moment I took a sip, it pulled me out when the room darkened, took me back to the bakery across from the hospital building. I smelled caramel and the burn of wheat on all six sides of that paper box.

At the moment, I was still breathing, apparently. Even the air turned colder, aching one side of my nostril (Cryo-radium). The sign on the door looked like it belonged to a missile lab. I thought my feet had been cut off when the capsule shut: the hatch, like a lid, hit my ankles, but there was no blood, neither clue. The body propped up while lying flat, the noise wouldn’t stop. All I wanted was to see if my feet were still there.

舱门尚未关闭，正如身体所感知到的那样，它是一块半透明的 滑动盖板。随后，它砰地一声关上（声音震耳欲聋），舱室随 着嘶嘶声被密封。灰蒙蒙的穹顶如天空般笼罩着。

咔嗒。咔嗒。咔嗒。（一阵急促声响）

嗡鸣的蜂群，碎裂的砖块，撞击的金属，在耳塞的包裹中模糊 不清。

咔嗒。咔嗒。咔嗒。（又一阵急促声响）

这是一个神秘洞穴，光线几乎无法抵达，直到暗红的颜色缓慢 渗透进这个穹顶、这片天空。一只蚂蚁爬进耳道，呼出一口 气，留下一阵刺痛。

几小时前平躺在机器中时，我正欢欣期待着去游乐园玩耍—— 正如父母告诉我的那样。之后我便意识到，不是所有人都会讲 真话，父母也不例外。

身体成为了一盒手掌大小的杏仁奶。如果我好端端地走在街 上，我不会去喝它，因为它的味道怪得像在咀嚼蜜蜂。又或许 是比起杏仁奶，我更喜欢橙汁。那时我啜饮一口，它将我拽出 黯淡的房间，拉回医院对面的面包店，店里纸盒的每一面都散 发出了焦糖和麦子燃烧的味道。

此刻，我显然还在呼吸。空气也变得更冷了，刺痛着我的一侧 鼻孔（冷冻镭）。门上的标志显得这个空间像一个导弹实验 室。舱室被密封起来时，我感到我的脚被切断了：舱门像一个 盖子撞击了我的脚踝，然而没有血迹、没有其他任何线索。身 体在平躺时被支撑起来，噪声始终没有停歇。我只想知道我的 双脚是否还在

I remember, as I have always remembered, being sealed like a sardine in a can, inside that MRI machine. The fact that it had a lid, and it slid up and down with a very loud slam. I was three, later I would encounter as many MRI exams as one possibly could, while the body kept returning to the first. That first time, being pulled into the white machine, lied flat on a narrow, trail-like surface, like it going to be birthed, the earplugs, and the realization that people could lie. I remember the gestures of hands, the edge of a white coat casting a shadow thin as a cicada’s wing drifting lightly in the inky blackness. And I was certain: they were closing a lid, and the lid sealed me. The slam was so loud. I heard it again and again. Which might point to another fact: for the next twenty-one years, I searched for an MRI machine with a lid.

.

It’s all about writing around a lie. When that happens, the yearning for solid ground begins to surface. A matter that simple, neat, unshaken, demands to be authorized. As undoubtedly as God was to Descartes. When I typed “MRI” into Google, the images told a different story: MRI machines don’t have lids. They look like donuts, or tunnels, with a narrow bed that slides into the center. All the covers I thought I remembered, the dim-grey dome, were just cylindrical openings. There was no real lid.

Nothing that could be shut.

Okay—what the hell was I remembering? What is even real? Memories, perhaps, aren’t built on facts. The wax isn’t melted. The demon doesn’t exist. They live in sound, in touch, in whatever a three-year-old brain couldn’t yet name. I start asking ChatGPT what’s real, what they think happened at the time, like a slightly deranged person tugging at a shoulder that doesn’t exist.

“From a technical standpoint,” they said, “most MRI machines don’t have a literal lid.” It’s a cylindrical magnet that patients slide into, the tunnel is called the bore. Then it does, when lying flat in there, somehow looked as if I were being birthed.

我始终记得，在核磁共振机器中，我仿若罐头里的沙丁鱼。我

记得盖子一开一合，发出剧烈声响。那时我三岁，后来我做了 数不清的核磁共振检查，身体却总是回到初次的感受——被推 进白色机器、平躺在小径般狭窄的表面、像要被分娩、耳塞、

意识到人会说谎……种种感受。我记得那些手势，以及白大褂 的一角，墨一般的黑暗中投下了一道薄如蝉翼的阴影。我确 信：他们正在合上盖子，那盖子将我密封其中。那声巨响如此 刺耳，我一遍又一遍地听见它。这或许指向另一个事实：今后 的二十一年，我始终在寻找一台有盖子的核磁共振机器。

所有的一切都关于一个谎言。当它发生时，对坚实地面的渴望 开始浮现。一件如此简单、清晰、 坚定不移的事亟需得到认 可 ，它就如同笛卡尔眼中的上帝那般毋庸置疑。当我搜索“核 磁共振”时，那些图片告诉了我一个截然相反的事实：核磁共 振机器没有盖子。它们看起来像甜甜圈，也像隧道，有一个可 以滑入中心的狭窄的床。所有在我记忆中存在的盖板、灰蒙蒙 的穹顶——只是圆柱形的开口。根本没有盖子。

没有什么可以被关掉。

好吧——我记忆中的到底是什么？什么才是真的？ 记忆也许并不是建立在事实上的。蜡没有熔化。恶魔并不存 在。它们生存在声音中，在感觉中，在一个三岁孩童的大脑尚 无法命名的地方。我开始询问ChatGPT什么是真实的、那时他们 认为发生了什么，像一个轻微精神错乱的人拖拽一个不存在的 肩膀。

“从技术角度来说，”ChatGPT说，“大多数核磁共振机器没 有真正意义上的盖子。”患者需要滑进一个圆柱形的磁体，这 个隧道被称为内径。当平躺在那里时，我仿佛正在经历一次分 娩。

“Yeah so,” ChatGPT tried to comfort me, “for a three-year-old kid, being slid into a tunnel with the ceiling pressing close above, it could absolutely feel like a lid was shutting.” Especially if, at that exact moment, a technician placed a coil over my body or adjusted something near my head—thud.

God no longer exists, physics no longer exists, I no longer exist, the body no longer exists. Did ChatGPT just witness a memory fracture? That could be the lid. That was the lid.

Maybe the doctor was just placing the coil. Maybe the bed was gliding into the bore. But I swear the cover—the dome, dim and grey—closed in on me. A lid that may never have existed in physical space but existed completely in the body. The air I inhaled was frozen. One side of my nose stung from the chill. The wool socks couldn’t keep it out. The playground I’d imagined never appeared—instead, it was the hospital basement.

In that dim room, I might have been turned into a weapon, altered by waves no one could stop. Maybe it was a defense mechanism of the brain. Maybe an overwrite. Maybe an undoing.

Maybe it revealed some other truth about fear: there was no playground, no almond milk, only a body lying and stretching, defenseless. The waves kept coming—countless waves—until the body, too, became particles. More and more waves. Maybe, in the next second, I would explode into pieces. Or maybe I was just confused.

Why did they lie to me?

Even flesh doesn’t tell the truth.

Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe.

“是的，”ChatGPT试图安慰我，“对一个三岁的孩子来说，被 推入一个顶部紧压下来的隧道中，确实会感觉像是有一个盖子 正在合上。”尤其如果在那个瞬间，医务人员将线圈放在我身 上，或者调整了靠近我头部的某个物品——砰。

上帝不复存在，物理学不复存在，我不复存在，身体不复存 在。ChatGPT是否目睹了一场记忆的断裂？那可能就是盖子。那 就是盖子。

或许医生只是在放置线圈。或许病床正划入内径。但我发誓， 那个盖板——灰蒙蒙的穹顶——向我逼近。盖子或许从未在 真实世界中存在，却存在于我的身体中。我吸入的空气冰冷刺 骨，刺痛着我的一侧鼻翼，连羊毛袜都无法阻挡这层寒意。我 想象中的游乐园从未出现——取而代之的是医院的地下室。

在那个昏暗的房间内，我可能被转化成了一支武器，被无法阻 挡的浪潮所改变。或许那是大脑的防御机制，或许是某种覆 盖，或许是某种瓦解。

或许这解释了关于恐惧的另一种真相：没有游乐园，没有杏 仁奶，只有一具身体，平躺、伸展、毫无防备。波浪接踵而 至——无数波浪——直至身体也变成微粒。越来越多的波浪。

或许，下一秒，我会被炸成碎片。或许只是我搞错了。

他们为什么要骗我？

就连血肉之躯也不说真话。

或许。

或许。

或许。

Translator’s Note

When I first encountered the piece, it was introduced to me as nonfiction. Yet as I moved deeper into the translation process, its genre gradually began to blur. The first half maintains a steady atmosphere, opening with a book fair that returns every summer. Later, the veiled woman leads the narrator into a hotel, and from that moment onward, reality begins to collapse. Mystery gradually merged from that reality until they could no longer be separated from one another.

“There is no face to read.” This sentence eventually became, for me, the key to the entire piece.

The emotion in the piece is deeply restrained yet profoundly sorrowful. Everything lingers within this interweaving of the daily life and the uncanny. Particularly for the latter part, was any of it imagination at all? By the end of the translation, I found myself resisting the word “imagination,” because the term felt too light for emotions that had remained suspended for so long—feelings that had never fully surfaced, yet had never disappeared either.

In my process of translation, the question was linguistic at the beginning: how to translate terms such as “Zhongyuan Festival” (中元节) and “ghost” (鬼) into English without flattening the cultural and emotional weight they carry in Chinese. Gradually, however, the piece itself was already structured around failed acts of translation: a translator app mediates the encounter between strangers, a child attempts to explain loss and fear through ghost stories, and dreams render faces unreadable. Myths persist precisely where language begins to fail. The issue, then, was how to approach experiences that resist language altogether.

While translating the piece, I kept returning to Till We Have Faces by C. S. Lewis, particularly its question: “How can the gods meet us face to face till we have faces?” Faces recur throughout the piece in unstable forms: concealed, erased, distorted, or transformed. The inability to fully see another person’s face gradually became, for me, inseparable from the inability to fully know or translate another consciousness.

Pan Yun later described the piece as emerging from “family tragedy and childhood trauma that never found an outlet.” In the absence of explanation, the narrator gradually turns toward myth, ritual, and the figure of the shaman as a possible healer. What fascinates me is that the piece never fully commits to either reality or hallucination. Instead, it remains suspended between them, refusing resolution.

She also told me that, after the piece was written, the South American drink shop on Maoming North Road permanently closed. It felt as though the physical site that once anchored the story had quietly disappeared, taking with it the atmosphere of the entire encounter. I would rather stay within this unsettlement, as the reader does.

PAN YUN

神医

逛完书展出来的时候，已接近黄昏，展览中心的 灯亮起来了，墙上挂的几家出版社的牌子映照出明 黄色的光。今年我只买了一个书籍盲盒。把书装进 盲盒以后，那家出版社成了销量最好的摊位。我还 没吃晚饭，倒也不饿，于是在街道上闲逛，边走边 寻找合适的餐馆。走到茂名北路上，一家饮品店引 起了我的注意——“南美特色饮”。店面外挂着一 幅巴西国旗。我没有喝过南美的饮料，有些好奇， 打算尝尝。走进店里，我点了招牌饮品，叫“雨林 探秘”，是用巴西马黛茶加牛奶做的奶茶。喝了一 口，我就皱了皱眉，浓重的烟草味道，不合我的口 味。

把奶茶装进袋子里，准备离开。一转身，发现外 面的天色已经完全黑了，乌云压顶，几条闪电从天 上劈下来，将这座城市照亮一瞬。下一秒，大雨倾 泻下来，雷声也到达地面，与雨声一道迸裂在街道 上。室外的人四散奔逃，寻找庇护之所，但雨势来 得太急，多数人一瞬之间就浑身湿透了。

我拿起手机看了一眼时间，晚上六点半，我不着 急回家，索性在店里再坐一会儿。顺着时间往下一 撇——2024年8月18日，农历七月十五。

我想起母亲曾经跟我说过的一个传说。中元节鬼 门大开，但阴界和阳界之间有一道屏障，两边的人 不能轻易见到。下雷阵雨的时候，这道屏障就被打 破了，雷将两个世界连通起来，雨让地面潮湿，便 于鬼魂行走。

那时我还在上小学，是母亲所剩无几的健康时 期。那天也是一个下雨的中元节，我打开书包准备

translated from the chinese by

KATHERINE LYU

THE HEALER

It’s almost sunset when I emerge from the book fair. The venue lights are already on, casting a warm yellow glow from the signs of various publishing houses hanging along the walls. The only thing I buy is a blind box—once a publisher wraps a book this way, it quickly becomes a bestseller.

I’m not hungry, but I’m still looking for something to snack on. I wander down the street.

Walking along Maoming North Road, I spot a drink shop with a sign that reads “South American Specialties,” accented in green and yellow, with a Brazilian flag out front. I’ve never tried it before, so I step in and order something called a Rainforest Run. It’s a mate milk tea. After one sip, a strong bitterness, much like tobacco, hits me. I frown. Not my thing.

I seal the cup and get ready to leave. But when I turn around, the sky has suddenly gone dark. Clouds hang low. Lightning splits the sky—just for a second, the entire city flashes white. Rain crashes down, and thunder follows almost instantly, cracking against the ground. People scatter in all directions, scrambling for shelter, but the storm moves too fast. Within moments, everyone is soaked through.

I check my phone: 6:30 p.m. I’m not in a rush. I step back into the shop and take a seat, scrolling. Beneath the time is the date: August 18, 2024. On the lunar calendar, it’s the fifteenth day of the seventh month—the month of the dead.

A story my mother once told me comes back. During the seventh lunar month, especially around Zhongyuan Festival, the Day of the Dead, the gates of the underworld open. Even then, there’s still a boundary between the living

做作业，却怎么也找不到做英语作业的本子，我想 可能是落在教室里了。我想回学校找找。母亲说， 今天是中元节，晚上不要出去，随后跟我说了这个 传说。

“那为什么不能出去呢？你不想见到外公外婆 吗？”

“当然想，但是除了外公外婆，外面还会有很 多鬼，有好的鬼，也有坏的鬼，坏的鬼会把你抓起 来。”

于是我从别的本子上撕下来两张做英语作业， 打算第二天去学校贴在原来的本子上。第二天到了 学校，我也没有找到本子，只好直接交了一张纸上 去。课堂上，老师把我叫起来，问我为什么只交了 一张纸，我说之前的本子找不到了，老师问我为什 么找不到了，这是一个很难回答的问题，如果知道 原因，就不会找不到了。一开始我没打算回答，但 老师也不说话，好像无论如何都要讨要一个说法， 我就说，因为昨天是中元节，有鬼，鬼把我的本子 偷走了。同学们发出一阵哄笑声，前排的同学一边 笑一边回头看我。老师没有笑，她板着脸，很严 肃。等教室安静下来了，她说，我太粗心了，心思 也不放在学习上，只想着用花言巧语糊弄老师，我 一定是故意把本子藏起来了，因为不想订正上一次 的作业，上一次我错了很多。

我没有把这件事告诉母亲，因为我知道母亲听说

了之后，一定会去学校找老师。母亲总是对他人对 我的不友善很敏感。之前有一次，坐我旁边的男生 把我的尺掰断，又用铅笔在我手上戳了好几下，我 手背的表皮凹陷进去短期之内无法复原。母亲大发 雷霆，直接冲进了校长办公室，最后以男生的家长 赔了我们一盒巧克力告终。

我逐渐发现我和其他人不一样的地方，那便是我 左脸上的胎记。它并没有大到遍布全脸那么恐怖，

and the dead; typically, the two sides cannot see each other. But when a thunderstorm arrives, that boundary breaks. Thunder bridges the two worlds, and rain slicks the ground, making it easier for spirits to walk.

Back then, I was in elementary school—one of the rare periods when my mother was still in relatively good health. It was another Day of the Dead, and it was raining. When I opened my backpack to do homework, I couldn’t find my English workbook. I figured I must have left it at school. As I was about to go back and check, my mother stopped me.

“Today is the Day of the Dead. Don’t go out at night.”

Later, she told me the story.

“But why can’t I go out? Don’t you want to see Grandpa and Grandma?”

“Of course I do. But besides them, there are other wandering ghosts out there—some good, some bad. The bad ones will take you away.”

I ended up tearing two sheets of paper from another notebook to do the homework, planning to glue them into the missing workbook later. But I still couldn’t find it the next day, so I had no choice but to hand in the loose sheets.

Predictably, the teacher called on me in class, complaining that I had submitted “just two pieces of paper.”

“I can’t find my workbook,” I said. “Why?” she pressed.

That’s a difficult question. If I knew why I couldn’t find it, I wouldn’t have chosen not to submit it. I stayed quiet. The teacher did too, as if she were waiting for an answer I couldn’t give.

In the end, I said, “Yesterday was the Day of the Dead. Do you know what ghosts are? They took my workbook and ate it.”

The room burst into laughter. Students in the front row turned, eyes on me as their teeth flew about, while the teacher kept her face stern and tight until the laughter fizzled. The air in the room shut again.

“You didn’t pay attention, not even for your own sake. Now you’re mocking your teacher,” she complained.

却也并没有小到可以忽略不计。它的大小和深浅正 巧是所有人见到我的第一眼就会明显注意到的。母 亲带我治疗过好几次，坐大巴到车站，再坐好几个 小时的火车到北京，手术是在那里做的。可是我的 胎记颜色太深，手术的效果并不好，依然那样显 眼。

因此，小时候，除了母亲，我几乎不和其他人接 触。我和其他人不一样，而大家都不想和不一样的 人一起玩，我想那大概也是正常的。

饮品店的门被向外拉开了，滂进来一些雨水， 我往后侧了侧身。走进来的是一个橄榄色皮肤的女 人，她的下半张脸被黑色的丝巾层层包裹起来，只 露出了上面的一双有着深邃轮廓的眼睛。她一进来 就注视着我。她眉头蹙起，看上去很急切，手在空 中比划，像要询问什么。我也注视着她，可她并没

有说出任何语言，我试图用英语问她，可她依然无 动于衷。像是灵光乍现，她打开手机划了几下，又 把屏幕向我倾斜，我就凑过去看。手机上打开着一

个翻译器，我终于在屏幕下方看到熟悉的语言—— 我要去酒店，但我找不到，请问可以帮我看看吗？ 屏幕上方是她输入的语言，文字密集地挤在一起，

线条相对比较板正，从右往左书写，像是古典闪含 语系中的一种，我猜测。

我在新闻上看到，我国对许多国家开放了144小

时的免签，封控也在一年多前结束了，最近确实看 到不少外国人来旅游。她也许也是因为这些来到中 国。

交流成了大问题。她好像不会说英语，我们无法 直接用任何语言交流，只能借助翻译器。耶和华看 到人类建造巴别塔，就扰乱了人类共通的语言，这 个神话故事从我的脑海中冒出。

我能想象在异国他乡会遇到的困难，我决定帮她

“You made so many mistakes in your last assignment and didn’t want to correct them.” Her mouth kept opening and closing, the words coming faster than I could follow.

I didn’t tell my mother about it. I knew she would have reacted strongly; she was always acutely aware of how others treated me.

There was one time a boy sitting next to me snapped my ruler, and jabbed the back of my hand with his pencil, leaving indentations that didn’t fade for a long time. My mother flew into a rage and stormed straight into the principal’s office. The whole thing ended with a box of chocolates—compensation from the boy’s parents.

Gradually, I came to understand what set me apart from others: the birthmark on my left cheek. It wasn’t large enough to cover my whole face, but not small enough to go unnoticed. Its shape and color caught people’s attention the moment they looked at me.

Because of that, my mother took me to see doctors. There were several times we took the bus for hours to the train station, then took longer train trips to Beijing for treatment. But it barely worked. Maybe the pigment was too deep to remove. People still noticed it first, every time they saw me. So, as a child, I didn’t really get along with anyone except my mother. I didn’t fit in—no one wants to spend time with someone who looks different. I suppose that’s just how people are.

The door swings open, letting in a rush of rain. I shift slightly to the side.

A woman steps in. She has olive skin, the lower half of her face wrapped in layers of silky black scarves; only her eyes are visible—lined, deep-set, fixed directly on me. Her brow tightens, as if she’s in a hurry. She gestures in the air, asking something. I look back at her, but she says nothing. I try asking in English, but she doesn’t understand. Then, as if struck by an idea, she takes out her phone, swipes a few times, and tilts the screen toward me. I lean in. A translation app is open. At the bottom, I finally see words I can read:

I want to go to the hotel, but I can’t find it. Could you

找找酒店。接过手机，我在翻译器里打上“好的” 。她向我欠了欠身，又在手机上切换了一个软件， 向我展示了一张地图，手指在她想去的那个地方那 里画了几个圈。依然是我看不懂的像闪含语系的文 字，但通过图像，我大致明白方位了，就在茂名北 路和延安中路交界的路口。我知道那家酒店，之前 朋友来上海玩的时候就住在那里，旁边还有一家昂 贵的Gelato。酒店在很明显可以看到的地方，我猜 想她应该是不认识上面的文字，所以不确定那就是 酒店。雨小了很多。“我带你过去吧”，我在翻译 器上打上这几个字。

我们共同撑着一把伞，沉默地走向酒店。一路上 没有看到行人，可能都在室内躲雨。天已经完全黑 了，路灯也还没有亮起来。我的视线上方被黑色雨 伞遮蔽住了，卷伞用的带子正巧在我面前荡下来， 不断摇晃着。其余的视线也看不真切，雨以歪斜的 路径落下来，打在我的眼镜上，镜片被蒙湿了。半 条马路的距离，却感觉走了很长时间，这条路有这 么长吗？

终于走到路口，我看到了那家酒店。它外部的灯 牌并没有像往常一样亮起，店名在昏暗的光线下难 以辨认，难怪外国友人始终寻找不到。我们一起走 了进去。

店里的大灯都关着，只有桌子上的两盏台灯闪着 微弱的光，可能是因为暴雨断电了。我本想把她带 到接待人员那里就离开，可大堂空无一人。我转头 看了看她，只能大致看到一个轮廓，看不清她脸上 的表情。她没有看我，而是看着前方。她缓缓将手 抬起，指向前面的方向，像是在为我指引。

那是一个房间，门向内敞开着，里面放着一张 床，床上似躺着一个人。是谁呢？我忽然很想搞明 白这件事，那房间中像是传出一股力，吸引我前去 探究清楚。越向前走，一种熟悉之感便越强烈，直

please help me?

Above it is what she typed—the language she speaks. I can’t read it, only take in its shape: dense, tightly packed characters, arranged in straight lines, running from right to left. I guess it’s one of the classical Semitic scripts.

From recent news, I know China has introduced a 144hour visa-free policy for certain countries. The lockdowns ended over a year ago; people have started traveling again. Maybe she’s one of them.

Communication has become a problem. She doesn’t seem to speak English, and besides Mandarin, it’s the only language I know. The translator is the only way we can talk. The story of the Tower of Babel comes to mind: Jehovah seeing mankind building upward, then shattering its shared language.

I can imagine what it’s like, arriving in a foreign country like this. I decide to help.

Taking her phone, I type “okay” into the translator. She nods slightly toward the screen, then switches to a map and circles her destination. The text is still in a Semitic script, but from the image I recognize the location: the intersection of Maoming North Road and Yan’an Middle Road.

I know the hotel. A friend stays there when they visit Shanghai. There’s a gelato shop nearby, distinctive enough once you see it, but probably hard to identify on a map.

The rain has eased. “I’ll take you there,” I type.

We share an umbrella, walk in silence. The street is empty. It’s already dark, but the streetlights haven’t come on yet. The edge of the umbrella cuts across my upper field of vision; the strap dangles in front of me, swaying back and forth. Everything else blurs. Rain falls at an angle, striking my glasses, fogging the lenses.

The hotel isn’t far—just half a block. But it feels longer than it should.

Is it really this far?

As we reach the block, I see the hotel. Its sign isn’t lit as usual, swallowed by the dusk. That’s why she couldn’t find it.

至遍布我的身体。

床上的人圆睁着双眼，眼神却很空洞，像是在盯 着天花板上一个不存在的点。嘴也微张着。她并不 是完全不动的，她的身体随呼吸起伏，有时会眨一 眨眼睛，或侧一侧头。

那是我的母亲——如果想起母亲，多数时候她就 是这种形态，至于她活蹦乱跳的时候的样子，记忆 中已经逐渐模糊不清了。

母亲是在我小学五年级的时候因为脑部疾病变成 植物人的。母亲一开始在医院，等平稳一些之后， 父亲把她转移到了护理院，唯一不变的是她几乎一 动不动，我以为她死了，或者说快死了，父亲说她 还没有死，还会活很长时间。

我只要一有空就和母亲待在一起。帮她做做康复 训练，和她说说话。这么多年来，母亲的身体发生 着微小的变化，那变化比一个新生儿的成长要慢上 百倍。

上初中时，某天下课后，我像往常一样去护理

院，靠在床头柜边上做作业，听到身旁传来窣窣的 响动，发现母亲的头竟往我这边偏了偏，眼睛也像 在看我似的。我激动地跳起来，走到床的另一侧， 但母亲没有再动。我急切地想要让母亲有更多反 应，于是把灯关上，打开手机的手电筒，不断摇晃 着。没多久，母亲竟又动了，缓缓转向光源。

母亲逐渐有了更多身体反应，她会打哈欠、会 哭、会笑，当我走到她身边时，她总是转头看我， 有时会稍稍抬手，想要让我握住。她完全是一个活 生生的人。我开始期待母亲能够恢复更多，期待她 拥有自主意识，而不是身体本能的反应，期待她能 完全醒来。也许母亲是有意识的，虽然医学知识不 这么认为，但每一次她倾听我说话并做出反应时， 我总觉得她就是早就认识我的那个母亲，她明白发

We walk in. The lobby is dark. With two lamps on the counters barely holding on, as if the storm had cut the power. I take her to the reception desk, but no one is there. When I turn to look at her, there is no face that can be read. I see only the outline of a person turned away from me, not looking back at me. She stares at her front. After a few seconds, she slowly raises one arm and points. Toward a room.

The door is open. Inside, a bed. On the bed, the outline of a body. Who is it? An urge rises, an insistence, as if something is swimming out of the room and pulling me toward its center. As I move closer, a familiar feeling floods through my torso.

Then I see the shape on the bed: eyes wide open, staring up into the void—or at a hole in the ceiling that doesn’t exist. A mouth slightly open. She isn’t still; her chest rises and falls as she inhales and exhales. Sometimes she blinks or tilts her head.

This is my mother. When I try to picture her, this is what surfaces: a body on a bed. All other images—my mother in motion, lively and buoyant, her heart beating swiftly, alive and vibrant—have long since faded.

My mother fell into a vegetative state when I was in fifth grade. She was in the hospital at first. As her condition stabilized, my father moved her to a nursing home. I thought she was dead, or at the very least, dying, because she didn’t move. But my father told me she wasn’t dead yet, that she would go on living for a long time.

So, in the days that followed, I visited her whenever I could, helping her move her limbs with small exercises or just by talking to her. Over the years, her body might have changed, but so subtly that it was almost impossible to see.

Once, when I was in middle school, I went to see her as usual. I was leaning against her bed, doing my homework, when I heard a faint rustling. I looked up. Her head had tilted slightly toward me. Her eyes. She seemed to be looking right at me. I jumped to my feet and moved to the other side of the bed. Her movement ceased.

I wanted more. I felt hopeless.

生的一切。因此我经常和她说话，分享我在生活中 遇到的一切，我认为她是能够理解的，母亲虽然躺 在病床上，但她一直都在参与我的生活。

而这一切结束在我上大学的时候，趁我在外参加 实践活动，父亲瞒着我选择了结束母亲的治疗。我 始终觉得，这是一场杀戮。

像是能感应到我的思绪，昏暗房间内躺在床上的 母亲侧过头看着我。

母亲死后，我是在梦中见过她的，许多次。但梦 中的母亲面目是模糊不清的，即使周围的一切都真 实得如同现实世界，那张脸往往像被擦除一般，没 有五官，混沌地扭曲成一团。

而这个母亲的面目清晰可见。

身后传来了清脆的铃铛声，我惊诧地回过头， 看见一个装扮奇特的人。这个人穿着一件厚重的袍 子，胸前垂着几根彩色布条，下摆挂满铃铛，每走 一步便发出一串响声，装饰着神树的法冠前方缝制 着密集的粗线，将脸遮得严严实实，甚至无法判断 性别。

是萨满。母亲跟我讲过萨满的事，她的祖先信仰 这个。

萨满跪下，用力敲响了手中的鼓，然后开始跳 舞，一边用低沉的声音念着什么，那语言是我听不 懂的。萨满的动作十分有力，时而击鼓，时而跃

起，时而跪下，不停地跳着，不知疲倦地跳着。萨 满的动作起初清晰可见，渐渐地，我的视线模糊起 来，丧失了焦点，萨满的每一次移动更加连贯，余 光瞥见只像一个影子。这个空间让人丧失对时间的 判断力，我隐约觉得跳了好几个小时。过了很久， 舞蹈终于完成了，萨满做完最后一个动作，瘫倒在 了地上，一动不动。

母亲坐了起来。她变成了完全健康的样子，和我

To draw something out of her, I turned off the lights, switched on my phone’s flashlight, waved it back and forth. After a few minutes, she moved again—slowly turning her head toward the light.

Gradually, she began to react more clearly. She yawned, wept, and even laughed. Whenever I approached, she turned her head to look at me; sometimes she even lifted her hand slightly, as if inviting me to hold it. She was, in every sense, living and breathing.

My hope revived: that in the end, she would recover, regain consciousness, beyond mere instinctive reflexes, and that she would eventually wake up, fully.

Maybe she was conscious, even though medical science suggested otherwise. Every time she reacted when I was talking, I believed she was the same mother who had known me all along, the one who understood everything that was happening. I talked to her more and more, sharing my life; I believed she was comprehending. Although she remained in bed, she was still a part of my life.

All of this came to an end when I was in college. While I was away on a field trip, my father discontinued my mother’s treatment. Without telling me. To this day, I consider it murder.

As if sensing my thoughts, the mother in bed in this dim room tilts her head toward me, watching. I’ve seen my mother a few times after her death, in dreams: everything around her is lucid, almost real, except her face, her features collapsing into a cloudy mass.

But this mother’s face is clear. I can read it.

A crisp chime rings from behind me. Startled, I turn. Someone strangely attired stands there. A heavy, voluminous robe, strips of colored cloth dangling across the chest. Bells festoon the hem, chiming with every step. A crown on the head, ceremonial, adorned with sacred tree motifs, a dense mesh of coarse stitching across the front, completely obscuring the face. I can’t read it.

It is a shaman. My mother told me about shamans; her ancestors believed in them.

小时候一样。她生病时，为了方便打理，头发是极 短的，如今变长了。她向我招招手，示意我坐到床 上。

我和母亲说了很多话，关于她不在的这些年， 我的变化和成长。母亲耐心地听着，偶尔温柔地回 应。最后，她摸了摸我的头，将我的身体拉近了 些，我抱住母亲。

不多久，我听见一声闷响，是我放在床尾的书籍 盲盒掉到了地上，我说要去捡一下，母亲点点头， 在我离开时，不舍似的握了握我的手。

盲盒的包装很脆，落在地上后破了一角，里面 的物品不像是书。我将口子撕得更大，发现里面只 有一面镜子。我举起镜子照了照，第一眼就看见我 脸上一个明显的变化，那便是我的胎记没有了。那 胎记实在很难去除，长大后，我也自己去治疗过几 次，效果都不明显，如今在这镜中竟一点痕迹也看 不到了。莫非刚才萨满跳舞的时候，将我的胎记也 治好了？那萨满真是个神医。我兴奋地想要和母亲 分享这个变化，转过身去，却看到床上空无一人。

那镜子突然碎了，有一片玻璃渣飞到我的手臂 上，划破了我的皮肤。倒在地上的萨满爬了起来， 朝我摘下了法冠，里面的情状异常可怖，面容整个

溃烂了，血还在不断渗出来。我被吓得不轻，扔掉 了手中的镜子，转过身只管往外跑。我一直往回 跑，跑了很久。雨还没有停，打湿了我的脸，我一 边哭一边跑。我跑到了路的尽头，我跑到了南京西 路上，终于看到了熟悉的城市，灯亮起来了，车辆 行人川流不息。

我坐2号线换1号线回家了。

我尝试理解这一切，却像打了死结一般凝固着， 解不开其中任何一个线索。我的胎记依然顽固地存 在于我的脸上，提醒我也许那些只是虚幻的想象，

The shaman kneels, hitting the drum in their hands, sounds like a storm, and begins to dance, chanting in a low voice, in a language I do not speak; the movements are vigorous: slapping the drum, leaping into the air, then dropping to their knees with a sudden, heavy thud— frenetic, relentless movements.

At first, I can see each motion separately, but little by little, my vision blurs: they slip, flicker. The shaman becomes a fluid in this room, moving in every direction, glimpsed out of the corner. Time vanishes. Minutes, hours, hours, minutes. I feel the dance has gone on forever.

After a long while, the dance is complete; having finished the final movement, the shaman collapses to the ground. Lying motionless.

On the bed, my mother sits up. She looks completely well, just as she did when I was little. Her hair—while she was ill, her hair was short for ease of care; now it has grown long again. She beckons to me, asking me to sit beside her.

On the bed, we talk about the time she was away, mostly about my life. She listens attentively, gently responding a few times. After that, she strokes my head, draws me closer; I wrap my arms around her.

And then I hear a muffled thud—the blind box I left at the foot of the bed falling to the floor. I tell her I am going to pick it up; she nods, and as I turn, she squeezes my hand, as if reluctant to let me go.

The blind box falls, and the packaging splits—one corner tearing open. Inside, it doesn’t feel like a book. I pull it apart and look. Nothing but a mirror.

I lift it to my face. At first glance, I catch its reflection, striking: my birthmark is gone. It had always been too stubborn to remove. As I grew up, I tried to treat it a few times, but it never worked.

Yet now, in this mirror, not a single trace remains. Could it be that while the shaman was dancing earlier, they took it away?

That shaman is a true healer.

I turn around, excited to show my mother, only to find the bed completely empty.

或是梦境。然而我的手臂不时传来痛觉，是玻璃渣 划破的地方，伤口有些深，不过现在已经结痂了。

我无法解释这个伤口，只能告诉自己，是现实中什 么东西划伤我了，恰好在梦境中反映出来了。就像 小时候母亲做了早饭，香味被我吸入，也许我就梦 到了同样的食物。

我没有再去过书展，那原来是每年盛夏的固定节 目。

The mirror shatters. A shard flies past and grazes my arm, slicing the skin. The shaman, who had been lying on the ground, scrambles to their feet and removes their crown. Now I see what lies beneath—utterly ghastly. Their entire face is festering, decaying, blood seeping from open wounds. I freak out. I fling away the broken mirror and run, just run, as fast as I can, back the way I came. Time stretches; it feels like I’ve been running forever. The rain hasn’t stopped, soaking my face as I cry, until I reach the end of the street and burst onto West Nanjing Road— where the city finally comes into view, familiar yet strange: lights blazing, steam rising, vehicles and pedestrians flowing around me.

I take the 2 train, transfer to the 1, and head home.

In the end, my birthmark is still etched on my face, as if to suggest that everything that happened was only in my head, or something that occurred to me as I fell asleep. I try to make sense of it all, but it all just freezes: a deadlock. I can’t grasp any part of it.

And yet I keep feeling twinges in my arm where shards of glass had cut me. The wound was deep, though it has since scabbed over. I can’t explain how I got these cuts; I can only tell myself that something in reality must have scratched me, and that I carried it with me into sleep. It reminded me of childhood: when my mother made breakfast, and I inhaled its aroma, I would taste it again as I went to bed.

I haven’t been back to the book fair. It still comes around every summer.

译者注

这九首诗给我的感受是带来了一阵清冽的风， 风格是优美但不失简洁的。Cynthia的诗歌往往都具 有一些叙事的性质，其中往往是以情感为锚点包裹 着一个小事件，在这些具体的物品或其描绘的行动 中，场景感很强，有一种在观看电影的感受。在翻 译《无字之歌》（《Song without Words》）、《我 们的小屋》（《Our Little home》）等诗时，我眼 前先出现了对诗歌中画面的想象，然后再字斟句酌 进行文字上的翻译。其中具体的事物其实能够在心 理感受上“触碰”到我：“鼠尾草”“加热器”“ 淋浴头”，也提供了视觉和感官的锚点，把读者快 速拉入了作者营造的场景中。并且，Cynthia的诗歌 中一帧帧的场景连贯非常紧密，这就导致很容易让 人产生沉浸。

九首诗内容包涵：辩证的哲思、与他人的关系、

对圣歌的仿写以及对艺术家薇拉·塞姆斯（Vija Celmins）的致敬等。诗是面对我们普遍情感的最直 观表达，因此我想其中最需要的是真诚，作者对自 己的情感十分真诚，是可以让译者感受到的。因此 我在翻译Cynthia的诗歌时，总是小心翼翼，不希望 自己损害了她作品中本身的情感厚度和基调。在动 笔翻译前，我尝试用音乐的声部和绘画上的色彩来 互相协调各种文字，在用词上尽量还原Cynthia本身 的质感的调性，在情感浓烈的诗歌中使用色彩浓烈 的词语，并用发音尖锐或雄厚的词语。

我想，保证原作品翻译过来依然具有声律的韵感 是我首要处理的难点，译者需要取舍：选择保留词 语的丰富细腻性还是保留韵脚的声律优美，我在不 同具体的诗歌中做了基于具体情况的选择。我想， 在面对诗歌翻译时，我也像一个在海底潜泳的人，

置身一片水域中，所有的感受都被放大了，身边所 有的词都像鱼一样游动，等待我们快速捕捉到它 们，这也是一种别样的劳作。但越往上游，就越能 看见洞穴出口那一片阳光照耀下的粼粼的美丽金色 波光。

CYNTHIA HORAN

Song without Words

That’s melancholy, she pointed, here, within the accidental half steps. Must be, since melancholy hadn’t come round before. Ought to invite it over, let it slump in a white wicker chair across from mine. Recently I like words that sound like a diagnosis.

I can feel it better once I know it’s melisma. Otherwise when the shower’s over, I’d dry off but not leave, decide instead to lay down on the enamel floor and stare for hours at the head, wondering if it’d turn on and when.

翻译 : SONG YANG

无字之歌

那定是忧郁吧，她点出 在此处，藏匿于

临时的半音阶间。

想必如此，毕竟忧郁 从不曾造访

此前。该邀它进门

任它陷坐在

白色藤椅里，与我

隔空对望。我近来偏爱

那些念起来像诊断书的词汇。

若知它原是旋律

便更能感受其肌理。否则

当水幕停歇，我擦干身躯 却不离去，宁愿在

釉面砖地上兀自躺下，怔怔 凝望莲蓬头数小时，揣想 它何时会再度涌出泪来。

Gust of recognition

I’ll only scatter the papers if you promise to claim them

It will be a sacred accord, between you and me

We needn’t write it down, because I’ll remember it

In every hair blocking my vision, in every hat blown off my head

顿悟的风

我会散落这些纸页

只要你应允捡起

这将是你我之间

神圣的约定

不必写下

我自会牢记在心

在每缕迷眼的发丝间 在每顶吹落的帽檐里

Our Little Home

There are beds filled with hollyhocks, which must be watered before we leave our little home and one of us should’ve written Edward already to ask him to take care of them while we’re gone and that one of us was reminded but she said harping now isn’t helpful and it’s just as well since we can’t be expected to remember everything. We knock on his door and she’s right, it is just as well, because he wishes us luck and safe travels, bring me

back some wild blueberry jam, he says, and I’ll see how it stacks up against our huckleberries. Anyways his house is in the direction of our favorite candy store so now we have something to suck on as we head south, our Dodge sputtering as we drive through sage and more sage, enough to make us remember we’re roaming far from home. When it’s dark, we stop at an auto camp, the cabins fine if meager, but a good spot to lie down, and that’s what we do, each collapsing back on a twin bed. Eventually I turn onto my left side and she’s already looking at me, right arm hanging in between us, I grasp her fingertips but can only reach a couple. Shhh, she giggles, as if she can shush the bed into not scraping across the wooden floor. She holds me, and I ask, do you think Edward really will water the hollyhocks, and yes, of course, she says, he’ll be scared stiff Misses Cook will report back that they wilted, and yes, of course you’re right, her pink lips remind me of the prickly pear blossoms we’d seen earlier, pink and yellow and a kind of white poppy too, lovely in the sage.

我们的小屋

那里的一排排花床上种着蜀葵， 离开小屋时，

我们其中之一，要给它们浇水。本该早就给爱德华写信，请他在我们离家时照 料花——

确实曾有人提醒过，

但她说，如今再唠叨也没用，反正无妨， 毕竟谁也不能期望能记清楚

一切。我们敲响了他的门，她是对的，

的确无妨——他祝我们好运，一路平安，说：“给我

带点野生蓝莓果酱回来吧，我倒想看看，

和我们的越橘比怎么样。”不管怎样，他家就在我们最爱的糖果店方向，

于是我们一路向南，嘴里吮着东西， 道奇车一路咳嗽般地前行，穿过一片鼠尾草，

又一片鼠尾草，多得足以让我们意识到， 我们已经游荡在

离家很远的地方。天黑时，我们在一处汽车营地停下，小木屋不错——

虽然简陋，但是个躺下的好地方，于是我们，

各自倒在一张单人床上。接着我翻身朝左侧躺去，

她看着我，右臂垂在我们之间， 我去握她的指尖，却只能够到

其中的几根。“嘘——”她咯咯地笑着，仿佛这样就能让床 不在木地板上刮出声响。她抱着我，我问：你觉得爱德华真的会给那些蜀葵浇 水吗？

“会的，当然会，”她说，“他肯定会非常害怕， 担忧库克太太说都枯萎了。”是的，当然，你说得对——她

那粉色的嘴唇让我想起我们先前见过的仙人掌花，粉色的， 黄色的，还有一种近乎白色的罂粟， 在鼠尾草丛中，美得不可思议。

Vow

Holding is not the same as having or so they say upon altars. Look at the lake long enough and the horizon will draw straight through rocks and sky. The water needs

shores else she is unquantifiable, pliant as uncontained drops spilling down glass panes. Though cupped hands make imperfect seals, no matter how determined my red fingers.

An empty center. Better train my eyes to spot if I’m existing only in relation to, and never mind the prunes,

familiar palms submerge in mountain stream, cold, resting high, the mottled rocks beneath, the muffled water splashing by again

誓约

握住并不代表拥有，

供桌旁常这么说。凝望 湖面足够久，地平线便 穿过了岩石与天空。水需要

有岸，否则她无法量度， 柔韧的水滴，沿玻璃窗面 滑落。纵使我捧起的双手如何紧密， 纵使我被水泡皱的手指如何执拗。

空洞的中心。我最好训练眼睛， 分辨自己是否只存在于

关系之中，放弃追寻那多余的部分，

熟悉的手掌浸入山涧，

在寒冷的高处静卧，斑驳的岩石在下， 幽微的流水又一次掠过

Liminality

I grew tired of interiority, I was chewing ice too much. Iron deficient, I guess, or just drawing things inwards like I didn’t want to wait for the ice to melt.

So impatient I was to taste it. I like kissing you right after you’ve had a sip of water and your lips are cool and still a little wet, it makes me

think of the time I could see a fish swimming towards me luminescent blue and I was beneath it all and

I looked up but I couldn’t see the surface. I think this is why

I’m tired of interiors, it’s so hard to see the surface.

Can’t I just crawl outside. An egress point, that’s all I need.

阈值

我已厌倦

向内蜷缩，

我让冰块入喉，

循环往复。

是这副身躯缺铁，

我猜想，又或者只是我向内 消化事物 仿佛不

愿意等到 冰块融化。

我太急切想要 品尝它。我喜欢

在你刚抿过一口水后 吻你，你的唇微凉带着些

湿润，这让我

想起从前我曾看见 一条鱼

朝我游来

泛着幽蓝的光

而我沉潜在它下

抬头望去，却 看不见 水面。

我想这就是为什么

我厌倦

内心深处，太难于 望见水面。

我就不能缓慢游爬出去吗。

只是需要一个出口，仅此而已。

Heat After Vija Celmins

In my supposed repose, I’ve found the space heater.

Or maybe it found me. Summoned me to dark attic, and said, at last, you’ve come home. And yet I must know—

What is the source of its umber glow? Where does the cord lead to?

It is lonely To be here in ambiguity.

Shall I tend to the heater? Shall I steward the flame?

Ask me again, It’s hopeful.

I never imagined the space heater existed without space to heat.

The cord tethers it here. The space is extant.

And now heat floats in the dark, wispy tendrils emanate towards me.

As my warming cheeks ripen, the recurring curdle leaves my mouth.

热 —— 仿薇拉·塞姆斯

在我所谓的安歇之处，

我找到了那台空间加热器。

或许，是它找到了我。

将我召唤至幽暗的阁楼，

并对我说，终于，你回家了。

然而我必须知晓——

它那赭石色的辉光源自何处？ 电线又通往哪里？

身处这模棱两可的境地， 是孤独的。

我该照料这加热器吗？ 我该守护这火焰吗？

再问我一次， 它是充满希望的。

我从未想过这空间加热器 能在没有空间可加热的情况下存在。

电线将它系于此地。 空间是存在的。

此刻，热意在黑暗中浮动， 缕缕细丝向我蔓延。

当我的双颊渐渐温热， 那反复出现的酸楚离开了我的嘴。

Morning Canticle

After St. Francis of Assisi

I want to be with you while you’re warm and desolate to live in your empty spaces stand still so I can feel you moving feel your steady rotations the pull of Sister Moon always wanting to be close blustering Brother Wind cool upon my cheeks I want to not want you I want to not take from you collect your chilly tears and set them right again I want to fix you take what’s bad and bury it I want to serve you hold your squalls absorb your suffering and praise you, Sister Mother Earth

晨祷曲

——仿阿西西的圣方济各

我想与你相伴

趁你尚存余温，却满目荒凉

我想栖居在你

那些空荡的角落

静止不动，只为感知 你的流转

感受你沉稳的自转

感受月亮姐妹的引力

总渴望亲近

那呼啸的风兄弟

拂过我脸颊的微凉

我想不再对你有所索求

我想不再向你索取

只想收集你冰冷的泪滴

将它们重新安顿

我想治愈你

带走那些腐朽，将其深埋

我想侍奉你

拥抱你的风暴 分担你的苦难

并赞美你，大地姐妹 大地母亲

The Amphora and the Flora

The amphora desired to be more than cavernous cavity, and she confided her desire in the flora. But the flora asked her—

—Where are your roots?

I am silt congregated over centuries. I am borne of the earth. Have I not roots? I come from earth, and to earth I shall return.

—But you do not come from the place where things grow.

Yet I have carried birth and life and death. I have seen the beginning and the end. The sounds of verdant spring days and crackling fall ones have vibrated through me. The wails of newborns, the babbles of toddlers, the arrhythmic paces of elders. I have witnessed the cycles reverberating through generations. I am growth incarnate.

—Though you don’t propagate.

You are a vessel for growth, not growth itself. You are a vessel. Don’t you know how humiliating it is to have one’s handles groped, without permission, without waiting for me to say: Let me be your conduit

You’re right, I am a vessel, But vessels too can transform. I too am an actant.

陶罐与花木

陶罐不甘于只做一只空洞的容器，便将这份心事说与花木听。花木却问 它——

——你的根在哪里？

我是千百年淤积的泥沙。

我生于尘土。

难道我没有根么？ 我来自尘土， 也终将归于尘土。

——可你并非生于万物生长之地。

可我承载过诞生、生命 与死亡。我见过开端 与终局。青翠春日的喧响、

萧瑟秋日的脆响，都曾在我身上震颤。

新生儿的啼哭、幼童的 呢喃、老者蹒跚的脚步。

我目睹这周而复始在世代间回响。

我就是生长本身。

——可你并不繁衍。

你是生长的容器， 而非生长本身。

你只是一只容器。

你难道不知道 被人随意摸索着双耳 是何等屈辱 未经允许，且未 等我开口：

让我为你引渡

你说得对，我是一只容器， 可容器也能蜕变。

我也是一个行动者。

Lifeblood

Together we sought a cup brimming but instead spilled drops beaded on well-oiled surfaces.

Without her my heart heaved with a trapped compounding love swelling so much it hurt.

Then one palpable golden morning my roving finger felt the unassuming hole just beneath my left breast, between uppermost ribs. I was as St. Teresa, mouth gaping with shock and pallid pleasure and relief because the hole reached my heart, contracting as pin-punctured balloon gushing iron-dense carnelian smeared across my life lines.

And so I fled to her apartment, forgetting familiar walls ’til face to face, flush palms open expounding

Here I offer to you my life blood

生命之血

我们曾共同寻觅， 一只满溢的杯盏， 却只换来飞溅的几滴， 在润滑的表面上凝结成珠。

若没有她，我的心 便翻涌着被囚禁的、

不断叠加的爱意， 肿胀得令人作痛。

直到一个可触可感的 金色清晨，

我游移的指尖触碰到了 那个不起眼的孔洞，

就在我左乳之下， 最上端的肋骨之间。

那一刻我宛如圣特蕾莎， 因震惊与苍白的欢愉 而张大了嘴。

还有释然，因为那孔洞

直抵我的心脏，心脏收缩着，

如同被针扎破的气球，

喷涌出铁一般沉重的 红玉髓色血液，

涂抹在我纵横交错的生命线上。

于是我逃向她的公寓， 遗忘了那些熟悉的墙壁， 直到面对面，

我涨红着脸，摊开手掌倾诉：

在此， 我将我的 生命之血，

献予你。

Translator’s Note

In my first meeting with the author of “Thirteen Spices,” Song Yang, she asked how the urban environments in which we live (me, Brooklyn; her, Shanghai) might affect how we read and write. “Thirteen Spices,” though it might not seem so at first, is a story concerned with a city, changing and unchanging, just as the characters are. Set in the city where Song grew up, the story evokes Kaifeng, located in Henan province, through dialect and colloquialisms, as well as cultural references. Situated after the founding of the Republic of China, in around the 1930s, the Kaifeng of this story is the backdrop to a friendship that leaves an indelible mark: that between Xiangliao Chen, the spice merchant, and Xiao Taofu, the young theater performer. Song’s prose is rich and lyrical, punctuated with onomatopoeia and wordplay. Even the names carry symbolic meaning: Xiao Taofu, translated as Little Peach, would more directly translate to Little Peachwood Charm, named for the amulets or talismans carved from peach wood used to ward off evil spirits. Little Peach’s grim fate is even more heartbreaking given his name. There are many moments of beauty within this tragic story: I’ll forever love Little Peach’s smoothed out paper and be forever haunted by Second Maiden’s red lips. In my translation, I sought to capture Song’s beautifully rendered metaphor and description, the historical and cultural context, and the sounds and textures of the street market.

At the end of the story, we return to the market, just as the story began. Spices Chen’s visions have come true: fewer people come to buy his traditional thirteen spices, just as fewer people listen to Henan Zhuizi. And yet, despite the changing cultural landscape, the city exists in exactly the way it did before: snow falls and people gather. Spices Chen continues to call out, an echo from before reverberating across the time that’s passed.

SONG YANG

十三香

老老年间，开封的雪一下就像鹅毛，盖下地来， 无数晶莹的面粉一样，让人啧啧称奇。又碰上个集 市，路上看雪的、买卖货物的行人更是不减反增。

香料陈推着一辆四轮小车，上面高低放着些零零 散散的大罐子和几片裂了边角的碟子，缓步走过布 满商铺的正街，立在写着“水云楼”牌匾的前门边 上，咳了咳嗓子，眼神开始亮了起来，气定神闲地 开始唱吆喝：“好啦都来买我的十三香，上好花椒 八角大料，

陈皮肉桂加良姜，丁香木香亲哥俩，同 胞姐妹是大小茴香......”不久就有一圈人围过来 看，香料陈坐在中间，不无骄傲地打开那些推车上 的“宝贝们”，各种颜色各异的细细研磨的粉末， 有的不用凑近就可以闻到略显辛辣的气味。

“这是八角，这是小茴香”，香料陈指了指其 中的两样。有人捻起一样，在手心里搓了搓。“这 是陈皮”，香料陈说，“能闻到香味的。”那人点 了点头，又抓了一大把使劲闻着，吸鼻烟一样，接 着就把手里的全扬掉了。香料陈皱了皱眉。有个十 五岁左右细胳膊细腿的小姑娘也围过来看，食指沾 了沾小茴香，塞到嘴里舔了舔。接着沾了沾桂皮

粉，也飞速地要往嘴里伸。香料陈把罐子盖一个个 盖上，只留下上面歪歪扭扭手写着“花椒”“大 料”“白芷”等的标签。他把小女孩伸向贴着“桂 皮”透明罐子的手摆开，慢悠悠又带着点中气地 说：“您把这调料当饭吃可不中啊。”围观的一些 男女开始嗤嗤地笑起来，有几声“小贼”能听得分 外清楚，女孩红着脸拨开身后的人，几乎是手脚并 用的逃了出去。香料陈又吆喝了一阵，几个女人过

translated from the chinese by CYNTHIA HORAN

THIRTEEN SPICES

Many years ago, the snow in Kaifeng fell in large and light flakes, covering the ground like countless glistening grains of flour. Upon seeing it, people clicked their tongues in admiration. If people stumbled across the market and saw the snow on the street, the shoppers and peddlers would only rise in number, not fall.

Chen, the spice vendor, pushed his four-wheeled cart with some large jars and a few chipped plates piled haphazardly. He walked slowly across the main street lined with shops, stopping beside a door with a sign above it reading “Shuiyun Building.” He cleared his throat and his eyes brightened, then he started calling out assuredly: “Come and buy my thirteen spices! Top-quality Sichuan peppercorns and star anise! Orange peel, cinnamon, and ginger! The two brothers, cloves and costus root – and their sister, fennel seed…..” Soon enough a crowd circled around to look. Spices Chen sat in the middle, proudly opening the precious treasures on his cart— all colors and kinds of finely ground spices, some so pungent they could be smelled even without leaning in close.

“This is star anise, this is fennel.” Spices Chen pointed to each of them. Somebody picked up one of the spices and rubbed it in their palm. “This one is dried orange peel,” he said. “Here, you can smell how fragrant it is.” The man gave a slight nod, grabbed a big handful, and inhaled deeply, as if inhaling snuff, before throwing it all away. A frown crossed Chen’s face. A girl about fifteen years old with thin arms and legs also came to look, dipped her pointer finger in the fennel, put it in her mouth, and licked it clean. Then she dipped her finger in the cinnamon to get another taste. Spices Chen capped each of the jars. The handwritten labels lay askew on top: Sichuan peppercorns, Star anise, Angelica root, among others. He batted the girl’s hand away from the one labeled Cinnamon and said slowly but firmly: “You can’t make a meal out of these spices.”

The surrounding onlookers began to laugh. Some jeers of “little thief” were heard clearly. The girl’s face reddened and she pushed

来问价，他伸手比划了一下，就打开各类调料罐， 花椒用铁勺挑出一小堆、白芷一小堆、小茴香一小 堆......一共是十三堆，混在碟子里一起匀好，装 在袋子里递给几个买主。冬日好大雪，但正午阳光 依旧有些刺眼，香料陈把推车放在酒楼屋檐下阴凉 的地方，朝屋里的店主要了碗油汤面条，刺溜刺溜 地吸了起来。阳光下，墙边光秃秃的树影斑驳着落 在碗里，油汤里面映出了一支小小的胳膊。香料陈 抬起头来，发现刚才逃走的小姑娘站在面前，眼里 泪汪汪的。

“弄啥嘞？”他问。

对方左眼眶里的泪水慢慢地流出来一道，“伯 伯，我饿到受不了......”

这孩子其实面皮薄，香料陈想。

“你没吃饭吗妮妮？”他又问。

她却只是哭。喃喃地说些什么，香料陈大致明白 大概是“知道越哭越饿但是还是忍不住”之类的意 思。

香料陈于是又叫了一碗面递给她，再问就不搭话

了，只是扑上去吃面。吃完后也半天说不出话，只 是喉咙里还是“呼噜呼噜”的，好像没吃完一样。

好一会香料陈才能够与她搭话，这才知道并不

是“她”而是“他”，这个女孩儿一样纤细漂亮的 小伙子是本地河南坠子演出剧组的，职责是拉二胡 配乐，顺带唱些《十劝姑娘》、《春江找父》、《

故土情深》之类临时的曲子。而因为本身是孤儿， 年纪又小，更加好驱使，如今听河南坠子的人越来 越少，分到晚辈的并没有几滴油水，因此越来越经 常地开始忍受饥饿。香料陈顿时感到自己几年后的 光景似乎看得到了，买传统手磨香料的人越来越 少，只不过暂时受惠于“民以食为天”，能够稍微 维持些自己的生活，况且家中有其他兄弟帮持着， 总不见得太坏罢了。

through the people behind her, practically scurrying away on both her hands and feet. Spices Chen went back to hawking his wares, calling out for another short while. Some women came to ask the price. Reaching out his hands, he gestured towards and opened various spice jars. He scooped out a small pile of Sichuan peppercorns, a small pile of Angelica root, a small pile of fennel seed…. In all, it was thirteen piles, which he mixed together thoroughly in a dish, packed into bags, and handed to the customers. It was well into the mid-December “Great Snow” season, but the midday sunshine was still quite bright. Spices Chen pushed his cart over to a shady spot under the eaves of a restaurant. He ordered a bowl of noodles in an oily broth from the shop owner inside and then slurped them down quickly. In the sunlight, the dappled shadows of bare trees lining the wall fell across the bowl, and the oily broth inside reflected back a small arm. Spices Chen raised his head and discovered the girl who had just run away standing in front of him, her eyes brimming with tears.

“What’re you doing,” he asked.

From her left eye a tear slowly leaked out. “Uncle, I’m so hungry I can’t stand it….”

The child was actually quite shy, Spices Chen thought. He asked another question. “You haven’t eaten yet, little girl?”

She just went on crying, mumbling a few things, which Spices Chen took to roughly mean: “I know the more I cry, the hungrier I’ll become, but I can’t help it,” or something like that.

Upon hearing this, Spices Chen ordered another bowl of noodles and handed it to her. He once again asked her a question, but she didn’t reply and simply scarfed down the noodles. After she’d finished, a long time passed with neither of them speaking, though the back of her throat still gurgled as if she hadn’t finished eating at all.

It took a while before Spices Chen finally struck up a conversation with her, and only then did he realize this wasn’t a her but a him. The young boy, as delicate and pretty as a girl, was from a local Henan troupe. He accompanied the storytellers on the erhu, at times singing folk songs like “Ten Persuasions to a Girl”, “Seeking Father Beside the River”, and “Nostalgia for My Country”, or other improvisational tunes. But because he was an orphan, and also young, he was more easily taken advantage of.

想到这里，突然好像胸腔内灌注了一股气力， 香料张拍拍对面的小男孩，“小卖艺的，你叫什 么？”

“小桃符。”

“小桃符小子，以后你每周二来这里等我，咱让 你吃一顿饱饭。”可能是因为刚吃完一碗热气腾腾 的汤面，或许也因为带些激动，香料陈和小桃符的 脑门上的汗珠都清晰可见，四只眼睛都愉快地闪烁 起来。

小桃符只是使劲地攥着碗边，脸涨得通红，明 明是激动，只是使个劲的死盯着香料张，外人看来 几乎是在瞪他了。他伸出手，似乎是想碰一碰香料 张，又看着自己脏兮兮的袖子和指甲里的灰泥，把 动作巧妙地掩饰了过去。

小桃符认定这是自打生下来过得最美妙的一天， 连走回到脏兮兮的剧场中，任凭二姑娘把沾满泥水 的拖布粗暴地塞给他时，甚至也是快快乐乐的。剧 场里跟小桃符搭档唱坠子曲的，就是这个大些的姑 娘，不知道名字，只是被称作“二姑娘”，于是小

桃符也跟着叫。最令小桃符心烦的是，每次在幕布 拉起来之前，二姑娘总要把她那沾满脂粉的脸硬凑 到小桃符胸前，说些乌七八糟、情欲中烧的话。小

桃符总感到如同上刑，她脸上的香粉中总是透着些 酸酸的腐臭味道，嘴唇上红得像刚吃了孩子。

“你今天好像心情很好？”二姑娘问。

“是啊。”小桃符流利地答到，他感到自己像冲 入空中的云雀一样。

“我可跟着你呢”，她狡猾地说，“今天可叫你 捡着个大便宜。”

“多稀罕！”小桃符愤怒地说，“不过是吃了顿 饱饭。”

好哇！她心想，剧院落到这步光景，难免是想要 逃走了。必然是吃饭听到了什么其他消息，勾结些

Those days, fewer and fewer people went to hear Henan Zhuizi, and the younger performers didn’t get their fair shake of the profits, so he frequently went hungry. Spices Chen suddenly felt he caught a glimpse of himself in a couple years: fewer and fewer people would buy traditionally hand-ground spices. For a time, he’d manage to sustain himself, benefitting from the adage: “Food comes first for the people.” And with his brothers at home to help him out, things wouldn’t be too bad.

Thinking of this, his chest filled with a surge of energy. He felt he had the power to help. Spices Chen patted the little boy opposite him. “Little performer, what’s your name?”

“Little Peach.”

“Little Peach, from now on, wait for me here every Tuesday. I’ll treat you to a good meal.” It might’ve been because they’d just finished a steaming bowl of noodle soup, or because of all the excitement, but little beads of sweat were visible on the foreheads of both Spices Chen and Little Peach, and all four eyes flickered with happiness.

Little Peach gripped the edge of his bowl tightly, his face flushed red. He was visibly moved, fixing his intense gaze on Spices Chen— it might’ve almost appeared he was glaring at him. He reached out his hand, as if wanting to touch Chen, but then, spotting his own dirty sleeves and the grime under his nails, he skillfully hid the gesture.

To Little Peach, this was the most wondrous day of his life. Even when he walked back to the filthy theater and Second Maiden shoved a mud-caked mop into his hands, even then he was still happy. This was the woman who sang Zhuizi songs with him in the theater. Since no one knew her name, she was called “Second Maiden” by everyone, including Little Peach. What upset him most was that, every time the curtain was about to rise, Second Maiden would forcefully press her powder-coated face against his chest, uttering all kinds of lewd words. He felt like he was being constantly tortured—her face powder gave off a sour, rotten smell, and her lips were red as though she’d just eaten a child.

“You’re in a good mood today,” Second Maiden goaded.

“Yeah.” Little Peach responded airily, feeling like a lark taking off into the sky.

“I was following you,” she said slyly. “Today you really hit the jackpot.”

人就要往外钻。我这些年工夫难道白做了吗！她只 巴望着抓紧把小桃符抓在身边，像鹰勾住云雀的肉 一样，飞到其他人够不到的地方慢慢吃。她开始反 复思索。

时间飞逝，很多个周二都明晃晃地来了又离去， 小桃符又长了三岁。他和香料陈依旧每周聚在一起 吃面，而香料陈已经逐渐从“善良的伯伯”变成 了“老陈”。小桃符总是戏称香料陈是他从街上“ 捡来”的，香料陈说不如说是你“偷来”或者“沾 来”的，于是两人又一次捧腹大笑。小桃符感到很 知足，他刚开始在免于饥饿的同时只是想要一个能 时常说说话的人而已，而老陈却早已大大地超出了 这一预期。香料陈原本是个小有名气的江湖郎中， 尤其善于调理药材，经他手的普通药材无论是克量 还是材质都能精确到分毫不差，俗称既能使人暴毙 也能使人化险为夷。但随之而来多数坐诊的同行竟

联合起来诋毁他，香料陈只觉着烦心，便干脆从老 本行中分出个小枝杈——改行卖香料了。小桃符此 时的生活早已不只是在剧院里了，香料陈甚至碰巧 在采购香料原材的时候也会带上他，他逐渐明白各 种香料的用法以及一些相生相克的药物的奇妙，甚 至是一些有剧毒的药材。他的天地和兴趣原先是一 张反复对折的白纸，如今完全被打开抚平了。又到 了一个崭新的周二，小桃符换上个稍微干净的衣 服，喜悦地去见老陈。香料陈蹲在酒楼的石墩子旁 边，伸长脖子等着他。

“老陈，我们今天去哪哇？”小桃符明知故问 道，他只是想重申自己的喜悦。他明白每当香料陈 较为焦急地等着他的时候，往往就是要去香料市场 的时候。香料陈指着一个圆滚滚的八角说，“这种 就是好的，要胖一点的。”小桃符捧起那个八角对 着阳光看，香料陈指给他看内表面两侧浅浅的褐色 和背面粗糙的纹路。“要看状、色、纹、味”，香

“Yeah, right!” Little Peach snapped. “It was just a meal.”

That’s fine! She mused to herself. With the theater falling on such hard times, no wonder he wanted to leave. He must’ve heard some talk while sharing meals with the others and was now conspiring with them to make a break for it. Could it be that all the years of hard work were for nothing? She could only hope to keep him tightly by her side, like an eagle grasping the flesh of a skylark, flying somewhere no one else could reach, and digging in.

Time slipped by, those bright Tuesdays coming and going, and Little Peach grew three years older. Each week, he and Spices Chen ate together without fail. Spices Chen gradually transformed from “kind uncle” into “Old Chen.” Little Peach would jokingly refer to Spices Chen as someone he’d “plucked” of the street, Spices Chen would rebut that it was more like “stolen,” and then they’d fall over laughing together. Little Peach began to feel content. At first, when he was no longer starving, all he’d wanted was someone to talk to, but Old Chen was far beyond what he ever could’ve expected.

Originally, Spices Chen had been a fairly well-known traveling doctor, especially skilled in preparing medicines. With his deft touch, the most ordinary ingredients were perfectly measured down to the decimal, no matter the quantity or type. It was commonly said that he could do anything from making someone drop dead to saving them from death’s door. However, several clinicians banded together to slander him. Aggravated, Spices Chen branched off a small part of his old trade—switching to selling only spices.

Little Peach’s life was no longer confined to the theater. Spices Chen sometimes even brought him along to procure the spices. He came to understand the ways different spices were used and the strange interactions between them, even how some could be toxic. His world and his interests were once a blank sheet of paper that had been folded over and over again, but now the paper was completely opened up and smoothed out. Coming upon another Tuesday, Little Peach changed into a slightly cleaner set of clothes and sauntered off to meet Old Chen. Squatting outside the restaurant beside the stone bollard, Spices Chen watched for him, craning his neck.

“Old Chen, where are we going today?” Little Peach asked just to hear the words again, already knowing the answer. Whenever Spices Chen was anxiously waiting, it usually meant that they’d go to the spice market.

料陈轻轻扇动了几下，让小桃符闻到其中浓烈辛辣 的气息。“好的八角尝上去还会有一丝甜味”，香 料陈说。小桃符觉得老陈在香料的选择上几乎是神 仙了，他相信只要他愿意，他可以用各种不同的药 材调配出任何他想要的东西，无论是仙丹还是毒 药。

正玩得开心，小桃符突然感到头发被人揪住，钻 心地痛。二姑娘的额头几乎要怼到他的鼻子尖，这 张脸现在充满了怒容。这种愤怒一方面来自自己对 如意算盘的失误的愤懑，另一方面来自悔恨。小桃 符听到那张嘴里说出一连串他想也不敢想的话。他 已经被一位有钱且爱听坠子的老爷买去了！签字画 押了！明天立刻就去！二姑娘的告密并没有使得剧 场老板因害怕其溜走而严加看管，反而正好将其卖 掉赚了一笔。小桃符高兴极了，能去阔老爷家里！ 再也饿不着了！他欢欢喜喜地如实转告了香料陈， 但香料陈却并没有表现出与其相似的喜悦，只是反 复思索着，并多次告诉他小心行事。

香料陈依旧不放心，这位阔人曾经打发人来买香

料，来人对其有颇多微词。不过小桃符大概只是被 买来供其听听河南坠子罢了，也不至于被用来做些 极度艰苦的工作，香料陈自我安慰道。小桃符果然

过得很不错，搬进新住所的第一周，他就迫不及待 地找到老陈，说每一天都像在做梦一般，简直受到 客人一样的对待。别说吃饱了，甚至有时都能见到 肉！住处整齐干净，再也不可能回到和多个演员同 挤一张铺盖的日子了！香料陈脸上也有了笑意，逐 渐放下心来。又过了几周，水云楼门口石墩子前再 也不见了小桃符，这场相聚的约定似乎已经土崩瓦 解了。

“这鬼东西”，香料陈想，“怕是现在过得太富 了！”

日子慢慢过去，香料陈越来越奇怪，距离小桃符

Spices Chen pointed out a round, bursting star anise, “This kind is good, you want it to be a little plump.” Little Peach held it up to look at it in the sunlight. Spices Chen pointed out how the inner surface was a pale brown color, how the back was a little rough and wrinkled. “You have to examine the shape, color, texture, and scent.” Spices Chen gently fanned it a few times, allowing Little Peach to smell the strong, acrid aroma. “Good star anise will even be a little sweet.”

Little Peach believed Old Chen was infallible when it came to picking out spices. If he wanted, Little Peach thought, Old Chen could use any ingredient to create any mixture, whether it was a tonic or a poison.

Just as he was enjoying himself, Little Peach suddenly felt someone yank his hair. Second Maiden’s forehead came into view, her face full of anger. On the one hand she was furious she’d counted her eggs before they hatched, and on the other, she regretted what she’d done. From her mouth, Little Peach heard something he never could have imagined. His services had been purchased by a wealthy man who loved Henan Zhuizi! The papers were signed! He’d leave first thing tomorrow! Instead of keeping Little Peach on a tight rope after Second Maiden’s warning, the theater owner had decided to sell him off to earn a little money. Little Peach was elated—he would now live at his benefactor’s house! He’d never go hungry! He joyfully relayed the news to Spices Chen, but Spices Chen didn’t return the happy glow he’d expected, instead only pondered silently, then repeatedly told him to be careful.

Spices Chen still felt uneasy. This man once sent someone to buy spices from his stall, and the servant was quite exacting. But, Spices Chen consoled himself, Little Peach was probably being retained just to provide Henan Zhuizi, nothing else. He wouldn’t have to do any backbreaking labor.

Sure enough, Little Peach was fine. After the first week in his new residence, he hurried back to tell Old Chen that each day passed like a dream. He was pampered like a guest; he ate until he was full without having to ask for more, and there was even meat in the soup! The residence was tidy and clean—it’d be impossible to go back to the days of cramming into a bedroll with the other performers! Gradually reassured, Spices Chen let out a small smile. Some weeks passed. Little Peach could no longer be found by

搬进去已经三个月过去了，他却似乎消失了一样。

这家伙总归不会彻底地忘却了自己吧？正巧正是阔 老板又打发了人来买十三香，香料陈便问起来，“

家里那个小唱曲的现在怎么样？”

“我们这里哪有唱什么曲的？”来人问，“我们 老爷根本不爱听什么曲。”

“是唱坠子的”，香料陈提醒道，“十来岁的小 男孩。”

“几个月前确实有一个”，这人似乎突然想起来 了。“莫名其妙地死了，其他的就没人知道了，多 半是得了暴病，这些穷唱戏的命根本扛不住，活得 好了，反而命就散了。”他拼命朝香料陈眨眼。

香料陈浑身摸了半天，塞给他一小块碎银子。

“这个唱曲的本就是老爷买来做娈童的，但是 身体和精神都承受不住，又瞎闹起来，打着滚鼻涕 眼泪一大把，我们老爷烦了，把他关着教训了个把 月，没有过几天就精神衰弱了，之后不知什么时候 就自己悄悄撞死了。”

香料陈呆了一会儿，平静地开始将十三香的各

种配料的粉末配齐，似乎这次比任何一次都要慢很 多，来人感到有点蹊跷，但更多是不耐烦。他细细 地调和均匀，按不同比例小心翼翼地装给对方。那

人见他呆呆地，感到自己偷偷带来的消息没有取得 应有的效果，就丢下一句“破落小贩，以后少打 听”，瞥了一眼就带着香料离开了。又过了几天， 城里突然传出一位富家老爷暴死的传闻。死因不 明，只查出是食物中毒，却找不到原因。人们对于 富人往往是又恨又妒，于是很快闹得满城风雨。菜 市边每天都有人压低了声音激动地议论： “看来这种巨富遇到下降头的时候也挡不 住......”

“我看是被哪位同行对手搞掉的，这些人要向上 爬，无所不用其极......”

the stone bollard at the Shuiyun building entrance. It seemed their weekly appointments had fallen apart.

“This damn meeting,” thought Spices Chen. “He’s probably living too large for me now!”

As the days slowly passed, he became increasingly disconcerted. Soon it had been nearly three months since he’d last seen Little Peach. It was as if he had disappeared altogether. This kid wouldn’t completely forget him, would he? One day, by chance, the servant was sent again to buy the thirteen spices. Spices Chen asked him, “That one who sings at your house, how is he?”

“Who do we have who sings,” the servant asked. “Our master hates listening to music.”

“The one who sings Zhuizi,” Spices Chen reminded. “The teenage boy.”

“A couple months ago there was one,” the man abruptly remembered. “He died out of nowhere and no one could figure out why. Most likely he fell ill. These poor performers just can’t handle it. Once they have it good, their lives fall apart.” The servant gave a wink in his direction.

Spices Chen searched himself, then handed over a small piece of silver.

“My master bought that performer to have his way with him, but his body and spirit couldn’t take it. The boy started acting out, crying and sniveling. The master got fed up and went to lock him up for a month to teach him a lesson, but not even a couple days later, the boy broke down and at some point, he quietly killed himself.”

Spices Chen went blank for a second, then calmly began to mix together all of his thirteen spices. This time it seemed to be taking him longer than ever before. The servant thought this was a little odd and became impatient. Spices Chen meticulously blended them together and measured the proportions, then carefully handed the packet over. Watching his blank affect, the servant began to feel his secret didn’t get the expected reaction, and sneered, “You rotten peddler, don’t bother asking me anything again.” He glared at Spices Chen, and left.

A couple of days later, the city buzzed with the news that a wealthy man had suddenly died. Cause of death unknown. Determined to be food poisoning, but the source was never discovered. Gossip spread throughout the city; people hated and

“就是命里到岁数了，作恶遭了天谴，哪像你们 想得那么多弯弯道道......”

立在一旁的香料陈不动声色地悄悄摇了摇头，眼

里闪过一道狡黠而又明亮锐利的光。这场所谓的大 新闻连续折腾了两个月，依旧没有答案，就又有其 他新鲜有趣的新闻转移了所有人的视线，所以很快 就不了了之了。世人只当游戏看，似乎并不比“富 家千金雪夜私奔”或是“水云楼吃出蟑螂”更加吸 引人。

只有香料陈每天依旧在做他的买卖，也正如他所

设想的一样，热衷于传统十三香的人越来越少了， 但家里兄弟的扶持，使他依旧能过上差不多的日 子。日子一天长似一天，老老年间，开封的雪一下

就像鹅毛，盖下地来，无数晶莹的面粉一样，让人 啧啧称奇。又碰上个集市，路上看雪的、买卖货物 的行人更是不减反增。香料陈一直等在水云楼的石 墩子前，给各位不那么了解十三香的群众们打开各 种罐子，一个一个讲解，他一直在期待一个身影， 用手指飞速地沾一下放进嘴里又飞快逃走的身影， 可是他再也没有回来。

而日子不再等人，朝预定轨道飞奔而去。香料陈 每日都会依旧推着一辆四轮小车，上面高低放着些

零零散散的大罐子和几片裂了边角的碟子，缓步走 过布满商铺的正街，立在写着“水云楼”牌匾的前 门边上，咳了咳嗓子，开始唱吆喝：

“小小的纸啊，四四方方，东汉蔡伦造纸张， 南京用它包绸缎，北京用它包文章，此纸落在我地 手， 张张包的都是十三香，夏天热，冬天凉，冬夏 离不了那十三香......”

envied the rich. Everyday at the vegetable market, people exclaimed in low tones:

“Looks like even this fat cat can’t escape a curse…”

“I bet it was one of his rivals, these people will do anything to climb the ladder…”

”It’s simply that his time was up, and evildoers bear the wrath of heaven—not all these twists and turns you’re thinking up…”

Standing off to the side, Spices Chen stoically shook his head. His eyes flashed with a crafty glint. This so-called front-page news dragged on for two months without any development, until other headlines diverted everyone’s attention and the matter went cold. The public regarded it as just a game, no more compelling than “Magnate’s Daughter Elopes on Snowy Night” or “Customers Find Cockroaches at Shuiyun Building.”

Just as before, Spices Chen sold his wares, and things unfolded exactly as he’d foreseen: fewer and fewer people favored the traditional thirteen spices. But with the support of his brothers at home, he was still able to make a living.

The days grew longer and longer.

Many years ago, the snow in Kaifeng fell in large and light flakes, covering the ground like countless glistening grains of flour. Upon seeing it, people clicked their tongues in admiration. If people stumbled across the market and saw the snow on the street, the shoppers and peddlers would only rise in number, not fall. Spices Chen waited on the stone bollard by the Shuiyun building, opening each jar to show those who weren’t familiar each of the thirteen spices. He was waiting for a figure who’d dip their finger, put it in their mouth, and scurry away, but the figure never returned.

The days, though, don’t wait for anyone, but rather rush along on their appointed path. Every day Spices Chen pushed his fourwheeled cart with some large jars and a few chipped plates piled haphazardly. He walked slowly across the main street lined with shops, stopping beside a door with a sign above it reading “Shuiyun Building.” Beside the front door, he cleared his throat and began to call out: Little papers, square and neat! Paper invented by Cai Lun of the Han dynasty! Nanjing uses it to wrap silks, Beijing to wrap writings—in my hands, I use it to wrap my thirteen spices! In summer’s heat or winter’s cold, no season can pass without these thirteen spices…

译者注

Yuban：一个虚构国家，地处台湾与菲律宾之间，暂 译作“游班”。

Yupei：虚构国家Yuban的首都，暂译作“游北”。

“eye” “dan”：均为围棋术语，前者直译为“ 眼”，指一方的棋子在棋盘上围住的棋格交叉点， 有两个及以上“眼”可以存活。后者为“段”，指 专业围棋手的段位，L被叫做“L seven dan”就直接 译作“L·七段”，体现友人间开玩笑的语气。

本次翻译最大的感受就是我要好好学习中文，因 为总是翻出很多病句，有时候自己还发现不了，一 让别人看出来就会觉得很羞耻。

翻译是一项不确定性很强的工作！用自己的语言 重述另一个语言的故事总觉得很不安（尽管我翻译 的是中国人用英语写的小说），但是当你觉得这句 跟原文差异并不大的时候又有种跳过了语言障碍的 感觉。多么希望《旧约》里的人类们从没想过要建 一座通天巴别塔。

YUANHAO LIN

19X19

CHAPTER 1: HIS NAME IS L

At Tokyo Haneda Airport, a slender man in his late twenties was counting the raindrops on the window as he sat by the boarding gate. New drops slid down from somewhere above the window. Some merged into bigger drops and trickled down to the ground. He had finished counting them three times. There were always thirty-four drops on the window. The flight to New York was delayed by a fierce winter rain and wouldn’t start boarding for another twenty minutes, but he knew another count would yield the same result. He didn’t know this would be the last flight he’d ever take.

He opened a bento box on his suitcase. As soon as he broke apart the wooden chopsticks, a Japanese girl around sixteen sat down beside him and began to watch him closely. He wondered if she was staring at his prematurely gray hair, but soon found her gaze fixed on the yellow passport in his lap.

“Excuse me. Are you from Yuban?” The girl asked. “Or is it Yaban? I’m not good at geography. I mean that little country between Taiwan and the Philippines.”

“Yuban is correct,” he replied, slipping his passport into his pocket, “I’m on a connecting flight from Yupei to New York.”

“Then we’re on the same flight. Sorry if I’m being abrupt. I saw the news about Yuban. I’m really sorry about what’s happening there.”

He put the chopsticks down and nodded.

“So, I guess you must be a Muhong,” she went on. “I saw on TV that more than seventy percent of Yubanese share the same last name.”

Her sudden familiarity unsettled him.

“My name is L. Everybody calls me L.”

“That’s not a real name,” the girl said, “It’s a pseudonym,

翻译

: ZHANG CONGHAO

19X19 第一章: 他的名字叫L

东京羽田机场，一个纤弱的男子坐在登机口旁，数着 窗上的雨滴。他快三十岁了。新的雨滴从窗上方不知何处

滑下来，有的凝聚成更大的雨滴，流向地面。男人已经数 了三次了，这扇窗上永远只有三十四个雨滴。飞往纽约的 航班因为冬季暴雨延误了，二十分钟内定然无法登机。男 人知道，再数一次也是一样的结果。

他打开一份便当，放在登机箱上。就在他掰开筷子的 时候，一个十六岁左右的日本女孩在他身边坐下，盯着他 看。他想知道她是不是在看他过早变白的头发，但很快他 意识到女孩看的其实是放在他大腿上的黄色护照。

“不好意思，你是游班人吗？”女孩问，“对不起我 地理不太好，这是游班吧？就是那个在台湾和菲律宾之间 的小国家。”

“对，是游班。”男人答道，把他的护照装回口袋 里，“我在转机，从游北飞纽约。”

“那我们就是在同一个航班了。对不起这样可能有点 唐突，我看到几条游班的新闻，对于在那里发生的事情我 表示很遗憾。”

男人放下筷子，点了点头。

“我猜你一定姓穆洪，”女孩继续说道，“我在电视 上看过，超过70%的游班人姓都是一样的。”

她的自来熟让他有些不舒服。

“我的名字叫L。大家都叫我L。”

“这不是真名吧，”女孩说，“这一定是假名，对不 对？”

L把一整个饭团塞进自己口中，另一个递给了那个女

right?”

L popped an entire onigiri into his mouth and handed her the other one. He hoped the onigiri would stop her from asking more questions. She accepted it and started eating. The sight of his devouring had made her hungry.

L was mentally prepared for such interactions. Many passengers had stolen glances at his yellow passport—his country was in the global spotlight since last month’s coup claimed nearly a thousand lives. They watched him with curiosity and sympathy. If they’d known his father led the coup as the leader of Yuban Liberation Force, some of them would’ve snapped his photo and posted it online.

“Is L your real name?” the girl said. An announcement came over the PA that their flight was ready for boarding.

L decided to make up a disturbing story to put this annoying girl off.

“I gave myself this name and insist everybody call me L. I enjoy hearing people with accents pronounce the letter ‘L.’ Only a few Yubanese can say it right.”

She could tell it was a clumsy lie. To her own surprise, his condescending words made her curious. Three days later, she’d be the first person to discover L’s dead body. She’d recall this conversation, and in that moment, she’d take vengeful pleasure from his death.

L and the girl chatted intermittently while they were boarding. Her name, L learned, was Reiko. She was going to stay a few days with her older sister, a film student at NYU. She hadn’t been put off by what he’d said about his name. L decided to push further.

“I assume you’re no older than eighteen. Shouldn’t you be in school?” L asked.

“I cut my wrists at home a few weeks ago. Now my mom’s terrified of me, so she lets me skip school.”

These words piqued L’s interest. He assumed Reiko was fabricating tales out of thin air, just like he was. L took her whimsical words as proof that she couldn’t be sent by the Yubanese government to watch over him. She was nothing more than an unhinged girl.

“What about you?” Reiko asked. “Why are you going

孩。他希望她吃了这个饭团就不要再问别的问题了。女孩 接过去吃了起来，看着L狼吞虎咽的样子她也感到了饿。

L对这样的对话早已做好了心理准备。很多路过的人 都会偷偷看他的黄色护照——从上个月数千条生命罹难的 那场政变开始，他的国家就处在全球视线的焦点。路人带 着好奇心和同情心看他。如果他们知道正是他的父亲，游 班解放军的司令发动了这场政变，其中一些人或许会偷拍 他的照片发到网上去。

“L到底是你的真名吗？”女孩问。机场广播的声音 传来，他们可以登机了。

L决定编一个烦人的故事把这个女孩甩掉。

“这个名字是我给自己起的，我坚持让所有人都叫我 L是因为我很喜欢听别人带着怪调发“L”这个音。游班人 只有少数可以发对。”

她应该听得出来这是个愚蠢的谎言。但她也没想到L 这番自以为是的言语居然让她产生了好奇。三天后，她会 是第一个发现L尸体的人。她会回想这段对话，在那一瞬 间，还会对他的死产生一种近乎复仇的愉悦。

登机的时候L和女孩有一搭没一搭地说话。L知道了她 叫玲子。她要和她的姐姐，一个在纽约大学学电影的学生 待上几天。L讲自己名字的事情并没有把玲子真的甩开，L 决定要把她甩得更远一点。

“我看你还不到十八岁吧。你不应该在上学吗？”L 问。

“前几周我在家里割腕了。我妈怕我，就同意我旷课 了。”

这些话激起L的兴趣。他觉得玲子只是在无中生有编 造了一个故事，就像他自己一样。L把她古怪的话当作证 据——她不是游班政府派来监视他的。她只是一个神经兮 兮的女孩子罢了。

“你呢？”玲子问，“你为什么去纽约呢，L？”她 发“L”的时候卷舌卷过了头，就像大多数游班人那样， 说完她自己都笑了。L警觉地挑眉。

to New York, L?” She over-curled the ‘L,’ like the way most Yubanese did. As soon as she said it, she cringed at her own pronunciation. L lifted his eyebrows.

“I just want to enjoy myself in New York,” L said. “The coup made Yuban a country of terror, so I escaped. Yupei and New York are on opposite ends of the Earth. Perhaps in New York I can find the joy and freedom I’ve been missing.”

“I’m sure a lot of good things are waiting for you in New York,” Reiko said as L was pushing his suitcase and a gray duffle bag into the overhead bin. The lightness of her voice and her indifference to the Yubanese coup surprised him.

His seat was in business class, while hers in economy, and therefore they wouldn’t find any chance to talk to each other during the flight. Once seated, L immersed himself in counting the raindrops on the window beside him—the number varied from four to eleven. He had counted them twenty-eight times when the plane ascended above the troposphere. Beside him, a bulky American youth snored softly. L reached into his brown leather handbag and retrieved a portable Go set. With deliberate care, he placed a bamboo bowl of black stones to his right, white to his left. Then both of his hands took turns placing stones on the board, slowly reconstructing the match between Park Junghwan and Kim Ji-seok from the 19th LG Cup final. Tah-Tah-Tah. The rhythmic sound of stones hitting the mahogany board resembled a man walking in geta sandals.

After about one hundred moves, he couldn’t recall the rest of the match but continued playing against himself. The empty spaces on the board were steadily claimed. Beyond the window, day dissolved into night, and hours later it became day again, all without his notice. A thread of black stones entwined with another of white, like two dragons locked in a lethal duel.

L paused there and studied the board, trying to figure out if the black dragon had two “eyes” so it could survive, until the plane jolted violently and struck the stones into a mess. The sleeping passengers all woke up in an instant and began to whisper in fear. “This aircraft is a wild bird!” the American youth beside him suddenly opened his eyes and exclaimed.

L glanced out the window. They were already descending. He gathered the stones and dropped them one by one into their

“我只是想在纽约享受一下自己的生活，”L说，“ 政变让整个游班陷入恐怖，所以我逃走了。游北和纽约在 地球相反的两端，我在纽约或许能找回我想念很久的快乐 和自由。”

“我相信在纽约一定会有很多好事情等着你的。”玲 子说。L在把他的登机箱和旅行包推进头顶的行李架里。 她声音的明亮以及对政变的平淡态度让他很意外。

L的座位在商务舱，而玲子的在经济舱，他们就没有 机会在飞行过程中跟彼此讲话了。L一坐下就沉浸地清数 他身旁舷窗上的雨滴——四滴到十一滴不等。到飞机上升 到对流层的时候，他已经数了二十八次了。一个身材巨大 的美国青年坐在他旁边，微微地打着鼾。L把手伸进他的 褐色皮包里，取出了一套便携式围棋。他小心翼翼、一丝 不苟地把装着黑子的竹碗放在他右手边，装白子的竹碗放 在他左手边。两只手轮流在棋盘上出子，一点一点还原第 19届LG杯决赛中朴廷桓与金志锡对决的局面。棋子落在桃 花心木棋盘上有韵的声响，听起来像人穿着木屐行走在地 上。

差不多下了一百步，他想不起来之后的棋局是怎样变

化的了，干脆自己跟自己继续把棋下下去。棋盘上的空间 一步一步被占去。窗外，日光溶解进夜色里，几个小时之 后又是白天，这一切都在他的视线与意识之外。黑子和白 子的轨迹就像缠斗在一起的两只巨龙，在无止境地进行致 命的决斗。

L停下研究着这盘棋，在这条黑色的龙身上是否能找 到两个“眼”让它活下来。这时飞机猛地一颠，棋盘上的 棋子一团糟。睡着的旅客一瞬间全醒了过来，恐惧地交头 接耳。“这飞机跟野鸟一样！”L身边的美国青年睁开眼 睛大喊道。

L望向窗外，飞机正在降落。他把棋子收起来，一个 一个放回两个竹碗里。280个棋子——还没有政变中遇难 人数的四分之一多，L想。他自言自语：“你已经逃离这 个可怕的国家了，怎么还在想着这件事呢？”那场杀戮的

bowls. Two hundred and eighty stones—not even a quarter of the casualties the coup had claimed, L thought. He murmured, “You have escaped that dreadful country, so why are you still thinking about it?” It was precisely the bloodshed of this coup that had scared L. He feared that his father’s violent reforms would make him a target of public condemnation, a figure vilified in history books.

L closed his eyes and drifted in and out of sleep until the plane touched down at JFK under a curtain of heavy rain in the afternoon. He saw Reiko again at baggage claim.

“I couldn’t sleep at all,” she admitted when they stood next to each other, “I watched a couple of movies my sister recommended, mostly Peckinpah’s works.”

L told her he had used the time playing Go against himself, then added, “Go must be boring to you. Most Go professionals are Korean and Chinese. I heard hardly anyone in Japan plays it anymore.”

“It’s true that Go is a declining sport in Japan. But does that mean I know nothing about it or have no interest in learning?” Reiko asked as she pulled a gigantic orange suitcase from the carousel.

“You do know you have a mean tongue, right? I’m a Go professional. We can talk about Go all day if we have time,” L said. “If we’ll have a chance to sit next to each other on a flight, we can play together. It’s one of the best ways to kill time.”

“Do you use Instagram?” Reiko asked, “I’d be happy to play Go with you. And maybe we can explore the city together.”

L thought this girl had no boundaries at all.

“I don’t have an Instagram account.”

“Fine,” Reiko was a little disappointed, “To be honest, I’m interested in your journey. I cannot help but imagine what will happen to you in New York. Have a good day, L.”

They bade each other goodbye, and L walked into the arrival hall. A blast of humid air filled his nostrils, thick with the scent of bad latte. To his left stood a busy Dunkin’ Donuts, and a bearded man was reading a newspaper in the line. Before L could stride over and sneak a glance at the Washington Post, searching if there would be any headlines about Yuban, a pair of small but firm hands gripped his shoulders. They belonged

的确确让L后怕。他害怕他父亲暴力的改革会让自己成为 众矢之的，变成一个在历史书里被谴责的形象。

L闭上眼睛游离在梦醒之间，直到飞机在午后厚重的 雨帘中着陆纽约JFK机场。他在行李提取处又见到了玲 子。

“我完全睡不着，”两人并肩的时候她说道，“我看 了几个姐姐推荐给我的电影，基本都是佩金帕的作品。”

L告诉她他一直在跟自己下围棋，又说，“围棋对你 来说一定很无聊。大多数围棋高手都是韩国人或中国人。

我几乎从没听说过有哪个日本人也下围棋的。”

“围棋在日本确实是一个渐渐没落的运动。但这就意 味着我什么也不懂也不想学吗？”玲子问，她从传送带上 取下一个巨大的橙色行李箱。

“你知不知道你嘴很毒啊。我是专业下围棋的，如 果我们有时间的话可以聊上一整天，”L说，“如果在飞 机上我们有机会坐在一起还能一起下，这最好打发时间 了。”

“你用Instagram吗？”玲子问，“能跟你下围棋我 当然很高兴。或许我们也可以一起探索纽约。”

L觉得这个女孩子真是没有边界感。

“我没有Instagram。”

“好吧，”玲子有点失望的样子，“其实我挺好奇你 这趟旅行的，我总是忍不住想象在纽约你身边会发生什 么。祝你度过愉快的一天，L。”

他们互相道别，L走进到达大厅。潮湿的空气一团一

团钻进他的鼻腔，混杂着浓浓的劣质奶咖的味道。他左边 是一家生意正好的Dunkin’ Donuts，一个留着络腮胡的 男人排在队伍里看报纸。L本想大步走上前去偷瞄一眼《 华盛顿邮报》是不是有游班的头条报道，一双小而有力的 手抓住他的肩膀，一双身材矮小的男人的手。

“飞得怎么样，L·七段？”男人问。苏吉·穆洪，L 大学时期的好朋友，来机场接他。苏吉两条眉毛很细，头 发已经变白。L只将逃走的消息告诉了他一个人。

to a man of short stature.

“How’s your flight, L seven dan?” The man asked. He was Suji Muhong, L’s close friend since college, who had come to pick him up from the airport. Suji had bleached hair and thin eyebrows. He was the only one L had informed of his escape.

On their way to the parking lot, L talked a little about the game he’d played against himself and a lot about Reiko. When he was midway through describing her colossal orange suitcase, Suji abruptly cut in, “What news do you bring from Yupei?”

“I don’t know much. What would you like to know?” L replied.

“How’s the royal family?”

“Last I heard, they’d been put under house arrest. They should still be alive. You haven’t heard about more deaths since Sunday, right? A truce should have been settled.”

“You can never be sure of that,” Suji muttered, “Maybe we will know nothing about them forever. Maybe they’ve already been murdered.”

They walked to a white Chevy Blazer in the rain. Suji confirmed that L’s hotel was the Smyth Tribeca and entered the location into CarPlay. Before starting the engine, he handed L a flyer. At first glance, it was a photo of Lenin delivering a speech to motivate troops to Poland. As L examined it closely, beside Lenin’s animated figure appeared a textbox: “Join us on February 13th, 7 pm, at Pier 81 to combat Yuban Liberation Force!” On the left side of the composition, a bewildered listener in a conductor’s uniform stared directly at the camera. A caption beside the figure read, “We are offering free coffee, soda, and fried dough too!”

“The day after tomorrow? What is this—a gathering? A protest? Will you go?”

“Of course, I’ll go. Kansu is the organizer. Are you interested?”

“I should’ve known he is behind this. Where you find fried dough, you’ll find him. I just want to enjoy myself in New York. Even though I’d like to meet him, I don’t want to get caught up in any protests.” L said.

“But you escaped Yuban because you oppose the coup, just like us.”

去停车场的路上，L说了很多玲子的事和一点点飞机 上的棋局。说到玲子的巨大橙色行李箱的时候苏吉打断 他：“游北有什么新的情况吗？”

“我不太清楚。你问这个干什么？”L说。

“皇室怎么样了？”

“上次我听说他们全家被软禁了，应该都还活着。从 上周日你就没听说有更多的伤亡了对吧？应该已经休战 了。”

“你不能保证的，”苏吉喃喃道，“说不定我们永远 都不知道真相。他们可能已经被杀掉了。”

他们在雨中走向一辆白色的雪佛兰开拓者。苏吉确 认了L下榻的是斯密斯特里贝卡酒店，他把定位导入了 CarPlay里。发动引擎之前，他递给L一张传单。乍一看是 列宁在发表演讲，动员军队前往波兰。L细看发现，列宁 的漫画形象旁边有一个文本框：加入我们，2月13日晚7 点，81号码头，反对游班解放军！左侧，一个穿得像指挥

家的、困惑的倾听者，直直地盯着摄影机镜头。这个形象 旁边还有一段文字：我们提供免费的咖啡、汽水，还有炸 面团！

“在后天？这是什么啊，集会还是抗议？你要去 吗？”

“当然，我要去的。甘苏带头。你有兴趣吗？”

“我早该想到是他。哪儿有炸面团哪儿就有他。我只 想一个人在纽约做我想做的事情。虽然我很想见见他但我 不想在任何一场抗议活动里面被抓到。”L说。

“但你从游班逃走就是因为反对这场政变啊，不是跟 我们一样吗。”

“反对它和抗议是两码事啊。我害怕别的抗议者会恨 我，因为这一切都是我爸干的。我觉得我还是远离游班人 比较好。”

“你不相信甘苏吗？”

“我信啊。你们两个我都信啊。但别的人我一个都不 信。”L的声音渐渐紧张起来。“甘苏想我了吗？他有问

“Opposing it and joining a protest against it are two different things, aren’t they? I’m worried that other protestors will hate me because this coup is my father’s project. I think it’s better for me to stay away from Yubanese people.”

“Don’t you trust Kansu?”

“I do. I trust you two. But I don’t trust anyone else.” L’s voice grew tense, “Does Kansu miss me? Has he asked about me?”

“Since you two broke up two years ago, we’ve barely talked about you. Except when TikTok streamed your Go matches in the Korean League.”

“I didn’t win a single match, and they are not renewing my contract,” L said bitterly.

“It’s okay. You’re the first Yubanese to become a professional Go player. We’re proud of you. And you don’t need to worry— you can always go back to being a lawyer.”

L shot him a scolding look, and Suji didn’t talk about ‘going back’ anymore. They made conversation in fits and starts, and the shadows of overpasses swept past above them. They wove through one tunnel after another. A small Buddha amulet hanging from the rearview mirror swayed gently.

Under the severe rain, L didn’t recognize the city he had seen in Manhattan and Year of the Dragon. There was no sign of a grand metropolis, only an obscure view of scaffolding, umber pre-war apartments, and dirty streets that could have belonged to any city in Yuban. If not for the map on CarPlay, L wouldn’t have even noticed when they passed by SUMMIT One Vanderbilt and Madison Square Garden. Through the window, where drops were streaking across, he saw the same lifeless pocket parks that had sprung up in Yupei during the past few years, and the same rude, hurried pedestrians at every crosswalk. This was a city as sad as his hometown.

After they’d driven for an hour, night had fallen, and L checked into his hotel. He kindly rejected Suji’s invitation to dine in Koreatown. L promised Suji that he would pay him a visit another time. Having shut the door behind him, he took a good look around the room. It was painted entirely in white. The linens and pillows were white too. Two tall bedside lamps resembled the shape of bishops on a chessboard. He hadn’t

起我吗？”

“从你们两年前分手以后我们就不怎么说起你。除 了TikTok给我们推你的视频的时候，你在韩国联赛比围 棋。”

“我一场都没赢，他们也不跟我续约了。”L苦涩地 说。

“没关系呀。你是第一个成为职业围棋手的游班人， 我们都很为你骄傲的。你也完全不需要担心——你可以随 时回来当律师。”

L愤然看了苏吉一眼，苏吉不再提“回来”的事情。

他们断续地说话，立交桥的影子从头顶掠过。他们驶进一 条又一条隧道，悬挂在后视镜下的一个护身符轻轻柔柔地 摇。它小小的，是一个佛陀。

暴雨之下，L认不出他在《曼哈顿》《龙年》两部电 影见过的这个城市。没有大都市的象征，只有脚手架、棕 土色战前时期的公寓，和它们模糊的影；还有肮脏的街

道，就像在游班任何一个城市都能看到的那样。如果不是 有CarPlay的地图，L都没有注意到他们已经经过了范德堡 一号大楼，还有麦迪逊广场花园。望向窗外，雨丝飞速掠 过，他能看到过去的几年间在游班不断涌现的、同样死寂 的口袋公园，以及同样粗鲁的、匆忙的路人，行走在每一 个十字路口。这是一个忧伤的城市，像他的家乡一样忧 伤。

行驶了一个小时，夜降临了。L入住了酒店。他委婉 地拒绝了苏吉叫他一起去韩国城吃饭的邀请。他关上身后 的门，好好地看了看他的房间，房间被装饰成全白。床 单、枕头也是白的。两盏高大的床头灯就像国际象棋棋盘 上的象。直到走进浴室刷牙他才意识到，手里一直拿着抗 议活动的传单。

当他再次睁开眼是凌晨四点。空气比游班干燥得多。

从枕头飘上来一股洗涤剂的味道，跟他在家里用的茉莉花 香型的相比，这个洗涤剂显得更像是被化学加工过的，并 没有人性的气息。L看了眼手机，没有新消息。他拉黑了

realized he was still clutching the protest flyer until he entered the bathroom to brush his teeth. Then he studied it again, sitting on bed. He wanted to check it online, curious to know if this event was posted on the internet. But sleep gradually overtook him before he could even turn the light off.

It was 4 a.m. when he opened his eyes again. The air was considerably drier than in Yuban. From the pillow rose a strong scent of linen detergent, more chemical and impersonal than the jasmine scent his household had used. L checked his phone and saw no new messages. He had muted or blocked every contact back in Yuban. Although his disappearance must have thrown the entire city of Yupei into anxiety, no one could disturb the peacefulness around him at this moment.

He wanted to call Suji, but his friends must be sleeping. Then he thought a while about Reiko, who should be awake because of the jetlag too. L considered this girl and her wrist-cutting story perversely intriguing. L lay on his side, hugging a pillow, but couldn’t sleep. He rolled to the other end of the bed and put another pillow in his arms, opened his eyes to turn on the TV for some white noise, and counted a hundred sheep. Sleep didn’t come at all. L rose and placed his Go set on the table beside a window facing a dark street. He paused between every ten moves he played against himself and counted the raindrops on the window.

所有在游班的联系人，或者开启了免打扰。即使他的失踪 会让游北全城坠入恐慌焦虑，也没有人能打扰此刻他周身 的宁静。

他想给苏吉打电话，但他的朋友们一定都在睡觉。然 后他想了一会儿玲子，她应该也会因为时差失眠吧。L想 着这个女孩子，她的割腕故事离奇地吸引着他。L躺在一 侧，抱着一个枕头，但睡不着。他翻身翻去床的另一侧， 把另一个枕头也抱在怀里。L还是睁开眼睛，把电视打 开，当作白噪音，然后数了一百只羊。睡意就是不来。L 起身，把他的那套围棋放在窗边的桌子上，面对着黑暗 的街。L自己对战自己，每十步停一下，清数着窗上的雨 滴。

Translator’s Note

I must thank translator Susan Bernofsky and my friends for their invaluable help in translating Zhang Conghao’s story. The process has been a genuine pleasure, though the precision and rigor it demanded would have been beyond my reach without their guidance.

Although I was unable to translate the story in its entirety, I believe the part presented here stands on its own. This, in many ways, speaks to one of the story’s greatest strengths—it is an extraordinarily organic work, alive in the way it grows, shifts, and moves forward.

Through the eyes of a young Chinese man, the story traces how a generation of contemporary Chinese youth grapples with questions of religion, love, and family memory. The story is set in Hong Kong, a city shaped by its history of British colonial rule, where English and Cantonese remain the dominant languages. Even so, translation proved remarkably challenging— Conghao’s narrative is saturated with observations on multireligious and multiethnic communities, concepts that carry vastly different weight and resonance across languages.

I am confident, nonetheless, that an Englishspeaking reader will feel the presence of Conghao’s protagonist—a Chinese man born in the twenty-first century, moving through an extraordinary moment in history with curiosity and a quiet sense of bewilderment. At the very least, I found myself returning to that feeling again and again throughout the course of this translation.

ZHANG CONGHAO

虔诚的无神论者

《一一》在香港重映了，25周年全新4K修复版。

托玛说这是他最喜欢的电影，但我是跟其加来看 的。我跟其加有半年多没见面了，他在广州，来香 港倒是很方便。看完电影我说我们散散步吧，于是 随意顺着一个方向拉着他的手慢慢走去。

“我的手全是汗。”其加说。

香港到了晚上热气不减。行人过马路的红灯亮 起，公交车们首尾相连匆匆开过，人们挤在路的两 旁，绿灯亮起，人群交错流动。

一家餐厅门口贴着一张A4纸，印着：穿校服者9 折优惠。

其加四处张望，眼睛扫过一辆又一辆路过的公交 车，可能在渴望公交车上的冷气。

其加不跟我聊天。我也不敢再牵他手了。

再看他一眼吧。他没看我。我想是故意的。

我们从油麻地走到了尖沙咀的弥敦道，其加一直 在回消息。

香港真热啊。我的右手边是九龙清真寺，台阶下 面有一堆中东面孔的中年男子在卖榴梿，街上有一 股南方的榴梿香。我说我们上去看看吧。

其加说：“我困了，我想回酒店睡觉。”

我一个人上去了。登上高高的台阶，走到了清真 寺的大门前，门口摆着满满三排男士皮鞋运动鞋， 鞋头冲里。空气中有一股遗留的皮鞋味与汗味。

一个青年穆斯林走到我身边，问我是不是来参

translated

from the chinese by

YUANHAO LIN

A NIGHTLY VISIT TO AN OLD TEMPLE

Yi Yi had just been re-released in Hong Kong, a brand-new 4K restoration for its 25th anniversary. Thomas had told me it was his favorite film, but I went to see it with Qijia. I hadn’t seen Qijia for six months. Now he lived in Guangzhou, so a trip to Hong Kong should be easy for him. After the movie, I suggested we take a walk. I picked a random direction and held his hand. We strolled slowly.

“My hand’s sweaty,” Qijia said. Hong Kong was still hot at night. The traffic light at a crossroads turned red. Buses rushed past one after another, and people crowded on both sides of the street. When the light turned green, they flowed in opposite directions. Outside a restaurant posted a paper which printed: “10% off for those in school uniform.”

Qijia looked around. His eyes swept over the buses passing by. Maybe he longed for the air conditioning inside. He’d stopped talking to me. I didn’t dare take his hand again. I stole one more look at him. He wasn’t looking at me. I thought he was ignoring me on purpose.

We walked from Yau Ma Tei to Nathan Road in Tsim Sha Tsui. Qijia kept replying to messages the whole time.

What a hot place Hong Kong was. On my right was Kowloon Mosque. Below the steps, a group of middleaged men with Middle Eastern faces were selling durians, and the scent of the fruit pervaded the street. I said, “Let’s go. We should take a look.”

Qijia said, “I’m tired. I want to go back to the hotel and sleep.”

观。“左门是男士进的，右门是女士进的，如果进 去的话一定要把鞋脱掉。”他应该已经接待了很多 像我这样的游客。我脱了鞋，光脚踩在地上，香港 的地面温温热热。

青年穆斯林一直跟着我，问我从哪里来，问我 来香港干什么，好一阵寒暄。我没有想甩掉他，心 不在焉地问一句答一句。我们用英语交流，他带着 我一层一层走上去，为我讲解每层的每个房间的用 途。有导游也没什么坏处。

“其实我们是不允许男性露出膝盖的，不过没有 关系。”他指着我的短裤说。

青年身穿一水的豆绿色，胳膊、膝盖、腿都被遮 掩得含蓄，脚上没穿袜子，脚趾甲修剪得很整齐。

我还注意到他的双眼，睫毛很长，棕色的瞳仁亮亮 的。我说不好意思，实在抱歉。

天花板上的扬声器传来一阵阵听不懂的语言，声 音很大，笼罩在我的四周，像是有人在我看不见的 地方编排我的命运。我努力从语调、断句、气息当 中抓住一些不可言说的抽象意义，脚下突然出现了 蓝色的波斯地毯，向整片地板无边无际似的延展开 去，双脚踩在其上不会发出一点声音。地毯上坐满

男性信众，全部面向前方的一张桌子，桌子前坐着 一个一袭白衣的长者，戴着一顶阿拉伯式的圆鼓鼓 硬邦邦的帽子。陌生的语言在编排信众们的命运。

我跟青年站在后方的角落，想起了一段日子之前跟 托玛在一个天主教堂，我们也是这样站在后方，看 着基督徒们挤着坐在前排，一个上海阿姨跑出后门 去，留在门内一句“我赶紧去穿圣衣”。

托玛喜欢走进不同的教堂、庙宇，他告诉我他很 喜欢听一群有信仰的人聚在一起唱同一首深沉而神 圣的歌曲。我说：“你一定很喜欢升旗仪式吧。”

I went up alone. Climbing the steep steps, I reached the main entrance of the mosque. Outside the door were three rows of men’s leather shoes and sneakers, all facing inward. The smell of leather and sweat lingered in the air.

A young Muslim man approached me and asked if I was visiting. “The left door is for men, the right for women. You’ll need to take off your shoes.” He had probably taken care of many tourists like me. I took off my shoes and felt the heat of Hong Kong beneath my bare soles.

The man stayed close to me, asking where I was from and what brought me to Hong Kong. I didn’t mind his company and responded absentmindedly as we went upstairs. He explained the purpose of each room. Well, having a guide wasn’t bad, I thought. “Actually, men aren’t supposed to expose their knees, but it’s okay,” he said, pointing at my shorts. He was dressed in green from neck to ankle. He didn’t wear socks and his toenails were trimmed neat. I also noticed his eyes beneath long lashes. He had bright brown irises. I apologized for my shorts. Through overhead speakers, a foreign language echoed loudly around me. I felt someone was manipulating my fate from an invisible place. I tried grasping meaning from the tone and cadence of this voice as my feet step on a Persian carpet that stretched across the floor. The carpet was so thick it killed the sound of everything that touched it. Male worshippers sat facing a table where an elder in white robes and an Arabic-style cap presided. That voice was explaining their fate.

Standing with the young man at the back of the mosque reminded me of a time not long before when Tomas and I had stood at the rear of a Catholic church. We had been observing the Christians packed into the front pews. “I’m gonna get my robes!” an old Shanghai lady shouted as she rushed out a side entrance. The

他不理我。天主教堂的福音歌曲把我定在那里很 久，直到托玛说：“我们走吧”。

一双又一双浓密睫毛下闪烁的瞳仁，我被注视 得心里发毛。一个中年穆斯林侧坐，靠在洁白方正 的柱子上，不停地回头盯着我这个外来者。他好像 拒绝被编排命运似的，偷偷地在右耳戴上了一只 AirPod。

我对青年说谢谢，我可以走了。然而青年还是一 直跟着我，不停跟我聊天，告诉我他们在做礼拜，

他说了一个我不懂的单词，帮我拼写了一遍，我查 了手机上的词典知道这个词是“宵礼”的意思，穆 斯林一天要做五次礼拜。

我问青年，这里有没有中国人？ 刚刚前排有一个人头发没有被帽子遮住，他长了 一个很中国的后脑勺。托玛？

我不知道托玛多大，不知道他小时候在哪里生活 长大，在哪里上过学，喜欢吃哪个国家的料理，做 什么工作。

跟托玛的约会总是发生在寺庙里、教堂里，我 们还没有在清真寺里见过面。托玛带我去过的每一 间庙，他都能知道来历，包括哪一年建成，哪一年 又重建，哪一个香客在这里得到了灵验的保佑，甚 至这个香客的出身、经历、命运结局，他什么都知 道。

“这棵香樟树龄有一千年。你闻闻它的树干就 知道了。”他邀请我去了他家乡的一间庙，在一个 很晴朗很安静的春天的夜晚，我们坐在庙门口台阶 下一棵巨大樟树的树根上，树根盘旋于地表之上又 潜进地表之下，坚不可摧。我的身右靠着干燥的树 干，香气隐隐地渗出来，我把脸靠在树干上，树干

door swung shut, and her words reverberated through the church.

Tomas had a fascination with places of worship. He told me he loved listening to a group of believers singing something solemn together. I joked, “Then you must really enjoy flag-raising ceremonies.” He ignored me. The Gospel music in that Catholic church kept me transfixed for a long time, until Tomas said, “Let’s go.”

So many eyes with thick lashes and bright pupils were fixed on me in this mosque. A wave of unease chilled me to the bone. A middle-aged man, leaning sideways against a square white pillar, kept turning his head to look at me, the outsider. He had an AirPod nestled in his right ear, as if refusing to listen to the explanation of their fates.

I thanked the young man and told him I should be going. But he kept following me, chatting with me, explaining that they were praying. He spelled out an unfamiliar word for me, and I learned from my phone that it was the night prayer—one of the five daily prayers in Islam.

I asked him if there were any Chinese people here. I’d noticed someone in the front row whose cap didn’t fully cover his hair. The back of his head was very Chinese. Thoma?

I didn’t know how old Thoma was. I didn’t know where he’d grown up, where he’d gone to school, what food he liked, or what he did for work.

Our dates always took place in temples and churches, though we had never met at a mosque. Toma knew the story behind every temple he brought me to: the year it was built, the year it was reconstructed, which pilgrim had once received a miracle there, and even that pilgrim’s background, their journey through life, and how it had all ended. He knew everything.

“This camphor tree is a thousand years old. You can smell it in the bark.” He had invited me to a temple in his hometown. It was a clear spring night, and we sat

布满了整齐的纹路。我闻不出来这树有多老。

“树干上有一道痕，是我爷爷刻下来的，应该就 在这一侧。”托玛的手臂绕到我肩膀后面指了指树

干，“我爷爷小时候喜欢跟一个小沙弥玩，他要给 他量身高，就从家里偷了一把水果刀，在树上划痕 的时候还不小心把沙弥的头顶划破了。”

托玛的爷爷落荒而逃，跑到山下去，到一片空 旷的土地，把水果刀直直地戳进土里，不停扭动刀 把，刀越钻越深。直到整把刀能被沙土埋起来，他 才回家去。

我站起身来，右手在树干上顺着光滑的纹理摸 索。

“那道痕可能已经长得很高了。”

我又坐了下来。

我问托玛为什么带我来这里。夜晚的庙大门紧 闭，庙里庙外没有一盏灯。托玛反而又问我会不会 害怕，我说有点。

他轻轻地搂住我的肩膀，头靠上来。柔软的鼻息 和嘴唇落在我的脖颈上。有一股幽香。我抚摸着他 硬硬的头发，他的后脑勺有一处不长头发的伤疤。

“你爷爷也给你量身高了？” “阿弥陀佛。”

清真寺里的中国后脑勺，有一处不长头发的伤 疤。

“你们这里有中国人吗？” 青年说并没有。

清真寺洁白得彻头彻尾，天花板的灯光像太阳 的光线降落在洁白的瓷砖上，我们的脚步声像心跳 规律的音响。到了大厅里，女性专属的一侧，穿着

on the gnarled roots of the tree beside the steps leading to the temple. The enormous camphor tree roots heaved up from the earth and plunged back down into it. I leaned against the dry trunk on my right, from which a faint fragrance was seeping. I pressed my face to the bark, its surface lined with orderly ridges. I couldn’t smell how old it was.

“There’s a mark somewhere on this side. My grandfather carved it.” Toma reached his arm around my shoulder and pointed at the trunk. “When he was a boy, he used to play with a young monk. My grandpa wanted to measure his friend’s height, so he snuck a fruit knife from home. When he went to mark his height on the tree, he accidentally nicked the top of the little monk’s head.”

Thoma’s grandfather fled in panic, running down the mountain until he reached an open stretch of farmland. He jammed the fruit knife into the soil and drove the blade deeper and deeper, twisting the handle relentlessly. Only when the knife was completely buried in the soil did he set off for home.

I stood up and ran my right hand along the smooth grain of the tree trunk.

“That mark must have grown pretty high by now.”

I sat back down.

I asked Thoma why he had brought me here. The temple gate was shut tight against the night, and not a single lamp was lit. Instead of answering my question, Toma asked if I was scared. A little, I answered. He gently put his arm around my shoulder and leaned his head against me. His lips and soft breath grazed my neck. There was a faint, delicate scent about him. I stroked his stiff hair and discovered a scar on the back of his head where no hair grew.

“Did your grandfather measure your height too?”

“Amitabha.”

The back of the Chinese head in the mosque had a scar that bore no hair.

罩袍的穆斯林女性三两聚在一起喝可口可乐。大门 洞开着，我的鞋和穆斯林男性们的鞋和谐地站在一 起，弥敦道的路灯和车流，光线和声响依然如旧。

中东男人还在卖榴梿。

青年问我感觉怎么样，我说有点像在电影里， 希腊、捷克那种电影。青年跟我聊起天来，谈到电 影，香港晚间的热风吹进寺里来，暖烘烘。我说我 专程来香港看了《一一》。

青年说起了一个和尚。香港有一个佛教古刹里的 和尚也喜欢看电影，他们是多年的老友，一起看过 《一一》，就在和尚的房间里。作为一个穆斯林， 青年曾经在一个佛教寺庙里寄居了很长时间，现在 只有青年是这个古寺庙的常客。和尚有一整套小说 写作计划，青年现在充当和尚与外界的联络人，为 和尚寻找读者。他们一起看电影的房间，有一块巨 大的幕布，青年说那是和尚捡垃圾捡到的，他会定 期去城市里固定的角落里扫街。

“那间寺庙的放生池里还有一只很老的乌龟，四 百多岁了，你看看它的龟壳就知道。人们管它叫‘ 神鼋’（Divine Turtle），只要看见祂，就会有福 分（Reward）降临。”青年说。

“Are there any Chinese people here?” My guide said no.

The mosque was mostly colored in white. The ceiling lights fell like rays of sunlight on the polished white tiles, and our footsteps echoed like the steady beat of a heart. In the women’s section of the main hall, a few Muslim women in cloaks sat together drinking CocaCola. The main door was wide open. My shoes were standing in harmony with those of the Muslim men. Outside on Nathan Road, the streetlights and traffic and noise went on as usual. The Middle Eastern man was still selling durian.

The young man asked me how I felt. I said it was a bit like being in a movie—one of those Greek or Czech films. We started chatting about movies. The warm night breeze of Hong Kong drifted into the mosque. I told him I had come all the way to Hong Kong just to watch Yi Yi.

The young man mentioned a monk—a monk at an old Buddhist temple in Hong Kong—who also loved the movies. They had been close friends for years and had watched Yi Yi together in the monk’s room. Though a Muslim, the young man had once stayed at a Buddhist temple for a long time, and now he was the only regular visitor to that temple. His monk friend had been writing novels, and the young man served as his agent to the outside world, helping him find readers. The room where they watched movies had a huge screen. The young man said the monk had picked it out of the trash—he regularly went trash-hunting in different corners of the city.

“In that temple’s release pond lives a very old turtle,” the young man said. “Over four hundred years old. You can tell just by looking at its shell. People call it the Divine Turtle. Anyone who sees it will be granted a Reward.”

Columbia University School of the Arts

Note du Traducteur

Traduire Alexandra Chasteen, l’autrice de The movigoer (que j’ai traduit par La cinéphile en français), fût un challenge. Mais un heureux challenge. J’avais postulé pour ça, pour m’amuser à faire passer de l’anglais au français un texte d’une camarade outre-atlantique de la création littéraire. L’expérience m’a rappelé mon essai de traduction de l’album Illmatic de Nas il y a quelques années, lors d’un cours en licence de lettres. Pour bien traduire, je ne devais pas chercher à faire pareil que Nas, à dire exactement ce qu’il disait. A travailler de cette façon, c’était moche comme pas possible et ça ne voulait pas dire grand-chose. Pire, ca ne transmettait rien. Vers après vers, je me suis trituré l’esprit à transmettre son intention le mieux possible avec des équivalents qu’un public francophone comprendrait. A chaque langue son argot, ses expressions, sa façon de dire, mais il y a ce truc derrière tout cela qu’il y a à partager, la voix de l’auteur. Plus encore que cela, son âme, son récit. A traduire Alexandra, je me suis trouvé un autre moi par ce travail de traduction. J’ai œuvré à dire à la française ce que sa narratrice pensait bien de son expérience à Oxford. Cette voix, ces mots que j’ai restitués ne sont pas tout à fait les miens. Pour moi, la magie de la traduction est dans ces instants où on se met à chercher à saisir ce que dit un auteur d’une autre langue puis quand on le redit dans notre langue natale, à notre façon. En tant qu’étudiant en création littéraire, j’ai l’habitude de rédiger mes propres textes. Nouvelles, roman, théâtre, podcast, poésie, on touche à tout. Pour la traduction, je me suis surpris moi-même de ce que je disais. Ce n’était pas tout à fait moi mais ce n’était pas Alexandra non plus. Quelque chose d’autre nous dépassant s’est fait avec cette collaboration, une voix nouvelle naissant de son texte qui a été l’un de mes deux grands plaisirs dans ce travail de traduction. L’autre grand kiff a été de me lire en anglais. J’ai lu

semaine après semaine les passages que traduisait Alexandra de l’extrait de mon roman, Breakfast club à Aulnay. C’était un autre moi, dans une autre langue, et pas n’importe laquelle, celle de Nas et Dickens ! J’ai adoré ce qu’elle a fait de cet extrait, cette voix qu’elle a construite dans sa langue natale. Quand on traduit, on se surprend à employer une voix nouvelle mais se faire traduire offre le même genre de plaisir, la naissance de ces moi différents jamais loin de nous-mêmes. Et je sais maintenant qu’il n’y pas lecteur plus attentif qu’un traducteur alors un grand merci à Alexandra pour cette merveilleuse expérience.

ALEX CHASTEEN

THE MOVIEGOER (EXCERPT)

Once I had located the protesting crowd I found a lonely niche in the back and stood with my back pressed against the iron gates. I kept my eyes up, away from faces, away from accidental eye contact, so that if Beth was here I might not even see her, or at least I could pretend not to see her. Even in this part of the city you couldn’t look up without seeing crocketed finials. Crocketed finials or crocketed spires, both terms were accurate but I’d first heard them described as finials. When I first started here a library tour guide pointed them out for us, the neat and even bulbs protruding from every Gothic spire like cloves pierced into an orange in a vat of wassail. From a great distance, they were pretty so long as they were indistinguishable from a regular spire. But as the spring arrived, the traditional English clouds would break, and against the blue I could make out every bulbous little pustule studded along the stone spires.

Up close was even worse. One day, I went up to the top of University Church, which provided an incredible view of All Souls’ College, right up close to every crocketed zit on every finial on every tower on every hall and, I guess, every soul. The spires like spikes: you’re not getting in! Even when you’re in, you’re not in, not completely. City of dreaming spires. No wonder no one liked the Victorian poets. The spires of Oxford weren’t dreaming. They didn’t sleep. They were waiting, they were warning, they were the sharp teeth of an open mouth, teeth that are, themselves, growing teeth. It looked like the old stone was weathered and crumbling. It wasn’t. It was stronger than you. Or me, at least. That was the closest I would ever get to All Soul’s. If people loved one thing in this town it was a gate they could keep closed.

traduit de l’anglais par GEOFFREY MOHAMED-YOOSUF

LA CINÉPHILE

Dès que j’ai vu la foule de manifestants, je me suis trouvée un coin discret à l’arrière et j’y ai collé mon dos contre les grilles de fer. Je gardais les yeux levés, loin des visages, loin de tout contact visuel accidentel, dans le cas où si Beth était là, je ne serais pas en mesure de la voir, ou bien ferais semblant de ne pas pouvoir. Même dans cette partie de la ville, vous ne pouviez pas lever les yeux sans voir des fleurons à crochets. Fleurons à crochets, flèches à crochets, les deux termes sont justes mais je les connaissais d’abord sous le nom de fleurons. La première fois que je suis venue ici, un guide de la bibliothèque nous les as montrés, les bulbes nets et réguliers ornant chaque flèche gothique tels des clous de girofle plantés dans l’orange d’un sceau de vin chaud. De loin, ils étaient longs au point de ne pas se différencier d’une flèche ordinaire. Mais avec l’arrivée du printemps, les traditionnels nuages anglais se dissipaient et contre le bleu du ciel je pouvais repérer toutes les petites pustules bulbeuses parsemées sur les flèches de pierre. De près, c’était encore pire. Un jour, je suis monté en haut de l’église de l’université, qui offrait une vue saisissante sur All Souls College, sur chaque bouton de chaque fleuron de chaque tour de chaque hall et, je pense, de chaque âme. Les flèches sont des gardiennes : vous n’entrez pas ! Même quand vous y êtes, ce n’est pas le cas, pas complètement. La ville des flèches rêveuses. Il n’est pas étonnant que personne n’aime les poètes victoriens. Les flèches d’Oxford ne rêvaient pas. Elles ne dormaient pas. Elles attendaient, elles avertissaient, elles étaient les dents aiguisées d’une bouche grande ouverte, des dents qui semblaient pousser. La vieille pierre paraissait érodée et effritée. Il n’en était rien. Elle était plus forte que vous. Ou que moi, du moins. C’était tout ce que je pouvais apercevoir de All Souls. Si les gens aimaient une chose dans cette ville, c’était bien une porte qu’ils pouvaient garder fermée.

Even the word was hideous: crocketed, crock. Jagged, yet wheezing, toadlike. What a crock. Something my mother would say. At least spire is beautiful, though spire is the root of some god-awful words: inspire, aspire, conspire, perspire, all those ambitious verbs. I was sick of verbs, sick of finish and revise and specify and sit and defend and complete. The worst part was I’d been spending so much time in libraries and cafes and pubs for the last few weeks that I was ahead of schedule. I’d sent in my dissertation two weeks early against my advisor’s stringent advice. Now I had nothing to do but wait, wait and not go home.

Normally I couldn’t care less what the Union was up to, definitely not enough to bother protesting. I wasn’t a member and had never gone to a debate. Their speakers always sounded dull, either too famous or too politically important to risk saying anything interesting. They’d invited some fascist parliamentarian I’d never heard of and the kids were picketing. I didn’t know who this particular fascist was. I didn’t bother keeping up with U.K. politics. Whatever was going on, they’d have a new prime minister in a few weeks anyways. But Beth would never expect me to be here so it was a good place to be.

When I’d arrived mid-morning the crowd was already spilling over the sidewalk, though in the narrow streets of city center this was hardly a feat. The protest had already blocked the view of the library, which meant they had the situation covered. But when a few students broke away from the group with their phones held high to livestream I ducked down and scuttled away. It wasn’t that I actually thought I could be seen and recognized from whatever student action account was filming — I was paranoid but not quite that paranoid — but the fear of being witnessed was immediate and instinctual.

I walked away quickly and with purpose, skimming the street with a particular unfocus, avoiding faces. I would look up to the tops of buildings or down to the

Même le mot était hideux : crochet, croc. Rugueux, un vrai coassement de crapaud. C’est vraiment horrible. Quelque chose que ma mère aurait dit. Le mot spire (flèche en anglais), quant à lui, est très beau, même s’il est la racine d’autres mots particulièrement rebutants : inspirer, aspirer, conspirer, transpirer, tous ces verbes ambitieux. J’en avais ma claque des verbes, ma claque de finir, réviser, spécifier, exposer, soutenir et conclure. Le pire était que j’avais passé tellement de temps dans des bibliothèques, cafés et pubs les dernières semaines que j’étais en avance sur le programme. J’avais envoyé mon mémoire deux semaines en avance, contre l’avis implacable de mon tuteur. Désormais, je n’avais rien d’autre à faire qu’attendre, attendre et encore attendre et ne pas revenir à la maison.

En temps normal, je me souciais le moins du monde de ce qui agitait l’Union, je ne cherchais pas à débattre avec eux. Je n’étais pas un membre et je n’allais pas à leurs rendez-vous. Leurs participants disaient des choses creuses, ils étaient soit trop connus soit trop importants politiquement pour risquer de dire quelque chose d’intéressant. Ils avaient invité un membre du parlement qui était fasciste, ce pourquoi toute cette jeunesse manifestait. Je ne savais pas qui était ce fasciste. Je me fichais de suivre l’actualité politique du Royaume-Uni. Peu importe ce qui se passait, ils auraient un nouveau Premier ministre dans quelques semaines de toute façon. Beth ne s’attendrait pas à me voir ici, c’était donc le bon endroit où se trouver.

Quand je suis arrivée en milieu de matinée, la foule débordait déjà sur le trottoir, bien que dans ces rues étroites du centreville cela n’était pas étonnant. La manifestation cachait déjà la vue de la bibliothèque, ce qui voulait dire qu’elle marchait bien. C’est quand quelques étudiants se sont séparés du groupe pour filmer avec leurs téléphones que j’ai baissé la tête et me suis éloigné rapidement. Ce n’était pas que je pensais que je pouvais être vue et reconnue sur l’enregistrement de quelque étudiantj’étais paranoïaque mais pas paranoïaque à ce point-là - mais la peur d’être repérée était immédiate et instinctive.

Je suis partie rapidement, déterminée, me faufilant sur la rue avec un soin particulier à ne pas être remarquée, évitant tout visage. Je regardais les toits des bâtiments ou par terre ou la voie des bus ou celle des vélos. Une fois que j’ai commencé de

sidewalk or vaguely scan the bus and bike traffic. Once I’d started looking around like that I found I rather liked it. Rather liked it. Really liked it. It gave a sense of control, an absent-minded arrogance: no, I wasn’t looking at you. But I resented having to change how I looked. Before the last few weeks I’d always looked fully, with complete concentration. I got complaints, even: staring too much, too much eye contact, not enough blinking. I took pleasure in looking. Of course I did. It would be insanity to pursue an MSt in Film Aesthetics if I didn’t place my own personal trust in the erotics of the look. Looking was the path that brought me here. The road. That was Beth’s real crime here. Now I wasted that energy looking out for her and pretending not to. Scopophobia. Not getting to look with unadulterated pleasure. Back in the States there’d been a few months where I was being stalked, a guy from work who drove a big black pickup. I learned the paranoia then, but I’d had a car, so in some ways I was lucky. The range of places I might go was much wider. I checked my mirrors too often, but my body was shielded from view. When I really needed to, I could swap cars with someone for a little while. On foot, different strategies were required, different habits internalized. Of course, being stalked by a black pickup in Wisconsin meant looking over your shoulder at every black pickup, maneuvering narrow, one-way streets to evade them, and jumping at every third car that drove past your parents’ house with a similar-sounding engine. At least there were no black pickups in the medieval Gothic city. There were rarely cars at all where I lived. Or these days, where I slept. Or where I lay every night curled towards the wall until my curtains burned red.

After the first few unsolicited visits I’d made a challenge of it, never being home. I tried to visit every library. First every university library, or Bodleian library, which I had the same access to that every Oxford student did. Then I started knocking out the college libraries, blustering past the porters, loitering

regarder comme ça, j’ai trouvé que j’aimais plutôt ça. Plutôt ça. Vraiment aimé, je dirais. Cela me donnait un sentiment de contrôle, une arrogance qui ne prêtait attention à personne : non, je ne te regardais pas. J’avais senti que je devais changer ma façon de regarder. Avant les dernières semaines, je regardais toujours complètement, avec une concentration totale. On s’en est plaint ; je fixais beaucoup trop, trop de contact visuel, pas assez de clignement. Je prenais du plaisir à regarder. Bien sûr que c’était le cas. Il aurait été insensé que je poursuive un master en esthétique du cinéma sans être sensible à l’érotisme du regard. Regarder était le chemin qui m’avait amenée ici. La route. Le vrai crime de Beth se trouvait là. Je gaspillais mon énergie à la chercher du regard tout en prétendant ne pas le faire. Scopophobie. Ne pas être prise à regarder avec un plaisir plein, complet. Aux States, j’avais été suivie pendant quelques mois par un gars de mon boulot qui conduisait un gros pickup noir. J’ai appris à être paranoïaque à cette époque mais j’avais une voiture, ce qui me sauvait d’une certaine façon. Le nombre d’endroits où je pouvais me réfugier était bien plus important. Je vérifiais dans mes miroirs trop souvent mais mon corps se dérobait à la vue. Et quand il le fallait, j’échangeais ma voiture avec celle de quelqu’un pour un petit bout de temps. A pied, il fallait recourir à d’autres stratégies, intégrer d’autres réflexes. Bien sûr, être suivie par un pickup noir dans le Wisconsin voulait dire regarder derrière soi à chaque pickup noir croisé, manœuvrer dans des rues étroites à une voie pour leur échapper et fuir à chaque énième bagnole qui passait devant la maison de vos parents avec un bruit d’engin similaire. Au moins, il n’y avait pas de pickups noirs dans la ville gothique et médiévale d’Oxford. Il n’y avait quasiment pas de voitures là où je vivais, là où je dormais, là où je m’allongeais chaque soir, en boule face au mur jusqu’à ce que mes rideaux s’enflamment du rouge de l’aurore.

Après les toutes premières visites impromptues qu’on m’imposait, je m’étais fait un challenge de n’être jamais à la maison. J’ai essayé de visiter toutes les bibliothèques. D’abord toutes les bibliothèques universitaires, les bodléiennes, auxquelles j’avais le même accès que celui des étudiants d’Oxford. Puis j’ai commencé à enchaîner les autres bibliothèques, à parler

in the hallways until I spotted a student with the right kind of purposeful stride to follow in. Some of the libraries weren’t even fob-protected. Many, even most were uglier than the Mansfield College library. This lent me some college pride though it did make me homesick, if that was the word. Beth, through me, knew the layout of Mansfield, the location of the library, the hours of its cafe, how much cash a guest needed to bring for the Sunday roast dinners. At first I’d refused to avoid her. I’d thought that since I was in the right — since everyone knew I was in the right — that I should stand my ground. That had been a mistake.

Most people didn’t know anything about Mansfield, or only knew it as small, with a lot of poor students (more access schemes, as you’d say in typical euphemistic British abstraction) and a lot of Americans. In a way I was there due to an access scheme though I was sure Cecil Rhodes would burn a little hotter in hell if he heard me say that. I certainly couldn’t have afforded this otherwise. And I was American. I’d admitted it with embarrassment at first, and now with a little bombast. At least we weren’t so goddamn miserable about everything. We should be. In fact I was. Most of the Americans I knew were miserable. But we weren’t as a culture. And we didn’t want anyone else to be miserable, which was the difference. There were worse things to be than cheerful.

As I walked back to city center I considered going to a movie. There weren’t good options. I was avoiding the mall — Beth had taken me places, too — and therefore the Curzon nestled deep inside the mall. The big Odeon wasn’t showing anything good and the Ultimate Picture Palace wasn’t showing anything at all except A Star is Born, which I refused to see on account of Bradley Cooper. The little Odeon had a mystery screening starting soon but I hated the little Odeon. It had been poorly converted from an old theater and the acoustics were all wrong for movies. I’d gone there to see If Beale Street Could Talk a few weeks earlier

fort devant les gens de l’accueil par besoin de provocation, à traîner dans les couloirs jusqu’à ce que je remarque un étudiant avec la démarche décidée qu’il me fallait imiter. Certaines des bibliothèques n’étaient même pas sécurisées d’un accès par badge. Beaucoup, même la plupart étaient plus laides que celle de Mansfield College. Ça m’a procuré de la fierté d’être étudiante, même si j’avais le mal du pays, si l’expression est juste. Beth, grâce à moi, connaissait la disposition de Mansfield, la localisation de la bibliothèque, les horaires du café, la somme d’argent dont avait besoin un invité pour aller aux repas du dimanche. Au début, je refusais de l’éviter. Je pensais que puisque j’avais raison - puisque tout le monde savait que j’avais raison - je devais tenir tête. Ce fut une erreur.

La plupart des gens ne savaient rien à propos de Mansfield, ou savaient seulement que c’était petit, avec beaucoup d’étudiants défavorisés (beaucoup de programmes d’accès comme on dirait dans l’un de ces euphémismes typiques des britanniques) et beaucoup d’américains. Dans un sens, j’étais là grâce à un programme d’accès bien que je sois sûre que Cecil Rhodes aurait plus fort en enfer s’il m’avait entendu dire cela. Je n’aurais pas pu m’offrir cette opportunité autrement. Et j’étais américaine. Je l’admettais avec embarras au début et maintenant avec une certaine fierté. Au moins nous n’étions pas des nuls partout. Nous l’étions, pas d’erreur. Je l’étais, ainsi que la plupart des américains que je connaissais. Mais nous ne l’étions pas en tant que culture. Et nous ne voulions pas voir d’autres personnes que nous être des nuls. La différence était là. C’était pire que de voir des gens s’extasier devant un rien.

Tandis que je retournais vers la ville, j’envisageais de voir un film. Il n’y avait pas de bonnes options. J’évitais le centre commercial - Beth m’avait emmené à des endroits, elle aussi - et le Curzon se nichait profondément dans le centre. Le gros Odéon ne montrait rien de bon et l’Ultimate Picture Palace ne montrait rien tout court à part A star is born, que je refusais de voir à cause de Bradley Cooper. Le petit Odéon proposait un thriller qui démarrait dans pas longtemps mais je détestais le petit Odéon. Il s’agissait initialement d’un vieux théâtre qui a été mal reconverti en cinéma. Son acoustique n’était pas faite pour des films. J’y étais allé il y a quelques semaines pour voir If

and even sitting right next to the mezzanine speaker, I couldn’t make out a goddamn word, though I could hear every note of Bohemian Rhapsody from the room next door. I’d actually walked into that room at first, and it had taken me over a minute to realize my mistake because the film was so poorly edited that I thought it was a trailer. This left the Phoenix Picturehouse up in Jericho, which was better anyway, because it was the furthest from my Mansfield accommodation. I used their word accommodation because it couldn’t really be called an apartment but it wasn’t a dorm. In fact it wasn’t accommodating at all, because I’d explained my situation to college and requested to be moved several times, and they’d done nothing. Since Beth wasn’t a member of their college, unless I went to the university, or the police, or the Rhodes people, there was nothing they could do. After the last big meeting I regretted my choice of words. Harassment was so unwieldy, vague and soft-sounding. It had a defensive rhythm, starting with the heavy breath for that h, then sliding in too heavy into the rass. Please believe me, I’m being harassed. The cold punch of stalk was much better, more potent. But its vowel could come out mealymouthed if you weren’t ready to commit, that weird l in the middle that comes out even stranger in a posh London accent. The alk in an upper Midwestern accent sounded unbearably stupid and my accent always came out higher and bouncier when I was nervous. I could hear Fargo jokes in every silence during that meeting. The Phoenix normally screened current indie releases but they had a repertory screening today, a matinee showing of Goodbye, Dragon Inn, starting in ten minutes. Counting on previews, I would just make it. I’d loved Tsai Ming-liang from The Wayward Cloud, then loved The River, then liked The Hole, but had been putting off seeing Goodbye, Dragon Inn until I could see it in a theater. Tsai was so committed to mimesis that watching his movie about the experience of watching a movie in a theater, in a theater, felt

Beale street could talk et, bien qu’étant assise à côté de l’enceinte de la mezzanine, je ne pouvais saisir aucun foutu mot même si j’entendais toutes les notes de Bohemian Rhapsody, diffusé par la salle voisine. J’avais en fait tout d’abord été dans cette salle mais il m’a fallu juste une minute pour me rendre compte de mon erreur ; ce film était tellement mal monté que j’avais pensé qu’il s’agissait d’une bande-annonce. Ça me laissait le Phœnix Picturehouse en haut à Jericho, qui était le meilleur choix de toute façon parce qu’il était le plus éloigné de ma résidence étudiante de Mansfield.

J’employais leur mot de résidence pour désigner ce logement parce que ce n’était pas tout à fait un appartement ni un dortoir. Ce n’était pas commode puisque j’avais expliqué ma situation à l’université et requis qu’on me déménage plusieurs fois et ils n’ont rien fait du tout. Puisque Beth n’était pas membre de mon collège, à moins que j’aille voir la direction, la police ou même ceux du système Rhodes, il n’y avait rien que je puisse faire. Après le dernier gros rendez-vous, j’ai regretté mon choix de mots. Harcèlement était trop faible, vague et atténué. Il avait un rythme défensif, commençant avec la respiration lourde du har, puis glissant trop lourdement dans le cele. S’il vous plait, croyez-moi, je suis harcelée. La frappe impitoyable de traquer était bien meilleure, plus forte mais sa voyelle pouvait trop siffler si vous n’étiez pas prêts à vous y engager, cet étrange a au milieu qui sortait encore plus bizarrement avec un accent huppé. Le aque dans un accent de campagne faisait insupportablement idiot et mon accent se prononçait fort et subitement quand j’étais nerveuse. Je pouvais sentir leur condescendance des gens de campagne dans tous les silences de cette réunion.

Le Phœnix diffusait normalement des sorties type cinéma d’auteur mais ils avaient un programme aujourd’hui, une diffusion dans l’après-midi de Goodbye, Dragon inn, qui commençait dans dix minutes. En comptant sur les bandeannonces, je pouvais arriver à temps. J’avais adoré Tsai MingLiang avec The Wayward Cloud, pareil pour The River, une fois encore pour The Hole, mais avais repoussé le visionnage de Goodbye, Dragon inn jusqu’à ce que je puisse le voir dans un cinéma. Tsai se consacrait tellement à la mimesis que regarder son film sur l’expérience de regarder un film dans

necessary. But Tsai aimed for a mimesis that wasn’t quite verisimilitude. His fiction films served as a sort of mirror, a resemblance of reality that didn’t precisely recreate it. I wasn’t interested in the precise recreation of reality at the moment. So I turned back around and headed to Jericho.

The River, for example, starred Lee Kang-sheng, who has starred in every Tsai film since Boys in 1990. The River follows Lee as his actress girlfriend convinces him to come along with her to set, and he ends up filling in as a dead body floating in the river. The incident leaves him with untreatable neck pain inspired by the repetitive stress injuries Lee acquired in real life acting, mostly in Tsai films. In the movie, his neck injury starts to tear at the fabric of his nuclear family until the plot climaxes with him and his father semiaccidentally jerking each other off in a bathhouse. The River doesn’t recreate the reality of what was happening to Lee; it dramatises it selectively. But in looking at Lee, we the audience see the reality of Lee’s body and the suffering it has afforded him, making movies like the one we’re watching. Even without the background knowledge, the the extraordinary length of the shots, the spare editing, the slow pacing inevitably makes the viewer aware of their own body, the very physical experience of sitting and watching this actor who we see in something resembling real pain, for our sake, or at least the sake of the film, inviting a kind of physical empathy, an embodied empathy normally utilized in horror. Of course any critique the film might present is undermined by the fact that Tsai chose to make this movie. We are watching his recommitment to his own culpability. He doubles down. In my writing I would excise this kind of biographical detail but whenever I think about Tsai, I think about his status as an out homosexual director gazing upon his heterosexual muse, the public object of an unambiguous obsession. I have never shied away from the fetishistic. That was a good word, fetish, so fleshy. The rest of the letters seem

un cinéma, dans un cinéma, était nécessaire. Mais Tsai visait une mimesis qui n’était pas tout à fait le reflet de la réalité. Ses fictions cinématographiques étaient une sorte de miroir, une ressemblance avec le réel qui ne le recréait pas tout à fait. Je n’étais pas intéressée par une imitation de la réalité sur le moment alors j’ai fait demi-tour et me suis dirigée vers Jericho. The River, par exemple, joué par Kang-Sheng, qui jouait dans tous les films de Tsai depuis 1990. The River suit Lee dont la petite amie actrice le convaincs de venir avec elle pour tourner ensemble. Le rôle de Lee est d’incarner un corps mort qui flotte dans la rivière. L’incident le laisse avec une douleur insoulageable à la nuque causée par les multiples blessures de fatigue que Lee a subi dans sa vie d’acteur, notamment avec les films de Tsai. Dans le film, sa blessure à la nuque commence à le faire souffrir à la résidence de sa famille et se poursuit jusqu’à la fin de l’histoire, où lui et son père se masturbent semi-accidentellement dans une maison de bains. The River ne recrée pas la réalité de ce qui est arrivé à Lee ; le film la dramatise sélectivement. Mais en regardant Lee, nous le public, nous observons la réalité de son corps et la souffrance que ses films lui ont causé, tel celui que nous voyons. Même sans la connaissance de cet arrièrefond, l’extraordinaire longueur des plans, le montage minimal, le rythme lent rendent inévitablement le spectateur conscient de son propre corps, l’expérience très physique de s’assoir et de regarder cet acteur qui semble réellement souffrir, pour notre intérêt, ou au moins celui du film, invite une sorte d’empathie physique, une empathie corporelle normalement utilisée dans l’horreur. Sans oublier le fait que peu importe la critique que l’œuvre veut présenter, elle passera à côté parce que Tsai a choisi de faire CE film. Nous visionnons la mise en scène de sa culpabilité. Et il y va fort. Dans mon écriture, je couperais ce genre de détails biographiques mais peu importe ce que je pense de Tsai, je verrai toujours en lui le réalisateur ouvertement homosexuel qui s’extasie devant sa muse hétérosexuelle, l’objet public d’une obsession sans ambiguïté. Je n’ai jamais rougi face au fétichisme. C’est un mot jouissif, fétiche, tellement charnel. Le reste des lettres semble conspirer pour adoucir le t du centre. Inévitablement, je dis fed-iche. Mais dans fétichiste le t se réaffirme et puis débarque le tranchant de ce e, une fin-de-mot

to conspire to soften the hard t at the center. Inevitably I say fed-ish. But in fetishistic the t reasserts itself and then there’s the sharpness of that c as well, a sort of end-of-word clarity.

Goodbye, Dragon Inn wasn’t supposed to fetishize Lee so much as it fetishized moviegoing itself. I slid into the back row aisle seat just as the previews were ending. As the lights went down, I noticed a long grey coat draped on the back of an aisle seat five rows up. The coat looked a little familiar. Not definitively familiar but familiar. It could be a slightly different coat than Beth’s, or someone could happen to have the same coat. Whoever was in the seat — it looked like a girl — was short, roughly the right height to be her. But I couldn’t be sure it was her at this angle, in that light. And then the lights went out entirely and the movie began.

catégorique.

Goodbye, Dragon Inn n’était pas supposé fétichiser Lee au point de fétichiser le cinéma lui-même. Je me suis installée sur le siège latéral d’un rang du fond tout juste quand les bandesannonces se terminaient. Quand les lumières ont commencé à s’éteindre, j’ai remarqué un long manteau gris qui couvrait l’arrière d’un siège cinq rangs devant moi. Le manteau m’a semblé familier. Pas définitivement familier mais familier. Il pouvait s’agir d’un manteau légèrement différent de celui de Beth, ou bien quelqu’un d’autre pouvait porter le même manteau. Peu importe qui était dans ce siège, ça semblait être une fille, petite, justement la même taille qu’elle. Mais je ne pouvais être sûre qu’il s’agissait d’elle, de ce point de vue, dans cette lumière. Et puis les lumières se sont éteintes complètement et le film a commencé.

Translator’s Note

Already, in the translated title The Aulnay Breakfast Club, the English reader misses half the fun. One might leap, correctly, to The Breakfast Club, John Hughes’ 1985 installment in the ever-enduring project of inventing the American teenager. But the novel’s original title, Breakfast Club à Aulnay, might mean breakfast in Aulnay or breakfast at Aulnay, suggesting a very different film with a very different lead: not a scruffy ne’er-do-well punching the sky because he got the girl, but a young Audrey Hepburn on the brink of becoming a real adult, coffee and croissant in hand, staring through a storefront into a glamorous life inches away yet ever out of reach.

The Aulnay in question is Aulnay-sous-bois, the Paris banlieue that our narrator calls home. The banlieue might be translated any number of ways: periphery, projects, suburbs, slums, outskirts. Often the word is considered by translators —much like the neighborhoods themselves, by tourists — to be best left alone. The slipperiness of the à preposition might well extend to our rambling Aulnay narrator, who is in, at, to, with, from and for his outskirt city. On the eve of his birthday, Rezwan is just trying to buy a nice TV someone told him about, with no idea of the trouble that’s about to cause and the cast of characters that comes with it: a few thugs, a magician, a crush, an overenthusiastic colleague, the spirit of André the Giant. His quest will lead him all over Aulnay, across it, and deeper within it.

It would be dismissive as well as shortsighted to describe Breakfast Club à Aulnay as urban fiction when it is also a quest, a hallucination, a romp, and a coming of age novel, equal parts protean and mort-de-rire funny. Its contemporary vocabulary resists, like any young adult, the strictures of its parent language, riddled with colloquialisms, slang, and youth-culture semi-English.

The verlan inversion-slang in particular — in which sometimes-French, sometimes-Arabic words that have been cut up and reversed with itude-apt and iness-craft — enlivens the text yet is not easily translated without excessive experimentation. In the English, I have aimed to recreate the chatty tone and rapid rhythms, but lose verlan’s particularities, as well as its social context. It is not just youth slang, as it’s often used today, but a systematic lower-class code popularized largely by the North African and Arab immigrant communities of the Parisian periphery.

Difficult to replicate, as well, is the use of imported English. While anglophones use French to elevate and philosophize, in Aulnay, English is the language of weed and sweatpants, of bad trips and plans that fall through. As recompense, when French is preserved in the translation, it is reserved for outsiders and outskirters, particularly in reference to Monsieur Diallo the marabout — perhaps a holy man in the North African Muslim tradition, perhaps a mere swindler — who Rezwan consults for guidance along the way. The translation aims, like the language of the original, to skirt across boundaries, at once hazy and clear, sound yet stoned, cutting to the heart while spiraling out to the edge. Though this goal is, like Tiffany jewels for Hepburn or a peaceful birthday in front of the TV for Rezwan, ever out of reach.

Many thanks to all those who helped make this translation possible, especially to Geoffrey, who has been so helpful and so generous, even when his translator only gets half the joke — merci and cimer.

GEOFFREY MOHAMED-YOOSUF

EXTRAIT DU ROMAN BREAKFAST CLUB Á AULNAY

Il saisit les deux bougies qui ont bien enfumé la pièce. Ça sent le shit vraiment beaucoup puis il s’approche de moi. Il passe derrière, une bougie de chaque côté de mes oreilles et il recommence ses sortes d’incantations. Les bougies dansent et lui qui les tient aussi, même si je peux pas voir. Je continue d’observer le visage d’André. Je ressens une sorte de vertige. Je suis pas habitué au shit, je pense que c’est pour ça. Je me sens déjà fonce-dé et l’autre qui poursuit ses bruits bizarres, ça aide pas. Je veux jeter un coup d’œil vers lui mais il interrompt mon intention en me disant de continuer de regarder le visage. J’exécute son ordre, je reste fixé sur ce pauvre André qu’est décédé y a bien longtemps. Je n’ai même pas pu suivre sa carrière. Le catcheur français le plus célèbre. En France, par contre, bof, on ne le reconnaissait pas comme on reconnaissait Drucker. Plus connu à l’étranger que chez lui. Je m’impatiente beaucoup. Être forcé à rester dans la même position assise sans pouvoir déplacer un cil ça devient très inconfortable au bout d’un moment. Mon cerveau touché par la drogue, je vois et revois Hulk Hogan qui soulève André devant presque 100 000 personnes dans un stade, à Wrestlemania 3. C’était en 1987. Je dois vous décrire un peu le physique d’André parce qu’il y a peu de chances que vous le connaissiez. Déjà, le mec est immense. Je parle pas du mec d’1m90 qu’on croise de temps à autre dans la journée, non. Je parle d’un mec qui voit de haut les stars de la nba. Il avoisinait les 2m30. Il passait pas inaperçu le bougre. Et pas fin en plus. Ajoutez une carrure de strongman pesant plus de 200 kilos, des mains capables de vous recouvrir toute la tête et vous avez une vision claire d’André le géant. Je le visualise donc cet André. Je me dis qu’à ma place il l’aurait vite jeté par la fenêtre ce fou ou ce charlatan qui me bassine les oreilles avec ses paroles incompréhensibles et me fonce-dé le cerveau avec sa drogue répandue dans toute la pièce. On reste longtemps comme ça tous les deux. Je me suis demandé s’il fatiguerait un jour et, en effet, l’essoufflement s’est fait sentir au bout d’un moment. Quand il a

translated from the french by

ALEX CHASTEEN

THE AULNAY BREAKFAST CLUB (EXCERPT)

He grabs the two candles smoking out the room. It reeks of hash so bad when he gets up close. Behind me, he lifts a candle to each of my ears and starts again with his sort of incantations. The candles dance, and so does he, even if I can’t see it. I keep watching André’s face. I’m feeling a sort of vertigo. I’m not used to hash, must be why. I’m stoned already and this man doesn’t help, carrying on with his bizarre noises. I want to sneak a peek at him but he interrupts the thought, saying to keep looking at André. So I obey the command, stay fixed on poor André who died so very long ago. I couldn’t even recount his career. The most famous French wrestler. In France, though, ugh, we don’t recognize him like we recognize Drucker. More famous abroad than at home. I’m really losing patience. Being forced to stay in this same seated position unable to even brush away an eyelash, that gets pretty uncomfortable after a minute. My head spinning from the drugs, again and again I see Hulk Hogan hoisting André in front of a stadium of almost 100,000 at Wrestlemania 3. That was in 1987. I have to tell you a little about André’s physique, since odds are you don’t know. First off, the dude is massive. I’m not talking about some six foot guy you pass on the street. No, I’m talking about a guy who looks over the heads of the NBA. He stood almost seven foot five. The fucker did not pass by unnoticed. And that’s not all — add the build of a strongman weighing 440 pounds, hands capable of wrapping around your entire head, and you have a clear image of André the Giant. This is the André I’m seeing. I think in my shoes he’d toss this man out the window, this holy man, this madman, who’s shattering my eardrums with his nonsense and fucking up

arrêté de ritualiser, il est revenu à sa place devant moi en silence, le souffle rapide, de la sueur sur le front et les joues.

Rendez-moi ça, il me dit en tendant la main vers André.

Je lui donne puis il jette la pièce parmi les autres dents peinturlurées. Monsieur Diallo reprend son souffle avant de dire autre chose.

Je vais vous apprendre les paroles à réciter tous les jours, le matin, le soir et quand vous sentirez que vous en aurez besoin, en pensant très fort à la personne que vous avez imaginé en vous concentrant sur cette peinture.

J’attends qu’il me dise quelles sont ces paroles. Je vois qu’il fatigue. Ce monsieur n’est plus tout jeune.

Gardien de mes peurs, gardien de mes tracas, viens à moi s’il te plaît. Répétez.

Gardien de mes peurs, gardien de mes tracas, viens à moi s’il te plaît, je prononce à contrecœur.

Guide moi sur le bon chemin, celui du courage et de la dignité et ne repars pas tant que je ne l’aurais pas pris.

Je répète encore mais j’ai du mal. J’ai oublié la moitié de ce qu’il a dit. Il a dû me reformuler. Le shit. Il me demande de tout redire depuis le début. Plusieurs fois. Ça rentre au final.

La consultation est finie, jeune homme. Vous pouvez rentrer chez vous.

Je suis mitigé. Et je me sens bizarre aussi. On a dû rester au moins quinze minutes dans cette pièce tous les deux. Je veux pas lui dire merci alors je me lève sans un mot. Je sais pas s’il m’a volé 200 euros ou non, y a le doute. À me lever de la chaise, je sens que je n’ai pas toutes mes capacités. La fonce-dé au shit c’est pas comme une cuite malgré que ça se ressemble. Ça tabasse le cerveau pareil, ouais. Y a pas moyen de marcher droit quand on abuse de l’un ou de l’autre, c’est la même. Mais le truc c’est qu’avec le shit on va dans une déconnexion que l’alcool n’offre pas. On perd davantage ses moyens. Essayez de parler correctement après un spacecake. Impossible. Vous allez dire chaise à la place de porte. Vous serez plus cons que jamais. Je défends pas l’ivresse. L’alcool aussi rend pas bien glorieux. Mais avec le shit ou la beue, à fortes doses, c’est

my head with all his drugs wafting around the room. We both stay like that a while. I wonder if someday he’ll get tired and, at some point, if his breath will simply run out. When he finishes the ritual, he returns to his spot in front of me, silent, breathing fast, brow and cheeks drenched in sweat.

“Give me that,” he says, gesturing towards André. When I do, he chucks it among the other paintslathered teeth. Monsieur Diallo steadies his breathing before saying anything else.

“I’m going to teach you the lines to recite every day, morning and night and whenever you feel the need, while thinking very hard about the person you saw when you concentrated on this painting.”

I wait for him to tell me what the lines are. I see he’s tiring. The monsieur is not so young anymore.

“Guardian of my fears, guardian of my worries, please come to me. Repeat.”

“Guardian of my fears, guardian of my worries, please come to me,” I mutter begrudgingly.

“Guide me along the right path, the path of dignity and courage, so that I may not stray.”

I repeat it again but I feel terrible. I’ve forgotten half of what he said. He has to rephrase it for me. The hash. He asks me to recite it all again from the beginning. Several times. One last time.

“The consultation is over, young man. You can go home.”

I’ve eased up. And also I feel weird. The two of us must have spent at least fifteen minutes in this room. I don’t want to say thank you so I get up without a word. I don’t know if he stole my two hundred euros or not, not sure.

Getting out of my chair, I can tell I don’t have all of my wits about me. Hash-stoned isn’t like being sloshed even if it seems similar. Yeah, it scrambles your head up the same. Can’t walk straight when you’re on one or the other, that’s the same too. But with hash there’s this

pas possible de rédiger un discours de réception du prix Nobel. La porte de cette pièce, putain, j’ai eu du mal à mettre la main sur sa poignée. Ça commençait bien. Puis j’ai lutté pour la baisser et ouvrir la porte. À la vue des escaliers, là, je flippe de ouf. D’un naturel anxieux, j’imagine tout plein de catastrophes. Dans l’état où je suis, une chute dans les escaliers arrive vite. J’ai le cerveau qui tente de sortir de mon corps en courant en bas, en haut, à gauche, à droite, j’ai l’impression. Il est agité de ouf. C’est comme un chien qui demande à sortir en grattant la porte. Sauf que là je peux pas lui offrir ce plaisir, c’est dead, il va rester en moi. Pour être sûr de pas béton, je me tiens bien à la rampe. Je m’y accroche des deux mains comme un trou du cul, ça tape trop là-haut. Lentement mais sûrement j’y arrive au rez-de-chaussée. J’ai fait quelques marches que j’entends le marabout ouvrir la porte derrière moi et la refermer. Il descend les marches sans effort. Le shit c’est juste de l’encens pour lui à force. Quand il arrive à mon niveau, je remarque qu’il est vachement grand. Dans le salon, je vois pas Giovanna. Aucune des meufs prélassées ne me calculent. C’est dingue, ici.

Elles s’en battent les couilles de tout. Je suis pas le premier ministre mais quand même. Quelqu’un passerait dans mon salon que je lui jetterais au moins un œil.

Où est votre amie ? Me demande le marabout.

Je ne sais pas, je la vois pas, je lui réponds en cherchant des yeux ma collègue sacrément folle des fois.

Fatoumata ! le soi-disant communicant avec les esprits crie. Elle est partie où la dame ?

La dénommée Fatoumata, jeune dame qui doit avoir trois ans de plus que moi et donc en âge d’être sa fille mais est probablement l’une de ses femmes, répond sans lever les yeux de son tél : pas vu. Le marabout ça lui met les nerfs cette réponse mollassonne, et y a de quoi. Il tchipe. Son attention se rabat sur une autre de ses meufs, qu’a les doigts de pieds en éventail posés sur la table basse devant elle.

Mariama, toi tu sais ?

Han, han, elle répond affirmativement en bougeant légèrement la tête.

disconnect you don’t get from drinking. You lose your grip more. Try to speak properly after eating a spacecake. Impossible. You’re gonna call a door a chair. You’re gonna be dumber than ever before. Even the door to this room, fuck, I have a hard time getting my hand on the knob. That bodes well. Then I fight to turn it and open the door. The moment I see the stairs, right there, I lose my mind. As a neurotic, I dream up all kinds of disasters. With the state I’m in, a fall down the stairs is first on the list. I’ve got a mind that races all around my body, darting up, down, left, right, or that’s what it feels like. It twists and turns like crazy. It’s like a dog begging to leave scratching at the door. Except right now I can’t give it the satisfaction, that’s a no go, dead in the water, it’s going to stay right where it is. To make sure I don’t eat shit, I hold on tight to the railing. I hook myself on with both hands like a dumbass, this heat is hitting. Slowly but surely I make my way to the ground floor. I have a few steps to go when I hear the marabout open and close the door behind me. He strolls effortlessly down the stairs. Hash is just incense to him at this point. When he reaches my level, I realize that he is just exceptionally tall. In the living room I don’t see Giovanna. None of the lounging women register my presence. Which is crazy. These women don’t have a care in the world. I may not be the Prime Minister but still. When someone walks into my living room I spare them a glance at least.

“Where’s your friend?” the marabout asks me.

“I don’t know,” I reply, scanning the room over and over for my unhinged coworker.

“Fatoumata!” The so-called seer cries. “Where did that woman go?”

The Fatoumata in question, a young lady who’s got to have three years on me, the right age to be his daughter but probably one of his women, replies without lifting her eyes from her phone: “Dunno.”

This lazy response gets on the marabout’s nerves. As it should. He sucks his teeth. His attention closes in on another of his women, who’s got her feet propped up on

Alors ? Elle est où ?

Awa lui fait visiter le jardin.

Viens, fils, me dit le sorcier.

J’avance derrière lui, toujours dans les vapes, tellement que je mets un moment avant de me rendre compte qu’un petit gars qui m’arrive au genou tire sur mon jogging tandis que je marche.

Salut, toi, je lui dis.

Le petit bonhomme tend sa main.

Qu’est-ce que tu veux ? Je lui demande.

Mon jouet, il me répond avec une vraie voix chouineuse de petit garçon.

Quel jouet ?

Samba ! crie la jeune dame. Laisse le monsieur. C’est pas lui qui l’a ton jouet.

Puis le garçon part en courant.

Le marabout se retourne vers moi, le visage sévère, mécontent du fait que je dois trop traîner selon lui. J’essaye de me dépêcher mais c’est chaud. Très chaud. Comme je vous l’ai dit t’a l’heure, les cuites c’est pas aussi fort que cet enfumage au shit. Je me demande ce que ça aurait donné si ça avait été mon daron ou ma daronne qui consulte. Ils auraient badtrippé méchamment. Un danger, ce type.

On passe par une porte pour aller dehors mais pas celle qu’on a prise tout à l’heure. Je me retrouve dans un autre mini-parc, encore plus beau que celui de devant la maison. C’est l’univers d’Alice au pays des merveilles, ici. Des arbustes aux feuilles de toutes les couleurs. Giovanna s’enchante devant l’un d’entre eux, un aux feuilles jaunes comme une bière blonde. Une dame est à coté d’elle. Trois enfants jouent au ballon, deux se le lancent à la main, l’autre au pied. J’évite d’aller dans la zone où je pourrai me le prendre vu que je n’aurai pas le réflexe de le réceptionner. Le marabout va vers Giovanna. Les enfants s’arrêtent pour pas le toucher. Me disant que ça ira pour moi, je le suis. Erreur. Je reçois le ballon à l’épaule, un gros coup. Je saute des deux pieds sur le côté, face à l’envoyeur, un petit garçon de six à huit ans. Il rigole bien, moi non. Je regarde de tous côtés pour

the coffee table in front of her.

“Mariama, do you know?”

“Yep,” she admits with a languid nod.

“So? Where is she?”

“Awa gave her a tour of the garden.”

“Come along, son,” the magician tells me.

I follow him, still in a fog, so much so that it takes a moment for me to notice a little guy at my knees tugging at my sweatpants as I walk.

“Hey, you,” I say to him.

The little dude holds out his hand.

“What do you want?”

“My toy,” the kid answers in a real crybaby voice.

“What toy?”

“Samba!” a young lady shouts. “Leave the nice man alone. He doesn’t have your toy.”

At that, the boy runs off.

The marabout turns back to me, his expression severe, unhappy with how I’m lagging behind. I try to hurry but it’s hot. Very hot. Like I told you a minute ago, drinking isn’t as potent as these hash fumes. I wonder what would’ve happened if my mom or dad had come in for this consultation. They’d be tripping their asses off, and not in a fun way. It’s dangerous, this stuff.

We head outside though not through the same door from earlier. I find myself in another miniature park, even more beautiful than the one out front. It’s Alice in Wonderland world out here. Shrubbery in leaves of every color. Giovanna gazes in wonder at one of them, leaves as yellow as a blonde ale. A young woman is next to her. Three children are playing with a ball, two throwing, one kicking. I avoid the zone where it might hit me seeing as I don’t have the reflexes to catch it. The marabout goes up to Giovanna. The children pause so they don’t hit him accidentally, they’re shouting it’s for me, error, not me. I catch the ball with my shoulder, a heavy smack. I jump to the side, staring at the boy who threw it, maybe six or eight years old. He’s having a good laugh. Not me. I check on all sides to make sure there’s no second ball, but I can

être sûr que je n’en recevrai pas de deuxième mais ce que je vois ce sont des enfants hilares. Putain de sales gosses.

Rezwan, me crie Giovanna, joyeuse, tu es sorti !

Vous inquiétez pas, madame, répond à ma place le sorcier avec le genre de visage que j’aurais moi aussi emprunté si j’avais été à sa place, face à une meuf qui me plaît et à qui je veux faire mon numéro. Ça s’est très bien passé.

Rezwan ? M’interrroge à nouveau Giovanna. Il a pas l’air bien… T’es tout blanc.

C’est normal, intervient monsieur Diallo. La séance le chamboule un peu, c’est que ça marche. Vous aimez beaucoup ces fleurs, n’estce pas ? il continue de lui parler avec ce même ton charmeur.

Oui, beaucoup, lui répond Giovanna.

Il lui fait alors le tour de son jardin à nommer les différentes espèces qui s’y trouvent. Moi, je m’assois vite sur l’une des chaises du jardin. Je tente de fermer les yeux mais l’idée est mauvaise, ma tête tourne trop. Quelques minutes après, Giovanna vient vers moi et me dit que monsieur Diallo va me raccompagner en voiture et elle aussi d’ailleurs, juste après moi. J’ai pas le temps de commenter, je veux rentrer. Diallo a une superbe voiture comme je devais m’y attendre, une Mercedes classe A. En deux minutes il me dépose en bas de chez moi vu que je suis pas loin de chez lui. Giovanna est assise à côté de lui. Je leur dis bonsoir, sors du véhicule. Je reste prendre l’air en bas de mon immeuble. Même fonce-dé, je manque pas de me dire que les gens du coin sont franchement dégueulasses. Des cannettes, des barquettes de kébabs, des paquets de chips vides, des sacs en plastique emplis de déchets gisent sur l’herbe en bas des bâtiments de la résidence. Les voisins qui balancent leurs ordures directement de leur fenêtre. Ca, je vais vous dire quel genre de voisins le font : ceux qui croient qu’ils vont bientôt partir pour une meilleure baraque. En attendant, ils se disent qu’ils vivent dans une poubelle temporaire alors ils n’en ont rien à foutre de dégueulasser encore plus le quartier. Ils n’ont aucun respect pour ce quartier ni pour ceux qui y vivent et y resteront quand eux partiront. Même chez les pauvres, y a des snobs. Ce monde, putain...

Ca va ? me demande une grosse voix d’homme derrière moi. Je

see the children find this hilarious. Fucking shit.

“Rezwan,” Giovanna calls to me, excited. “You’re done!”

“Don’t worry, madame,” the witch doctor answers for me, with the sort of expression I too would wear if I were him looking at a woman I like, one I’d like to give my number to. “It went very well.”

“Rezwan?” Giovanna repeats. “You don’t look good… You’re all white.”

“That’s normal,” Monsieur Diallo interjects. “The seance scrambles you up, that’s how it goes. You’re fond of flowers, no?” he adds in the same charming tone.

“Yes, very,” Giovanna says.

Then he gives her a tour of the garden, pointing out each landscaped space. Me, I sit down quick on one of the lounge chairs. I start to close my eyes but that’s a bad idea. Head spinning too much. A few minutes later, Giovanna comes up to me and says monsieur Diallo is going to drive me home, and her too right after. I don’t have time to discuss — I want to go home. Diallo has a great car, I’d like to get it for myself, a Mercedes Class A. Two minutes later he drops me in front of my place since I’m not far from his. Giovanna is seated next to him. I tell them good night, exit the vehicle. I catch my breath in front of my apartment. Even fucked up, I can’t ignore that the people on my block are truly disgusting. Cans, kebab wrappers, empty bags of chips, trash-stuffed plastic bags litter the curb in front of the apartment complex. The neighbors who dump their garbage right out of their windows. And I’ll tell you the kind of neighbors who do it: the ones who believe they’re about to leave for better quarters. In the meantime, they tell themselves they live in a temporary dumpster so they don’t give a shit about trashing it even more. They don’t have any respect for the neighborhood, or those who live there and will stay when they’re gone. Even in the slums there are snobs. Fuck, this world.

You all right? asks a loud man’s voice behind me. I turn towards where it’s coming from. Nothing. Yet I didn’t dream it. It’s night, that’s true. But even so. When

me retourne vers d’où ça vient. Rien. Pourtant, j’ai pas rêvé. Il fait nuit, c’est vrai, mais quand même. Quand une voix demande aussi perceptiblement si ça va, on voit clairement d’où elle vient. En face de moi y a le parking de la résidence, à ma gauche le mur de l’immeuble, à ma droite les buissons dans lesquels on peut pas mettre un pied dedans. Je regarde dans tous les sens comme un ahuri à essayer de repérer le monsieur. Pas de résultat. J’en déduis que j’ai imaginé la voix. Je m’apprête à ouvrir la porte avec mon pass que je la réentends, plus proche : ça a pas l’air d’aller fort. Je l’entends d’en haut, comme si elle venait du premier étage. Je me retourne en vitesse. Je sais enfin de qui elle vient cette voix. Je regrette tout le mal que j’ai fait dans ma vie et y en a beaucoup. Je regrette toutes les fois où j’ai été grognon avec mon père, je regrette toutes les fois où j’ai dis à des mendiants que je n’avais pas de pièces sur moi alors que si, je regrette de m’être moqué de ma mère quand elle essayait de m’inculquer sa foi en Dieu, je regrette de ne pas avoir été un meilleur copain pour mes anciennes copines, je regrette d’avoir été un si mauvais ami, d’avoir tant de fois dis : je peux pas sortir alors que je pouvais… C’est André le géant devant moi, plus grand encore que ce que j’aurais cru. J’arrive à une vingtaine de centimètres endessous de sa poitrine. Il porte une gigantesque chemise bleu nuit à manches courtes qu’a de quoi recouvrir une clio. Je tombe cul par terre, les paumes en avant vers lui, le dos contre la vitre de la porte d’immeuble.

Non, non, s’il vous plaît, pardon ! je lui crie.

Il reste impassible. Je continue de crier en fermant les yeux, de temps en temps j’ouvre à moitié pour voir s’il est toujours là, et oui, c’est pas mon imagination, ce que je crois du moins, il est bien là, l’André des années 70, sa touffe de cheveux longs et bouclés qui lui tombe sur les épaules et encercle son visage.

Non, non, non, il dit doucement, tu n’as pas à avoir peur.

Le dernier mot qu’il vient de dire me fait penser aux paroles que le marabout m’a fait récitées.

« Gardien de mes peurs, gardien de mes tracas, viens à moi s’il te plaît. Guide-moi sur le droit chemin, celui du courage et de la dignité et ne repars pas tant que je ne l’aurais pas pris. »

a voice asks so conspicuously if you’re all right, you should see clearly where it’s coming from. In front of me is the resident parking lot, to my left the wall of the building, to my right bushes too dense to stick a foot in. I look around every which way like a chicken shit trying to locate the man. No dice. I deduce that I have imagined the voice. I go to open the door with my pass when I hear it again, closer: he doesn’t sound like he’s doing too hot. I hear it from above, as if it’s coming from one floor up. I whip around. Finally, I understand where this voice is coming from.

I regret everything bad I’ve ever done in my life, and there’s plenty. I regret all the times I was grouchy with my father, I regret all the times I told beggars that I didn’t have any cash on me when I did, I regret mocking my mother when she tried to indoctrinate me with her faith in God, I regret not having been a better boyfriend to my exes, I regret being such a bad friend, to have have said so many times I couldn’t go out when I could… It’s André the Giant in front of me, even bigger than I would have believed. I come up a foot shorter than his bosom. He’s wearing a gigantic blue nightshirt with short sleeves that you could drive a Volkswagen through. I fall on my ass, my palms raised up towards him, my back against the building door.

“No, please, please no!” I yell.

He remains unmoved. I keep shouting, eyes shut, every now and then opening them a crack to see if he’s still there, and yes, it’s not my imagination, at least I don’t think so, it’s really him, 1970s André, with long, curly locks that fall to his shoulders and frame his face.

No, no, no, he says softly. You don’t have to be afraid. That last word reminds me of the phrases the marabout had me recite.

Guardian of my fears, guardian of my worries, please come to me.

Guide me along the right path, the path of dignity and courage, so that I may not stray.

I recite them:

Je le récite :

Gardien de mes peurs, gardien de mes tracas, viens à moi s’il te plaît…

Je suis là, me répond André.

Je lève la tête vers lui. C’est vraiment celui de la WWE.

Tu es… mon gardien ?

On m’a appelé pour ça, oui.

Es-tu bien… André le géant ?

Lui-même, il répond de son ton calme mais dont la voix porte quand même loin.

Guardian of my fears, guardian of my worries, please come to me…

“I am here,” André says. I lift my head. It really is WWE André.

“You’re … my guardian?”

“I have been called to be, yes.”

“Are you really … André the Giant?”

“The very same,” he replies in his calm way, but in a voice that carries nonetheless.

Note du Traducteur

Je suis reconnaissant à ce programme de m’avoir fait rencontrer Janet, dont les préoccupations littéraires ont directement fait écho aux miennes, tant dans l’écriture que dans le rapport que nous pouvons entretenir avec l’onirisme et la création au travers de l’expérience vécue. Anne Carson, Lucie Brock-Broido, Joyce Mansour et d’autres ont infusé nos échanges et m’ont conforté dans l’idée que ces moments de partage étaient précieux - me donnant accès à une certaine forme d’évolution de la langue anglaise. Je suis heureux que ces moments aient aussi permis de démystifier un peu davantage l’opacité de cette fabrique de l’écriture, échanges où le doute avait une place toujours plus centrale et proactive qui nourrissait nos travaux respectifs.

Edgar Allan Poe fut une inspiration commune qui m’a aidé à comprendre la voix de Janet, tiraillée entre le conte, la poésie et la prose dans une écriture en constante évolution que j’ai cherché à faire exister en français - dans un besoin de rester en phase avec les réflexions présentes qui animaient la mutabilité de son écriture, sur la page et en dehors. Merci à elle d’avoir toujours été si riche et généreuse dans nos échanges pour me permettre de comprendre les ressorts de son style. Merci à Janet pour ces instants de partage, dans la nuit montreuilloise de mon côté de l’ordinateur et dans la lumière naturelle de la bibliothèque de Columbia du sien - nous avons partagé notre fatigue autant que notre motivation à aller au dedans des textes de chacun, lui faire découvrir le sens caché de certaines significations dans les miens et découvrir les chemins de traverse des siens, notamment cette versification si unique qui structure ses récits et les inscrit dans une lecture orale et en mouvement.

Nos échanges ont aussi fait évolué mon rapport à

l’anglais et toutes les innovations de cette langue dans son ancrage le plus actuel, notamment au travers des références qui ont permises une meilleure connaissance des enjeux qui occupent la poésie contemporaine anglophone ; merci à Janet et à Columbia car l’exercice de traduction s’est directement enraciné dans des discussions vivantes qui transcendaient les espaces de nos textes. J’ai été marqué par les allers-retours de sa voix entre narration et poésie, me perdant toujours plus profondément dans cette frontière fine que je n’ai cessé de questionner. « Soeur de rythme » pour reprendre les mots de Koffi Kwahulé, nous avons continuellement essayé de trouver une harmonie dans le tempo de nos écritures aux multiples coïncidences, que ce soit en termes d’enjeux ou que ce soit dans les questions de musicalité de la langue. Le sens et la musique des mots cohabitaient et ce fut le défi de traduction le plus stimulant dans notre travail avec Janet sur ses textes : merci à elle de m’avoir aidé à parcourir ses textes et de m’avoir permis d’aller plus avant dans un travail qui se voulait totalisant. Je continuerai de suivre ses créations et j’espère que cette période ne sera que la genèse d’une collaboration qui ira au delà de ce programme.

JANET GERGES

Prologue to Why I Sleep with the Lights On

I’m alarmed when the sprinklers come on—a misty fog overtakes the yard. And instead of feeling a relief of the cold, wet bliss, I yearn for the dry. My neurologist told me to move to Arizona but

Dry desert heat. Dry— the ecosystem won’t welcome me, we won’t quite fit. I’m used to squirrels knocking things out of deciduous trees into courtyards. Deer running at the sound of a car start.

This is where I was born the Northeast, Tri-State, New York that isn’t quite New York City.

A blend of cultures such as mine could not exist far out of this place, as countless Uber drivers and odd so-and-so’s have mentioned to me, not by invitation. They see beige skin, and think beautiful, foreign.

I want to explain how I am who I am where I am what I am. Apologize for taking up the space I do, while simultaneously taking up more space than ever before.

The time to write, to truly live, envelope oneself in nature, in solitude, in togetherness. Together, together, with everyone, no one. If I dissect myself closely, but never publish my findings, will I be learned? But when I am with, there is no close inspection, no distrust, no disgust. I can be truly endearing, even intellectual, to those unsuspecting. Who truly knows me?

Pain stabs me in my eyes, tenses up my jaw, settles in the knots of my shoulders, threatens to unravel me if I dare tug at the tightly wound.

When I look into the mirror I see another Pinocchio tale—a little girl who fibs and fibs until her big big hair swallows the secrets of the whole town.

traduit de l’anglais par JULES CARLITO BEURRIER-LONCAN

Prologue à Pourquoi je dors les lumières allumées

Je m’alarme quand les arroseurs automatiques se déclenchent — une brume vaporeuse envahit le jardin. Et au lieu de ressentir le soulagement d’une joie pure, douce humide - j’aspire à la sécheresse. Mon neurologue m’a dit de déménager en Arizona mais

Chaleur sèche du désert. Sèche —

je ne serai pas la bienvenue dans cet écosystème, nous ne correspondrons pas tout à fait. J’ai l’habitude de voir les écureuils faire tomber des choses dans les cours depuis le feuillage des arbres persistants. Des cerfs qui détalent au bruit d’une voiture qui démarre.

C’est ici que je suis née

Nord-Est, Tri-State, ce New York qui n’est pas exactement New York City.

Ce mélange en moi de cultures ne pourrait exister ailleurs qu’ici, comme ces innombrables chauffeurs Uber et ces étranges personnes me l’ont fait remarquer, sans y être invités.

Elles voient ma peau beige, et pensent : belle, étrangère.

Je veux expliquer comment je suis qui je suis là où je suis ce que je suis. M’excuser d’occuper l’espace que j’occupe, tout en occupant simultanément plus d’espace qu’auparavant.

Le temps d’écrire, de vraiment vivre, de s’envelopper dans la nature, dans la solitude, dans la communauté. En commun, ensemble, avec tout le monde, personne. Si je me dissèque de près, mais que je ne dévoile jamais mes conclusions, me connaîtra-t-on ? Mais quand je suis avec, il n’y a pas d’examen minutieux, ni méfiance, ni dégoût. Je peux être réellement attachante, et même savante, pour ceux qui ne se doutent de rien. Qui me connaît vraiment ?

La douleur me poignarde les yeux, crispe ma mâchoire, se loge dans les nœuds de mes épaules, menace de me défaire si j’ose tirer sur ce fil enroulé.

Quand je me regarde dans le miroir, je vois un nouveau conte de Pinocchio — une petite fille qui ment encore et toujours jusqu’à ce que son immense chevelure engloutisse les secrets de la ville.

Rinse the hair.

At seven years-old when illusions are shattered, then eight years-old where only doctors’ lies matter, to a life of injections, pills, holistic routines, pain therapy. Crack to crack, piece by piece. When will my heart be fixed?

Rincer les cheveux.

À sept ans, quand les illusions volent en éclat, puis huit ans, où seuls comptent les mensonges des médecins, vers une vie d’injections, de pilules, de routines holistiques, de soins contre la douleur. Craquement après craquement, morceau par morceau. Quand mon cœur sera-t-il réparé ?

Otherwise Occupied in Coleslaw

Forgive me, I simply cannot write today. See every time I try, I’m reminded of tattoos I had in my dream last night. A quote tattoo in blue ink on my right bicep, more text on my thigh, you could read me more easily than ever before, and I’ve never really had a face that hid my thoughts—can’t even tell lies.

I woke up in a diner, the very diner I hung out at on a hazy hungover Halloween morning during sophomore year of college. I ordered two eggs over-easy, rye toast, home fries, hot coffee I refilled three times. And a thimblesized side of coleslaw. Only,

I was ill-equipped to handle the coleslaw. The waiter brought out a soup bowl, a mound of coleslaw that just kept growing bigger and bigger. Like spaghetti that fills the whole pot, whole town, grows and encloses the globe. Everything was coleslaw—dried up pavement worms transformed to little shredded cabbage pieces before my eyes, my bicep-ink poured thick mayo-based dressing. Who even eats mayo-based coleslaw. The best ones have vinegar, obviously.

I ate so much mayo, my stomach started to hurt. I mean it, it really killed. An evil Studio Ghibli soot sprite stabbed everything out with a knife. Leaving only a bloody hole for it to reside.

I met a lady in Amherst named Jessica who had three Studio Ghibli-themed tattoos on her forearm. She was at least ten years older

Autrement occupée par le coleslaw

Pardonne-moi, je n’arrive tout simplement pas à écrire aujourd’hui. Tu vois, chaque fois que j’essaie, je repense aux tatouages qui m’est venu en rêve la nuit dernière. Une phrase à l’encre bleue sur mon biceps droit, encore du texte sur ma cuisse, je n’avais jamais été aussi lisible, et pourtant on a toujours pu lire mes pensées sur mon visage — incapable même de mentir.

Je me suis réveillée dans un diner, le même où je traînais un matin vaseux d’Halloween, en deuxième année d’université. J’ai commandé deux œufs au plat, du pain de seigle, des pommes de terre sautées, un café brûlant, je me suis resservie trois fois. Et un dé à coudre de coleslaw en accompagnement. Sauf que,

Je n’étais pas de taille pour affronter ce coleslaw. Le serveur a apporté un bol, une montagne de coleslaw qui ne cessait de grandir, encore et encore. Comme des spaghettis qui remplissent toute la casserole, toute la ville, qui croissent et finissent par envelopper la terre entière. Tout était coleslaw — les vers desséchés du bitume se transformaient sous mes yeux en petits filaments de chou, l’encre de mon biceps se déversait en épaisse sauce à base de mayonnaise. Qui mange du coleslaw à la mayonnaise. Le meilleur est au vinaigre, évidemment.

J’ai mangé tellement de mayo que mon ventre a commencé à me faire mal. Je le dis sérieusement, une vraie torture. Un esprit de suie maléfique sorti d’un Studio Ghibli poignardait tout au couteau. Ne laissant qu’un trou sanglant où se cacher.

J’ai rencontré une femme à Amherst qui s’appelait Jessica et qui avait trois tatouages dans le pur style des Studio Ghibli sur l’avant-

than I, but we grew up on the same films, so I was obliged to talk to her, the cashier of The General Store.

John and I killed two hours in The General Store, strolling art galleries, thumbing through stickers, watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle from a boat on the Seine, remembering the Alamo as we pass by Texas, encircling the Circle Bridge in Copenhagen. Sipping on coffee that he deemed overpriced, but would’ve been twice the cost in New York and not in middle-of-nowhere-little-stripmall Amherst.

I had an adverse reaction to the caffeine. As I tucked myself into my General Store bed and laid down to read, I fell asleep to the same book twice. As if the pages were laced with Tylenol PM. I once had an addiction to Tylenol PM, but that’s a story for another time.

bras. Elle avait au moins dix ans de plus que moi, mais on avait grandi avec les mêmes films, alors je me devais de lui parler, à elle, la caissière du General Store.

John et moi avons passé deux bonnes heures au General Store, à flâner dans des galeries d’art, à feuilleter des autocollants, à regarder la Tour Eiffel scintiller depuis un bateau sur la Seine, à nous souvenir de Fort Alamo en passant par le Texas, à faire le tour du pont aux cercles à Copenhague. En sirotant un café qu’il jugeait hors de prix, mais qui aurait coûté le double à New York et non pas dans ce petit-centre-commercial-perdu-au-milieu-denulle-part, à Amherst.

J’ai fait une mauvaise réaction à la caféine. Quand je me suis glissée dans mon lit du General Store, et allongée pour lire, je me suis endormie deux fois sur le même livre. Comme si les pages étaient imprégnées de Tylenol PM.

J’ai déjà eu une dépendance au Tylenol PM, mais ça, c’est une histoire que je raconterai une autre fois.

mother, moth

I’ve only ever bobbed for apples once in Pre-K during the Autumn Spectacular Fall Festival. I brought my mom and my nanna and my caterpillar named Penelope who I found when I was playing out in the yard next to my and Emily’s handprinted cement.

The day Penelope emerged from her cocoon and blossomed into a beautiful brown and spotted moth

I knew I would love her just the same as I would’ve loved a butterfly.

But she didn’t share the sentiment.

On the third day of moth-hood, she escaped from her enclosure and flew into the sky tor n with moth-holes— holes that she bit into my heart.

I’m getting ahead of myself here.

At four-years-and-ten-days old,

ten days after I first gained memory I was a late rememberer but I remember better can even quote entire info-mercials

I brought Penelope, still a caterpillar—black and warm and fuzzy all over— to Fall Fest. While she squirmed in and out of apples,

I bobbed for apples, not in a bucket of water but attached to strings

maman, phalène

Je n’ai participé qu’une seule fois au jeu de la pomme dans l’eau, c’était en maternelle, lors du Spectaculaire Festival d’Automne. J’avais emmené ma mère, ma grand-mère et ma chenille nommée Pénélope, que j’avais trouvée en jouant dans le jardin, près de ce ciment où Emily et moi avions imprimé nos mains.

Le jour où Pénélope est sortie de son cocon et s’est épanouie en une magnifique

phalène br une toute mouchetée

j’ai su que je l’aimerais autant que je peux aimer un papillon.

Mais elle ne partageait pas ce sentiment.

Le troisième jour de sa transformation, elle s’est échappée de son enclos et s’est envolée dans le ciel, criblé de trous de mites — des trous qu’elle a réalisés dans mon cœur à moi.

Je m’emballe un peu ici.

À quatre-ans-et-dix-jours,

dix jours après avoir recouvré la mémoire –j’ai mis du temps à me souvenir, mais maintenant je me souviens mieux que quiconque, je peux même réciter des publicités entières –

J’ai emmené Pénélope, toujours chenille – noire, chaude, douce – à la Fête d’automne. Pendant qu’elle entrait et sortait des pommes en se tortillant,

moi je jouais, non pas dans un seau d’eau, mais attachées à des ficelles

from the ceiling.

Only I couldn’t reach the apples. The room was spinning wrong inside of me— I would later learn I needed vestibular rehabilitation therapy but that doesn’t happen until age eleven, so I digress —I stood at the clotheslined apples for far longer than my classmates.

If only I could’ve screwed off my head and held it well above where it stood on my neck and balanced it in front of a wobbly bobbing apple…

My nanna saw my struggle and unscrewed my head for me and held my head high above her head and pushed an apple into my mouth so I could win. She laughed her once-in-a-decade laugh, pressed a finger to her lips—a conspiratorial shhh, the other kids would never know we cheated to win.

du plafond

Sauf que je n’arrivais pas à attraper les pommes. La chambre tournait dans le mauvais sens à l’intérieur de moi — J’apprendrais plus tard que j’avais besoin de rééducation vestibulaire, mais ça n’arrive qu’à onz e ans, alors je m’égare - Je suis restée plantée devant les pommes suspendues au fil à linge bien plus longtemps que mes camarades.

Si seulement j’avais pu dévisser ma tête et la tenir au-delà de ma nuque et la poser en équilibre devant une pomme qui tanguait…

Ma grand-mère a vu combien je luttais, elle a dévissé la tête et l’a tenue bien au-dessus de la sienne, puis elle a mis une pomme dans ma bouche pour que je puisse gagner. Elle a ri comme une-fois-par-décennie, a posé un doigt sur ses lèvres – un chhhhhhh complice, les autres enfants ne sauraient jamais qu’on a triché.

Misrememory

We can’t let our dogs go out alone when the turkey vultures come to town. They’re too easy to scoop up. In October, the vultures took up residency in the trees across the street. I like to sit watching them while the sun rises.

One morning, I think there were seven vultures, and they flew out of the trees, syncopatedly, creating vortexes of scrap leaves as they flapped their wings, so I looked down into my coffee to avoid the chill and — No then there were four vultures and they searched through the green-cut lawn for field mice or something bloody and in that thought I looked back down afraid to witness death for life and — No there must’ve been seven vultures, four on the lawn and three in the driveway divvying up the search — No there were only four the next time I glanced up a dizzying cloud of seven vultures on the sidewalk four heads down in the dirt and seven feathered bodies gawking their necks and four pairs of wings seven

Mésouvenir

Impossible de laisser nos chiens se promener seuls quand les urubus à tête rouge arrivent en ville. Trop faciles à emporter. En octobre, les vautours ont élu domicile dans les arbres d’en face. j’aime m’asseoir pour les regarder pendant que le soleil se lève.

Un matin, je crois qu’il y avait sept vautours, et ils se sont envolés, en cadence syncopée, créant des vortex de feuilles mortes par le battement de leurs ailes, alors mes yeux se sont baissés sur mon café pour éviter le frisson - en fait il n’y avait que quatre vautours et ils fouillaient la pelouse fraîchement tondue à la recherche de mulots ou de quelque chose de sanglant et dans cette pensée j’ai à nouveau baissé les yeux, craignant de voir la mort pour la vie et - en fait il devait y avoir sept vautours, quatre sur la pelouse et trois dans l’allée se partageant la missionnon il n’y en avait que quatre quand mon regard s’est incliné

un nuage étourdissant de sept vautours sur le trottoir quatre têtes penchées en direction de la terre et sept corps emplumés

sharp blood-dripping beaks four heads turning to face me seven birds inching closer to me four

I close my eyes — Now there are seven vultures again.

I look down to sip my coffee.

tendant leurs cous puis quatre paires d’ailes sept becs acérés dégoulinant de sang quatre têtes se tournant vers moi sept oiseaux s’approchant quatre

Je ferme les yeux - maintenant sept vautours sont revenus.

Je baisse les yeux pour siroter mon café.

The Liquid-Liquid Critical Point

Stale coffee sludge sinks into pores pouring out of pots burning bits at the bottom. Coffee stained cardigan’d button’d up and spitting in the faces of the daytime orange and nighttime darktime blues. I want to settle in the lap of the in-between, the daze of days stringing in a line of sleepwalking soldiers. The gangrene of the evening after the red sky apocalypsed into a carnivore carnival, where everything alchemically changes. Pure gold into kerosene braided into pigtails and pig flesh burning on the streets, floating over subway grates. Letting off carbon dioxide and water. A physicist once told me water can float on water.

Le point critique liquide-liquide

Une pâte de café passé pénètre les pores, se projetant des pots, brûlant les particules en profondeur. Cardigan taché de café, boutonné jusqu’en haut, crachant au visage de l’orange du jour et du sombre blues de la nuit. Je veux me lover sur les genoux de l’entre-deux, dans la torpeur des jours qui se suivent comme une file de soldats somnambules. La gangrène du soir après que le ciel rouge s’est fait apocalypse en un carnaval carnivore, où tout change alchimiquement. L’or pur se change en kérosène tressé en couettes et en chair de porc brûlant dans les rues, flottant au-dessus des grilles du métro, libérant du dioxyde de carbone et de l’eau. Un physicien m’a un jour dit que l’eau peut flotter sur l’eau.

Translator’s Note

LANNWIT. La nuit. The night? Right off the bat, I knew the playfulness of this text would be both the biggest asset to the translation, and also would prove the source of my biggest challenges. “Lannwit” is Haitian and Seychelles Creole for “the night,” derived from the French, “la nuit.” Jules Beurrier-Loncan uses the word “lannwit” for a creative and slang-y way of pointing to the text’s nocturnal setting. He granted me total freedom to play with the title. But I couldn’t ignore the cultural connotations this slang word introduced. I believe I found a happy medium, by incorporating “lannwit” into the text of the mother’s lullaby at the end of the piece, indicating her familiarity with the word. I also weave in playfulness and make up new spellings for words—such as rendering the title LANNWIT as THENITE. I went through multiple spellings to get “THENITE” correct, as I knew I would be melding it into the mother’s lullaby at the end of the piece as well.

Beurrier-Loncan also plays with made-up variations on the word “bitume” in French, meaning “bitumen / asphalt” in English. Tempted as I was to stick to the cognate, the UK English word “bitumen,” I finally decided it would be more fun to play with the word “asphalt.” So when Jules starts to riff on the word near the end of the text, I broke down the endings of each “bitum-” word in the French—“-eux” was initially going to become “-ous” moving into the beautiful rendering of “-ineux” to “-ious,” but something wasn’t quite right. Perhaps it was because “bitumeux” and “bitumineux” are real words in the French dictionary, while “asphaltous” and “asphaltious” read as what they were—made up words to iterate a translation. It didn’t matter how technically “correct” they were; I needed real words to fill out the first two slots in my “asphalt”-

list in order to move into the sillier words later in the list. It was then that I realized I was still thinking of the UK English bitumen, and how translating “bitumineux” to “bituminous” would be the easiest no-brainer solution. But this text needed work, needed a brain—it’s a smart, think-y piece, with a narrator who is very much in his head, despite being inebriated. Which is how I landed on “asphalted”—which I chose because our main character becomes asphalted in the scene—and “asphaltic.”

I also want to note the pronoun perspective shifts throughout this piece. The piece starts, and typically remains in a second-person perspective, with the main pronoun being “you.” But, from the last sentence of the first paragraph on, the text is seeded with little first-person perspective moments, and an “I” becomes interspersed with the usual “you.” This adds to the trippy, drunken effect of the text and feels like sharp, sudden intrusions of the self, acting as a glimpse into the true interior of the character.

This text brings in a lot of physically violent fighting language, French slang I was unfamiliar with, and geographical terms I needed to learn, and it was a pleasure to do so for such a complex story. Through our weekly Zoom meetings, Jules proved to be a dedicated, thoughtful, and intentional writer, who trusted in both his original text and my translation of it. Despite the violence of the piece, or maybe because of it, I was constantly rooting for the narrator to get back up and get himself home, and that is a testament to the intricate intensity that Jules created in THENITE.

JULES CARLITO BEURRIER-LONCAN

LANNWIT

Tu marches et tu trembles entre une rue et l’autre, les doigts enveloppés dans un ruban adhésif, saignant sous le pansement improvisé. Sortie de bar, demi douzaine de gros gars, gras sur le bas, forts en haut, des colosses, les postillons et les mots qui vont avec. Étourdi à moitié, tu es seul à présent. Tu étais censé rentrer plus tôt, dans un autre état, les murs opaques et les grandes personnes absentes. Le matin, demain matin, tu bosses, tu taffes, tu travailles à mort, la mort elle-même ne serait pas du matin si elle avait le coquard que tu portes sur le côté droit de ta gueule dissymétrique. Il n’y a rien à faire : chuchoter le désordre qui va poindre et qui te hurle au visage de ne pas cesser le pas. Rester droit. Rester vivant. Se souvenir.

Tu établis des liens. Tu mets des phrases les unes à côté des autres, des voix les unes derrière les autres. Tu peux t’effondrer à toute heure, à tout moment, sans prévenir personne. À l’heure qu’il est, personne ne répond au téléphone, et tu penses que personne ne sait que tu peux pleurer sur commande, par ennui de la larme naturelle. Tu bégayes. Comme tu parles une autre langue, tu ne veux plus savoir ton nom et tu ne veux surtout pas l’entendre de la bouche d’un autre. Tu ne sais plus à quoi t’attendre. Que s’est-il passé quand tes amis se sont éloignés au premier poing tendu, quand ton visage a cogné le bitume ? Taurais pu en savoir davantage sur le parcours à réaliser. Ta géolocalisation. Ton itinéraire. Tu ne peux ni fermer ni ouvrir les yeux. Il fait nuit, peut-être pas, peut-être plus du tout, peutêtre l’inverse, le contraire. À force de ne pas réfléchir tu as sombré dans une ruelle dépareillée de ses couleurs à

translated from the french by JANET GERGES

THENITE

You walk and you waver between one street and another, fingers enveloped in adhesive tape, bleeding raw under the makeshift dressing. Leaving the bar: a half-dozen big guys, fat on the bottom, strong on top, giants, flying spit and words to match. Brain in pieces, you are now alone. You were supposed to go back much earlier, in a totally different state, the walls opaque and no big dudes in sight. Tomorrow morning, every morning, you work, you slave away, you work yourself to death, death itself wouldn’t come in the morning if it had the same black eye you now wear on the right side of your asymmetrical face. There is nothing to do: to whisper of the chaos which is about to dawn and which yells in your face not to stop stepping forward. Stick straight. Stay alive. Remember.

You form links. You place sentences beside other sentences, voices behind other voices. You could collapse at any time, any moment, without telling anyone. At this hour, no one will pick up the phone, and you think no one knows you can cry on command, bored by natural tears. You stammer. As if you speak another language, you don’t want to know your name anymore and you especially don’t want to hear it from another mouth. You don’t know what awaits you. What happened when your friends beat it when the first fist was thrown, when your face hit the asphalt? You could have found out more about the path you needed to take. Your location. Your route. You can neither close nor open your eyes. It is the night, la nuit, lannwit, maybe not, maybe most of all, maybe the inverse, the opposite. In this not-thinking, you have sunk into an

cause de la nuit, une seconde vie s’est présentée à toi un moment, jusqu’à ce qu’elle ne se substitue à une insurmontable céphalalgie ; « tiens bon » depuis quand la question se pose ? Tu as tremblé entre plusieurs villes nouvelles, bétonnées, robustes, qu’il te fallait encore traverser. Le parterre se déchiquetait déjà sous tes pieds lourds. Comment était cette année ? Qu’as-tu fait de plus ? Rédiger sur papiers blancs quelques mots neurasthéniques pour des inconnus, pour le chef, un autre anonyme, comme toi, plus anonyme que moi.

La particularité d’une bagarre c’est qu’elle marque la fin du monologue ininterrompu qui est le nôtre quand on vit en solitaire. Il se passe une chose étrange au moment où l’on franchit la barre du premier coup, reçu ou donné, cet instant précis, délicieux pour certain, pour toi aussi quand le rapport de force te le permet, où il n’y a plus d’issue que la gesticulation vindicative. En rentrant hier d’une autre soirée, un homme aurait aussi pu t’attraper avec les yeux et lancer en ta direction : « tu vas où comme ça ? » ou « tu la veux celle-là ? ».

Qu’il lève le poing ou non, tu aurais été en capacité de comprendre le message, sans pour autant avoir la réponse à toutes ses questions.

Les gestes.

Tu te rappelles des gestes. Leurs allers et venues. Uppercut.

Crochet du droit. Crochet du gauche. Des coups en bande. Distordus. Désorganisés.

La garde est haute pour que les bras, les avantbras fassent leur boulot, te surprennent et aillent s’engouffrer dans une autre mâchoire. Puis les pieds choisissent quelqu’un. À plusieurs ils ont toujours faim. On ne donne jamais qu’un seul coup de pieds, il ne vient jamais seul, sinon c’est lassant. Il faut les concevoir comme un festival et en ce sens tu peux les comprendre

alley striped with the night, a second life presenting itself to you one moment, soon to be replaced by an insurmountable headache; “hang in there,” since when was that in question? You trembled between so many new cities, concrete, sturdy, that you had to pass through yet again. The grass was already shredded under your hefty footfall. How was this year? What else did you do? Drain some tired words onto white paper for strangers, for the boss, another unnamed person, like you, more anonymous than me.

The special thing about a brawl is that it marks the end of the uninterrupted monologue of life alone. A strange thing happens in the moment when you cross the line of the first blow, received or thrown, this precise instant, delicious for some, including for you when the power balance allows, when a violent gesture is the only way out. Returning home yesterday from another party, a man could have also caught your eye and launched in your direction: “Where do you think you’re going?” or “You think you have a shot with that girl?” Whether he raises a fist or not, you understand the message, without so much as having to answer a question.

The moves.

The moves stick with you. Their goings and comings. Uppercut. Right hook. Left hook. Let the punches rain down. Distorted. Disorganized.

Guard is raised so your arms and forearms can do their jobs, surprising you by diving into another jaw. Then feet pick someone. They’re always hungry. You never administer one single kick, it never comes alone, that would be too boring. They must be choreographed like a dance. You can understand them in these terms, since in their place, you too would have been consumed by this love. Love between feet and head—or feet and

car à leur place, tu aurais aussi consommé cet amour pieds / tête ou pieds / tout le reste du corps, la tête c’est pour les plus affamés. La dalle. Ta cage thoracique congestionnée retient le souffle. Qui donne et qui reçoit ? Tu étais déjà au courant que « personne ne tâte le pouls de personne », oui, continue de ne surtout pas penser à la fuite, ça serait fatal. Tu es turbulent quand on te lance sur le sujet, sanguin, les yeux rougissent à peine, les pupilles se dilatent beaucoup trop pour que le sang traversant les veines se durcisse, ou se durcisse encore, tout le sang, dehors le corps, il ne circule plus et la vision se trouble, mais tu ne comptes pas mettre un terme à une autre existence que la tienne. Tes bras mous. 64 kg pour 1m86. Il faudrait que tu calcules ton Indice de Masse Corporelle quand ton bras sera dans le plâtre. Un fragment de peau jonche le sol comme un mammifère immobile, un rongeur omnivore. Un rat.

Il y a eu cette question : « t’es entrain de te chier dessus là mon pote non ? Ça se voit dans tes yeux frère ». Ils t’accusaient de taper comme une fillette, de pincer au lieu de frapper. Tu recules. Tu n’es pas d’accord. Tu recules encore comme pour fuguer, avant de foncer dans le tas, pour mourir bien, pour mourir comme ils veulent, au combat, rien de tout ça. Tu as peur de mourir autrement, de mourir de vieillesse.

On t’a dit « manger ou être mangé ». Tu as pris cette formule à la lettre mais le choix dépend aussi de la faim de l’autre. Il s’est trompé de cible. Tu es mal tombé. Le mauvais moment. La mauvaise situation. L’endroit. L’heure. Tous les éléments se jouent de toi. Tu n’as pas le droit de penser à un autre évènement, tu te retiens de penser. Il y a des choses que tu as apprises sur le tas, une phonétique du désordre, non réconcilié avec les rondeurs de la main tendue qui vise les points de chute, les points de chakra.

Tu as dit plus tôt « pars pas avant moi » à Awa qui a

the rest of the body, save the head for the hungriest. Pavement. Your congested chest cavity holds onto its breath. Who gives and who receives? You were already privy to the fact that “no one checks each other’s pulse,” yes, keep on not thinking of your escape, this would do you in. You are hotheaded when you get started on the subject, bloodshot, eyes reddening in pain, pupils dilated to the point that the blood passing through your veins coagulates, or hardens even more, all that blood, outside the body, it doesn’t circulate anymore and your vision blurs, but you don’t intend to end any existence other than your own. Your soft arms. One-hundred-forty-one pounds, six feet one inch. You should calculate your BMI once your arm is in the cast. A piece of skin littered on the ground like an immobile mammal, an omnivorous rodent. A rat.

This question: “You’re shitting yourself right now, aren’t you pal, huh? It’s in your eyes, brother.” They accuse you of hitting like a little girl, of pinching instead of punching. You step back. Beg to differ. You step back again as if to flee, before charging into the fray, meaning to die well, to die the way they want, in a fight. You are afraid to die in a different way, to die of old age.

“Eat or be eaten,” as the old adage goes. You took this phrase literally but that leaves it up to the hunger of others. He mistook the mark. You’re the wrong person. It’s the wrong moment. Wrong situation. Place. Hour. All these details are toying with you. You don’t have the right to think up a different outcome, you hold yourself back from thinking at all. There are a few things you’ve learned in the field, a phonetics of disorder, not made up for by the roundness of the extended fist which aims at its landing point, your chakra points.

You had said to Awa earlier, “don’t leave without me” and she had sworn on her mother she would meet

promis sur sa mère de te rejoindre à la sortie pour rentrer ensemble. Tu avais de l’espoir. Un rapprochement. Un signe que tu es en vie. Que tu peux être aimé. Que tu peux aimer aussi. Tu es convaincu d’être né dans un hasard partiel pas loin d’ici, un autre hémisphère de la fête. Tu as bu, juste le nécessaire pour sentir l’alcool déterminer les parois de ta trachée, pour le sentir traverser ton système cognitif. Tu le sens abêtir tes mots. Affaisser tes sens. Tu sens mieux ta gorge. L’alcool permet avant tout d’éviter la déshydratation, Awa et Merveille étaient encore dans le bar, ils t’attendaient, t’attendent encore peut-être, te cherchent. Tu te heurtes à un bâtiment qui abrite une cinquantaine de chambres, à vue de nez, aucune ne t’appartient. Il faut marcher encore, trembler moins. Il faut continuer de lutter pour rester vivant, à la vida, à la muerte. Les troncs métalliques ne sont pas des cannes fiables, tu n’en as pas besoin. Tes écouteurs filaires sont eux aussi abimés sur le flanc. Ton téléphone a encore un peu de batterie, tu n’oses pas le regarder, c’est ta dernière boussole. Sans lui, ton seul ami, ton seul frère, tu ne saurais pas où l’impasse aboutit. Il se passe autre chose, dans tes sousvêtements, dehors il n’a pas plu, un filet de pisse s’est échappé, subtilement, sûrement quand tu as porté dans les côtes du destinataire zélé une réponse à la mesure de la cadence de son premier coup en ta direction. L’eau jaunâtre anesthésie quand même l’écorche à ton genou. L’urine est-elle un bon désinfectant ? Cette question est primordiale, la cicatrice est marquée au fer des phalanges, tes doigts givrés, ton ventre natif d’ici, ton ventre vide ou vidé. En somme, tu as faim.

Le noctilien passe dans six minutes, tu as dix minutes de marche. Tu as un raccourci en tête, couper par là pour rejoindre l’abri-bus à l’autre bout et attendre, 12 arrêts si tu prends place. Tu y dormiras à moitié et ça ne dérangera personne. La poche a vécu, maintenant trouée de part et d’autre. Les clés se cachent quelque part, introuvables, tu as à peine changé de rue deux trois

you at the exit to leave together. You had hoped. For an understanding. A sign that you are alive. Loved. Capable too, of loving. You were convinced that you were born by partial accident not far from here, but in another hemisphere far away from the party. You’ve drank, only enough to feel the alcohol define the lining in your trachea, to feel it cross your cognitive system. You feel it dull your words. Overwhelm your senses. Your throat feels better. Alcohol, above all, allows you to avoid dehydration. Awa and Merveille were still at the bar, waiting for you, are maybe still waiting for you, looking for you. You come across a building that holds fifty rooms, if you had to guess, none belonging to you. You have to keep walking, to tremble less. You must continue to fight to stay alive, a la vida, a la muerte. Lamppost trunks can’t hold you up, you have no cane, you don’t need one. Your wired headphones are worn down on the side. Your phone still has a little battery, but you don’t dare look, it’s your last available compass. Without it, your only friend, your only brother, you wouldn’t know where the alley ends. Something else is going on, in your underwear; outside it has not rained, a stream of piss escaped, subtly, surely when you delivered to the ribs of the zealous recipient a response commensurate with the cadence of his first punch in your direction. The yellowish liquid numbs the skin on your knee. Is urine a good disinfectant? This question is primordial, the scar is branded in your knuckles, your frozen fingertips, your stomach native to here, your stomach empty or emptied. In a nutshell, basically, you’re hungry.

The noctilien comes in six minutes and you’re still a ten-minute walk from the bus stop. You have a shortcut in mind, cutting through to reach the station and catch the bus at the other end of the street and wait; you can sit for twelve stops if you make it. You will sleep there for half the ride and won’t bother anyone. Your bag has seen better days, now pierced with holes

fois, pour rentrer il y a plusieurs codes, tu te souviens des deux premiers chiffres sur quatre de chacun d’eux, tu es dans une sacrée mouise. Le boulevard est long, tu t’égosilles dans une glaire, dégorges, avales, mâches, mâchouilles, craches, dégobilles, respires grassement et dégobilles encore. Le sang a un gout de fer, son épaisseur se mêle au crachat, étalé dans le caniveau inhospitalier, une porte fermée, la tienne, tes clés perdues, les tiennes, ces trottoirs confortables ne t’indiquent pas le chemin de ta chambre, toujours pas, mais tu gardes espoir. La première à gauche, tout droit, à gauche une nouvelle fois, tu t’arrêtes, paumé avant de faire demi tour. Il te fallait changer de rue plus tard, tu aurais dû ne pas sortir, chercher une autre occupation. Tu as du mal à lever les pieds dans cette variable neutre, leurs pointes se recroquevillent pour empêcher l’accès au froid, comme le videur qui a regardé avec toute la curiosité que peut détenir un oeil, une cascade de poings s’épanouissant dans l’altercation physique dont tu étais l’interlocuteur principal.

Avec ton objectivité, tu sais que les évènements se sont compliqués à un moment, mais où ? Quand ? Tu te souviens du jour où, à la sortie du métro, heure tardive, moins que celle-ci, ils avaient demandé une danse, le déhanché fiévreux leur avaient été donné, l’entente corps / vessie était déjà compromise. Tu imagines encore qu’il fallait continuer jusqu’à ce qu’ils te libèrent, c’est ce que tu as fait, mais comment sortir ? La question ne se pose plus trop, tu éprouves le besoin de plier bagage, maintenant, aujourd’hui, maintenant, ce soir, enfin quand tu devais danser à la demande de ces hommes assis, tu te souviens ? Ta danse préférée, il y a longtemps, à la sortie d’un arrêt de métro, plein plein-centre, sous peine de perdre tout ce que tu as. Il faut savoir, connaitre un impératif unique, rester sur ses deux jambes. Quelqu’un va venir te secourir. Tu commences à douter. Tu exagères, ramasses tes fétiches sur l’asphalte qui aboie, c’est comme ça qu’enfant tu

through both sides. Your keys are hiding somewhere, elusive, you’ve tried two, three different streets now, to get inside your place there are a lot of codes, you remember only the first two of four digits for each of them, you are royally screwed. The boulevard is long, you scream yourself hoarse, scream yourself into a glob of phlegm, scream until I bleed, swallow, chew, gnash, belch, puke, pant, and puke again. Your blood tastes of iron, its thickness mingles with the spittle, splashed out in the inhospitable gutter, an open door: yours, lost keys: yours. These comfortable sidewalks don’t show the path to your room, not yet, but you keep hoping. First turn left, go straight, left another time, you stop, lost, then turn around. You needed to change direction later, you shouldn’t have gone out, should’ve looked for another way to keep busy. It hurts to lift your feet off the neutral variable of the ground, your toes curl to avoid feeling the cold, like the bouncer who had watched with all the curiosity an eye could hold, a cascade of fists flourishing in the mêlée in which you were the primary target.

Objectively, you know that, at one point, things got complicated, but where? When? You remember the day, at the metro exit, late at night—though not that late— when they had asked you to dance, and the feverish wiggle was granted for them, the agreement between body and bladder already compromised. Further, you imagine that you had to keep going until they set you free, this is what you did, but how do you get out? The question is no longer really relevant, you feel the need to pack it up now, today, right now, this evening, and finally when you had to dance at the demand of these seated men, you remember? Your favorite dance, a long time ago, just outside a metro station, in the city’s center, at the risk of forfeiting all you have. You must know, must remember the absolute necessity that is remaining on your two legs. Someone is going to come rescue you. You start to doubt. You exaggerate, pick up

sortais jouer devant la zone industrielle qui se muait parfois en jardin.

Tu reconstitues ce paysage, tu comptes sur tes doigts :

- le nombre de corps allongés

- le nombre de corps debout

- ceux qui rampent

- ceux qui alternent ou courent

Ton compagnon à partir de maintenant est le canif, que tu as trouvé dans une poche, comme le couteau que le père utilise pour manger sa viande rouge. Tu es en responsabilité, ne te laisse pas démonter, mais le canif n’a servi à rien. Tu tremblais déjà, un te tenait pendant que l’autre te l’arrachait pour s’en servir contre toi.

La configuration des meubles qui constituent ta chambre, si loin d’ici, tu en rêves, il y a possiblement une fin de parcours, si tu t’arrêtes là, sans prévenir, si tu arrêtes de donner des nouvelles, tu ne tiendras personne au courant. Tu guettes avec confiance les ondes émises par les feux de signalisation. Tu fermes les yeux, et la peau sera endurcie demain. Tu sens le coquard gonfler, les égratignures sur les jambes, les genoux, les bras, les coudes, les ongles en mauvaise posture à cause du frottement quand la chute advient, nécessairement, il s’agissait de limiter la casse. J’aurais dû sortir avec mes protèges tibias, mon poing américain. Tu te souviens aussi qu’ils t’ont quitté, ils ont cru que tu étais mort, tu as fait le mort, ils sont tombés dans le panneau, ils sont partis, tu es resté là, génie que tu es, tu es un grand comédien.

Combien étaient-ils ? Réfléchis… Au moins quatre. La position fœtale comme meilleur moyen de riposter aux coups, un retour à la genèse, une seconde naissance, pour fatiguer la distorsion de leurs jambes, taper chacun son tour. Tu n’as pas salué en partant, tu n’as pas dit « au revoir », tu n’as pas prononcé le mot fatidique, ou un

your lucky tokens off the wailing asphalt—that’s how you went out to play as a child, in front of the industrial zone that sometimes sheds its skin, transforming itself into a garden.

You recover the memory of this scene, you count on your fingers:

- the number of bodies stretched out on the floor

- the number of bodies standing

- those crawling

- those turning around or running

From now on, your new best friend is the penknife you found in your pocket, just like the steak knife your dad would use to cut his meat. You are in charge—don’t let it get to you—but alas, the penknife proved useless. You were already trembling, one guy held you down while the other wrested it away to use against you.

The arrangement of furniture making up your bedroom, so far away from here, you dream of it. There may be an end of the road, if you stop here without warning—if you stop giving updates, you will not implicate anyone. With a confident eye, you watch the waves being emitted by the traffic lights. You close your eyelids, feel that the skin around them will firm up by tomorrow. You sense the shiner swelling, the scrapes and scuffs on your legs, knees, arms, elbows, fingernails in bad shape because of the friction when you fell, inevitably, it was a matter of limiting the breakage. I should have gone out wearing my shin guards, my brass knuckles—my American fist. You remember too that they left you, they thought you dead, you played dead and they fell for it, they left, you stayed behind, genius that you are, you funny, funny guy.

How many of them were there? Think back… at least four. Fetal position: the most effective means to retaliate against their attacks, a return to one’s origins, a second

autre, car il y a un moment, très léger, très serein, sans dessein, dans lequel personne ne bouge, la couronne périurbaine, la migration pendulaire, c’est là que tout se passe. Tu as vingt et un ans, tu n’es au courant de rien, rien de nécessaire, il n’y a jamais eu autant de distance entre ce lieu et toi. Tu n’es pas d’ici, tu ne viens pas du centre, « de qui tu viens alors ? »

Tu as encore de la route. Selon « Plan », deux itinéraires sont envisageables, soit atteindre le prochain noctilien dans le bon sens, donc plus loin encore par rapport à l’arrêt qui va dans le sens inverse de ton habitat, soit marcher 1h13. Il te manque un plâtre pour chaque jambe, bras, et peut-être une opération pour vérifier si tu vas t’en sortir car ton nez parait, au toucher avoir une forme différente. Il a l’air brisé de part et d’autre et pointe non plus vers le centre mais vers un point annexe, à ta gauche, où il ne faut plus tourner. Toi, tu étais crucifié sur l’extrême-centre du feu de l’action il y a environ 1h30, tu es quelqu’un d’autre, un vaillant. C’est dur de ne pas tomber, de rester un homme, viril à mort, mais tu exécutes la suite des pas, et le paysage sort, avant qu’un autre entre. Dans cette bagarre, tu as fait le premier pas, avant d’hésiter encore sur le lieu de ta naissance. Était-ce vraiment là ? Tu n’es pas quelqu’un qui se laisse humilier. Ton front frappe le sol après un clignement d’oeil, c’est un malaise, plus que jamais actuel parce que tu es face au sol, plus près que jamais. Tu pourrais y déposer ta langue, y déposer ton souffle chaud, sur cette terre si froide encore, si rigide, comme ce coup de genoux qui a rendu plus bleutée ta cuisse nervurée sur la longueur. Le bitume est un mélange de substances organiques riches en carbone, en hydrogène et en hydrocarbure de masse moléculaire élevée contenant des traces d’éléments métalliques. Il est utilisé comme revêtement des chaussées. Tu le savais déjà. Le bitume… C’est à peu près tout, une maison dans laquelle il pleut, le métro gronde encore les rues closes, terrifiées, presque autant que toi :

birth, getting tired from the blurry feeling of their legs, they take turns stomping. You didn’t acknowledge anyone when you left, you didn’t say “goodbye,” didn’t utter the fateful word, or any other, because there is a moment, very slight, very serene, without design, in which no one moves, the corona of the city’s periphery, the suburban commuter belt, it is there, the outskirts, where everything happens. You are twenty-one, you are up to date on nothing, nothing of necessity, there has never been so much distance between this place and you. You aren’t from here, you didn’t come from the city-center, “so who do you come from then?”

You still have a long way to go. According to Maps, there are two practical routes, either reach the next bus stop for the noctilien going in the right direction, which is much further past the stop for the noctilien that would bring you in the opposite direction of your home, or walk an hour and thirteen minutes. You’re missing a cast for each leg and arm, and maybe an operation to make sure that you’re going to make it because your nose appears, to the touch, to have a different shape than usual. It seems broken on both sides and no longer points toward the midline but to a new center, to your left, where you no longer have to turn. Here you are, having been crucified, burned at the stake, in the heart of the blaze of action about an hour and thirty minutes ago, you are someone else, courageous. It is hard not to slip, to stay a man, honorable unto death, but you carry out the next steps, and the landscape fades as another comes into view. In your fight, you made the first move, before returning to fetal position, your place of birth. Was it really there? You aren’t someone who lets himself be humiliated. Your face hits the ground in the blink of an eye, a discomfort, more relevant than ever because you are face-on-the-ground, closer than ever before. You could rest your tongue there, rest your hot breath right there, on that floor so cold again, so hard, like that blow to your knee that left your thigh more

- bitumeux,

- bitumineux

- bituminisation

- bituminisationnel

- bituminisationnalisation

C’est maintenant tout ce qu’il faudra savoir. Tu es en invalidité. Tu existes un peu moins, avec plus de délicatesse. Normalement ça se terminera bien, parfois tu pleures par ennui, impatient de retourner te cacher dans les jupes de ta mère au moins jusqu’à demain.

LANNWIT LANNWIT LANNWIT

te répétait-elle, la mienne, la seule, la voix forte, la sienne, dans la polychromie du jour, la même qui se délite au cours de la nuit. Elle avait raison ta mère, maman, tu n’aurais pas dû sortir ce soir.

LANNWIT

bruised, gashed open length-wise. Asphalt is a mixture of organic substances, rich in carbon, in hydrogen, and in hydrocarbons of a high molecular weight containing elevated traces of metallic elements. It is used to pave roads. You already knew that. Asphalt…. That’s about it, a house where it rains inside, the metro rattles even under the empty streets, terrified, almost as terrified as you:

- asphalted

- asphaltic

- asphaltization

- asphaltizational

- asphaltizationalization

That is now everything that needs to be known. You are impaired. You exist a little less, with more sensitivity. Normally this would end well, at times you cry out of boredom, eager to hide back in your mother’s skirts at least until tomorrow.

oh lannwit oh the night oh the night oh la nuit oh la nuit oh lannwit oh lannwit oh thenite

she kept repeating to you, mine, the only one, that strong voice, her own, amidst the day’s polychromy, the same voice that disintegrates in the night. She had a point, your mother, maman, you never should have gone out tonight.

Note du Traducteur

La langue de Savannah Ford est d’une beauté dense, sensorielle, son pouvoir évocateur est fort et les jeux de textures et des sons aspirent le lecteur vers un univers où le sens des mots cesse de primer sur leur constitution sonore et visuelle pour s’adresser plus directement à nos sensations physiques.

La couleur rouge, couleur de la vie par essence, irrigue tout le recueil. Elle fait rougir une fleur, ensanglante une épée, un brouillard, devient une chose qui brûle, qui se mange, disparaît d’un poème pour mieux renaître dans le suivant. La couleur rouge, fil rouge de cet impressionnant recueil intitulé Portrait d’un autre sommeil violet est une porte d’entrée dans l’univers poétique de Savannah Ford.

Dans chacun des neufs « portraits » du recueil, l’autrice déploie un univers où le quotidien glisse rapidement sous la surface pour devenir flou, dicté par deux yeux aux paupières à moitié closes qui observeraient le monde dans un demi-sommeil. Les corps et les objets se dénaturent, créent des formes nouvelles, fusionnent et changent de constitution. Chez Ford, le plaisir du jeu dans l’écriture est évident, l’humour est une part essentielle de son travail, qu’elle mêle souvent au bodyhorror et au lyrisme.

La tâche de traduire Savannah Ford était ambitieuse. L’anglais a ce pouvoir d’immédiateté qui donne beaucoup d’impact dans les textes, rendre cela en français me paraissait presque impossible. J’ai peu à peu pris conscience qu’il me fallait « réécrire » certains vers, ne pas hésiter à bouger un mot en l’intervertissant. J’ai eu beaucoup de mal avec cet « interventionnisme », mais Savannah était à l’écoute et encourageante, nos échanges ont été essentiel pour la réalisation de cette traduction.

SAVANNAH FORD

PORTRAITS OF ANOTHER PURPLE SLEEP

portrait of poetics a stoic pear

I see waterfalls, pearsized, lining the core with gooping pools of molten seeds at the roundbottom when you look in the pools you see nothing but more pears peeling red from the fog.

traduit de l’anglais par SASKIA COHEN

PORTRAITS D’UN AUTRE SOMMEIL VIOLET

portrait de la poétique poire stoïque

Je vois des cascades de la taille d’une poire, habiller le noyau de bassins boueux de graines fondues se mouvant lentement dans le fond sphérique quand on regarde dans ces bassins on on ne voit rien d’autres que poires, rouge délavé par le brouillard.

portrait of a lamp a feeling

Little light of four little blonde boys born from two green moons and the stained glass sky. Examining the edges, there are none. It can’t be, but

as it is, the shade is made of scraps of sea glass, crystal bubble wrap, chunks of the shiny stuff stars bathe in, but aren’t really made of, the ribbedpearly color of a baby’s ear, translucent and crusted from the sea, still

wet. It sits stilted, stunned on a charcoaliron throne that ends in curled claws that feed their fangs into the red doily, tearing crochet cloth to piles of salt lace gashes.

portrait d’une lampe sentiment

Petite lumière de quatre garçons blonds nés sous deux lunes vertes et le vitrail du ciel.

Examinant les bords, il n’y en a pas. Cela ne se peut, pourtant

tel quel, l’ombre faite de morceaux de mer vitrifiés, papier bulle cristal, bouts de choses brillantes où les étoiles se baignent sans s’y confondre, la nacre ourlée de l’oreille d’un bébé, translucide et formée par la mer, encore

humide. Figé, étourdi sur un trône de fer noir terminé par des griffes crochues qui croquent avidement le napperon rouge, taillades les mailles du chiffon en dentelle de sel.

portrait of the poolhouse my palm

Four little blonde boys swim in the pool of my palm no windows or clocks the walls call for sleep to dawn to daybreak through the surface

Water pink as the sand stuck in their skincreases “the body is so body” and they nod like ducklings medicine bottles bloat next to clusters of chlorine the blonde boys hang on for dear life their heads swing back in the water hair sizzling out like halos

Why are we attracted to daily sufferings and tile floors the poollight ripples through the pinkwater a searchbeam stretched out like a parsec they dance in the water’s inky tail they become the scales on its back fingers threaded delicately into the toes of the boy ahead

“She’s talking out of her neck” their heads bob in melody knees bent at odd angles like house centipedes scurrying along the poolbottom like a baby slid down a banister “we should bill the banister it for its slickness” more bent limbs floating in fluids the blonde boys bob more

The dimpled spell swells to the top of the pool the blondeboys come spillingout of the sides they lie in poolwater on poolbloated tummies and slither back, reddened and roundedout, to the centipede line toes bent into fingers into toes into fingers back they dance in the palmcreases blonde halos slithering about the spine the scales are gold halos the legs are bent palms pressed into tile

portrait de la pool house ma paume

Quatre garçons blonds nagent dans le creux de ma main sans fenêtres ni horloges les murs endormis jusqu’à l’aube jusqu’au jour perçant la surface

Aquatique rose tel le sable reclus dans leurs rides « le corps est très corps » et ils opinent comme des canetons des flacons de médicaments gonflent à côté de grappes de chlore les blondinets luttent pour leur survie leurs têtes basculés en arrière dans l’eau, cheveux en auréoles grésillantes

Pourquoi cette attirance pour les souffrances quotidienne et les sols carrelés l’éclairage de la piscine ondule dans l’eau rose un faisceau s’étire en parsec les garçons dansent sur la crête noircie deviennent les écailles de son dos doigts délicatement mêlés aux orteils du premier d’entre eux

« Elle dit de la merde » leurs têtes flottent en rythme les genoux pliés en angles étranges comme des mille-pattes domestiques se précipitent vers le fond de la piscine comme un bébé qui glisse d’une rampe « nous devrions facturer la rampe pour sa faculté glissante » plus de membres pliés flottant sur fluides plus de garçons blonds dansants

Le sortilège à fossettes enfle à la surface de la piscine les blondinets dégorgent par tous les côtés flottent sur leurs bides gonflés d’eau chloré et refluent, rouges et ballonnés, vers la lignée des centipèdes orteils repliés en doigts puis en orteils puis en doigts ils dansent dans les paumes froissées des auréoles blondes s’enroulent en colonnes les écailles sont des halos dorés les jambes sont pliées paumes pressées sur le carrelage.

portrait of skin a screen door

She put on her person suit this morning remembering the skin.

I used to walk with my thumb pressed into my bellybutton my skin folded choked safe from the red world.

portrait de la peau une baie-vitrée

Elle a mis son costume de personne ce matin souvenir se remémorant la peau.

J’ai souvent marché mon pouce enfoncé dans mon nombril ma peau repliée étouffée loin du monde rouge.

portrait of animal play act one, BAT ENTERS

That is not how these things work. The venom of gold thrones and gray scales. I need them to breathe.

I’m not sure I breathe at all.

The bark bleeds.

That’s sap, sweet, though I have no tongue to taste it. Red runs through my veins like water, thin and atomic as the seeds of the bloodtree. I’ve stored my tongue in my throat, my neck moves for my mouth. My fingers, made of water, make the water.

Spider silk spins the pool, stomach, and soon, I will clip my fingers to my toes.

portrait du jeu animal acte un, ENTRÉE DE LA CHAUVE-SOURIS

Ce n’est pas comme ça que ça fonctionne.

Le venin de trônes d’or et d’écailles grises.

J’ai besoin que ça respire.

Pas sûr que moi je respire par contre.

L’écorce saigne.

De la sève, sucrée, bien que je n’aie pas de langue pour la goûter.

Le rouge coule dans mes veines comme l’eau, atomique et mince comme les graines de l’arbre-sang.

J’ai garé ma langue dans ma gorge, mon cou remue pour ma bouche.

Mes doigts, fait d’eau, font l’eau.

La soie d’araignée tisse la piscine, estomac, bientôt j’attacherai mes doigts à mes orteils.

portrait of G a sudden stranger

Loretta’s daughter wrote thirteen letters at thirteen to strangers, her family, and wilted under the wax seals. Wallpapered cookbook, rebound with two chocolate-coin-necklaces, only one ends in blue. Her whole Thanksgiving the address of 1117 something, somewhere in Brooklyn and the shoulder tattoo an aristotelian, fairly unrecognizable black cardigan’d buttoned-up’d blob. The toxicity of tattoo ink grand army plaza’d pinstripe hair, of which she knew no one’s name, but the tortoise shell buttons hold it all together. And Aunt Millie’s ricotta pie nostalgic for 1981, holepunched by hand, spun-dry on delicate by red glasses bigger than her lipstick, pink.

portrait de G. un étranger inattendu

La fille de Loretta écrivit treize lettres à treize ans à des étrangers, sa famille, et flétrit sous les cachets de cire. Livres de recettes enveloppé de papierspeint, rebondit par deux colliers de pièces en chocolat, un seul bout bleu. Tout son Thanksgiving à l’adresse de 1117 quelque chose, quelque part dans Brooklyn et le tatouage à l’épaule un être aristotélicien assez méconnaissable boutonné dans un cardigan noir un

être flasque. La toxicité de l’encre à tatouage les cheveux rayés de la grand army plaza, dont elle ne connaissait aucun prénoms, mais le bouton en écaille de tortue tenait tout ça

ensemble. Et la tarte à la ricotta de Tante Millie nostalgique de 1981 perforé à la main, essoré sur mode délicat par des verres rouges plus gros que son rouge à lèvre, rose.

portrait of Violet’s Red Canna with Great Love

Sunburn the shape of mouth appeaser of ruffled fire edges, pleaser of purple flames, lion’s breath a sweet coastal poppy bursting sunday sun. Fog spliced in a daybed, wrinkly sunbath a parched flower, flavor-sodden petals licked with heat.

Feverish song of a sunsick beast staggering through the red thicket towards another purple sleep.

portrait du Canna Rouge de Violette avec Tout Mon Amour

Coup de soleil en forme de bouche pacificateur de bords flamboyants hérissés, charmeur de flammes pourpre, souffle de lion douceur d’un coquelicot des côtes éclatant soleil de dimanche. Le brouillard capté par son lit de jour, un bain de soleil ridé une fleur assoiffée, pétales imbibées de saveur, léchées de chaleur.

Le chant fiévreux d’une bête ivre de soleil titube dans le fourré rouge vers un autre sommeil violet.

portrait of a mask what lies between flesh and skin

cavities perforated cheek dreaded red stitch marks lance red meat slips greying bone two slits carved in center snorting society in two portions green knots rubberknotted fur blooms pits bottomless green there is no skin involved flesh expresses nothing but

portrait d’un masque ce qu’on trouve entre entre chair et peau

cavités perforés

joue redoute rouge sutures lance rouge viande glisse grise os deux fentes taillées dans noyau renifle société en deux morceaux verts noués caoutchouc floraisons fourrures trous sans fond vert sans chair tissus concernés n’exprime rien que

portrait of Red or, another red portrait

we speak only between bites of red I stretch a whole city block the air speaks swishing red your arrival also red another portrait of red stained kind of white in homes and cemeteries red must be

wax-paper runs in red tights red rips from the ceiling the red dragon becomes the spine of the golden bridge

imagine fur red licked in lotus leaves the red fall of sound sweet sweaty sound the shell-drumming sea what do waves do when we stop watching dance in seabeds fuck flowers sleep against the red floor

sleep too is red-ridden, sick sleep traced in screaming red I too used to wish I was

language like livestock that reddens biologically iron tongue singed to red keys

I have been standing for a month in the red safety light how little it takes to vanish, a red mote in the eye after that, Moon was given a red horse, that would be winter frankly, the red world is long rail lines, heavy snowfalls, the lace broken

portrait de Rouge ou, un autre portrait rouge

on ne parle qu’entre nos bouchées de rouge j’étire une ville entière bloque l’air parle dans un sifflement rouge ton arrivée puis rouge un autre portrait de rouge taché d’une sorte de blancs dans les maisons et les cimetières le rouge doit être

papier ciré coule en collants rouges tapissés

du rouge se déchire du plafond

le dragon rouge devient l’artère du golden bridge imagine de la fourrure rouge léchée par des feuilles de lotus le rouge chute d’un son doux son moite la mer qui comme un tambour de coquillage que font les vagues quand on cesse de les regarder danser au fond de la mer baiser des fleurs dormir sur le sol rouge

le sommeil aussi est baigné de rouge, le sommeil maladif se trace en cris rouge que j’espérais moi aussi être

le langage qui comme du bétail rougit biologiquement langue de fer soudée aux touches rouges j’ai passé un mois sous la lampe rouge de sécurité c’est si facile de disparaître, une particule rouge dans l’œil après ça, Lune a reçu un cheval rouge, ce devait être l’hiver honnêtement, le monde rouge est long des rails, d’épaisses chutes de neige, la dentelle déchirée

portrait of Prowess and Wounds BOOK ELEVEN

you cripple but, a black nightmare is close fight your soul to Death as if to run, between the shoulders, driving through down he went his boast over

Son, death ran to meet you: no escape

Mother will not bend your eyes in death birds will tear and clap in fact, I die.

On this he drew from his flesh his shield. After blood streams grieved his heart

Elated blood flow out Now he g round his companions. Three as loud as man’s head each time he turned to his the gods of old my ears voice with who had cut him better save him I am afraid and the loss irreparable.

portrait de Prowess and Wounds

CHANT ONZE

tu boîtes mais, un cauchemar noir est proche combats ton âme à Mor t comme pour courir, entre les épaules, continuant d’avancer il est tombé finie sa vantardise

Mon fils, la mort a couru à ta rencontre : pas d’échappatoire

Ta mère ne s’inclinera pas tes yeux dans la mort les oiseaux déchireront applaudiront en fait, je meurs.

Sur ce, il fit sortir un de puis sa chair un bouclier de sa chair. Après des rivières de sang ont endeuillé son cœur

Exalté le sang jaillir Maintenant il amar rer ses compagnons. Trois aussi bruyants que la tête de l’homme chaque fois il retourne à son

les dieux de jadis mes oreilles voix avec qui l’avait coupé mieux vaut le sauver J’ai peur et la perte irréparable.

Translator’s Note

This translation as faithfully as possible renders the compiled work of French poet Saskia Cohen into English. Cohen’s poetry is as surreal as it is concerned with the physical, grotesque nature of the body and the life that it contains. She cultivates duality in her diction, subtle rhyming, and precise lineations to enact language as a material matter that can be scaffolded, then molded into novel forms. She threads childhood, imagined realities, nature, and shadow selves into her incisive language. Her recursive ciphers—la petite fille, les visages, la pluie, la noyade, la mort (the little girl, faces, rain, drowning, death)—surge through the work, metastasizing across its surface, then settling into its marrow.

In my translation, I aimed to foremost capture the viscerality of Cohen’s images, then to imbue them with the musicality, pointed lineations, and freedom of her forms. Cohen emphasized that her lineations, line breaks, and grammatical decisions adhere to this same autonomy; she aims to listen to the internal logic and voice of each individual poem, rather than make all capitalizations, forms, etc. uniform over the course of the collection. I decided to preserve such variations, rather than overly homogenize or risk diminishing the intentionally disjointed, even chaotic nature of their non-coherence. Cohen equally gave me near complete liberty to play with her language and images, while guiding me toward the undercurrents of their meanings so that they may emanate a similar feeling as in the original French. This is what Cohen’s poetry accomplishes so effortlessly, the what-shouldbe-impossible setting of a metaphysical scene, the capturing of the very essence of a mood, emotion, or fleeting atmosphere in its most physical form.

For me, poetry in translation aims to mimic or reenact the emotional climate of the poem in

its original language, to reiterate its transformed, somewhat slanted logic, and to make vivid the color, and sometimes dullness, of its language. Poetry need not adhere to anything really; its venture is, perhaps, to capture the edges of the human consciousness and conflate them with the blurred lines between reality and sub-reality. My translation decisions are very much contained within this ethos of attempting to reincarnate the heartbeat of Cohen’s writing: a solitary voice laced with fears of nonexistence, of losing all corporeal integrity, of disappearing or dissolving from the physical world altogether.

SASKIA COHEN

vermoulue I

Je suis tombée sur elle en sortant de la boulangerie. elle était différente et pareille que moi. amère comme le café noir qu’elle aime boire allongée, sa peau transpirait sous des couches de crème à l’odeur sucrée. douce, elle me semblait douce comme une caresse sous les vêtements, de cette douceur vermoulue de souche dans laquelle je venais enfoncer mes doigts, enfant, sentir la désintégration du bois visité avant moi par la pluie. si j’aime cette amie et qu’elle m’aime, alors nous sommes de bonnes amies ? elle m’a souhaité le bonjour en mâchant une chouquette au sucre. de bonnes amies, oui, la mousse verte n’a pas poussé par-dessus pourtant je sens l’humidité de ses doigts quand je lui serre la main. elle colle, ne s’en excuse pas.

translated

from the french by SAVANNAH FORD

vermiculate I

I tumbled into her as I was leaving the boulangerie. she was different and the same as me.

bitter like the black coffee she liked to drink lying down, her skin sweating under layers of sweet-smelling cream. soft, she seemed soft to me like a touch beneath clothes, that decaying softness of the tree stump I would press my fingers into, child, feeling the disintegration of the wood visited before me only by the rain. if I love this friend and she loves me, then does that make us good friends?

she greeted me while chewing on a sugared chouquette. good friends, yes, the green moss hasn’t grown over us yet. I feel the sweat on her fingers when I shake her hand. she sticks, doesn’t apologize.

vermoulue II

mes bonnes amies me laissaient souvent jouer seule. je sombrais vers l’écorce d’un arbre, parlais à son oreille en suppliciant ses feuilles de mes doigts tristes. la pluie me précédait souvent. parfois elle m’a laissée des cadeaux. une colonie de têtards coincés dans une flaque d’eau le jour de mon anniversaire, le bois pourri où enfoncer mes doigts. mes bonnes amies ne savaient pas que m’attacher à un arbre, c’était me rendre libre ; la fourmi grimpe et descend et moi je regardais ce remue-ménage et je prenais racine.

le dernier pain a été vendu, enfin le dernier de ceux que je voulais les spéciaux, colorés de graines aujourd’hui j’ai grandi, je ne pleure plus je prends une baguette pas trop cuite et je sors le quignon dans la bouche je sais que ma bonne amie est partie je sais qu’on n’attend pas quelqu’un qui ne signifie rien pour soi.

vermiculate II

the good girls often left me to play alone. I would sink against the bark of a tree, whispering in its ear, tormenting its leaves with my sad fingers. rain often preceded me. sometimes it left me gifts. a colony of tadpoles trapped in a puddle on my birthday, the rotten wood where I could wriggle my fingers in.

the good girls didn’t know that I’d grown attached to a tree, that it freed me; the ant climbs and descends and as for me, I considered this commotion and grew roots.

the last of the bread was sold, well the last of the loaves I had wanted the special ones, colored with seeds today I grew up, I don’t cry anymore I take a baguette, one not overly browned, and put a chunk of crust in my mouth

I know my good friend is gone I know we mustn’t wait for someone who means nothing to us.

visage

visage

Le vent a soufflé et détaché la peau des gens. Maintenant, il y a des visages collés sur les murs des maisons. Certains ont rencontré l’avant d’une tête au hasard d’une bourrasque, d’autres gisent en tas, les traits chiffonnés, ramassés comme des feuilles mortes près des bouches d’égouts.

Sur la pelouse du parc un chat joue avec le sourire d’un vieil homme.

À tâtons sur le mur, je guette la forme oblongue, le nez en trompette, mais je ne sais pas à quoi je ressemble pour mes doigts.

Au fond, quelqu’un porte peut-être déjà mon visage c’est étrange de se dire que je ne me suis jamais vue à l’endroit. Mon pied bute contre quelque chose de mou.

Je me baisse et ramasse un visage au hasard, le déplie. Il a la texture épaisse et froide d’une pâte à pizza.

faces faces

The wind blew and untied the people’s skin. Now, there are faces pasted to the walls of houses. By a chance of wind some encounter them, others lie in piles, features crumpled, curled up like dead leaves near sewer grates.

On the park lawn, a cat plays with the mousy smile of an old man.

Feeling along the wall, I search for the oval shape, the up-turned nose, but I don’t know what I look like to my fingers.

Someone might already be wearing my face. It’s strange to think that I’ve never seen myself here. My foot bumps against something soft.

I bend down and pick up a face at random, unfolding it, stretching it out. It has the thick, rubber texture of cold pizza dough.

la petite fille

Je prends souvent la pluie elle me perfore me couvre de trous des petits trous pas profonds comme ceux du sable après l’averse une plage déserte et couverte de tout minis trous traces d’impacts aussitôt aspirés avalés même si après je suis souvent fatiguée.

Je ne choisis pas quand il pleut et je n’aime pas la noyade mais j’ai grandi avec le récit de nos mères emportées par le courant Nous nous élevons par la pluie et nos ventres brillent comme des galets de rivière.

Cet homme assis au café tous ses traits penchent d’un côté laissant l’autre moitié aussi vierge que du papier.

Je l’observe pendant qu’il boit son café ou fait semblant — sac de nœud cela a dû lui arriver pendant qu’il dormait tout a dû glisser sur sa joue gauche.

Nous nous attroupons autour de lui observons sa face coupée en deux certains sortent des crayons et dessinent sur son côté effacé.

Une fleur une maison un chien de la même taille que la fleur un oiseau de la même taille que la maison — l’homme ne dit rien mais de grosses larmes traversent sa figure ravagée.

Je cherche du regard les traces d’impacts mais le chagrin ne perfore pas la peau il lui tire dessus.

the little girl

I often get caught in the rain it pierces me, covers me with holes small, shallow holes like those in sand after a hailstorm a deserted beach covered in tiny holes traces of impact immediately sucked up and swallowed, even if I am often tired.

I don’t choose when it rains and I don’t like drowning but I grew up with the tale of our mothers carried by the current we’ve been raised by the rain and our wombs shine like pebbles in a river.

A man seated in a cafe his features all lean to one side leaving the other half as blank as paper.

I watch while he drinks his coffee, or pretends to— his face must’ve tangled while he slept everything must’ve slid down his left cheek.

We gather around him, inspecting his face cut in two some take out pencils and draw on his erased side.

A flower, a house a dog the same size as the flower a bird the same size as the house— the man says nothing but big tears run across his ravaged face.

I look for traces of impact but sorrow doesn’t pierce skin it pulls.

cérémonial

C’était le jour de mon enterrement le soleil ne donnait pas d’ombre l’air comme une torche brulaient les yeux de mes parents secs immobiles car tout était parfait.

Je me faisais mal pour essayer d’apercevoir qui était venu je l’ai un peu usé mais il marche encore très bien avais-je envie de crier à mes nièces mais elles restaient loin du cercueil préférant l’ombre des arbres.

Ma mère aussi regardait ailleurs mon père ronflait sur sa chaise c’était la troisième fois qu’on m’enterrait ils ne se préoccupaient plus de ce que ça pouvait me faire de les voir s’en foutre.

Une petite fille s’est avancée depuis le fond de mon cercueil je l’ai vu comme à travers des lunettes grossissantes se pencher sur moi et plisser les yeux.

Elle a dégagé un doigt pour l’enfoncer dans ma pommette fait la moue puis a pincé une paupière : « il est tout fripé » s’est-elle exclamée avant de se pencher pour renifler un conduit d’oreille et s’en écarter en grimaçant.

Le fossoyeur s’impatientait il regardait sa montre il soufflait travailler avec une chaleur pareil

ceremonial

It was the day of my burial the sun cast no shadow the air like a burning torch the eyes of my parents dry unmoving because everything was perfect.

I was killing myself trying to get a glimpse of who came I’ve worn out my face a little but it still works very well did I want to shout this out to my nieces but they stayed far from the casket preferring the shade of the trees.

My mother looked elsewhere too my father snored in his seat it was the third time they’d buried me they no longer concerned themselves with how it might make me feel to see them not give a shit.

A little girl came forward I saw her from the bottom of my casket as if through a magnifying glass leaning over me, squinting.

She pulled out a finger to sink it into my cheekbone pouted, then pinched an eyelid: “it’s all wrinkly,” she exclaimed before leaning over to sniff an ear canal and sprang back, grimacing.

The gravedigger was growing impatient he looked at his watch he sighed

la petite fille se recula finalement pour regarder sa mère masquée derrière une paire de lunettes noires « Mamaaan, si je prends le visage de grand-mère, est-ce que je peux quand même garder celui du chat ? » la mère se tortille, mal à l’aise surtout pas de contrariétés pas avec le père absent elle hésite puis opine tandis que tout le monde soupire de soulagement à l’idée d’en finir.

Le fossoyeur prend sa lame de cutter et marque une incise précise en haut de mon front le sang coule de l’oreille au cou imbibe les cheveux.

La lame contourne la mâchoire le menton que j’ai en fossette ça porte bonheur il dit en clignant de l’œil à l’intention de la petite fille qui ne bronche pas concentrée qu’elle est sur le geste de l’homme pour qu’il n’abîme pas son nouveau visage.

Les sœurs de ma mère attroupées comme des vaches marquent les minutes de leurs petits sacs noirs qu’elles frappent sur leur genoux à chaque tour de lame comme pour chasser les mouches.

Soudain une puissante chaleur m’inonde j’ai juste le temps d’entendre ma mère dire dieu soit loué tandis qu’elle signe le papier de la morgue et puis plus rien — on m’a roulé et mis dans un sac je n’ai plus de corps.

working in such heat the little girl finally stepped back to look at her mother hidden behind a pair of black glasses “Mommm, if I take grandma’s face, can I still keep the cat’s?” the mother squirmed, ill at ease above all, she wanted no fussing not with her girl’s absent father she hesitated then agreed while everyone sighed in relief at the thought of it being over with.

The gravedigger picks up his utility knife and marks a precise incision at the top of my forehead the blood slides from ear to neck soaking my hair.

The blade traces the jawbone my dimpled chin

“it brings good luck,” he says, winking at the little girl who doesn’t flinch so focused is she on the man’s gesture lest he ruin her new face.

My mother’s sisters crowd around like cattle marking the minutes with the little black bags that thwack against their knees at every turn of the blade as if to shoo away flies.

Suddenly a powerful heat bathes me I have just enough time to hear my mother say “god be praised” while she signs the morgue paper and then nothing more— they roll me up and put me in a bag I no longer have a body.

princesse

quelqu’un : où voulez-vous vivre maintenant que les frontières sont ouvertes ?

moi : je voudrais un château avec un arbre dedans. quelqu’un : qu’est-ce qui vous fait croire que vous avez du talent ?

moi : c’est un orteil bien stable qu’il faut. Sans ça on ne sait pas tenir en équilibre sur une chaise et on dépend toujours d’une échelle. quelqu’un : aimez-vous mourir ?

moi : je souhaiterais ne pas répondre à cette question. quelqu’un : dans ce cas, aimez-vous voir les autres mourir ?

moi : …

Un lien le nous arrive et j’ai peur de disparaître comment pourrais-je un jour ne plus reconnaître ma propre main un jour ne plus sentir si mes doigts pianotent le comptoir si ma bouche boit le café ?

Un nous un on et c’est un monde qui fond s’infiltre par la racine du nouveau monde où je n’ai aucune consistance.

Laissez-moi parler encore un peu.

J’aime vous parler.

Votre adresse a changé bien souvent je ne sais plus où envoyer mes lettres elles ont brisés les fenêtres des plus grands palais sans qu’aucun n’accepte de me recevoir sans qu’aucun n’accepte de m’aimer.

Je brise des choses et c’est choses elles restent brisées au sol elles ne se transforment pas en d’autres choses.

Allez savoir si c’est un âne ou un marquis qui m’a mis au monde dans tous les cas il était trop bête pour penser à me donner des pieds ce qui fait que je rampe

princess

Somebody: where do you want to live now that the borders are open? me: I would like a castle with a tree inside. somebody: what makes you believe you have talent? me: what’s needed is a very stable toe. without one we can’t balance on a chair and will always rely on a ladder. somebody: do you like dying? me: I would like to not respond to that question. somebody: in that case, do you like watching others die? me: …

A tether links us and I’m afraid of disappearing how could I one day no longer recognize my own hand one day no longer feel if my fingers drum along a counter if my mouth drinks coffee?

A some, a body and a world melts away it seeps through the root of the new world in which I lack materiality.

Let me speak a little longer.

I like speaking to you.

Your address has changed so often I don’t know where to send my letters anymore they broke the windows of the grandest palaces yet no one will agree to receive me no one will agree to love me.

I break things and those things remain broken on the ground they’ve yet to transform into other things.

Who’s to say whether it was a donkey or a marquis who brought me into the world in any case he was too stupid to think of giving me feet

je vis sous les choses je mange ce qui tombe de vos bouches j’avale et je crache salive et pensées les plus sales pour mieux glisser dans les pentes.

Une fois il m’est arrivé de me briser une côte j’ai du retenir ma respiration pendant trois mois quand j’ai pu recommencer à vivre il m’a semblé que l’air n’était plus le même on l’avait réchauffé micro-onde ou bien était-ce l’haleine des morts qui exhalaient sous la mousse et dont j’avais perdu l’habitude — la nuit je les entends se raconter des blagues ils ne savent pas que je les écoutent sinon ils se tairaient.

Ma dernière lettre disait :

« Mes ancêtres ont voyagé au centre de la terre pour découvrir qu’il y faisait froid. »

si cela peut vous faire gagner du temps — la prochaine fois je vous raconterai une histoire ce sera aussi une façon de vous dire adieu.

Quelqu’un : si vous deviez devenir un homme, lequel seriez-vous ?

moi: un qui a des pieds.

quelqu’un : quand vous êtes-vous baigné pour la dernière fois ?

moi : j’évite généralement les fonds sablonneux et les peines de cœur. quelqu’un : avez-vous des enfants ?

moi : …

quelqu’un : en voulez-vous ?

la petite fille : moi je voudrais qu’il arrête de pleuvoir, mais j’adore porter des maillots de bain.

quelqu’un : … excusez-moi, mais je ne sais plus bien à qui je m’adresse. moi : cela va poser problème, nous n’allons plus savoir qui doit vous répondre.

Et re-voilà ce on — mariage bien mal exécuté des bras entortillés comme un chien dans une corde à linge

On désire des choses pour leur couleur

On épluche des fleurs

On laisse nos peaux se fendre pour y coudre des draps

On dit tu ressembles à quelqu’un mais on ne sais plus à qui.

which is why I crawl I live beneath things I eat whatever falls from your mouths I swallow and spit saliva with my filthiest thoughts to slide more seamlessly down the slopes.

Once I broke a rib I had to hold my breath for three months when I was able to start living again it seemed the air was no longer the same it had been microwaved or was the breath of the dead exhaling beneath the moss and so I lost the habit— at night I hear them telling jokes they don’t know I’m listening otherwise they’d stay silent.

My last letter said: “My ancestors travelled to the core of the earth only to discover its coldness” if this can save you some time— when I next tell you a story it will also be a way of saying goodbye.

Somebody: if you had to become a man, which would you be? me: one who has feet.

somebody: when did you last go swimming? me: I generally avoid sandy bottoms and heartbreak. somebody: do you have children? me: …

somebody: do you want them? the little girl: I would like it to stop raining, but I love wearing bathing suits. somebody: … excuse me, but I don’t quite know who I’m addressing anymore. me: that’s going to be a problem, we won’t know who is supposed to answer.

And here it is again that some, that body—a poorly executed marriage arms tangled like a dog in a leash We desire things for their color We dissect flowers

We let our skins split open to sew sheets into them We say you look like somebody but we don’t know who.

word for word / wort für wort

Columbia University School of the Arts

Deutsches Literaturinstitut Leipzig

Anmerkung der Übersetzerin

Eero Talos Centralia zu übersetzen, gleicht dem Versuch, ein DJ-Set in eine andere Sprache zu übertragen, ohne dessen Beat, dessen Zeitgefühl zu verlieren. In einem dynamischen Fluss folgen wir einem Ich-Erzähler durch eine radikale Meditation über Genesis 1, die das „Buch der Bücher“ nicht als starres Monument begreift, sondern als einen resonanten, sich stetig verschiebenden Raum.

Die zentrale Herausforderung lag darin, eine formale Balance zwischen rastlosem Denken und dem Widerstand der Sprache zu finden. Entsprechend dem poetischen Referenzrahmen des Autors – von John Ashbery und Gertrude Stein bis hin zu Ezra Pound – wechselt der Text ständig das Register: Er bewegt sich von der Kadenz des theologischen Diskurses hin zu Memes, Internet-Slang und popkulturellen Fragmenten.

Diesen Modus ins Deutsche zu übertragen, verlangte, die semiotischen Merkmale des Textes – seine Parenthesen, Emojis und abrupten Verweise – nicht als bloßen Zierrat zu verstehen, sondern als strukturelle Elemente einer zeitgenössischen, quasi-liturgischen Sprache. Die Wasser der Genesis treffen auf den East River; Figuren wie Tom Verlaine und Albert Ayler tauchen auf; das biblische „Ich“ erscheint weniger als stabile Stimme, denn als textuelles Residuum, das fortlaufend neu zusammengesetzt wird.

Was die Tonalität des Textes prägt, ist seine bewusste Instabilität: Philosophische Reflexionen über das Interpretieren prallen auf Momente entwaffnender Direktheit und körperliche Beschreibungen (wie „fat ass n hairy legs“). Diese Gleichzeitigkeit von Sakralem und Profanem wiederzugeben, bedeutete, allzu glatten

Formulierungen zu widerstehen. Stattdessen folgt die Übersetzung dem synkopierten Rhythmus des Originals, seinen Unterbrechungen, Parenthesen und abrupten Wechseln, die wie statisches Rauschen oder Erkenntnisblitze in den Text schneiden.

Mitunter entsteht so eine flaneurhafte Schreibhaltung: assoziativ, beweglich und mit einem feinen Gespür für Oberflächen. Mein Ziel war es, den „Glitch“-Charakter des Textes zu bewahren und gleichzeitig die Spannung zwischen fast bürokratischer Präzision und dem Vokabular der digitalen Kultur (<3, </3) produktiv zu nutzen. Ebenso entscheidend war es, die assoziative Dichte zu wahren und jene kurzen, leuchtenden Momente zuzulassen, die sich irgendwo zwischen Humor und existenzieller Schwere bewegen.

In diesem Sinne versteht sich die Übersetzung als Teil eines fortlaufenden Interpretationsprozesses: ein polyphoner Monolog, in dem die Bibel als geschichtetes Material erscheint, gebrochen durch eine hypermoderne, oft melancholische Gegenwart – und in dem sich das lesende Ich im Zuge des Verstehens unaufhörlich neu formt. Die Arbeit mit diesem sprachlichen Material war mir durchweg ein Vergnügen.

EERO TALO

CENTRALIA

1 In (Indiana) the beginning God (the-beginning-god — pretty nuts that we start with the making of a world that wrath will pull apart in Revelation. The phrase in-the-end doesn’t appear in that book. Probly cause in-the-end stories are primarily about reconciliation. There is no ending-god, no destroyer in the bible, despite his talent for it. God has one name, around which psychological details gather in a cumulative, creepy, mercurial manner.) created the heaven and the earth (Time in the bible is curious. Some things happen very quickly, Creation, for instance. Some things happen at the pace of realism, the episodes of Abraham, the trials of Moses, the gospels. And some happen at a glacial, bureaucratic pace in an abstract and pedagogical realm, such as the laws of Leviticus. Hell, some things repeat, as in Chronicles. This temporal malleability reminds me of the role time plays in a DJ mix, where it is subject to an almost melodic degree of manipulation.) 2 And (Also, I’m using a bible I bought at the Strand Bookstore in May 2018, when I worked there and would browse the discount carts outside the store. This leather bound burgundy edition—a confirmation gift for one Ross Collins from Matthew and Dad presented on May 14, 1988—was marked at one dollar, which, with an employee discount, became fifty cents. The carts were a fascinating feature of the store which no longer serve their purpose because the cheapest you can now get things is three bucks, whereas back then, even without a discount, hundreds of titles were half a buck. Hoarders and booksellers would spend hours digging through the carts all year, maugre the weather. Passing by these crude characters, one could easily miss the occasional celebrity, such as Tom

aus dem englischen übersetzt von ZOE DACKWEILER

CENTRALIA

1 Im (Nationalpark Indiana) Anfang erschuf Gott (Gott des Anfangs – verrückt, dass wir mit der Erschaffung einer Welt beginnen, die der Zorn in der Offenbarung wieder auseinanderreißen wird. Der Ausdruck am Ende kommt in diesem Buch nicht vor. Wahrscheinlich, weil am-Ende-Geschichten hauptsächlich von Versöhnung handeln. Es gibt keinen Gott des Endes, keinen Zerstörer in der Bibel, trotz seines Talents dafür. Gott hat einen einzigen Namen, um den herum sich psychologische Details auf kumulative, gruselige, und wechselhafte Weise ansammeln.) Himmel und Erde (Zeit in der Bibel ist merkwürdig. Manche Dinge geschehen sehr schnell, zum Beispiel die Schöpfung. Manche Dinge geschehen in einem realistischen Tempo: die Episoden Abrahams, die Prüfungen des Moses, die Evangelien. Und manche geschehen in einem extrem langsamen, bürokratischen Tempo; in einem abstrakten und pädagogischen Bereich, wie die Gesetze des Levitikus. Shit, manche Dinge wiederholen sich, wie in den Chroniken. Diese zeitliche Formbarkeit erinnert mich an die Rolle, die Zeit in einem DJ-Mix spielt, wo sie einem fast melodischen Grad der Manipulation unterworfen ist.) 2 Und (Übrigens benutze ich eine Bibel, die ich im Mai 2018 im Strand Bookstore gekauft habe, als ich dort arbeitete und die Rabattwagen vor dem Laden durchstöberte. Diese ledergebundene bordeauxrote Ausgabe – ein Konfirmationsgeschenk für einen gewissen Ross Collins von Matthew und Dad, überreicht am 14. Mai 1988 – war mit einem Dollar ausgezeichnet, was mit Mitarbeiter:innenrabatt fünfzig Cent wurden. Die Wagen waren eine faszinierende Besonderheit des Ladens, die ihren Zweck nicht mehr erfüllen, weil man jetzt am günstigsten Dinge für drei Dollar bekommen kann, während damals, selbst ohne Rabatt, hunderte Titel einen halben Dollar kosteten. Messies und Buchhändler:innen verbrachten, ungeachtet des Wetters, das ganze Jahr über Stunden damit, die Wagen zu durchwühlen. Beim Vorbeigehen an diesen schroffen Gestalten konnte man leicht gelegentliche Berühmtheiten wie Tom

Verlaine (RIP), who had something of a book-collecting problem and died with fourteen thousand crammed, apparently with mathematical precision, into several storage units. I went to one of his estate sales after he passed and bought fourteen of them, mostly verse and hagiography. A slim penguin volume of T’ang poets and a first edition (!) of Bruce Benderson’s cult novel User are the ones I managed to read. Verlaine told me that he worked at Strand in the 70s when he arrived in the city. He explained that he quit after saving up enough money to pay rent for two years, during which time he would eat one peanut butter sandwich and one orange daily while he worked on songs that became Marquee Moon. He does look anorexic on that cover.) the earth was without form (The bodiless concept of the earth. According to astronomy the earth is accreted cosmic wreckage gravity bound over millions of years. [spherical book] A savage, physical process. Nothing conceptual about it. There was no image of earth before this clumping. The biblical image of earth in god’s mind is, ironically, trippy and spacey, while the scientific procedures of space and its bodies resemble a gangbang or a dogpile. Bodiless earth. I like to imagine the earth without form as a ball of light and all bodies on it as smaller things of light. What led me to this image was a meditation on the nature of aura. The aura of a thing seems distinct from its spirit, possibly runoff, but more like wornlight without the psychopompic task of crossing death into reincarnation. Auras are aesthetic. They are digs. Yet this felt inadequate to me. Surely they must have their own lives, their own species aspiration, a greater function than identificatory hue around charged beings. My image of the deleted earth, the ball of light upon which many smaller lights sit, brought to me the possibility that auras can be auratic of each other. The souls on planet earth are the aura of the planet as the planet is the aura of the souls as the body is the aura of the spirit.), and void (From the Latin vacare, to vacate. So who left? Aliens. Global conspiracy

Verlaine (RIP) übersehen, der so etwas wie ein BüchersammelProblem hatte und im Besitz von vierzehntausend Exemplaren starb, die offenbar mit mathematischer Präzision in mehreren Lagereinheiten verstaut waren. Ich ging nach seinem Tod zu einem seiner Nachlassverkäufe und kaufte vierzehn davon, hauptsächlich Lyrik und Hagiographie; einen schmalen Penguin-Band mit T’ang-Dichtern und eine Erstausgabe (!) von Bruce Bendersons Kultroman User habe ich geschafft zu lesen. Verlaine erzählte mir, dass er, als er in den 70ern in die Stadt kam, bei Strand arbeitete; erklärte, dass er kündigte, nachdem er genug Geld gespart hatte, um die Miete für zwei Jahre zu bezahlen. Während dieser Zeit aß er täglich ein Erdnussbutter-Sandwich, sowie eine Orange, und arbeitete an Songs, die später zu Marquee Moon wurden. Tatsächlich sieht er auf dem Cover magersüchtig aus.) die Erde war wüst (Das Konzept der körperlosen Erde. Laut Astronomie ist die Erde ein angehäuftes, kosmisches Wrack, das über Millionen von Jahren durch Schwerkraft gebunden wurde. [sphärisches Buch] Ein wilder, physischer Prozess. Nichts daran ist konzeptionell. Es gab kein Bild der Erde vor diesem Verklumpen. Ironischerweise ist das biblische Bild der Erde, wie Gott es imaginiert, trippy und abgespact, während die wissenschaftlichen Verfahren des Weltraums und seiner Körper einem Gangbang oder einem Gedränge ähneln. Körperlose Erde. Ich stelle mir die Erde ohne Form gerne als eine Kugel aus Licht vor und alle Körper darauf als kleinere Lichtwesen. Was mich zu diesem Bild veranlasst, war eine Meditation über die Natur der Aura: Die Aura eines Dinges scheint sich von seinem Geist zu unterscheiden, möglicherweise ein Ausläufer, aber eher wie abgetragenes Licht ohne die psychopompische Aufgabe, den Tod in die Reinkarnation zu überführen. Auren sind ästhetisch. Sie sind Ausdruck. Doch das erschien mir unzureichend. Sicherlich müssen sie ihr eigenes Leben und Bestreben haben, eine größere Funktion zu erfüllen als nur identifikatorische Färbung um aufgeladene Wesen herum zu sein. Mein Bild der formlosen Erde – der Lichtkugel, auf der viele kleinere Lichter ruhen – eröffnete die Überlegung, dass Auren füreinander auratisch sein können. Die Seelen auf dem Planeten Erde sind die Aura des Planeten, so wie der Planet die Aura der Seelen ist, so wie der Körper die Aura des Geistes ist.), und leer (Vom lateinischen vacare, leer sein oder frei von. Also, wer ist gegangen? Aliens. Die globale 9/11 Verschwörung, Bush tötete Kennedy und

911, Bush killed Kennedy and made fried chicken. Dude if the aliens come back they’re totally gonna give our species a post-colonial swirly. amen.); and darkness was upon the face of the deep (Tell ya what, they don’t make darkness like they used to. Or depths. Was the face of the deep cunty? There’s something sassy about was in this clause. Gossipy. Did you hear what darkness did last week? – Last? There haven’t even been five days. But do go on. – She was… with the deep. – Was not! – My dear, she was.). And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters (What would this have looked like? Fog? The choice of preposition is felicitous. Upon no longer has the latitude of use it did in the seventeenth century. Today we might say across, or over, but neither of these conveys the delicacy of upon. And this is an important moment in the life of the character of god. We see, if not their body, the choreography of a creative posture. After this line there aren’t many descriptions of how god does cosmic housework. Not until Job, the chattiest they’ll be, when a litany of action flies at us from out of the fed up whirlwind.). 3 And God said, Let there be light: and there was light (A-G-s-L-t-b-l-a-t-w-l-n-o-a-e-h-ei-n-h-a-i-d-d-i-t-e-g-d-e-s-g-d,-r-h-r-h-e-t:-e-t). 4 And God saw the light (light virginity revoked!), that it was (is this how people spoke in 1611? Were they deaf in the meat of the sentence, but OK on either end?) good: and God divided the light from the darkness (Why? I mean, I like shadows as much as the next pair of blinkers, but what is wrong with straciatellenergy? If god hadn’t parted this first couple, maybe all light would be grey, or silver. What is the process of this separation?). 5 And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night (Is it as simple as naming one Day and the other Night? That’s our first distinction, our first duality. From here on out, does every other split we make recall the initial swirl-tangle-mass-or-knot of light, that is, good light, and darkness, the original tenant of creation? Why is darkness first on the lease? Why anterior?). And the evening and the morning were the first day (And may I

machte Fried Chicken. Dude, wenn die Aliens zurückkommen, werden sie unserer Spezies einen postkolonialen Swirly verpassen. Amen.), und Finsternis lag auf der Tiefe; (Ich sag’s euch, so eine Finsternis wird nicht mehr gemacht. Oder solche Tiefen. War das Gesicht der Tiefe cunty? Die Beschreibung ist irgendwie sassy, hat was gossipartiges: Hast du gehört, was Finsternis letzte Woche gemacht hat? – Letzte? Es sind noch nicht mal fünf Tage. Aber erzähl weiter. – Sie lag... auf der Tiefe. – Lag sie nicht! – Oh doch) und der Geist Gottes schwebte über dem Wasser (Wie hätte das ausgesehen? Nebel? In der englischen Übersetzung von Genesis 1 wird die Präposition “upon” verwendet und ist damit geglückt: Upon hat nicht mehr die Verwendungsbreite, die es im siebzehnten Jahrhundert hatte. Heute würden wir im Englischen vielleicht across oder over sagen, aber keines davon vermittelt die Zartheit von upon. Und genau das ist ein wichtiger Moment im Leben der Figur Gottes: Wir sehen, wenn auch nicht Gottes Körper, die Choreographie einer kreativen Haltung. Nach dieser Zeile folgen nicht mehr viele Beschreibungen davon, wie Gott kosmische Hausarbeit verrichtet. Erst bei Hiob, dem geschwätzigsten Auftritt Gottes; wenn uns eine Litanei von Handlungen aus dem genervten Wirbelwind entgegenfliegt.). 3 Und Gott sprach: Es werde Licht! Und es ward Licht. (G-s-E-w-L-U-ew-L-o-p-s-e-i-n-s-u-i-t-r-r-c-d-r-c-t-a-d-h-d-h-c-e-t.-e-t.-h:). 4 Und Gott sah, dass das Licht (vor dem Licht war die Welt unberührt, nun: Jungfräulichkeit aufgehoben) gut war (haben die Menschen 1611 wirklich so gesprochen? Waren sie in Bezug auf das Fleisch des Satzes taub, aber hinsichtlich der beiden Enden in Ordnung?).

Da schied Gott das Licht von der Finsternis (Warum? Ich meine, ich mag Schatten genauso wie Scheuklappen, aber was ist falsch an einer Art gemischter Energie, wie bei Stracciatella-Jogurt?

Hätte Gott dieses erste Paar nicht getrennt, wäre vielleicht jedes Licht grau oder silbern. Wie verläuft dieser Trennungsprozess?). 5 und nannte das Licht Tag und die Finsternis Nacht (Ist es wirklich so einfach, das eine “Tag” und das andere “Nacht” zu nennen? Das hier ist unsere erste Unterscheidung, unsere erste Dualität. Erinnert jede weitere Trennung, die wir von nun an vornehmen, an den ursprünglichen Wirbel, das Gewirr, die Masse, den Knoten aus Licht; also das gute Licht, und Finsternis, den ursprünglichen Bewohner der Schöpfung? Warum steht die Finsternis an erster Stelle? Warum vorne?). Da ward aus Abend und Morgen der erste

even talk about time before this day? Darkness had no position, no era, yet it must be out of its substance that god spoke, so why is it not good, or even better than light? I.e. when will darkness have its day?).

6 And God said, Let there be a firmament in (indiana!) the midst of the waters (Another striking feature of yung earth was the flatness of its water cycle. Before the firmament—that’s Renaissance for atmosphere— was created, it rained inside an ocean that was the planet’s only feature. Light from other galaxies shot through this spherical waterbed and out the other side, producing a wobbly disco ball effect for the angels who danced in bubbles. The sweat of these angels would accumulate, at which point they would shake very fast, throwing the liquid in droplets that were like rain in every way but omnidirectionality. What a mouthful! Thank heavens god made heavens, pulling the water cycle out of the sea and righting it, halo erectus.), and let it divide the waters from the (John) waters. 7 And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were (we’re-here-fear-cheer) under the firmament from the waters which were (beer-seer-year-clear-mere-sheer) above the firmament: and it was so (picture IT going “..So?”). 8 And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening (my)an(aconda don’t want none unless..?) d the morning were the second day (jk serpents weren’t invented yet!).

9 And (another thing… crossing the williamsburg bridge into the city for class 9.18, I recall the course in undergrad for which I read St. Augustine’s City of God Against the Pagans. My professor, Demetrius Eudell, was a remarkable man. His speech flowed out in athletic rhythms of high and low culture, mediated by phrases he would coin to accommodate this shift, such as informal pharmaceutical industry for drug dealing. He was a blue black Floridian, sharply dressed, with an immaculate pencil moustache that agreed with an almost risible genteel drawl. I say this not to mock him, I merely knew from conversation that he wasn’t old money. One of

Tag (Und darf ich überhaupt über Zeit vor diesem Tag sprechen? Die Finsternis hatte keinen Platz, keine Ära, dennoch muss es an ihrer Substanz liegen, dass Gott sprach. Warum ist sie also nicht gut, oder sogar besser als Licht? D.h. wann kommt Finsternis an die Reihe?).

6 Und Gott sprach: Es werde eine Feste zwischen (Indiana!) den Wassern, (Ein weiteres auffälliges Merkmal der jungen Erde war die Flachheit ihres Wasserkreislaufs. Bevor die Feste – das ist Renaissance-Sprech für Atmosphäre – erschaffen wurde, regnete es innerhalb eines Ozeans, der das einzige Merkmal des Planeten war. Licht von anderen Galaxien schoss durch dieses sphärische Wasserbett, auf der anderen Seite wieder hinaus, was einen wackeligen Diskokugel-Effekt für Engel erzeugte, die in Blasen tanzten. Der Schweiß dieser Engel sammelte sich an, woraufhin sie sich ziemlich schnell bewegten und die Flüssigkeit in Tröpfchen warfen, die in jeder Hinsicht, außer in ihrer Omnidirektionalität – was für ein Zungenbrecher – wie Regen waren! Gott sei Dank machte Gott den Himmel, zog den Wasserkreislauf aus dem Meer und richtete ihn auf – halo erectus.) die da scheide zwischen den (John Waters) Wassern. 7 Da machte Gott die Feste und schied das Wasser (Asche-Lasche-Flasche-Masche) unter der Feste von dem Wasser (blasser-nasser-krasser) über der Feste. Und es geschah so (stell dir vor, wie ES sagt “…So?”). 8 Und Gott nannte die Feste Himmel. Da ward aus (my) A(naconda don’t want none unless..?) bend und Morgen der zweite Tag (Spaß, Schlangen waren da noch gar nicht erfunden!)

9 Und (noch etwas…als ich die Williamsburg-Brücke überquere, um zur Vorlesung 9.18 in die Stadt zu fahren, erinnere ich mich an einen Kurs aus dem Grundstudium, für den ich Augustinus’ „Von der Bürgerschaft Gottes“ gelesen hatte. Mein Professor, Demetrius Eudell, war ein bemerkenswerter Mann. Seine Vortragsweise floss in athletischen Rhythmen durch die Hoch- und Populärkultur, vermittelt durch Ausdrücke, die er prägte, um diesem Wechsel Rechnung zu tragen, wie zum Beispiel „informelle pharmazeutische Industrie“ für Drogenhandel. Er war ein blauschwarzer Floridianer, schick gekleidet, mit einem makellosen Bleistiftbart, der zu seinem fast lächerlich vornehmen Singsang passte. Ich sage das nicht, um mich über ihn lustig zu machen; ich wusste aus Gesprächen, dass

twelve, if memory doesn’t embellish. A truly amazing success story. Yet who knew if he was happy? At the very least, a tenured radical at a private university. Professor Eudell pressed this point on Augustine: before this work no term existed in the discourse of philosophy to flatten the distinctions between the innumerable polytheisms on earth. “Pagans” made this statistical majority of believers subordinate to those within the City of God, not a real place, mind you, but the unreal city rising from the wreckage of Revelation, with its Kafkaesque sequence of diamond, chalcedony, emerald, amaranthine [I have no idea if these stones are named—lavish is the point] gates that guard the houses of the holy. Eudell maintained this category was a brilliant invention. Pagans. Over which so much blood has been shed, it must be more alive, more propitiated, and more satisfied than a god. I thought, too, of the beauty of the light on the buildings lining the river. They looked so blithe, everyone who could see them gazed as into the eyes of friends. What is god to a city? The architectural feat of its construction is a marvel. But the architecture of the species that develops into minds that accomplish this task is a miracle. Who builds the builders? And their glistening shapes on the water their system of accounting-extraction-growth will cause to rise—is the fate of coastal megacities a flaw in some design, or a negative miracle?) God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place (G-s-L-t-w-u-t-h-b-g-t-u-o-p-o-a-e-h-a-n-h-e-e-a-o-n-nl-d-i-t-e-t-d-e-a-t-g-t-e-a-d,-e-e-v-h-e-o-c-r-r-e-e-t-e,-sn-r-h-e-e-d-r), and let the dry land appear (picture dry land in the wings of being nervously primping its ruff [Renaissance dry land, after all], waiting for its cue to come into the visible—but what is the connection between sight and being? Even the 1996 New Living Translation keeps this verb, so it must be direct from the old tongues. Is it a case of the world being a stage? Creation is quite the pageant. And as always, there are

seine Familie kein reicher Geldadel war. Eines von zwölf Kindern, wenn ich mich richtig erinnere. Eine erstaunliche Erfolgsgeschichte. Doch wer wusste schon, ob er glücklich war? Zumindest war er ein radikaler Professor mit Festanstellung an einer privaten Universität. Professor Eudell griff diesen Punkt hinsichtlich Augustinus immer wieder auf: Vor dem genannten Werk gab es im philosophischen Diskurs keinen Begriff, der die Unterschiede zwischen den unzähligen Formen des Polytheismus auf der Erde einebnen konnte. Der Begriff „Heiden“ machte diese statistische Mehrheit der Gläubigen denen untergeordnet, die innerhalb der Stadt Gottes lebten – wohlgemerkt kein realer Ort, sondern eine unwirkliche Stadt, die sich aus den Trümmern der Offenbarung erhebt; mit ihrer kafkaesken Abfolge von Toren aus Diamant-, Chalcedon, Smaragd, Amaranth [ich habe keine Ahnung, ob diese Steine tatsächlich so heißen – der Prunk ist der Punkt], welche die Häuser der Heiligen bewachen. Eudell hielt diese Kategorie für eine brillante Erfindung. Heiden. Ein Konzept, über das so viel Blut vergossen wurde, dass sie lebendiger, versöhnlicher und zufriedener sein müssten als ein Gott. Ich dachte auch an die Schönheit, die das Licht auf die Gebäude am Fluss warf. Sie wirkten so sorglos, dass jede:r, der sie sah, sie wie Freund:innen anblickte. Was bedeutet Gott für eine Stadt? Die architektonische Meisterleistung ihres Baus ist ein Wunder. Aber die Architektur jener Spezies, die Bewusstsein entwickelt, um diese Aufgabe zu bewältigen, ist ein noch größeres Wunder. Wer baut die Erbauer? Und ihre glitzernden Gestalten auf dem Wasser, welches ihr System aus Buchhaltung, Extraktion und Wachstum zum Steigen bringen wird – ist das Schicksal der Küstenmetropolen ein Fehler in ihrem Entwurf oder ein negatives Wunder? Gott sprach: Es sammle sich das Wasser unter dem Himmel an einem Ort, (s-G-E-s-s-d-W-u-d-H-a-e-O-p-o-s-a-i-aa-n-e-i-n-i-r-r-t-m-c-s-s-t-s-m-n-t-a-:-m-h-s-e-m-e-,-c-l-e-r-e-m-h-er-h-l-a-s-l-s-b), dass man das Trockene sehe (stell dir vor, wie das trockene Land hinter den Kulissen nervös seine Halskrause zurechtzupft – [letztendlich ja Renaissance-Trockenland] – und darauf wartet, seinen Einsatz zu bekommen und ins Sichtbare zu treten. Doch was ist eigentlich die Verbindung zwischen Sehen und Sein? Selbst die New Living Translation von 1996 behält dieses Adjektiv bei, also muss es wohl direkt aus den alten Sprachen stammen. Ist die Welt vielleicht eine Bühne?). Die Schöpfung ist ein

those who set up (the waters, tech crews) and those who perform (dry land, tilda swinton). Not that I visually interact much with the earth, most of us have a strictly haptic relation with floors, sometimes olfactory, but since we are called to the ap]pear[apples n pears, knowledge n pleasure, pick n poison]ance of this thing, let us dress her. My dry land is wearing brown denim capris, a copper-rose tie-dye T torn around the collar, a gold satin ribbon choker—tied, not clasped—a pageboy bob, fulgurant gentle monster frames, and they got a fat ass n hairy legs. No shoes, duh.): and it was so (... so?). 10 And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering (Gossamer And Tilapia Hate Everything Right In Nine Gazpachos) together (Tobacco Offers Gentle Encouragement To Heather Eating Ravens) of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good. 11 And God said, Let the earth bring forth grass (yk that Albert Ayler record New Grass? The one where he does his free jazz thing over gospel and James Browny backing? Albert, sweet Al—this may well have been his version of Keats’ Endymion crash out. New Grass was a big fat commercial failure. The following year Ayler was dead, bloating in the east river, as seen above in munificent matin light… but there was love in the offing, mine certainly, and who doesn’t like balloon animals sighing over funk? A good deal of what is made appears [!!] too soon. God makes the world and the cosmic audience like, doesn’t get it! Which, if we inject geological time into the narrative of the bible, is sort of what happened. Billions of years into this orb humans appear [there i go again!]—the critic species. We were like, ye, this is cool and all… but what if we burned the coal and oil? Earth, god’s least understood record.), the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind (bar), whose seed is in itself, after his kind(le): and God(a) saw(e) that(i) it(o) was(u) good(y). 12 And the earth brought forth grass, and herb yielding seed (<3) after (</3) his (<3) kind (</3), and (<3) the (</3) tree (<3) yielding fruit, whose (</3) seed was in itself, after

wahres Spektakel. Und wie immer gibt es diejenigen, die alles vorbereiten (die Gewässer, Tech-Crews), und diejenigen, die auftreten (das trockene Land, Tilda Swinton). Nicht, dass ich visuell viel mit der Erde zu tun hätte, die meisten von uns haben eine rein haptische Beziehung zu Böden, manchmal auch eine olfaktorische. Aber da wir dazu angehalten werden, uns mit ihrem Ersch[Schein und Sein, Kern und Schale, Pflücken und Gift]einen zu beschäftigen, lass sie uns ankleiden. Mein trockenes Land trägt braune Denim-Capris, ein kupferrosa Batikshirt, das am Kragen zerrissen ist, ein goldenes Satinband als Halsband – gebunden, nicht verschlossen –, einen Pagenkopf, blitzartige, sanfte Monsterbrillen, hat einen fetten Arsch und haarige Beine. Keine Schuhe, duh.) Und es geschah so (… so?). 10 Und Gott nannte das Trockene Erde, und die Sammlung (Sanfte Aale meiden mürrisch leuchtende Untiefen, neugierige Grundeln) der Wasser und das Zusammen (Zähe Unken suchen abends murmelnd moosige Erlennester) der Wasser nannte er Meer. Und Gott sah, dass es gut war. 11 Und Gott sprach: Es lasse die Erde aufgehen Gras, (wusstest du, dass Albert Ayler New Grass aufgezeichnet hat? Die Platte, auf der er sein Free-Jazz-Ding über einem Gospel- und James-Brown-artigen Begleitgroove spielt? Albert, süßer A1 – das könnte gut seine Version von Keats‘ Endymion-Absturz gewesen sein. New Grass war ein fetter kommerzieller Misserfolg. Im darauffolgenden Jahr war Ayler tot, trieb aufgedunsen im East River, wie oben im großzügigen Morgenlicht zu sehen ist... aber Liebe bahnte sich an, meine ganz sicher, und wer mag keine Ballontiere, die zu Funk seufzen? Vieles von dem, was erschaffen wird, erscheint (!!) zu früh. Gott erschafft die Welt und das kosmische Publikum so: checkt’s nicht! Was, wenn man geologische Zeit in die biblische Erzählung einschreibt, auch irgendwie so passiert ist. Milliarden Jahre auf diesem Erdball später tauchen die Menschen auf [da geht’s schon wieder los] – die Kritiker-Spezies. Und wir so: ‚Ja, cool und so… aber was, wenn wir Kohle und Öl verbrennen?‘ Die Erde: Gottes am wenigsten verstandene Platte) Kraut, das Samen bringe, und fruchtbare Bäume (yum), die ein jeder nach seiner Art Früchte tragen, in denen ihre Same ist auf der Erde. Und es(say) geschah so. 12 Und die Erde (<3) ließ aufgehen junges Gras (<3), und Kraut (<3), das Samen (<3) bringt (<3), ein jedes nach seiner Art (<3), und Bäume die da Früchte tragen (<3), in denen ihr Same ist (<3), ein jeder nach seiner

his (<3) kind: and God saw that it was good. 13 And the evening and the (</3) morning (speaking of waking up, I just got coffee with a dear friend Max who used to live in Ridgewood and got me writing philosophically through the motivation of this journal we collaborated on in covid. The Reservoir. Max is visiting from Berlin where he moved to get a masters for free, more or less, and today he brought his copy of Anti-Oedipus to the cafe. He showed me this passage: How poorly the problem of literature is put, starting from the ideology that it bears, or from the co-option of it by a social order. People are co-opted, not works, which will always come to awake a sleeping youth, and which never cease extending their flame. Not that I vouch for the cult of youth, but I love this metaphor and almost feel the need to associate this figure into dew, child of the morning, and not entirely the enemy of flame, dew as drops of the blood of the sun tipping blades of grass. Fire and water, light and the deep. In a way the bible seems to me the first fan fiction. Not just in the gospels that retell the same story with an emphasis on different combinations of the celebrity apostles, but in the automatic interpretation made by the I in the heads of its readers. This I and its experiences, its capacity for reflection, is drawn from the actual letters of the text. Feel as we may that our foolish thoughts are not of this world, immaterial and struck from the dry and spectacular stone of interiority, we misconstrue the relation with the book in our hands from which, unbeknownst to us, the letters of our conversation travel in one ear, assemble themselves like panthers mid-leap, or sloths mid-nap, or fish mid-oblivion, disassemble and exit the other side to fly back to place and nudge those next to them from slumber into the circuit. The bible is simply the most willing and acrobatic example of this shape, the circle of interpretation, upon whose circumference the I that signifies our solid selves separate from all else, is merely borrowed matter from the text.) were the third day (<3).

Art (<3). Und Gott(a) sah(e), dass(i) es(o) gut(u) war(yey). 13 Da ward aus Abend (<3) und Morgen (apropos Aufwachen: Ich habe gerade mit meinem guten Freund Max Kaffee getrunken, der früher in Ridgewood gelebt hat und mich durch das gemeinsame Journal schreiben während Corona – The Reservoir – zum philosophischen Schreiben brachte. Max ist aus Berlin zu Besuch, wo er für einen mehr oder weniger kostenlosen Master hingezogen ist; Heute brachte er seine Ausgabe von Anti-Oedipus mit ins Café. Er zeigte mir diese Passage: Wie unangemessen, die Literatur, ausgehend von der in ihr enthaltenen Ideologie oder ihrer Verwertbarkeit innerhalb einer herrschenden gesellschaftlichen Ordnung, problematisieren zu wollen. Verwertet werden Menschen, nicht die Werke, die immer wieder neu einen schlummernden jungen Menschen aufwecken, die nicht aufhören werden, ihr Feuer weiterzutragen. Nicht, dass ich mich für einen Jugendkult aussprechen würde, aber ich liebe diese Metapher und verspüre fast das Bedürfnis, sie mit dem Tau in Verbindung zu bringen, Kind des Morgens, und nicht ganz Feind der Flamme –Tau, Tropfen des Blutes der Sonne, die Grashalme an ihren Spitzen berührt. Feuer und Wasser, Licht und die Tiefe. Auf eine Art wirkt die Bibel auf mich wie die erste Fan Fiction. Nicht nur wegen der Evangelien, die dieselbe Geschichte mit einem Schwerpunkt auf unterschiedliche Kombinationen der Promi-Apostel nacherzählen, sondern auch in der automatischen Interpretation, die das „Ich“ in den Köpfen ihrer Leser:innen vornimmt. Dieses Ich, seine Erfahrungen und Reflexionsfähigkeit, leiten sich aus den tatsächlichen Buchstaben des Textes ab. So sehr wir auch glauben mögen, dass unsere unsinnigen Gedanken nicht von dieser Welt sind, immateriell und aus dem trockenen, spektakulären Stein der Innerlichkeit geschlagen, so sehr verkennen wir doch die Beziehung zu dem Buch in unseren Händen, aus dem, ohne dass wir es merken, die Buchstaben unseres Gesprächs in das eine Ohr wandern, sich dort wie Panther mitten im Sprung, wie Faultiere im Nickerchen oder wie Fische mitten in der Vergessenheit zusammenfügen, sich wieder auflösen und auf der anderen Seite austreten, um an ihren Platz zurückzufliegen und die Nebenstehenden aus dem Schlummer in den Kreislauf zu stupsen. Die Bibel ist schlichtweg das bereitwilligste und akrobatischste Beispiel für diese Form – jener Kreis der Interpretation, auf dessen Umfang das „Ich“, das unser festes, von allem anderen getrenntes Selbst markiert, lediglich vom Text entlehnter Stoff ist) der dritte Tag (<3).

Translator’s Note

If poetry has a purpose it may be the creation of ambiguity between events, words, relations and things, out which a contingent reality may appear that is more amenable to correspondence than it is to category, division, and other distinctions that aid in arrival at knowledge. Poems fail at knowledge, and in this failure the world draws near. Prose would like the world over there, stay still... click! It is more interested in the full picture, and the necessary definition of objects therein. Zoe Dackweiler’s work is like a photograph with an irregular depth of field. Her prose drifts through a spectrum of intelligibility that includes bureaucratic regulation, nature writing, epistolary confession, good old fashioned storytelling, and flashes of affect that are like inclusions in the amber of verse. Understand, dear reader, that for a not-so-fluent-in-German translator, the ambiguity produced by these tonal variations was at times intense. I would often fall on my own lyricism when the precise music of this mixture was in fact stronger and more consistent with the whole piece, so my usual habit of writing and not looking back gradually dissolved. The piece is literally about the confusion between amber and phosphorus on the Baltic coast (as well as the confusion between a child and an older figure, perhaps the child grown up, perhaps an echo of environmental confusion). In order to sustain these deliberate blendings I had to learn to follow Zoe’s shapeshifting tone. It was an honor to wade into this uncertain text, and I hope I have preserved its resonant mesh.

ZOE DACKWEILER

BRENNEN

Brennen

I sit in my own shadow, she says, the way my mother gave birth to it1.

Eine erste Begegnung. Mehrere tausend Kraniche am Himmel, die auf dem Weg nach Süden noch einmal auf der Boddenlandschaft rasten, und Winde, die stärker werden, das Kind spürt es am Zug des Händegriffs der Mutter. Wenn sich die Oktobersonne durch die Wolken bricht, fällt es zurück und hinter die anderen, die es nach einiger Zeit nur noch als Schemen erkennt. Finger, vergraben im Sand und Hände zur Schale geformt, um die Krustentiere, allerlei Gestein zu sammeln, bückt es sich, hockt, gräbt aus, dreht und wendet Funde in den Fingern, beobachtet den Lichteinfall, die Einschlüsse. In diesen Tagen sammelt es, bis die Taschen überquellen, führt akribische Listen, datiert, was angespült wird, z.B.:

- Plastik

- Muscheln

- Treibholz

- Allerlei Gestein

Im Fernsehen: Ein Dokumentarfilm über die Entstehung von Bernstein. Bernsteinkiefern, die vor über 50 Millionen Jahren Harz absonderten, dass auf den Boden floss und trocknete, sobald es mit Sauerstoff in Berührung kam. Durch den Anstieg des Meeresspiegels gingen die Bäume irgendwann im Wasser unter, nur das getrocknete Harz blieb, wurde vom Boden losgelöst und schwimmt bis heute in den Meeren2 . Später verweist der Moderator auf das verschollene Bernsteinzimmer, das im Zweiten Weltkrieg von den Nazis aus der Sowjetunion geraubt und nach Königsberg gebracht wurde3. Eine Rekonstruktion: Wandverkleidungen

1 Waldrop, Rosmarie (1999): “Conversation 4: On Place.” Reluctant Gravities. Poetry Foundation: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53465/conversation-4on-place.

2 L’essentiel (2023): Seltener Fund: Sie blühte vor 38 Millionen Jahren. https:// www.lessentiel.lu/de/story/sie-bluehte-vor-38-millionen-jahren-312773916851.

3 Delvaux de Fenffe, Gregor (2020): Bernsteinzimmer. Planet Wissen: https:// www.planet wissen.de/natur/schmuck/bernstein/pwiebernsteinzimmer100.html.

translated from the german by EERO TALO

BRENNEN

Burn

I sit in my own shadow, she says, the way my mother gave birth to it.

A first encounter. Several thousand cranes in the sky, halting in the salty marshes to rest once again on their way south, as the wind picks up, which the child feels in the tug of the mother’s hand. When October sun breaks the clouds, they fall back behind the other children, whose shadows only they recognize after a moment. Fingers buried in the sand, hands cupped to collect crustaceans and curious rocks, they bend, crouch, dig, turn and examine the finds in their palm, observing the way light wends around inclusions. These days, they collect until their pockets nearly burst, making meticulous lists, dating what washes ashore, for example:

– Plastic

– Shells

– Driftwood

– All kinds of rocks

On TV: A documentary on the formation of amber. Ancient pines 50 million years ago secreted resin that flowed to the ground and dried on contact with oxygen. Due to rising sea levels, the trees were eventually submerged in water; but the resin remained dry, and, detached from the ground, floats in the seas today.

Later the documentary refers to the lost Amber Room, stolen by the Nazis from the Soviet Union during World War II and transported to Königsberg. A reconstruction: walls paneled in amber, with gold and mirror accents. The image is stunningly bright; I have to blink several times, then it goes away, replaced by historical black-and-white footage of Königsberg in ruins.

My father turns off the TV and reminds me as he leaves the room

aus Bernstein, Gold und Spiegelelementen, geschnitzt und verziert. Es blendet durch den Bildschirm, ich muss mehrmals blinzeln, dann ist das Bild weg, abgelöst von historischen schwarz-weiß Aufnahmen der Trümmer von Königsberg.

Mein Vater schaltet den Fernseher aus und erinnert mich beim Verlassen des Zimmers an die Kette, die mir meine Patentante zur Geburt geschenkt hatte. Bernsteinperlen, die ich manchmal abnahm, um sie mir vor das Auge zu halten, damit sich alles gold-gelb verfärbte: der Baum im Garten, die Haare meiner Schulfreundin, bis ich sie später mühsam wieder auffädelte und in meiner Schatulle einschloss. Manchmal kam mir dabei eine Perle abhanden, rollte unter das Bett oder den Schrank, sodass ich mich auf den Boden legte, meinen Arm austreckte, sie zwischen Staubflusen nur erahnen konnte.

Seit Wochen hatte das Kind sich vorbereitet auf diese Tage im Oktober. Hefte ausgeliehen, um sich die verschiedenen Farben, Beschaffenheiten, Formen und Namen einzuprägen, Sandklaffmuschel - Mya arenaria, Belemniten; Hatte sich vorbereitet auf die Ausbrüche und Einbrüche der Mutter, im Zimmer und Kopf, zwischen den Kiefern, unter der Bettdecke, am Rande der Treppenstufen, wartend. Später am Nachmittag greift es in die Hosentasche, zieht den Stein heraus, um noch einmal in einem anderen Licht zu betrachten:

Und jetzt in diesem Blicken, dem vorsichtigen Sichten des Fundes, löst sich eine Anspannung hinter den Lidern. Es betrachtet die Einschlüsse im Harz, wem würde es davon erzählen? Die anderen bereits an der Gischt

branden

Wunden auf der Haut, Millionen von kleinen Aufbrüchen und Ausbrüche im Traum, Wäldersterben, Widerstreben, Bernsteinkiefern, abperlendes Harz.

Was passiert, wenn die Schichten abgetragen werden?

about the necklace my godmother gave me at birth. Amber beads that I sometimes slipped off and held up to my eye to turn everything golden-yellow: the tree in the garden, my school friend’s hair, before I eventually threaded them back together, painstakingly, and locked them in my jewelry box. Sometimes a bead would slip away from me, rolling under the bed or wardrobe, and I would lie down on the floor, stretch out my arm, barely distinguishing it from the dust bunnies.

For weeks, the child had prepared for these days in October. From library brochures they had memorized various hues, shapes, textures, and names: soft-shell clam – Mya arenaria, belemnites; and the mother’s outbursts and incursions, in the room and in their head, among the pines, under covers, at expectant stairs’ edge, for these, too, the child had prepared. In the late afternoon they reach in their pocket and pull out the rock, to examine it, once again, in different light: Now in this regard, the cautious inspection of the find, a tension behind their eyelids is released. They consider the inclusions in the resin… who will they tell about it? The others are already in the spray, crashing

on their skin, millions of tiny cuts and cracks in a dream, a forest dies forward, and backward, ancient pines—beads of resin.

When layers are removed, what then?

An article features an interview with Tomasz Szachura, leader of

In einem Artikel wird Tomasz Szachura interviewt, Leiter des polnischen Taucherteams „Baltictech“, das in der Ostsee vor der polnischen Küste den im Zweiten Weltkrieg gesunkenen Frachter “Karlsruhe” in einer Tiefe von 88 Metern entdeckt hat, und der als Sensation gilt. Die Vermutung: Teile oder das komplette seit Kriegsende vermisste Bernsteinzimmer aus dem Königsberger Schloss könnte sich an Bord befinden. Der Journalist verweist auf die erschwerten Bedingungen des Tauchgangs, Szachura betont „Unten sind etwa vier Grad, und man darf dort maximal 30 Minuten bleiben4”. Nachts schreibe ich an K.: Ich kenne eine See, ein Binnenmeer, und Abwege, die auf unebenes Gelände führen, auf Trampelpfade, vorbei an Kiefern. Das Ab- und Auftauchen in der See ist erschwert aufgrund der Wassertemperatur, was das Nachforschen behindern würde. Wer sich nicht sicher sei, ob es sich um einen Fund handelt, könne damit leicht gegen den Zahn klopfen, auch ein weicher Ton weise darauf hin.

Die Mutter steht vor dem Spiegel, zieht das Kind zu sich und die Mundwinkel nach oben, so, die Mundwinkel, die zurückfallen, immerzu. Dann legt die Mutter ihren Kopf auf seiner Schulter ab und greift mit der Hand in die Leere, nicht mehr wissend ob und was sie greifen wollte, eine Hand, eine Kuppe, oder eine Distanz. Später erzählt sie den anderen am Essenstisch eine Geburt, es war einmal, dass geboren wurde, so beginnt es, es war einmal ein Kind und jetzt sitzt die Mutter in der Küche, am spärlich beleuchteten Tisch, rauchend und bläst Ringe in die Luft, während die Gesichtszüge entgleiten, ein Zug nach dem anderen, dabei haben sie es doch geübt, gemeinsam vor dem Spiegel, die Mundwinkel nach oben, so.

Dass es eine Haltung zu bewahren gilt, dass es sich an etwas festzuhalten gibt, dem Fund in der Tasche, denkt es, umschließt mit den Fingern, greift noch fester, bis die Handinnenflächen schmerzen. Dass es eine Haltung zu 4 Tuszyńska, Katarzyna/ Bazydło, Cezary (2021): Weitere Expedition zum Ostseegrund. Polen: Steht die Hebung des Bernsteinzimmers bevor? MDR: https:// www.mdr.de/nachrichten/welt/osteuropa/land leute/ostsee-bernsteinzimmer-tauchexpedition-polen-karlsruhe-wracktaucher-100.html.

the Polish diving team “Baltictech,” which discovered a freighter sunk during World War II in the Baltic off the Polish coast at a depth of 88 meters. The discovery of the “Karlsruhe” is a sensation, as it is suspected that parts of, if not the entire Amber Room, missing since the end of the war could be on board. Asked to describe the conditions of the dive, Szachura emphasizes, “It’s only around four degrees Celsius down there, so you can only dive for 30 minutes max.”

At night I write to K: I know a sea, an inland sea, and byways that lead to rough terrain, to beaten paths, past pine trees. Diving and recovery are difficult in this sea because of its temperature, discouraging investigation. If unsure whether something is a find, tap it lightly on a tooth; discoveries make a soft sound.

The mother stands before the mirror, pulls the child close and tugs their mouthcorners up, like so, the corners of their mouth that are ever-falling. Then she rests her head on their shoulder and reaches into reflected space, no longer certain whether or what she wished to grasp, a hand, the tips of fingers, or a gap. Later she tells others at the dining table of a birth; once upon a time, a child was born, that’s how it starts, once upon a time a kid, and now the mother in the kitchen sits at table with a little light, blowing smoke rings in the air, while her facial features slip, sliding down into that other, though they had practiced, together, in the mirror, turning mouthcorners up like so.

That there is a composure to maintain, something to hold on to, the find in their pocket, they think, cupping and clutching it, gripping ever tighter, til their palms hurt. That there is a composure to maintain, practiced gestures and stable trains of thought, the adherence to a narrative of motherhood that doesn’t tell of failure.

When layers are removed, what becomes of the face?

From research on the Amber Room:

Warnings issued by resorts in their regulations for people collecting stones along the beach: There is a risk of confusing amber with

bewahren gilt, routinierte Gesten und durchdachte Züge, das Festhalten an einer Erzählung von Mütterlichkeit, das kein Ausfallen erlaubt.

Was passiert, wenn die Schichten abgetragen werden, was passiert mit dem Gesicht?

Bei der Recherche zum Bernsteinzimmer:

Die Gefahrenhinweise der Kurverwaltungen in ihren Strandordnungen für Steinsammler:innen. Die Verwechslungsgefahr von Bernstein und Phosphor, der als Bestandteil von Brandbomben im Zweiten Weltkrieg über der Ostsee abgeworfen wurde und nun als vereinzelte Klumpen vom Meeresgrund an die Strände gespült wird, in den Hosentaschen trocknet, sich mit Sauerstoff verbindet und bei Temperaturen um 34 Grad entzündet. Er brennt dann mit 1.300 Grad, ist kaum noch zu löschen5 . Verbrennungen durch Phosphor zerstören das Gewebe viel stärker als herkömmliche Brandwunden. Der Phosphor brennt sich tief in die Haut ein - durch das Fettgewebe bis in die Muskulatur6. Der Satz im Bericht: Die Zeit drängt. Wann wird die Munition endlich geborgen7?

Tagsüber schreibe ich an K.: Ich kenne eine See, ein Binnenmeer und Strände, an die ich immerzu gespült werde. Abwege, die auf unebenes Gelände führen, auf Trampelpfade. Durch meine Hände fließt das Wasser, mit ihnen grabe ich aus und hervor: Sandklaffmuscheln, Belemniten, Schichten von Erinnerungen, immerzu. In den Strandordnungen wird auf eine Verwechslungsgefahr hingewiesen. Die Zeit dränge. Was passiert mit dem Gesicht?

Nachts wacht das Kind zunehmend auf, neben dem Bett und inmitten der

5 Carstens, Peter: Kein Bernstein, sondern Phosphor: Worauf sie bei StrandFunden achten sollten. GEO Wissen: https://www.geo.de/wissen/diese-strandfundstuecke-sollten-sie-niemals-die-hosentasche stecken-30168400.html.

6 NDR (2019): Phosphor statt Bernstein: Gefahr am Strand. https://www.ndr.de/ ratgeber/gesundheit/Phosphor-statt-Bernstein-Gefahr-am-Strand,phosphor126. html.

7 Carstens, Peter: Kein Bernstein, sondern Phosphor: Worauf sie bei StrandFunden achten sollten. GEO Wissen: https://www.geo.de/wissen/diese-strandfundstuecke-sollten-sie-niemals-die-hosentasche stecken-30168400.html.

phosphorus, which was dropped over the Baltic Sea as a component of incendiary bombs in World War II and is now being washed ashore in isolated lumps from the seabed. Phosphorus dries in trouser pockets, bonds with oxygen, and ignites at temperatures around 93 degrees Fahrenheit. It then burns at 1,300 degrees and is nearly impossible to quench. Burns caused by phosphorus destroy more tissue than conventional burns. Phosphorus sears deeply into the skin – through fatty tissue and into muscle. The conclusion of the report: Time is of the essence. When will the ordnance finally be cleared?

By day I write to K: I know a bay, an inland sea, and beaches upon which I constantly wash. Byways that lead to rough terrain, beaten paths. Water runs through my hands, and with these hands I dig and gather: soft-shell clams, belemnites, layers of memory without end. The beach regulations point out the risk of confusion. Time runs along. What is happening to the face?

At night, the child wakes up increasingly often, next to the bed, among objects yet to be dated, soaked in sweat. A sea of scales, wildfires unsleeping. Over the course of the holiday, their scalp becomes scalier, redder, bloodier, for as they rest they scratch new scabs, preventing the wounds from healing. Atopic dermatitis, the doctor pronounces, bending over the child’s head in the coastal town, while the mother translates for the grandma. They hand out gummy bears, and this has to stop; their mouthcorners turn up, like so.

During the night ride across the fields and country roads, nothing for miles but isolated farms, with lights burning out front and dogs barking into the echoing darkness. Now and then a bit of disorientation, a slight moment of tension wondering if the correct turn was taken. At some point I think I hear the sea, that promise of the crashing waves and feet in the sand, only it is dark and I can’t say, really, what awaits me, the terrain at this hour is unrecognizable, there are no land-

Datierungen, schweißgebadet. In einem Schuppenmeer, Flächenbrände in der Nacht. Im Laufe des Urlaubs wird die Kopfhaut immer röter und blutiger, im Schlaf kratzt es die frisch gebildete Kruste wieder ab, hindert die Wunde daran, abzuheilen. Atopische Dermatitis attestiert der Arzt über den Kopf im Küstenort gebeugt, während die Mutter der Oma übersetzt. Sie reichen Gummibärchen und dass es aufhören muss, die Mundwinkel nach oben, so.

Auf der Autofahrt bei Nacht über die Felder und Landstraßen, meilenweit nichts außer vereinzelten Höfen, vor denen Licht brennt und das Kläffen der Hunde, das in der Dunkelheit nachhallt. Dann wieder Orientierungslosigkeit, kurze Anspannung, ob die richtige Abzweigung genommen wurde. Irgendwann meine ich das Meer zu hören, diese Vorfreude auf das Branden der Gischt und die Füße im Sand, nur ist es dunkel und ich kann kaum mehr einschätzen, was mich erwartet, ich erkenne das Gelände in der Dunkelheit nicht, es gibt keine Anhaltspunkte, seit Jahren war ich nicht hier. K. drückt auf Repeat, Lou Reed singt:

(to have a vanishing act/to always be looking forward/and never looking back)8

Manchmal, wenn es sich unbeobachtet wähnt, schaut das Kind nach der Mutter und erkennt eine Ähnlichkeit in der Gestik, dem Greifen nach der Gischt. Dem Streichen der Haare von der Stirn, auch die hochgezogene Braue. Dass etwas die Sicht versperrt, so scheint es, für beide gleichermaßen, dass eine Annäherung erschwert. Unebenes Gelände, auf das es sich nun ganz heimlich begibt; Feuchtgebiete und Trampelpfade abseits des Weges, die vom Meer wegführen, auf denen es sich verläuft.

Am Abend kommt es zurück, unsicher was es sammeln oder mitbringen wollte, unsicher, ob des Datierens, Archivierens, der Ausgrabungen.

Agnès Varda in „The beaches of Agnès “: My memories swarm around me like confused flies9 .

8 Reed, Lou (2003): Vanishing act. 9 Varda, Agnès (2008): The Beaches of Agnès.

marks, I haven’t been here in years. K hits repeat, Lou Reed sings: (to have a vanishing act/to always be looking forward/and never looking back)

Sometimes, when they think they are unobserved, the child looks at their mother and sees a similarity in her gestures, the way she grasps at the waves’ spray. Or brushes hair from her forehead, also the raised eyebrow. Something is blocking the view, it seems, equally for both of them, making it hard for one to approach the other. Rough terrain, which they now furtively enter; wetlands and beaten paths unmarked, leading from the sea, where they lose themselves.

In the evening they return, unsure of what they wanted to collect or bring back, unsure of the dating, the archiving, the excavations.

Agnès Varda in The Beaches of Agnès: “My memories swarm around me like confused flies.”

There is a point when the collecting, the archiving, must stop. The excavations—stop, the ever-layering of memory. There is a point when behind the brows nothing releases anymore, only tenses up. Then the child lies locked in their room on the floor, with collected finds scattered all about, the lifeless organisms, mussels, stones, until a deep sleep overcomes them, the fatigue and exhaustion of the last few days. Millions of tiny cuts and cracks in a dream, a forest dies forward, and backward, ancient pines, beads of resin. When will the ordnance be cleared?

On the last day of holiday: the mother’s sudden energy after days in bed, which the child senses in the way she grips their hand at noon. In the coastal town they pass shops that are now finally closing—only to reopen next season to entice tourists all over again—with only a few displays still open, featuring necklaces, pendants, decorated mugs, T-shirts. Into the view from the café overlooking the island, a crane

Es gibt einen Punkt, wo das Sammeln, das Archivieren aufhören muss. Die Ausgrabungen stoppen, Schichten von Erinnerungen, immerzu. Es gibt einen Punkt, wo sich hinter den Augenbrauen nichts mehr löst, nur verkrampft. Da liegt das Kind auf dem Zimmerboden, hinter verschlossener Tür, verstreut die Funde auf dem Boden, die leblosen Tiere, Muscheln, Steine, bis es ein tiefer Schlaf überkommt, die Müdigkeit und Strapazen der letzten Tage. Millionen von kleinen Aufbrüchen und Ausbrüchen im Traum, Wäldersterben, Widerstreben, Bernsteinkiefern, abperlendes Harz. Wann wird die Munition geborgen?

Am letzten Tag des Urlaubs: Der plötzliche Tatendrang der Mutter nach Tagen im Bett, das Kind spürt es am Zug des Händegriffs bei Mittag. Im Küstenort passieren sie Geschäfte, die nun endgültig schließen, um zur nächsten Saison erneut die Tourist:innen zum Kauf zu animieren, nur noch vereinzelt geöffnete Auslagen mit Ketten, Anhängern, verzierten Tassen, T-Shirts. Im Café mit Blick auf die Insel plötzlich ein einsamer Kranich, der das Sichtfeld streift, unablässig über dem Meer kreist. Die Mutter greift in die Tasche und zieht eine Überraschung hervor, ein Geschenk: Sie habe es gefunden, morgens nach dem Aufstehen und einer stürmischen Nacht. Es hätte noch gedämmert, der Stein sei kaum zu erkennen gewesen.

I sit in my own shadow, she says, the way my mother gave birth to it. In artificial light, blinds drawn against the darkness of power. I think of you as if you were that shadow, a natural enclosure, a world, not a slight, so I can wander through your darkness. Has our contract inverted time, made our universe contract, a cramped bed for two? And when I say your name, do I draw water, a portrait, curtain, bridge, or conclusion10?

Das Licht und der Nebel über der See bei Morgengrauen, K. schon im Wintermantel, die Hände zur Schale geformt. Seine Finger, die meinen Kopf halten, wie mir das Wasser durch die Kleidung rinnt. Der Aufsteller vor dem Weg zum Strand: Ein Bild von weißem Phosphor, Vorsicht Verwechslungs-

10 Waldrop, Rosmarie (1999): “Conversation 4: On Place.” Reluctant Gravities. Poetry Foundation: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53465/ conversation-4-on-place.

suddenly enters, solitary, darting through their field of vision, circling and circling over the sea. The mother reaches in her bag and pulls out a surprise, a gift: She found it that morning after rising, after a tempestuous night. In the predawn, the stone was barely visible.

I sit in my own shadow, she says, the way my mother gave birth to it. In artificial light, blinds drawn against the darkness of power. I think of you as if you were that shadow, a natural enclosure, a world, not a slight, so I can wander through your darkness. Has our contract inverted time, made our universe contract, a cramped bed for two? And when I say your name, do I draw water, a portrait, curtain, bridge, or conclusion?

Light and the fog above the sea at dawn, K. in his winter coat already, hands drawn together. His fingers cup my head as water trickles through my clothes and down the length of me. The sign at the entrance to the beach: an image of white phosphorus, danger, risk of confusion. A group of divers on the horizon, Tomas Szachura in an interview: The discovery of the German freighter with its crates of unknown contents at the bottom of the Baltic could be of major significance for this entire story. The difficulties of excavation, off the beaten path, on rough terrain. K. points out inclusions in the resin, we hold them up to the light. And now, in these glances, in the cautious inspection of the find, a tension releases behind the eyes.

gefahr. Eine Gruppe Taucher am Horizont, Tomas Szachura im Interview: Das Auffinden des deutschen Frachters und der Kisten mit derzeit unbekanntem Inhalt auf dem Grund der Ostsee kann für die ganze Geschichte von Bedeutung sein11. Die erschwerten Bedingungen der Ausgrabungen, abseits der Wege, auf unebenem Gelände. K. zeigt auf die Einschlüsse im Harz, wir halten sie gegen das Licht. Und jetzt in diesem Blicken, dem vorsichtigen Sichten des Fundes, löst sich eine Anspannung hinter den Lidern.

11 Tuszyńska, Katarzyna/ Bazydło, Cezary (2021): Weitere Expedition zum Ostseegrund. Polen: Steht die Hebung des Bernsteinzimmers bevor? MDR: https:// www.mdr.de/nachrichten/welt/osteuropa/land leute/ostsee-bernsteinzimmer-tauchexpedition-polen-karlsruhe-wracktaucher-100.html.

word for word / palavra por palavra

Columbia University School of the

Arts

Instituto Vera Cruz Formação de Escritores

Nota do Tradutor

A tradução do texto de Mara mostrou-se uma deliciosa tarefa, embora não desprovida de desafios significativos.

O ensaio é escrito originalmente em inglês, mas trata de uma realidade muito particular do Brasil. Assim, acredito que, entre as dificuldades que encontrei, destaco ter de lidar com a passagem de algumas construções frasais que não ficariam bem em português se traduzidas diretamente, ainda que mantivessem o seu sentido. Desse modo, para manter a elegância do texto original, me pareceu necessário caminhar, buscando um tênue equilíbrio entre permanecer fiel às frases e aos sentidos trazidos pela autora e às modificações necessárias para a fluidez do texto. Tal trabalho exigiu um exercício máximo da minha capacidade de sutileza, tarefa que espero ter executado ao menos com sucesso parcial.

O texto também trabalha com palavras que expressam situações e noções muito específicas da realidade brasileira. Por conta disso, o original traz algumas traduções cuja função seria ilustrar as ideias para o leitor anglicano. A situação mais emblemática é o jogo entre as palavras “hills” e “morros”. É utilizada para aproximar a noção de morros, que, no contexto do Rio de Janeiro, é também utilizada para designar favela. Essa explicação acaba perdendo o sentido para o leitor nativo de português. Especialmente para o brasileiro, para quem, ainda que entenda inglês, a palavra hills não transmite a ideia do que seriam os morros do Rio de Janeiro no contexto das favelas.

Também optei por suprimir traduções explicativas de expressões em língua espanhola, quando estas, dada a enorme proximidade com a língua portuguesa, acabavam se mostrando redundantes.

O ensaio constantemente mostra as passagens entre

universos muito distintos entre si, mas que, por suas fronteiras em comum, exercem influência permanente uns nos outros. São mundos separados por cortinas de tempo, geografia, desigualdade social, todos costurados por belezas, mas também pela permanente presença da violência. A tradução acrescenta mais uma camada a esses universos, bem costurados entre si, mas muito distantes em muitos de seus recantos. Uma escritora brasileira nativa em inglês que traz um pouco de sua história pessoal marcada pela violência. Um tradutor que segue vivendo no Brasil e ora testemunhando bem de perto, ora vivendo diretamente essa violência. A troca feita através do texto me ajudou a perceber novos ângulos de percepção dessa realidade; espero que aproxime leitores em português da ótica de nós dois.

MARA MARQUES CAVALLARO

HELICOPTERS AND THE SEA (EXCERPT)

IF RIO IS A CITY, it is a city that contains several worlds. There’s the postcard tourists send home, with its sunbathers and bikinis, elaborate sandcastles and equally elaborate architecture. There’s urban Rio, its old buildings still equipped with maid’s quarters and service elevators, its arteries clogged by massive inequality, its boundaries known colloquially as the asphalt. As in: “down on the asphalt, life is easy.” As in: “down on the asphalt, tap water is clean.” There are, also, the morros—hills—where improvised, colorful homes stitch the patchwork quilt of the favela. Unlike the concrete, life here is not “easy.” It is made difficult by militias, state neglect, traffickers, police. These communities have nicknames, too, which is why you might hear a Brazilian woman in Rio de Janeiro tell you in Portuguese that she lives in the Gaza Strip. If that worries you, you can easily go—many do go—your whole life on the asphalt without ever stepping foot in a favela. Or the other way around. (One man I met in Rio, a musician from Rocinha, described going thirtyeight years without coming down to sea level. Upon emerging from one world into another, he was shocked to learn that the buses had changed colors.)

So Rio is beaches and asphalt and hills. It is also jungle—planned by the Portuguese emperor Dom Pedro II and planted by eleven enslaved people (Maria, Eleutério, Constantino, Manoel, Mateus, Leopoldo, Sabino, Macário, Clemente, Antônio, and Francisco)— but jungle nonetheless. The verdant result of their forced labor, Tijuca National Park—with its hundreds of thousands of trees and forty square kilometers of

traduzido do inglês por BORIS CALAZANS DOS SANTOS

HELICÓPTEROS O E MAR (FRAGMENTO)

Se o Rio é uma cidade, é uma cidade que contém vários mundos. Há os cartões-postais que os turistas enviam para casa, com banhistas e biquínis, castelos de areia elaborados e arquitetura urbana igualmente elaborada. Há o Rio urbano, com seus antigos edifícios ainda equipados com quartos de empregada e elevadores de serviço, suas artérias entupidas de massivas desigualdades, suas fronteiras coloquialmente chamadas de asfalto. Por exemplo: “lá embaixo no asfalto, a vida é fácil”. Por exemplo: “lá embaixo no asfalto, a água da torneira é limpa”. Há também os morros onde casas improvisadas e coloridas da favela formam uma colcha de retalhos. Diferente do concreto, a vida aqui não é “fácil”. É dificultada pelas milícias, negligência do Estado, traficantes, polícia. Essas comunidades têm apelidos também, e por isso você pode escutar uma mulher brasileira no Rio de Janeiro falar para você em português que ela vive na Faixa de Gaza. Se isso lhe preocupa, você pode facilmente — como muitos fazem — passar sua vida inteira no asfalto sem nunca pisar em uma favela. Ou o oposto. (Um homem que eu conheci no Rio, um músico da Rocinha, disse ter passado trinta e oito anos sem descer ao nível do mar. Ao transpassar de um mundo para o outro, ele estava chocado de ver que as cores dos ônibus tinham mudado).

Então, o Rio é praias e asfalto e morros. É também floresta — planejada pelo imperador português Dom Pedro II e plantada por onze pessoas escravizadas (Maria, Eleutério, Constantino, Manoel, Mateus, Leopoldo, Sabino, Macário, Clemente, Antônio e

land—is close enough to the asphalt that at night in Copacabana I was warned to close my windows to keep out wandering bats. Bats being, in some regional mythologies, a symbol of death. Bats being, also, a reminder of the permeability of borders.

Now I should note, before you chalk up this man-made forest to a singular world, that within it there is a quilombo—founded in 1860 by people escaping slavery and abolitionists—where some fifty people still live. And from that quilombo’s namesake landmark, Pedra Bonita, there is a view of the sea. Which is, of course, yet another universe. Because in the depths of the ocean the Portuguese mistook for a river—the ocean with currents so hungry that even at twenty-five, I still heed my mom’s warnings not to swim, the ocean where she loosens bracelets from her wrists as gifts for Iemanjá— there are still sunken slave ships missing down below.

To live in Rio, then, is to be subject to a constant crossing of thresholds. Ocean, asphalt, favela, quilombo, beach, forest. Life, death, past, present. But above all of the worlds that make up this city, there is the same sky. And in it, there are the helicopters.

THEY FLY OVER every few minutes, ugly and out of place, blades slicing the city’s rhythm, and I squint to track them from one end of the beach to the other. Sometimes blue and white—military police; sometimes black—civil police; sometimes something else. Always ominous. In the first weeks of my overdue return to the city of my birth, I can’t help but notice them, even when others seem not to. I make a point to stop and search the sky even mid-conversation or mid-stride, glaring as if to signal the machines are not welcome. As I fear that one day I might get used to them.

Francisco) —, mas selva, ainda assim. O verdejante resultado do trabalho forçado deles, o Parque Nacional da Tijuca — com suas centenas de milhares de árvores e quarenta quilômetros quadrados de terra — é perto o suficiente do asfalto, a ponto de que, em Copacabana, eu fui avisada para fechar as janelas para evitar morcegos errantes. Morcegos, que, em algumas mitologias regionais, são símbolos da morte. Morcegos, que também são uma lembrança da permeabilidade das fronteiras.

Eu deveria observar, antes de você considerar essa floresta artificial um mundo singular, que nela há um quilombo, fundado em 1860 por escravizados fugidos e abolicionistas, onde umas cinquenta pessoas ainda vivem. E do marco homônimo do quilombo, a Pedra Bonita, há uma vista para o mar. Este, claro, também um outro universo. Porque nas profundezas do mar que os portugueses confundiram com um rio — mar com correntes tão famintas que, mesmo com vinte e cinco anos, eu ainda sigo os avisos de minha mãe para não nadar, mar onde ela oferenda braceletes de seus pulsos como presentes para Iemanjá — há ainda navios negreiros desaparecidos no submerso.

Viver no Rio, então, é estar sujeito à constante travessia de limites. Oceano, asfalto, favela, quilombo, praia, floresta. Vida, morte, passado, presente. Mas, acima de todos os mundos que fazem a cidade, há o mesmo céu. E nele há os helicópteros.

Eles passam sobrevoando a cada poucos minutos, feios e fora do lugar, lâminas fatiando o ritmo da cidade, e eu semicerrando os olhos para acompanhá-los de uma ponta da praia à outra. Às vezes azul e branco — polícia militar —, às vezes preto — polícia civil —, às vezes outra coisa qualquer. Sempre sinistros. Nas primeiras

For the next two months, I keep up my strange habit. The helicopter is a symbol, portal, warning, monster—and each time, I follow it. I look away from books, friends, the waves carved in black and white tile, the soccer game I’m in the middle of. I turn from people towards metal, away from life to stare at death. I become antsy. Or else I stand very still, sidewalks bustling around me, to time the intervals between helicopters overhead. (Six minutes.) I think about them all the time. And I do so dutifully, obsessively; as though I have made a promise but without being quite sure to whom or why. I keep the promise when I have conjunctivitis, when sunlight feels like sand between my eye and lid; when I don’t want to; when it is inconvenient. I keep it, in other words, until I simply can’t keep it anymore. Until the rocky trail to Pedra Bonita in Tijuca National Park—that forest where, legend says, a portal to the underworld beckons.

It was here, among the thick foliage of trees my mom might identify but whose names I had never learned— angico, copaíba, embaúba, juçara—that I heard a helicopter and stopped hiking, now instinctively, to search. I remember rationalizing that there must be some power in at least being able to see what threatens you. Was this why I kept looking? But in the pockets of blue beyond crisscrossed treetops, I saw nothing. I checked each window of sky, neck craned, eyes darting, ears buzzing, and for the first time found no proof of what I heard. I looked down. The historical cruelty, suddenly inevitable, struck me. From the very forest where military helicopters may have once disappeared people, helicopters themselves could not be found.

THE HISTORY in this case was Brazil’s twenty-one years of military dictatorship, from 1964 to 1985, and it came to mind because it is nearly always on my mind. It is certainly always in my body. (“Like bulbs,” I once

semanas de meu postergado retorno para a cidade de meu nascimento, eu não consigo evitar de notá-los, mesmo quando as outras pessoas parecem não notar. Eu faço questão de parar e procurá-los no céu mesmo no meio de uma conversa ou de uma caminhada, com um olhar feroz, como para sinalizar que as máquinas não são bem-vindas. Pois temo que um dia eu possa me acostumar a elas.

Pelos próximos dois meses, eu mantive meu estranho hábito. O helicóptero é um símbolo, portal, aviso, monstro — e cada vez, eu o sigo. Eu afasto o olhar dos livros, amigos, das ondas cravadas em preto e branco no ladrilho, da partida de futebol que estou jogando. Eu desvio o olhar das pessoas em direção ao metal, longe da vida para encarar a morte. Eu fico ansiosa. Ou então fico bem rígida, a calçada agitada ao meu redor, para cronometrar os intervalos entre helicópteros. (Seis minutos). Eu penso neles o tempo todo. E faço isso tão diligentemente, obsessivamente; como se eu houvesse feito uma promessa, mas sem saber ao certo para quem ou por quê. Eu mantenho a promessa quando estou com conjuntivite, quando sinto a luz do sol como areia entre meu olho e a pálpebra; quando eu não quero manter; quando é inconveniente. Eu a mantenho, em outras palavras, até eu não poder mais manter. Até a trilha rochosa para a Pedra Bonita no Parque Nacional da Tijuca — aquela floresta onde, diz a lenda, um portal para o mundo além-vida acena.

Foi aqui, entre a espessa folhagem de árvores que minha mãe provavelmente é capaz de identificar nomes que eu nunca aprendi — angico, copaíba, embaúba, juçara —, que eu ouvi um helicóptero e parei a caminhada, agora instintivamente, para procurar. Lembro-me de racionalizar que deve haver algum poder em, pelo menos, conseguir identificar o que te ameaça. Seria por isso que sigo procurando? Mas, nas brechas de azul além das copas cruzadas, eu não vi nada. Eu

wrote in a bad poem, “the womb remembers. the breast milk remembers”). And because I learned so young to say presente when the names of our dead were read aloud, perhaps the history was also always in my spirit. Regardless, I had by now come to accept the endless task of remembering, which also just means not looking away.

For instance: it was here in Tijuca National Park, one colonel confessed, that the Brazilian military disappeared the body of former Congressman Rubens Paiva [presente] in 1973. Plainclothes agents of the dictatorship kidnapped him from his home in Rio, drove him in his own car, a red Opel Kadett, to a military jail, tortured him, killed him, arrested his teenage daughter, incarcerated his wife for his twelve days, disposed of his body, and then claimed he had escaped from prison. His alleged crime had been delivering letters from political exiles in a democratic socialist Chile to their colleagues and loved ones still in authoritarian Brazil. Letters, probably, like the ones my grandma addressed to a judge in Recife in 1973. “If anything happens to me,” she had written, “be it death or disappearance, my daughter should be placed under the care of my mother.” She had tucked these notes into my mom’s baby clothes. All these years later, I read a subtext in them: I love and dream but have never been in denial. I have seen enough to know what I am dealing with. I will not look away.

The state did not issue an official death certificate for Rubens Beyrodt Paiva until 1996. In 2014, more than four decades after his killing, when the aforementioned colonel disputed the country’s official narrative and confessed to two newspapers that he had received an order to disappear Paiva’s body, that colonel was found strangled in his home. To this day, the military does not agree on the facts. Had Paiva really been disappeared here in the forest, or was it a river? Or the ocean? Who had

verifiquei cada nesga, pescoço dobrado para cima, olhos esquadrinhando, ouvidos zumbindo e, pela primeira vez, não encontrei prova do que eu ouvi. Eu baixei os olhos. A crueldade histórica, repentinamente inevitável, me atingiu. Da floresta onde helicópteros militares devem ter desaparecido com pessoas, helicópteros não podiam ser vistos.

A HISTÓRIA

neste caso era dos vinte e um anos de ditadura militar no Brasil, de 1964 a 1985, e me veio à mente porque está quase sempre na minha mente. Com certeza está sempre no meu corpo. (“Como bulbos”, uma vez eu escrevi em um poema ruim, “o útero lembra. o leite materno relembra”). E porque eu aprendi tão jovem a dizer presente quando os nomes de nossos mortos eram lidos em voz alta, talvez a história sempre esteve em meu espírito. Seja como for, eu já tinha aceitado a tarefa sem fim de relembrar, o que também significa não desviar o olhar.

Por exemplo: foi aqui, no Parque Nacional da Tijuca, que um coronel confessou que militares brasileiros desapareceram com o corpo do ex-parlamentar Rubens Paiva [presente] em 1973. Agentes da ditadura vestidos em trajes civis sequestraram ele de sua casa no Rio, o levaram em seu próprio carro, um Kadett Opel vermelho, para uma prisão militar, o torturaram, o mataram, prenderam sua filha adolescente, encarceraram sua esposa pelos doze dias, desapareceram com seu corpo e depois alegaram que ele escapou da prisão. Seu suposto crime foi entregar cartas de exilados políticos em um Chile democrático e socialista para seus colegas e entes queridos ainda no Brasil autoritário. Cartas, como aquelas que minha avó endereçou para um juiz em Recife em 1973. “Caso aconteça qualquer coisa à minha pessoa”, ela escreveu, “morte ou desaparecimento,

ordered the act? Was a helicopter involved? When a movie was made about him, in 2024, it began with a shot of Rio’s ocean, a foreboding army helicopter overhead.

For instance: Last year, in Argentina, president Javier Milei denied that the approximately 30,000 people disappeared by the country’s military dictatorship— many of them drugged, bound, and pushed from helicopters or small planes into the ocean—had been disappeared at all. He closed memorial sites (for “internal restructuring”) and halted government support for the search for children—now middle-aged adults—who had been born in torture centers or kidnapped alongside their parents. He called the brutal state terror of the US-backed Argentine junta a “war.” His vice-president popularized a cruel hashtag: #NoFueron30000. (There were not 30,000). He agreed.

It’s bad, Paula, an old porteña friend of my parents, told me over dinner the night before my Pedra Bonita hike. Milei really is a nightmare. And he was also, we agreed, the southern echo of Brazil’s Jair Bolsonaro—the nowconvicted former president who had repeatedly praised Brazil’s dictatorship as a “very good” period. Both men were far-right allies of Donald Trump; they would have been allies, surely, of the American presidents who had helped execute coups in their countries decades ago. Both men undermined truth at every turn, redefining how continental state terror is remembered, how it is repeated.

Even so, Paula believed that despite Milei’s best efforts, dictatorship denialism in Buenos Aires was undermined by the more than 1,500 paving stones throughout the city marking and memorializing the mundane places from which the state abducted and disappeared its people. Aqui vivieron y fueron secuestrados Cecilia Viñas, Hugo Penino y su hijo nacido en cautiverio… (Here, Cecilia Viñas, Hugo Penino and their son, born in

minha filha deverá ser entregue aos cuidados de minha mãe”. Ela enfiou essas notas nas roupas de bebê de minha mãe. Todos esses anos depois, eu li um subtexto nelas: Eu amo e sonho, mas nunca estive em negação. Eu vi o suficiente para saber com o que estou lidando. Eu não vou desviar o olhar.

O Estado só veio a reconhecer a morte de Rubens Beyrodt Paiva em 1996. E em 2014, mais de quatro décadas depois de seu assassinato, quando o supramencionado coronel confrontou a narrativa oficial do país e confessou para dois jornais que ele recebeu uma ordem para dar fim com o corpo de Paiva, esse coronel foi encontrado estrangulado em sua casa. Desde esse dia, os militares não concordam com os fatos. Paiva foi mesmo ocultado em uma floresta, ou foi em um rio? Ou no mar? Quem ordenou o ato? Havia um helicóptero envolvido? Quando um filme sobre ele foi feito, em 2024, se inicia com uma cena do oceano do Rio, um agourento helicóptero do exército suspenso no céu.

Por exemplo: no último ano, na Argentina, o presidente Javier Milei negou que as aproximadamente 30.000 pessoas que foram desaparecidas pela ditadura militar do país — muitas delas drogadas, amarradas e empurradas de helicópteros no oceano — de fato foram desaparecidas. Ele fechou centros memoriais (para “reestruturação interna”) e interrompeu o suporte governamental para a busca por crianças — agora adultos de meia-idade — que nasceram em centro de tortura ou foram desaparecidas junto com seus pais. Ele chamou o brutal estado de terror da junta argentina apoiada pelos EUA de “guerra”. Sua vice-presidente popularizou o cruel hashtag: #NoFueron30000. Ele concordou.

Tá feio, Paula, uma velha amiga porteña de meus pais, me disse durante o jantar na noite anterior à minha trilha na Pedra Bonita. Milei realmente é um pesadelo.

captivity, lived and were abducted…) There are plaques like these outside churches, movie theaters, bookstores, schools. Each stone carefully placed by Barrios por la Memoria y la Justicia, Neighborhoods for Memory and Justice, a collective of local volunteers. You should come visit, Paula had said. You can’t go anywhere without seeing them.

In Rio, I haven’t seen any plaques. Only helicopters, and the sea. +

E ele era também, nós concordamos, o eco austral de Jair Bolsonaro — o agora condenado antigo presidente, que repetidamente elogiou a ditadura brasileira como um período “muito bom”. Ambos os homens eram aliados de extrema-direita de Donald Trump; eles seriam aliados, certamente, dos presidentes americanos que ajudaram a executar os golpes em seus respectivos países décadas atrás. Ambos os homens minaram a verdade o tempo todo, redefinindo como o estado de terror continental é lembrado, como ele é repetido.

Ainda assim, Paula acreditava que, a despeito dos melhores esforços de Milei, a negação da ditadura em Buenos Aires estava prejudicada pelos mais de 1.500 calçamentos espalhados pela cidade, marcando e relembrando os lugares mundanos de onde o Estado abduziu e desapareceu seu povo. Aqui vivieron y fueron secuestrados Cecilia Viñas, Hugo Penino y su hijo nacido en cautiverio… (Aqui viveram e foram sequestrados Cecilia Viñas, Hugo Penino e seu filho nascido em cativeiro…). Há placas como essa na frente de igrejas, teatros, livrarias, escolas. Cada pedra cuidadosamente colocada por Barrios por la Memoria y la Justicia, um coletivo de voluntários locais. Você deveria visitar, Paula disse. Você não pode ir a lugar nenhum sem vê-las. No Rio, eu não vi nenhuma placa. Apenas helicópteros e o mar.

Translator’s Note

In her translator’s note for Jeferson Tenório’s The Dark Side of Skin, Bruna Dantas Lobato laments a longstanding literary crisis: Brazil, despite being the country with the largest Black population outside of Africa, rarely publishes Black voices and stories. Between 1965 and 2014, for instance, 90% of books published in Brazil were written by white authors. Between 2004 and 2014, just 4.5% featured Black protagonists. The statistics are staggering—as is the sociopolitical reality they reflect.

“Schrodinger’s Diptych,” a two-part short story by Boris Calazans, is a text that writes into and against this hostile literary landscape. Calazans reckons with the psychological toll of quotidian racism and state violence in São Paulo, taking to task the taxi and bus drivers who don’t stop for Black passengers, racist slurs, microaggressions, and, of course, police—the fear of whom is “enough to drive a man crazy.” Just last year in São Paulo, the state where Boris was born, raised, and still lives, police killed 834 people. In Rio de Janeiro, the city where I was born, studies estimate that 9 in 10 people killed by police are Black or brown. It is not uncommon to hear this violence described as genocidal. Given the circumstances, it seems outrageous for anyone not to see the current state of affairs for the absurd racist dystopia that it is.

And yet, after reading Calazans’ writing, it becomes possible to imagine something else: a utopian Brazil, one that ruptures colonial legacies. In “Paradox,” for instance, colonial language is subverted by the musicality of Brazilian-born slang. Words and phrases like ‘cara,’ ‘falou,’ ‘trampo,’ ‘mano,’ and ‘puxar o carro’ mark this text as a work of Brazilian—and more specifically, Paulista—Portuguese. The fast pace and minimal breaks, meanwhile, mimic the speed of a bustling São Paulo. And despite its serious subject

matter, the text manages to be playful—so much so that when I could not find a direct translation parallel for ‘bica,’ a slang term for ‘kick’ that originated in Brazilian soccer contexts, Boris allowed me the freedom to play with humor in translation. (The resulting phrase, which describes the strongest, most unexpected kick I have ever seen, is a reference to a goal from a soccer match between Brazil and France many years ago: some “real Roberto Carlos in ’97 type shit.”)

Boris also granted me space to adapt racialized terms in translation, since Brazil has one of—if not the most—specific and charged racial vocabularies on the planet (a 1976 Census in Brazil recorded 136 unique terms to describe skin color). Because the word ‘pretinho’ (literally, the masculine diminutive form of ‘preto,’ the color black) is only ever spoken in “Paradox” by a Black narrator about another Black man, I opted to translate it as ‘brother,’ which in addition to being a relational term carries racial connotations in a U.S. setting. In “Optical Illusion,” the trick mirror narrative that follows “Paradox,” I translated ‘pretinha,’— the feminine diminutive of ‘preta’—used only by the narrator to describe herself, as ‘black girl.’

In both stories, Black protagonists are given the freedom to resist despite a social, historical, political context that punishes dissent. Calazans grants his characters permission to scream, be angry, kick. To imagine and inhabit other realities. And he gives his readers permission to see our physical environments as superimposed with possibility—with another more just world waiting to be realized, even if we can’t fully see it. This is Schrodinger’s Diptych.

BORIS CALAZANS DOS SANTOS

DIPTICO SCHRÖDINGUIANO – 1. PARADOXO

No cartório. Cruzei o batente, puxei uma ficha da maquininha, sentei, abri um livro enquanto aguardava meu número no painel eletrônico. Minha vez, número 247. Será que passaram duzentas e quarenta e sete pessoas ali? Era por volta das quatro da tarde, então talvez tenha rolado todo esse movimento mesmo. No meu dia, por exemplo, já deve ter acontecido umas 247 coisas. Cliente mal criado, não terminei o trabalho da pós-graduação, levei mais tempo do que necessário porque dava sinal e o táxi não parava, etc., etc. O escrivão começou a redação da escritura na minha frente. Do outro lado da sala, a moça bonita do caixa. Atrás do balcão, funcionários indo e vindo com documentos. Nos bancos, pessoas esperando para resolver suas tretas, gente de terno como eu, gente sem terno, motoboys, contadores. Tudo naquela santa ordem do cartório. Mas tinha que passar um pretinho para desorganizar. Quem notou ele foi um cara que já ia lá nos seus quarenta e tantos, acho que um despachante conhecido dali. Sem menor pudor arrebenta a calma do lugar com um grito. “Ô MACACO!” Era para o pretinho que passava, vestindo camisa polo e calça jeans, nada a ver com um macaco. Olhou meio de soslaio e permaneceu quieto. O mano o chamou mais uma vez, “Ô MACACO!”, parecia se divertir com aquilo, queria atenção. Perguntou algo que o pretinho respondeu, tímido. Que faço? Logo agora? Ao ouvir os gritos de macaco, minha cara formigou e eu encolhi também. Berrava em tom jocoso, mas não soou engraçado para mim. Olho minha mão: parda. Parda não, preta. Quando ele grita daquele jeito, está se dirigindo a todos nós. Um maninho magro e carcomido desses, tranquilo, só com um grito o miserável põe todos

translated from the portuguese by

MARA MARQUES CAVALLARO

SCHRODINGER’S DIPTYCH 1. PARADOX

At the notary. I crossed the threshold, pulled a ticket from the machine, sat, and opened a book while I waited for my number. My turn, 247. Had two hundred and forty seven people really passed through here? It was around four o’clock, so maybe it had been that chaotic. During my own day, for instance, some 247 things had already happened. A rude client, unfinished grad school assignments, taxis that wouldn’t stop when I hailed them, etc., etc. The clerk began drafting the paperwork in front of me. At the other end of the room, a beautiful woman stood at the register. Behind the counter, employees came and went with documents. In rows of chairs, people waited to resolve their beef: people in suits like me, people without suits, motoboys, accountants. All in that sanctimonious order of the notary office. But a brother had to come by and mess it up. The guy who noticed the brother looked forty-something, and seemed to be known around the notary for handling other people’s bureaucratic business for them. Without a sliver of shame, he tore open the calm of the office with a shout. “HEY, MONKEY!” This was directed at the brother walking by, in a polo shirt and jeans, nothing remotely monkey-like about him. He looked over, sort of sideways, and kept quiet. The guy called out to him again: “HEY MONKEY!” He seemed to be enjoying himself, relishing the attention. He asked a question then that the brother answered timidly. What should I do? Here, of all places? Hearing the monkey shouts, my face froze and I shrank. By the tone of the man’s voice this was a joke to him, but it wasn’t funny to me. I look at my hand: brown. No, not brown, Black. When he yells like that, he’s yelling at all of us. A scrawny, putrefying nobody, with one confident yell, putting us all in our place. In that sunken place where they want us.

nós no lugar. Nesse lugar encolhido que eles querem pra gente. Por que estou quietinho aqui? É a herança que o meu coroa me passou: “respeite os mais velhos”, “estude, que o homem se mede da testa para cima”, “você não é negro, você é brasileiro”. O caralho! Estou formado, sou advogado, tenho escritório próprio, faço mestrado, ganho minha grana e esse safado consegue me diminuir com um grito. Hoje não:

-O que você falou?

-Tô falando com o cara ali – respondeu sem se abalar, o outro pretinho olhando quieto. - Não tá não. Se tá chamando ele de macaco, tá falando também comigo, palhaço!

- Você tá louco? Cuida da sua vida! Tô brincando com meu amigo – e se virou para o rapaz - Não é brincadeira da gente?

- Não vira para ele – ordenei, agora a raiva estava liberada – fala comigo!

O escrivão ficou amarelo. Soltou um contido “gente, vamos nos acalmar”. Até ali, o outro pretinho esboçava uma cara de indefinição. Encarei ele, sorri amargo, mesmo tremendo de raiva, e dei uma piscada.

Finalmente ele falou:

- É, Oscar, nunca te dei liberdade para me chamar assim não.

O mano foi tentar falar mais alguma coisa, dei uma cabeçada nele, a galera se assustou, ele ameçou reagir com o grampeador que segurava, o outro pretinho lhe passou o rodo, caiu com a boca sangrando, dei uma bica na cara, o pretinho outra nas costas. Acionaram a segurança, saímos fora. Larguei lá a escritura e a porra toda. Adentramos correndo nos labirintos do Centro juntos. Sempre dá uma pira que a polícia vai sair do nada. Mas ninguém nos parou. Encostamos num bar, pedi um café, ele uma água. Não falamos muito:

- Foda!

- Esse cara é um cuzão.

- Ali, vão pensar duas vezes antes de gritar assim.

- A gente devia fazer isso toda vez.

Why am I silent? It’s as if I hear my old man’s warnings: “respect your elders;” “study hard, a man is measured from the forehead up;” “you’re not Black, you’re Brazilian.” Fuck that! I graduated, I’m a lawyer, I have my own office, I’m doing a Master’s, I pay my own bills, and I’m going to let this jackass cut me down with just a shout? Not today:

“What’d you say?”

“I’m talking to him over there,” he responded unfazed, the other black guy watching quietly. “The hell you are. If you’re calling him a monkey, you’re calling me one too, clown!”

“Are you well? Mind your business! I’m just joking with my friend,” he turned to the brother. “Isn’t this our inside joke?”

“Don’t look at him,” I ordered, the rage escaping, “talk to me!”

The clerk who had been standing nearby got nervous, a weak “fellas, let’s calm down” making its way out of his lips. Until then, the other black guy had looked uncertain. I faced him, forced a bitter smile even though I was shaking with rage, and winked. Finally he spoke:

“Yeah, Oscar, I never said you could call me that.”

The idiot was about to respond, so I headbutted him, the crowd panicked, he threatened to retaliate, stapler in hand, but the other brother swept a leg under him and he fell, mouth bleeding, onto the floor; I delivered a free kick to his face, real Roberto Carlos in ’97 type shit, the brother a kick to his back, someone alerted security, and we got the hell outta there. I left all my crap, the paperwork and everything. We rushed into the labyrinths of downtown together. There was, like always, the fear, enough to drive a man crazy, that the police would emerge out of nowhere. But no one stopped us. We huddled at a snack bar; I ordered a coffee, he ordered a water. We didn’t speak much:

“Holy shit!”

“What a fucking asshole.”

“They’ll think twice before they yell like that again.”

“Yeah, we should do this more often.”

- Pode crê! Ia ser outra conversa.

- Vai ficar embaçado pra mim lá no trampo. Mas fodase, valeu à pena!

- Pode crê! Foda-se!

- Melhor eu puxar o carro. Falou, mano!

- Falou! Nos despedimos sem trocar contato e nunca mais voltamos a nos ver.

Senhor? Senhor, entendeu o que eu li? Com essa frase o escrivão me puxou de volta para a escritura. Peguei o documento pronto e saí andando pela rua, revivendo a cena imaginada, porque me fazia bem. Hoje não, mas vai chegar essa hora.

DIPTICO SCHRÖDINGUIANO – 2. JOGO DE ÓTICA

A sexta-feira dela se definiu de manhã logo cedo, quando estancou frente ao espelho curiosa com o enigma que se apresentava. Passou o dia aérea, pensando naquele momento. Vestiu maquinalmente a primeira roupa que viu no armário, engoliu insípida seu café e o pedaço de pão com queijo, não lembrou de apagar a luz do banheiro nem de passar os cremes. O fone de ouvido, sim, ela colocou antes de cruzar a porta, movimento reflexo gravado no corpo. Se pensasse, teria escolhido não ouvir nada. Caminhou até o ponto de ônibus flutuando nas ideias, a música arranhando o fundo da cabeça, inaudível e misturada com o resto da trilha sonora da cidade-ruído. Nem notou o motorista do carro a xingando quando atravessou a rua descuidada. Deu o sinal ao avistar o “Vila Elba-Centro” e subiu sem cumprimentar o motorista. O cobrador a reconheceu e provocou de brincadeira, bom dia, Ana! Você já foi mais humilde! Desculpa, Zé, hoje tô desligada pra vida. O puxão de orelha serviu ao menos para não esquecer de falar com pessoal do trabalho antes de se enterrar em

“Hell yeah. It’d be a whole other story.”

“It’s gonna get messy for me at the j-o-b. But fuck it, this was worth it!”

“Hell yes! Fuck it!”

“Well, I gotta run. You’re the man, brother!”

“All you, bro!” We parted without exchanging contacts, and never saw each other again.

“Sir? Sir, did you understand what I read to you?” The clerk summoned me back to the paperwork at hand. I grabbed the final document and left, walking down the street while reliving the imagined scene because it did me good. Because it might not have gone like that today, but one day it will.

2. OPTICAL ILLUSON

Her Friday took shape early, when she stalled in front of the mirror and studied the enigma presented there. She would spend the day with her head in the clouds thinking of that moment. But for now, she dressed mechanically in the first clothes she saw in the closet, listlessly swallowed her coffee and her bread with cheese, and remembered neither to turn off the bathroom light nor to apply any lotion. Her headphones she did remember—she put them on before walking out the door, pure muscle memory. If she had thought about it, she would have chosen not to listen to anything. But she levitated, lost in thought, to the bus stop, music clawing at the depths of her skull, indistinguishable from the soundtrack of city-noise. She didn’t even notice the man who swore at her from his car when she crossed the street carelessly. She just signaled as soon as the Vila Elba → Downtown sign came into view, and got on the bus without acknowledging the driver. The fare collector recognized her, jokingly reprimanding: good morning, Ana! You used to be more down-to-earth! Sorry Zé, she responded. Today I’m tuned out of life. His tug of her ear served, at the very least, as a reminder to talk to her coworkers before burying herself at her desk and pretending to work on spreadsheets. With a deft pretext, she dodged her usual lunch companions. Ana alone with Ana—the only company she wanted, aside

sua mesa e começar a fingir que mexia nas planilhas. Com um pretexto habilidoso, despistou os habituais companheiros de almoço. Ana com Ana, a única companhia que queria para além das ideias pitorescas e grudentas daquele dia. Foi distraída assim que pegou o ônibus da volta no final do dia. Ensimesmada como ostra na concha, sentou logo no primeiro banco sem olhar para nada. De repente, pausou a música do celular, puxou o caderninho, a caneta e soltou os versos que martelavam sua cabeça.

Vejo minha face

Atrás da tela vítrea

De repente, gela minha espinha

O mundo real

Pareceu ser eu quem refletia

As coisas daqui lá se passam igual

Só que invertidas

E foi até mais sensato

Do que aceitar nosso triste autorretrato

De um mundo perdido

Onde o céu é só um lugar prometido

E o amor cede ao bizarro

A moral é vencida pelo contrato

Sempre em nome do ganho imediato. Pronto! Recitou para si e soou como se abrisse um portal para sua paz. Mais aliviada, já podia até espiar pela janela. Ainda aérea, voltando do transe que a tomou o dia inteiro, não lembrava qual o ponto exato em que começou a sentir um estranhamento. Talvez depois de dobrar uma esquina, naquela noite em que a brisa fresca temperava o calor. Os lugares por onde o ônibus passava continuavam se mostrar familiares, mas havia algo diferente no caminho. Os prédios estavam menores e havia gente demais na rua, não mendigos, que não via mais em lugar nenhum, mas gente que parecia estar sem direção, apenas aproveitando a noite com uma caminhada, observando as estrelas, jogando conversa fora. Curioso. Que bairro era aquele? Foi até

from the hypnotizing, idyllic ideas of the day. It was in this state of distraction that she rode the bus home. Absorbed in herself, oyster in shell, she chose a seat in the first row without looking up. Then she paused the music on her phone, pulled out her little notebook and pen, and released the verses that were hammering inside her head.

I see my face behind the glass a piercing freeze down my spine the real world reflected back to me is mine It looks the same though everything’s inverted still it makes more sense than our self-portrait of a world so sad and lost heaven’s become a portent love surrenders to the bizarre and in pursuit of fortune morals fall like shooting stars There! She read the poem aloud to herself and it was as if it opened a portal to inner peace. Relieved, she glanced out the window. Still floating, finding her way back from the trance that had lasted the whole day. She couldn’t remember the precise moment she had begun to feel strange. Maybe after turning a corner that night when the fresh breeze tamed the heat. Now, though the passing landscapes felt familiar, something was different about the route. The buildings were smaller and there were too many people out on the street. Not beggars, who, in fact, Ana no longer saw anywhere— just people who seemed happy to be aimless, who were taking advantage of the evening for a little stroll, looking up at the stars, talking. How interesting. What neighborhood was this? She walked up to the driver to check. It was the right bus line. She asked if they had changed the route. No, we always pass through here towards Vila Elba. I must’ve gotten on the wrong number bus, Ana thought. She didn’t

o motorista confirmar. A linha estava certa. Perguntou então se tinham trocado a rota. Não, seguimos sempre por aqui, rumo à Vila Elba. Devo ter pego outro número, pensou. Não se preocupou, pois descia no ponto final. No próprio ônibus, notou as pessoas mais animadas e falantes. No ponto que se aproximava, viu três rapazes negros darem o sinal – a essa hora?, pensou, não vai parar – mas o motorista parou. Mais que isso, fez festa, até papearam um pouco antes dos garotos sentarem e a viagem seguir. De tão intrigada com o estado das coisas, decidiu descer e explorar melhor a situação. Na rua, confirmou a efusividade que viu pela janelinha. Começou a andar a esmo também. Olhava as pessoas, as roupas de sempre mas as cores pareciam mais vivas, o mesmo com as casas e os prédios. Viu misturas inesperadas passeando, grupos de jovens juntos com idosos, espaços lúdicos entre as calçadas, crianças brincando sozinhas. Quanto pai irresponsável, meu Deus, pensou. Mas percebeu que ela mesmo era irresponsável por andar também sozinha àquela hora num lugar desconhecido. Se sentiu tão acolhida pela noite que esqueceu de se amedrontar. Ana percebeu mais uma coisa naquelas idas e vindas, e foi o que mais a chocou: havia casais de todo jeito passando tranquilos na rua e trocando carícias, entre homens, mulheres, transsexuais, trios, duplas, tudo misturado nas mais variadas cores de pele. Ela parecia ser a única cismada, sem querer cravava o olhar nos enamorados e eles lhe respondiam com um aceno despreocupado. Passou por uma praça e viu uma enorme roda de pessoas, cativadas por um velho que parecia contar histórias dos tempos de juventude. Ou de tempos que nunca existiram. O deslumbramento com que assistia à noite foi cedendo lugar ao pavor quando imaginou que talvez não se tratasse só de um bairro. Perguntou a um senhor, o primeiro que viu, onde estavam. Sim, pois não, na Vila Andaluzia. Confirmou então se ainda era São Paulo. Sim, com certeza, cá estamos na grande cidade. Quis saber as horas e o ano. Vinte e quarenta e

worry because the final stop would be the same. But even onboard, she noticed, people were happier, chattier. At the next stop, she saw three young black men wave the bus down—at this hour? she thought, the driver won’t stop— but he did. What’s more, the four of them made some small talk, shot the shit a bit before the guys sat down and the trip continued. Ana became so intrigued she decided to get off at the next stop to investigate the situation further.

On the street, she confirmed the enthusiasm she had witnessed through the window. She let herself wander. She’d look at passersby, dressed in the same kinds of clothes as always, and the colors would somehow be brighter. The homes and buildings too. She saw unexpected pairings of people mingling, young people with the elderly, parks and jungle gyms amongst concrete, children playing alone. My goodness, so many irresponsible parents out there, she thought. But then she realized she, too, was irresponsible, walking alone at this hour in this unfamiliar place. She had felt so taken in by the night she forgot to feel fear. Ana noticed something else in all these comings and goings, and it was this observation that shocked her most: there were couples of all kinds exchanging caresses while walking casually down the street—couples of women, men, trans people, trios, pairs, a whole range of skin tones. She seemed to be the only skeptic; without meaning to she’d stare at the lovebirds and each time they’d acknowledge her with an unbothered wave. Eventually, she walked through a plaza and beheld a massive circle of people, all captivated by one old man who seemed to be telling stories about the years of his youth. Or years that never happened. The fascination with which she observed the night gave way then to a sense of fear when she imagined that whatever was happening might not just be happening to this neighborhood. She asked an older gentleman, the first person she saw, if he wouldn’t mind telling her where they were. Of course not! This is Vila Andaluzia. She checked whether that was still São Paulo. Yes, definitely. Here we are in the big city. She wanted to know the year, and the time. 8:41p.m., 2025, come on now! Thank you!—a breath of relief. At

um, 2025, ora! Obrigada!, um sopro aliviado. Na banca de jornal, pegou um exemplar. Leu uma, duas, três vezes, comprimiu os olhos em confusão. Manchetes:

MUNDO PLANEJA GRANDE FESTA PARA O 340º ANIVERSÁRIO DO COLAPSO COLONIAL

de 1638; PESQUISADORES DA USP INVENTAM CÂMERA DE 100 FOTOS: nova tecnologia é uma das maiores invenções das últimas décadas. Tinha que ligar para a Bia! Mas percebeu que o celular não estava mais lá. Roubada? Olhou em volta, não, com certeza não levaram. Bateu o desespero, ainda faltavam oito prestações. Uma tontura tomou seu corpo. Não sabia o que fazer. Não respirava bem, suava frio. Precisava de uma cerveja. No bar, as mesas compartilhadas, logo abriram espaço ao nota-la. Que bem recebida, pensou, nem um olhar de estranheza contra a pretinha? Mal sentou, desconhecidos simpáticos já estavam puxando assunto. Quiseram saber como foi seu dia, comentou que tinha ido trabalhar, mas passou rápido. Um rapaz comentou que preferia não trabalhar durante o verão, uma moça respondeu que trabalhou aquela semana, exceto na quarta e na quinta pois quis participar das assembleias políticas. Todos concordaram que naquela semana era importante ir às assembleias para discutir o grande acordo de cooperação. Alguém pede mais uma rodada de cerveja, alguns se levantam para servir o resto da mesa. Um gole: o sabor é menos amargo. Um rapaz puxa assunto. Essa é nova! - pensou - branco, com cara de boy bem cuidado vindo falar comigo? Se bem que a regra ali eram corpos bem tratados. É a vez da comida: bolinhos assados, com alguma mistura que não identificou, não dosou a quantidade, mas se sentia mais leve do que estava acostumada. Achou engraçado até ali ninguém tentar tocar seu cabelo e nem comentar seja o “como é lindo” sejam as piadas babacas. Agora, uma mulher chega para conversar. Negra também. Longuíssimas tranças violetas se misturavam no trançado de tiras e penas. Convida Ana para ir dançar com os amigos. Bebem mais uma e

the newsstand, she grabbed a paper from the rack. Read it one, two, three times, squinting in confusion. The headlines:

WORLD PLANS BLOWOUT PARTY FOR 340th ANNIVERSARY OF COLONIAL COLLAPSE OF 1638; RESEARCHERS AT UNIVERSITY OF SÃO PAULO INVENT DIGITAL CAMERA: New Technology

One of the Greatest Inventions of the Century. She had to call Bia! But her phone, she noticed, wasn’t there. Had she been robbed? Ana checked around her—no, there was no way anyone had taken it. Panic struck: she still had eight payments left to make. A dizziness took over her body. Ana didn’t know what to do. She was breathing badly, sweating cold. She needed a beer. At the bar, people sitting at the shared tables readjusted to make room when they noticed her. So well received, she thought. No side-eye for the black girl? She had barely sat down when the friendly strangers began talking to her. They wanted to know how her day had been; she said she’d gone to work but it had flown by. One guy said that he preferred not to work during the summer; a young woman added that she had worked that week, but not on Wednesday or Thursday, because she’d wanted to participate in the political assemblies. Everyone agreed that the following week it would be especially important to attend the assemblies in order to discuss the “major cooperation accord.” Someone ordered another round of beer, others got up to serve the rest of the table. A sip: the taste less bitter than usual. One of the young men tried to make conversation with her. This is new, she thought, a white boy, well-groomed, approaching me? Come to think of it, the standard here seemed to be well-cared-for bodies. When the food arrived, it was bolinhos assados with a filling Ana couldn’t identify. She didn’t keep count and felt lighter than usual. She thought it was funny no one had tried to touch her hair or talk about it. No “wow, so pretty;” no stupid jokes. Now a woman approaches to chat. Black also. Some of the longest violet braids she’s ever seen, woven with ribbons and feathers. She invites Ana to go dancing with her and her friends. They down one last beer and leave. At the venue, musicians play a surreal genre: drums

partem. No lugar, músicos tocam um gênero irreal com tambores misturados a arpas, flautas e sons metálicos, enquanto gente de toda idade pulava. De novo é tomada pela náusea, ela corre até o banheiro, se baixa na pia, escancara a torneira. De repente se levanta e dá de cara com ele, o espelho, refletindo tudo, impassível. As mesmas imagens daqui, mas invertidas, pensa. Esboça um sorriso. Repara como era bonita. Devia se cuidar mais, realçar o rosto e os crespos fartos. Volta para a pista e se entrega ao momento, como os demais. No fim da noite, estava aos abraços com os novos amigos, eles a deixam no ponto de ônibus e partem. A lua minguante, um ar mais puro que de costume, centenas de estrelas no céu. Não queria, mas sentia que ou corria para dormir ou acabaria no chão de tão cansada. No seu bairro, a madrugada jazendo no silêncio angelical, uma ou outra pessoa na rua, tranquilo, sem novidades, simples como o Centro em que estava até agora, sem os grandes arranha-céus de costume. Mas ali sempre foi simples. A Berê, sua vizinha, estava sentada na frente de casa, Ana a cumprimentou boquiaberta percebendo que não havia nenhuma marca de queimadura pelo corpo, nenhuma deformidade, linda. Pensou em perguntar sobre o maldito que havia feito aquilo, mas desistiu. Não fazia nem uma semana que a havia visto, as cicatrizes não poderiam ter sumido daquela forma. Pensar sobre aquilo lhe trouxe um medo profundo e primitivo. Onde ela estava? Ou não estava em lugar nenhum? Queria se esforçar mais para pensar sobre aquela realidade tão absurda e comparar com o mundo que estava acostumada, que era mais absurdo ainda. Mas não podia mais, estava no limite de suas forças. Só queria dormir. Entrou, foi ao banheiro, lançou um olhar profundo ao profético espelho. As forças restantes, gastou para se dirigir à cama. No colchão,uma última ideia antes de apagar: como será amanhã?

and harps, flutes and metallic sounds, people of all ages jumping up and down. Suddenly, the nausea strikes again, and Ana runs to the bathroom, crouches over the sink, and opens the faucet. When she rises she is face to face with it, the mirror, reflecting everything impassively. The same but inverted, Ana thinks. She smiles weakly. Notes that she is beautiful. She should take better care of herself, accentuate her face and voluminous curls. She goes back to the dance floor to surrender herself to the moment as the others do.

At the end of the night, she hugged her new friends, who left her at the bus stop and went on their way. The moon waning, air fresher than usual, hundreds of stars in the sky. She hadn’t wanted to leave, but knew that she had to hurry home to sleep or she would end up passed out on the floor from exhaustion. In her neighborhood, dawn rested in an angelic silence, one or two people on the street, peaceful, no news. It was as calm as the downtown area she’d been in until now, which no longer had its typical skyscrapers. Though here it had always been calm. Berê, her neighbor, was sitting in front of her house. Ana greeted the woman, jawdropped, noticing there were no burn marks on her body, no deformities; she was lovely. She thought about asking after the awful man who had done it, but didn’t. Not even a week had passed since she had seen Berê—the scars couldn’t have possibly disappeared so completely since then. Thinking about this plunged her back into a deep and primitive fear. Where was she? Was she nowhere? She tried to push herself to really consider this absurd reality and compare it to the world she had known, which was more absurd still. But she couldn’t take it anymore, had reached her limit. She just wanted to sleep. Ana went inside, walked to the bathroom, cast a glance at the prophetic mirror. All the energy she had left was spent navigating her way to the bed. On the mattress, one last thought before sleep. How will tomorrow be?

word for word / palabra por palabra

Columbia University School of the Arts

Universidad Diego Portales

Nota de traductor

Tras celebrar la boda de una excompañera de la universidad, la protagonista sin nombre de este relato se encuentra varada hasta nuevo aviso en un aeropuerto en Francia. Lejos de su hogar —aquel en el que creció y aquel que escogió— debe lidiar con desconocidos insoportables, restricciones migratorias y familiares entrometidos que, incluso a la distancia, no logran respetar sus límites ni estilo de vida.

En este fragmento del cuento “Extranjeros hablando”, Aditi Bainss narra la historia de una joven india que se enfrenta a la dura realidad de habitar un mundo poco amigable con quienes se resisten a seguir las normas y buscan definir su camino por cuenta propia. Con algunos toques de humor, Bainss apunta a retratar la otra cara de las políticas mundiales, sus consecuencias en la vida de las personas migrantes, y la intersección de estos temas con la cultura y el feminismo.

Traducir a Aditi fue una experiencia enriquecedora en muchos sentidos, pero destaco el que me haya permitido acercarme al inglés desde una mirada mucho más atenta a las palabras y la manera que tenemos de expresarlas en un idioma u otro. A ratos se convirtió en un desafío encontrar la forma precisa de capturar la esencia del texto original sin que la sintaxis en español se viese profundamente alterada. Debido a esto, mi misión fue buscar buenas equivalencias que le hicieran justicia al cuento, sin importar la lengua en que uno lo estuviese leyendo. En ocasiones, lo anterior derivó en acortar o alargar frases, en invertir el orden de las oraciones con tal de que su fluidez no decayera, o en sustituir elementos; por ejemplo, la onomatopeya tcktck —usada para sonorizar el desvío de una llamada con los botones laterales del teléfono— la cambié por clic-

clic, que es más comprensible en español, y a su vez, al hablar de una mujer singapurense, coloqué que era “de Singapur”, debido a que en este lado del globo no es común oír tal gentilicio y la frase sonaba poco natural.

De igual modo, consideré las implicancias de traducir una historia que se ve permeada por las dos lenguas que su protagonista habla. A pesar de que el cuento haya sido escrito en inglés, un idioma que en la gramática no distingue entre el “tú” y el “usted” más allá del contexto proporcionado, me pareció pertinente usar pronombres formales al momento de adaptar una conversación que la narradora mantiene con su madre, puesto que el hindi se asemeja al español en este sentido y el uso de una palabra u otra marca el grado de respeto que se le tiene al interlocutor. En esta misma línea, decidí mantener ciertos términos en hindi (como mausam o Badtameez) con el fin de conservar la voz de quien narra la historia. Por otro lado, en las ocasiones en que el registro de habla de un personaje variaba de forma notable, apunté a mantener las huellas de su lenguaje, como fue el caso con un personaje estadounidense que usaba un exceso de muletillas (like) en sus diálogos.

ADITI BAINSS

FOREIGNERS TALKING (EXCERPT)

When all is said and done I want to pack up my life in one single suitcase to go see lightning over the murky sea. Alone. Not lonely. It would be the closest I would come to knowing me. No one believes me when I say I wouldn’t want to return to the land of cell phones. They think I’ve lost my mind and that I’ll be back to living in the real world soon, just you see. The real world with jobs and marriages and passports. The real world where there was a thunderstorm outside and our flight from Ireland had made an emergency stop at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Roissy-en-France. The captain had made a garbled announcement and the only words I understood were emergency and thank you. Disgruntled and half asleep, we shuffled through the low-lit jetbridge and into the airport. My phone buzzed against my thigh. Bzzzzbzzzz. A dull, muffled rumble that grated on my skin. It wasn’t the vibration that bothered me. In fact, the soft haptics felt like a localized massage. But, I knew who was calling. I reached inside my pocket and tck-tck canceled the call. As we made our way through arrivals, a woman in a Chanel blazer asked the airhostess from our flight if we needed to make our way to baggage claim. The air hostess assured Chanel Blazer that we only needed to wait here for a few hours before they had a solid grasp on what would happen next. Chanel Blazer asked if we needed to go through immigration again and the air hostess politely repeated herself. Unsatisfied, Chanel Blazer insisted on knowing how long it was going to take and that a ‘few hours’ could mean two or twenty. Finally, Chanel Blazer had had enough and demanded to see the airhostess’ manager. Before I could see the drama unfold, a member of the

traducido del inglés por ELISA MUÑOZ EXTRANJEROS(FRAGMENTO)HABLANDO

Cuando todo esté dicho y hecho, quiero empacar mi vida en una sola maleta y ver relámpagos encima del turbio mar. Sola. No solitaria. Sería lo más cerca que estaría de conocerme. Nadie me cree cuando digo que no me agradaría volver a la tierra de los celulares. Piensan que he perdido el juicio y que pronto regresaré a vivir en el mundo real, que ya lo veré. El mundo real con trabajos, matrimonios y pasaportes.

El mundo real en el que había una tormenta afuera y nuestro vuelo desde Irlanda había hecho una parada de emergencia en el Charles de Gaulle en Roissy-en-France. El capitán hizo un anuncio incomprensible y las únicas palabras que entendí fueron “emergencia” y “gracias”. Molestos y adormilados, avanzamos con rapidez por la oscura pasarela de embarque y entramos al aeropuerto. Me vibró el teléfono contra el muslo. Bzzz-bzzz. Un sonido sordo, amortiguado rozaba mi piel. La vibración no era lo que me molestaba; de hecho, los toques suaves se sentían como un masaje focalizado. Sabía quién me llamaba. Metí la mano en el bolsillo y desvié la llamada con un clic-clic. Al atravesar las puertas de llegada, una mujer con un blazer Chanel le preguntó a una azafata del vuelo si es que debíamos retirar nuestro equipaje. La azafata le aseguró a Blazer Chanel que solo debíamos esperar aquí por un par de horas antes de que supieran con certeza lo que ocurriría después. Blazer Chanel preguntó si debíamos pasar otra vez por inmigración y la azafata repitió educadamente su respuesta. Sin estar satisfecha, Blazer Chanel insistió en saber cuánto tardaría eso y que “un par de horas” podía significar veinte o más. Al final Blazer Chanel se aburrió y pidió hablar con su gerente. Antes de que pudiera ver cómo

ground crew waved us over to a secured waiting area, an international transit lounge of sorts, and requested, unoriginally, that we wait.

“Do you have toothpaste?” Dorothy said. We had been in the flight for barely two hours but Dorothy was always paranoid about bad breath, even in undergrad when she brushed her teeth between classes and always had a tin of Altoids in her handbag. She used to say that she was sick of people lugging her together with all the other Asians. I’m Singaporean, dammit, she’d say, but I can’t pull my passport out every single time someone calls me stinky so I won’t give anyone any reason to judge me in the first place. When she moved back to Singapore after graduation, the habit stuck to her like a bad memory. She still came down to New York once in a while but never stayed for more than a week.

“Yeah, there’s one in the pouch with all the wedding favors,” I said as I bent down to pull it out from my suitcase.

Up ahead, a nervous looking meteorologist spoke in a thick French accent through the massive television screen. Sweat glistened on his forehead and the bright studio lights emphasized the crazy spark in his eyes.

“...low-pressure system over the Atlantic,” he made a circular motion with his hand trying to mimic the winds, “and then the jet streams steer these storms across the waters, towards the British Isles and towards France so really it’s all the mischief of the winds you know. But, but not just the winds because, okay, see yes it’s lately been unpredictable because we don’t usually see these kind of things happening in May but you know things are changing now and we really have to have more funding to figure this shit out—sorry yes, yes, no saying shit, for fuck’s sake, sorry, I’m really sorry—but see we must get more funding because these fucking oil companies are—”

The screen abruptly cut to the news anchor, seemingly unaffected, frozen for a split second before flickering to a different segment about the breaking

continuaba ese drama, un miembro del personal de tierra nos hizo señas para que nos acercáramos al área de espera, un tipo de estancia internacional de tránsito y, con poca originalidad, nos pidió que esperáramos.

—¿Tienes pasta de dientes? —me preguntó Dorothy. No estuvimos más de dos horas en el avión, pero desde siempre había sido paranoica con tener mal aliento. Ya era así en pregrado: se lavaba los dientes entre medio de clases y llevaba en su cartera una lata de mentas Altoids todo el tiempo. Solía decir que estaba harta de la gente que la ponía dentro del mismo saco que al resto de asiáticos. “Maldición, soy de Singapur”, decía, “pero no puedo sacar mi pasaporte cada vez que alguien me dice apestosa, así que no le daré razones a nadie para juzgarme”. Después de la graduación, al mudarse de vuelta a Singapur, se le pegó el hábito como un mal recuerdo. Todavía viajaba a Nueva York de vez en cuando, pero nunca se quedaba por más de una semana.

—Sí, en mi bolsa, junto a los recuerdos de la boda —dije tras agacharme para sacarla de mi maleta.

Frente a nosotras, un meteorólogo de apariencia nerviosa hablaba con un marcado acento francés por la enorme pantalla de televisión. El sudor le brillaba en la frente, y las resplandecientes luces del estudio enfatizaban el entusiasmo en sus ojos.

—... un sistema de baja presión sobre el Atlántico. —Hizo un movimiento circular con su mano tratando de imitar el viento—. Y luego las corrientes de aire guían estas tormentas por el océano hacia las Islas Británicas y Francia, así que, ya saben, es culpa del viento. Pero, pero no solo del viento, porque, bien, verán, sí, últimamente ha sido impredecible porque no es común que veamos este tipo de cosas ocurriendo en mayo, pero ya saben, ahora están cambiando estas cosas, y en verdad tenemos que recibir mayor financiamiento para solucionar esta mierda… Disculpen, nada de mierda, por la mierda, perdón, lo lamento mucho… Verán, debemos recibir más financiamiento, porque estas putas compañías petroleras…

De manera abrupta, la pantalla mostró al — aparentemente indiferente— presentador de noticias, quien

news of a politician’s extra marital affair.

I looked out the panoramic windows of the airport at an airplane bussing in the raging storm. Its metal skin gleamed under the wash of floodlights and tiny little blinks along its wings and tail scattered across the wet tarmac. I smiled, wondering happily how far away they took people from everything people wanted to be far away from. Bzzzz-bzzzz. I huffed at the intrusion, tck-tck, and turned to Marie. We didn’t know each other very well; the first time we met was a month ago at Matilda’s bachelorette in Ibiza where the crowd smelled suffocatingly like sweat and Santal 33, and Marie spent the entire night trying to get on with the stripper who was dressed in a Chick-fil-A employee uniform, the one who wasn’t even for our party. She threw back drinks and threw around so much glitter that I found it in my scalp and underarms even a week later. The next morning she confessed to us that she was trying to fantasize living out that ‘blue collar wife life’ with the Chickfil-A stripper and was sorry to report that it wasn’t for her. By then we had spent so much money celebrating that Matilda insisted on paying for everyone’s roundtrip flight tickets to Dublin for her wedding. Not in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that she would book Dorothy and me on the same flight back to New York as Marie.

“So you gonna be in New York for long?” I said.

“Like for the entire May, yes, and then I’m flying out again in June for like the ultimate Scandi summer you know,” Marie said.

I nod my head with fake enthusiasm. “And you keep your studio closed for that time?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Oh, I mean who’s gonna run the classes?”

Marie looked at me like a teacher looks at her dumb student. “Sweetie, I run a pilates studio. I don’t like actually run the classes.”

“Very cool.”

I expected her to ask me a question too. Civil

estuvo congelado por una fracción de segundo antes de pasar a otro segmento sobre las últimas noticias acerca de la relación extramarital de un político.

Por las ventanas panorámicas del aeropuerto observé un avión que despegaba en medio de la tormenta. Su fuselaje metálico brillaba bajo la luz de los focos, y unos pequeños destellos a lo largo de sus alas y cola salpicaban la pista mojada. Sonreí y, emocionada, me pregunté qué tanto los aviones alejaban a las personas de todo aquello que estas querían alejarse. Bzzz-bzzz. Resoplé ante el entrometimiento, clic-clic, y me volteé hacia Marie.

No nos conocíamos tanto. La primera vez que nos vimos había sido un mes atrás en la despedida de soltera de Matilda en Ibiza. Allí la multitud apestaba a sudor y a Santal 33, y Marie se pasó la noche intentando acostarse con el estríper vestido de trabajador de Chick-fil-A, quien ni siquiera estaba en nuestra fiesta. Tomó en exceso y lanzó tanta brillantina a su alrededor que, incluso una semana después, encontré restos en mi cuero cabelludo y debajo de mis brazos. A la mañana siguiente nos confesó que con el estríper intentaba vivir la fantasía de ser la esposa de un obrero, y que lamentaba informar que aquello no era para ella. Para entonces ya habíamos gastado tanto dinero en la celebración que Matilda insistió en pagarnos los pasajes de ida y vuelta a Dublín para su boda. Ni en mis sueños más locos hubiera imaginado que nos pondría a todas en el mismo vuelo de regreso a Nueva York.

—Así que, ¿estarás mucho tiempo en Nueva York? —le pregunté.

—Sí, así como por todo mayo, y luego vuelvo a viajar en junio por algo así como el último verano escandinavo, ya sabes —contestó Marie.

Asentí fingiendo entusiasmo.

—¿Y vas a cerrar tu estudio por todo ese tiempo?

—¿Por qué haría eso?

—Oh, me preguntaba quién hará las clases. Marie me miró como una maestra que observa a un estudiante estúpido.

—Cariño, soy dueña de un estudio de pilates. No es

society and all that. What do you like do in New York? Are you gonna be there for like long? What are your Scandi summer plans? When she didn’t though, heat crept down the nape of my neck in embarrassment of the sweet, intrusive interest I had shown in her.

Marie beckoned me with her index finger, perfectly manicured in a milky tea shade, and I bent forward to listen. “When you decide you wanna keep your money in your account and also like grow that money to be filthy rich you hire other people at cheap rates to do the work for you and you let other people buy you things when they offer.”

Bzzz-bzzz. I clenched my teeth. Tck-tck.

“Any updates?” Dorothy said as she settled in the chair next to me. Her mouth smelled like peppermint and clove and she had spritzed herself in a cleansmelling Byredo perfume. My heart tugged at the lengths she went to. I booped her nose and smiled.

“No, nothing yet.” I said.

As if by miracle, ground crew employees walked in and asked us all to go through preliminary immigration so they could move us closer to the departure gates. The storm hadn’t slowed though.

“You should be fine, right?” Dorothy said.

“Yeah, I have a US visa, I shouldn’t need a transit one here,” I said.

Slowly, we made our way through the long lines. The concourse was a large, open space with high ceilings. Everything felt bright and slightly echoey. The immigration officer, too jovial for his job, barely looked at my passport. I sighed in relief, not having to answer their prodding questions, and made my way along with everyone to a cluster of seats near Gate 13. The ground crew requested that we all stay there in case there were any updates. Bzzz-bzzz. I huffed an irritable sigh and took out my phone to stare at Maa’s caller photo. I shook the phone violently and tck-tck cut the call.

“Aunty still video calls you?” Dorothy said.

“All the fucking time,” I said, “I’ve told her I can’t

como que yo dé las clases.

—Genial.

Esperé que también me hiciera una pregunta. Que actuara como una persona civilizada, o algo por el estilo.

¿Como qué haces en Nueva York? ¿Vas a estar allá por, así como, mucho tiempo? ¿Qué planes tienes para tu verano escandinavo? Cuando no lo hizo, el bochorno se deslizó por mi nuca, y me avergoncé por el interés dulce e indiscreto que había mostrado en ella.

Marie me hizo una seña con su dedo índice, el cual tenía una manicura perfecta en un tono de té con leche, y me incliné para escucharla.

—Cuando decides que quieres mantener todo tu dinero en tu cuenta y que también quieres, como, hacerlo crecer para volverte asquerosamente rica, contratas a otras personas a un bajo costo para que hagan el trabajo por ti, y dejas que otros te compren cosas cuando te lo ofrecen.

Bzzz-bzzz. Apreté mis dientes. Clic-clic.

—¿Alguna noticia? —consultó Dorothy mientras se acomodaba en la silla a mi lado. Su boca olía a menta y clavo de olor, y se había bañado en un perfume Byredo. Mi corazón se estremeció por lo mucho que se había esforzado. Le di un toquecito en la nariz y sonreí.

—No, todavía nada —respondí.

Como de milagro, el personal de tierra apareció y nos pidió a todos que pasáramos por inmigración para que nos pudieran mover más cerca de las puertas de embarque. A pesar de eso, la tormenta no había parado.

—No deberías tener problemas, ¿verdad? —inquirió Dorothy.

—No, tengo una visa de Estados Unidos; aquí no debería necesitar una de tránsito —afirmé.

Con lentitud, nos abrimos paso por las largas filas. El vestíbulo era un espacio amplio con techos altos. Todo se escuchaba claro, con un ligero eco. El oficial de inmigración, demasiado jovial para su trabajo, apenas miró mi pasaporte. Suspiré aliviada por no tener que responder a sus preguntas invasivas, y caminé junto al resto a un montón de asientos cerca de la puerta 13. El personal de tierra nos solicitó

have thirty minute long video calls every single day of the week. I look at a screen all day and force smiles with my co-workers, can’t I have some respite from having to do it after my day’s work is over? But noooo, she says I’m being disrespectful and it never should be a problem to see your parents’ faces. Fuck looking at your faces, for fuck’s sake.”

Dorothy laughed and my phone buzzed again but it wasn’t who I thought. It was a text from my sister, a single image along with the message—I can’t believe she actually did this. It took a while for the image to load, and what looked like a newspaper clipping materialized on the screen slowly.

WANTED GROOM

Parents of feminist, fair complexion, veg, non-drinking, US educated & NYC based daughter, age 29/5’5’’, seek fair to wheatish complexion, veg, non-drinking, non-balding boy, NYC based, earning upper 6 figures in $, below age 30 strictly/min. 6’2’’, caste no bar (though Ravidassia preferred), email biodata singhfamily@gmail.com

I could have choked on the dryness of my tongue. My ears were aflame as I scrolled to Maa’s chat and typed furiously.

I told you we are done if you put the ad in the newspaper

Within the split of a second Maa replied. I wondered what she was doing up so late. It must be past midnight in India.

Why have you not been picking up my calls?

??? I can’t talk to you right now. All the kids video call their parents you are the only one who has a problem

Why would you embarrass me with this shit Have you landed?

quedarnos allí en caso de que hubiera alguna novedad. Bzzzbzzz. Resoplé irritada y saqué mi celular para observar con atención la imagen de llamada de Maa. Agité con violencia el dispositivo y corté la llamada con un clic-clic. —¿La tía te sigue haciendo videollamadas? —dijo Dorothy.

—Todo el puto tiempo —mascullé—. Le he dicho que no puedo tener videollamadas de treinta minutos cada día de la semana. Todo el día miro una pantalla y finjo sonrisas con mis colegas del trabajo, ¿acaso no puedo tener un respiro después de que termine mi jornada laboral? Pero noooo, dice que soy una maleducada y que nunca debería ser un problema ver la cara de tus padres. A la mierda con verles la cara, joder.

Dorothy se rio, y mi teléfono vibró otra vez, pero no era quien yo creía. Era un mensaje de mi hermana, una foto simple con una descripción: No puedo creer que en verdad haya hecho esto. La imagen se demoró un rato en cargar y, lentamente, en la pantalla se materializó lo que parecía ser un recorte de periódico.

SE BUSCA MARIDO

Padres de mujer feminista, de tez clara, vegetariana, que no bebe, educada en Estados Unidos y que reside en Nueva York, de 29 años y 1,67 m., buscan a un joven de tez clara a trigueña, vegetariano, que no beba ni sea calvo, que resida en Nueva York y gane un sueldo de más de seis cifras, menor de 30 y que mida mín. 1,88 m., sin casta específica (aunque se prefiere la Ravidassia), por favor envíe sus datos a singhfamily@gmail.com

Me pude haber atragantado con la sequedad en mi lengua. Mis orejas se prendieron en llamas mientras bajaba hasta el chat de Maa y tecleaba con furiosidad.

Le dije que esto se terminaba si colocaba el anuncio en el periódico

Maa contestó en una fracción de segundo. Me pregunté qué podría estar haciendo despierta tan tarde. Debía ser más de medianoche en India.

Why not New York?

No stuck in Paris

I texted on the group, there’s a toofan outside, flights can’t fly in this mausam

So you can video call now?

NO ???

I don’t understand how selling me like cows in the newspaper will help you find a groom

I don’t know why you are complaining, we put feminist in the ad

Don’t say shit

Badtameez child

This is shit? Marriage is not shit

I am shit? Now your mother is shit?

You putting an ad is shit

Sweat was pooling in my underarms. I had forgotten how it felt to be at odds with Maa. The claws, the teeth. I used to live in her house and then I didn’t. But she always had a way of dragging me back under her shade. And I went kicking and screaming every single time.

You haven’t sent any photos from the wedding

All your friends are getting married when will you We sacrifice so much and you can’t even pick up our call?

We let you study too much

The phone screen blurred in my vision and it was only a few seconds later that I realized I was about to cry. Dorothy reached under her seat and handed me a tiny box of tissues. I rubbed them vigorously on my face and noticed that Marie was watching me. I pretended I didn’t see her, rested my head on Dorothy’s shoulder, and tried to sleep.

In my dream, I was walking in an apple orchard on an overcast day. Like the one near my grandmother’s house; only that used to grow mangoes. I walk for hours, the wet mud getting clumped between my toes. I touch

Por qué no me has contestado las llamadas?

??? Ahora no puedo hablar

Todos los hijos hacen videollamadas con sus padres eres la única que tiene un problema

Aterrizaste?

Por qué me avergüenza con esta mierda

Estoy atrapada en París

Por qué no en Nueva York?

Escribí por el grupo, hay una tormenta afuera, los vuelos no pueden salir bajo este mausam

Entonces puedes hacer una videollamada ahora?

NO ???

No entiendo por qué el venderme como una vaca en el periódico le ayudará a encontrarme un marido

No entiendo de qué te quejas, pusimos feminista en el anuncio

No digas mierda

niña Badtameez

Esto es una mierda? El matrimonio no es una mierda

Que ponga un anuncio es una mierda

Yo soy una mierda? Ahora tu madre es una mierda?

El sudor se acumuló en mis axilas. Recordé lo que se sentía estar peleada con Maa. Las garras, los dientes. Solía vivir en su casa y luego dejé de hacerlo, pero ella siempre había sabido cómo arrastrarme de vuelta bajo su alero. Y cada vez yo huía pataleando y gritando a más no poder.

No has mandado fotos de la boda

Todos tus amigos se han casado, cuándo lo harás tú

Sacrificamos tanto y ni siquiera puedes contestarnos?

Te dejamos estudiar demasiado

La pantalla del teléfono se puso borrosa frente a mis ojos y, un par de segundos después, me di cuenta de que iba a ponerme a llorar. Dorothy buscó debajo de su asiento y me tendió una cajita de pañuelos. Me los restregué con fuerza

the barks, the branches, the leaves. Suddenly, lightning crackles through the sky and I begin running in that direction. I feel glee. I have only gone a few feet when I am pulled back forcefully. It’s Maa and everything around us is going dark. Suddenly, again, I feel a heavy weight on me and it smells like fresh earth. Everything around me gets quieter, and quieter, and quieter. I see the lightning crackle in the sky again but my sight is tunneled. The last thing I feel is the soil falling over my head.

After what felt like two minutes but was probably way longer, Dorothy jerked me awake. A ground crew member was announcing that the storm had let out and they were rebooking us on different flights but only had limited space since air traffic control hadn’t yet cleared all flights to take off. The crowd erupted and he yelled at everyone to calm down. More ground crew members walked in. There were no first class seats available at that moment and they insisted that everyone carefully assess their priorities and medical needs before opting to be put on the next flight out and that they regretted the inconvenience and thanked us for the cooperation. Neither Dorothy or Marie moved so I sat there for a few seconds before announcing that I should probably get on this flight. Tomorrow was the last day of my approved leave and any further delay meant they would put me on unpaid leave. I had already used up ten out of the sixty days of unemployment I was allowed on my visa and that an unpaid leave did not count as an unemployment day but you never know with these new rules that are announced out of nowhere. Marie smiled gently, an unadulterated, understanding smile, and said I need not explain myself and I replied incredulously that I wasn’t explaining myself. Deep inside I knew I was, though. It was a bad habit. Every time I had to do something different than what others were doing, take an opposing stance, or needed to cancel plans, I overexplained my circumstances. I would construct loops and tangents about the what, the why, and the

por la cara y noté que Marie me estaba mirando. Fingí no haberla visto, recosté mi cabeza en el hombro de Dorothy e intenté dormir.

En mi sueño vago por un huerto de manzanos mientras el día está nublado. Es parecido al que estaba cerca de la casa de mi abuela, aunque en ese solían cosechar mangos. Camino por horas y el barro húmedo se mete entre los dedos de mis pies. Toco las cortezas, las ramas, las hojas. De pronto, los rayos crepitan en el cielo y comienzo a correr en tal dirección. Me siento feliz. Solo he logrado avanzar un par de metros cuando siento que me jalonean con fuerza. Ha sido Maa. La oscuridad nos rodea. Vuelvo a sentir un enorme peso encima, huelo la tierra mojada. A mi alrededor todo se empieza a callar, a callar, a callar. Veo otro rayo rasgar el cielo, pero mi vista se ha enfocado. Lo último que siento es la tierra caer sobre mi cabeza.

Luego de lo que se sintió como dos minutos, pero que probablemente duró más, Dorothy me despertó con brusquedad. Un miembro del personal de tierra estaba informando que la tormenta se había calmado y que nos iban a reasignar en diferentes vuelos, pero que solo tenían cupos limitados, porque el control de tráfico aéreo aún no autorizaba el despegue de todos los aviones. La multitud estalló y él les gritó a todos que se tranquilizaran. Más miembros del personal se acercaron. Por el momento no había asientos de primera clase, e insistieron en que todos evaluaran sus prioridades y necesidades médicas antes de solicitar ser puestos en el próximo vuelo a despegar; que lamentaban los inconvenientes y nos agradecían por cooperar.

Ni Dorothy ni Marie se movieron, así que me quedé sentada unos segundos antes de informarles que quizás debía subirme a este avión. Mañana era el último día que tenía permitido ausentarme del trabajo, y cualquier atraso significaba que podían no pagarme. Ya había usado diez de los sesenta días que mi visa me permitía para estar cesante, y técnicamente un permiso sin goce de sueldo no contaba como cesantía, pero una nunca sabía qué esperar con estas nuevas condiciones que anunciaban de la nada.

how. It sometimes got to the point where I could hear my words in embarrassing clarity but still could not stop talking. I had asked my therapist to help me with coping mechanisms for this word vomit. She skirted around the topic for several sessions and finally one day started telling me how I could actually change my frame of thinking and use this to my advantage. Think of yourself as an expert on ‘free association’, she said to me, and went on and on about how it would help me ‘uncover repressed emotions, reveal hidden conflicts, and gain a deeper understanding of oneself’. That was the last session I had with her.

I hugged Dorothy quickly, spoke to the ground crew, and walked to immigration. After yet another long wait, I reached the counter and narrowed my eyes, trying to assess the immigration officer. Bzzz-bzzz. She had soft curls and was wearing red lipstick. Tck-tck. If I wasn’t so nervous (I was always nervous around immigration officers but she didn’t look threatening; it was the bald ones who looked like he was in every porno with a different job that looked like he would deport me without looking at my passport), I would have asked her what shade of red she was wearing.

Con gentileza, Marie me mostró una sonrisa genuina y comprensiva, y dijo que no necesitaba explicarme. Incrédula, le contesté que no me estaba explicando, aunque en mi interior sabía que lo estaba haciendo. Era un mal hábito. Cada vez que hacía algo distinto a los demás, que tomaba una posición contraria o que necesitaba cancelar un plan, sobrexplicaba mi situación. Elaboraba bucles y tangentes respecto al qué, el porqué y el cómo. A veces llegaba al punto en que podía escuchar lo que decía con una claridad vergonzosa, pero aun así no podía detenerme. Le había pedido a mi terapeuta que me ayudara con alguna estrategia para sobrellevar el vómito verbal. Faldeó el tema por varias sesiones y, finalmente, un día me dijo que podía cambiar mi forma de pensar y usarlo como una ventaja. “Piensa en ti como una experta en ‘libre asociación’”, me dijo, y parloteó sobre cómo esto me ayudaría a “descubrir emociones reprimidas, revelar conflictos ocultos y obtener un entendimiento más profundo” de mí misma. Aquella fue mi última sesión con ella.

Rápidamente abracé a Dorothy, le hablé al personal de tierra y caminé a inmigración. Después de otra larga espera, llegué al mesón y entrecerré los ojos, intentando analizar a la oficial que me tocó. Bzzz-bzzz. Tenía rizos suaves y usaba un labial rojo. Clic-clic. Si no hubiera estado tan nerviosa —siempre me ponía nerviosa cerca de los oficiales de inmigración, pero ella no parecía una amenaza; lo eran los hombres calvos que tenían pinta de actuar en cada porno con un trabajo distinto, y que parecían que fueran a deportarme sin siquiera mirar mi pasaporte—, le habría preguntado qué tono estaba usando.

Translator’s Note

In “Out Of Place”, our protagonist Victoria is off for a job interview. What seems to be pre-interview jitters at the beginning of the story accelerates into spiraling and second guesses, where each passing event sharpens her sense that something, somehow, is just slightly off.

In this short story, Elisa Muñoz set out to write a narrative inspired by one of her favorite writers, Shirley Jackson, who is a master of ambiguous reality and interpretation.

Following in Jackson’s footsteps, Muñoz sets the story in 2025 Chile and creates an ominous psychologically realist environment where she writes about her protagonist’s mental health with utmost integrity and intention. It does not matter whether events unfold exactly as they appear, nor whether Victoria’s interpretations align with some external, verifiable reality. The story resists that kind of logical truth. What matters is Victoria’s truth of perception; her experience becomes the primary reality of the narrative, even when uncertain or unreliable. What makes Muñoz’s prose so effective is its compression. Muñoz packs her sentences with immense psychological punch. The prose and syntax mimics Victoria’s clipped observation of people around her—the woman on the bus, the building’s guard, the people waiting for their interviews—presenting the fragmentation of thought under pressure, creating a rhythm that feels both controlled and on the verge of unraveling.

While translating, I prioritized staying loyal to Muñoz’s intentions in writing this story: fidelity not to facts but to experience. I swapped out the occasional commas for rearranged sentence structures, with the aim to create that fluid, continuous unfolding of perception that is so beautifully produced in Spanish.

ELISA MUÑOZ

FUERA DE LUGAR

El vapor todavía se escapaba de la plancha, desconectada encima de la mesa, cuando Victoria se dirigió a su pieza a guardar la ropa que acababa de doblar. Abrió la cajonera de madera y procedió a ordenar, sin apuro, cada una de las prendas. Tres de las cuatro blusas que había comprado en oferta en el Líder fueron a parar en el cajón de más arriba. Como de costumbre, se preocupó de plegar dos veces las etiquetas que colgaban de los cuellos de estas. Antes de salir, revisó un par de veces que el paso del gas estuviera cortado. Al cerrar la puerta, jugueteó un rato con el pomo para cerciorarse de que no pudiera abrirse de ninguna forma e, incluso, ejerció presión con su hombro durante un rato, solo para comprobar que el marco sí era capaz de resistir movimientos bruscos. Sin más excusas con las cuales entretenerse, apuró el paso para llegar al paradero. Eran las diez de la mañana y su entrevista comenzaba al mediodía. El recorrido de la micro no debía tardar más de cincuenta minutos, pero prefería no tentar al destino y matar el tiempo en la sala de espera de la oficina. Podía haber un accidente y lo último que necesitaba era quedarse atrapada en un taco. O, incluso, ella podía estar dentro del vehículo que participara del choque. Aquel pensamiento casi evitó que se subiera a la micro, pero ya había hecho la fila y le tocaba pagar; si se iba en ese momento, los demás pasajeros la mirarían extraño. Ignoró la opresión que sentía en el pecho, pasó la tarjeta por el sensor y se sentó, rezando por que nadie más tomara el asiento a su lado. Durante la primera mitad del viaje, se concentró en ensayar el guión que había hecho en su cabeza sobre lo que debía decirle al reclutador. Sí, no había trabajado en más de un año, pero aún recordaba cómo funcionaban los programas de software y podía actualizarse en lo que fuera necesario. Sí, era buena siguiendo instrucciones de

translated from the spanish by ADITI

BAINSS

OUT OF PLACE

Steam was still escaping from the unplugged iron on the table when Victoria went to her room to put away the clothes she had just folded. She opened the wooden dresser and proceeded to arrange each of them unhurriedly. Three of the four blouses she had bought on sale at Líder ended up in the top drawer. As she always did, Victoria carefully folded the long brand tags twice, tucking the end of each near the seam where they were sewn into the collar.

Before leaving, she checked a couple of times that the gas supply was turned off. After closing the door, she fiddled with the doorknob for a while to make sure it couldn’t open in any way, and even pressed against the door with her shoulder, just to check that it was indeed able to withstand sudden movements. With no more excuses to linger, she quickened her pace to reach the bus stop.

It was ten o’clock in the morning, and her interview was scheduled to begin at noon. The bus ride wouldn’t take more than fifty minutes, but she preferred not to tempt fate, and to kill time in the office waiting room instead. There could be an accident, and the last thing she needed was to get trapped in a traffic jam. Or, she could even wind up being inside the vehicle involved in the crash. That thought almost made her reconsider getting on the bus, but she had already waited in line and it was her turn to pay; if she left at that moment, the other passengers would look at her strangely. She ignored the tightness she felt in her chest, swiped her card through the sensor, and sat down praying that no one else would take the seat next to her.

During the first half of the ride, she focused on rehearsing the script she had prepared in her head about what she should say to the recruiter. Yes, she hadn’t worked

sus superiores y su fortaleza era completar rápidamente las tareas que le asignaban. Sí, le interesaba… —Oye, disculpa, tienes la cartera abierta. —Una mujer joven le tocó el hombro en advertencia, mientras avanzaba hasta la parte trasera de la micro.

La interrupción fue tan rápida que Victoria no terminó de procesarla hasta un par de segundos más tarde.

Sintiendo las miradas de quienes la rodeaban encima suyo, revisó su bolso y, tal cual, uno de los bolsillos estaba abierto por completo. El pulso le retumbó en los oídos. Recordaba muy bien haber guardado su tarjeta allí y, luego, cerrar con cuidado el cierre; si lo movía de forma brusca, este se atascaba y no lo podía arreglar sin la ayuda de un alicate. No habría pasado por alto una cosa así.

Comenzó a revolver los contenidos de su bolso y a contar cada una de sus pertenencias. Suspiró del alivio al tantear sus documentos una tercera vez. De pura suerte no le habían robado. Debía sentirse tranquila, pero lo único que pudo hacer el resto del trayecto fue atormentarse por su idiotez y preguntarse en qué momento se había vuelto tan descuidada.

De reojo, se percató de que una chica la observaba con detenimiento; ladeaba la cabeza y entornaba los ojos, de la misma manera en que lo hacían los psiquiatras que la habían atendido el año anterior cuando analizaban sus conductas. Victoria le devolvió la mirada, pretendiendo encararla, pero solo logró parecer asustada. Luego, como si hubiera salido de un trance, la desconocida se volteó a conversar con su acompañante de banalidades: algo sobre el clima, algo sobre la próxima reunión del cónclave en el Vaticano.

La situación no debió durar mucho rato, pero le provocó un desconcierto tan grande que por poco se le pasó el paradero. Agarrando sus cosas con rapidez, se apresuró en bajar del vehículo y caminó a paso apretado, evitando darle más vueltas al asunto. Era lo que su terapeuta actual le hubiese recomendado: no sobrepensar las cosas, en especial un día en que tenía temas más importantes sobre los que preocuparse.

Una vez frente al edificio, tocó el timbre y esperó a que

in over a year, but she still remembered how the software programs worked and could update herself on whatever was necessary. Yes, she was good at following instructions from her superiors and her strength was completing tasks assigned to her quickly. Yes, she was interested…

“Oye, excuse me, your purse is open.” A young woman touched her shoulder in warning on her way to the back of the bus.

The interruption was so quick that Victoria didn’t fully process it until a couple of seconds later. Feeling the gazes of those around upon her, she checked her bag and, sure enough, one of its pockets was wide open. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She remembered very well putting her card in there and then carefully closing the clasps; if she was rough with the clasp, it would get stuck and she wouldn’t be able to fix it without the help of pliers. She never would have overlooked something like that.

She began rummaging through the contents of her bag and counting each of her belongings. With a sigh of relief, she rifled through her documents. It was pure luck that someone hadn’t robbed her. She should have felt calm, but all she could do for the rest of the journey was torment herself over her stupidity and wonder when she had become so careless.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a girl watching her intently; the girl tilted her head and squinted, in the same way that the psychiatrists who had treated her last year did when they analyzed her behavior. Victoria looked back at her, intending to confront her, but only managing to look scared. Then, as if she had come out of a trance, the stranger turned to chat with her companion about trivialities: something about the weather, something about the next conclave meeting at the Vatican.

The situation couldn’t have lasted very long, but it caused her such great confusion that she almost missed her stop. Grabbing her things quickly, she hurried out of the bus and walked briskly to avoid dwelling on the matter any further. It was what her current therapist would have recommended: not to overthink things, especially on a day

el portero le abriera. Desde el ventanal de vidrio, lo vio levantar la vista con lentitud mientras dejaba en la mesa la revista que leía. El hombre ladeó su cabeza, entornó la mirada y, después de unos segundos, apretó el botón para dejarla pasar.

Victoria intentó que no se le notaran los nervios, pero una vez que comenzó a hablar supo que había fallado.

—Buenas tardes… días. —Carraspeó—. Ehh… Tengo una entrevista ahora… o sea, al mediodía, con el señor…

—¿Usted es la señorita Palacios? —la interrumpió el hombre.

La mujer enmudeció tras escuchar su apellido, perpleja por la seguridad con que el otro lo había pronunciado, pero se apuró en asentir con la cabeza.

—Tiene agendada la entrevista en una hora más. Va a tener que esperar en la sala, porque el señor Jorquera está atendiendo a otra persona en estos momentos.

Volvió a asentir, aunque esta vez con menos entusiasmo. Murmurando un escueto “gracias”, se dirigió a la pequeña estancia que había a un lado de la entrada y tomó asiento en uno de los sillones antiguos que figuraban en el lugar. Un par de personas más se encontraban allí esperando sus respectivas citas. Los hombres vestían de terno; las mujeres, vestidos. Una de ellas había llevado a su hijo pequeño, quien, aburrido a más no poder, daba vueltas por la sala buscando con qué entretenerse. Cuando el niño se dio cuenta de la presencia de Victoria, dejó de lado las revistas que estaba desordenando y la observó atentamente. Ladeó su cabeza y entornó la vista, fijándose en toda su figura.

El corazón le martillaba dentro de su caja torácica. Se repitió que todo estaba bien, que estaba viendo cosas donde no las había. Tal vez solo tenía una mancha de maquillaje y nadie se atrevía a decírselo. Rebuscó en su cartera un espejo compacto, pero al observarse no halló muestra alguna de descuido en su rostro. Al levantar otra vez la mirada, se percató de que todos los presentes en la sala habían vuelto a verla, cada uno con la cabeza ladeada y entornando los ojos. Sin pensarlo, Victoria se levantó de forma abrupta y salió del edificio. Corrió al paradero y, solo de milagro,

when she had more important matters to worry about.

Once in front of the building, she rang the bell and waited for the doorman to open it. Through the glass window, she saw him slowly look up as he put down the magazine he was reading. The man tilted his head, squinted, and after a few seconds, pressed the button to let her in.

Victoria tried not to show her nerves, but once she started speaking, she knew she’d failed.

“Buenas tardes…días.” She cleared her throat. “Ehh…I have an interview now…I mean, at noon, with señor…”

“Are you señorita Palacios?” the man interrupted.

Victoria fell silent after hearing her last name, perplexed by the certainty with which he had pronounced it, but she nodded her head quickly.

“The interview is scheduled in an hour from now. You’ll have to wait in the room, because señor Jorquera is currently meeting with someone else.” She nodded again, though this time with less enthusiasm. Murmuring a quick “gracias”, she went to the small room at one side of the entrance and took a seat in one of the worn out armchairs there.

A few more people were there waiting for their interview slots. The men wore suits; the women dresses. One of them had brought her young son, who, bored out of his mind, wandered around the room looking for something to entertain himself with. When the boy noticed Victoria, he put aside the magazines he had been messing with and watched her intently. He tilted his head and squinted, examining her.

Her heart hammered inside her ribcage. She told herself that everything was fine, that she was seeing things where there were none. Maybe she had just smudged her makeup and nobody had dared to tell her. She rummaged in her purse for a compact mirror, but when she looked at herself she found no sign of neglect on her face. When she looked up again, she realized that everyone in the room had turned to look at her, each with their head tilted and eyes squinted. Without thinking, Victoria stood up abruptly and left the building. She ran to the bus stop and, only by a miracle, the bus she needed had just stopped to drop off a passenger.

la micro que le servía acababa de detenerse para dejar a un pasajero. Se subió y el conductor partió el recorrido de inmediato. Apenas pudo sentarse, se lamentó por el gran fracaso que había sido aquel día.

Le escribiría un correo al reclutador en cuanto volviera a casa. Fingiría que algo le había ocurrido en el camino y que por eso no había logrado llegar a la reunión. O tal vez no le diría nada y simplemente buscaría otra oferta de trabajo. Quizás su terapeuta se equivocaba y ella aún no estaba lista para salir a la calle y retomar su vida. Quizás nunca estaría lista y pasaría el resto de sus días encerrada entre cuatro paredes blancas, con visitas periódicas y nuevos fármacos cada ciertos meses.

Un nudo se comenzó a formar en su garganta cuando, de repente, sintió otra vez esa atención invasiva sobre sí: docenas de ojos entornados en cabezas que se ladeaban. Una sensación de angustia se apoderó de su cuerpo. Con dificultad, se acercó a la puerta trasera y presionó repetidamente el timbre para solicitar la próxima parada. Trató de concentrarse en el paisaje en movimiento al otro lado de la ventana, pero el escrutinio de quienes la rodeaban se sentía como recibir múltiples pinchazos de alfileres en la espalda. Recobró el aliento tan solo una vez sus pies tocaron el asfalto. Todavía le faltaban algunas cuadras para llegar a casa, por lo que no le quedó más alternativa que caminar. Era casi la hora de almuerzo, pero la calle estaba vacía como nunca antes: no había autos rondando, ni se veía gente deambular. El cielo estaba soleado, a pesar de que fuera finales de abril, pero bien podría haber estado oscuro por la cantidad de silencio en el ambiente. Cada paso que daba resonaba mucho más fuerte que el anterior, y la música en sus audífonos no era lo suficientemente ruidosa como para apaciguarlos. La vereda, aquella por la que transitaba a diario, se le estaba haciendo interminable. Fue mientras le daba vuelta a la esquina que se paró de manera abrupta. Una sombra caminaba detrás de la suya y cada vez se le acercaba más; no sabía en qué momento había aparecido, ni mucho menos por qué recién en ese instante se daba cuenta de ella. Se giró sobre sus talones y la vio. Era la

She got on and the driver set off immediately. As soon as she could sit down, she lamented what a great failure the day had been.

She would write an email to the recruiter as soon as she got home, pretending something had happened to her on the way and that that was why she hadn’t been able to make it to the meeting, or maybe she wouldn’t say anything at all and would simply look for other job postings. Perhaps her therapist was wrong and she still wasn’t ready to go out on the street and resume her life. Perhaps she would never be ready and would spend the rest of her days shut within four white walls, with periodic yet restricted visits and new medications every few months.

A lump began to form in her throat when, suddenly, she felt that invasive attention upon herself again: dozens of squinted eyes in tilted heads. Anguish held her body. With difficulty, she approached the rear door and repeatedly pressed the bell for the next stop. She tried to focus on the moving landscape outside the window, but the gazes of those around her felt like endless pinpricks in her back. She caught her breath only once her feet touched the asphalt. There were still a few blocks to get home and she had no alternative but to walk.

It was almost time for lunch, but the street was the emptiest it had ever been: there were no cars circling, nor were there any people wandering around. The sky was sunny, despite it being late April, but it may as well have been dark given the silence in the atmosphere. Each step she took resonated much louder than the last, and the music in her headphones wasn’t loud enough to drown them out. The sidewalk, the one she walked along every day, was beginning to feel interminable.

Just as she was turning the corner, she stopped abruptly. A shadow was walking behind her, drawing closer and closer; she did not know when it had appeared, much less why she was only just noticing it now. She turned on her heels and saw her. It was the woman from the bus, the one who had told her that her purse was open. The woman in question looked up, scrutinized her closely, and tilted her

mujer de la micro, aquella que le había avisado que tenía la cartera abierta. La susodicha levantó la vista, la miró con detenimiento e inclinó su cabeza de costado, entornando los ojos.

Victoria se dio cuenta de que había corrido la cuadra que le faltaba una vez alcanzó la entrada de su casa. Jadeando exhausta, buscó a tientas la llave y trató de hacerla calzar con la cerradura; por los nervios, le tomó varios intentos conseguirlo. Una vez dentro, se aseguró de que todo estuviera tal y como lo había dejado antes de salir. No sería capaz de dormir hasta haber completado cada uno de sus rituales y, después de tan terrible jornada, necesitaba recuperar el control de la situación cuanto antes.

Cerró puertas y ventanas; contó la comida que guardaba en la despensa y en el refrigerador; revisó que sus libros siguieran en el mismo orden de siempre; entró a cada una de las habitaciones y se cercioró de que los muebles siguieran en el mismo lugar en que llevaban estándolo desde hace años.

Las cosas estaban en su sitio, le decía su lógica. Sin embargo, una parte de sí la obligó a inspeccionar el lugar una vez más, solo para estar segura. Algo no estaba bien, pero no sabía qué era.

Por último, entró a verificar su pieza. Cada objeto estaba inmaculado. Estuvo a punto de terminar la inspección ahí mismo, pero la voz dentro de su mente la hizo acercarse a la cajonera junto a la cama.

Abrió el cajón superior y se detuvo en el acto. Las tres blusas seguían guardadas en el mismo lugar en que las había dejado en la mañana: bien planchadas y sin una sola arruga. En el cuello de cada una, las etiquetas descansaban estiradas, como si, tras pensarlo mejor, una mano cuidadosa se hubiera preocupado de aplastarlas con mucha delicadeza.

head to the side, squinting her eyes.

Victoria didn’t realize she had sprinted the remaining block until she reached the entrance to her house. Panting in exhaustion, she fumbled for her key and tried to fit it into the lock; with the state of her nerves, it took her several attempts. Once inside, she made sure that everything was exactly as she’d left it before going out. She would not be able to sleep until she had completed each of her rituals and, after such a terrible day, they were needed to regain control of the situation as soon as possible.

She closed the doors and windows; counted the food stored in the pantry and the refrigerator; checked that her books remained in their usual order; went into each room; and made sure that the furniture was still in the exact same place it had occupied for years.

Everything was in its place, her logic was telling her. Even so, some part of her compelled her to inspect the area once more, just to be sure. Something wasn’t right, but she didn’t know what it was.

Finally, she went in to check her bedroom. Each object was immaculate. She was on the verge of ending the inspection right there, but the voice inside her mind made her approach the dresser beside the bed.

She opened the top drawer and stopped. The three blouses were still in the exact place where she had left them that morning: neatly ironed and without a single wrinkle. At the neck of each one, the tags lay flat, as if, upon second thought, a careful hand had taken the trouble to flatten them down with great delicacy.

Nota de traductor

La poesía de Batool Rizvi traza líneas curvas entre la política y la mística, se pasea entre ellas de manera comprensible independiente del lenguaje. Mi trabajo de traducción fue sin duda difícil desde que supe que era poesía, esto supuso tomar decisiones. En el transcurso leí sus poemas mil veces para estar segura de traducirla correctamente, y hoy que esta todo hecho solo puedo pensar en la gran poeta que es. Muchas veces tuve problemas, por ejemplo con el sistema métrico de un tipo de lírico que jamás escribí, o darle sonoridad equivalente a un poema escrito en otra lengua, por esta razón tuve que buscar en mi lengua sinónimos, equivalencias, frases con sentido que siguieran siendo Batool y fueran también entendidas por mi pueblo latinoamericano. Inevitablemente (el traductor es un traidor) tomé decisiones de estilo y adapté otras a mi contexto: por ejemplo no podía seguir la regla de las sílabas en el pentámetro yámbico porque en español se acorta demasiado la experiencia lingüística. Nuestro fraseo, como ya señala Borges tiende a ser mucho más largo porque nuestras sílabas lo son. Fue particularmente difícil dar soluciones para: (“To sit in the to”) [“Sentarse en el para”] y (“Where Iambic Pentameter Witness Breath Three”) [“Donde casi un pentámetro yámbico es testigo Tercer aliento”].

Fue agradable conocer a Batool mientras la traducía, siento que de esa manera pude conectar más con ella y al mismo tiempo estuvimos en contacto constante, pienso que es porque tenemos en común la poesía, y es un idioma en sí mismo en el que ambas supimos entendernos. Podría decir que una de las cosas que más agradeceré del 2026 sin duda fue conocer a Batool y tener la oportunidad de traducirla. Ambas somos dos mujeres con lenguajes muy enredados en nuestra propia lengua, y por eso sabía que la traducción conjunta sería

un tema complicado. Hubo días donde hablamos por más de una hora por teléfono, donde gracias a ella mejoré mi inglés y tuve la dicha de escucharla avanzar en su español. Conecté personalmente con este trabajo, como estudiante de literatura, y deseo que el lector conecté con la poesía de Batool y sus versos precisos a través de la traducción que reflejan a una mujer con raíces de urdu escribiendo sobre historias de su pueblo, su lenguaje, su mirada moral de la vida en un idioma prestado que volvió suyo. Hoy traduzco a Batool Rizvi del inglés al español, pero dejamos las matices del urdu en su poesía.

Sobre todas las cosas aprecio el intercambio lingüístico y cultural que tuvimos. Espero que disfruten leyendo la poesía de Batool, tanto como yo disfrute de traducirla.

BATOOL RIZVI

a ghazal under the sun

i never thought of every solution under the sun so i cut the petal mid monsoon ablution under the sun

in your curly crumpled lashes crows feet make a nest do cheerful bees create a blush (cheeked) illusion under the sun

from dreaming about cloud bunnies jumping to life, we talked about everything to revolution under the sun

parked with tacos, crunching time, off the engine we tuned the radio our choice of noise pollution under the sun

this is the ivory house that coddles stunted thought our pockets turned out frowning at all the institutions under the sun

the voice of your laugh pulls the shape of a ripe tomato tree bends to the sun I kick my shin under the sun

watch the crumpled paper that loses its graphite letters in a running downpour how goes Rizvi’s execution under the sun

traducido del inglés por FERNANDA CERDA ARMIJO

Un gazal bajo el sol

Nunca pensé en cada solución bajo el sol

Así que corté el pétalo en plena ablución del monzón bajo el sol

En tus pestañas onduladas y arrugadas, las patas de gallo hacen un nido las abejas risueñas crean una ilusión de mejillas sonrojadas bajo el sol

Desde soñar con conejitos de nube que despiertan hablamos de todo, hasta de revolución, bajo el sol

Estacionada comiendo tacos, mastica tiempo, el motor apagado sintonizamos la radio, elegimos nuestra contaminación acústica bajo el sol

Este es el palacio de marfil que mima el pensamiento atrofiado nuestros bolsillos miraban mal a todas las instituciones bajo el sol

La voz de tu risa dibuja la forma de un tomate maduro el árbol se inclina hacia el sol, golpeo mi espinilla, bajo el sol

Observa el papel arrugado que desvanece sus letras de grafito bajo una lluvia torrencial ¿cómo va la ejecución de Rizvi bajo el sol?

Not a Ballad of Urdu Homophones

Are lions poems too? Come, roar your verse! O dearest jaan between porcupind strikes! A door for homes—of fear and wood—a curse? A cursive path that does not still, but stays

In almost sand, in old moist air, rehearsed And pined, O jaan! O land! No air, nowhere On canyons of brownd onions. No verse To trick the waltz to spin on full stomicks!

A powderd bag of neem will find its hearse Behind a hall, beyond the affliction. Before carriers ask, laments reverse Your singing. Breathless jaan will be tonight

As quiet Frosts In Sons with no funeral. Terse Behind the lips of half-lies stand your Words. A silenced voice, a silencer made worse My pinned veil. Cries, yours grow. Rizvi holds her verse, Of final conversations of matter.

No una balada de homófonos urdu

¿Son los leones también poemas? Ven, ruge tu verso! Oh, amada jaan, atrapada entre golpes de erizo Una puerta para casas -de miedo y madera- ¿una maldición? un maldito camino desviado que no se detiene, pero perdura

En casi arena, en el viejo aire húmedo, ensayado y anhelado, Oh, jaan! Oh, tierra! sin aire, en ninguna parte en cañones de cebollas tostadas. ¡Sin versos para hacer bailar al vals y rodar entre náuseas

Una polvorienta bolsa de neem hallará su coche de luto detrás del salón, al otro lado del sufrimiento antes de que los portadores pregunten, los lamentos regresan Tu canto. ¡Oh jaan, sin aliento esta noche!

Como heladas calladas En Hijos sin funeral. Breves detrás de los labios de medias mentiras, permanecen tus Palabras. Una voz silenciada, un silenciador que la empeora Mi velo clavado. Llantos, los tuyos aumentan.

Rizvi sostiene su verso. Entre conversaciones finales sobre la materia.

Where Iambic Pentameter Witnesses Breath Three

After four weeks my veins became like ice

A molten pool of silk smithereenin’–splice.

Who shuts my eyes? Who opens wounds and hears The pen that writes a lie? Do ink-men’s tears

Find bloodshot backsides–painting Boy’s head And gauze that paints the walls of Hell. His bed

Is ceilings of surgery queues and Daughters Whose right and left were hands. Where does water

Tell Father “wait.” And blink if paradise Asks favors from an embraced hand. And splice–

Donde casi un pentámetro yámbico es testigo Tercer aliento

Mis venas frías tras cuatro semanas y charcos de seda destrozados — sutura.

¿Quién cierra mis ojos? ¿Entonces quién abre heridas? ¿qué pluma suena y miente? Lágrimas de tinta lavan al niño, su nuca sangrante, envenenada, Las mantas del niño arropado pintan las paredes del infierno su cama: cielo raz de cirugías diestra y zurda manos diluidas de la hija en agua—Padre ¿“espera”? ¡Parpadea! el paraíso ruega por manos abrazadas. Y sutura—.

Reverse Lines: Birth To1

poem no I have laboured thirty-eight hours out of me on chairs on carpets on grayer dust

Sparser emails none name abducted Cornyell and Columbeeyah students sixteen or two poems sit safely enclosed google dox and students doxx students blank-blinks back-stares nypd dhs ice cut corners and front-doors

Down-fall

His wife is 8 months pregnant with news of brutal police wolf ate fox subpoenaed bones city of aynjels — show hira mountain of revelation hear trumpet-horn look-down city of west ayns alifs coverd like trees,

1 Can be read top to bottom (from left to right) and from bottom to top (but this has to be from right to left)

Líneas inversas: dar a luz1

Poema no he trabajado treinta y ocho horas fuera de mí sobre sillas en alfombras, en polvo cada vez más gris Emails pocos sin nombre estudiantes de Cornyell y Columbeeyah secuestrados dieciséis o dos

Los poemas descansan a salvo juntos google dox y estudiantes que doxean estudiantes párpados-en-blanco miradas-de-vuelta nypd dhs ice esquinas cortadas y puertas principales

Caída su esposa tiene ocho meses embarazada con noticias de policia brutal el lobo devoró al zorro huesos citados por orden judicial ciudad de aynjels —

Muestra a Hira montaña de revelación escucha la trompeta mira-abajo ciudad de west ayns

1 Can be read top to bottom (from left to right) and from bottom to top (but this has to be from right to left)

rain drops that season guardians of paradise, aynjels questioned themselves before soul and Azrael asked first permissions — this is how it is done — Jibraeel descended flapped wings quaked earth — moon-cracked — blareee! blaree!

alifs cubiertos como árboles, gotas de lluvia de esa estación guardianes del paraíso, los aynjels se cuestionan a sí mismos ante el alma y Azrael pidió permiso primero — así es como se hace — Jibraeel descendió aleteó la tierra tembló — la luna se agrietó — ¡blareee! ¡blaree!

To sit in the to shock of the afterwave of thought that dries in the dried rose that knocks my musty yellowd numbers. My pageclocks between books in 2025. Tymeswirld. Between 1924 and forest green covers sent to RECAP, coverd words coverd a a juggernots of tried and true of pried and poked for no result for only

archive looting ruptured archive — hear my Nanu! —

the silence between conversations the signifies the emotion behind the archive for, of a coverd between my that of to

Sentarse en el para

Choque

trasola del pensamiento que se seca en la rosa seca golpea mis números que amarillean, mohosos. Mis relopáginas entre libros en 2025. Tiempoarremolinado. Entre 1924 y el bosque verde cubriertas enviadas a RECAP, cubrierta palabras cubriertas a a gigante de la nada de lo viejo y confiable, forzado y husmeado sin resultado alguno para solo

saquear el archivo, archivo destrozado —¡escucha a mi Nanu!—

el silencio entre conversaciones su significa la emoción detrás del archivo por, de un cubrierto entre mi aquello de a

A Bandit Stealing Ghazals at the Banquet of the Broken Hearted

Sprawled on the log I’ll decay like trees tonight If the yellow orb glows frowns line three tonight

I drink from the goblet a gazelle’s cry cracks the glass Wine washes my body praise and pain mix me tonight

Dreams are like broken mirrors sandpeppered iron gates From scraps of metal toys make a bandit of me tonight

I am broken I am blind I am woken I am time I am Hafiz I am Tabrezi I am Rumi I am tonight

“Give me,” I grumble wiping ink off singers Tipsy on tunes. “Pay me something!” I plea tonight

I’ll fall like a lion once fell on Euphrates’ banks Noah’s ark left the port who’ll save you you see tonight

Your Ghazals Nazms Qasidas and Hazals — filthy Fasters! Unshackle your prisoners! I slapback in glee tonight

I am woken I am time I am broken I am blind I am Hafiz I am Tabrezi I am Rumi I am tonight

I skin my sins in the bathroom sink stolen lines stream down Faucets and my empty stomach a-pipe-bursting-spree tonight!

Tomorrow singers’ll look for their songs and find heaven’s cloth cut I’ll rupture recite laugh what they cannot all poetry flees tonight

What if I mourn tomorrow from bandit will I become singer Or poet who sobs but Rizvi at God’s banquet is my jubilee tonight

Un bandido que roba gazales en el banquete de corazones rotos

Tumbado sobre un tronco, me pudriré como los árboles esta noche si el astro amarillo brilla, tres arrugas se dibujan esta noche

Bebo de la copa; el grito de una gacela rompe el cristal El vino baña mi cuerpo; alabanza y dolor se mezclan en mí esta noche

Sueños como espejos rotos, portones de hierro arenamoteados de restos de juguetes de metal, haz de mí un bandido esta noche

Soy roto soy ciego soy despierto soy tiempo soy Hafiz soy Tabrezi soy Rumi soy esta noche

“Dame”, gruño mientras limpio la tinta de los cantantes embriagados por las melodías. “¡Págame algo!”, suplico esta noche

Caeré como un león cayó una vez en las orillas del Éufrates el arca de Noé zarpó del puerto ¿quién te salvará, ya ves, esta noche?

Tus Gazales, Nazms, Casidas y Hazals — ¡sucios

Ayunantes! ¡Liberen a sus prisioneros! Devuelvo el golpe con gozo esta noche

Soy roto soy ciego soy despierto soy tiempo soy Hafiz soy Tabrezi soy Rumi soy esta noche

Desuello mis pecados en el lavamanos versos robados fluyen por los Grifos y mi estómago vacío ¡un frenesí de cañerías reventadas esta noche!

Mañana los cantantes buscarán sus canciones y hallarán la tela del cielo rasgada yo estallaré, recitaré, reiré de lo que ellos no pueden; toda la poesía huye esta noche

Qué pasa si mañana guardo luto de bandido ¿me volveré cantante O poeta que solloza? pero Rizvi, en el banquete de Dios, es mi jubileo esta noche.

A Lost Soul Written by I

Because the bike has a flat front tire and an entire window has no net, the street lamp itches your nose. You blink, then sneeze. 214 dragonflies bellow out.

Because the cobblestone turns to dust to mud to grass, the blue parakeet blindfolds your eyes. You reach for the tombstone behind you.

Where will you go? Do you even know?

191 black motorcycles are lined up to your left. The horns stopped honking. It’s like Karachi or Baghdad. No dragonflies fly tonight.

You no longer find your way here even though God’s favorite place is. The night swallows it too. It’s been 412 days since you questioned if dragonflies had vertebrates.

Un alma perdida, escrita por Yo

Porque la bicicleta tiene la rueda desinflada y una ventana entera sin malla, el farol de la calle te da comezón en la nariz. Parpadeas, luego estornudas. 214 libélulas salen rugiendo.

Porque el empedrado se convierte en polvo, luego en lodo y después en hierba, el periquito azul te tapa los ojos. Buscas a tientas la lápida que hay detrás de ti.

¿A dónde irás? ¿Siquiera lo sabes?

191 motocicletas negras están alineadas a tu izquierda. Las bocinas dejaron de sonar. Es como Karachi o Bagdad. Ninguna libélula vuela esta noche.

Ya no encuentras tu camino aquí, aunque sea el lugar favorito de Dios. La noche también se lo traga.

Han pasado 412 días desde que te preguntaste si las libélulas tenían vértebras.

Lulla Bye Bye Narjis in Jackson

Twirly twirly little flowr

How two swirly playground-hours—

Ladders, swingys, jump-a-jumps—

Make us sleepy, thum-a-thrum

When the pinch of sun has set

When the window’s inked its frame

Curly pinky’ll hold the fluff—

Stuff of Minnie Mouse and trucks

Put the plastick fone to bed

Ringy ring–O shh, shh, shh!

Sidewalkd chalkd, drew enuff pumpkin heads.

Read the book with yellow flowrs,

Goodnight moon and Ms. Rachel too!

Sleepy twirly dreamy whirl

Narjis Narjis beauty’s pearl

Narjis, Narjis, shhh Khala’s gone and closed the door

jaan, dream some more.

Canci on de cuna para Narjis en Jackson

Gira, gira, mi florcita dos horitas de placita— toboganes, salti-saltos— dan sueñito, thum-a-thrum / pum-pa-pum

Cuando el sol ya se escondió, y el marco se entintó, tu meñique en el osito—

Minnie Mouse y camioncitos

Pon el fono a descansar, Ringiring– shh, shh, shh!

Tiza al suelo, dibujamos, calabazas y sus caras.

Lee el cuento, flor de sol, buenas noches a la luna y a la señorita Rachel!

Sueño, giro, espiral

Narjis, perla de cristal

Narjis, Narjis, shhh… Khala la puertita fue a cerrar

jaan, mi vida, sueña más.

Translator’s Note

Fernanda Cerda’s short story, “Mi Hija Mara” moves between confession, journal entries, and an unsent letter — forms that blur and slip into themselves. I tried not to fix them in place. The opening address to Mara first reads as an almost gentle apology, but gradually something far more corrosive, denser stirs: an estranged father speaking desire through the grammar of devotion.

Throughout translating, I kept returning to how tenderness tips into threat, how they can coexist in the same sentence without warning. The father’s fixation on scent, blood, body hair, skin, and the notion of “watching” or “looking” built a sensory logic. As the story developed, it articulated possession and how masculinity tries to become atmosphere.

Additionally, Fernanda’s prose often arrives in long, breathless paragraphs that accumulate psychologically rather than linearly. In English, I occasionally chose to break these blocks, not to clarify them, but to maintain a certain type of pressure, tonal precision, and claustrophobic rhythm of the narrator’s mind without softening the quality of Fernanda’s syntax.

The structure felt unstable: letter forms, entries, memory, almost confessions. I stayed in this inbetweenness. All the while, I kept thinking, quietly, repeatedly, to myself, about Mara. Where is her point of view? What cannot be accessed? What is spoken over and over and over for the narrator to continue sounding like himself?

As someone who has only translated Urdu poetry before, I found myself confronted with questions of characterization and considering what it takes to write

prose. This story is extremely character driven: as the letters or entries unfold, so does the narrator on the page. I had to make syntactical and word level choices that would feel honest to this father. In working with Fernanda and moving between drafts and conversations, I began to read the narrator’s voice less as interiority and more about constructing. How is intimacy staged? How quickly does it become something far worse, more threatening? Where does the moral compass lie?

In order for me to reach a final translation of this text, I had to both maintain a distance from being inside this disturbing mind, week after week, holding language and thoughts at a distance; while also, coming closer, putting scenes and understanding of what is happening together. Fernanda’s writing has opened up my own Spanish in ways I could never have dreamed, expanded my vocabulary and understanding for writing horror, and is very much concerned with the sociopolitical, as am I. Above all, Fernanda Cerda is an exceptional story teller.

FERNANDA CERDA ARMIJO

7 de diciembre, 2025

Valparaíso

A mi hija, Mara:

Quisiera saludarte como corresponde, tal vez darte un abrazo que sentirías que no merezco, y sé que estuviste preguntando por mí un largo tiempo de tu vida, pero la única realidad es la que conoces: me marché. Recuerdo el día que naciste, tu piel desnuda y ensangrentada contra mi pecho, dejé tu olor en mi memoria y creo que fue la única vez que padre e hija nos vimos y reconocimos quien era el otro. Jamás podré cambiar lo obvio, moriré siendo un pésimo padre.

No me acerqué antes a ti, y estoy consciente de que debes querer una explicación por estos años lejos. Podría inventar algo, o decir la verdad pero tengo la boca cosida con mentiras y nunca les he podido fallar. En su lugar, te diré que tienes una excelente madre, porque si ella no lo fuera, me hubiera dejado volver a sus vidas. Jamás quise no ser tu padre, aunque la vida es más difícil sobre lo que queremos. Por cosas del destino tenías doce años cuando volví a verte, hija. Yo no tenía idea de que eras tú quien estaba delante de mí en la plaza jugando en el resbalín de plástico rojo, pero no pude apartar la mirada. El único indicio de nuestra unión para mí fue ese inexplicable lazo cuando te vi ¿tal vez era la unión de la paternidad? no lo sentí de esa manera, porque ni siquiera sabía que eras tú. Te quise ver más de cerca, y el sútil aroma que tu cuerpo sudado desprendía, por estar jugando, fue lo que hizo la conexión con la recién nacida que sostuve en algún momento entre mis brazos y manchó mi ropa para siempre. Supe que estaba frente a ti, Mara.

Después, fue recurrente verte jugando en la plaza

translated

from the spanish by

BATOOL RIZVI

For my daughter, Mara:

December 7th, 2025

Valparaíso

I would like to greet you as one should, perhaps give you a hug you may feel I do not deserve. I know you have been asking about me for a large part of your life, but there is only one truth — the one that you already know: I left.

I remember the day you were born: your body naked, in bloodstains against my chest. I kept your scent in my memory. I think that was the only time that we, as father and daughter, saw and recognized each other. I will never be able to change the reality: I will die an abysmal father.

In the past, I did not come closer to you. I am aware that you must want an explanation for those years away. I can invent one, or tell the truth—but my mouth is stitched with lies and I have never betrayed them. Instead, I will tell you this: you have an excellent mother. If she were not, then she would have allowed me to return into your lives. Never did I not want to be your father, but this life is exceptionally more difficult than what we want. Fate willed it that the next time I saw you, you were twelve years old, my daughter.

I had no idea it was you standing in front of me in the plaza playing on a red plastic slide. But I could not break my gaze. When I saw you, I felt there was something — a mark of our connection, an inexplicable bond. Maybe paternal. Not quite. I couldn’t recognize you. I wanted to see you from up close. I smelled a subtle scent: your body damp in beads of sweat from playing. This reminded me of the same

mientras crecías, al parecer te habías mudado con tu mamá cerca de mi casa. No supe jamás las razones, pero ella decidió omitir que yo era tu padre y volteaba el rostro cuando me veía, como si me tuviera miedo o como si ella pudiera leer mi mente, hasta me enteré de que te hacía ir a comprar lejos el pan aunque tuvieras que arrastrar calles largas la bolsa, solo para que no tuvieras la desgracia de encontrarte conmigo. Pero ocurrió por accidente encontrarte en mi camino las primeras veces, casi siempre andabas con el uniforme del colegio y con las piernas peludas, hasta que cumpliste los quince y comenzaste a verte más mujer. Hasta cortaste centímetros de tu jumper. No sabía si era correcto acercarme a saludar, nunca lo hice, pero en mi mente tuvimos largas conversaciones.

Pasaron años, te observaba a través de las ventanas y solamente verte pasar por fuera de mi casa me aceleraba el corazón. Muchas veces tuve que encontrar alternativas para mirarte, porque los cables cruzados entre los postes de la población me entorpecían la vista. A veces paseabas con tus pololos -que nunca me cayeron bien- porque tenían lo que yo no, el privilegio de tus abrazos, tu compañía y sobre todo lo que siempre quise: a ti. Jamás me casé, ni tuve otros hijos y cada vez que me preguntaron pensaba en ti, en si hubiese sido posible tenerlos contigo, Mara.

Hace unas semanas me llegó un rumor, al parecer hay vecinos invitados a tu boda. Se que te veía más sonriente últimamente y ahora sé por qué, a él no lo conozco pero no puedo evitar pensarlo muerto y en tu olor a recién nacida que vas a compartir con él cuando descubra el ángel que eres bajo tus faldas de mujer. Me ahoga el aire del despido, pero tengo que concluir con este ciclo de ingenuidad que tuve al pensarte mía solamente porque pude verte. Hoy, Mara, te deseo una felicidad hipócrita porque la hubiese querido compartir contigo. Nunca te pediría que me entiendas, solo que vivas impregnada

newborn baby girl who I once held in my arms — who had stained me forever. I knew then that I was looking at you, Mara.

After that, I saw you periodically, playing in the plaza while you grew up. It seems you moved with your mom near my house. I never knew the reasons why, but she decided to hide that I was your father and turned her face whenever I passed by, as if she feared me, or worse, as if she could read my mind. Later, I heard that she made you buy bread from a store far away and you had to drag bags for long blocks, just so that you would avoid the misfortune of encountering me. But you did. It happened by accident. I encountered you on my street the first few times. You almost always wore a school uniform. Your legs were hairy until you turned fifteen and started to change, to look more like a young woman. Your skirt was even cut a few inches shorter. I was not sure if it was appropriate to approach and greet you. I never did, but in my mind we had long conversations.

Years passed. I observed you through the window as you passed by my house — the sight alone accelerated my heartbeat. Often, I had to find alternative ways of looking because my view would be impeded by wires strung between neighborhood posts. Sometimes you strolled with your boyfriends — which never sat well with me because they had what I could not: the privilege of your hugs, your companionship, your time, and, what I had always wanted: you. I never married, nor did I have other children. Whenever anyone asked me, I only thought of you — whether it was possible to have them with you, Mara.

A few weeks ago, a rumor reached me. It seems that neighbors were invited to your wedding. Recently, you seem to be smiling more. Now I know why. I don’t know him but I can’t stop wishing him dead. I imagine him breathing your newborn scent as he discovers the angel you are beneath your skirts. I suffocate in this air of dismissal. I have to

de la idea del amor que yo podría haberte dado. Hoy incendio mi casa, e incinero todo lo que no podría haber sido contigo.

Feliz cumpleaños, papá.

Siete de diciembre de mil novecientos noventa y ocho. Tenía miedo, estaba asustado y podía sentir mi corazón latiendo en la palma de mi mano, sobre todo cuando Simona la apretaba como si le perteneciera y gritaba, casi como si estuviese muriendo y no como si fuera a parir, pero probablemente para ella no era tan diferente porque tenía el cuerpo lleno de heridas. Un parto siempre fue una guerra. Era la fecha de la que todos hablarían durante un tiempo en tu familia hasta que otra mujer se embarazara, como una guerra. La primera bebé. Oía cómo todos decían sentir nostalgia, estábamos creciendo tan rápido, pero tu mamá y yo apenas teníamos diecinueve y ciertamente creíamos entender el mundo. Probablemente, Mara, nunca lo hayamos entendido, pero ese día contigo entre su pecho, tu mamá creyó que entendía el universo completo y yo me sentí sofocado por el olor a sangre en el ambiente.

Las cosas sucedieron muy lento, pero las recuerdo con mucha agilidad y rapidez, Simona tenía las piernas abiertas y flexionadas, sus talones tocaban sus glúteos y la sangre le corría por los muslos como agua salada. Las sábanas blancas del hospital estaban rojas, o precisamente burdeo, tal vez. Me hundí en la visión de la sangre cayendo por sus piernas, para mi era como ver a un ángel con lágrimas en los ojos, si las lágrimas fueran borgoña y con olor a fierro. Entre toda esa mucosidad y fluidos escarlata, naciste tú. Tu nacimiento marcó algo que no supe descifrar, como si toda mi vida hubiese estado lavando ropa blanca por obligación que de

end this illusion of naivety under which I believed you were mine simply because I could see you.

Today, Mara, I desire your happiness, hypocritically because I would have wanted to share it with you. I would never expect for you to understand me, only that you live impregnated with the idea of the love that I could have given you. Today I will set fire to my house. Engulf everything in flames that could never have been with you.

Happy Birthday, Papá.

Seventh of December nineteen ninety eight I was frightened. I could feel my heart beating in the palm of my hand. Most of all, when Simona squeezed my hand, like it belonged to her, she screamed as if she were dying, not giving birth. Maybe for her, there was no difference because her body was covered in wounds. Labor is always a kind of war. Birth, like war, is the type of event everyone in the family talks about for a while until another woman becomes pregnant. But you were different. The first baby. I listened to everyone saying they felt nostalgic. We were growing up so fast — but your mom and I were hardly nineteen. Admittedly, we believed we understood the world. Probably, Mara, we have never understood it. But that day with you against her chest, your mom believed she understood the entire universe while I felt suffocated by the smell of blood in the air.

Time moved very slowly, but I remember everything happened quickly: Simona had her legs flexed and opened, her heels touched her glutes and blood ran quickly down her muscles in streams. The hospital’s white bedsheets were red, almost wine-colored. I was fixated on the blood falling from her legs; it was like I was watching an angel with tears in its eyes — if those teardrops were burgundy and had a stench of iron. Amid all the mucus and scarlet fluids, you were born. Your birth marked something that

repente dejé manchar con sangre. Veía borroso, estaba fatigado por la mezcla de olores. No recuerdo bien la hora, probablemente jamás supe los minutos exactos, pero el reloj debe haber bordeado las nueve de la noche. Era tarde, y estaba fresco en Valparaíso. Simona casi se desmaya, y apretaba todavía mi mano que estaba entumecida para ese momento, luego, te sentí encima mío. Tu cuerpo vivo, desnudo y ensangrentado contra mi pecho.

Tenía una corazonada de que no debería estar ahí, el olor a ti me dejó las narices infectadas y extasiadas, tuve que grabarlo en mi memoria. Besé tu cabeza, el pelo negro con la sangre mezclados dejaron mis labios pegajosos y todos se veían maravillados: tu mamá y los doctores. Fui el primero en cargarte, y cuando la matrona te dejó en el pecho de Simona, salí a tomar aire. Respiré pesadamente tres veces, prendí un cigarro que se coló en mis dedos y se consumió solo porque no fumé, lo que indicaba algo extraño porque las yemas de mi índice y anular estaban amarillentas por esa época de tantos cigarros. Todavía lo están. Quizá no me gustó la marca del pucho, quizá estaba colapsado y la camisa celeste que me puse sobre la polera de Kurt Cobain para ir a verte nacer -porque sabía que a todos les gustaría verme arreglado-, se manchó con tu sangre y tu olor. Estaba asustado, y decidí hacer lo correcto. Nunca nos volvimos a ver.

Veinte de diciembre de dos mil diez. Llevaba tres meses sin trabajo, pero de alguna manera todavía no lo veía como algo malo. Estuve yendo todos los lunes a la plaza Simón Bolívar con un libro de Alejandro Zambra bajo el brazo. Avancé cincuenta páginas en una semana, y pienso que es poco, principalmente porque las veces que leía era justamente en la plaza, y al parecer mis horarios coincidían con la salida del liceo de niñas que quedaba unas cuadras más abajo. Para mi sorpresa las más grandes siempre

I did not know how to decipher. It was as if all my life I had been keeping white clothes clean out of obligation, and suddenly I let them smear with blood and be ruined. My vision blurred, I was fatigued by the mix of odors. I don’t remember the exact hour, probably never found out the exact minutes but the clock must have skirted around nine in the night. It was late and chilly in Valparaíso. Simona had nearly fainted and squeezed my hand the whole time, which was numb by that point. Then, I felt you on top of me. Your body alive, naked, bloodstained against my chest.

I had a gut feeling that I should not be here. Your scent left my nostrils both intoxicated and sickened. I had to carve it in my memory. I kissed your head, your black hair mixed with blood, left my lips sticky. Everyone looked amazed: your mom, the doctors. I carried you first, and when the midwife placed you on Simona’s chest, I left to catch some air. Breathing heavily three times, I lit a cigarette. It stuck to my finger and consumed itself because I did not smoke it. My index and ring fingernails were yellowed in those days from years of smoking. They still are. Maybe I didn’t like the brand of cigs, or maybe I was overwhelmed. The sky blue button-down I had put over the Kurt Cobain t-shirt to witness your birth — because I knew everyone would want to see me look presentable — was stained with your blood and odor. I was afraid, so I decided to do what I thought was right. We never saw each other again.

Twentieth of December, two thousand ten It had been three months of unemployment, but in some ways I still did not see myself as a failure. Every Monday I went to the Simón Bolívar plaza with a book by Alejandro Zambra tucked beneath my arm. I read fifty pages a week — which I considered meager. The only times I read was in the plaza, and it just so happened that my schedule coincided with the dismissal time of the girls’ high school a few blocks down. To my surprise, the high school girls would gather in the plaza with the boys from their high school. Their babbling adolescence distracted me from my literary

se pasaban a la plaza para juntarse con los chiquillos del liceo de niños, y sus murmullos de adolescente me distraían de las maravillas literarias. Siempre, por decir los lunes de esos tres meses, me levantaba de mi rincón en la plaza para darles privacidad y me acercaba a los juegos de plástico para entretener mis ojos con otro paisaje, menos maduro que el de dos adolescentes toqueteandose detrás de un banco de madera.

Las niñas de séptimo siempre pasaban por ahí y se detenían diez o veinte minutos para jugar. Yo las conocía bien; al menos a la mayoría. No me acercaba más de lo que debería, solamente les sonreía a lo lejos, unos metros, cuando por accidente se caían del columpio con las piernas abiertas y se les subía el jumper más arriba de la rodilla por el golpe. Mi sonrisa las hacía sentir mejor, se levantaban rápido y nerviosas, se limpiaban la tierra sucia del vestido y volvían a jugar. El segundo mes que estuve ahí, mi sexto lunes yendo a la plaza, una niña se acercó a mí después de caerse y me pidió ayuda para atarse los cordones de las zapatillas negras que usaba. Se veía chica, tal vez unos once u doce años y debe haber sido su primer año en el liceo de niñas; mejillas sonrojadas por tanto estar jugando, sudor en la frente y en el cuello, y su cabello tomado en una cola de caballo desordenada. Le abroché de manera lenta los cordones y se veía agradecida, sobre todo cuando le subí las calcetas que se le caían de las pantorrillas. En ese momento fue que te ví. Estabas detrás de la niña, a los pies de un resbalín rojo de plástico, con la cara sucia y las rodillas peladas, un hilo de sangre te caía de la rodilla izquierda, pero no llorabas. En cambio, llamaste a tu amiga, y he olvidado su nombre pero era la misma niña a la que le arreglé las calcetas, ella se fue corriendo hacia tí, y por un corto segundo, me miraste, antes de volver a concentrarte en el fluido escarlata de tu pierna.

No sé si de inmediato supe que eras tú. Creo que no. De hecho, hace años no pensaba en tu nombre y a mi

delights. Over these three months, on Mondays, I would leave from my corner in the plaza to give the teenagers messing around behind a wooden bench, their privacy. I would move closer towards the playground to amuse my eyes with another scene, something simpler to look at.

The seventh grade girls. They always stopped by for 10 or 20 minutes to play. I recognized them the most clearly. I never moved too close, only smiled from a few feet away. When, by accident, they fell from the swing with their legs open and skirts riding up above their knees from the impact, they would glance at me. My smile made them feel better. They stood quickly, nervously, brushing the dirt off their dresses, then continued playing.

The second month there, on my sixth Monday going to the plaza, a girl, maybe eleven or twelve, approached me after she fell down and asked for help in tying the laces of her black shoes. Her cheeks were flushed from playing, sweat on her forehead and neck, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. I tied the laces in a slow manner, and she looked grateful — especially when I pulled up the socks that kept slipping from her calves. Then, I saw you.

You were behind the girl at the foot of a red plastic slide, your face dirty and knees scraped. A thread of blood ran down from your left knee, but you weren’t crying. Instead, you called your friend — I forgot her name — but she was the same girl whose socks I fixed. She went running to you, and for a brief second, you looked at me, before turning your attention to the scarlet fluid on your leg.

I was not sure immediately if I knew it was you. I don’t think I did. In fact, it had been years since I had thought of your name and my mind struggled to spell it, despite all the books I read. I moved closer, only a little, and, the scent of the blood from your knee, I could feel through my entire body, like the pain of a tattoo, like if my shirt had been

cabeza le costaba deletrearlo aun con todos esos libros que leía. Me acerqué, solo un poco, y el olor a sangre de tu rodilla pude sentirlo en todo mi cuerpo, como el dolor de un tatuaje, como si mi camiseta se hubiera manchado del mismo tono, incluso tenía el sabor a hierro entre mis dientes. Fue alucinante verte, Mara. Nunca había tenido la oportunidad de pensar en volver a ser tu papá, y ese día tampoco lo pensé, aunque estaba consciente de que era yo quien te había engendrado y esos ojos oscuros que me miraron un segundo podrían haber sido un espejo, un reflejo de mis propios ojos pero sin llegar a destellar mi alma. Por supuesto, tus ojos destilaban la inocencia propia de la edad y los míos no podían apartar la vista de tus rodillas descascaradas. Olías a sudor, era un olor tan sutil como penetrante y entonces me di cuenta que iba a volver a enloquecer. No pude irme de la plaza hasta que te habías ido con tu amiguita, y al querer acompañarlas desde lejos para saber que estaban bien, que en efecto eras tú y eras real, note que el trayecto era el mismo para llegar a mi casa.

¿Tanto tiempo te había tenido cerca? ¿cómo no te había olido antes? no tuve pensamientos coherentes, hasta ese momento, yo que había mantenido mi vida en un perfecto diagrama de horarios y sin migas de pan en el comedor de mi casa, estaba actuando por impulso. Pasé de largo cuando entraste a tu casa, y solo días después comprando en el negocio de la esquina, me enteré que no hace mucho se habían cambiado de casa con tu mamá. Este sector era más barato, el liceo no te quedaba lejos, y además ella había escuchado que aquí había gente tranquila. No estaba muy seguro respecto a la última parte, y tampoco me había cruzado personalmente con ella, pero inevitablemente sí contigo. Los lunes en la plaza Simón Bolívar, y cuando por accidente te veía por la ventana si ibas a comprar. Alguna vez habremos ido a comprar al mismo tiempo y yo entraba al negocio solo una vez que ya habías salido, para poder cuidarte y mirarte la espalda.

stained the same shade, I could even taste iron in between my teeth.

It was surreal seeing you, Mara.

I never had the opportunity to think about being your father again, and that day, I didn’t think about it either, though I was aware I had conceived you — and those dark eyes that looked back at me for a moment might have been a mirror, a reflection of my own eyes — but they did not quite catch the shine of my soul. Ofcourse, your eyes distilled the innocence of your age while mine could not look away from your scabbed knees. You smelled like sweat, a scent both faint and piercing; I felt like I was going to lose my mind. I couldn’t leave the plaza until you had left with your little friend, and when I tried to accompany you from a distance, just to make sure you were okay, that it really was you, I noticed your route was the same one that led to my house.

Had you been so close to me all this time? How had I not recognized your scent before? I couldn’t think coherently. Until then, I had maintained my life in a perfect order of precisely mapped out schedules, without a single breadcrumb left on the dining table — but suddenly, I was acting impulsively. I kept walking by, even after you disappeared into your house, and again, only days later, while buying something from the corner store, I realized that you and your mother had moved here recently. This neighborhood was cheaper, the high school not too far, and she had heard that the people around here were peaceful. I wasn’t convinced by the latter point.

I had not yet crossed paths with your mother personally, but inevitably, I had with you. On Mondays in the plaza of Simón Bolívar or sometimes by accident when I would watch you through store windows when you stopped to buy something. Once, we went to the store at the same time but I waited outside the shop, until after you’d left, before going in, just so I could watch your retreating back a while longer.

Este lunes era el último día de clases en el año. Pensé que, tal vez, ya no irías más al liceo desde el viernes pasado, pero nada perdía esperandote en la plaza con mi libro bajo el brazo. Y fuiste. Te ví sonreir, y con esa trenza que iba desde la raíz de tu cabello hasta el final, moviéndose para todos lados mientras corrías al resbalín rojo. Me mordía el dedo pulgar con desespero cuando, después de usar el resbalín, cada vez caías de rodillas a la tierra y se te comenzaban a poner rojas. Pensé en ese momento, cuando tus ojos se pusieron duros y fríos tras cada golpe, que teníamos la misma mirada, pero entonces me observé en el reflejo de mis lentes sucios antes de limpiarlos, y me vi mirandote; con los ojos inconfundiblemente profundos como el mar y brillantes como quien espera nunca terminar de ver lo que tiene delante suyo.

No volví a aparecer otro lunes en varios meses por la plaza Simón Bolívar. Sabía que no ibas a estar por ahí en un largo tiempo, y por eso comencé a ir a los lugares donde accidentalmente también estarías tú. Quería ver qué falda o vestido nuevo estarías usando y cuánto habían crecido tus piernas en un verano, o cuantos pelos tendrías ahora en ellas, también lo hacía para cuidarte, pero definitivamente mi motivación principal era saber qué mirada le estabas dando al mundo ese día y ver mis ojos en el reflejo de cualquier auto para saber si alguna vez mis ojos te miraron con menos intensidad que el primer día. Nunca pasó.

This Monday was the last day of classes for the year. I thought maybe you wouldn’t go to school after the Friday that had passed, but there was nothing to lose in waiting for you at the plaza with a book tucked under my arm. And you came. I saw you smile, that braid running from the crown of your head all the way down, tossing in all directions as you ran over to the red slide. Anxiously, I bit down on my thumb each time you’d slide too fast and fall down on your knees, the skin gradually reddening as you hit the dirt. In those moments, when your eyes hardened and turned cold after the impact, I thought that we shared the same look. But then I caught my reflection in my dirty glasses before wiping them clean, and I saw myself watching you: my eyes were unmistakably deep as the sea and bright with the gaze of someone who never wants to stop looking at what is standing before him.

For months, I didn’t return to the Simón Bolívar plaza on Mondays. I knew that you wouldn’t be here for a long time, and so I started to stumble to places where I might find you. I wished to see what skirt or new dress you might be wearing and how much your legs had matured over one summer — how much hair they bore now. I told myself this was all for your safety, but, without a doubt, my real motive was to watch. To know what type of glance you were casting upon the world that day — and to catch my eyes in the reflection of any car passing by, to discern whether or not there had ever been any moment when my eyes looked at you with less intensity than the first time. There never was.

word for word / parola per parola

Columbia University School of the Arts Scuola Holden

Nota del Traduttore

Confrontarmi con Sabrina Siew sulle sue poesie mi ha permesso di accedere a spazi della sua interiorità e vita per i quali nutro una forte ammirazione e rispetto. La pagina ha aperto un varco di accesso tra lei e me, non capita spesso di avere l’opportunità di conoscere l’essere umano dietro le opere, e ne sono fortemente grata.

Nelle poesie di Sabrina Siew c’è il desiderio e il tentativo, a volte fallito, a volte riuscito, delle persone di entrare in connessione tra loro. Questo si verifica talvolta internamente all’io narrante, attraverso il ricordo e l’immaginazione, per rimettere insieme i pezzi del passato e avvicinarsi alle persone che ne hanno fatto parte. Oppure attraverso sensazioni tattili, e in questo caso Sabrina Siew è riuscita a trovare elementi peculiari, carichi di significato, che mettono in contatto le persone. Un’altra possibilità di connessione avviene attraverso la lingua, la lingua che inevitabilmente plasma chi la parla, e che nell’autrice ha un forte legame con il corpo. Se c’è il rischio di divisione tra chi non parla la stessa lingua, Sabrina Siew ci mette davanti al tentativo di una mamma e una figlia di ritrovarsi, il che sfocia talvolta nell’imparare le parole che servono a difendersi nel mondo, a tratti atroce, che trapela dai versi.

Il mondo di Sabrina Siew è popolato di persone e di tutto ciò in cui si intrattengono, caratteristiche della vita di ciascuno di noi: fare cene insieme, prendere treni, medicine, amarsi, perdersi. La sua lingua è concreta, ma al tempo stesso ricca di simbolismo. È sporca, ma è anche pura. Questo continuo passaggio da gesti tangibili a tratti brutali, alla sacralità del nascosto e dell’essenza stessa della poesia è frutto di una visione stratificata del mondo. La posizione dei versi in certe poesie sottolinea la sospensione, la labilità, il tentativo di sfiorare una qualche verità prima che ci sfugga di nuovo.

Tradurre tutto questo, restituirlo dall’inglese all’italiano, combattere il dilemma linguistico che Sabrina Siew stessa affronta nelle sue poesie, è stata una sfida. Certi giochi di parole e modi di dire hanno dovuto modellarsi secondo i giochi di parole e i modi di dire della lingua italiana. La musicalità delle parole ha perso in alcuni punti, per acquisirne in altri. Spero che la traduzione abbia reso giustizia, e che abbia mantenuto quella sensazione intensa e allo stesso tempo desolata che l’ambientazione nordamericana è riuscita a offrire. Salite tutti sul regionale del nordest e godetevi Sabrina Siew.

SABRINA SIEW

in / on

/ in /

on / in after Ada Limón

my father is telling me that he has bought a cemetery plot and I understand what that means, but I stare at the plate of deep-fried crab that has just touched the table and wonder what it is to die with a hard shell on. he’s telling me it’s on long island and I want to say in long island, but I know that’s not proper (someone from long island corrected me once) but technically it is proper for this. a body is in the island. a body is waterlogged with dirt. a body is six feet out of reach both in the past and the present. my father is telling me to cut open the crab with the metal crackers, pull the back fins open and pry the

dark pink out. he eats it with his fingers, nail scraping against skeleton to get the good pieces out. tomorrow he will get a manicure and I will go with him. they will paint my fingers something blue. maybe red. never black, my father says we are not in mour ning. I don’t want to do it. I want to be without thumbs. without body. without a tongue that pulls flesh. he scoops more onto my plate. the limb is covered in scallions and garlic and smells so good and everyone is laughing. I am not laughing. my father is telling me that he has bought a cemetery plot and I understand what that means, so I rip the legs open.

tradotto dall’inglese da ELISA BORDIGNON

in / a / in / a / in da Ada Limón

mio padre mi dice che ha comprato un lotto al cimitero e io capisco cosa significa, ma fisso il piatto di g ranchio in pastella che ha appena toccato il tavolo e mi chiedo com’è morire dentro un guscio duro. lui mi dice è a long island e io voglio dire in long island ma so che non è esatto (una persona di long island mi ha corretto una volta) ma tecnicamente in questo caso lo è. un corpo è nell’isola.

un corpo è impre gnato di sporco. un corpo è a metri sotto terra sia nel passato sia nel presente. mio padre mi dice di incidere il granchio con le pinze di metallo, aprire le pinne posteriori e tirare fuori il rosa scuro. lo mangia

con le dita, le unghie raschiano lo scheletro per tirare fuori la parte buona. domani si farà una manicure e io andrò con lui. mi dipingeranno le dita di una sfumatura di blu. magari di rosso. mai di nero, dice mio padre non siamo in lutto. non voglio farlo. voglio essere senza pollici. senza corpo. senza lingua che stacca la carne. me ne mette ancora nel piatto. l’arto è ricoperto di cipollotto e di aglio e ha un buon profumino e tutti ridono. io non rido. mio padre mi dice che ha comprato un lotto al cimitero e io capisco cosa significa, quindi strappo le zampe.

we don’t talk about these things so I wrote you a letter after Wo Chan

do you remember? the hotel in houston where I cried, spitting up hospital white benadryl. it was my first time swallowing whole, forbidden like kissing a boy or telling you a secret. instead you weren’t afraid to tell me how ugly my eyes were, puffed & raw.

a dead fish on ice. how stupid I could be to have touched the cat, to not understand that this was now an order. my body tepid, defiant, a premature instinct for refusal.

you were strong that day, pulling my jaw open with your bone-heavy hands. the chopsticks, a weapon, twirling between careful fingers. wielding the pill, playing reverse operation & winning. I stopped crying long enough to let it fold under, clinking against wood, clipping vocal cords on the way down. you’re not here so instead I just play with blue capsules I bought from the store, breaking seals with my nail & pushing the good stuff onto the table until it’s time to go to bed. when I wake everything is sticky.

aching. I clean it the same way I cleaned your bedroom last time I was home,

non parliamo di queste cose così ti ho scritto una lettera da Wo Chan

ti ricordi? l’hotel a houston dove ho pianto sputando il benadryl bianco dell’ospedale.

era la prima volta che lo inghiottivo intero, proibito come baciare un ragazzo o raccontarti un segreto.

invece non hai avuto paura di dirmi quanto erano brutti i miei occhi, gonfi & infiammati.

un pesce morto sul ghiaccio. quanto ero stata stupida a toccare il gatto & a non capire ora

che quello era un ordine. il mio corpo tiepido, ribelle, un istinto prematuro al rifiuto.

eri forte quel giorno, mi hai aperto la mandibola con le mani pesanti di ossa. le bacchette,

un’arma, roteavano tra dita attente. brandivano la pillola, giocando al contrario all’allegro chirurgo & vincendo. ho smesso di piangere abbastanza a lungo da lasciarla andare giù, scendendo ha tintinnato contro il legno, ha sfiorato le corde vocali. non sei qui così mi metto a giocare

con le capsule blu che ho preso dal negozio, rompo l’involucro con le unghie & spingo

la parte buona sopra il tavolo finché è ora di andare a letto. quando mi sveglio è tutto appiccicoso.

doloroso. lo pulisco come avevo pulito la tua stanza l’ultima volta che ero a casa,

with a dish rag & a held tongue. a mirror had fallen, glass decorating the floor like open-mouthed oysters.

it had been hanging above your lipsticks, a place to gaze as you twisted your hair up, a bronze clip perched like sparrows. you are so beautiful, mother.

just ask me now & I would braid your salted hair & color your face.

like a daughter, I love you. like a daughter, I barely know you.

do you believe in this? how big is the palace where your wildness roams? are there swans?

jesters? a stage you can dance on? I cough up a pearl & you call that an answer.

I don’t want it. I wear it around my neck.

con lo strofinaccio & mordendomi la lingua. era caduto uno specchio, il vetro a decorare il pavimento come ostriche spalancate.

era appeso sopra i tuoi rossetti, lo fissavi quando ti attorcigliavi i capelli all’insù, il bronzo di un fermaglio appollaiato come passeri sei molto bella, madre.

basta chiederlo & ti intreccio i capelli sale e pepe & ti coloro il viso.

come una figlia, ti amo. come una figlia, ti conosco a malapena.

ci credi? quanto è grande il palazzo dove vaghi selvaggia? ci sono cigni?

giullari? un palco dove puoi ballare? tossisco una perla & tu la chiami una risposta.

non la voglio. la porto attorno al collo.

frederick

there were supposed to be four of us, but I cried too much as the third so my parents donated the play pens and stopped having sex. this was when the sparrows were still visiting my window, the one with the baby brown shutters that had a small enough nook to keep their eggs, a soft crevice like cloud. that spring, I watched one and then four and then ten wingspans born in an april gray. their sound of pecking was a windchime, an alarm clock. drilling through the sheetrock they were always getting an inch closer to where my head lay on my twin bed. this bed, the bed I could not sleep in. too small for sharing. so I crawled along the padded floor of my childhood down the hall to a sister. one had sheets that crinkled like a cheap hospital gown, the other with green satin that scratched against my dry feet when I slipped in beside her. both of their hair long and black, strands finding its way into my mouth when I woke. much later, when the sparrows had all fallen out of the nest and the house had sold, my mother told me her last secret. the fourth was supposed to be a boy. frederick, she said. even now, I imagine on the nights I wake screaming I am still waiting for him.

frederick

saremmo dovuti essere in quattro, ma io da terza ho pianto troppo quindi i miei genitori hanno donato il box e hanno smesso di fare sesso. questo succedeva quando i passeri venivano ancora alla mia finestra, quella con le persiane marroncine e un cantuccio abbastanza piccolo dove tenere le uova, una fessura morbida come nuvola. quella primavera, ho visto una e poi quattro e poi dieci aperture alari nascere in un grigio di aprile. il suono delle beccate era una campanella, una sveglia. bucando il cartongesso si avvicinavano ogni volta di più a dove poggiavo la testa sul lettino. il lettino dove non riuscivo a dormire. troppo piccolo da condividere. così gattonavo lungo il pavimento ovattato della mia infanzia fino in fondo al corridoio da una sorella. una aveva lenzuola che crepitavano come un logoro camice da ospedale, l’altra un raso verde che mi graffiava i piedi secchi quando mi infilavo accanto a lei. avevano entrambe capelli lunghi e neri, mi ritrovavo in bocca le ciocche quando mi svegliavo. tanto tempo dopo, quando tutti i passeri erano caduti dal nido e la casa era stata venduta, mia madre mi ha raccontato il suo ultimo segreto. il quarto sarebbe dovuto essere un maschio. frederick, ha detto. anche adesso penso che certe notti mi sveglio urlando perché lo aspetto ancora.

defense

in the aftermath, mother asks if I will show her how to use her mouth like a fist. I teach her fuck you and motherfucker and anything else I can think of. crass things I’ve heard on tv shows she never wanted me to watch. she repeats them all back, her voice stumbling against the strange rhythm and weight.

no mother, not like that. like this. more power here. yes, like that. good. okay, say it again. pretend I am them. what do you say if I’m not there? say it again. one more time. yes, I know motherfucker is misogynistic. no, you cannot say fatherfucker. they will laugh. I don’t want them laughing at you.

when I was small, I believed my sisters when they told me you had to pay to use words like this. the double s in cuss resembling dollar signs. now, as each word pings against her register, I can’t help but see the debt on mother’s tongue, the words still biting back, the weapon leaving its mark even in the soft, everloving hand that wields it.

difesa

subito dopo, mia madre chiede se le mostro come usare la bocca come un pugno. le insegno vaffanculo e figlio di puttana e tutto quello che mi passa per la testa. cose volgari sentite nei programmi tv che non ha mai voluto che guardassi. le ripete tutte, la voce inciampa sullo strano ritmo e peso.

no madre, non così. ecco. più enfasi qui. sì, così. bene. ok, dillo di nuovo. fai finta che io sono loro. cosa dici se non ci sono? dillo di nuovo. ancora una volta. sì, lo so che figlio di buona donna è misogino. no, non puoi dire figlio di buon uomo. rideranno. non voglio che ridano di te.

da piccola credevo alle mie sorelle quando mi dicevano che bisognava pagare per usare quel tipo di parole. la s di scurrile ricorda il simbolo del dollaro. ora che ogni parola tintinna contro il registratore, non posso fare a meno di vedere il debito sulla lingua di mia madre, le parole gliela mordono ancora, l’arma che lascia il segno anche sulla morbida, sempre amorevole mano che la impugna.

leaving, on the northeast regional

and it was too hot because they turned the heat on too early, and the only signs lit up were for extra storage and food you could hold tight in your hand. but it was so dark that oftenI just saw myself as we zipped by, this glassy silhouette of unkempt hair anda coat too warm soI shrugged it off. let it drape into the neighbor’s seat. the argyle arms still scrunched from the day’s wear. my glasses, smudged on the right lens, left from play fighting with the boyI love. everythingI saw filtered through the fingerprint on the train,a pressure so close and impossible to push down.

partire, sul regionale del nordest

e faceva troppo caldo perché avevano acceso il riscaldamento troppo presto, e le uniche insegne accese erano per lo spazio extra e il cibo da tenere stretto in mano. ma era così buio che finivo per vedere me sola mentre sfrecciavamo, quella silhouette di vetro di capelli arruffati e un cappotto troppo caldo così me lo sono tolto di dosso. l’ho sistemato sul sedile del vicino. le maniche a losanghe ancora stazzonate dall’usura del giorno. gli occhiali, la lente destra sbaffata, segno della lotta a cui ho giocato col ragazzo che amo. tutto ciò che vedevo filtrato attraverso l’impronta digitale sul treno, una pressione così vicina e impossibile da respingere.

towards the impossible

because my mother spoke a word I did not know, so I translated it over& over& over until the word was gone & all that was left was repetition& memory, form pressing diction, opening& closing, my fists full of enjambments, this magic trick of telling, does she see the rabbit being pulled out of the hat? its ears bent from crouching too long in the dark? I ask her these questions ina blurry contrapuntal, again somewhere in the ruins ofa haibun I burned down, ina crown of sonnets I placed on my head, covering the ash black hair that used to match hers, my translation with its curved language & soft stomach mirror back something she has never said before, this body, this magic constantly caught between us, I am always turning toward what I cannot touch

verso l’impossibile

siccome mia madre ha detto una parola che non conoscevo, così l’ho tradotta ancora & ancora & ancora finché la parola non c’era più & quel che è rimasto era ripetizione & memoria, forma che preme sulla dizione si apre & si chiude, i pugni pieni di enjambements, questo trucco di magia della parola, lei lo vede il coniglio tirato fuori dal cilindro? le orecchie piegate perché accovacciato troppo a lungo nel buio? le faccio queste domande in un contrappunto annebbiato, di nuovo in qualche rovina di un haibun ridotto in cenere, in una corona di sonetti, su cui ho poggiato la testa a coprire il nero cenere dei capelli un tempo uguali ai suoi, la mia traduzione con il linguaggio di curve & la morbida pancia a rispecchiare qualcosa che non ha mai detto prima, questo corpo, questa magia che si coglie continuamente tra noi, sono sempre attratta da ciò che non posso toccare

Translator’s Note

There is a kind of intimacy that comes from sitting with someone else’s words long enough to hear them breathe. My Italian grew up inside this story, in close step with Elisa Bordignon, reaching into the world she had made. A world of laughter contests and cherry blossoms, of two people finding their way to each other through broken English and overlapping laughs, of the simple and bottomless wish to feel held by the people around you. I loved translating every corner of it. I loved the playfulness, the tenderness, the hope that hums underneath even the quietest moments. And I loved Destiny most of all, the little deaf blind dog dragged along to the laughing contest every Monday, who cannot hear a single thing and yet is there, warm and present, in the middle of it all. There is something in that I didn’t want to let go of. So I held on as tight as I could.

ELISA BORDIGNON

LA

RISATA

È UN LINGUAGGIO

UNIVERSALE

Ogni lunedì mattina alle sette e mezza, al Pesce fuor d’acqua c’era la gara di risate. Era l’unico evento di sorta in paese e accorrevano in molti, pertanto bisognava presentarsi in anticipo e prendere posto, questo solo dopo aver superato il test delle corde vocali in reception. La prima di tutti a fare il test e a raggiungere la Sala delle Nuvole era la signora Malventi, che si sedeva nel cerchio con il suo cocker albino in grembo, silenziosissimo, il quale roteava le pupille all’indietro ogni volta che gli si grattava il retro delle orecchie. Si chiamava Destiny e mi faceva una gran pena, specialmente a un certo punto della gara.

Io ero sempre la terza ad arrivare in sala, ma c’era stato un tempo in cui con la Malventi i ruoli erano invertiti. All’inizio, infatti, avevo un gran bisogno di ridere e prima arrivavo, più tempo avevo per farlo. Mi ero iscritta alla gara di risate sotto consiglio di mia sorella, che vi aveva partecipato qualche anno prima. «Dipende tutto da come ti poni tu» mi aveva detto accompagnandomi a braccetto verso la reception. «Fai finta che non te ne vergogni. Con me ha funzionato». Con il tempo mi resi conto che chi arrivava per primo veniva considerato al pari di un secchione a scuola, e da costui ci si aspettava le risate più sguaiate. Perciò, poco tempo dopo mi feci da parte. Tuttavia, c’era un altro motivo per cui avevo smesso di arrivare per prima, e cioè il partecipante che arrivava per secondo. Si chiamava Luc ed era di Bordeaux, o almeno così diceva a tutti. La prima volta che lo vidi, avvolto in una sciarpa blu, mi si era seduto accanto e mi aveva stretto le dita con una mano freddissima ma molto liscia. Mi aveva raccontato di arrivare da un villaggio chiamato Taussat, con lo

translated from the italian by SABRINA SIEW

LAUGHTER IS A UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE

Every Monday morning at 7:30, at Fish Out of Water, there was a laughing contest. There was nothing else like it in town, and people came in droves. Here, you had to show up ahead of time to take your place, but only after passing the vocal cords test at the front desk.

The very first one to take the test and reach the Hall of Clouds was Mrs. Malventi, who was sitting in the circle with an albino cocker spaniel in her lap. The dog was extremely still, rolling her eyes in pleasure every time someone scratched behind her ears. Her name was Destiny, and she filled me with pity, especially at a certain point in the contest.

I was always the third to arrive in the hall, but there had been a time with Mrs. Malventi where the roles were reversed. At the start, indeed, I needed to laugh, and the earlier I arrived, the more time I had to do it. I had signed up for the contest on the advice of my sister, who had gotten to take part in it some years before.

“Everything depends on how you position yourself,” she told me while accompanying me arm in arm into the lobby, “Pretend to not be embarrassed. That’s what worked for me.”

Eventually, I came to realize that the person who arrived first was seen as the nerd of the group, and people expected that person to give the brashest laughs. So, I held back. There were other reasons I had stopped arriving first, and mostly because of the one who arrived second. He called himself Luc and was from Bordeaux,

sbocco sul mare e gabbiani che recuperavano di tutto, dagli incarti di panini finiti a paia di occhiali dimenticati in spiaggia.

«Amo la Francia» gli avevo detto.

«Dove sei stata?».

Gli risposi, ma nulla di quello che dissi era vero. Poi mi chiese se avessi mai provato le ostriche. Allo stesso modo, gli risposi di sì e che mi piacevano. Poco prima che arrivasse la Malventi, mi raccontò che era da poco arrivato in paese e che si sarebbe fermato fino alla fine dell’inverno, per certe pratiche da concludere nella succursale italiana della ditta francese per cui lavorava. Io lo guardavo negli occhi e annuivo ma senza capire granché, perché dopo quella prima frase di presentazione era passato a un inglese mischiato al francese.

«Come mai sei qui?» gli chiesi dopo la sua spiegazione, e rinforzai il mio inglese arrugginito puntando gli indici sul pavimento. A quel punto la Malventi e Destiny arrivarono, la donna mi lanciò un’occhiata sospettosa perché la regola della gara di risate voleva che appena ci fossero due persone in sala si dovesse già iniziare a ridere. Tuttavia, la Malventi ci metteva sempre parecchio tempo a sbottonarsi la giacca e mettere il cellulare in modalità silenziosa, e quella volta, presa dalle sue operazioni, non disse nulla. Alla mia domanda, Luc rispose che il suo livello di italiano era vergognoso e quindi l’unico modo per stare in mezzo alla gente era ridere. Fui d’accordo quando mi disse che secondo lui la risata era un linguaggio universale, «un modo per sentirsi pari agli altri», anche se non avevo ancora sentito la sua. Facevo sempre difficoltà a stare seduta comoda, ovunque mi trovassi e quindi anche al Pesce fuor d’acqua. Per cui, arrivando per prima, incrociavo le gambe sulla sedia come fossi seduta sul divano di casa. Non m’interessava se le scarpe mi sporcassero le cosce, tanto portavo sempre pantaloni scuri. Dalla prima volta che venne, Luc continuò a sedersi accanto a me. Entrato nella Sala delle Nuvole mi sorrideva e mi salutava, e apprestandosi

or at least that’s what he told everyone. The first time I saw him, wrapped in a blue scarf, he was seated near me, and he held my fingers tightly with a hand that was very cold and very smooth. He told me he came from a village called Taussat, right on the sea, where the seagulls snatched everything, from the wrappers of finished sandwiches to a pair of glasses left on the shore.

“I love France,” I had told him.

“Where have you been?”

I replied, but nothing I said was true. Later, he asked me if I had ever tried oysters. In the same way, I told him yes and that I liked them. Not long before Mrs. Malventi arrived, he told me he had just come to town and would be staying until the end of winter, to sort out certain matters at the Italian branch of the French firm he worked for. I looked him in the eye and nodded, without understanding, because after the first sentence, he blended English and French.

“Why are you here?” I asked him, gesturing at the room around us, emphasizing my rusty English.

By then, Mrs. Malventi and Destiny had arrived. The woman threw me a suspicious look because the rules of the laughing contest were that when there were two people in the room, laughing had to start. However, Mrs. Malventi always took a long time to unbutton her jacket and put her cell phone on silent. Caught up in what she was doing, she said nothing. Luc answered my question, telling me that his Italian was embarrassing, and so the only way to be with people was to laugh. I agreed when he told me that he felt laughter was a universal language, “A way to feel equal to others,” he said, even though I hadn’t heard him laugh before.

I always had trouble sitting comfortably wherever I was, even at Fish Out of Water. So when I arrived first, I always tucked my legs up onto the chair as if I were sitting on the couch at home. I didn’t care if my shoes got my thighs dirty. That’s why I always wore dark trousers. From the first time he came, Luc would always sit next to me. After coming into the Room of

a togliere il cappotto dava uno sguardo in mezzo alle mie gambe. Non lo faceva con malizia, sembrava più uno sguardo di constatazione, allo stesso modo di quando si controlla di aver spento tutti i fornelli prima di uscire di casa. Quando veniva a sedersi, poi, mi guardava in un modo che sembrava avesse capito qualcosa di me, ma non avrei saputo dire cosa. Tuttavia, visto che si sedeva sempre sulla sedia accanto alla mia, io dovevo slegare le gambe e sistemarmi in un altro modo, e nel farlo a volte gli sfioravo un ginocchio o facevo cadere la sua valigetta di lavoro, che poggiava in equilibrio a una gamba della sedia. Poi facevamo due parole; lui mi raccontava qualcosa della Francia e io annuivo senza sosta come a ritrovare nella mia memoria le sue evocazioni, evocazioni di luoghi in cui davvero non ero mai stata. Dopo qualche settimana, un po’ per le aspettative dei presenti a sentirmi ridere più forte degli altri, un po’ per la questione delle gambe che urtavano sempre una cosa o l’altra, smisi di arrivare per prima. Il lunedì successivo al mio cambio di rotta, trovai Luc sistemato al suo solito posto e la Malventi a tribolare con la cerniera di un giubbotto nuovo. Era tutta rossa in viso, mi offrii di aiutarla ma lei mi liquidò girandosi e urtò Destiny con la punta degli stivali. La cagnolina, il cui albinismo l’aveva resa cieca, non era riuscita a scansarsi. Dopo quel giorno, la signora Malventi arrivò al Pesce fuor d’acqua prima di tutti, con un anticipo tale da consentirle di svestirsi in tutta calma.

La Sala delle Nuvole veniva usata soltanto per le attività che richiedevano l’emissione di forti rumori. Un giorno, le addette in reception mi raccontarono che lo spesso strato di gommapiuma che insonorizzava le pareti, nel tempo non solo si era ingiallito, ma si era ricoperto di chiazze marroni. Soltanto che — e nel raccontarmelo una delle due donne si era nascosta la bocca con le mani, — il centro non aveva più i finanziamenti di un tempo e non poteva permettersi di ristrutturarle. Perciò le avevano ricoperte di un cotone morbido che a me ricordava lo zucchero filato, e i capi del Pesce fuor

Clouds, he would smile and say hello. As he got ready to take off his coat, he would glance between my legs. He didn’t do so with any bad intent; it seemed more like a watchful gaze. Kind of the same way you check that your stove is off before leaving the house.

When he came to sit down, he would look at me as if he understood something about me that I didn’t know myself. But since he always sat in the chair right next to mine, I had to cross my legs and shift position, and in doing so, I would sometimes knock his knee or tip over his work bag, which would be leaning against the leg of the chair. Then we would exchange a few words; he would tell me something about France, and I would keep nodding, as if searching my memory for something to connect to his descriptions, descriptions of places I had never actually been. After a few weeks, partly because everyone there expected me to laugh louder than the rest and partly because of my legs bumping into things, I stopped coming early.

The following Monday, after changing course, I found Luc settled in his usual spot and Mrs. Malventi struggling with the zipper on her new jacket. Her face had gone all red. I offered to help, but she twisted away, catching Destiny with the tip of her boot. The little dog, whose albinism had left her blind, didn’t manage to get out of the way in time. After that day, Mrs. Malventi always arrived at Fish Out of Water ahead of everyone else, early enough to take her coat off in peace.

The Room of Clouds was only used for things that called for loud noises. One day, the front desk worker told me that the thick layer of foam was used to block sound. Over time, it had not only gone yellow but had even developed brown stains. It’s just that— and as she told me this, one of the two women held her hand over her lips like she was telling a secret — the center didn’t have the money it once had for a long time, and could not fix it. So they had covered the walls with soft cotton, which reminded me of spun sugar. The owners of Fish Out of Water started calling the place the Room

d’acqua presero a riferirsi a quel luogo chiamandolo Sala delle Nuvole.

La sala era l’ultima in fondo al corridoio, un angolo immerso nel silenzio poiché la reception e gli altri locali — le cui porte andavano sempre chiuse, — si trovavano a una certa distanza. Ogni volta che entravo, le risate della Malventi e di Luc arrivavano improvvise e fragorose, come se fosse detonata una bomba. Sapevo sempre dove si sarebbe seduto Luc, e facevo in modo che appena aprissi la porta il mio sguardo si posasse su di lui. Sventolavo una mano senza dire nulla. Lui ricambiava strizzando un po’ gli occhi, mentre la sua bocca restava coinvolta nella risata con la Malventi. Poi mi fermavo all’ingresso dove c’era l’attaccapanni; per sbottonarmi il cappotto mi giravo dando le spalle a Luc, e immaginavo che mi guardasse. Decidendo di arrivare per terza, avevo rinunciato a sentire la sua voce. Perché quando arrivavo lui stava già ridendo, e quando la gara di risate si concludeva prendeva la valigetta da lavoro e usciva correndo con la giacca aperta e la sciarpa svolazzante. Ancora girata, a indugiare con il cappotto, esaminavo come si mischiavano le risate della Malventi e di Luc, e tutte le volte mi sembrava tipo un impasto grumoso, per cui gli ingredienti non erano stati setacciati bene o erano stati aggiunti nell’ordine sbagliato. Inoltre, il tono della Malventi sovrastava quello di Luc, e quindi oltre alla sua voce, non riuscii nemmeno più a sentire davvero la sua risata.

Nella Sala delle Nuvole ammettevano massimo una quindicina di persone. I frequentatori abituali erano una manciata: Gregorio con la risata da fumatore, Ludo con l’apparecchio dagli elastici rosa, Christian che quando rideva piangeva anche. Di tutti loro mi chiedevo se quella voglia di ridere fosse spontanea; per qualche motivo pensavo che l’intera sala seguisse il consiglio di mia sorella che risuonava: «Fate finta che non ve ne vergognate». Ogni volta che si raggiungeva la capienza massima, e di conseguenza il volume delle risate, Destiny scendeva dalle gambe della Malventi e

of Clouds.

The room was the last one at the end of the hall, an area enveloped in quiet, since the front desk and the other rooms — whose doors were always shut — were at some distance. Every time I walked in, Mrs. Malventi’s and Luc’s laughter hit me suddenly and loudly, as if a bomb had gone off. I always knew where Luc would be sitting, and I made sure that as soon as I opened the door, my eyes would land on him, giving a little wave without saying anything. He would squint back a little, his mouth still caught up in the laugh he was sharing with Mrs. Malventi. Then I’d stop by the coat rack near the door, turn my back on Luc to undo my coat, and picture him watching me. As the third to arrive, I had given up the chance to hear his speaking voice. By the time I got there, he was already laughing, and when the laughter died down, he’d grab his briefcase and rush out, jacket open, scarf fluttering. Still with my back turned, fussing with my coat, I’d listen to how the laughter of Mrs. Malventi and Luc mixed together, and every time it struck me as a lumpy dough, as if the ingredients hadn’t been sifted right or had been added in the wrong order. Besides, Mrs. Malventi’s laughter always drowned out Luc’s, so on top of missing his voice, I couldn’t even hear his laughter anymore either.

The Room of Clouds held fifteen people at most. The regulars were a handful: Gregorio with his smoker’s laugh, Ludo with her braces with pink rubber bands, and Christian, who, when he laughed, also cried. With all of them, I wondered if that urge to laugh was spontaneous; for some reason, I thought the whole room was following my sister’s advice, which still rang in my ears: “Pretend to not be embarrassed.”

Every time the room filled up, and the laughter with it, Destiny would climb down from Mrs. Malventi’s legs and scurry into a corner. She’d sit up straight on her front paws and stare at the wall. Sometimes I’d see her rest her forehead against the wall. One Monday, I brought this up to the women at the front desk while

zampettava in un angolo della sala. Si sedeva rimanendo bella ritta sulle zampe anteriori, e fissava il muro. A volte la vedevo poggiare la fronte alla parete. Un lunedì riferii questa cosa alle addette in reception, mentre mi testavano le corde vocali. Loro mi dissero che un tempo, molto prima che io venissi, Destiny ululava. Per cui, la Malventi aveva iniziato a metterle la museruola; a un certo punto il cocker imparò a stare zitto e non fu più necessaria. Così, tutte le volte se ne stava a guardare il muro — anche se non lo guardava veramente — e nessuno sembrava farci caso.

Un giorno, dopo una gara di risate, rimasi imbambolata a fissare la porta aperta della sala. Da lì, poco prima era uscito Luc, e la sua sciarpa blu aveva accarezzato lo stipite in un ultimo saluto. D’un tratto, davanti a me, la Malventi mi coprì la vista. Si stava infilando dei guanti rossi, con il guinzaglio sotto l’ascella.

«Scusi, ma Destiny sta bene?» le chiesi.

«In che senso?».

«Va sempre nell’angolo, quando ridiamo».

«Sta benissimo».

Ancora non lo sapevo, ma quel lunedì fu l’ultimo in cui vidi Luc. Me ne accorsi un paio di lunedì successivi, quando constatai che la sua assenza non poteva essere dovuta a un’influenza o qualcosa del genere. Alla fine dell’incontro, passai dalla reception.

«Scusate,» dissi. «Il francese che partecipa alla gara di risate viene ancora?».

«No, ci ha telefonato l’altro giorno per annullare. È dovuto tornare in Francia».

Le volte successive in me non cambiò nulla, almeno dall’esterno: la mia risata era vigorosa e cominciavo a essere considerata una veterana del gruppo, al pari della Malventi o di Gregorio, o forse anche meglio, perché la mia voce era giovane e limpida. Io, però, mi sentivo distratta: non riuscivo più a sentire le risate degli altri. Continuavo a pensare ai tempi in cui io arrivavo per prima e Luc per secondo, e per qualche minuto ridevamo io e lui soli. Fin dall’inizio avevo notato che

they were testing my vocal cords. They told me that once, long before I showed up, Destiny used to howl, so Mrs. Malventi had started muzzling her. At some point, the dog learned to keep quiet, and the muzzle wasn’t needed anymore. So she would just sit there facing the wall — not really looking at it — and nobody seemed to care.

One day, after the laughing competition had finished, I stood there stunned, staring at the open door. That’s where Luc had just emerged, his blue scarf grazing the doorframe in one last goodbye. All at once, Mrs. Malventi stepped in front of me, blocking my view. She was pulling on red gloves, the leash under her armpit.

“Excuse me, is Destiny okay?” I asked her.

“What do you mean?”

“She always goes into the corner when we laugh.”

“She’s perfectly fine.”

I didn’t know it yet, but that Monday would be the last time I saw Luc. I realized this a couple of Mondays later, when it dawned on me that his absence couldn’t be due to the flu or something like that. At the end of the session, I stopped by the front desk.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Does the Frenchman who takes part in the laughing contest still come?”

“No, he called us the other day to cancel. He had to go back to France.”

The following times, nothing changed in me, at least on the outside: my laughs were strong, and I was beginning to be thought of as a veteran in the group, on a level with Mrs. Malventi or Gregorio, or perhaps even better, because my voice was young and bright. I, however, felt out of it: I could no longer hear the laughter of the others. I kept thinking about the times when I arrived first, and Luc second, and for a few minutes we would laugh, just him and I, alone. From the start, I had noticed that his laugh was unlike that of the others, his tone bending upwards, as if each laugh ended with a question mark. It seemed that with

la sua risata era diversa da quelle degli altri: il suo tono fletteva verso l’alto, come se ognuna finisse con un punto di domanda. Sembrava che con la sua risata volesse esplorare qualcosa, spogliarsi della timidezza almeno fino a quando c’eravamo solo io e lui. Comunque, mi dava l’impressione che la sua risata si appoggiasse alla mia, e non capivo se fosse perché Luc cercasse sicurezza e validazione o se volesse semplicemente ascoltarmi ridere. Ogni tanto, però, succedeva qualcosa: le nostre risate si sovrapponevano senza annullarsi, come in un coro.

Intanto, Destiny continuava a stare con il muso sul muro; io presi a grattarle il retro delle orecchie alla fine di ogni gara di risate, e mi sembrava che questo la calmasse un po’.

«Non c’è bisogno» mi disse la Malventi un lunedì. «Mi dispiace che se ne stia sempre nell’angolo. È il rumore, vero?».

«Cioè?».

«Le risate. La disorientano?».

A quel punto la Malventi prese la cagnolina in braccio e mi sorrise per la prima volta, come si sorride a un bambino dopo che ha detto una stupidaggine. «Ma quando mai. Destiny non è solo cieca, cara. È anche sorda».

Con il passare dei mesi, presi a venire sempre meno. Diedi la colpa al freddo dell’inverno che mi pareva infinito e non mi invogliava a uscire. Però un lunedì di sole, a incorniciare giornate dalle temperature piacevoli, mi accolsero i ciliegi in fiore del cortile, e percorrerlo per raggiungere il Pesce fuor d’acqua mi smosse qualcosa dentro.

Ero in ritardo, ma qualche posto era rimasto. Quando entrai, trovai mia sorella. Il suo volto arrossato e contratto si distese un poco nel vedermi. «Che succede?», chiesi. Lei mi sorrise e scosse la testa. Io l’abbracciai e le diedi un bacio sull’angolo dell’occhio, era un po’ gonfio e screpolato.

his laugh, he wanted to feel out something, to shed his shyness, at least until it was only him and me. Anyway, it gave me the feeling that his laugh leaned on mine, and I couldn’t work out whether Luc was looking for steadiness or whether he just wanted to hear me laugh. Every so often, though, something happened: our laughs overlapped without drowning each other out, like in a chorus.

Meanwhile, Destiny kept sulking against the wall. I started scratching behind her ears at the end of every laughing bout, and it seemed to settle her a little.

“There is no need,” Mrs. Malventi told me one Monday.

“I feel bad that she always stays in the corner. It’s the noise, right?”

“The noise?”

“The laughter, does it bother her?”

At that point, Mrs. Malventi took the little dog in her arms and smiled at me for the first time, as one smiles at a child after they have said something stupid. Not at all. Destiny isn’t only blind, dear. She’s also deaf.”

As the months went by, I started coming less and less. I blamed the cold of this endless winter, which left me with no will to go out. But one sunny Monday, set among days of mild weather, the cherry trees in bloom out in the courtyard welcomed me, and walking among them to reach the Fish Out of Water shifted something inside me. I was late, but a few spots were left. When I walked in, I discovered my sister. Her flushed and taut face loosened a little upon seeing me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She smiled and shook her head. I hugged her and gave her a kiss on the corner of her eye, which was a little swollen and raw.

During the whole bout, I looked at her alone. I waited so she would be the one to start. I fell in with the tone of her laugh and followed her, nodding at her

Durante tutta la gara guardai solo lei. Aspettavo fosse sempre lei a partire; mi adeguai al tono della sua risata e la seguii annuendole leggermente. Lei ogni tanto chiudeva gli occhi, faceva una pausa e sorrideva. Finita la gara, mentre infilava le chiavi nel nottolino della sua auto, si offrì di accompagnarmi a lavoro. «Come stai?» le chiesi non appena partimmo. «Meglio. Mi sento una persona diversa, lì. Sembra di stare su un altro pianeta. Hai presente?». Tornai un paio di lunedì successivi; mia sorella non c’era, tutti i fiori erano caduti dai ciliegi e le prime foglie erano spuntate verdissime. Da quando Luc se n’era andato, mi posizionavo seconda in ordine di arrivo. Il lunedì delle foglie nuove, invece, non fu così. Aprii la porta della Sala delle Nuvole e lo ritrovai, seduto al suo solito posto, a ridere con la Malventi come se non se ne fosse mai andato. L’unico cambiamento che notai subito: non aveva più la sciarpa blu attorno al collo.

Alla fine della gara, mi fermai ad accarezzare Destiny mentre la padrona si rivestiva; intanto la sala si svuotò in fretta. Mi girai e vidi Luc stringere la maniglia della sua valigetta da lavoro e indugiare sulla porta. Aveva appena mosso la testa, a nasconderla come se fino a poco prima mi stesse guardando ma non volesse darlo a vedere. Salutai la Malventi e lo raggiunsi.

«Come va in Francia?» gli chiesi.

«Bene» mi rispose Luc, in inglese. «Ti ho pensata spesso».

In sala non erano rimaste che un paio di persone. Intravidi Christian asciugarsi le guance con la manica del maglione; indirizzò alla sala un piccolo sorriso appagato prima di uscire.

«In realtà, ho imparato l’italiano» continuò Luc. «Come ti sembra?».

Sentii i miei peli delle braccia rizzarsi nel sentire la sua pronuncia, velata da un accento timido. «Sei bravissimo. Come mai sei tornato?».

«Questioni burocratiche in azienda. Pare mi vogliono qui sei mesi l’anno».

gently. Every so often, she closed her eyes, paused, and smiled. Once the session was over, as she inserted the key in the lock of her car, she offered to drive me to work.

“How are you?” I asked as soon as we pulled out.

“Better. I feel like a different person there. It feels like being on another planet, you know what I mean?”

I came back a couple of Mondays later; my sister wasn’t there, all the blossoms had fallen from the cherry trees, and the first leaves had sprouted very green. Since Luc had left, I had taken to arriving second. The Monday of the new leaves, though, it was not so. I opened the door of the Room of Clouds and found him again, sitting in his usual spot, laughing with Mrs. Malventi as if he had never left. The only thing I spotted straight away: he no longer had the blue scarf around his neck. At the end of the contest, I stopped to pet Destiny while Mrs. Malventi got dressed again; meanwhile, the room emptied out quickly. I turned and saw Luc gripping the handle of his work bag and lingering by the door. He had just turned his head away, as if until a moment before he had been looking at me but didn’t want to show it. I greeted Mrs. Malventi and caught up with him.

“How are things in France?” I asked him.

“Good,” Luc answered in English, “I’ve thought of you a lot.”

In the room, only a couple of people were left. I spotted Christian wiping his cheeks with the sleeve of his sweater; he threw a small, pleased smile at the room before leaving.

“Truth be told, I have got my Italian down,” Luc went on, “How does it sound to you?”

I felt the hair on my arms stand up hearing his way of speaking, veiled by a shy accent.

“You are very good. How come you came back?”

“Business things in the company. Six months in the year, it must be that I am in Italy.”

A smile got away from me, and I nodded. At that

Mi feci scappare un sorriso e annuii. In quel momento, la Malventi e la cagnetta uscirono dalla sala. Erano le ultime. Passandomi dietro, la coda spumosa di Destiny mi solleticò le caviglie. Accennai alla valigetta. «Sei in ritardo?».

«Lo ero stamattina. Non ho ancora preso il café». Subito dopo, accadde come quando le nostre risate si amalgamavano. Nello stesso momento in cui io dissi: «Se vuoi lo prendiamo insieme», la domanda di Luc si sovrappose: «Vuoi prenderne uno con me?».

Ridemmo all’unisono e ci avviammo. Quando fummo vicini all’uscita, e le nostre suole si attutivano sopra i petali caduti in cortile, sentii che era arrivato il momento:

«Devo confessarti una cosa, Luc. Non sono mai stata in Francia».

Lui si fermò. «E come mai mi hai detto il contrario?».

«Avevo paura che altrimenti mi avresti trovata noiosa».

Luc scosse leggermente la testa, sorridendo. «Tu sei tutto tranne che noiosa».

«Ora penso a qualcosa da raccontarti sull’Italia».

«Va bene. Ma non dobbiamo parlare per forza».

Con la sua mano tiepida mi strinse la mia. Era sempre liscia, ma mi stupii nel constatare che non era più fredda. Era davvero arrivata la primavera.

moment, Mrs. Malventi and the little dog came out of the room. They were the last ones. Passing behind me, Destiny’s foamy tail, like a cappuccino, brushed my ankles.

I nodded at the bag. “You’re late?”

“I was this morning. I haven’t had my café yet.”

Right after, it happened like when our laughs overlapped. Just as I was saying, “If you want, we can grab one together,” Luc’s question landed on top: “Do you want to get one with me?”

We laughed in unison and set off. When we were close to the exit, and our footsteps were quiet over the fallen petals in the courtyard, I felt that the moment had come.

“I must come clean with you, Luc. I have never been to France.”

He stopped. “And how come you said the opposite?”

“I was afraid that otherwise you would have found me dull.”

Luc shook his head slightly, smiling. “You are anything but dull.”

“Now I’m thinking of something to tell you about Italy.”

“That’s fine. But we don’t have to talk if we don’t want to.”

With his warm hand, he squeezed mine. It was still smooth, but I was startled to find that it was no longer cold. Spring had truly arrived.

Columbia University and the other participants in the 2026 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 Linn Penelope Micklitz, Deutches Literaturinstitut Leipzig

Hongtu Wang and Tao Lei, Fudan University

Roberto Taddei and Livia Lakomy, Instituto Vera Cruz

Rodrigo Rojas aand Kurt Folch Maass, 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

participating institutions

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.

Founded in Turin in 1994, Scuola Holden is an institution devoted to training storytellers through courses spanning multiple disciplines of writing and performing arts. Scuola Holden also serves as a cultural production center in Italy by way of collaborations with schools, universities, book-shops, publishers, and festivals throughout Italy and Europe.

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.