2018 Word for Word Workshop ebook

word for word parola per parola

palavra por palavra wort fĂźr wort

palabra por palabra mot pour mot

2018

word for word parola per parola

palavra por palavra wort fĂźr wort

palabra por palabra mot pour mot

3

table of contents foreword 6

word for word / parola per parola Columbia University School of the Arts Scuola Holden 9

word for word / palavra por palavra Columbia University School of the Arts Instituto Vera Cruz Formação de Escritores 109

word for word / wort für wort Columbia University School of the Arts Deutsches Literaturinstitut Leipzig 181

word for word / palabra por palabra Columbia University School of the Arts Universidad Diego Portales 269

word for word / mot pour mot Columbia University School of the Arts Université Paris 8 417

acknowledgments 577

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foreword 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 FabraIDEC 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.

The present volume offers selections from the works (originals and translations) written by members of the Spring 2018 Word for Word Workshop in the Columbia School of the Arts and their French-, German-, Italian, Portuguese- and Spanish-language partners in Paris, Leipzig, Turin, São Paulo, and Santiago.

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This sixth in our series of Word for Word anthologies collects the work of twenty exceptionally talented writers, presented here in tribute to all the ways in which artistic exchange can build bridges between peoples and cultures. At a time when isolationism is on the rise worldwide, placing unusual strain on the relationships between countries, these twenty new voices—each confident, critical, and globally attuned—bear witness to the power of the written word to transcend the borders that divide us.

Susan Bernofsky Director, Literary Translation at Columbia Columbia University School of the Arts / Writing

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word for word / parola per parola Columbia University School of the Arts Scuola Holden

9

5/12/2019

Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

CLARENCE COO from BEAUTIFUL PROVINCE (BELLE PROVINCE) Scene 1: Mr. Green’s Farewell To His Class MR. GREEN, a 54-year-old high school French teacher in rumpled clothes, addresses his class. He stands next to a wastebasket, holding a stack of papers.

He reads a name off each paper then drops the sheet into the wastebasket.

MR. GREEN For Edouard -– or should I say Ed? -- Disappointing.

For Madeleine –- or should I say Mei Ling? -- Dreadful.

For Christophe –- or should I say Topher? -- Deficient.

"D." "D." "D." The results of your exam? Deplorable.

Four weeks we spend on two verbs. The result? Disaster!

Two verbs! Granted, they are irregular. But that’s no excuse, for these forms -- Do. Not. Change.

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

tradotto dall'inglese da ANTONELLA MASSARO da BELLA PROVINCIA (BELLE PROVINCE) Scena 1: L’addio di Mr. Green alla classe MR. GREEN, insegnante di francese al liceo, cinquantaquattro anni e vestiti stropicciati, parla alla sua classe. In piedi accanto a un cestino, regge un fascio di fogli.

Legge un nome da ogni foglio, poi lo butta nel cestino.

MR. GREEN Edouard… o dovrei dire Ed?... Deludente.

Madeleine... o dovrei dire Mei Ling?... Deprecabile.

Christophe... o dovrei dire Topher?... Deficitario.

"D." "D." "D." Il risultato dei vostri compiti in classe?

Deplorevole.

Passiamo quattro settimane su due verbi. Con quale risultato? Disastro!

Due verbi! D’accordo, sono irregolari. Ma non è una scusa, perché queste forme...

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

They are immutable!

More reliable than the people in your lives. More stable than governments. More dependable than churches or philosophies. These verbs are your deliverance!

Commit the patterns to memory. Determine the person, the number, the tense. Then remember the form. That’s all there is. To conjugation.

Conjugation. Such a beautiful word. Such a beautiful act.

Shall we attempt the Imperfect before the final frost of winter? Consider the Conditional before swallows sail back in spring? Sally forth with the Subjunctive before our fecund and flowering females ooze out another assemblage of unexpected infants?

Or are we stuck in Present Tense forever?

Can you imagine? Stuck in Present Tense? Time would grind to a halt. Time would stand still! No access to the past. No road to the future.

He reads more names and drops more test papers into the wastebasket.

Yes, there are –- For Matthieu -- or Matt -- Difficulties.

For Rémy -- or Rohit -- Dangers.

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

Non. Cambiano. Mai. Sono immutabili!

Più affidabili dei vostri cari. Più stabili dei governi. Più credibili delle chiese e delle filosofie. Questi verbi sono la vostra salvezza!

Affidate lo schema alla memoria. Determinate la persona, il numero, il tempo. Poi, ricordate il modo. Non c’è altro da fare. Per coniugare.

Coniugare. Che parola stupenda. Che atto stupendo.

Riusciremo a fare l’Imperfetto prima dell’ultima gelata d’Inverno? A studiare il Condizionale prima che tornino le rondini in primavera? A partire alla scoperta del Congiuntivo prima che le nostre feconde fanciulle in fiore sfornino un’altra partita di inattesi lattanti?

O rimarremo per sempre inchiodati nel Presente?

Ve lo immaginate? Inchiodati nel Presente? Il tempo che frena. Che rimane fermo! Nessun accesso al passato.

Nessuna strada per il futuro.

Legge qualche altro nome e butta altri test nel cestino.

Sì, abbiamo...

Mathieu... o Matt... Difficoltà.

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

For Brigitte -- or Britney -- Disorientation.

Sometimes –-

Like when I was your age: Delirium!

But French. Is. Worth. It.

French is contemplation.

French is inspiration.

French is liberation.

French makes existence bearable.

Perhaps you ponder how your parents persist existing here? Side by side with steel mills dead and derelict for decades?

Perhaps they’ve numbed themselves cashing unemployment checks to purchase methamphetamines.

But I like to believe it’s because, before closing their eyes every night, they whisper into their pillows the honeyed verses of Verlaine and Baudelaire. And all that is weighty and dark in their souls is expelled into vapor.

For that’s what I do.

Without French, life would be unfair!

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

Rémy... o Rohit... Dolori.

Brigitte... o Britney... Disorientamento.

A volte...

Come quando avevo la vostra età: Delirio!

Ma il francese. Ne. Vale. La. Pena.

Il francese è contemplazione.

Il francese è ispirazione.

Il francese è liberazione.

Il francese rende l’esistenza sopportabile.

Vi siete mai chiesti perché i vostri genitori si ostinano a esistere proprio qui? Circondati da acciaierie defunte e derelitte da decenni?

Forse hanno sperperato i propri sussidi di disoccupazione per comprare metanfetamine.

Ma a me piace credere che sia perché ogni notte, prima di chiudere gli occhi, sussurrano al cuscino i versi d’ambrosia di Verlaine e di Baudelaire. E tutto ciò che è pesante e oscuro nelle loro anime evapora.

Perché è questo ciò che faccio.

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

But with French, there is expectation.

Anticipation.

Exhilaration.

Capitulation.

For in the past, it was English that capitulated to French.

In the year 1066, the Norman French conquered the uncouth Anglo-Saxon. And conveyed to them -- culture.

In the year 1066. Because of the French, we sit at the table with refinement. Do we “eat pigs?” No, we “dine on pork.” Do we “munch on cows?” No, we “feast on beef.”

Do we “chomp down cow babies?” No! We “savor veal.”

But alas, the luminosity of French burned too brief over the British Isles. And England’s linguistic treasury went bankrupt.

In Chaucer’s Prologue to The Canterbury Tales, the Prioress is ridiculed for speaking bastardized French:

He slips into Chaucerian English.

“And French she spake full faire and fetisly, After the school of Stratford-at-Bow, For French of Paris was to her unknow.”

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

Senza il francese, la vita sarebbe ingiusta!

Ma con il francese, c’è speranza.

Anticipazione.

Eccitazione.

Capitolazione.

Perché in passato, fu l’Inglese a capitolare davanti al Francese.

Nell’anno 1066, i normanni conquistarono i selvaggi anglosassoni. E portarono loro... cultura.

Nell’anno 1066. È merito dei francesi se oggi ci sediamo a tavola con finezza. “Mangiamo il maiale?” No, “ceniamo con carne suina.” “Mastichiamo vacche?” No, “banchettiamo con il manzo.” “Inghiottiamo giovenche?” No, “assaporiamo il vitello.”

Ma ahimè, la luce dei francesi brillò troppo fugacemente sulle Isole Britanniche. E il tesoro linguistico dell’Inghilterra andò perduto.

Nel Prologo di Chaucer ai Racconti di Canterbury, la Badessa viene sbeffeggiata perché parla un francese imbastardito:

Passa all’inglese Chauceriano.

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5/12/2019

Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

He shakes the test papers.

What was this French from “the school of Stratford-at-Bow?” Not a distant cry from what you have here, my impish urchins, your Level One French of Western New York. Your Level One French of this Heart-of-Darkness on the Great Lakes.

Those English barbarians! Brutes! Payback for the Norman Invasion? They dog-paddled panting across the Channel. And burned down -– France. For one hundred years. A Hundred Years’ War! That’s a grand grudge!

But a maid of Orleans appeared on the battlefield. Joan of Arc had a vision. She had a dream. A dream of a world in which children would be judged not by the color of their flags, but by the content of their vocabulary. She had a dream. A dream that one day little French boys and little French girls would join hands with little English boys and little English girls and recite the irregular verbs of both their languages.

But like so many beautiful dreams, she went up in smoke.

The English and French were not yet worn-down from war. So westward, they watched. They wondered. They wandered. The West. This New World. This America.

This spacious sky. This fruited plain. Two empires of linguistic thought competing for amber waves of grain.

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5/12/2019

Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

“…e parlava francese speditamente e con eleganza secondo la scuola di Stratford-at-Bow, perché il francese di Parigi le era ignoto” .

Scrolla i fogli dei test.

Cos’era questo francese “secondo la scuola di Stratford-at-Bow?” Non troppo lontano da quello che avete qui, cari bricconcelli, il vostro francese da principianti di Western New York. Il vostro francese da principianti di questo Cuore di tenebra sui Grandi Laghi.

Quei barbari inglesi! Bruti! Rivincita per l’Invasione Normanna? Ansimarono e annasparono come cagnolini attraverso il Canale. E incendiarono… la Francia. Per cento anni. Una Guerra di Cent’anni! Questo sì che è rancore!

Ma sul campo di battaglia apparve la pulzella d’Orleans.

Giovanna d’Arco ebbe una visione. Un sogno. Il sogno di un mondo in cui i bambini non sarebbero stati giudicati per il colore delle loro bandiere, ma per il contenuto del loro vocabolario. Aveva un sogno. Il sogno che un giorno i bambini e le bambine francesi si sarebbero tenuti per mano con i bambini e le bambine inglesi e avrebbero recitato i verbi irregolari di entrambe le lingue.

Ma al pari di tanti sogni bellissimi, andò in fumo anche lei.

Gli inglesi e i francesi non erano ancora distrutti dalla guerra. Guardavano a ovest. Si meravigliavano.

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

The English. Their goals: spread slavery. Promote religious intolerance. Encourage the use of tobacco.

The French. Their goal. Simply one. The manufacture of stylish hats! Befriend the natives. Who know the way of the beaver. With their shimmery, shiny pelts! For the manufacture of stylish hats!

Two versions of the future. A date was set for the final showdown. The Thirteenth of September, 1759. The Battle of the Plains of Abraham. The locale? In the very heart of New France, in the colony called Canada, outside the walls of Quebec City. The players? General James Wolfe in red. The Marquis de Montcalm in blue.

The result? Collision. Collapse. Catastrophe.

So you speak, not the French of Paris, but the English of a frozen, rusty scrap heap, a scrap heap forgotten by people who live on the other end of the highway.

And so you watch, not the insightful drollery of Molière, but men in tight pants tossing an elliptical mass of cowhide.

And so you eat blue cheese, not paired with a glass of fine Bordeaux, but as a dipping sauce for chicken wings and celery sticks.

How then to communicate with you? As that is my duty.

My vocation. My contribution to society. To engender a flow of thought from my font of maturity forward to your adolescent gray matter.

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

Vagavano. L’Ovest. Questo Nuovo Mondo. Questa America. Questo cielo spazioso. Queste terre fertili. Due imperi della linguistica che si contesero queste dorate onde di grano.

Gli inglesi. I loro obiettivi: accrescere la schiavitù.

Promuovere l’intolleranza religiosa. Incoraggiare l’uso del tabacco.

I francesi. Il loro obiettivo. Uno soltanto: la creazione di cappelli alla moda! Far amicizia con i nativi. Che conoscono le abitudini dei castori. Con la loro pelliccia lustra e scintillante! Per la creazione di cappelli alla moda!

Due visioni del futuro. Fu stabilita una data per la resa dei conti finale. Il 13 settembre 1759. La battaglia della piana di Abraham. Ambientazione? Nel cuore della Nuova Francia, nella colonia chiamata Canada, fuori dalle mura di Québec City. Contendenti? Il generale James Wolfe in rosso. Il Marquis de Montcalm in blu.

Esito? Collisione. Collasso. Catastrofe.

Pertanto voi non parlate il Francese di Parigi, bensì l’Inglese di un mucchio di pattume compatto e arrugginito, un mucchio di pattume abbandonato da chi vive dall’altro lato della tangenziale.

Pertanto voi non guardate le argute facezie di Molière, bensì uomini dai jeans attillati che riempiono l’aria di ellittiche frustate.

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

He drops more tests into the wastebasket.

Gabrielle? Gabby. French to you is a dead idea.

Pierre? Pete. French to you is a dead end.

Joséphine? Jojo. Speaking French to you is a dead weight.

Nathaniel? Nate.

He scans the room.

Nate? Why are you sitting back there?

Oh. A pause. Then he crumples Nate’s paper into a ball and drops it into the wastebasket.

Let’s not speak French anymore. No. Why should we?

Allow me instead to use a word of Anglo-Saxon origin.

One with which I am sure you are all familiar. Its phonology is thus -- it begins with a labiodental fricative, progresses to the omnipresent “schwa”, and terminates with a voiceless velar plosive: Fuck!

He throws the rest of the test papers into the air.

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

E così mangiate il formaggio blu, non accompagnato a un calice di ottimo Bordeaux, ma in forma di salsa in cui intingere ali di pollo e gambi di sedano.

Come posso dunque comunicare con voi? Visto che è il mio dovere. La mia vocazione. Il mio contributo alla società. Come posso, dall’alto della mia maturità, indirizzare un flusso di pensieri verso la vostra adolescente materia grigia.

Getta altri test nel cestino.

Gabrielle? Gabby. Il francese per te è un’idea defunta.

Pierre? Pete. Il francese per te è una strada senza uscita.

Joséphine? Jojo. Il francese per te è un peso morto.

Nathaniel? Nate.

Esamina la stanza.

Nate? Perché sei seduto lì in fondo?

Oh. Una pausa. Poi appallottola il test di Nate e lo lascia cadere nel cestino.

Basta col Francese. A che pro continuare?

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

And to that, let me add a direct object pronoun. Fuck.

You.

Shall I append another modifier? Fuck. You. All.

Fuck this class. Fuck this school. Fuck this town and fuck your idiot parents and fuck your pathetic petty pointless lives.

He lifts the wastebasket and pours the contents out, littering the floor with paper.

Fuck you. Fuck me.

Present participle: “fucking.” Passive form: “fucked.”

I’m fucked! You’re fucked. We’re all fucked. But mostly it’s me. I’m soooooooo fucked!

He takes a breath.

Undeniably, unconditionally fucked. That’s me.

This word? Vulgar. I apologize.

Somebody please call the principal.

English is ugly. Barbaric. Not beautiful at all.

Lights shift.

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

Permettetemi invece di usare una parola di origine anglosassone. Una parola che senza dubbio tutti conoscete.

Fuck!

Ciò che forse non sapete è che si tratta di un acronimo.

F.U.C.K. sta per Fornication Under Consent of the King.

Si fotte solo con il consenso del re.

Lancia per aria il resto dei test.

Qui non abbiamo un re. Abbiamo solo dei fottuti ignoranti.

Perciò lasciate che vi omaggi di una sintassi più articolata. Andate a farvi fottere. Tutti!

Che si fotta questa classe. Si fotta questa scuola. Che si fotta questa città e quegli idioti dei vostri genitori e si fottano le vostre vite patetiche e senza senso.

Afferra il cestino e lo rovescia, spargendone il contenuto sul pavimento.

Fottuti voi e fottuto io.

Participio presente: “fottente”. Forma passiva: “fottuto.”

Sono fottuto! Voi siete fottuti. Tutti noi siamo fottuti. Ma io più di tutti gli altri. Sono prooooooprio fottuto!

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

Scene 2: Jimmy And Nate Clean The Classroom

Later that day. JIMMY, a 15-year-old boy, and NATE, another 15-year-old, collect the scattered test papers off the floor and deposit them into the wastebasket. NATE is self-assured. JIMMY is not.

NATE (Offering a test paper to JIMMY.)

Here’s yours.

JIMMY tries to reach for his test, but NATE pulls it away.

NATE (CONT.) An “A.” Of course. You really liked him.

JIMMY Give it to me.

NATE does.

JIMMY folds the test paper neatly and places it in his pocket.

JIMMY (CONT.) I wonder if he’ll be okay.

NATE Mr. Green? Don’t worry. He’ll be in a better place.

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

Riprende fiato.

Innegabilmente, irrimediabilmente fottuto. Ecco quel che sono.

Parole volgari? Me ne scuso.

Qualcuno vada a chiamare il preside, per favore.

L’inglese è orribile. Barbarico. Privo di bellezza.

Si spengono le luci.

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

JIMMY I hope that means he’ll get help. So he can come back soon.

NATE No, Jimmy. Mr. Green won’t be coming back. “A better place” means he got fired. It’s a “euphemism.” Which, Mr. Green liked to remind us, is Greek for “a beautiful phrase.”

JIMMY I like euphemisms.

NATE So did Mr. Green. Until he reached his breaking point.

JIMMY He had a different teaching method, that’s all.

NATE Maybe it was a little too different, since he failed like every single one of us. Well, except you.

JIMMY You were one of the best.

(Pause.)

You just need to study a little more. I was thinking when we got better, you and me, we could speak French to each other and no one would ever know what we were saying.

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Clarence Original Antonella Translation - Google Docs

Scena 2: Jimmy e Nate rimettono ordine nella classe

Più tardi, quello stesso giorno. JIMMY, un quindicenne, e NATE, anche lui quindicenne, raccolgono i fogli dei test sparsi per terra e li buttano nel cestino. NATE è disinvolto.

JIMMY no.

NATE (Porge un foglio di test a Jimmy)

Qui c’è il tuo.

JIMMY cerca di afferrarlo, ma NATE gli strappa il foglio di mano.

NATE (CONT.) Una “A”. Ovvio. Ti piaceva proprio un sacco, lui.

JIMMY Dammelo.

NATE restituisce il foglio.

JIMMY lo piega con cura e lo mette in tasca.

JIMMY (CONT.) Mi chiedo che ne sarà di lui.

NATE Mr. Green? Non ti preoccupare. Andrà in un posto migliore.

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NATE Except other people who speak French.

JIMMY Or we could have our own secret language.

NATE Like Mr. Green? I always felt he had his own secret language.

JIMMY Nate, on Friday night, there’s a special on the Discovery Channel about Alexander Hamilton’s house. About this archaeological dig they're doing there. You want to come over Friday?

NATE Friday? Usually, I love a good archaeological dig. But I’m going to the lacrosse game.

JIMMY Is Connor playing?

NATE Yes.

JIMMY How about this afternoon? We can go to the creek.

Maybe you’ll find another arrowhead in the water.

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JIMMY Spero significhi che gli daranno una mano. Così può tornare presto.

NATE No, Jimmy, scordatelo. Mr. Green non tornerà. “Un posto migliore” significa che l’hanno licenziato. È un “eufemismo”. Ovvero, come a Mr. Green piaceva ricordarci, “una bella frase” in greco.

JIMMY A me piacciono gli eufemismi.

NATE Anche a Mr. Green. Finché non è arrivato al punto di rottura.

JIMMY Aveva solo un metodo d’insegnamento un po’ diverso.

NATE Forse era un po’ troppo diverso, visto che ha fallito praticamente con ognuno di noi. Be’, a parte te.

JIMMY Ma tu sei uno dei migliori.

(Pausa.)

Basta che studi un po’ di più. Pensavo che io e te, migliorando, avremmo potuto parlare francese e nessuno ci avrebbe capiti.

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NATE That arrowhead was just a piece of rock. I said it was an arrowhead because I’d been reading that book.

JIMMY No, I looked under a microscope. There were like scrapings on the side and everything.

NATE For real?

JIMMY You want it?

NATE What?

JIMMY The arrowhead?

NATE No, you can keep it.

JIMMY It’s real. Like a real artifact. What if I made it into a necklace? You could wear it around your neck.

NATE You’re the one who’s really into Indians.

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Tranne chi parla francese.

JIMMY Sarebbe bello avere un nostro linguaggio segreto.

NATE Come Mr. Green? Ho sempre avuto la sensazione che parlasse un linguaggio segreto.

JIMMY Nate, venerdì sera su Discovery Channel c’è uno speciale sulla casa di Alexander Hamilton. Su quello scavo archeologico che stanno facendo. Ti va di venire a vederlo da me?

NATE Venerdì? Di solito vado pazzo per un bello scavo archeologico. Ma c’è la partita di lacrosse.

JIMMY Gioca anche Connor?

NATE Sì.

JIMMY

Che ne dici allora di oggi pomeriggio? Possiamo andare al torrente. Magari trovi un’altra punta di freccia nell’acqua.

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JIMMY I thought it was your favorite book. About the land before it was America? When there were no cars and it was all trees? When there were no factories and it was all hills? Just Indians.

NATE The book is actually kind of problematic in the way it romanticizes an oppressed ethnic group.

JIMMY I guess you don’t want to go back to the creek.

NATE I can’t. Last time, I got a tick bite and had this rash. My mom was so mad. She thought I had Lyme Disease.

JIMMY We can just hang out in my room. And, you know, play with my microscope.

NATE No, I’m --. Not this week. Okay?

JIMMY You had a lot of time before.

NATE We’re sophomores now.

(Pause.)

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NATE Era solo una scheggia di pietra. Ho detto che era una punta di freccia perché stavo leggendo quel libro…

JIMMY L’ultimo dei Mohicani.

NATE Già.

JIMMY No, l’ho guardata al microscopio. C’erano tipo, graffi sul lato e tutto.

NATE Davvero?

JIMMY La vuoi?

NATE Cosa?

JIMMY La punta di freccia?

NATE No, tienitela pure.

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Connor’s training for the game. And -- he wants me to come watch him practice.

JIMMY Lacrosse?

NATE Yeah.

JIMMY Does he know who invented lacrosse? The Indians.

You guys hang out a lot. You and Connor, I mean.

NATE Yeah. We’re seeing each other.

(A blank stare from JIMMY.)

It’s a euphemism. For dating? That’s why we “hang out a lot.”

JIMMY You and I can date too. Like the arrowhead. We can take it to a radiocarbon dating lab and, you know, “date” it.

(Pause.)

That’s a joke.

NATE Good, you understand.

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JIMMY È vera. Cioè, un manufatto vero. E se ne facessi un ciondolo? Potresti mettertela al collo.

NATE Sei tu quello in fissa con gli Indiani.

JIMMY Pensavo fosse il tuo libro preferito. Visto che parla di questa terra prima che fosse America. Quando era tutto alberi e niente macchine. Quando non c’erano fabbriche e tutto era colline. Solo gli Indiani.

NATE In realtà è abbastanza problematico per il modo in cui romanticizza un gruppo etnico oppresso.

JIMMY Quindi non ti va di tornare al torrente.

NATE Non posso. L’altra volta mi ha morso una zecca e mi è venuta ‘sta irritazione. Mia madre era furiosa. Pensava avessi la malattia di Lyme.

JIMMY Potremmo starcene nella mia stanza. E, boh, giocare col microscopio.

NATE No, sono… non questa settimana. Okay?

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JIMMY In class today, you switched seats. So you could hold hands with Connor.

(Pause.)

I wasn’t staring. I dropped one of my flashcards and when I turned to pick it up, I just noticed. That’s all.

NATE He was freaking out about the game on Friday. I was trying to make him feel better. He’s an athlete. He needs a lot of physical contact.

JIMMY That’s nice.

(Pause.)

So you’re just “hanging out?”

NATE Yeah.

JIMMY You watch movies together? Get ice cream? Picnic?

NATE nods his head.

JIMMY (CONT.) You make out?

NATE nods his head.

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JIMMY Prima avevi un sacco di tempo.

NATE Siamo al secondo anno adesso.

(Pausa.)

Connor si sta esercitando per la partita. E… vuole che io assista agli allenamenti.

JIMMY Lacrosse?

NATE Già.

JIMMY Lui lo sa chi ha inventato il lacrosse? Gli Indiani.

(Pausa.)

Uscite un sacco insieme. Tu e Connor, dico.

NATE Sì. Ci frequentiamo parecchio.

(Sguardo vuoto di JIMMY.)

È un eufemismo. Vuoi che ti dica che ci diamo appuntamento? Preferisco dire che “usciamo un sacco insieme.”

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JIMMY (CONT.) Gross.

(Pause.)

What’s it like?

NATE Making out?

JIMMY Yes.

NATE With Connor? Or in general?

JIMMY Either. Whatever.

NATE You ever eat yogurt without a spoon? And just use your tongue? And you’re trying to get to the fruit at the bottom?

JIMMY Gross.

NATE I didn’t think you’d want to hear about it.

JIMMY No.

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JIMMY Potremmo darci appuntamento anche noi. Fissare una data. E fissare una data anche alla punta di freccia. Tipo andare in un laboratorio di datazione al radiocarbonio e, be’, fissarle una data.

(Pausa.)

Sto scherzando.

NATE Sono contento che tu capisca.

JIMMY Oggi in classe hai cambiato posto. Era per tenere la mano a Connor, vero?

(Pausa.)

Non è che vi spiavo. Mi erano caduti gli appunti e quando mi sono chinato per raccoglierli l’ho notato. Tutto qui.

NATE Era in ansia per la partita di venerdì. Volevo farlo sentire meglio. È un atleta, ha bisogno di contatto fisico.

JIMMY Carino!

(Pausa.)

Quindi… “uscite insieme?”

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(Pause.)

That’s supposed to be fun?

NATE With the right person.

JIMMY Eating yogurt. Without a spoon.

NATE Yeah.

JIMMY I would just get a spoon.

(Pause.)

Anything else?

(Pause.)

Besides making out?

NATE You said you didn’t want to hear about it.

JIMMY I don’t.

(Pause.)

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NATE Già.

JIMMY Guardate film insieme? Prendete il gelato? Picnic?

NATE annuisce.

JIMMY (CONT.) Pomiciate?

NATE annuisce.

JIMMY (CONT.) Che schifo.

(Pausa.)

Com’è?

NATE Pomiciare?

JIMMY Sì.

NATE Con Connor o in generale?

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When was the first time you ate his yogurt?

NATE He asked me for help studying. French.

(Pause.)

You said I’m second-best in class. After you.

JIMMY Then Connor should have asked me.

NATE But he didn’t.

(Pause.)

JIMMY His house or yours?

NATE His.

JIMMY Was it a nice house?

NATE He made me mac and cheese.

JIMMY That’s not hard. And you studied French?

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JIMMY

È uguale, scegli tu.

NATE Hai mai mangiato uno yogurt senza cucchiaio? Usando solo la lingua, e cercando di arrivare alla frutta sul fondo?

JIMMY Che schifo.

NATE Non pensavo t’interessasse.

JIMMY No, infatti.

(Pausa.)

E dovrebbe essere divertente?

NATE Beh, con la persona giusta.

JIMMY Mangiare yogurt… Senza cucchiaio.

NATE Già.

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NATE For the first fifteen minutes.

JIMMY And then?

NATE You can guess.

JIMMY Did you touch his wiener?

(Pause.)

I mean –- his penis?

NATE Yes. I touched his wiener and his penis.

JIMMY Eewww. And then?

NATE I gave him a blow job.

JIMMY Oral sex!

NATE How much detail do you want?

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JIMMY

Io prenderei il cucchiaio e basta.

(Pausa.)

C’è altro? A parte pomiciare?

NATE Avevi detto che non ne volevi parlare.

JIMMY Infatti.

(Pausa.)

Quando è stata la prima volta che hai mangiato ‘sto yogurt?

NATE Quando mi ha chiesto aiuto per studiare. Francese.

(Pausa.)

L’hai detto tu che sono il secondo migliore della classe, dopo di te.

JIMMY Allora doveva chiedere a me.

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JIMMY Whatever you’re comfortable sharing. So you put his -- his penis, in your mouth?

NATE Yes.

JIMMY And then?

NATE What do you mean “and then?”

JIMMY You put his penis in your mouth and that’s oral sex?

NATE There’s work involved too. That’s why it’s called a “blowjob.” Don’t you watch porn?

JIMMY I prefer historical fiction.

(Pause.)

Did you have -- anal sex?

NATE Jimmy, let me tell you -- First, he was inside me. Then I was inside him. And it was like we were the same person but someone better than either of us and it was the most beautiful thing we had ever felt in our lives.

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NATE

Ma non l’ha fatto.

(Pausa.)

JIMMY A casa sua o tua?

NATE Sua.

JIMMY Una bella casa?

NATE Mi ha fatto i maccheroni.

JIMMY Non è così complicato. E avete fatto francese?

NATE I primi quindici minuti.

JIMMY E poi?

NATE Tu che dici?

JIMMY Gli hai toccato il pisello?

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(Pause.)

JIMMY That sounds so—

(Pause.)

Was it dirty?

NATE It’s like an archaeological dig. Afterwards you just wash your tool.

(Pause.)

Lacrosse practice is starting. Connor gets annoyed if I’m late. So—

(Referring to the mess on the floor.)

You can finish that up?

JIMMY Sure.

NATE Thanks, buddy. We can hang out again after the game.

Okay?

JIMMY Yeah.

NATE exits.

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(Pausa.)

Volevo dire il pene.

NATE Sì. Gli ho toccato il pisello e anche il pene.

JIMMY Bleah. E poi?

NATE Gli ho fatto un pompino.

JIMMY Sesso orale!

NATE Quanti dettagli ti servono?

JIMMY Tutti quelli che non ti fanno sentire a disagio. Quindi ti sei messo il suo… il suo pene in bocca?

NATE Sì.

JIMMY Poi?

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JIMMY collects the rest of the papers from the floor and places them in the wastebasket.

He pulls from his pocket a short loop of cord. Dangling at the end is an Indian arrowhead. He looks at the arrowhead then drops it into the wastebasket.

Lights shift.

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NATE Poi cosa?

JIMMY E il pene in bocca sarebbe sesso orale?

NATE C’è anche da sgobbare, se vuoi fare un pompino come si deve. Non guardi i porno?

JIMMY Preferisco le serie tv storiche.

(Pausa.)

Avete fatto… sesso anale?

NATE Lascia che ti spieghi, Jimmy. Prima, lui era dentro di me.

Poi io ero dentro di lui. Ed era come se fossimo la stessa persona, ma una versione migliore di entrambi ed è stata la cosa più bella della nostra vita.

(Pausa.)

JIMMY Sembra…

(Pausa.)

È stato sporco?

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NATE Come uno scavo archeologico. Quando finisci, pulisci l’attrezzo.

(Pausa.)

L’allenamento di lacrosse sta per iniziare. Connor s’infastidisce se tardo…

(Riferendosi al disordine per terra.)

Qui finisci tu?

JIMMY Certo.

NATE Grazie, amico. Magari dopo la partita usciamo di nuovo.

Okay?

JIMMY Sì.

NATE esce.

JIMMY raccoglie il resto dei fogli e li butta nel cestino.

Tira fuori dalla tasca un laccio corto. A un’estremità dondola una punta di freccia pellerossa. La guarda, poi la butta nel cestino.

Si spengono le luci.

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ANTONELLA MASSARO

CI PENSA MAI AL SUO FUNERALE?

Nell’appartamento affianco al mio c’era qualcuno che stava imparando a suonare il pianoforte. L’avevo capito perché suonava i pezzi facili di Bach, che sono per principianti. Avevo iniziato anch’io con quelli, a dieci anni. Mi avevano dato parecchie soddisfazioni.

Si esercitava tutto il pomeriggio, dalle tre alle sei, con brevi pause di silenzio. Fui colpito: non avevo mai sentito di un bambino così determinato. Ripeteva ossessivamente le stesse tre note finché non riusciva a suonarle per bene, e poi ricominciava il pezzo daccapo.

Quel giorno stava suonando il Minuetto; era arrivato quasi alla fine, ma da una settimana rimaneva fermo sull’ultima pagina. Non era veloce a leggere le note, e ripeteva sempre gli stessi errori. Tra l’altro, le note tremavano e pigiava i tasti troppo forte.

La sera stessa decisi di andare dai vicini a chiedere se avessero del sale. La signora mi fece accomodare nel salotto. Addossato al muro vidi un pianoforte verticale, in legno di ciliegio; i tasti non erano coperti, ma sembravano polverosi. Pensai che non c’era traccia dell’esistenza di bambini. Mi sedetti sul divano e provai a

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translated from the italian by CLARENCE COO DO YOU EVER THINK ABOUT YOUR FUNERAL? In the apartment next door someone was learning to play the piano. That’s what I assumed because the music was Bach, simple pieces beginners play. When I was ten, I began with those too. They gave me a sense of accomplishment.

Piano practice happened every afternoon, from three to six o’clock, with short intervals of silence. What struck me most was the child’s determination, playing the same three notes over and over, obsessively, until they were perfect, then starting the whole piece again from the beginning.

That day it was the Minuet. The end of the piece was approaching – for the last week, the player was stuck on one page, reading the music slowly and repeating the same mistakes. What’s more, he struck the keys too hard, causing the notes to shake.

Later that night I decided to go next door for some salt.

A woman welcomed me into her living room. Next to the wall was an upright piano, made of cherry wood; the keys were uncovered, and looked dusty. There seemed to be no trace of a child’s existence. I sat on the sofa and

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misurarne la lunghezza con le braccia, ma l’unica cosa che riuscii a capire era che sembrava un divano da ricchi.

«Non l’ho mai vista in giro», disse la signora.

«Sono una persona riservata.»

«Si intende di musica?» mi chiese. Forse aveva notato che stavo guardando il pianoforte.

Scossi la testa. «Suonavo un po’ da piccolo, ma ho smesso.»

La signora annuì.

«Suo figlio come sta?» chiesi.

«Come?»

«Non sta imparando a suonare?»

La signora sorrise. «Questa è casa di mio padre. È lui che vorrebbe imparare.»

Guardai di nuovo il pianoforte. Ci immaginai un vecchio seduto davanti, con la schiena curva e le dita ossute che pigiavano i tasti, e gli occhi che si stringevano per cercare di distinguere le note.

«È a letto adesso», aggiunse. «Vuole che lo svegli?»

Dissi di no e me ne andai.

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tried to measure its length with my arm. My only conclusion was that it looked expensive.

“I’ve never seen you around,” said the woman.

“I keep to myself.”

“Is this about the music?” she asked. Perhaps she had noticed me looking at the piano.

I shook my head. “I used to play a bit when I was little, but I quit.”

The woman nodded.

“How’s your child?” I asked.

“Sorry?”

“The one learning to play the piano.”

The woman smiled. “This is my father’s place. He’s the one trying to learn.”

I looked at the piano again, picturing an old man seated in front of it, with his curved back and bony fingers pressing the keys, eyes squinting in an attempt to read the notes.

“He’s in bed right now,” she added. “Shall I wake him?”

I said no and left.

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Il giorno dopo tornai nella casa di fianco. Andai direttamente in salotto, e sul divano trovai un signore anziano. Aveva delle orecchie davvero molto grandi e larghe, bianche come piatti di porcellana. Rimasi a fissarlo, immaginando di servire pasta su un piatto a forma di orecchio, finché un colpo di tosse non lo scosse e mi fece sobbalzare. Si girò verso di me e piegò la testa in un cenno lento, lento. Sussurrò qualcosa, ma non gli chiesi di ripetere. Poco dopo, mi sentii le sue dita tremanti sulla spalla.

«Non ti ho mai visto in giro», disse.

«Non mi piacciono granché le persone. Mi inquietano.»

«Sei un giovanotto simpatico.» Mi sembrò che la sua voce tremasse allo stesso ritmo delle sue mani. «Sai suonare?», mi chiese.

«Un po’.»

Il vecchio smise di guardarmi. Non riuscivo a staccare lo sguardo dalle sue mani. Tremavano a ritmo disconnesso e costante, come una canzone in tempi dispari.

«Ascolta, avrei bisogno, avrei bisogno di un favore. Me lo faresti un favore?», disse il vecchio. Risposi di sì, o ricordo di averlo fatto.

«Mi faresti sentire la fine di quella canzone?»

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The following day I returned to the neighbor’s apartment. I walked straight to the living room and on the couch, I saw an elderly man. He had large, wide ears, pale as porcelain plates. I kept staring at him, imagining someone serving pasta on an ear-shaped plate, until the sound of a cough broke the silence, startling me. He turned to me, nodding his head slowly. He mumbled something, but I didn’t ask him to repeat. Soon I felt his trembling fingers on my shoulder.

“I’ve never seen you around,” he said.

“I don’t like people much. They bother me.”

“You seem like a nice, young man.” His voice seemed to shake with the same rhythm as his hands. “Can you play?” he asked.

“A little.”

The old man turned his gaze away. I kept staring at his hands. They shook in an unstable, constant rhythm, like a piece with an irregular time signature.

“Listen. I -- I have a favor to ask. Can you help me with something?” said the old man. I said yes, as far as I remember.

“Can you play the end of this piece for me?”

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Prima che il suo lentissimo dito riuscisse a indicare lo spartito, avevo capito che si riferiva al Minuetto. Distolsi lo sguardo e gli risposi che era tanto tempo che non toccavo più uno strumento. Poi mi alzai e tornai a casa.

Quella sera pensai a cosa potesse significare avere le mani che tremano. Non potersi legare le scarpe. Non poter scrivere a penna. Chissà se aveva mai provato a giocare a ping pong. Presi tre decisioni fondamentali: che era un bene per lui che il vecchio dovesse andarsene a breve, che avrei fatto in modo di morire prima dei quarant’anni, e che sarei morto solo.

Qualche giorno dopo la signora invitò a prendere un tè.

Le dissi che avevo da lavorare, ma insistette. Disse che suo padre ci teneva a rivedermi. Allora le dissi che le persone anziane mi mettevano a disagio, perché mi sembravano così fragili che a ogni parola avrebbero potuto andare in frantumi. La signora rise – ma non mi sembrò una risata divertita – e mi disse che non ero costretto a venire, ma le avrebbe fatto molto piacere.

Allora la seguii.

Il vecchio era già a tavola. Non riusciva a bere da solo, e la signora doveva versargli la tazzina direttamente tra le labbra contratte. Dopo averlo pulito con un fazzoletto, andò in cucina a lavare le tazze.

Il vecchio mi sorrise. Mi sembrava che traballasse, come se lo guardassi attraverso una pozzanghera.

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Before his slow-moving finger could point to the sheet music, I realized he meant the Minuet. I turned away and replied that it had been a long time since I’d played.

Then I got up and went home.

That night I thought about what it meant to have shaking hands. Being unable to tie one’s shoes. Being unable to write with a pen. I wondered if he ever tried to play ping-pong. I made three fundamental decisions: that it was good the old man would pass away soon, that I’d make sure to die before turning forty, and that I’d die alone.

A few days later, the woman invited me over for tea. I said I had work to do, but she insisted. She said that her father wanted to see me again. Then I told her that old people made me uncomfortable, that they seemed so fragile that a word would shatter them. The woman laughed, though it didn’t seem natural, and told me I wasn’t obligated to come, but that it would be nice if I could. So I followed her. The old man was there at the table. He was unable to drink by himself, so the woman had to hold his cup to his pursed lips. After wiping his mouth with a tissue, she went into the kitchen to wash the dishes.

The old man smiled. He seemed to wobble, like a reflection in a puddle of water.

“I hope you never experience the misfortune of aging,” he said.

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«Spero che non ti capiti la disgrazia di invecchiare», mi disse.

«Lo spero anch’io», risposi.

«Ma, sai, è l’unico modo per vivere a lungo.» Il vecchio fece una risata leggera. «Non c’è da essere tristi», disse.

Lo guardai in faccia. Mi avvicinai, senza toccarlo, e fissai i suoi occhi sui miei.

«Ci pensa mai al suo funerale?», chiesi.

«Molto spesso.» Sorrise. «E tu?»

«Molto spesso.»

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“I hope not either,” I replied.

“But you know, it’s the only way to live a long life,” the old man managed a light laugh. “Nothing to be sad about.”

I looked at his face. I got closer, without touching him, and I stared into his eyes.

“Do you ever think about your funeral?” I asked.

“Very often.” He smiled. “And you?”

“Very often.”

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JONATHAN HOROWITZ

from​ LIMINAL OBSERVER

Episode 5: It Was a Good Day

Out faster than expected, still a couple hours of sunlight left. I stroll past college kids returning from class. It’s funny we call them kids. Never college adults. College men. College women. We say college kids. It makes you wonder. Scoffing at youthful exuberance, I venture into the city.

The downtown Starbucks is the hot spot, humming with compelling characters. It was better with street-side tables, but outdoor seating privileges got revoked after a knife fight. I mosey in, convinced everyone knows I’m high. I don’t care, I’m a regular.

The usuals occupy the space. Ragtag men play chess.

The homeless crew crowds the corner. Corporate folk from J&J and visiting business types await orders. Grad students hug tables topped with Tall drinks. College students stake claims with water bottles and outside food.

College kids can’t seem to grasp the concept that businesses need to make money to survive. This isn’t the student center: don’t hoard tables if you’re one person.

Don’t capture two tables with two people if the place is

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tradotto dall'inglese da SILVIA CANNARSA

da​ LIMINAL OBSERVER EPISODIO 6: “IT WAS A GOOD DAY”

Fuori prima del previsto. Restano un paio d’ore di sole.

Ciondolo dietro alcuni ragazzi del college che escono da lezione. Fa ridere chiamarli ragazzi. Mai che li si chiami adulti del college, o uomini e donne del college.

Continuiamo a chiamarli ragazzi del college. Mi avventuro in centro, facendomi beffe dell’esuberanza giovanile.

Lo Starbucks downtown è il punto nevralgico frequentato di personaggi notevoli. Era meglio quando c’erano i tavolini in strada, ma il privilegio del dehors è stato revocato dopo una rissa a coltello. Faccio due passi convinto che tutti sappiano che sono completamente fatto. Non importa. Sono un tipo normale.

Adocchio il tavolo perfetto. Gli abitué occupano i loro posti. Una studentessa di medicina si allarga su due tavoli. So che è di medicina perché ostenta una torreggiante pila di testi di medicina - è quasi più irritante degli interni che sbandierano il camice al bar.

Un gruppo di uomini malmessi gioca a scacchi. La banda dei barboni occupa un angolo. Impiegati della J&J e tizi in carriera aspettano di ordinare. Gli specializzandi stanno avvinghiati ai tavoli con sopra tazze e bicchieri.

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packed. Respect the rules. The occasionally homeless violate the sacred Starbucks seating code, but they aim to be obnoxious.

I scout the perfect location. A pre-med student spreads across two tables. I know she’s pre-med because she flaunts a towering stack of pre-med books. Almost as bad as residency students wearing scrubs to the bar.

I join the line and peek to see who’s manning the fort.

The baristas know me even better than the downtown bartenders do. And they’ve never thrown me out, so they like me. I get freebies when orders get screwed up and my favorite gifts me drinks for no good reason. Ines is the best. Witty, hardworking, responsible, superb style, honest smile. And she’s pretty. She values people, listening like everyone has something worthwhile to contribute.

Ines’ grin widens as I drift up to the counter.

“Hey Jacob, Venti Iced Coffee black?”

“You know it,” I hand her my $4 and don’t even regret giving a tip even if she’s doing what she’s paid to do. In fact, I wish I hadn’t bought a Dutch so I could give her a real tip.

“Working on anything juicy today?”

“Got some killer story ideas.”

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Gli studenti del college rivendicano i loro diritti con bottiglie d’acqua e cibo portato da fuori perché i ragazzi del college proprio non riescono ad afferrare che un esercizio commerciale debba guadagnare per sopravvivere. Rispetta le regole. Non accaparrarti più tavoli se sei solo. Non occupare due tavoli se siete in due e il locale è pieno.

Mi unisco alla coda e dò una sbirciatina per vedere chi presidia il fortino. Mi conoscono quasi più questi baristi che i barman downtown, e non mi hanno mai dovuto cacciare, ecco perché gli piaccio. Quando sbagliano gli ordini mi offrono un drink gratis e a volte i miei camerieri preferiti me li offrono anche senza motivo. Il sorriso di Ines si allarga appena mi avvicino al bancone.

“Ciao Jacob, Black Coffee Ice grande?”.

“Ovvio”. Le passo i miei quattro dollari e non rimpiango di lasciarle la mancia, anche se è tutto ciò che ho.

“Lavori a qualcosa di succoso, oggi?”.

“Mi è venuta qualche idea pazzesca”.

“Pazzesca? Dimmi tutto”.

Dò un’occhiata alla lunga coda dietro di me. Uno sfigato lancia occhiate di fuoco e manifesta la sua frustrazione stringendo le labbra e aggrottando le sopracciglia. A Ines non potrebbe interessare di meno. Mi sa che è alla fine del turno. Quando è esausta si dimentica di fare il suo lavoro.

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“Killer you say? I wanna know.”

I shift away slightly, noticing the nerd behind me glaring, broadcasting his frustration with pursed lips and rumpled brow. Ines doesn’t care. Must be nearing the end of her shift. When she’s exhausted she forgets to do her job.

“Stop by when you’re done. I’ll be here.”

“Can’t wait, Jacob,”

Grab my seat, always near a cute woman. I refuse to intrude but I’m open to conversation, might as well create opportunity. I drop my belongings on the bench as I ask the pre-med student for her extra table, letting her know I’m taking it. She unleashes a filthy look, annoyed that I would be so rude as to take her extra table, and I smile back, sitting comfortably.

I survey the scene. A bespectacled coed imprisoned in the corner by a mob of part-time homeless folk. Newspaper mystery guy scours newspapers with a magnifying glass, seeking esoteric manuscripts embedded in daily publications. Father and daughter dynamic duo posture.

Lumpy has a huge benign lump on his neck. I confirmed before I named him Lumpy. Grad students type furiously, earpods in. Couple of late 20s or early 30s creative industry types are on the clock, Beats headphones on. Big belly dudes play games, with headsets. Elderly folk in chairs staring into oblivion. Bag lady. The typical crew. I wonder where I fit in?

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“Rimani un po’ con me quando stacchi. Sarò qui”.

“Non vedo l’ora, Jacob”.

Mi accomodo - sempre vicino a una donna carina. Non mi presento ma sono aperto alla conversazione. E a creare occasioni, certo. Abbandono i miei averi su una sedia e chiedo alla studentessa di medicina il suo secondo tavolo, lasciandole intendere che ora è mio. Mi fulmina. Le sorrido e sprofondo al mio posto.

Ispeziono la scena. Un tizio occhialuto della confraternita si nasconde nell’angolo, intrappolato da un gruppo di barboni part-time. Il Misterioso Uomo del Giornale scorre le pagine con una lente d’ingrandimento per scovare manoscritti esoterici nei giornali di oggi. Gli specializzandi, infilati gli auricolari, battono furiosamente sulla tastiera. Un paio di tizi dell’industria culturale tra i venti e i trenta sono al lavoro, dita instancabili e auricolari Beats. Gamer corpulenti giocano, cuffione in testa. Anziani fissano il nulla. La solita banda.

E io, dov’è che sto?

“Black Coffee Ice grande per Samson”.

È me che chiamano? Nessun altro l’ha ordinato. Meglio che controlli: “Ines, è per me?”.

“Sì. Samson. Saaaamson”. Stiracchia le vocali in un’imitazione di Dave Chappelle. Dal film Half Backed.

Ines crolla tra le braccia del collega, deliziata dal suo

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“Venti Iced Coffee for Samson.”

That me? No else ordered iced coffee. I better check, “Ines this me?”

“Yep. Samson. Saaaaaaaaamson,” she holds the vowel.

It’s a Chapelle impression. I get it. Half Baked. Ines falls backward into her co-workers’ arms, mightily amused by a lame joke referencing a movie that’s over ten years old.

She definitely opened today.

Break time. Working an hour and nothing substantial has arrived. I let my pen guide me into brick walls. Can’t write when I’m high. At least I can gawk. Over to my left, we got my favorite mass of vulnerables, commandeering prime window real estate. Starbucks provides free water and they’re keen to corporate policy.

There’s the dynamic duo. The father owns his 19th century prospector beard, resembling a Blue Mountain man who wandered westward seeking untold fortunes.

His daughter styles leopard tights paired with a fur collar jacket by some urban company that you can only find at Burlington Coat Factory. Knock-off designer shades, sunken cheeks, eye luggage.

Bag lady squeezes between tables with an old folks personal shopping cart, stuffed to the brim, looking like a wad of birthday balloons jammed into a sedan. She’s my sister’s friend’s mom who went off the deep end and wandered across the bridge to roam the New Brunswick

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scherzo scemo basato su un film vecchio di dieci anni.

Oggi è decisamente in forma.

Pausa. Ho lavorato per un’ora e non è successo niente di sostanziale. La penna mi ha trascinato dritto contro un muro di mattoni. Se non altro posso guardarmi intorno.

Sulla sinistra c’è il mio gruppetto di poveracci preferito, campioni nell’occupare i posti migliori sui marciapiedi.

Starbucks garantisce acqua gratuita e loro sono entusiasti della politica aziendale.

C’è il dinamico duo padre-figlia. Il padre ha una barba da cercatore d’oro del diciannovesimo secolo e sembra un esploratore diretto a ovest in cerca di inenarrabili fortune. La figlia sfoggia collant leopardati e una giacca luccicante, abbigliamento street reperibile negli scaffali dei saldi nei negozi Burlington Coat Factory, con tanto di trucco tarocco per distrarre dalle guance incavate e dalle valigie sotto agli occhi.

La signora dei sacchetti sta strizzata tra due tavoli col suo carrellino della spesa riempito fino all’orlo, sembra una berlina stipata di palloncini. È la madre di un’amica di mia sorella, ha avuto un esaurimento nervoso e adesso attraversa il ponte e vaga per le strade di New Brunswick. A differenza della maggior parte degli accattoni locali, che vivono in colonie lungo il fiume, riceve i sussidi alimentari e ha anche una casa, da qualche parte.

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streets. Unlike most local street dwellers, many of whom live in colonies by the river, she gets alimony checks and has an apartment somewhere.

Dirty Dave waddles over from the counter, double-clutching a Grande coffee. Double D always buys a coffee. There were actually two Dirty Daves at our high school. He’s a couple years my senior but we had classes together. Hair sprouts in all directions, full neck beard, faded black tee dangling on his bony frame. He rejects the shackles of contemporary deodorant. He’s usually silent. Staring. Pensive. His gaze got me thinking something’s going on up there. For some reason I just imagine it’s silent, black-and-white cartoons. He and Lumpy are pals.

Lumpy is always capped, repping some naval ship.

Button downs with armpit stains. Old man slacks. Old man shoes. Nondescript. Brandless. There must be an old man section somewhere in some store. Clothes organized by color and style, not by brand. An aisle for brown slacks. One for black shoes. There were shops like this at the Route 1 flea market.

A few others rotate appearances. Some got banned. I know it’s not politically correct to trash homeless people but these guys don’t respect others, hogging multiple tables, knowing that most customers, those who refuse to make eye contact, are too timid to object. Guess it’s a self-defense mechanism to prove their existence by being jerks. Pre-empting the disrespect. Maybe it’s all they have. Power is derived from denying some privileged

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Dave il Lercio avanza verso il bancone, stringendo un Caffè Grande con tutte e due le mani. Il Lercio beve solo caffè. Ha i capelli che puntano in tutte le direzioni e una maglietta nera e stinta sul busto emaciato. La barba sul collo sembra dolorosa. Ha lo sguardo fisso - pensieroso.

Mi fa pensare che stia succedendo qualcosa lì dentro, non so perché m’immagino un cartone muto in bianco e nero.

Lui e Bozzolo sono amici.

Bozzolo si sta rilassando. Mi sono accertato che il bozzo che ha sul collo fosse benigno prima di chiamarlo Bozzolo. Ha sempre un cappello da marinaio. Il suo look distintivo è una camicia bottom-down con chiazze sotto le ascelle, pantaloni da vecchio, scarpe da vecchio - senza segni particolari e senza marca. Nei negozi ci dev’essere un reparto “vecchi” dedicato dove i vestiti senza marca vengono disposti per colore e stile. Un corridoio di pantaloni marroni. Un altro di scarpe nere.

A rotazione compaiono altri individui. Alcuni sono stati cacciati. So che non è politicamente corretto buttar fuori i barboni ma questi tizi non rispettano gli altri. Rompono il sacro codice di Starbucks perché sanno che la maggior parte dei clienti, quelli che evitano il contatto visivo, sono troppo timidi. Penso che comportarsi da stronzi sia un meccanismo di autodifesa per evitare la mancanza di rispetto - per dimostrare che esistono. Magari è tutto quello che gli rimane. Il potere si guadagna anche negando a qualche idiota privilegiato di sedersi in un localino che costa troppo. Gli amici del college, quelli attivisti e di sinistra, concedono sempre il beneficio del dubbio ai barboni, convinti che ognuno dei mucchi

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prick a prime seating option at the overpriced coffee spot. My liberal college activist friends always give homeless people the benefit of the doubt, convinced every lump in the street is a fallen angel struck down by systemic oppression or unavoidable circumstances. It’s degrading. Some homeless people are assholes, like anyone else. I know a couple kids from high school who roam the train station for change. They used to rob us.

They suck. Then again, I know their upbringing was rough, so in my own way, I empathize.

“Jacob!” Ines squeaks in my ear as she puts me in a friendly headlock.

“What the shit, you scared me,” I gently unpeel her.

Ines has already assumed a seat at my table.

“That’s cuz you’re high,” drawls Ines turning ‘high’ into a two syllable word, “like always and staring like a weirdo.”

“I’m gathering material.”

“A novella about the trials and tribulations of Starbucks regulars?”

“Nah. No one would want to read that.” Mental note: write a novella about the trials and tribulations of Starbucks regulars.

“I’d read it if it were written well.”

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informi su per la strada sia un angelo caduto, abbattuto dall’oppressione del sistema o da circostanze ineluttabili. È deprimente. Anche fra i barboni ci sono delle teste di cazzo, ovvio.

“Jacob!”, mi squittisce Ines nell’orecchio mentre m’intrappola in un abbraccio.

“Ma che cazzo, mi hai spaventato”, me la scrollo gentilmente di dosso.

Ines si è già messa comoda con i gomiti sul tavolo.

Appoggia il mento sulle mani curate e si preme le guance.

Come fanno le sue unghie a essere così belle? Nascondo sotto il tavolo le mie mani da nicotinomane. Lei tamburella le dita sulle guance.

“È perché sei fatto”, dice Ines strascicando l’ultima parola, “come al solito, e guardi tutti come uno schizzato”.

“Raccolgo materiale”.

“Un romanzo breve basato sui drammi e le vicende dei clienti abituali di Starbucks?”.

“Ma va, non lo leggerebbe nessuno”. Nota mentale: scrivere un romanzo breve basato sui drammi e le vicende dei clienti abituali di Starbucks.

Ines giocherella con il mio Ipod posato sul tavolo : "Io lo leggerei, se fosse scritto bene".

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“You’d read anything. You left me vampire romance novels on my coffee table.”

“Dude they’re amazing. Pop culture is essential. They’ll teach you how to captivate readers. You gotta write for the people.”

Normally, I hate when single women call me dude. Or my friend. Or man. It’s emasculating, wielded to emphasize a platonic connection. The dude dagger is dull and painful when you’ve caught feelings. Each utterance is a slow twist of the blade. Ines is different. She calls everyone dude. Even her own mom. Anyways, I’m not trying to get with her.

“I’m not worrying about your average readers. I write for writers.”

“I thought you write to impress women? Doing the whole starving artist thing. I see you always setting up next to a cute chick.”

The pre-med student next to me smirks, a glimmer in the corner of my eye.

Ines glows, “Enough making fun of you and your corny game. How’s everything? Feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

I saw her last week. “Same old.”

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"Tu leggeresti qualsiasi cosa. Mi hai lasciato sul tavolino un romanzo di vampiri".

"Perché sono stupendi, caro mio, t’insegnano come agganciare il lettore". Spalanca gli occhi e ribadisce il concetto con un gesto: "La cultura pop è fondamentale.

Devi scrivere per la gente!".

Di solito detesto quando le donne mi chiamano caro mio.

O amico, o tesoro. È castrante, mira a enfatizzare una connessione platonica. Il caro mio è una stilettata, scema e dolorosa quando sei innamorato. Ogni frase diventa un lento girare il coltello nella piaga. Con Ines è diverso. Ines chiama tutti caro o cara. Persino sua madre. E comunque non è che voglio mettermi con lei.

"Il lettore medio non m’interessa. Io scrivo per gli scrittori".

"E io che pensavo che scrivessi per far colpo sulle donne.

La solita storia dell'artista morto di fame. Ti siedi sempre vicino a una bella squinzia".

La studentessa di medicina ridacchia.

Ines è raggiante. "Dai, la smetto di sfotterti, te e i tuoi giochetti. Come te la passi? È come se non ti vedessi da secoli".

Ci siamo visti la scorsa settimana. “Sempre il solito".

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“Getting wasted, acting a fool, and waking up embarrassed?”

“Girl, have you been reading my diary?”

Ines laughs at my jokes like no one else, leaking muted howls. Irrepressible, blooper laughs, like when Jimmy Fallon breaks on SNL. Those fits happen less as you age.

Remember those times as a kid when happiness bubbled up and for minutes and minutes everything was funny, chilling with friends and every word spurt triggered effervescent unconscious reaction. Pulling from what makes you, you. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that.

“Do you really keep a diary?”

“No way. That would be weird for a grown man.”

“What’s in your bag then?”

“Books. A couple pens. Notebooks.”

“That you write in daily.”

“This is different.”

“Sorry to be the one to break this to you but a diary by any other name is still a diary. ‘Dear Diary, today I woke up with a killer headache. Then I got high and went to Starbucks. I was having fun until Ines made fun of me.

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"Ti sbronzi, ti comporti da idiota e ti svegli mortificato nel profondo?".

"Ehi, hai letto il mio diario segreto?".

Nessuno ride alle mie battute quanto Ines, si scompiscia letteralmente, come il pubblico del Saturday Night Live quando Jimmy Fallon entra in scena. Vi ricordate che quando eravate bambini c'erano momenti in cui la felicità prendeva la forma di bolle di sapone e qualsiasi cosa diventava divertentissima? Quando stai con gli amici ogni parola può scatenare effervescenti reazioni inconsce. Facendo di te quello che sei. Momenti sempre più rari via via che s’invecchia. Non mi ricordo nemmeno più l'ultima volta che ho riso così.

"Lo tieni davvero un diario?", chiede Ines schiettamente.

"Ma va. Sarebbe una cosa davvero strana per un adulto".

"Quindi cos'hai in borsa?", Ines inarca le sopracciglia.

"Libri. Qualche penna. Quaderni".

"E ci scrivi ogni giorno?".

"È diverso". Incrocio le braccia cercando di evitare il suo sguardo.

"Mi spiace essere quella che te lo dice, ma un diario, anche se lo chiami con un altro nome, rimane un diario: '​Caro Diario, oggi mi sono svegliato con un terribile mal di

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She thinks she’s all that. But you know what? She’s not.’”

I laugh. A childhood laugh.

“Well, at least I don’t have to worry about getting robbed when I leave here late night. Someone snatches my bag, ducks into an alley and opens it up, all they’ll find are feelings.

“I could imagine. ‘I robbed this fuckin’ white boy and all I got are his bitch ass feelings.”

“Why you gotta make this about race?”

“Everything’s about race.”

“You did insinuate that the person doing the robbing is not white. That’s fucked up.”

“Wow. I did. That is especially fucked up. I guess I pictured my brother’s hoodlum friends. They love robbing the college kids.”

“I’m not a college kid but I forgive you. You fight the good cause”

“Speaking of which, gotta go home and read for class tonight. Got a date with Frantz Fanon. Work, work, work, study, study, study. The glamorous life of an EOF student.”

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testa. Poi mi sono fatto una canna e sono andato da Starbucks. Mi stavo divertendo finché non è arrivata Ines a sfottermi. Pensa di sapere tutto. Ma sai una cosa? Non sa niente​".

Rido come riderebbe un bambino.

"Be’, se non altro non devo preoccuparmi di essere derubato quando esco tardi di qui la sera. Qualcuno mi strappa la borsa, si accovaccia in un vicolo e dentro ci trova solo una manciata di sentimenti."

"Immagino". Ines fa una smorfia tipo gangster da film.

Ringhia: "Ho rapinato questo cazzo di bianco e tutto quello che mi ritrovo sono sentimenti da puttanella".

"Perché la devi buttare sulla razza?".

"È sempre una questione di razza", dice Ines.

"Hai insinuato che il rapinatore fosse nero e non bianco. È una cazzata".

"Uao. È vero. In effetti è una cazzata. Probabilmente pensavo a quei teppisti degli amici di mio fratello. Si divertono a nascondersi nel cimitero che sta in mezzo ai nuovi dormitori e rapinare i ragazzi del college che tornano a casa ubriachi.”

" ’sti coglioni gentrificati se lo meritano", dico.

"Nessuno si merita di essere derubato".

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I admire Ines. She’s younger than me and a role model, hustling harder than anyone I know. She calls me a lazy ass piece of shit from a place of love. I strive to do better for her.

“You’re impressive.” Did I say that aloud?

Ines blushes, “Thanks Jacob. I’m flattered. Especially since it came from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

“You’re usually a dick. Know how many times you’ve ranted about how these homeless people here annoy you?

Maybe if you said nicer things, you’d find yourself a nice girlfriend, not one of those raving maniacs you mess around with.”

“Don’t even get me started on last night.”

“Please no, Jacob. You’re gonna get yourself in trouble again. You really need to stop this. You even got yourself fired because of a drunken dalliance with a lunatic.”

Now that’s a story. Embarrassing, yet awesome. I hated my job and I don’t make powerful decisions. I let alcohol make my decisions for me. We’ll explore this later.

“For you I’ll only pursue respectable ladies. Next time I meet a lady at the bar I’ll ask myself, what would Ines say. If she satisfies your criteria, I’ll be ok.”

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"Un po' di violenza è un buon modo per mandare un messaggio". Ines è d'accordo ma non vuole ammetterlo.

Mi ha infilato nello zaino I dannati della terra di Frantz Fanon. "Ti perdono per non aver imbracciato le armi contro i colonialisti. So che stai combattendo la battaglia giusta".

"Tra l'altro devo finire di leggere delle cose per la lezione di domani e poi aiutare a organizzare la manifestazione".

Ines si stravacca sulla sedia e chiude gli occhi per un attimo. Si concede un sospiro dimostrativo. "Vita clamorosa di una studentessa attivista con borsa EOF".

Ines è un modello per me, anche se è più giovane. Tiene insieme le sue cazzate meglio di chiunque altro. E, non so perché, crede in me. Mi chiama pigrone di merda ma con affetto.

"Sei ammirevole". L'ho detto ad alta voce?

Ines arrossisce: "Grazie, Jacob. Sono lusingata.

Soprattutto se lo dici tu".

"Che vuoi dire?".

"Di solito sei un coglione. Non fai che sbraitare su questi barboni e quanto ti danno fastidio. Magari se dicessi cose gentili troveresti una brava ragazza, non una di quelle fanatiche deliranti con cui vai in giro".

"Lascia perdere ieri sera".

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“That’s your problem, you chase ladies at bars.”

“Everyone goes to bars.”

“No one worthwhile tries to find a partner at a bar.”

“I go to bars to find a partner”

Ines raises her brow to say “see?”

“Ha ha. Funny.”

“You’re an exception. You’re weird. Stick to Starbucks.

Even though your game is lame, you might find someone with half a brain.”

“Like her?”

Leopard Pants argues with a young woman who is more Bergen County than Central Jersey. Her assemblage screams Short Hills Mall. She seethes with hands upon hips, glaring at Leopard Pants who wields obnoxious indifference

“Those are my fucking glasses that you stole from the bathroom. I left them there by mistake and now I want them back.”

“I don’t believe it.”

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"Evita, Jacob. Ti metterai di nuovo nei guai. Devi piantarla. Ti sei fatto addirittura licenziare per qualche scappatella da sbronzi con una fuori di testa".

Ok, questo non posso negarlo: odiavo il mio lavoro e ho lasciato che l'alcool decidesse per me. “Fosse per te, uscirei solo con signore rispettabili. La prossima volta che ne incontro una in un bar mi chiederò ‘cosa direbbe Ines?’ Se soddisfa i tuoi criteri andrà bene”.

“Il tuo problema è che vai a caccia nei bar".

"Tutti vanno al bar".

"Nessuno che valga la pena va a cercare un compagno in un bar".

"Io lo faccio".

Ines solleva il sopracciglio come per dire: Vedi?.

"Ah ah ah. Divertente", rispondo.

“Tu sei un'eccezione. Sei strano. Sempre da Starbucks. Se vai con lo zoppo impari a zoppicare”.

"Tipo quella?".

Pantaloni Leopardati sta litigando con una ragazza dei quartieri alti. I suoi vestiti urlano Prada. Freme dalla

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“What do you mean you don’t believe it? What the hell.

Give me my glasses. You couldn’t afford these glasses you homeless druggy.”

“Fuck you,” hisses Leopard Pants, storming out of Starbucks, indignant, as if being accused of theft is unthinkable. She glides past the window, turns to woman safely behind the glass, unfurls her tongue, and squints her nose so the shades drift slowly down her forehead into their proper resting place, coughing up a guttural stream of obscenities. I can’t hear it, but sometimes without audio you still know. The woman complains to the baristas who feign helplessness, explaining she’s better off calling the cops.

Ines smiles, “That stuck-up bitch deserved it.”

We share a gaze and agree.

“Maybe we can hang tomorrow night. Smoke a little and watch a movie.”

“I’m always down.” But will I have money for weed?

“Don’t worry, I’ll provide weed. Your check doesn’t clear until Thursday right?”

“How’d you know.”

“You tip generously on Thursday. We baristas talk.”

“I’ll get you back. I’ll buy next time.”

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rabbia con le mani sui fianchi, lancia occhiate a Pantaloni Leopardati che ostenta un’odiosa indifferenza.

"Questi cazzo di occhiali sono miei e me li hai rubati. Li ho dimenticati in bagno e adesso li rivoglio".

"Non ci credo". Pantaloni Leopardati mantiene un contegno incredibile.

"Che significa che non ci credi? Ma che diavolo. Ridammi i miei occhiali. Non te li puoi permettere, barbona drogata".

"Vaffanculo," sibila Pantaloni Leopardati e esce dallo Starbucks come una furia. Come se fosse impensabile che qualcuno l’accusi di furto. Esce, e quando è al sicuro dall'altra parte della vetrina si volta verso la donna, srotola la lingua e arriccia il naso in modo che le lenti scivolino lentamente giù dalla fronte verso dove dovrebbero stare, e vomita un gutturale fiume di oscenità. Non riesco a sentire, ma a volte si capisce tutto anche senza audio. La donna protesta con i camerieri che si fingono impotenti, spiegandole che è meglio se chiama la polizia.

Ines sorride soddisfatta. "Se l'è meritato quella stronza spocchiosa. Magari una piccola rapina ogni tanto fa bene". Si allunga sul tavolo e mi dà un pugno sul braccio.

"Vediamoci domani. Fumiamo un po' e ci vediamo qualche assurdo film straniero".

"Ci sto".Chissà se avrò i soldi per l'erba?

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“I know you will.”

Ines rises with open arms and wraps me in a real hug.

Not a weird hug like awkward cheek kisses from someone who doesn’t expect it. She squeezes so I know she means it.

“You smell like blunts.”

“No I don’t.”

Ines ascends into the evening with a proud gait. She’s amazing, one of my greatest friends beside the people I grew up with, the ones I’ve known forever and can’t get rid of because they’re family. The ones who can’t get rid of you. Ines has only known me a few years but she is part of my crew. I disappoint her at times but there’s nothing horrible on my track record. I worry that one day I’ll reveal a side of me that is unforgivable. I haven’t known her long enough to get away with anything. I worry that one day I’ll get blackout drunk and commit some irredeemable act and lose a cherished friend forever.

Don’t we all?

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Ines dice: "Non ti preoccupare per l'erba, ce l'ho. Non ti danno lo stipendio fino a giovedì, vero?".

"Come lo sai?".

"Dai mance sostanziose il giovedì. Noi camerieri ci parliamo".

"Te la rendo. La prossima volta la compro io".

"Certo". Ines si alza in piedi e mi avvolge in un abbraccio.

Non un abbraccio strano tipo un bacio fuori luogo da qualcuno che non ti aspetti. Mi stringe così forte che so che è vero. "Sai di canna".

"Ma va".

Ines a fine turno assume un’andatura baldanzosa. È una delle mie migliori amiche, oltre alle persone con cui sono cresciuto, quelle che conosco da sempre e di cui non mi posso liberare perché sono la mia famiglia – quelli che non possono liberarsi di me. Ines mi conosce da pochi anni ma è parte del mio gruppo. La deludo ma non ho ancora fatto niente di terribile. Mi preoccupa il giorno in cui si rivelerà quella parte di me che non potrà perdonare. Non la conosco da abbastanza tempo per cavarmela. Mi preoccupa il giorno in cui sarò ubriaco perso e farò qualche cosa di irrimediabile e perderò una carissima amica. Eppure, non facciamo sempre così?

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SILVIA CANNARSA

UN MALE CANE

Ho finito quello che avevo da fare. Consegnato tutti i compiti, ho fatto anche gli orali. Ho parlato con le persone giuste e frequentato le compagnie giuste. Mi hanno applaudita alla fine dell’esame, c’è chi mi ha amato, chi avrebbe voluto essere me per quell’istante, chi mi ha detestata dal primo giorno di scuola.

Adesso sono seduta su una sedia di legno in cortile, in mezzo alle famiglie degli altri diplomandi che urlano. È l’ultimo giorno degli orali di maturità, cerco di respirare e di mettere in ordine i pensieri per raccontarmi meglio quanto è stato emozionante e che non vorrei rifarlo mai più. Aspettano me per il brindisi, per alzare il bicchiere.

Si aspettano che versi da bere a tutti, che faccia le mie solite scene da buffona e che inviti con noi i professori che per tutta la vita mi sono stati nemici, ora invece siamo dalla stessa parte della barricata. No? Vogliono il discorso, vogliono sentirmi dire che andrà tutto bene, che non aspettavamo nient’altro, che non ci siamo preparati per nient’altro. Tutti quegli anni dietro a quei banchi per poi andare nel mondo reale, affrontarlo e vincerlo con un coltello tra i denti e una benda sull’occhio. Noi lo conquisteremo questo cazzo di mondo, e allora alzate i calici, non torneremo più dietro a quei banchi a farci

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translated from the italian by JONATHAN HOROWITZ

HURTS LIKE HELL

I finished everything I had to do—turned in all my homework and finished my oral exam. I talked to the right people and hung out with the right crowds.

Everyone applauded when my exam was over; some of my classmates loved me and wanted to be me at that moment, while others have hated me since the first day of school.

Now I’m sitting on a wooden chair in the courtyard, surrounded by screaming family members. It’s the last day of orals: Graduation Day. I take a deep breath and gather my thoughts, reminding myself just how emotional everything has been and how I never want to go through this again. Everyone’s waiting for my toast, ready to raise their glasses. They’re waiting for my usual class clown act, expecting me to call out to the professors who were once my sworn enemies, now that we’re all on the same side—right? They want a speech. They want to hear me say that everything is gonna be alright, that we never expected anything else, that we haven’t prepared for anything else during all those years stuck behind desks. Now we’re off into the real world with an eye patch and knife between the teeth—we will conquer!

We’ll conquer this fucking world and then we’ll raise our

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umiliare perché ne sappiamo meno degli altri. Ora sappiamo tutto quello che dobbiamo sapere, e se andrà male sarà solo perché non ci abbiamo creduto abbastanza. Il mondo è ai nostri piedi.

E allora perché non riesco a sorridere?

Mi tremano le guance tutte le volte che ci provo, una cappa si è abbattuta sulla mia fronte e sugli occhi, ho le palpebre così pesanti che non riesco a guardarmi intorno, gli altri dove sono? Sono l’unica che ha perso il controllo?

Riesco a sentire i capelli, uno a uno, sulla mia testa, li sento che sono inseriti nel loro bulbo, nel mio cuoio capelluto, si appoggiano pesantemente alle orecchie, si abbandonano sulle spalle, morti.

Voglio qualcosa da stringere, da abbracciare, voglio che qualcuno mi abbracci, ma non voglio che qualcuno mi abbracci, ho paura che se mi metto a piangere non mi fermeranno più, e gli argini stanno crollando, e la festa non è ancora iniziata, e la pioggia dentro di me continua a battere, e il fiume si ingrossa e dentro ci sono troppi detriti, è inarrestabile e si porta via tutto, alberi, arbusti, papere incolpevoli sedute su un sasso, e anche il mio cuore, dove è andato il mio cuore?

Sono ancora seduta sulla mia sedia in cortile. Il trucco non si è sciolto, i capelli sempre stati al loro posto, posso ancora respirare.

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glasses. Never again will we be back behind those desks and feeling like crap because we think we’re not as smart as our classmates. Now we know everything that we need to know—if anything goes wrong it’ll be because we stopped believing in what we were taught. The world is ours.

So why can’t I smile?

Every time I even try to smile, my cheeks tremble. My graduation hood hangs over my forehead, covering my eyes, eyelids so heavy that I can’t even look around—where is everyone? Am I the only one who has completely lost it?

I can feel every single hair on my head. I feel each one inserted in its root, planted on my scalp. My hair weighs on my ears, falling dead on my shoulders. I want someone to hold onto, to hug, hoping someone gives me a hug, but not wanting anyone to hug me. And if I start crying, I worry that there’s no one to stop me. The dam has burst and the party hasn’t even started yet; the rain inside me pours and the river swells with debris, unstoppable, sweeping away everything, trees, shrubs, innocent goslings sitting on a rock, even my heart—where did my heart go?

I’m still sitting in the courtyard. My make-up hasn’t smudged, hair’s still in place. I’m still breathing.

Giulio’s on the other side, right in the middle of a ton of people, waving for me to join the crowd, with his jacket

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Vedo Giulio in lontananza, in mezzo a un sacco di persone. Mi saluta e mi fa cenno di raggiungerlo. Ha ancora la giacca sulle spalle, anche se ormai sfioriamo i trenta gradi. Bello Giulio, con i denti perfetti e le orecchie che sembrano patatine. Attraverso il cortile, scanso un gruppo di padri pieni di mazzi di fiori per le figlie, e supero le aiuole allungando il passo, il tacco affonda nel terriccio fresco. Guardo le scarpe coi tacchi che ho comprato in sconto a 14,90 €, per le grandi occasioni, si stanno sporcando, le guardo sprofondare in mezzo alle ortensie e poi Giulio mi prende per il braccio e mi fa uscire dall’aiuola. Ride con me, e mi dà una delle sue pacche sulle spalle. Gli piacevano gli AC/DC a Giulio, e anche il giorno della maturità, sotto la giacca elegante ha la maglia nera con il nome del gruppo scritto sopra, in rosso. Scuoto la testa e gli passo il braccio attorno alle spalle. Sto tornando in me. Mi faccio trascinare in mezzo agli altri. Sante mi bacia appena li raggiungo, Scilla mi prende per le spalle e mi scuote ridendo e mi urla: “Ripigliati, scema”, non posso biasimarla, sono ancora sconvolta. E io guardo Sante, i suoi occhiali spessi, e quegli occhi enormi, fuori misura, dietro gli occhiali, e penso che ci siamo amati un sacco, per avere diciott’anni.

Quando penso a Sante, penso a noi due in biblioteca, a studiare in silenzio, lasciando che che i nostri avambracci si sfregassero di tanto in tanto, a guardarci sopra ai libri, a fumare sulle scale antincendio, avvolti nella stessa sciarpa, a farmi accendere le sigarette tenendogli stretta la mano con l’accendino tra le mie.

Scilla mi lega un braccialetto mentre mi parla, dice così tante parole quando è agitata e non riesco ad ascoltarla.

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slung over his shoulder even though it’s a sweltering 30 degrees out— handsome Guilio with the perfect teeth and ears like potato chips. I cross the courtyard, dodging dads who clutch bouquets for their daughters, and lengthen my strides as I walk through the flowerbeds, heels sinking into the cold ground at each step. I look at my shoes, which I bought on sale for $19 to wear on this special day, getting dirty, swallowed by the hydrangeas.

Giulio grabs my arm and leads me out of the flowerbed.

He laughs and pats me on the back. Giulio loves AC/DC. Even on graduation day, he’s wearing a fancy blazer and a black t-shirt with a red AC/DC logo. I shake my head and wrap my arm across his shoulders. I feel like myself again.

I let myself be dragged in with the others and Sante kisses me as soon as I reach my crew. Scilla grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me, giggling, and she shouts in my face: “Get a hold of yourself!” Who can blame her?—I’m still shaking from everything that’s happened.

Sante with those big eyes, those humongous eyes, and thick glasses that make his eyes look even bigger. I think about how we really loved each other, at least for a couple of eighteen year olds. I remember the library, studying in silence, letting our arms touch occasionally as we gazed at each other over the tops of our books, smoking in the fire escape wrapped in the same scarf, asking Sante for a light and cupping my hands around his as he raised the lighter to my cigarette.

Scilla wraps a bracelet around my wrist and talks at me.

She uses so many words when she’s stressed and I can

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Mi dice che se n’è comprata uno uguale anche lei, mi dice tienilo sempre, anche sotto la doccia, mi dice, se quest’estate non ce l’hai quando vieni a trovarmi ti meno.

Le stringo la mano e le do un bacio sulla guancia. Senza di lei quegli anni sarebbero stati ancora più duri. Lei c’era quando è morto mio padre ma avevo il test di verbi latini, c’era dopo il funerale, quando ci siamo chiuse in camera a ripetere e a bere grappa in minuscoli bicchieri di vetro. C’era anche quando ho detto a Sante che lo amavo, era proprio lì in prima fila, e se avesse avuto una trombetta l’avrebbe suonata. Splendida Scilla, so che ora fa la maestra, benedetta lei, non la sento da anni, da quando sono partita per il Sud America per trovare me stessa e non ho più scritto a nessuno. Poi alla fine me stessa non l’ho trovata, o almeno non quella che avrei voluto trovare, e sono tornata dal Sud America, ma ho continuato a non scrivere a nessuno. Chissà perché ci si comporta così a volte. Forse perché uno si vergogna così tanto di non esserci stato e di non essersi trovato che poi i sensi di colpa continuano ad ammassarsi e alla fine non fai niente, rimani raggelato, immobile.

Entro a scuola, in segreteria c’è il mio zaino, ne tiro fuori due bottiglie di vodka tonic, sono due bottiglie di plastica di acqua senza l’acqua. Ne passo una a Sante che mi ha seguita, fa una sorsata corposa, mi guarda e mi sorride.

Lo sa che andrà a studiare in Belgio? Lo sa già che mi lascerà un giorno di settembre in cui c’è un sole svergognato che illumina proprio noi che ci stiamo lasciando?

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barely understand any of them. She explains that she bought the same bracelet for herself and warns me: you have to keep it on, even in the shower, if you’re not wearing this when you visit me this summer, I will beat you! I take her hand and kiss her on the cheek. Without her, those years would have been so much harder. She was there for me when my dad died and I had a latin test that I just couldn’t miss; she was there after the funeral when we locked ourselves in a room to review verbs and drink small glasses of grappa; she was right there, front-and-center, when I told Sante that I loved him—if she had a trumpet she would’ve played it for me.

Beautiful Scilla.

She’s a teacher now. I haven’t heard from her in years. At least, not since I went to South America to find myself and didn’t keep in touch with anyone. In the end, I didn’t find myself, or at least not the myself that I hoped to find. When I returned, I still didn’t write to anyone. Who knows why we do what we do sometimes. Maybe we’re so ashamed of not having been there, or not having found ourselves, that a sense of blame or guilt continues to amass and, in the end, we freeze and do nothing.

I go into the school—my backpack is in the custodian’s office with all the others—and I pull out a couple of plastic water bottles that aren’t filled with water: it’s vodka tonic. I pass one to Sante who followed me in. He smiles, watching me swig.

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Mi circonda con un braccio e mi bacia in mezzo a tutti gli zaini degli studenti che si diplomeranno quel giorno, sono zaini pieni di bottigliette d’acqua di plastica come le mie, piene di gin, piene di vodka lemon, piene di coca e rum.

Alzo la bottiglia al cielo, le bidelle mi sorridono, lo sanno anche loro che saremo ubriachi da lì a dieci minuti, ma ormai non siamo più un loro problema.

Torno in cortile, mi trascino dietro una sedia, mi preparo a fare quello che si aspettano da me, quando raggiungo il centro tutti mi stanno già guardando, al mio passaggio alzano le bottiglie davanti ai loro genitori stupiti. I professori sono sul chi vive e si pettinano i baffi, la Sardo, di inglese, mi fa no con la testa. “Pericoli, si plachi”, significa quel no.

Salgo sulla sedia: “Compagni,” urlo, come se fossi in Russia, e quello fosse ottobre 1917, non un 2000 qualunque, in Italia, in un liceo classico del centro, “siamo liberi. Siamo finalmente liberi come gabbiani, possiamo fare tutto quello che vogliamo, ora. Possiamo diventare medici, avvocati, ingegneri. Possiamo anche diventare degli accattoni, dobbiamo solo sceglierlo, amici miei”. Urlano, battono i piedi e fanno un sorso. Ne bevo uno anch’io per farmi coraggio. Non ho mai avuto problemi a parlare in pubblico, ma sento le gambe che tremano.

Giulio tiene la sedia sotto di me, un giorno finiremo a letto insieme e sarà per quello che Sante mi lascerà prima di partire per il Belgio, per ora però mi tiene la sedia e mi incita a continuare: “Quello che vi posso dire, e che mi

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Does he know that he’ll study in Belgium? Does he already know that he’ll leave me one day in September when a shameless sun shines on those who leave us?

He wraps his arm around me and kisses me, surrounded by all the graduates’ backpacks, which are stuffed with plastic water bottles just like mine, full of gin, vodka lemon, rum and coke.

I raise my bottle to the sky and the custodians smile.

They know that we’ll be wasted in like ten minutes, but we're not their problem anymore.

I drag myself back to the yard and prepare to do whatever they expect from me. The students are already staring at me when I reach the center, and as I pass they raise their bottles in front of their shocked parents. Some of the teachers watch and stroke their mustaches. Sardo, the English teacher, shakes her head from side to side: “Pericolí, calm yourself.”

“Friends!” I stand up on the chair and shout like it’s Russia in October, 1917, not Italy 2000-and-something in a downtown Liceo Classico. “We are finally free. We are as free as sea gulls!—Now we can do whatever we want.

We can become doctors, lawyers, or engineers. We can even become bums! My friends, we just have to make that choice.”

They scream and clap their feet, swigging from plastic bottles. I take a sip of liquid courage. I've never had stage fright but my legs are trembling, and Giulio steadies the

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sono preparata a dire, è di sentire questo momento. Di sentire il cielo azzurro, il caldo sotto le ascelle, il fastidio perché c’è troppa gente. La sentite l’ansia di non sapere con che voto ci siamo diplomati? Ecco, provatela tutta.

Perché...”, mi schiarisco la voce e mi guardo intorno, mi stanno guardando davvero tutti, e si sbaglia la Sardo a trattarmi così, a dirmi di non farlo, perché sto facendo un discorso motivante, bello, un discorso che ricorderanno tutti quando andranno all’università e cominceranno a dimenticarsi le facce, il tono della voce degli altri, quel giorno in cui non si ricorderanno più il nome della Sardo, e che materia insegnasse, avranno però il ricordo del mio discorso, di me, con i tacchi del diploma che urlo ubriaca nel cortile e comincio a piangere, perché gli argini stanno crollando: “... Dovete provarla tutta questa sensazione, ogni pezzo, ogni istante, perché non tornerà più amici miei, perché nonostante il dolore, la rabbia, l’angoscia, non sarete mai più felici di così”. Ormai singhiozzo e non mi ferma più nessuno, scendo dalla sedia barcollando e mi siedo in mezzo al cortile, esposta sotto gli occhi di tutti.

“Ma che ha?”, dicono, “è pazza?”.

“È solo ubriaca,” risponde uno, “fa sempre così”.

Giulio mi abbraccia, e poi arrivano Sante e Scilla. Ci abbracciamo in silenzio al centro del cortile, davanti ai fratellini minori, e maggiori, ai nonni sopravvissuti. Ci schiacciamo e asfissiamo in un abbraccio lunghissimo, che mi sembra durare più della maturità, più del liceo, mi sembra durare da quando sono nata.

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chair underneath me. One day we’ll end up sleeping together and Sante will find out and dump me before leaving for Belgium, but for now, Giulio grips my chair and urges me on.

“What I can say to you, and what I’m prepared to say, is that you must embrace this moment. Feel the blue sky, feel the sweaty armpits, feel the irritation from being crammed in here with way too many people. Are you worried? Worried that you didn’t pass? Take it all in, experience every little bit of it. Because ...” I clear my throat and scan the crowd. I'm actually looking at everyone, and Sardo makes the mistake of telling me to stop. But I'm delivering a beautiful motivational speech.

This is a speech that everyone will remember once they’re off to college. One day, when they forget these particular voices and faces, when they can’t remember Sardo’s name and whatever she taught, they will remember my speech. They will remember me and my graduation heels, shouting like a drunken fool. And I turn on the waterworks: “...You must experience this sensation, every piece, every moment, because my friends, we will come back, because despite the pain, the anger, anguish, you'll never be happier than you are right at this moment.” I weep uncontrollably and nobody stops me. I get down from the chair and stagger back to my seat right in the middle of the courtyard. And everyone stares.

“What's she doing?” They ask, “Is she nuts?”

“She's just drunk,” someone replies. “This is her thing.”

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Quando finisce è ora di uscire, non possiamo rimanere lì in eterno. Ci sorridiamo l’un l’altro, stringiamo mani, baciamo professori impettiti, ringraziamo la commissione dell’esame.

Il portone della scuola è tenuto aperto da una zeppa di legno, sciami di ragazzi urlanti escono da scuola, lanciano libri per aria, buttano zaini per terra, si accendono sigarette di fronte a genitori benevolenti, oggi.

Le ultime vacanze da liceali si srotolano davanti al portone della scuola. Giornate lunghe e calde, noiose e dolcissime.

Ci guardiamo in faccia, abbiamo impedito ai nostri parenti di venire a vederci perché volevamo uscire da scuola e andare a pranzo insieme, e poi al parco a prendere il sole, e poi a cena e poi a ballare. Ma ora siamo solo stanchi, con l’adrenalina sempre più bassa e gli occhi pieni di cose che non sappiamo dirci.

Scilla sale sul bus e dice: “Ci vediamo stasera, dai”.

Giulio si accende una canna e monta sulla bici: “A dopo”.

Prendo Sante per mano e andiamo verso casa a piedi: “Mi fanno un male cane le scarpe”, gli dico.

Mi bacia una guancia, spostandomi i capelli ancora nei loro bulbi, e dalla faccia che fa so che sta per dirmi una cazzata.

Ride già, mentre parla: “Allora mi raccomando, sentilo tutto questo male cane, non perderne nemmeno un secondo”.

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Giulio hugs me, and then Sante and Scilla arrive. We hug each other in silence in the middle of the courtyard, in front of younger and older brothers, surviving grandparents. We squeeze each other in a smothering, extended embrace, which seems to last longer than our final exams, longer than high school—it feels like it has lasted since the day I was born.

When this is over, it’ll be time to leave—we can’t stay here forever. We smile at each other, shake hands, kiss uptight professors and thank the exam commission.

Now, the front door of the school is propped open with a wooden wedge and screaming boys rush out of the building, throwing books in the air and backpacks to the ground, lighting cigarettes in front of kind, doting parents.

The last high school vacation rolls out the front door—long and scorching days, annoying, boring and beautiful.

We look at each other. We kept our relatives from coming to see us because we wanted to get out of here and have lunch together, then go to the park to sunbathe, then to dinner, then to dance. But now we are just exhausted, the adrenaline has faded and our eyes shine with things we just can’t put into words.

Scilla gets on the bus and says: “See you tonight! It’s on!”

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Giulio lights a cigarette and gets on his bike: “Later.”

I take Sante by the hand and we walk home. “These shoes hurt like hell,” I say to him.

He kisses my cheek, pushing aside my hair, still in its roots, and his expression tells me he's about to give me shit. He’s already laughing: “You need to embrace this pain even if it hurts like hell, don’t even let a second pass by.”

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word for word / palavra por palavra Columbia University School of the Arts Instituto Vera Cruz Formação de Escritores

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ALICIA MEIER from NINE NOVEMBER XIX. The crash of Eastern Airlines Flight 537 on approach to Ronald Reagan National Airport in Washington, D.C. predated by twenty years the mandatory fitting of commercial aircraft with cockpit voice recorders. The reader will know these devices as the mangled titanium “black boxes” whose retrieval we eagerly await in the hopes they might shed light on any major air disaster, that allow us the obscene access we crave into the last conversations of the doomed. In the case of 537, I don’t know still if this is lamentable. There is, no doubt, a certain voyeuristic exultation in taking in these tapes. It never ceases to be remarkable how quickly disasters unfold, how quickly comfortable stasis, the presumption of safety and authority, unravels, and how human beings who have failed in their responsibilities, or not, or who are reacting to the unimaginable, the unsolvable, care for themselves or one another aloud. And there is a solidity we find in finding them. We no longer have to imagine what happened in those moments; we are provided the information we assume we’re owed by privilege, a resolution, or at least clues gesturing towards one, of all the little things that went wrong before one big thing did.

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traduzido do inglês por ANDRÉ ROSEMBERG de NOVE DE NOVEMBRO XIX. A queda do voo 537 da Eastern Airlines, quando se aproximava do Aeroporto Nacional Ronald Reagan, em Washington DC, precedeu em vinte anos a obrigatoriedade da instalação de gravadores de voz na cabine de comando de aeronaves comerciais. O leitor deve conhecê-los como “caixas pretas”, aqueles dispositivos avariados de titânio, cuja recuperação aguardamos avidamente, na esperança de que possam lançar luz sobre os desastres aéreos de maior magnitude, e que nos permitam o acesso obsceno, mas tão desejado, às últimas conversas entre os condenados. No caso do voo 537, ainda não sei se é lamentável. Existe, sem dúvida, uma certa exultação voyeurística na recuperação dessas fitas. Não deixa de ser notável a rapidez com que os desastres se desenrolam, a rapidez com que a calma confortável da presunção de segurança e autoridade colapsa, e como os humanos que falham em suas responsabilidades, ou não, ou que reagem ao inimaginável, ao insolúvel, zelam por si mesmos ou um pelo outro em voz alta. Encontrando, enfim, as caixas pretas, encontramos uma solidez. Não precisamos mais imaginar o que aconteceu naqueles momentos; recebemos as informações que acreditamos nos serem devidas por privilégio, uma resposta, ou pelo menos pistas que acenam para uma única resposta dentre

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But there is, perhaps, a different sort of perverse liberation to imposing on a wreck what our imaginations might concoct. Eastern 537 was a flight of the old days, some days of glamour, and one of a certain age might imagine with nostalgia the passengers aboard that aircraft sipping cocktails from glass, not plastic, dining with silver, not plastic, and tapping cigarette ash into their armrests, while clad in suits and hats, and chatting idly, or pressing their noses to the windows as their destination began to come into view from earth – most more or less seasoned flyers, notables with business up and down the coast, yet old enough to be still in marvel of the nascent mode. The plane begins its descent, the pilots ask that the passengers stow their tray-tables, bring their seats upright; the stewardess, french twist, gap-toothed smile, makes her final rounds and belts herself in, and perhaps the communications in the cockpit continue on as they did then, in the days before sterile cockpit rules demanded they cease all nonessential conversation in these last critical manual moments. “Five three seven, on final approach,” perhaps we’d hear, and then a little jesting between friendly colleagues as the blue before them narrows and the horizon comes closer, the Potomac River beneath glinting gold into the cockpit.

And perhaps Glen Tigner, sitting in the Washington control tower might come crackling over the radio, “Five three seven, good afternoon.”

And perhaps from the cockpit, “Six thousand feet, final checklist Washington, vectors?”

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todas aquelas pequenas coisas que deram errado antes que um erro maior acontecesse.

Mas existe, talvez, outra espécie de liberação perversa ao atribuirmos a um acidente aquilo que nossa imaginação possa maquinar. O voo 537 da Eastern pertencia aos velhos tempos, aos dias de glamour; e aqueles que já têm certa idade podem imaginar com nostalgia os passageiros a bordo da aeronave, bebericando coquetéis em copos de vidro, não de plástico, jantando com talheres de prata, não de plástico, e batendo as cinzas dos cigarros nos cinzeiros, endomingados em seus ternos e chapéus, conversando despreocupados, ou com os narizes pressionados contra as janelas, à medida que a visão do seu destino começava a despontar – a maioria dos passageiros formada por viajantes experientes, pessoas notáveis com negócios ao longo da costa, ainda assim com idade suficiente para se maravilharem com a novidade.

O avião começa a descer, os pilotos pedem aos passageiros que recolham suas mesas, retornem o encosto para a posição vertical; as aeromoças, com seus coques inconfundíveis e seu sorrisos charmosos, fazem sua ronda final e tomam seus assentos; talvez as conversas na cabine de comando continuassem como era costume naquele tempo anterior às regras algo estéreis que passaram a exigir que se cessassem todas as conversas supérfluas durante os últimos e críticos procedimentos manuais. “Cinco três sete, em aproximação final”, talvez ouvíssemos, e, em seguida, uma brincadeira amigável entre colegas, à medida que o azul diante deles se estreita

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And perhaps, “Five three seven, left two six zero, runway three.”

And perhaps, “Landing gear down.”

“Landing gear down.”

“Flaps three.”

“Speed checked, flaps three.”

They gab as they descend seven, eight, nine thousand feet, punctuated by more of the familiar perfunctory call and response of landing. On earth, Tigner we know now is responding quickly to a crisis, but he’s not communicating with the transport, and they don’t know it yet in the DC-4, they don’t see anything awry. They may be chuckling to each other as they come in low over the river, and then perhaps a frayed and harried mechanical voice, “Five three seven transport, collision course! Bank left! Left!”

Perhaps the men snapped to attention. They did what was asked in those final moments, that much we know: took the lumbering jet sharply west as best they could. It was a gesture, only. They were descending too quickly, they weren’t engineered to maneuver so swiftly, and at 300 feet above the ground and just a half a mile from the runway threshold, some other airborne object they never saw and would never see sliced their ship in two.

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e o horizonte se aproxima, o rio Potomac, abaixo, refletindo dourado dentro da cabine.

E, talvez, Glen Tigner, sentado na torre de controle de Washington, a voz estalando no rádio: “Cinco três sete, boa tarde”.

E, talvez, da cabine: “Seis mil pés, checklist final Washington, vetores?”.

E, talvez: “Cinco três sete, esquerda dois seis zero, pista três”.

E, talvez: “Baixando trem de pouso”.

“Baixando trem de pouso”.

“Flaps três”.

“Velocidade checada, flaps três”.

Eles jogam conversa fora enquanto descem sete, oito, nove mil pés; conversa entremeada pela comunicação protocolar sobre a aterrissagem. Em solo, Tigner, sabemos agora, responde rapidamente a uma crise, mas não se comunica com a aeronave e, no DC-4, os pilotos não têm conhecimento de nada, eles não veem qualquer coisa de anormal. É provável que estejam brincando um com o outro, à medida que se aproximam do rio, e então, talvez, uma voz mecânica – esgarçada e atormentada: “Cinco três sete aeronave, curso de colisão! Incline à esquerda! Esquerda!”

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Had there been a CVR installed, that would have been, as it always is, the last thing it picked up: a deafening whistle as the mid-air disintegration severed the electrical lines between the boxes’ positioning in the aft of the aircraft and the last words of the souls up front. So I wonder, still, how long it took before they hit the ground.

A few seconds, likely: that impact, like a car wrapping itself around a tree, the sound of crumbling metal. The white sucking hum of air cutting past, that sound we tune out with our noise-cancelling headphones, or that calls our attention skyward from the ground as it echoes low over the soil, amplified tenfold in an instant, a roar of nothingness piercing through the plane’s skin, and what’s sucked out when it does, the rips and tears of everything detaching from itself. Screams, surely, from the back, from the ill-fated riders who would fall from too low a height to lose consciousness before their bones were shattered by the impact, the last hoarse silent screams they’ll make before their limbs are fished out of the water. The warnings that sound too late: the airspeed klaxons that recall a starting horn, the robotic voices repeating bank angle, the stall shaker like a metronomic car alarm, as though those entrusted to this aircraft aren’t aware they’re going down.

They know. They knew from the moment they heard the panic in Tigner’s voice that it was too late, and that they tried to turn at all leads me to imagine that they tried until the last instant, that instinct kicked in, that even without a tail the captain tried to raise the nose, to land the aircraft safely. I like to imagine the men side by side, the younger crying out, bereft, “We’re going down!” and

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Talvez os pilotos tenham caído em si. Eles agiram como deles se esperava naqueles momentos finais, disso sabemos: fizeram inclinar bruscamente para oeste aquele jato pesadíssimo da melhor forma possível. Mas foi um gesto, apenas. Desciam rápido demais, não estavam preparados para manobrar com rapidez. A 300 pés do solo e a apenas meia milha da cabeceira da pista, outro objeto voador que eles não viram, e que nunca veriam, partiu a aeronave ao meio.

Houvesse um gravador de voz na cabine (Cockpit Voice Recorder, CVR), teria sido esse, como sempre acontece, o último registro: um silvo ensurdecedor no momento em que a desintegração do avião em pleno ar arrancava os cabos elétricos entre as caixas posicionadas na traseira e as últimas palavras das almas na proa da aeronave.

Imagino, ainda, quanto tempo levou até eles se chocarem contra o solo. Provavelmente, poucos segundos: aquele impacto, como se fosse um carro abraçando uma árvore, o som do metal a se esmigalhar. O zumbido branco produzido pelo ar que passa rascante, aquele som que emudecemos com nossos fones de ouvido com redutor de ruído ou que desvia nossa atenção para o céu quando ecoa rente ao solo, amplificado em dez vezes num átimo, o rugido do vazio atravessando a casca do avião, e aquilo que é sugado para fora nesses casos, os rasgos e lacerações das coisas se desprendendo. Gritos, é certo, vindos da parte de trás, dos passageiros malfadados que cairiam de uma altura insuficiente para que perdessem a consciência antes que seus ossos se estilhaçassem com o impacto, os últimos gritos abafados, mudos, que eles darão antes que seus membros sejam pescados da água. Os alertas que

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the older resigned, and ready: “Stay calm,” he says, and knowing his command’s futility, “Pull up,” before the brown river closes in on them, before the last noise, which I imagine as that of a needle skipping at the end of a record, snuffs them out.

I like to imagine it this way, because I like to think that in our last inviolable seconds that we take with us, we show our best humanity, and because I like to think still, despite whatever evidence I may have accumulated to the contrary, that some amount of age and experience uniformly brings us peace.

Eastern 537 was not the first crash at D.C’s Reagan Airport, and it would not be the last. The airport, in fact, is one among a handful worldwide considered by pilots to be especially treacherous, in a group that otherwise includes the sorts of ill-placed landing strips where to bring a plane back down to earth those at its helm must navigate ragged mountain ridges, or come in low over city skyscrapers, or skitter on outmoded runways just short of landing in the sea – and if one of these things seems unlike the others, it’s with good reason, for Washington’s problem has never been terrain. Since its construction – but never more so than in a post-9/11 world – the blue baldachin above Reagan has been carved up into a patchwork of overlapping no-fly zones ending only two miles from the runways and extending over every monument of national significance. Those guiding our airships long and low over the Potomac now follow a

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soam tarde demais: o som do indicador de velocidade, como um sonido de buzina de largada, as vozes robóticas repetindo bank angle, o stick shaker como um renitente alarme de carro, tudo se deu como se esses equipamentos instalados na aeronave não soubessem da queda.

Eles sabem. Eles sabiam, desde o momento em que sentiram o pânico na voz de Tigner, que era tarde demais; e a tentativa de inclinar o avião me leva a imaginar que eles o fizeram até o último instante, o instinto comandando, que mesmo sem a cauda o capitão tentou erguer o nariz da aeronave para pousá-la em segurança.

Gosto de imaginar os pilotos lado a lado, o mais novo, desolado, aos gritos, “Vamos cair!”, e o mais velho, resignado, mas preparado: “Fique calmo”, diz ele, sabendo se tratar de uma sugestão inútil, “Arremeta”, antes de o rio escuro se fechar sobre eles, antes de o último ruído, que imagino ser como o da agulha quando escorrega pela parte lisa ao final de um LP, silenciá-los.

Gosto de imaginar assim, porque gosto de pensar que nos últimos e invioláveis segundos que levamos conosco mostramos o melhor da nossa humanidade, e porque gosto de pensar, ainda, a despeito de qualquer evidência em contrário que eu possa ter amealhado, que alguns anos acumulados e um pouco de experiência costumam nos trazer paz.

A queda do voo 537 da Eastern não foi a primeira do Aeroporto Reagan e não seria a última. De fato, o Ronald

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specific vector of avoidance necessitating huge banks at low altitude not built for modern swift-wing jets.

Most District natives are familiar with Reagan’s most recent and most noteworthy disaster: the 1982 crash of Air Florida Flight 90, though those natives are more likely to make reference to it as the crash into the 14th Street Bridge, or the crash – because we love these sorts of stories, in which human valor offsets if slightly the cruel fact of mass-fatality – that made Lenny Skutnik a local hero when he dove into the ice-cold river to rescue a drowning young mother, one of a handful who survived by clinging to the submerged wreckage of the plane.

Setting out for Tampa with a manifest 79 passengers long on the sort of January day where the temperature outside is so unlike the temperature inside our bodies that we feel somehow more discrete, or whole, the pilots of Flight 90, impatient fellows, did not de-ice their wings a second time after a long runway delay, and so the plane took off with its airfoils frozen over, and flew for 30 seconds, and made it just 352 feet into the air before stalling and falling into the river, taking with it a 41-foot span of the I-395 and half a dozen motorists heading home to the Virginia suburbs after work. The last words of the crew recorded by the CVR before the vinyl pops were, from panicked First Officer Roger Pettit, “Larry, we’re going down. Larry...,” and the response from a resigned Captain Larry Wheaton: “I know it.”

This crash I had long known – both because I was a District native, but also because it fit the parameters that governed which incidents and accidents made it into

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Reagan é um dos poucos aeroportos do mundo considerados especialmente traiçoeiros pelos pilotos, num conjunto que inclui pistas mal situadas onde, a fim de fazer pousar o avião, aqueles que manejam o leme devem navegar sobre cordilheiras de montanhas pontiagudas ou aterrissar rente a arranha-céus ou ver o avião deslizar até a beira do mar – e se alguma dessas coisas parece familiar a outros aeroportos, existe um bom motivo, já que o problema de Washington nunca foi de terreno. Desde sua construção – e mais ainda após o 11 de Setembro –, o baldaquino azul sobre o Ronald Reagan foi talhado numa colcha de retalhos de zonas imbricadas interditadas para o voo e cujo limite termina a apenas três quilômetros das pistas de pouso, se estendendo sobre todo e qualquer monumento de relevância nacional. Aqueles que pilotam nossas aeronaves, em voo baixo, ao longo do Potomac, agora obedecem a um vetor de avoidance sobre grandes encostas a baixas atitudes, não compatível com os jatos modernos de asas em formato de delta.

Grande parte dos nativos de Washington tem familiaridade com o desastre mais recente e mais notável do aeroporto Ronald Reagan: a queda do voo 90 da Air Florida, em 1982, embora eles provavelmente se refiram ao acidente com o avião que caiu sobre a ponte da rua 14, ou como o acidente – amamos esse tipo de história em que o valor humano se sobrepõe, mesmo que timidamente, à crueldade da fatalidade em massa – que transformou Lenny Skutnik em herói local, depois que ele mergulhou no rio congelado para resgatar uma jovem mãe que se afogava, uma dentre os poucos que sobreviveram, ao se agarrar aos destroços submersos do

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the morbid mental encyclopedia of air disasters I began compiling in my twenties. It was a plane I could have seen myself aboard, and that was the point of the data collection I did in excruciating detail around death and aviation, then. Statistics and science told me that planes were docile things, by their very nature inclined to stay aloft, but it wasn’t the mass of metal I distrusted when I traveled so much as the humans tasked with its maintenance and operation. So I delved deep into disaster: to exert control over an uncontrollable scenario and a paralyzing and utterly illogical phobia by, at the very least, knowing my odds.

Washington is a transient city, though, and Eastern, on the other hand, was no longer a piece of local collective memory there, nor did it abide by my uncompromising criteria for autodidactic interest. I would not have come upon it were it not for the presence on board of William Smythe, an attorney from Long Island who joined the flight on its last leg from LaGuardia headed south for a meeting Capitol Hill. Smythe, as the Washington Post memorialized him following the incident, was a graduate of Yale University, class of 1932, and served as a lieutenant commander in the Washington Navy logistics department during the Second World War. He was, at the time of his death, secretary-treasurer of the Eberhard Faber Pencil Company of Brooklyn and of the Eberhard Rubber Company of Newark, New Jersey. He was to return to New York later in the day. He left behind a wife, Mrs. Helen Baker Smythe. She was pregnant at the time with her second child, a girl.

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avião. Voando para Tampa, com 79 passageiros a bordo, num desses dias de janeiro em que a temperatura externa é tão discrepante da nossa temperatura corporal que faz com que, de algum modo, nos sintamos mais discretos, ou completos, os pilotos do voo 90, sujeitos impacientes, não descongelaram as asas uma segunda vez, mesmo depois de uma longa espera na pista, e então o avião decolou com os flaps congelados e voou por 30 segundos, percorreu apenas 107 metros antes de embicar e cair no rio, levando consigo um trecho de 13 metros da I-395 e meia dúzia de motoristas que voltavam para casa, nos subúrbios de Virgínia, depois do trabalho. As últimas palavras da tripulação registradas no CVR, antes que a agulha saltasse no final do vinil: “Larry, estamos caindo.

Larry...”, ditas pelo Primeiro Oficial Roger Pettit, em pânico, e a resposta resignada do Capitão Larry Wheaton: “Eu sei...”.

Sei desse acidente faz muito tempo – um tanto porque sou eu mesma uma nativa de Washington, mas também porque ele está inserido nos parâmetros daqueles acidentes aéreos aptos a tomarem parte da mórbida enciclopédia de acidentes aéreos que comecei a compilar a partir dos meus vinte anos. Aquele era um avião em que podia me ver embarcado, e esse foi, então, o ponto inicial dos dados que passei a recolher, em detalhes excruciantes, a respeito de morte e aviação. A ciência e as estatísticas me mostravam que aviões são coisas dóceis, que pela sua própria natureza estão inclinados a permanecerem no alto, mas não era da massa de metal que eu desconfiava quando viajava, mas das tarefas humanas de manutenção e operação. Então, eu mergulhava fundo no desastre, a

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Smythe was presented to me as a challenge. It was a late summer evening on a sticky Brooklyn-bound commute, and I was pressed rush-hour arm to arm against a colleague. We were doing that awkward up-front exposition New Yorkers do when traveling together underground, clarifying our destinations so as to allow them to direct conversation to fill a determined amount of time, to avoid being cut-off mid-sentence by one party dashing out at the abrupt pinging of the doors. I told this friend that I was headed to the A at 59th Street, and he told me he was headed off his normal route to dinner downtown with a woman he’d known since his infancy in suburban Long Island, a woman who had become more or less a part of his family after her father was killed.

“And you’ll love how,” he said, halfway turning to face me with preemptive satisfaction filling all the cracks in his smile.

“No.” I grinned. “Plane crash?” He knew me well. He gave a smirk, and I ventured further, “Commercial plane crash?”

“Yep.”

I went bug-eyed, I’m certain, and smacked him hard on the arm. “Which one?”

He laughed. “I don’t know. Normal people do not know these things.”

“Well,” I asked, “what airline?”

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fim de exercer algum controle sobre um cenário incontrolável e sobre uma fobia paralisante e completamente ilógica. Eu precisava, pelo menos, conhecer minhas chances.

Porém, Washington é uma cidade transitória, e o voo da Eastern, por outro lado, não mais figurava na memória coletiva local, nem se enquadrava nos meus critérios intransigentes de interesse autodidata. Não teria pensado nisso não fosse a presença a bordo de William Smythe, um advogado de Long Island que embarcou no voo em seu último trecho, em LaGuardia. Ele seguia para Washington, pois tinha uma reunião em Capitol Hill.

Conforme necrológio publicado no Washington Post após o acidente, Smythe se formara na Universidade de Yale na turma de 1932 e servira como tenente-comandante no departamento de logística da Marinha de Washington durante a Segunda Guerra Mundial. Quando morreu, era secretário do tesouro da Companhia Eberhard Faber Pencil do Brooklyn e da Companhia Eberhard Rubber de Newark, New Jersey. Deveria voltar a Nova York ainda no mesmo dia. Deixou a esposa, Helen Baker Smythe.

Ela estava grávida de uma menina, seu segundo filho.

Smythe se apresentou a mim como um desafio. Foi em um fim de noite de verão, num vagão pegajoso do metrô que ia para o Brooklyn, na hora do rush, eu esmagada contra um colega. Nós estávamos em meio àquele estranho preâmbulo, próprio dos nova-iorquinos quando andam juntos de metrô, que esclarecem de antemão qual

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Alicia Original Andre Translation - Google Docs

“Maybe American?”

“What year?”

“Would’ve been 1950, or I suppose maybe late ’49. Just before she was born.”

I groaned at his lack of actionable information, but we both knew the game was on. It was Eastern, of course, November 1, 1949, in fact, 11:46 A.M. The next day I would present him with Smythe’s obit as published two days later in the Post.

The summer I learned of this crash was the summer of 2016, which was a proper-noun summer in the way some are. It was the summer of the Pulse Nightclub shooting, the summer of eighty mowed down on Bastille Day in Nice, the summer of the contentious Rio Olympics, the summer of Dallas and of Blue Lives Matter, the summer of Paul O’Neal and Korryn Gaines and Black Lives Matter, of the Democratic National Convention, of Hillary Clinton and Kasir Khan, of the Republican National Convention and Donald Trump’s improbable ascent. It was a raucous, restless, trigger-happy summer, a summer of Twitter and Politico and Brietbart, of the proper-noun Media, in which all narratives were instantaneous and most were thereby hateful, in which we retreated to the corners assigned to us by pollsters’ proper adjectives: White Working Class, Suburban Educated Female. It was a warm summer, the kind in é o

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Alicia Original Andre Translation - Google Docs

destino de cada um, de sorte a estabelecer a quantidade de tempo disponível para que a conversa não seja interrompida no meio de uma frase, entrecortada pela necessidade de um dos interlocutores de sair do vagão, apressado pelo som das portas se fechando. Eu disse a esse amigo que tomaria a linha A até a rua 59 e ele me disse que seguiria o seu caminho normal até o centro, pois jantaria nos subúrbios de Long Island com uma mulher que ele conhecia desde criança, uma mulher que tinha se tornado parte da família, ou quase isso, depois da morte do pai dela. “E você vai adorar saber o motivo”, ele disse, virando-se parcialmente para me encarar com uma satisfação antecipada que preenchia todas as fissuras do seu sorriso.

“Não é possível”, eu sorri. “Acidente aéreo?” Ele me conhecia bem. Soltou uma risadinha e eu me empolguei: “Acidente de avião comercial?”.

“É.”

Tenho certeza de que arregalei os olhos e dei um tapa forte em seu braço. “Qual acidente?”.

Ele riu. “Não sei. Gente normal não sabe dessas coisas.”

“Então”, perguntei, “de que companhia aérea?”.

“American Airlines, talvez?”

“Em que ano?”

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Alicia Original Andre Translation - Google Docs

which the temperature in New York City often so approximated the temperature inside our bodies that it would not be unusual to feel somehow more permeable than usual, and what ebbed and flowed across those less definite boundaries of my being was fear, and an abiding shame that I found hard to place. I did not want story in that summer. It consumed too much to think on ironies, and I was tired.

And yet despite the moist August heat, despite that the plane they’d been on was a Douglas, that the crash claimed only 55, that it occurred in an epoch of aviation before automated anti-collision systems and three-ounce containers and cockpit resource management theory and bomb-sniffing dogs which I considered statistically useless, it hung in the heavy air with me. It was curious.

What that curiosity wrought was this: Smythe’s plane, lumbering commuter jet of a bygone age, had been sliced through and sent spiraling in halves by second aircraft. A Lockheed P-38 Lightning, little high-speed fighter jet, with a single soul aboard: Erick Rios Bridoux, of the Bolivian Air Force.

It was determined by a U.S. Congressional Inquiry that Bridoux, who survived the collision and was fished out of the Potomac to later give his testimony from the hospital while recovering from a broken back, was at fault for the disaster – that he shouldn’t have been flying where he had been, that he should have heeded instructions supposedly issued by air traffic control, that he could have maneuvered out of the airliner’s path. It was

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“Eu arriscaria 1950, ou talvez no final de 1949. Foi logo antes de ela nascer.”

Eu lamentei a falta de informações úteis, mas ambos sabíamos que não tinha mais volta. Tratava-se do acidente da Eastern, era óbvio, em 1º de novembro de 1949, mais precisamente às 11:46 da manhã. No dia seguinte, eu lhe mostraria o obituário de Smythe, publicado dois dias depois no Post.

Eu soube desse acidente no verão de 2016, um verão que fez jus à estação, como alguns deles costumam ser. Foi o verão do tiroteio na boate Pulse, o verão em que 80 foram ceifados no Dia da Bastilha, em Nice, o verão dos controversos Jogos Olímpicos do Rio, o verão de Dallas e do Blue Lives Matter, o verão de Paul O’Neal, de Korryn Gaines e do Black Lives Matter, da Convenção Nacional do Partido Democrático, de Hillary Clinton e Kasir Khan, da Convenção do Partido Republicano e da ascensão improvável de Donald Trump. Foi um verão estridente, fatigante, de dedos coçando para apertar o gatilho, um verão do Twitter, do Politico e do Brietbart, da assim chamada Mídia, cujas narrativas foram instantâneas e a maioria delas, aliás, repleta de ódio, quando fomos recolhidas às identidades para nós designadas, atribuídas por adjetivos precisos criados por especialistas, como: Classe Trabalhadora Branca, Mulheres Instruídas dos Subúrbios. Foi um verão quente, em que as temperaturas em Nova York frequentemente se aproximavam da nossa temperatura corporal, quando não seria incomum nos sentirmos, de algum modo, mais permeáveis do que o usual, e aquilo que ia e vinha pelas

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determined that he had been lying when he swore he had been cleared to land on Runway 3, bringing to an end a test flight the objective of which was to confirm the military aircraft was suitable for sale to his government by mine.

When I presented my colleague with my further findings he was indeed enthralled. Midair collisions were always fun – so many things had to go wrong at once, and it was a treat to trace the chain. It would take time for him to see it as I plainly did for what it also was, though. Which is to say that his parents’ friends, wealthy Long Islanders of the fifties suburbs, had been lost on that landing into Reagan as casualties of war.

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fronteiras menos definidas do meu ser eram o medo e uma vergonha persistente que eu não sabia como classificar.

Não queria conversa naquele verão. Me consumia demais pensar nas ironias. E eu estava cansada.

Mesmo assim, a despeito do calor sufocante de agosto, a despeito do avião em que eles voavam ser um Douglas, de que o acidente vitimou apenas 55, que ocorreu numa época anterior aos sistemas automáticos anticolisão, dos frascos de 90 mililitros, da teoria de gerenciamento de recurso da cabine e dos cães farejadores de bombas, que eu considero estatisticamente inúteis, isso pairava comigo no ar denso. Era curioso.

O que essa curiosidade forjava era isso: o avião de Smythe, um trambolhudo jato comercial de priscas eras, espiralava em queda livre, fatiado ao meio por uma outra aeronave. Um Lockheed P-38 Lightining, caça veloz de pequeno porte com uma única alma a bordo: Erick Rios Bridoux, da Força Aérea Boliviana.

Uma sindicância do Congresso dos Estados Unidos constatou que Bridoux, que sobreviveu à colisão e foi pescado do Potomac para mais tarde dar seu testemunho no hospital, enquanto se recuperava de uma fratura nas costas, era o culpado pelo desastre – ele não deveria estar voando no lugar onde estava, deveria ter obedecido instruções alegadamente emitidas pelo controle de tráfego aéreo, poderia ter manobrado para longe do curso da aeronave. Concluiu-se que ele mentira ao jurar que tinha sido autorizado a aterrissar na Pista 3, a fim de finalizar um voo de teste, cujo objetivo era confirmar que

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a aeronave militar estava adequada para venda, pelo meu governo, ao governo boliviano.

Quando apresentei ao colega minhas descobertas recentes, ele ficou verdadeiramente perplexo. Colisões em pleno ar são sempre divertidas – muitas coisas precisam dar errado de uma só vez, e foi um desafio rastrear a cadeia de eventos. Levou algum tempo para que ele enxergasse o acidente por completo, como eu o enxergava, por aquilo que ele também representou. O que significa dizer que os pais de sua amiga, prósperos moradores dos subúrbios de Long Island dos anos 50, morreram naquela aterrissagem no aeroporto Ronald Reagan em incidente de guerra.

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Andre Original Alicia Translation - Google Docs

ANDRÉ ROSEMBERG

ONTEM À NOITE

Ricardo foi embora sem tomar todo o suco. Mas deixou migalhas do pão na chapa espalhadas sobre a mesa de plástico. Marina ergueu a xícara com o café já frio. Os lábios, ela arranhou com o guardanapo áspero que usou para limpar o resto do batom. E um garçom veio limpar as sujeiras da noite que amanhecia.

-- Mais alguma coisa, moça?

Marina mirou o maço vazio e esticou uma nota de dez.

-- Fósforo?

Baixou os olhos, passou a mão pelos cabelos ainda úmidos. Não ergueu a cabeça quando o rapaz voltou trazendo os cigarros, os fósforos. Suplicou se poderia fumar naquela mesa, na fronteira do bar com a calçada.

-- O toldo, moça...

Marina permaneceu sentada. Não tinha forças para atrapalhar os passos apressados que ganhavam o passeio.

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translated from the portuguese by ALICIA MARIA MEIER

LAST NIGHT

Ricardo left without finishing his juice, leaving breadcrumbs scattered across the plastic table. Marina lifted her cup, the coffee already gone cold. She rubbed at her lips with a rough napkin, scraping off the remains of her lipstick. A waiter came around to wipe down last night’s filth as the day broke.

“Anything else, ma’am?”

Marina glanced at the empty pack and stretched out a ten-Real note.

“Do you have matches?”

She lowered her eyes, ran her hand through her damp hair, raising her head only when the boy returned with the cigarettes, the matches. She asked if she might smoke at the table, just on the edge of the patio where the restaurant spilled onto the sidewalk.

“The awning, ma’am...”

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Precisava ir trabalhar. Um par de Havaianas descoloridas entrou no seu campo de visão.

-- Dona, compra... Tá barato. É para ajudar em casa.

Lembrou-se das flores que entregaram no escritório no meio da tarde. O bilhete ainda jazia na bolsa: “Vai ser maravilhoso”. O buquê caro, colocou num vaso em cima de sua mesa. Admirador secreto, respondeu à curiosidade das colegas. Titubeou em retribuir o galanteio com um coração trespassado por uma flecha. Contra o conselho de Rita.

Brusco, a criança pousou as rosas ao lado da xícara. Não esperou pela negativa de praxe. Pediu para filar um cigarro. Exigiu, sem por favor. Apesar de tudo, sentiu pena. Por acaso existe metro para medir a dor de cada um? Sorriu do mantra que escutava às terças e quintas no divã do psicólogo. Entregou dois cigarros para a criança.

-- Valeu, tia.

Marina conferiu o celular. Encontrou o rescaldo dos algoritmos da madrugada. Aniversário da Betinha; convite para um sarau literário; propaganda de pacotes de viagem para o Nepal; duas notificações do Tinder.

Começou a digitar uma mensagem para Rita. Decidiu apagar antes de completar o predicado: tô precisando de...

Pediu a conta. Definitivamente precisava ir trabalhar.

Mas não podia adiar o aperto na bexiga. A fórceps So

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Marina remained seated. She didn’t have it in her to stand against the human tide along the avenue. She needed to get to the office. A pair of discolored Havaianas entered her line of sight.

“Dona, would you like... For a very good price. To help me out at home.”

She remembered the flowers delivered to work in the middle of the afternoon. The card was still in her bag: Tonight is going to be wonderful. The expensive bouquet in a vase atop her desk. A secret admirer, she’d responded to her colleagues’ curiosities. She’d hesitated as she acknowledged the gallantry – against Rita’s advice – with a heart pierced by an arrow.

Abruptly, the child laid the roses beside the cup, without waiting for the anticipated refusal. He asked for a cigarette. Demanded, rather, without a please. She felt sorry for him. After all, doesn’t each person’s pain have its own measure? She smiled at the mantra she heard repeated Tuesdays and Thursdays on the therapist’s couch as she handed the child two cigarettes.

“Thanks, tia.”

Marina checked her cell, where she found the results of the early morning algorithms. Reminder of Betinha's birthday; invitation to a literary salon; advertisement for travel packages to Nepal; two notifications from Tinder.

She started typing a message for Rita, but decided to

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segurava a vontade que minava desde que deixaram o bar. Ficou sem coragem de dizer que não era de beber.

Tão gentil o Ricardo. Para quebrar o travo do gin, ele pedia appletini. “Fica docinho”.

Ainda checou se havia alguma mensagem nova. Um “Má, foi uma delícia, viu” cintilava na tela. Bateu o telefone contra a mesa. Duas vezes. Ricardo trincou no ato.

Ao guardar o cigarro, encontrou uma bala de menta perdida na bolsa. Mal o ardor bateu nas papilas, Marina se deu conta de que tinha na boca a cortesia recebida na saída do motel. Cuspiu a bala com asco. O cheiro de mofo do carpete do quarto não desgarrava de suas narinas.

Marina percebeu os joelhos esfolados latejarem embaixo da meia calça. “É assim que você gosta, minha putinha?”. Fechou os olhos ao rever sua cara refletida mil vezes no jogo de espelhos.

Antes de se levantar da mesa, Marina prendeu o cabelo bem esticado. Puxou o rabo de cavalo até o couro cabeludo latejar. No caminho do banheiro, levou a xícara para o balcão. Respondeu com um aceno o obrigado do chapeiro.

-- O feminino tá entupido, moça. Desculpa...

Não seria a primeira vez que ela se desafogava em banheiro masculino. Abriu a torneira da pia, deixou a água correr. Empoleirou-se na louça da privada, arriou a calcinha até as canelas, levantou a saia na cintura. Um malabarismo para evitar que a roupa encostasse no nojo

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delete the sentence before completing its predicate: I need ...

She hailed for the bill. She really needed to get to work, but there was no putting off the tightness in her bladder.

A struggle had held back the pressure that had nagged at her since they had left the bar. She hadn’t dared to tell him that she didn’t drink. How kind Ricardo had been.

To break up his gin, he’d ordered an appletini. It’s sweet.

She checked to see if she had any new messages. Flashing across the screen: “It was delicious, babe.” She slammed the phone against the table. Twice. Ricardo shattered in the act.

Stashing the cigarettes in her bag, Marina found a stray mint. No sooner had the fiery menthol stung her lips than she remembered the provenance of the candy, a courtesy received upon exiting the motel. She spat it out with disgust. The musty scent of the bedroom carpet was alive in her nostrils. She noticed the throbbing in her knobby knees through her pantyhose. Is that how you like it, you little whore? Marina closed her eyes as he gazed at his own face, reflected a thousand times in the set of mirrors.

Before getting up from the table, Marina tied her hair up in a ponytail. She pulled it so tight that her scalp throbbed. On the way to the bathroom, she returned the cup at the counter. The waiter nodded in thanks.

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alheio. De cócoras, conseguiu regular a vazão dos gases, liberados quase sem ruído. Balançou a cabeça pela ironia.

Todo esse esforço para moderar o barulho de um peido.

Permitiu a urina se deslocar até a beira da uretra. Teve medo de que ardesse. Três batidas na porta travaram seu esfíncter.

Marina não tinha conseguido se acertar com o trinco do banheiro no motel. O receio de que Ricardo entrasse, a porta apenas encostada. Passou uma água no rosto, o suficiente para se livrar do choro. Mesmo suja, evitou a ducha. “Tá tudo bem, Má?”.

Outras três batidas na porta do banheiro.

-- Tem gente!

A voz de Marina saiu tíbia, quase com educação. Mais uma vez chorou pela lhaneza com que negaceou a insistência de Ricardo. “Posso entrar, princesa?”, acreditou entreouvir a voz abafada de Ricardo. Mais uma vez forçaram a porta.

-- Vai embora, porra!

Marina conseguiu controlar o primeiro jato. Percebeu um incômodo de leve para moderado. Forçou o resto das secreções para fora. O esperma foi se dissolvendo no xixi quase transparente. Vestígios de Ricardo permaneceram com ela, o cheiro, as marcas de dedos no antebraço, a imagem do tique que tinha nos olhos.

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“The ladies’ is clogged, miss. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

It would not be the first time Marina had relieved herself in a men's room. She turned on the faucet, let the water run. She perched above the toilet seat, pulled her panties down to her ankles, lifted her skirt up to her waist: a balancing act to keep her clothing from coming into contact with strangers’ filth. Squatting, she managed to regulate her flow of gas so that it was almost silent. She shook her head at the ludicrousness – all this effort just to squelch the sound of a fart. She let the urine move to the edge of her urethra. She feared the burning. She clenched her sphincter at the sound of three sharp knocks on the door.

In the motel bathroom, Marina couldn’t lock the door.

The fear of Ricardo entering, the door closed ineffectively. She splashed water on her face, just enough to wash the tears away. She avoided the shower, which was just as dirty. “Everything okay in there?”

Three more knocks on the bathroom door.

“Occupied!”

Marina's voice came out timid, almost polite. Can I come in, princess? She thought of Ricardo's muffled voice. The door handle jiggled.

“Fuck off, dammit!”

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Marina dobrou o papel higiênico com cuidado, queria deixá-lo o mais liso possível. Reparou nas costas de suas mãos, ainda tão viçosas. Era a mãe quem lhe dizia que as mãos são as responsáveis por denunciar a real idade de uma mulher. “Tua mão é tão macia...”. Marina estremeceu com a aspereza do papel na vagina, apesar de todo o desvelo que empenhou no ato. Agachada na privada, ela deixou escapar um uivo agudo.

Marina tapou os ouvidos com as mãos. Travou os dentes com força. A calcinha no meio das coxas, a saia levantada no umbigo. Marina queria fugir, mas a risada de Ricardo continuava radiante.

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Marina managed to control the first stream, moderating with some effort. She forced the rest of the secretions out.

The semen dissolved into her near-transparent urine.

Ricardo's vestiges remained with her: his scent, the fingerprints on her forearm, the image of the twitch in his eye.

Marina folded the toilet paper carefully, smoothing it out as best as she could. She noticed the backs of her hands, still so girlish. Her mother had always told her that a woman’s hands betrayed her real age. Your hand is so soft... Marina shuddered at the sensation of the coarse paper against her labia, despite all the care she'd taken.

Crouched on the toilet, she let out a cry.

Marina put her hands over her ears. She gritted her teeth.

Her panties at mid-thigh, her skirt around her navel. She wanted to run, but Ricardo's laughter shimmered on.

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FRANCISCO GONZÁLEZ

MARAVILLA

Ramiro was twenty when he took Beth Kelly to be his wife. I was not invited to the wedding—neither was Papá or anyone else in our barrio. Rather than hold a traditional ceremony, the couple exchanged vows at the Los Angeles County Courthouse. I only found out about it by looking at Ramiro’s Facebook page, where I noticed that his relationship status had changed from “single” to “married.”

Surely this is a joke, I thought, until I scrolled down: he had posted a solitary photograph of the event. Beth was wearing an ankle-length, strapless black dress, with ribbon trim and a corset-style bodice. Ramiro had his arm around her slender waist. He had matched his navy micro-check suit with a gray shirt, and a burgundy handkerchief peeked out of his chest pocket.

With a series of clicks, I magnified Ramiro’s face until it dominated the screen of my MacBook. I scrutinized his grin for several moments before zooming out again.

There was something brusque and off-kilter about the portrait, which was clearly the work of a conscripted stranger. Still, it was incontrovertible proof of Ramiro’s recklessness. There he stood, alongside his life partner, and I asked myself if he had the slightest idea of what it meant to be married.

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traduzido do inglês por IVAN CARDOSO

MARAVILLA

Ramiro tinha vinte anos quando se casou com Beth Kelly. Eu não fui convidado — nem Papá nem ninguém do barrio. No lugar de uma cerimônia tradicional, o casal trocou os votos no Tribunal do Distrito de Los Angeles.

Só fiquei sabendo disso ao ver o perfil de Ramiro no Facebook, onde percebi que seu status de relacionamento havia mudado de “solteiro” para “casado”.

Certamente é uma piada, eu pensei, até descer um pouco a página: ele havia postado uma única foto do evento.

Beth estava usando um vestido tomara-que-caia preto que descia até os tornozelos, com corpete estilo espartilho e acabamento de fita. Ramiro estava com o braço ao redor da sua cintura fina. Ele tinha combinado seu terno azul-marinho micro xadrez com uma camisa cinza, e um lenço vinho que espreitava do bolso esquerdo.

Com uma série de cliques, eu ampliei o rosto de Ramiro até que ele dominasse a tela do meu MacBook. Examinei seu sorriso largo por um bom tempo antes de diminuir o zoom. Havia algo impessoal e desalinhado naquele retrato, nitidamente trabalho de um estranho contratado para aquela tarefa. Ainda assim, era uma prova inegável da imprudência de Ramiro. Ali estava ele, ao lado de sua esposa, e eu me perguntava se ele tinha a mínima ideia do

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Beneath Ramiro’s post was the caption, “mr kelly,” followed by three emojis indicating contentment. I had never heard of Beth Kelly. I went to her page and skimmed it for information. I found that she had uploaded dozens more pictures, taken on the day-of.

My sophomore year at UCLA was over, and I felt depleted in the aftermath of final exams. I had spent too much time alone in my dorm room, glued to my computer, in part because the weather was miserable. It was a Saturday in early summer, when fleets of clouds coalesce with smog to cast a gray film on blue sky.

Tourists believe they are entitled to sun- drenched scenery. The June Gloom hits them like a betrayal, and yet they have only themselves to blame.

I called my father and announced that I would soon pay him a visit, without explaining why. He deserved to be informed of Ramiro’s foolishness, but it would not do to tell him over the phone. Once I had gathered sufficient evidence from Facebook, I caught an eastbound bus from Westwood. I predicted, correctly, that the trip would eat my entire afternoon. Wilshire Boulevard was a disaster, and I cursed Ramiro for making me endure the gridlock.

When had he planned to tell me? I passed the time by inspecting Beth’s wedding album on my phone. Every picture reinforced my certainty that Ramiro valued thoughtless impulse over his own family.

The bus stammered across Miracle Mile and Koreatown.

Two hours later, it arrived at the edge of Boyle Heights.

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que significava estar casado. Abaixo do post de Ramiro estava a legenda, “sr kelly”, seguida de três emojis que indicavam alegria. Eu jamais tinha ouvido falar de Beth Kelly. Fui para o perfil dela atrás de informações.

Descobri que havia postado dezenas de fotos tiradas no naquele dia.

Meu segundo ano na UCLA tinha acabado e me sentia esgotado após os exames finais. Tinha passado tempo demais sozinho em meu quarto, colado no computador, em parte por conta do tempo horroroso. Era um sábado no início do verão, quando rebanhos de nuvens se aglomeram com a poluição do ar para criarem um filtro cinzento no céu azul. Os turistas se acham no direito de exigir paisagens ensolaradas. Consideram o frio fora de época, em junho, uma traição, mesmo a culpa sendo apenas deles.

Liguei para meu pai e disse que iria visitá-lo em breve, sem dar explicações. Ele merecia ser informado da loucura de Ramiro, mas não pelo telefone. Assim que juntei evidências suficientes no Facebook, peguei um ônibus em Westwood, rumo ao leste. Previ, corretamente, que a viagem levaria uma tarde inteira. A Wilshire Boulevard estava um desastre e xinguei Ramiro por me fazer aturar aquele engarrafamento. Quando ele planejava me contar? Matei o tempo investigando o álbum do casamento de Beth no celular. Cada fotografia reforçava minha certeza de que Ramiro dava mais valor a impulsos do que a sua própria família.

O ônibus gaguejava pela Miracle Mile e Koreatown. Duas horas mais tarde, chegou ao fim de Boyle Heights. Papá

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Papá was waiting for me a block away, in the house where Ramiro and I had come of age under his protection.

~

Seated beside me on the living room couch, Papá was incredulous. I told him about Beth Kelly, and he balked at the sound of her name.

“Show me the photos,” he demanded.

I gave him my iPhone. He worked the touchscreen with his little finger, absorbing images, grunting. I did my best to translate captions to Spanish, but gave up half a minute later as Papá began to sideswipe faster than I could read. Eventually his temper reached a boiling point; it happened when he saw a picture of the newlyweds on Santa Monica Pier. Beth appeared to free- fall into Ramiro’s arms. They were laughing open-mouthed, with the ocean at their backs. For some reason, this touched a nerve in my father, and he jumped to his feet. Just as he was making ready to throw my phone, I plucked it from his grasp.

“He repays me with this—with this!”

Papá gripped the sides of his head with both hands. He sounded as though he was addressing someone other than me.

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estava me esperando no quarteirão seguinte, na casa onde Ramiro e eu crescemos sob sua guarda.

~

Sentado ao meu lado no sofá da sala, Papá estava incrédulo. Contei sobre Beth Kelly e ele travou ao som daquele nome.

“Me mostre as fotos”, exigiu.

Entreguei meu iPhone. Ele tocava a tela com o dedo, absorvendo imagens, grunhindo. Fiz o melhor para traduzir as legendas para o espanhol, mas desisti em menos de um minuto, quando Papá começou a deslizá-las mais rápido do que eu conseguia lê-las. Até que sua aparente calma atingiu um ponto crítico; foi quando viu a fotografia dos recém-casados no Píer de Santa Monica.

Beth parecia estar se jogando nos braços de Ramiro. Eles gargalhavam, com o oceano ao fundo. Por algum motivo, aquilo foi uma pisada no calo do meu pai, que se levantou de supetão. Quando estava prestes a arremessar meu telefone, tomei-o de sua mão.

“É assim que ele me agradece – assim!”

Papá segurou a cabeça com as duas mãos. Parecia falar com outra pessoa, não comigo.

“Isso foi há três dias”, acrescentei: “ela é irlandesa”, o que pareceu consolá-lo um pouco. Mas ele grunhiu mais

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“They went through with it three days ago,” I said, adding, “she’s Irish,” which seemed to comfort him somewhat. But he cried out again when I clarified that, according to her Facebook page, Beth Kelly was an atheist from a Protestant family.

Papá began to pace the living room while I remained seated. We were silent for a while. On a street nearby, the strange calm of the barrio was broken by the chimes of an ice-cream vendor’s pushcart. I wanted to run outside and chase them down with a dollar in hand, just as Ramiro and I had done as children. Out of necessity, I crushed the urge. By and by, the vendor’s music faded until I heard nothing, save for the intermittent barking of backyard dogs. How awful it felt to be a grown man.

I pondered Ramiro’s deviation. In all my extended family, only Tío Juan-José and Tía Carmen had done anything comparable. They had defected to a Baptist church where congregants did not partake of the Blessed Sacrament, choosing instead to shout alleluias over the noise of a rock band. Consequently, my people no longer communicated with Tío Juan-José or Tía Carmen—or their two small children, for that matter. I had not seen them in years, even though they lived just over the hill in El Sereno.

It was not immediately clear to me whether Ramiro would be banished from our family. Strictly speaking, he had not rejected the faith at all; he had merely tied his fortune to an unbeliever. Even so, his transgression appeared as bad as apostasy when I considered

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Beth uma vez quando expliquei que, segundo sua página do Facebook, Beth Kelly era ateia, de origem protestante.

Papá começou a andar pela sala enquanto eu permanecia sentado. Ficamos em silêncio por um tempo. Numa rua próxima, a estranha calma do barrio foi quebrada pelas sinetas do carrinho de um sorveteiro. Eu queria correr atrás dele com um dólar na mão, como Ramiro e eu fazíamos quando éramos crianças. Por necessidade, reprimi o impulso. Pouco a pouco, a música do sorveteiro se afastou até que não ouvi mais nada, exceto os latidos intermitentes dos cachorros nos quintais. Como era horrível a sensação de ser um adulto.

Refleti sobre o desvio de conduta de Ramiro. Em toda a minha família, apenas Tío Juan-José e Tía Carmen fizeram algo comparável. Eles tinham desertado para uma igreja batista onde os fiéis não partilhavam do Santo Sacramento, escolhendo, no lugar, berrar aleluias por cima do barulho de uma banda de rock.

Consequentemente, minha família não conversava mais com Tío Juan-José ou com Tía Carmen – nem com seus dois filhos pequenos. Eu não os via há anos, apesar de morarem logo ali, em El Sereno.

Para mim, não ficava evidente de imediato se Ramiro seria banido de nossa família. Rigorosamente falando, ele não tinha rejeitado sua fé; tinha apenas atado seu destino ao de uma descrente. Mesmo assim, sua transgressão se mostrava tão grave quanto uma apostasia, quando

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Kelly’s refusal to accept even a false version of our God. It dawned on me that I might never see Ramiro again, and an unexpected sadness crept over me. I did not know what to do with it.

Papá went into the kitchen and I heard him pour something. Seconds later, he came back with two shots of bacanora from his special stash. My father only consumed alcohol on tragic occasions. We did not clink glasses; he wore a defeated expression, as though he was mourning a dead kinsman. His voice now was a low rasp.

“In the end, Ramiro has wed a lapdog of Satan.”

“You never know, though,” I offered. “He might convert her, in time.”

Papá scoffed. I shrugged. We drank.

~

Ramiro and I were born two months apart in the same hospital. He was my mother’s sister’s only child, but not my friend. His hostility toward our peers made me nervous. For Ramiro, fighting was an ordinary thing, like putting on a pair of pants in the morning. He would single out an unsuspecting boy on the playground, blurt something offensive by way of a challenge, and tell him,“Meet me on the baseball field, maricón. Meet me after the final bell.” This would happen every few weeks.

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considerei que Beth Kelly se negava a aceitar até mesmo uma versão falsa do nosso Deus. Me dei conta de que talvez nunca mais veria Ramiro, e uma tristeza inesperada pesou sobre mim. Não sabia o que fazer com ela.

Papá foi à cozinha e eu o escutei servindo uma bebida.

Segundos depois, voltou com duas doses de bacanora do seu estoque especial. Meu pai só consumia álcool em ocasiões trágicas. Nós não brindamos; ele tinha uma expressão de derrota, como se estivesse de luto por um parente. Sua voz era agora apenas um ruído.

“No fim, Ramiro se casou com um cachorrinho de Satã.”

“Nunca se sabe”, eu sugeri. “Ele pode acabar convertendo-a, com o tempo.”

Papá zombou. Dei de ombros. Bebemos.

~

Ramiro e eu nascemos no mesmo hospital, com dois meses de diferença. Ele era o único filho da irmã da minha mãe, mas não meu amigo. Sua hostilidade com nossos colegas me deixava nervoso. Para ele, brigar era algo normal, como vestir calças pela manhã. Escolhia um garoto desavisado no pátio, cuspia algo ofensivo como desafio e dizia: “Me encontre no campo de basebol, maricón. Me encontre depois do sinal”. Isso acontecia quase toda semana.

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We attended Ford Elementary—an off-white, two-story complex in the heart of East LA. It was overcrowded.

Some classrooms were crammed with as many as fifty students. The school staff could not tell us apart, let alone remember our names. There were too many of us and too few of them. Teachers could not exert authority over the children, who ran amok.

In LA, you can play baseball all year round. But our baseball field was for fighting. Students clashed there, undisturbed, on a daily basis. It was not actually a field at all. Nor did it contain balls or bases. Rather, it was a desertified patch of land framed by dugouts, benches, and rusted chain-link from a time-before. It suggested an era beyond living memory, when helmeted children swung aluminum bats.

My cousin’s opponents would show up expecting to score an easy win. Some of them knew that Ramiro was the product of an unwed mother and an incarcerated man no one liked to talk about. They assumed that fatherless boys could not achieve real manhood and were inherently weak. They were deceived, as well, by Ramiro’s raggedy appearance, which implied infirmity. He was half a head shorter, at least ten pounds lighter than our grade-mates, with grotesquely long nails and overgrown hair. He would come to school unwashed, wearing the same ill-fitting sets of clothes for days at a time. A scent—something like dirty diapers—trailed him through the hallways.

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Nós cursávamos a Ford Elementary – um conjunto de prédios esbranquiçados de dois andares no coração do leste de Los Angeles. Era uma escola abarrotada.

Algumas salas de aula ficavam entupidas com até cinquenta alunos. Os funcionários não conseguiam nos diferenciar, muito menos lembrar nossos nomes. Havia muitos de nós e poucos deles. Os professores não conseguiam exercer qualquer autoridade sobre os alunos, que corriam freneticamente.

Em Los Angeles, você pode jogar basebol o ano todo. Mas nosso campo de basebol era usado para brigas. Os alunos se engalfinhavam ali, sem preocupações, diariamente. Na verdade, não era sequer um campo. Nem bases tinha, quem dirá bolas. Era um pedaço desertificado de terra cercado por abrigos para as equipes, bancos e grades enferrujadas de tempos passados. Evocava uma era além de qualquer memória, quando crianças usando capacetes balançavam tacos de alumínio.

Os oponentes do meu primo chegavam esperando uma vitória fácil. Alguns deles sabiam que Ramiro era o produto de uma mãe solteira e um pai encarcerado, sobre quem ninguém gostava de falar. Eles assumiam que garotos sem pai não conseguiriam atingir uma masculinidade verdadeira e eram, portanto, naturalmente fracos. Eram enganados, também, pela aparência malcuidada de Ramiro, que indicava algum tipo de enfermidade. Ele era meia cabeça mais baixo e pelo menos cinco quilos mais leve do que nossos colegas de turma, tinha unhas grotescamente longas e o cabelo

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Because we shared a set of grandparents, I never fought with Ramiro. By the same token, I was required to root for him, so I would join the mob of students that cheered from the safety of the bleachers. My cousin liked to fight on the imaginary pitcher’s mound, at the center of the infield, where he could grab a fistful of earth and fling it into his opponent’s eyes. He was unlike the other boys inasmuch as he was willing to do anything to earn a cry for mercy. I saw him pull hair, twist ears, punch groins.

The combatants always went to the ground, and sometimes I would have to squint through the resultant explosion of dust. If he found himself in a chokehold, Ramiro was not afraid to bite, or else use his nails as daggers. In victory, he would make a point of stepping over his weeping adversary, as if to say, “Look, he is beneath me.”

Even as I chanted “Kill him! Kill him!” with my classmates, I resented the fact that Ramiro’s actions kept dragging me to those replicated scenes. His conduct seemed to demote our family in class. It exhausted me. I wished in secret that my cousin would suffer a decisive loss, that someone would whip him once and for all. And yet, as we entered the fifth grade and his reputation grew, I could not deny the fact that Ramiro made me safer on the schoolyard. Due to our blood ties, an attack on me was an attack on him. I possessed dubious security, like a man who keeps a mad dog on his porch.

~

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comprido. Ia para a escola sem tomar banho, usando, por dias seguidos, as mesmas roupas mal ajustadas. Um aroma – parecido com o de fraldas sujas – o seguia pelos corredores.

Por que compartilhávamos um par de avós, eu nunca briguei com Ramiro. Pelo mesmo motivo, era esperado que eu torcesse por ele, então eu me juntava à multidão de alunos que aplaudia da segurança das arquibancadas.

Meu primo gostava de lutar no montículo imaginário do arremessador, onde podia pegar um punhado de terra e arremessá-lo nos olhos do seu adversário. Ele não era como os outros garotos: estava disposto a fazer qualquer coisa para conseguir um apelo de misericórdia. Eu o via puxar cabelos, torcer orelhas, socar virilhas. Os combatentes sempre caíam no chão, e às vezes eu tinha que forçar a vista em meio à explosão de poeira resultante. Se ele se encontrasse em um mata leão, Ramiro não tinha medo de morder ou usar suas unhas como adagas. Ao vencer, fazia questão de pisar em seu adversário chorão, como para dizer: “Vejam, ele está abaixo de mim.”

Enquanto eu gritava “Mata! Mata!” com meus colegas, me ressentia do fato de que as ações de Ramiro ficavam me arrastando para aquelas mesmas cenas replicadas.

Sua conduta parecia rebaixar nossa família na turma.

Era exaustivo. Eu desejava, secretamente, que meu primo sofresse uma derrota decisiva, que alguém o vencesse de uma vez por todas. Mesmo assim, quando chegamos na 5ª série e sua reputação se espalhou, eu não podia negar o fato de que Ramiro me mantinha a salvo

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Papá and I lived a mile from Ford Elementary, across the Santa Ana Freeway. Our home was a two-bedroom adobe casita, with a barred window on every façade. The front and back entrances had outer doors of perforated steel, as well as two-inch inner doors. At our stoop, Papá had posted a sign that said, “Smile, you’re on camera,” although we did not in fact own a camera, so there was no reason to smile for it.

I had a handful of good friends. They would come over after school, on Saturdays, or on Sundays after Mass, and we would gather in my living room to watch Nickelodeon or Cartoon Network. In my barrio, we heard only Spanish, and we spoke only Spanish. Our command of English was so poor as to render most television programming incomprehensible. It didn’t matter —we would talk over the animated characters with improvised dialogue, creating new stories for each episode. That was enough to keep us laughing for hours.

My friends loved my home. They would scamper from room to room, shouting, just to hear their voices bounce off the white walls. With my permission, they would jump on my king bed in shifts, four at a time, until they were winded. The novelty of extra space did not seem to wear off for those boys, who lived in cramped apartments. Some of them shared beds with siblings; one of them slept on a folding cot in a kitchen. To have a backyard of one’s own—even a square of dirt with a pair of lonesome palo verdes—struck them as a sign of enormous wealth. They referred to my house as “tu no pátio da escola. Por conta de nossos laços sanguíneos, me

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atacar era atacá-lo. Eu possuía essa estranha segurança, como um homem que mantém um cão raivoso na varanda.

~

Papá e eu morávamos a um quilômetro e meio da Ford Elementary, do outro lado da via expressa de Santa Ana. A nossa era uma casita de adobe de dois quartos, com janelas gradeadas em todas as faces. As entradas da frente e de trás tinham portas exteriores de metal perfurado, além das portas interiores de duas polegadas de grossura. Na varanda, Papá pendurou um aviso que dizia: “Sorria, você está sendo filmado”. Não tínhamos uma câmera de verdade, então não havia por que sorrir para ela.

Eu tinha alguns bons amigos. Eles vinham depois da escola nos sábados, ou nos domingos depois da missa, e nos sentávamos na sala de estar para assistir à Nickelodeon ou ao Cartoon Network. No meu barrio só se escutava espanhol e só se falava espanhol. Nosso domínio do inglês era tão ruim que a maior parte dos programas de TV era incompreensível. Isso não importava – nós falávamos por cima dos personagens animados com diálogos improvisados, criando novas histórias para cada episódio. Era o suficiente para rirmos por horas.

Meus amigos adoravam minha casa. Eles corriam de quarto em quarto, gritando, apenas para ouvir suas vozes ecoando nas paredes brancas. Com minha permissão, eles pulavam na minha cama king size em turnos, quatro por

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castillo,” and I felt embarrassed because I could not tell whether they were joking or serious.

I never invited Ramiro to play with me, but he would end up at my house anyway, when his mother could not be bothered with his presence. Sometimes he would stay for an entire weekend, sometimes longer. Whenever they realized that my cousin was staying over, my friends would invent excuses not to visit me. I would repeat my invitation and attempt to reassure them, but they would only stare at the ground, tracing invisible shapes with their sneakers. They would shake their heads, force a smile, and I knew what they were thinking. I understood that my friends were afraid of Ramiro. They did not like him, any more than I did, but they could not tell me directly. It would have been wrong for them to insult a member of my family, even if I agreed with their assessment.

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vez, até ficarem sem fôlego. A novidade do espaço extra nunca parecia ficar velha para aqueles garotos, que moravam todos em apartamentos minúsculos. Alguns dividiam camas com irmãos ou irmãs; um deles dormia numa cama dobrável, na cozinha. Ter um jardim próprio – mesmo sendo apenas um quadrado de terra com dois palos verdes solitários – era, para eles, sinal de enorme fortuna. Se referiam à minha casa como “tu castillo”, e eu me sentia envergonhado, pois não sabia dizer se estavam brincando ou falando sério.

Eu nunca convidava Ramiro para brincar comigo, mas ele acabava vindo de qualquer jeito, quando sua mãe não o aguentava mais. Às vezes ele ficava por um fim de semana inteiro, ou mais. Quando percebiam que meu primo estava em casa, meus amigos inventavam desculpas para não virem. Eu reiterava o convite e tentava tranquilizá-los, mas eles apenas olhavam para o chão, desenhando padrões invisíveis com seus tênis.

Balançavam a cabeça, forçavam um sorriso, e eu sabia o que estavam pensando. Entendia que meus amigos tinham medo de Ramiro. Não gostavam dele, assim como eu não gostava dele, mas não podiam me dizer isso diretamente. Para eles, não era certo insultar um membro da família, mesmo que eu concordasse com tudo o que pensavam.

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IVAN NERY CARDOSO

BIBLIOFILIA

I

Eu poderia abrir falando do meu pai, de como era um homem complicado de se lidar e, por ter se afastado da família desde cedo, não cheguei a conhecer meus tios, tias, primos e primas. Daria para falar da minha infância, também. Contar como ele foi uma pessoa horrível ao me criar e de que forma suas ações deixaram cicatrizes que até hoje me afetam; ou como na adolescência tentei fugir de casa para escapar de sua presença; ou até mesmo do divórcio de meus pais e porque me afastei dele e de toda a família para viver minha própria vida, mas isso não é completamente necessário para entender a história.

Tenho, porém, que falar do livro que meu pai escreveu.

Isso é importante contar.

Recebi o livro quando morava na Inglaterra, cumprindo a parte do recheio em meu doutorado-sanduíche na Universidade de Bristol. Vivia de uma bolsa saborosa do governo Dilma aprovada para meu projeto de investigação sobre a evolução da eussocialidade em formigas com sistema de rainha múltiplas da tribo Ponerinae, com ênfase no gênero Odontomachus. Como as espécies que eu estudava são encontradas somente nas regiões tropicais, a maior parte do meu trabalho lá se

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translated from the portuguese by FRANCISCO GONZÁLEZ

BIBLIOFILIA

I

I could start by talking about my father, how he was hard to deal with, how his estrangement from our extended family meant that I never got to meet uncles, aunts, or cousins. I could describe my childhood, too. I could talk about his lousy child-rearing skills, or how his actions left scars that affect me to this day, or how as an adolescent I tried to run away from home, or I could describe my parents’ divorce and why I distanced myself from my father and the entire family in order to live my own life, but that’s not a crucial part of this story. I should, however, tell you about my father’s book. That’s the main thing.

The book arrived during my stay in England, where I was conducting dissertation research at the University of Bristol. I was living off a generous grant from the Rousseff administration, which had approved my project on the evolution of eusociality in ants with multiple-queen hierarchies in the subfamily Ponerinae, with an emphasis on the genus Odontomachus. Since the actual species I was studying are only found in tropical habitats, most of my time was dedicated to scholarly

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resumia à leitura de artigos científicos, visitas a diferentes laboratórios, discussões teóricas com outros pesquisadores, e à criação de uma rede de contatos profissionais. Coisa chata.

Isso me deixava um tempo livre para conhecer os pubs da cidade e reencontrar uma paixão pela literatura que eu acreditava ter morrido há tempos. Tudo começou quando descobri, logo nas primeiras semanas, um sebo que vendia todo o seu acervo a duas libras cada, sem importar o número de páginas, a edição, se era um autor consagrado, desconhecido ou da moda. Um achado. Primeiro levei um Stieg Larsson que devorei em poucos dias e corri para comprar os outros volumes da trilogia. Depois um do Dickens, para conhecer a alta literatura inglesa, com um Hemingway para acompanhar. Na minha próxima visita comprei as peças completas de Shakespeare e de Oscar Wilde. Uma pechincha. Daí pra frente me despudorei nas compras: Faulkner, Alice Munro ou George R. R. Martin, não importava, eu queria todos e quando vi, tinha mais livros do que espaço na estante e mais vontade de ler do que trabalhar.

Era o começo da primavera no hemisfério norte quando o pacote chegou. Foi entregue de manhã pelo correio, mas só fui recebê-lo de noite, levemente bêbado e com dois volumes debaixo do braço. Estava embrulhado em papel pardo, com selos do Brasil e do correio aéreo, não pesava muito. Me surpreendeu que fora enviado de São Paulo por Dionísio Campos Carvalho, meu pai, quebrando nosso período mais longo de silêncio até então, quatro anos e meio.

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articles, various laboratories, discussing theory with other researchers, and professional networking. Boring stuff.

There was plenty of time to explore pubs and rekindle my passion for literature, which I had nearly given up for dead. It all started a few weeks into my stay, when I discovered a bookstore that sold each item on its shelves for two pounds flat, regardless of page length, edition, prestige, obscurity, or popularity. Quite a find. First I bought a Stieg Larsson novel, tore through it in a matter of days, and hurried back to find the rest of the trilogy.

Then I moved on to Dickens for a taste of masterly English literature, along with some Hemingway, followed by the complete works of Shakespeare, and Oscar Wilde.

So many bargains. Eventually I went crazy: Faulkner, Alice Munro, George R.R. Martin—it didn’t matter, I wanted it all. I ended up with more books than space on my shelf, and more interest in reading than I had in doing any work.

It was springtime in the Northern Hemisphere when the package arrived. Although it showed up with the morning post, I only noticed it that evening, in a somewhat drunken state, with two new books tucked under my arm. It was wrapped in brown paper with Brazilian airmail stamps, weighing very little. I was surprised to find that the package had been sent from São Paulo by Dionísio Campos Carvalho, my father, putting an end to our estrangement of more than four years.

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Dentro, encontrei primeiro uma carta breve, escrita em lado único de uma folha A4 com esferográfica azul e dobrada no meio. Reconheci suas letras longas e inclinadas que invadiam as linhas de cima nos bês, tês, agás e éles, e as de baixo nos gês e quês, dificultando a 1 leitura . Embaixo estava o livro. A capa era bonita, tenho que admitir. A foto aérea de uma floresta, provavelmente na Amazônia, cortada por um rio que subia numa diagonal sinuosa, da esquerda para a direita, criando, por conta das bordas do livro, dois triângulos retângulos inversos de mata. Tudo na imagem era verde — talvez tratada com filtro sépia —: as folhas, a água e um barco quase imperceptível, pronto para desaparecer na última curva, no topo da página, onde o espaço entre as copas começava a estreitar e se emaranhar, como se fosse engoli-lo. Poderia significar o contrário também, o barco minúsculo desafiando a gigantesca natureza, abrindo uma trilha de água entre as árvores, mas isso é interpretação minha. Era muito bonita a foto; muito bonita mesmo, e a editora sabia disso. O título (Vida Velha), o nome do autor (Dionísio C. Carvalho) e o logotipo da casa (X.Y.Z.) foram espremidos na base do triângulo inferior para não atrapalhar a imagem, que se estendia pela lombada e para a quarta capa, onde a floresta, com seu aspecto de couve-flor, tomava conta de

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Téo — começava assim a carta —, sempre te falei que minha vida

daria um livro, e agora deu. Algumas dessas histórias você conhece, já te contei, do meu tempo na Amazônia. As outras ficam para os outros livros. Te envio uma cópia, já que vai ser difícil para você vir no lançamento, no dia 28. Abraços, Nísio.

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A brief letter lay within: blue ballpoint on a sheet of A4, creased in half. The long slant of my father’s calligraphy made for a difficult read. Every B, T, H, and L overlapped on lines of text above, while Gs and Qs delved 2 too low . In addition to my father’s letter, the package contained a book. I have to admit that its front cover was pretty. He had chosen an aerial photo of a jungle—the Amazon, probably—bisected diagonally by a sinuous river, producing two triangles of flora. A vision of greenery in sepia tones: leaves, water, and the blur of a ship disappearing up the final bend at the top of the page, where strands of canopy tangled and thickened. Or it might have been a tiny craft challenging the vastness of nature, piercing trails among trees—but that’s just my interpretation. The photograph was beautiful, very beautiful indeed; the editor must have realized this. The title (Ancient Life), the author’s name (Dionísio C. Carvalho), and the publisher’s logo (X.Y.Z.) were printed at the base of the lower triangle, so as not to blemish the image, which sprawled beyond the spine to the back cover. Here, the jungle and its cauliflower texture dominated. Even the little barcode was cornered, eclipsed.

The title page designated the book as a short story collection. It bore a dedication, inscribed in the same 2

“Téo,” it began. “I always told you that my life would yield a book,

and now it has. These are the stories I used to tell you, the ones about my time in Amazonia—excluding a couple that I’m saving for follow-up volumes. I doubt you’ll make it to my launch party on the 28th, so please accept this copy as a gift. Hugs, Nísio.”

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tudo. Até o pequeno código de barras em um dos cantos parecia estar sendo engolido.

Na folha de rosto, logo abaixo da indicação de que era um livro de contos, havia uma dedicatória, na mesma letra da carta. “Com carinho”, seguido da assinatura que ele usava para cheques. O índice dizia que eram oito histórias, entre vinte e quarenta páginas cada, e o conjunto todo somava pouco mais de duzentas. Como epígrafe, escolheu a frase de um autor que eu, até então, desconhecia, Chinua Achebe: “Aqueles eram os tempos bons, quando um homem tinha amigos em clãs distantes”. Ele sempre teve um forte para a nostalgia.

Não havia prefácio ou posfácio, apenas os agradecimentos na penúltima página, antes das informações de impressão. Estavam organizados como uma simples lista de nomes separados por vírgulas, sem indicar quem eram ou o que fizeram para receber a gratidão. Meu nome estava lá, entre uma Fabíola Souza e uma Andrea Fenenbach. Nomes sem rosto para mim e que provavelmente fizeram mais pelo livro do que eu, que nem sabia de sua existência até aquele momento.

Procurei por nomes conhecidos, mas não reconheci nenhum.

Voltei ao índice e virei a página. O primeiro conto se chamava Filho do Boto e começava assim: “Vivo um pouco a cada dia; morro um pouco a cada dia. Não há como escapar desse destino imposto desde meu primeiro fôlego, por isso prefiro me focar na parte viva das coisas.

A morte, escolho não notar. É um detalhe que se esconde

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handwriting as my letter.

“With love,” it said, followed by the same signature my father had once used on his checks. The table of contents listed eight stories, between twenty and forty pages each, totaling more than two hundred pages. For his epigraph, my father had chosen a quote by Chinua Achebe, an author whom I was unfamiliar with at the time: “Those were good days when a man had friends in distant clans.”

My father always had a weakness for nostalgia.

There was neither a preface nor an afterword, only a few acknowledgments on the penultimate page, before the copyright information. The acknowledgments were simply a list of comma-separated names, without a hint as to who these people were, or what they had done to earn my father’s gratitude. My name was included, between one Fabíola Souza and one Andrea Fenenbach.

Faceless individuals, as far as I was concerned. They had probably done more for the book than I had, although I doubted they were aware of its existence.

I turned to the table of contents and flipped a page. The first story was called “Son of Boto.” It began, “Every day I live a little, die a little. I am unable to sidestep my destiny, so I concentrate on the essentials. I give no thought to death. It hides in blind spots until the moment it makes itself known.” I already knew what would happen. My father was sixteen at the time of his first surgical experience, at a medical outpost in the Amazon. The attending surgeon usually worked alone,

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nos pontos cegos até o momento em que decide se fazer vista.” A história que seguia eu já conhecia muito bem, era o relato da primeira operação que ele acompanhou, num posto médico no interior do Amazonas, aos dezesseis anos. O médico responsável estava sozinho no dia e pedia ajuda da população do vilarejo com tarefas simples, como abrir fichas para os pacientes ou organizá- los em ordem de prioridade. Meu pai era uma espécie de aprendiz ali e foi convocado quando a mulher chegou sozinha, o filho querendo nascer.

Foi um parto complicado e demorado, horas de gritos e sangue, até que acabou precisando de uma cesariana. Ele ficou ao lado do doutor, cumprindo as ordens apressadas que dava, mas por falta de uma equipe capacitada, anestesia e instrumentos apropriados, mulher e criança não resistiram. Foi o dia em que decidiu praticar medicina nas comunidades ribeirinhas de seu estado natal e, sem saber, seria o estopim que daria início às suas outras histórias, que escutei muitas vezes, e provavelmente estavam contidas no livro.

Não continuei a leitura. Marquei a página com a carta dobrada e o coloquei na estante, onde se diluiu entre uma coletânea de contos russos traduzidos para o inglês, um Victor Hugo e outros tantos livros não lidos. Respondi sua carta com um parágrafo curto e enviei no dia seguinte, dando início a um novo período de silêncio.

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but sometimes he’d ask the villagers to help with simple tasks—filing documents and such. My father was an apprentice of sorts. One day he was summoned to assist with a long and difficult birth, full of bleeding and screaming, that ended with a Caesarean section. The surgeon shouted desperate orders at my father. There were neither proper tools nor anesthesia.This was the day my father decided to practice medicine in the riverside communities of his native state. He didn’t know it at the time, but his profession would give rise to many more stories—stories that I would hear many times during my childhood. They were no doubt also included in this book.

I stopped reading. Marking the page, I folded the letter and put it on the shelf with my collection of Russian-to-English translations, a Victor Hugo novel, and so many other unopened volumes. I responded to my 3 father’s message with a little paragraph of my own , which I sent the following day. This was my attempt to initiate a new period of estrangement.

He refused to disappear, though. I followed the book’s trajectory through news stories and social media postings. A month or so after the launch, I discovered a five-star review that hailed it as a “promising new voice among our nation’s fiction.” Then there was nothing— nobody mentioned it for months.

3

“Nísio, I’m glad your stories are finally in print. I read the first one, which I remember hearing at the breakfast table, or maybe in the library—I’m not sure, it was a long time ago. I hope you included all the best details and I wish you luck in your new career. Hugs, Teodoro.”

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Ele não chegou a desaparecer, porém. Muito pelo contrário. Acompanhei a repercussão do livro de forma indireta, por notícias de jornais, postagens e comentários que amigos e conhecidos mais cabeça compartilhavam nas redes sociais. A primeira resenha que encontrei, cerca de um mês depois, lhe dava cinco estrelas e o considerava como uma voz promissora na ficção nacional, mas não passou disso. Meses correram sem Vida Velha ser mencionado, mas quando voltei para São Paulo e para minhas formigas, seu nome começou a pipocar na mídia.

Não gosto da palavra pipocar, mas foi exatamente como milhos estourando em uma panela que aconteceu.

Primeiro, um booktuber de certa influência o resenhou positivamente. Na semana seguinte, o livro teve uma nova resenha num site amador de crítica literária, elogiando a coragem de sua prosa autobiográfica. Depois, seu nome passou a figurar em listas de “não sei quantos novos autores brasileiros que você precisa ler”, “tantos livros lançados este ano que valem a pena conhecer” etc.

Não sei se os algoritmos das redes associaram nossos sobrenomes e descobriram a relação de parentesco, ou se era pura coincidência, mas eu via essas listas sendo compartilhadas pelo menos uma vez a cada quatro ou cinco dias.

Sempre que me deparava com algum novo artigo sobre o livro, voltava instintivamente meu olhar para a estante tentando encontrá-lo perdido lá no meio. Vez e outra cheguei a pegá-lo novamente, mas em nenhuma delas continuei a leitura. Analisava a capa, o índice, a folha de

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Just after I returned to São Paulo and my ants, Ancient Life started trending. First, a BookTuber reviewed it favorably. A week later, a third-rate online journal praised “the courage of its autobiographical prose.” My father’s name began to surface on lists of “X Brazilian authors to read right now,” and “the top X novels you missed,” etc. I saw them getting shared in my network every four or five days.

Whenever I came across new reviews of the book, I’d glance at the copy on my shelf. Time and again I grabbed it, but I still couldn’t bring myself to give it a read. I’d examine the cover, table of contents, title page, colophon, epigraph, and acknowledgments, but not the stories themselves. I didn’t want to revisit them. Not yet, anyway.

Eventually, as dawn broke on a sleepless night, an old classmate shared a peculiar video with me, for which I almost unfriended him on the spot. It was a clip from an obscure TV show I’d never heard of—something like “Resenhas" or “Apêndices,” early-morning programming on a bargain-basement channel. The set design was rudimentary: a wall painted with rectangles in various shades of yellow, a small gray stage. The flaky-bearded interviewer sat in one of two swivel chairs. He wore thick-rimmed glasses, a woolen vest over his checkered shirt; I imagined he smelled of old books. My father sat in the other chair. Immediately, I noticed his white eyebrows. The last time I’d seen him, his hair had been solid silver, but his eyebrows had still been black.

Somehow this change highlighted my father’s old age.

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rosto, o colofão, a epígrafe, os agradecimentos, mas não os contos. Não queria reencontrar aquelas histórias.

Ainda não.

Em alguma madrugada de insônia, lembro de me deparar com uma entrevista que deu. Um amigo dos tempos de cursinho com quem eu já vinha considerando desfazer a amizade virtual que compartilhou o vídeo. Era um trecho de um programa cultural obscuro que eu nunca tinha ouvido falar, algo como Resenhas ou Apêndices, que passava nos horários alugados da alta madrugada em algum canal aberto de baixa audiência. O cenário era o mais simples possível, uma parede pintada com retângulos de diferentes tons de amarelo, um pequeno palco cinza chumbo e duas cadeiras giratórias. Em uma delas estava o entrevistador, usava óculos de aro grosso, colete de lã por cima da camisa quadriculada, tinha uma barba pouco expressiva e um pouco falha, e, imagino, deveria cheirar a livros velhos. Na outra, estava meu pai.

A primeira coisa que notei foram suas sobrancelhas, estavam brancas. Nas últimas lembranças que eu tinha dele, os cabelos estavam completamente prateados, sem um fio preto à vista, mas as sobrancelhas continuavam intactas. Não fosse por essa mudança, eu provavelmente não teria notado que todo ele estava envelhecido. A pele, cheia de rugas novas e talhos profundos do tempo, escorria pelos ossos, parecendo levar junto o olho esquerdo. Tinha uma pequena corcunda, e suas mãos tremiam de leve enquanto gesticulava. Contei os anos desde a última vez que nos vimos: eram muitos.

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Deep wrinkles, carved by time, now ran along his face, pendulous below his eyes. I tried to count the many years since our previous encounter. His back was hunched, his hands trembled slightly with every gesture.

The segment, lasting less than four minutes, did not include a reading. It was a quick presentation followed by some questions, then a final reiteration of the book’s title. The interviewer only appeared interested in the autobiographical aspects of the book, the veracity of the stories. He asked things like, "Did this really happen to you?" and, “What inspired that?" but my father dodged the questions, saying, "Fiction is inspired by—but is

not committed to—reality.” I didn’t know if he was paraphrasing someone, but I saw that quote shared all over the internet, attributed to Dionísio C. Carvalho. At some point, I noticed a 23-year-old woman using it as her description on Tinder.

When my father was nominated for one of Brazil’s most prestigious literary awards in fiction (sub-category: first-time authors over forty), his publisher invested in additional advertising. Stores displayed the tome in their windows. For months, booksellers would ask me, “Have you heard of this one here? Ancient Life?” Sometime before the award announcement, my father was featured in an article entitled, "Echoes of Brazil in the Amazon,” which praised his style as, “a well-balanced mix of bar talk, lyricism, and a punch in the face.” After this, the book stayed at eighth place on the bestseller list for three weeks in a row.

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A entrevista, curta, não durou mais do que quatro minutos, sem leituras de trechos, apenas uma apresentação, algumas perguntas e a recapitulação do título do livro, para terminar. O entrevistador, em meio aos elogios, parecia querer saber apenas sobre o lado autobiográfico do livro e a veracidade das histórias, perguntando coisas como “tudo isso aconteceu mesmo com você?”, ou “de onde veio a inspiração para a sua escrita?”, mas as respostas que meu pai dava desviavam da isca, com frases como “a ficção se inspira na realidade, mas não possui nenhum compromisso com ela”. Não sei se ele estava citando alguém, mas vi essa frase sendo compartilhada como se fosse dele, de Dionísio C. Carvalho. Soube que havia conquistado o gosto popular quando vi amigos de infância postando outras frases suas nas redes sociais e uma garota de 23 anos usando uma citação do livro como sua descrição pessoal no Tinder.

Quando foi indicado para um dos mais prestigiados prêmios literários do país na categoria contos (subcategoria autores iniciantes maiores de 40 anos), a editora passou a investir no marketing do livro, colocando-o nos espaços pagos das vitrines de lojas e de anúncios nos suplementos literários. Foram meses em que era difícil pedir indicações nas livrarias da cidade e não ouvir algo como: “Você conhece esse daqui? Vida Velha?”.

Na expectativa do resultado, ele voltou a ser comentado num artigo chamado “Ecos do Brasil na Amazônia”, que elogiava seu estilo, considerado “uma mistura equilibrada de conversa de bar, lirismo e um soco na cara”. O efeito foi positivo, pois segurou a oitava posição na lista de mais vendidos por três semanas seguidas.

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But every wave must return to the sea, and this was no different. The award went to another author, for a well-reviewed work on near-death experiences. I imagine my father didn’t take the news well, because he disappeared from the media. A lone email interview, on the topic of autofiction, turned up in a magazine.

Otherwise, there were no more public appearances, no more book fairs or debates. His work was supplanted by international releases, Nobel Prize nominees, and the ever-present studies on the works of Machado de Assis and Guimarães Rosa. My father faded from view.

That's when he decided to die.

And that's where the story begins.

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Mas toda onda uma hora tem que quebrar, e com ele não foi diferente. O prêmio acabou indo para outro autor, com um livro sobre experiências de quase-morte muito bem falado pela crítica. Meu pai não deve ter recebido bem a notícia, pois se silenciou para a mídia. Não deu mais entrevistas nem fez aparições públicas, recusando convites para feiras e debates literários. Apenas uma revista conseguiu uma breve entrevista por email sobre os aspectos da prosa de autoficção, mas seis meses depois do resultado do prêmio, quando o interesse pelo livro já havia diminuído significativamente. Há muito tempo seu nome tinha dado lugar a artigos sobre lançamentos de autores internacionais, nomeações para o Nobel de literatura e os sempre presentes artigos sobre as obras de Machado de Assis e Guimarães Rosa, e a matéria acabou passando quase despercebida.

Foi aí que ele decidiu morrer.

E é aí que começa a história.

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word for word / wort fĂźr wort Columbia University School of the Arts Deutsches Literaturinstitut Leipzig

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MÓNICA MUÑIZ from CROWS ON FIRE She first sees the creature perched on the ceiling, dark feathers growing out of a human body, a metallic sheen over them. It brandishes its sharp teeth, claws digging into the concrete of the dark room. Then she notices Dear next to her, microphone in his hand, muttering incomprehensibly. And then she feels the leather restraints on her wrists and ankles.

“Patient has woken up after Phase 2 of purging process, about thirty minutes after losing consciousness,” Dear says, looking at the creature on the ceiling, screeching and flapping one of its wings, attached to its arm. Dear huffs into the microphone and shakes his head. Honey comes out of the corner of her eye, unbuckles the restraints carefully. Her fingers briefly touch Patient’s chafed skin and she leans into it, for the comfort even within the spark of pain. Honey presses her thumb against Patient’s wrists, and withdraws. Dear turns away, murmuring to himself, walking to the equipment on a table, picking and inspecting a few bloody knives. Patient rubs her wrists when she’s set free, Honey helping her get off the operating table as her legs shake and the creature climbs further into the middle of the ceiling, wagging its tongue.

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aus dem englischen übersetzt von ÖZLEM ÖZGUL DÜNDAR

KRÄHEN, ENTFACHT (Auszug)

Das erste Mal sieht sie die Kreatur an der Zimmerdecke gelehnt, mit ihren schwarzen Federn, die aus einem menschlichen Körper herauswachsen, ein metallischer Schimmer über ihnen. Sie zeigt ihre scharfen Zähne, ihre Krallen, die sie in den Beton der Decke des dunklen Raums gräbt. Dann bemerkt sie Lieber neben sich, ein Mikrophon in der Hand, unverständlich vor sich hin murren. Und dann spürt sie die Lederhandschellen an den Hand- und Fußgelenken.

“Patientin ist nach Phase 2 der Reinigung aufgewacht, ca. dreißig Minuten nach Verlust des Bewusstseins,” sagt Lieber, mit seinem Blick fixiert auf die Kreatur an der Decke, die ihre Flügel streckt, die aus ihren Armen herauswachsen und zu flattern beginnt. Lieber pustet ins Mikrophon und schüttelt den Kopf. Liebe kommt aus Patientins Augenwinkeln und löst vorsichtig die Handschellen. Ihre Finger berühren sanft die aufgeschürfte Haut von Patientin, um ihr etwas Erleichterung zu verschaffen drückt Liebe ihren Daumen an Patientins Handgelenk und verursacht ihr nur Schmerzen und zieht ihre Hand schnell zurück. Lieber dreht sich um, murmelt leise vor sich hin, geht zu den Instrumenten auf dem Tisch, nimmt einige der blutigen

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She’s taken to her wet bedroom, laid on the bed, Honey caressing her cheek with a tight smile. Her eyes never quite shone, not like Patient’s mother’s did, nor even like her father’s.

Honey leans in in what seems to be an attempt to kiss Patient’s forehead, but hesitates a few inches away from her skin, and removes herself shortly after. Patient hears the door closing as she looks up at the ceiling, imagining the creature perched over her, expanding.

She was thirteen. She played kickball every Friday and Saturday with the kids from the neighborhood: Little girls shouldn’t be going about like that. Little girls will eventually grow up and they need to be women, beautiful women, or they would achieve nothing in life. Do you want that for your child? Patient heard a variation of that during the tea parties at her home, her mother uncomfortably fixing her gentle white gloves against the heat. Her father shrugged and ignored her most of the time, but Patient has memories of the before-times: when he lazily threw the baseball at her, helping her read the newspapers of wars in Asia, buying her those hanging planets for her room. Her mother reluctantly letting her hair remain short, but eyes twinkling when Patient smiled at herself in the mirror, small fingers pinching the short tips.

She remembered all of that, but her parents changed, with the stares, with sneers, with the threats of withdrawals from parties and sports and book clubs.

From promotions, that one time for her mother at the

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Messer in die Hand und inspiziert sie. Patientin massiert sich an den Gelenken, nachdem sie losgelassen wurde.

Liebe hilft ihr vom Operationstisch aufzustehen, und ihre Beine zittern, während die Kreatur in die Mitte der Decke schleicht und ihre Zunge vorstreckt.

Sie wird in ihren feuchten Raum gebracht, auf das Bett gelegt. Liebe streichelt ihre Wange mit einem strengen Lächeln im Gesicht. Ihre Augen leuchten nicht, nicht wie die Augen von Patientins Mutter, auch nicht wie die ihres Vater.

Liebe lehnt sich vor, als wolle sie Patientins Stirn küssen, hält dann aber ein paar Zentimeter, bevor sie sie berührt, inne, und verlässt dann den Raum. Patientin hört die Tür zufallen, während sie wieder zur Decke schaut und sich die Anwesenheit der Kreatur wünscht.

Sie war dreizehn. Jeden Freitag und Samstag spielte sie Fußball mit den Kindern aus der Nachbarschaft: Kleine Mädchen sollten sich nicht so kleiden. Kleine Mädchen werden irgendwann Frauen, schöne Frauen, oder sie erreichen nichts im Leben. Möchtest du das für dein Kind? Patientin hörte Versionen davon auf den Teeparties bei ihnen zu Hause. Sie beobachtete ihre Mutter dabei, wie diese unbehaglich ihre feinen weißen Handschuhe zurecht zupfte. Ihr Vater zuckte mit den Achseln und ignorierte sie die meiste Zeit, aber Patientin erinnert sich an Zeiten, die noch weiter zurück liegen: wie

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library. Children like her had tendencies, and those tendencies would lead to ruin for the other children. So they all just apologized, internally or out loud, as Patient saw the mirages at the corner of her eye, the undulating near-transparent auras around other people.

An older boy jogged by Patient’s house on weekend afternoons, aura around him, and she felt the urge to hug him. A woman walked past with her dog when Patient was playing baseball and she stared at her fingers as the other kids shouted at her to run to first base. And Patient kept thinking, as the mirages intensified and manifested in vaporous warmth behind her eyes, of holding that woman’s fingers in her hands, of hugging the man. She looked out her window and her mother said a watery “Oh, God, what are we doing to you?” And when Patient’s father wasn’t invited for poker night for the first time, he came home and said that enough was enough.

She felt its breath against the back of her neck at night, a heat somewhere by her stomach—painful is the word she used now, as Honey told her to do. “He says that the pain is proof of its innate evil,” she had explained over dinner, as Patient ate her chicken feverishly, with the taste of saw dust. And Patient believed him, as he saw the creature growing within her by just the image of herself, walking by the sidewalk a few dozen blocks away from her home.

He swung his eyes over her, from head to toe, sneering.

His white mustache moved like a slug, his grey and

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er ihr gelassen den Baseball zuspielte, ihr half, die Zeitungsartikel über die Kriege in Asien zu lesen, wie er ihr Planetenminiaturen kaufte für ihr Zimmer. Ihre Mutter, wie sie ihr widerstrebend die Haare kurz ließ und wie ihre Augen zuckten, als Patientin ihr eigenes Spiegelbild betrachtete und dabei die kurzen Spitzen der Haare abtastete und lächelte.

Sie erinnert sich an all das, aber ihre Eltern wandelten sich mit den Blicken, dem Schnauben, mit den Drohungen der Nachbarn, sie nicht mehr zu ihren Parties, Sportclubs und in ihre Literaturkreise einzuladen, mit den verlorenen beruflichen Möglichkeiten ihrer Mutter in der Bücherei. Kinder wie sie hatten eben Neigungen, und solche Neigungen würden die anderen Kinder verderben. So redeten sich alle heraus, innerlich oder laut. Währenddessen sah Patientin aus ihren Augenwinkeln den Glanz, den beinahe transparenten Schimmer der Aura, die um manche Menschen lag.

Ein älterer Junge joggte vorbei an Patientins Haus, immer nachmittags an den Wochenenden, eine Aura lag um ihn, und sie fühlte den Drang, ihn zu umarmen. Eine Frau ging vorbei mit ihrem Hund, als Patientin Baseball spielte, und Patientins Blick blieb an den Händen der Frau hängen, während die anderen Kinder ihr zuriefen zur ersten Base zu rennen. Und Patientin konnte nicht aufhören sich die Erscheinungen vorzustellen und sie kamen in verschiedenen Intensitäten vor ihren Augen zum Vorschein und sie konnte nicht aufhören sich danach zu sehnen die Finger der Frau in ihren Händen zu halten, den Jungen zu umarmen. Sie schaute aus dem Fenster

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brown hair cut short to his head. His belly grew bigger than his chest, not out of fatness, but as if it existed on its own, separate from the rest of the body. He knew of the evil, making her sweat, making her think hungrily—stomach aching, fingers bending. Little secrets she kept from her parents, pretending to be fine when she felt the fevers coming. They’d merely smile if she looked down on herself, playfully patting her on the head, uncomfortably chuckling amongst themselves without telling her the joke.

She had run away from that first encounter and hid herself in her bedroom, under her sheets, shadows of planets in the moonlight. Heat rising, heat firing, face indistinguishable.

“Don’t feel too bad about it, you didn’t know,” Honey patted her by the stomach, then by the arm.

But hands touched Patient, against the sheet. Skin crawling, shivering. She bit her lips, curled up, sweating.

Her mother had woken her up in the morning, get up get up you’re going to be late, and Patient went to the bathroom and stayed on the toilet, urinating with hands on her face, crying. Her mother, by the front door, hugged her tight, made her a wonderful cheese-and-ham sandwich, fingers trembling against the fabric of the T-shirt and pants, the tennis shoes and brown socks. Her hand went over Patient’s hair, just barely touching, eyes watering.

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und ihre Mutter sagte mit Tränen in den Augen: “Oh, Gott, was tuen wir dir an?” Und als Patientins Vater zum ersten Mal nicht zur Pokernacht eingeladen wurde, kam er nach Hause und sagte, dass genug genug sei.

In der Nacht spürte sie den Atem der Kreatur hinten an ihrem Hals, eine Hitze um ihren Bauch herum – schmerzhaft ist das Wort, das sie nun gebrauchte, um es zu beschreiben, wie Liebes es ihr gesagt hatte. „Er sagt, dass der Schmerz der Beweis für das angeborene Böse ist,” hatte sie beim Abendessen erklärt, als Patientin ihr Hühnchen gierig aß, den Geschmack von fahler Trockenheit auf der Zunge. Und Patientin hatte ihm geglaubt, als er das Wesen in ihr wachsen gesehen hatte in ihrem Bild, wie es auf dem Bürgersteig umherlief nur ein paar Siedlungen von ihrem Zuhause entfernt.

Er schaute sie von oben bis unten an, schnaufte dabei.

Sein weißer Schnurrbart bewegte sich wie eine Serpentine, sein graubraunes Haar nur wenige Zentimter lang geschnitten. Sein Bauch wurde größer und größer als seine Brust, nicht weil es fett war, sondern weil es wie ein eigenes Wesen, das getrennt vom Rest seines Körpers war, existierte. Er wusste von dem Bösen, das sie schwitzen ließ, von ihren hungrigen Gedanken – dem schmerzenden Bauch, den gekrümmten Fingern. Sie hatte kleine Geheimnisse vor ihren Eltern, wenn sie vorgab, es ginge ihr gut, wann immer das Fieber begann.

Die Eltern lächelten nur, wenn sie sich ertappt fühlte und verschämt auf den Boden schaute, sie streichelten ihren Kopf wie bei einem Kind, einander unbehaglich zukichernd, ohne ihr den Witz zu erzählen.

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“You’ll be fine after you come back, you hear me?” she said, and kissed Patient’s forehead. “I can’t—I can’t wait to see you in a pretty dress.” She let Patient go, her father having left the house about two hours earlier than usual. Patient looks back and thinks, and so it was.

The man met her again, mustache wiggling, pointing to the mirage by his side.

“This is it, is it not?”

She was going to be late for school, and she needed to pee, and she needed to go, and the man touched her shoulder, callused hands against soft skin, warmth going under. “Child, come with me. Your parents have left you with—I can help.”

And she trembled, and her toes wiggled, and she ran down the street, corner of the sidewalk, and crouched by a neighbor’s bushes. The leaves moved, dancing to the rhythm of her harsh breaths, touching softly. Children, probably going to school, laughed close by, feet against concrete, and she sighed. The grass had felt wet under her feet, through the shoes.

A hand had taken hold of her waist, in the dark green. It crawled, and she sighed as before, but sprung up, clutching at her hair. The hand, the aura, slithered away, and she reddened.

“Help.”

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Sie war weggerannt bei der ersten Begegnung und hatte sich in ihrem Kinderzimmer unter ihrer Bettdecke versteckt, Schatten von Planeten im Mondlicht. Die Hitze stieg, sie wurde noch wilder, das Gesicht unerkennbar.

„Du brauchst kein schlechtes Gewissen zu haben. Du wusstest es nicht,“ Liebes streichelte sie erst am Bauch, dann am Arm.

Dann berührten sie Hände an der Bettdecke. Ihre Haut zog sich zusammen, sie zitterte. Sie biss sich auf die Lippen, kauerte zusammen, schwitzte. Ihre Mutter weckte sie am Morgen, steh auf, du kommst zu spät, und Patientin lief ins Badezimmer und blieb auf der Toilette sitzen, urinierte mit ihren Händen über dem Gesicht, weinte. Ihre Mutter umarmte sie bei der Verabschiedung, gab ihr ein wundervolles selbstgemachtes Käse- und Schinken Sandwich mit, ihre Finger zitterten, der Stoff des T-Shirts und selbst die Hose bis zu den Tennisschuhen und die braunen Socken an ihrem Körper bebten. Sie streichelte Patientins Haar, ihre Hände berührten sie kaum, ihre Augen waren feucht dabei.

„Es wird dir gut sein, wenn du wieder zurückkommst, hörst du mich?“ sagte sie und küsste Patientin auf die Stirn. „Ich kann, ich kann es nicht mehr abwarten dich in einem schönen Kleid zu sehen“. Sie verabschiedete sich von Patientin, der Vater war bereits zwei Stunden früher als sonst aus dem Haus gegangen. Patientin erinnert sich daran und denkt, ja, genauso war es.

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And the man said yes, of course, by the sidewalk, hand on her hand, guiding her into mist, into forest, into the away. And fire breathed in, and fire breathed out, and she swept away her hand, but did not leave his side.

But the man explained it to her, to the shell of herself, as he guided her back to his house, an old building from her grandparents’ time, mossy and crumbling both outside and inside. “I’ve seen it in most children,” he said, looking through the door, as if careful of accidentally stepping on rodent. “It manifests and consumes the child from the inside out, leaving a carcass behind, replacing the child in life and living…” he wandered off into the kitchen, leaving her standing on a dusty foyer with rotting wood and no furniture except for a barely-standing green sofa, cotton fuzz sprouting all about, and a chandelier with five blinking light bulbs.

Dust circled around her in grey, drops of water falling from the roof, onto her hair. A woman soon came in from the kitchen, giving her what would be her usual tight smile, with a slightly pained folding on her forehead. She locks the front door with a two keys for two locks, and turns to her. “Come now, darling, let’s get you to your new bedroom.”

The woman was older than her mother, grey hairs at her temples, arms sagging even beneath the long dress sleeves. Wrinkles all over her face, maybe more than the man’s. She trudged more than walked, as if restrained by a chain. Shadows seemed to follow her, always obscured.

Adults always seemed to her to be endless without history—the same without change, always present, no

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Der Mann traf sie nochmal, sein Schnurrbart schwang hin und her und zielte mit der Spitze auf die Erscheinung neben ihr.

„Das ist sie, oder nicht?“

Sie war zu spät für die Schule, und sie musste dringend pinkeln, und sie musste gehen, und der Mann berührte ihre Schulter, raue Hände auf weicher Haut, die Wärme drang durch, „Kind, komm mit mir. Deine Eltern haben dich hier gelassen mit – ich kann dir helfen.“

Und ihr wurde schwindelig, bis zu den Zehenspitzen zitterte sie, und sie rannte die Straße entlang, bis zur Ecke des Bürgersteigs, und hockte sich hinter ein Gebüsch des Nachbarhauses. Die Blätter bewegten sich, tanzten im Rhythmus ihres schnellen und tiefen Atems – im Kontrast die sanfte Berührung des Mannes. Kinder lachten in der Nähe, die auf dem Weg zur Schule waren, ihre Schritte auf dem Asphalt, und sie seufzte erleichtert.

Die Feuchtigkeit des Grases drang durch ihre dünnen Stoffschuhe.

Eine Hand griff nach ihrer Hüfte, im dunkeln Grün. Es kroch, und sie seufzte wieder, sprang auf, schlug ihre Hände über ihren Kopf. Die Hand, die Aura, sie schlichen davon, als sie errötete.

„Hilf mir.“

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past, no future. This woman seemed to have no present either, or time itself.

The woman and man treated her carefully, guiding her around the house—the man calling the woman “Honey,” and the woman calling the man “Dear.” Two-stories, three with the basement. One staircase, crumbling, but still standing. Home of homes, families passing by in the decades since and on, back when wars were fought with horses, up to now, and the monsters still remain on the children.

“But there is hope,” Dear said, “there is always hope. I won’t let them get you.” And Honey nodded, hand touching her abdomen, rubbing.

Before she went to sleep for the night, Dear pressed his mouth to Patient’s ear, outside her bedroom. “There’s something under the bed. Don’t tell my honey.” He left, and going in herself, she found them. Photos of monsters and children—cut apart, feathery devils consuming meats with black blood trickling down their claws, white and grey space behind them. And then of the same children, growing up, into men and women, smiling at the camera, in weddings. She placed the photos under her mattress, completely, and attempted to obliterate them from her mind.

She thought of Dear, as she lays awake at night, the fevers coming and going, the creature prowling in the dark, hissing—how she went with him. It made sense at the time, it made her feel...in the world, standing on solid

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Und der Mann stand auf dem Bürgersteig neben ihr und sagte „natürlich“. Er nahm ihre Hand in seine und führte sie in den Nebel, den Wald, weg von hier. Und sie atmete Feuer ein und Feuer aus, und sie zog ihre Hand aus seiner, wisch ihm aber nicht von der Seite.

Aber der Mann erklärte ihr, zur Hülle ihrer Selbst, als er sie zurück ins Haus führte, ein altes Gebäude aus der Zeit der Großeltern, moderig und von außen und innen vom Zerfall bedroht. „Ich habe es bei vielen Kindern gesehen,“ sagte er, schaute dabei zur Tür, als ob er aufpassen würde, nicht versehentlich auf ein kleines Tier zu treten. „Es dringt tief ein und frisst das Kind von innen nach außen auf, lässt es als bloßes Gerippe zurück, ersetzt das Kind – sein Leben und alles was ihm wertvoll ist...“, er ging in die Küche, ließ sie im Flur stehen, das aus verrottetem Holz bestand und keine Möbel enthielt bis auf ein grünes Sofa, das nicht mehr richtig stand, Baumwollfusel schwirrten in der Luft und ein Kronleuchter leuchtete hell mit fünf Glühbirnen. Grauer Staub umhüllte sie, Wassertropfen fielen von der Decke auf ihre Haare. Bald darauf kam eine Frau aus der Küche mit einem strengen Lächeln und einer schmerzverzerrten Falte auf ihrer Stirn. Mit ihren beiden Schlüsseln für die Schlösser schloss sie die Vordertür ab und wendete sich zu ihr: „Komm nun, meine Liebe, ich bring dich zu deinem Schlafzimmer.“

Die Frau war älter als ihre Mutter, graue Haare an den Schläfen, ihre Arme hingen schlaff herunter, betont von den langen Ärmeln des Kleids. Falten über ihrem gesamten Gesicht, vielleicht mehr als beim Mann. Sie

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ground, as if she finally understood how the planet rolls through space. He saw her, like he wanted to eat her. She dreamed of hugging, and it was warm, and she felt peace.

They left her on her own devices most of the time, except when Honey asked her questions about the mirage.

Patient answered them as always—at the edge of her vision—and Honey left her alone, Dear working in the basement of the house. Patient wandered around the house, dusty with bare walls slightly crumbling, windows cracked in the corners, roof sinking in at some points, water dripping in when it rained. The bedroom they had given her was emptier than the rest of the house, with just an old molding mattress next to the only window, the rest just the flooring and dented walls. Patient found spatters of red at some parts of the walls and floor of the room, brown-dried, and a distant laughter resonated through the night as she failed to fall asleep—laughter too loud, too screeching. The silence suffocated her and she imagined Dear working on tools she made up, knives and crane-like machines, and holograms, and skin touching skin with Honey, hugging tightly, and she banged her head against the mattress, holding her stomach as the mirage doubled her vision, like seeing herself in a veiled mirror.

Patient replaced the laughter with that from memories, kids playing kickball down the street, huffing and puffing, joking with each other, occasionally fighting when someone lost. The mirages followed them around, ghosts blurring them, but it would eventually vanish as she kicked the ball over the kids and ran the victory lap.

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trottete über den Boden, mehr als dass sie ging, als ob sie eine Metallkette um ihre Fußgelenke hatte. Schatten schienen ihr zu folgen – ein obskures Dunkel. Erwachsene schienen eine endlose Lebensgeschichte zu haben und wirkten zugleich unveränderlich in ihrem Wesen, starr.

Diese Frau schien keine Gegenwart zu haben, eigentlich nicht einmal in einer Zeitlichkeit zu existieren. Die Frau und der Mann gingen behutsam mit ihr um, führten sie zusammen durch das Haus. Der Mann nannte die Frau „Honey“ und die Frau nannte den Mann „Dear“. Zwei Geschichten, mit dem Keller zusammen, waren es drei.

Sie gingen eine Treppe herunter, die kurz vor dem Zusammenbruch schien, aber ihr Gewicht gerade noch aushielt. Das Zuhause von allen Zuhausen, in ihm gab es Familien, die mit den Jahrzehnten kamen und gingen, von je her und nach je hin, zu einer Zeit als man noch auf Pferden in den Krieg ritt – von damals bis heute suchten Monster die Kinder heim.

„Aber es gibt Hoffnung,“ sagte Dear, „es gibt immer Hoffnung. Ich werde dich ihnen nicht überlassen.“ Und Honey nickte, mit einer Hand berührte sie ihren Bauch, streichelte ihn.

Es war Nacht. Patientin stand vor ihrer Tür und hatte sich gerade fertig gemacht zum Schlafen-legen als Dear kam und seinen Mund an ihr Ohr legte: „Es ist etwas unter dem Bett. Erzähl es nicht meiner Honey.“ Er ging und als sie das Zimmer betrat, fand sie die Dinge, von denen Dear sprach. Fotos von Monstern und Kindern, zerstochene Teufel mit Federn, die Fleisch aßen und schwarzes Blut, das von ihren Krallen heruntertropfte,

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They would say goodbye to each other at sunset, and hello again at sunrise. On and on, admiring each other, parents patting her hair silently. She wept into the mattress of her new bed, digging her nails into the breaking cloth.

The process of “purging” Patient began with Phase 1: separating the creature from herself. “Soon, you will gather yourself. You will grow, and your grown self will forget about this young body.” Dear passed a finger over his mustache, sweating. He looked over at Honey. “You won’t remember, eventually, and you cannot,” eyes boring into Honey, “see yourself again after this, and Phase 2.” Patient initially imagined that the creature would look like a monster; worm-like, or a demonic goat, or a red-eyed bat of sorts. But when Dear had strapped Patient down on the operating table in the basement, narrating into his microphone, electrifying her with the cables Honey helped attach to her torso, what came about after fifteen sessions was herself. The other-self stood by the end of the table, shyly smiling at Patient’s reddened figure, sweat sticking her hair to her face, until Dear began hitting her with a metal rod.

Her other-self screamed and ran back to a corner of the basement, covering her head as Dear pounded her repeatedly. “Don’t let the child look at it!” he shouted at Honey, who quickly covered Patient’s eyes and ears with a piece of cloth. Through the fabric, Patient heard the muffled screams, the hits, and sometimes smelled the blood leaking out of the other-self ’s body. Patient’s head pounded, her eyes burned, she hiccupped, feeling her

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mit weißen und grauen Schwimmhäuten zwischen den Fingern. Und dann gab es Fotos mit den gleichen Kindern, die erwachsen, zu Männern und Frauen geworden waren, die auf Hochzeiten in die Kamera lächelten. Sie legte die Fotos weg, unter ihre Matratze und versuchte sie aus ihrem Gedächtnis zu löschen.

Sie dachte an Dear, während sie nachts im Bett lag, das Fieber, das Schwindelgefühl beschlich sie wieder, kam und ging, die Kreatur streifte dabei im Dunkeln umher, fauchte – wie damals als sie mit ihm gegangen war. In dem Moment hatte es Sinn gemacht mit ihm zu gehen, sie fühlte sich dadurch... lebendig, sie stand auf festem Boden, als ob sie in dem Moment verstanden hatte wie die Erde sich durch das Universum bewegte. Er sah sie an, als ob er sie verschlingen wollte. Sie träumte davon jemanden zu umarmen, von der Wärme der Umarmung und sie fühlte sich in Frieden.

Sie ließen sie meistens alleine, außer, wenn Honey ihr Fragen zur Aura stellte. Patientin beantwortete sie wie immer – vom Rande ihrer Vorstellung – und Honey ließ sie wieder in Ruhe. Dear war währenddessen im Keller.

Patientin wanderte im Haus umher – staubige Wände kurz vor dem Zerfall, Fenster knacksten in den Ecken, die Decken waren eingesunken und Wasser sickerte durch sie. Das Schlafzimmer, das sie ihr gegeben hatten, war leerer als der Rest des Hauses, mit einer modrigen Matratze neben einem kleinen Fenster, der Rest bestand aus Steinboden und löchrigen Wänden. Patientin fand braune Flecken an den Wänden und am Boden, die getrocknetem Blut ähnelten. Aus der Ferne hörte sie

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insides twisting and crashing against each other. She wept in the rhythm of her other-self, Honey holding her down and singing a lullaby into her covered ear. She begged them to stop, make the screaming stop, she didn’t do anything, but Honey just told her to breathe and think of swimming in water.

When Patient did, she felt like drowning, sputtering her spit about, wringing her hands against the restraints, pleading for peace.

Her other-self eventually managed to escape the attacks from the aging man, running out of the basement and hiding at different parts of the house. Honey shushed Patient and assured her that the “creature” would not replace her, although the thought had never crossed Patient’s mind. Dear merely spoke into his microphone about how the “creature ran into the house, so Phase 2 should begin shortly.” He told Honey to explain everything to “the patient”: “As always, Honey. Don’t ever leave out a word I’ve said.” Patient hears an edge of a threat, but Honey later tells her, when she’s cleaning Patient’s burn wounds in the second-floor bathroom with some cold water, that he means well, and she’s made mistakes that she would never repeat again.

Patient didn’t believe her, not on those first few days after the end of Phase 1.

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Lachen, das durch die Nacht hallte und sie konnte nicht schlafen – das Lachen war zu laut, fast ein Kreischen.

Und die Stille zwischen dem Lachen war genauso bedrückend. Um sich abzulenken stellte sie sich Dear bei der Arbeit vor mit Instrumenten, die sie in ihrer Vorstellung erfand, mit Messern in den Händen und hebelartigen Maschinen und Hologrammen und Haut, die Haut berührt – die von Honey, sie fest zu umarmen.

Und sie schlug ihren Kopf gegen die Matratze, hielt sich den Bauch als die Aura ihre Vorstellung vergrößerte, als ob sie sich in einem verschleierten Spiegel betrachtete.

Patientin ersetzte das Lachen mit Erinnerungen, Kindern, die auf der Straße Kickball spielten, hauchten und fauchten, miteinander scherzten, manchmal auch stritten, wenn einer verloren hatte. Die Aura folgte ihnen, Geister wirbelten sie umher, aber sie verschwanden wieder, wenn sie den Ball über die Köpfe der Kinder schoss und zum Sieg rannte. Bei Sonnenuntergang sagten sie sich „auf wiedersehen“ und bei Sonnenaufgang sagten sie sich „hallo“. Sie erinnerte sich daran wie sie bei diesen Begegnungen immer wieder die Aura um die Kinder gesehen hatte und erinnerte sich nun auch daran wie Patientins Eltern in dieser Zeit noch ihr Haar sanft streichelten. Ihre Tränen flossen auf die Matratze ihres neuen Betts bei der Erinnerung an diese Bilder und sie bohrte ihre Nägel in den zerrissenen Bezug der Matratze.

Der Prozess der „Umwandlung“ von Patientin begann mit Phase 1: die Kreatur von ihr zu entfernen. „Bald wirst du dich mit anderen Augen sehen. Du wirst wachsen, und du wirst aus dir selbst herauswachsen und

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diesen jungen Körper vergessen.“ Dear strich sich mit einem Finger über seinen Schnurrbart, schwitzte. Er sah zu Honey. „Du wirst dich nicht mehr erinnern und wirst es auch nicht mehr können,“ seine Augen fixierten Honeys. „Schau dich nach dem Prozess an, am Ende von Phase 2.“

Patientin hatte sich die Kreatur ähnlich einem Monster vorgestellt; wurmartig oder eine dämonische Ziege oder eine Fledermaus mit roten Augen. Aber als Dear Patientin an den Operationstisch im Keller festgebunden hatte und in sein Mikrophon sprach, sie mit Hilfe der Kabel, die an ihrem Körper befestigt waren unter Elektroschock versetzte, kam am Ende der siebzehn Sitzungen nur sie selbst in Erscheinung. Ihr anderes Selbst stand auf der gegenüberliegenden Seite des Tischs, lächelte schüchtern den erröteten Körper von Patientin an, ihre Haare klebten ihr mit Schweißes verschmiert auf dem Gesicht, bis Dear anfing sie mit einem Metallstock zu schlagen.

Ihr anderes Selbst schrie und rannte in eine Ecke des Kellers, seinen Kopf schützend als Dear ihn immer wieder schlug. „Lass das Kind ihn nicht sehen, schrie er zu Honey, die Patientins Augen und Ohren schnell mit einem Stück Stoff verband. Durch das Material hörte Patientin dennoch die gedämpften Schreie, die Schläge und roch manchmal das Blut, das aus dem Körper des anderen Selbst floss. Patientins Kopf bebte, ihre Augen brannten, sie hatte Schluckauf, fühlte ihr Inneres sich verdrehen und ihre Organe aufeinderprallen. Sie weinte im Rhythmus ihres anderen Selbst, Honey drückte sie

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und sang ihr ein Gute-Nacht-Lied in ihre verschlossenen Ohren. Sie flehte sie an, dass sie aufhörten, dass sie die Schreie beendeten, sie tat nichts und Honey sagte ihr, sie solle atmen und sich vorstellen im Wasser zu schwimmen.

Als Patientin tat, was Honey ihr gesagt hatte, fühlte sie als ob sie ertrinken würde, ihre Hände an den Fesseln, flehte sie für Frieden.

Ihr anderes Selbst schaffte es schließlich den Angriffen älterer Männer zu entkommen, indem sie aus dem Keller herausrannte und sich irgendwo im Haus versteckte.

Honey versuchte Patientin zu beruhigen und versicherte ihr, dass „die Kreatur“ sie nicht ersetzen konnte, obwohl dieser Gedanke Patientin nie beunruhigt hatte. Dear sprach mit leiser Stimme ins Mikrophon und nahm auf: „Die Kreatur ist ins Haus hineingerannt, so können wir nun mit Phase 2 beginnen.“ Er sagte zu Honey, sie solle in Kürze der Patientin alles erklären. „Wie immer, Honey.

Lass ja kein Wort aus, von dem, was ich gesagt habe.“ Patientin hört aus diesen Worten eine leise Androhung heraus, aber Honey erzählt ihr später, während sie Patientins Brandwunden im Badezimmer im zweiten Flur mit etwas kaltem Wasser reinigt, dass er es gut meint, und dass sie Fehler gemacht hat, die sie nie wieder machen wird.

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Özlem's Original + Monica Translation - Google Docs

ÖZLEM ÖZG ÜL D ÜNDAR

T ÜR KEN, FEUER 1

ja das ist schlimm wie sie aus dem fenster gesprungen ist mit dem kind in den armen und dann versucht man sich das vorzustellen versuchen sie sich das vorzustellen also ich versuch mir das natürlich vorzustellen ja in den medien wird das so beschrieben immer die nachrichten und man versucht sich das vorzustellen wie die mutter mit ihrem kleinkind aus dem fenster ja das ist schlimm wirklich schlimm und immer wieder in den medien wird das beschrieben und man kann nicht um sich das vorzustellen und versuchen sie sich das vorzustellen ja da opfert sich die mutter für das leben des kindes des kindes ihr eigenes leben das ist schlimm ja das eigene leben das muss man sich mal vorstellen für das eines kindes und in den medien naja man weiß ja nicht so genau so wird es beschrieben dass sie mit dem kind aus dem fenster und um es zu retten ihr eigenes leben geopfert wie soll man das verstehen wie soll das in den kopf rein wie soll man sich das vorstellen versuchen sie es mal ja das geht nicht in den kopf das geht einfach nicht in den kopf in diesen kopf geht das nicht nein nein nein es geht nicht in diesen kopf hier rein geht es nicht nicht nicht nicht geht es hier rein was soll man tun was kann man tun ihr eigenes leben

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translated from the german by MÓNICA MUÑIZ

TURKS/FIRE 1

yes it’s awful how she jumped out of the window with the child in her arms and then you try to imagine try it go on try to imagine i try to simply imagine it after all it’s always being described in the news media and you try to imagine how the mother jumped out of the window with her small child of course that’s awful that’s oh so very awful and it’s always described in the media and you can’t imagine and you try to imagine it yes the mother sacrificing herself for the child the child’s own life that’s awful of course for the life of a child just imagine and in the media well we don’t know exactly how it’s described she jumped out of the window with the child to save her to save that child and she sacrificed her own life how are you supposed to take that how is that supposed to work in the head how should you try to imagine that give it a try yes that doesn’t work in the head that just doesn’t work in the head that doesn’t work in this head no no no it does not work in this head here it just does not not not not work in here what should you do what can you do sacrificing her own life so heroically for the sake of her child so calmly heroic this woman so incredibly heroic

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opfert sie ganz heroisch für das ihres kindes einfach heroisch diese frau sie ist so unglaublich heroisch sie ist praktisch eine heldin das leben eines kindes gerettet und ihres geopfert vielleicht naja vielleicht war es auch ein kurzschluss im gehirn in ihrem gehirn ich meine um sie herum das feuer sie schnappt sich das baby und springt vielleicht ganz ohne die absicht sich selbst zu naja ich meine ja nur vielleicht hat sie einen kurzschluss im gehirn gehabt das passiert ja das passiert manchmal jemand macht etwas in einer stresssituation und hat es gar nicht beabsichtigt und am ende kommt etwas raus ja ich meine die leute machen etwas daraus ich mein nur es könnte sein dass die leute etwas daraus machen dass es vielleicht naja ich mein halt nur vielleicht war es ganz anders was das gehirn macht in stresssituationen ja dann gibt es manchmal kurzschlüsse wir sind ja auch alle nur menschen und dann ja dann am ende heißt es sie hat sich für das kind geopfert verstehen sie verstehen sie was ich meine ja also sie opfert sich vielleicht gar nicht springt aus dem fenster um sich selbst das leben zu retten weil eben kurzschluss weil sie eh den sprung nicht überleben kann das ist eh alles nicht ganz logisch im gehirn meine ich was das gehirn macht verstehen sie weil es ja eine unbekannte situation auf der einen seite das feuer man bekommt panik so stelle ich mir das vor und dann greift sie nach dem kind vielleicht weil es direkt neben ihr ist und springt oder vielleicht hat sie das kind schon in den armen und springt so wie sie da ist so so in etwa stelle ich mir das vor und wenn es anders gewesen wäre wenn sie alleine gewesen wäre und das kind sagen wir in einem anderen stockwerk das war ja ein mehrstöckiges haus dann wäre sie einfach so gesprungen dann wäre sie

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Özlem's Original + Monica Translation - Google Docs

she’s practically a heroine saved a child’s life and maybe her sacrifice well maybe it was also a short circuit in her brain i mean surrounded by the fire she grabs the baby and maybe without intending it well i mean after all maybe she had a short circuit in her brain yes that happens that sometimes happens somebody does something in a stressful situation without intending to and in the end something comes out yes i mean people make something out of it i mean it could just be that maybe people make something out of it well i mean maybe just maybe it was completely different what the brain does in stressful situations of course then sometimes there are short circuits after all we’re all just human and then yes then in the end it says she sacrificed herself for the child do you see do you see what i mean of course so maybe she doesn’t really sacrifice herself when she jumps out of the window with the child because it’s a short circuit she cannot survive the fall that’s not at all logical in the brain so it can’t be a sacrifice anyway i mean you understand what the brain does because there’s an unknown situation on one hand there’s the fire and you panic so that’s what i imagine and then maybe she picks up the child because she’s right next to her and she jumps or maybe she already has the child in her arms and jumps just like that that’s how i imagine it and it would have been different if she had been alone and the child let’s say was on another floor after all it’s a multi-story house then she would just have jumped then she just would have gone ahead and jumped out alone and no life would have been saved in any case because after all because it was too high up but what do i know i mean that’s how it could have been and it turned out not

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einfach alleine rausgesprungen und hätte sich das leben eh nicht retten können weil es ja weil zu hoch war also was weiß ich ich mein nur so hätte es auch sein können und zufällig war es nicht so und jetzt wird sie beschrieben als die retterin des kindes und ist so ganz heroisch plötzlich ich mein halt nur sie verstehen ja was ich meine ja schlimm diese sache ganz schlimm

2 ich rieche den rauch es macht mich wach ich rieche es schon im schlaf im traum bemerke ich etwas dass etwas riecht es macht mich wach und ich stehe auf ich gehe umher und rieche es und dann sehe ich es wie es aufsteigt also der rauch das feuer dieser geruch wie etwas verbrennt zum beispiel holz oder so ist es nicht es ist vielmehr wie plastik nein das nicht es steigt mir in die nase oder ist schon tief in mir drin als ich aufwache da schon ist es in mir drin es dringt in mich ein in meine lungen und es sitzt tief in mir drin ich kann kaum atmen es ist nicht wie holz nicht wie plastik das brennt sondern so wie es ist ein ganz eigener geruch intensiv sehr intensiv es sitzt tief in mir drin dringt in mich ein ich wache auf mit diesem geruch in der nase mit diesem geruch in meinen lungen tief in mir drin es brennt erschwert mir das atmen die einzige luft die ich atmen kann ist durchdrungen von rauch von feuer und rauch so durchdrungen ist die luft sie lässt mich nicht atmen es ist so schwer zu atmen sie lässt mich nicht atmen die luft hat den rauch aufgenommen ganz einfach aufgenommen sich vermischt mit dem rauch ist zu einem geworden und lässt mich nicht atmen die räume in denen ich lebe die ich

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to be like that and now she’s being described as the child’s savior and suddenly it’s so very heroic all i mean is well you understand what i mean yes how awful all of this is oh so very very awful

2 i smell the smoke it wakes me up i smell it already while sleeping in my dream i notice something that something doesn’t smell like the air i know and it wakes me up and i get out of bed i walk around smelling it and then i see it rising the smoke the fire this smell like something burning for example wood or it’s not like that it’s much more like plastic no that’s not it a smell that’s up my nose or already deep inside me when i wake up there it is inside me in my lungs puncturing me it sits deep inside i can dream of breathing and the burns smell strange not like wood not like plastic rather it’s its own whole smell intense so intense it sits deep inside me punctures me cuts me within i wake up with this smell in my nose with this smell in my lungs deep inside me its burning makes it hard for me to breathe the only air i can breathe is steeped in smoke in fire and smoke so steeped the air leaving me unable to breathe it’s so hard to breathe leaves me without breath the air has sucked in the smoke simply sucked it in mixing with the smoke becoming one and leaving me without breath the rooms in which i live which i love they are all strange in the light of the fire are all so foreign they leave me without breath they ally themselves they have become one with the fire they welcome the fire wish to be one with it they leave me without breath i think of my child of my husband he

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liebe sie sind alle im licht des feuers fremd sie sind mir alle fremd sie lassen mich nicht atmen sie haben sich verbündet sie sind mit dem feuer eins geworden sie begrüßen das feuer sie werden eins mit ihm sie lassen mich nicht atmen ich denke an mein kind an meinen mann dass er unser kind herausträgt ich versuche ihn zu wecken ich rüttel an ihm ich schreie und versuche und schreie und ich renne zu dem kind zu meinem kind ich kann nicht atmen die luft lässt mich nicht atmen unser haus unsere wände unsere türen unsere decke sie verbünden sich mit dem feuer und lassen mich nicht atmen ich bin bei meinem kind und nehme es ich nehme mein kind und ich schreie und ich rufe die anderen im haus ich nehme mein kind und ich will durch die wohnung gehen und alle anderen wecken aber das feuer und das haus verbünden sich gegen mich sie arbeiten zusammen und produzieren immer mehr rauch und lassen mich nicht atmen sie sind verbündete ich gehe zum fenster und öffne es ich stehe am fenster mit meinem kind das noch ein baby ist es ist so winzig es ist so klein ich öffne das fenster und steige durch ich hänge auf dem fensterrahmen mit einer hand klammere ich mich an den rahmen mit der anderen drücke ich mein baby an mich während ich auf dem rahmen sitze ich denke an meinen mann ich weiß nicht wo er ist im haus schreien und weinen die anderen kinder ich weiß nicht wo sie sind sie sind irgendwo in dem haus das sich mit dem feuer gegen uns verbündet hat ich schaue herunter ist es zu hoch zu überleben ist es zu hoch oder kann man gerade noch überleben ist es zu hoch oder kann man gerade noch überleben kann man überleben von dieser höher abspringen und landen und überleben ist das eine option

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must carry our child to safety i try to wake him up i shake him i scream and try and scream and i run with the child run with my child i cannot breathe the air leaves me without breath our house our walls our doors our ceiling they ally themselves with the fire and leave me without breath i am at my child’s side and i take my child in my arms and i scream and i call to the others in the house i take my child and i want to run through the flat and wake up everyone else the fire and the house conspire against me they are working together and keep on producing this devastating smoke and leave me without breath they are against me against us i go to the window and open it i stay by the window with my child who is still a baby so tiny so small i open the window and climb through i lean out the window frame clinging to the frame with one hand and pressing the baby to my chest with the other while i sit on the sill i think about my husband i don’t know where he is the other children screaming and crying in the house i don’t know where they are they are somewhere in the house with the fire conspiring against us i look down it’s too high to survive it’s too high or can you survive all the same it’s too high or can you just barely survive can you survive from this height can you just jump and land and survive is that an option that exists for me how should i jump to survive so my head will not hurt so my heart will not break in the fall how should i do it how can you do something like that survive in a house that has become an ally of the fire all against you and you will not survive nowhere in the world do you learn such useful things how to jump so that your head and heart will not break how can i possibly do it so that my head and heart will not break if

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die besteht für mich wie soll ich springen dass ich überlebe mein kopf nicht verletzt wird mein herz nicht zerbricht durch den fall wie soll ich das machen wie wie macht man so etwas dass man überlebt wenn man in einem haus steht das sich mit dem feuer gegen einen verbündet hat nirgendwo in der welt lernt man solch nützliche dinge wie macht man es dass kopf und herz nicht zerbrechen wie mache ich es dass mein kopf und mein herz nicht zerbrechen wenn ich auf meine knie falle wenn ich auf meinen knien lande dann bleiben kopf und herz ganz dann zerbrechen nur die knie dann zerspringen meine knie ich springe aus dem fenster lande auf meinen füßen und die kraft mit der ich auf meinen füßen lande und die kraft mit der der boden gegen mich arbeiten der asphalt der straße er wird gegen mich arbeitet der asphalt gemeinsam mit der erde die unter ihm ist sie werden gemeinschaftlich gegen mich arbeiten ich werde mit kraft auf ihnen landen der fall wird mir kraft geben mit der kraft des falls werde ich mit meinen füßen zuerst auf dem asphalt und der erde unter dem asphalt landen ich werde da drauf landen auf diesen massen die mir nicht weichen werden sie sind so unbeweglich sie werden mir nicht weichen und ich werde mit aller kraft vom fall auf ihnen landen und sie werden gemeinschaftlich gegen mich arbeiten und keinen millimeter von der stelle weichen und die kraft in meinen füßen sie wird stecken bleiben in meinen füßen und in die einzige richtung in die sie sich bewegen kann bewegen die kraft wird sich gegen meine beine wenden sie wird sich an meinen beinen ablassen an meinen fußgelenken wird sie eine kehrtwende machen und sich gegen meine unterschenkelknochen wenden sie wird sich gegen mich wenden meine

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i fall to my knees if i land on my knees then maybe both the head and heart will not break then only my knees will shatter i will jump out the window land on my feet and the force with which i land on my feet and the force with which the ground works against me the asphalt of the street working against me the asphalt together with the earth under it they are allies and work against me i will land on it with the full force the fall will lend me with the force of the fall i will land feet first on the asphalt and the earth under the asphalt i will land on it on these masses that will not give way to me so rigid in their form they will not give way to me and i will land with all the force of the fall and they will jointly work against me and give not even a millimeter and the force in my feet will get stuck in my feet and the only direction it can move the force will change direction against my legs it will be in my legs move into my ankles it will turn and it will be against my tibia it will turn against me my tibia will bounce against my femur pressed together with all the force and my knee will splinter from it pressed together and crushed into a thousand broken pieces and then there will still be too much force left from the fall then my femur will press against my hip with absolute force and my hips will shatter into a thousand splintering pieces and my hip will press against my stomach my kidneys my life i am to be splintered and all my organs destroyed and if i don’t withstand the fall and can’t go on then my child will be torn apart in the fall i will fall right on top of my child and kill my child with my body rather than the ground what am i then a murderer of my children i am then a person like that or else i won’t just fall on my knee i’ll jump just jump not landing on my

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unterschenkelknochen werden auf meine oberschenkelknochen prallen sie werden aneinander gedrückt werden mit aller kraft und meine knie werden davon zersplittern ineinander gepresst und zerdrückt in tausend stücke gebrochen und dann wird immer noch so viel kraft vom fall übrig sein dass meine oberschenkelknochen mir in die hüften drücken werden mit aller kraft und mir die hüfte zerbrechen werden in tausend stücke zersplittern werden und mir die hüfte in den magen in meine nieren in mein leben drücken werden bis ich zersplittert bin und alle meine organe zerstört und wenn ich den fall nicht aushalte und nach vorne kippe und mein kind in dem fall mit nach unten reiße und voll auf mein kind falle und es vielmehr durch meinen körper töte als durch den boden was dann bin ich dann die mörderin meines kindes bin ich dann dieser mensch oder ich falle einfach nicht auf meine knie ich springe so ab dass ich nicht auf meine knie falle ich springe so ab dass ich mein kind rette ich springe so ab ich sitze im fensterrahmen mit einer hand am rahmen mit der anderen das baby festhaltend und dann dann springe ich ich springe und ich wende mich im fall schon beim absprung und weiter beim fall und lande es ist ganz kurz der fall weniger als eine sekunde ganz schnell geht der fall vorbei und ich wende mich schon beim abspringen und lande auf dem rücken und halte mein baby fest dass es mir nicht aus der hand fällt und lande auf meinem rücken und breche mir den rücken vollständig genick und lende und einfach alles und mein herz wird zerdrückt von der unausweichenden masse des asphalts und der erde unter dem asphalt diese masse und die kraft vom sprung zerdrücken mein herz und meine lungen und mein

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knee i’ll jump just jump and save my child i’ll jump just jump i sit on the window frame with a hand on the frame with the other holding the baby and then then i jump i jump and i turn in the jump and continue with the fall and land shortly after the fall less than a second so fast the fall is over just like that i jump and land on my back and clutch my baby firmly so she doesn’t slip out of my grasp and land on my back and completely break my back neck and lumbar and everything and my heart is crushed from the unrelenting mass of asphalt and the earth under the asphalt these masses and the force from the jump crush my heart and my lungs and my thorax breaks and my hip breaks and my back and my head break my skull shatters splinters and my brain is crushed and fragmented and my baby is safe on top of me utterly lovingly safe

3

of course we heard about it four days later they come in and ask about him and we’re nervous the whole time that there’s something going on you can almost feel it in the air this nervousness in the air yes they ring the doorbell and i stand there so we stand there and then they ask where he is and take him and he looks surprised or not really i don’t really know what kind of impression he is making on us i don’t know do i and then they take him away and one of them confesses right away then withdraws his confession then confesses again and then takes it back again everyone’s confused but then he does finally admit it several times so one has confessed the other hasn’t the first one confesses and then takes it back

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brustkorb bricht und meine hüfte bricht und mein rücken und mein kopf bricht mein schädel zerbricht zersplittert und mein gehirn wird zerdrückt und zersplittert und mein baby auf mir bleibt unversehrt

3

das haben wir dann natürlich erfahren vier tage später die kommen herein und fragen nach ihm und wir sind schon die ganze zeit nervös dass da was los ist konnte man in der luft fast schon greifen das war so da diese nervosität die war in der luft ja zum greifen die klingeln an der tür und ich stehe da also wir stehen da und da fragen sie nach ihm und nehmen ihn mit wirkt er überrascht oder nicht so richtig weiß ich das nicht wie wirkt er auf uns das weiß ich nicht ja und dann nehmen sie ihn mit der eine gestand sofort dann zieht er sein geständnis zurück dann gesteht er wieder und dann zieht er wieder zurück da waren alle verwirrt aber mehrmals gesteht er es dann letztendlich doch einer gesteht der andere nicht einer gesteht und zieht zurück mehrmals die wussten ja nicht wie sie sich verhalten sollten was ist da wahr was nicht wie können wir das wissen ich weiß nur ihn haben sie vier tage später geholt

4

und dann springe ich und lande auf dem asphalt und der erde die unter dem asphalt ihre ganze masse bereit hält für mich um meinen körper zu brechen ich zerbreche mein körper zerbricht zersplittert mein rücken ist tausend kleine teilchen mein magen ist zerdrückt meine

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again and again they don’t know how to act what’s true what’s not how can we know i just know they come for him four days later

4

and then i jump and land on the asphalt and the earth under the asphalt the whole mass ready for me ready to break my body and i break my body i shatter it and my back is a thousand tiny fragments my stomach is crushed my kidneys crushed my lungs crushed and my hips splinter into bits my brain my skull all in pieces the blood flows out of the arteries and flows wherever it wants the body the organs no longer give the blood direction no muscle moves and none point the blood to where it should go i have my child firmly in my arms she is safe on me alive the child is safe i landed and the force of the fall and the unrelenting ground have shown my body all their strength have shown it all at the very moment when i land and this is the moment i freeze forever as i am there stuck in time this is the last state i will be in the last state i will be active in and of my own will i can recall the second in which i freeze in which my body stops maybe i will now become a metaphor what i really mean to say is that i am dead

5

i didn’t know what had happened when the police arrived and were standing at the door after all no one knew how could anyone know such a thing and just go on sitting and waiting we didn’t know that something had

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nieren meine lunge zerdrückt und zersplittert meine hüfte in teile mein gehirn mein schädel alles in teilen das blut fließt aus den arterien und fließt wohin es will der körper die organe geben dem blut keine richtung mehr vor kein muskel rührt sich mehr und kann dem blut die richtung weisen mein kind habe ich fest im arm es liegt sicher auf mir es lebt das kind liegt sicher ich bin gelandet und die kraft des falls und des unausweichenden bodens haben sich in meinem körper gezeigt ihre ganze kraft hat sich gezeigt in dem moment in dem ich lande das ist der moment in dem ich für immer erfriere so wie ich da bin erfriere ich das ist der letzte zustand in dem ich sein werde das ist der letzte zustand in den ich mich aktiv und aus eigener entscheidung bringen kann der moment in dem ich erfriere in dem mein körper stehen bleibt vielleicht werde ich jetzt metaphorisch was ich damit eigentlich sagen will ist dass ich tot bin

5

was passiert war wusste ich nicht als die polizei kam und vor der tür stand das wusste ja niemand wie soll einer so etwas wissen und einfach sitzen und warten wir wussten es nicht geahnt dass etwas passiert ist das ja das war klar dass etwas passiert ist das war klar das lag so klar in der luft zum greifen fast die luft war so dick als ob es nicht mehr luft sei sondern eine feste materie also so fest eine dickflüssige masse eine schwimmende dickflüssige masse die im raum still stand praktisch auf uns saß uns alle herunterdrückte diese schwere in der luft sie drücke auf uns das war klar also das war so klar dass etwas passiert ist nur was also das was das wussten wir nicht also ich

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happened of course it was clear that something had happened that was clear that was so clear in the air you could almost touch it the air was so thick like it was no longer air but solid matter really almost like a viscous mass a floating thick mass standing still in the room practically sitting on us all of us pressed down by this heavy air pressing on us that was clear it was so clear that something had happened but what just what was it anyway that’s what we didn’t know actually i didn’t know how to do it how to know something like that i mean how to imagine such a thing so beyond any imagination that nobody can understand it after all we’re only human and what do you imagine when the kid comes home and carries this mass this heavy air into the house with him what do you imagine there you imagine the young people the adolescents particularly the guys are just doing what they do of course what are they doing anyway they’re just hanging out with other guys beating each other up something like that you imagine them just beating each other and what else yes they badly hurt each other and of course there’s something like a broken nose or something like that or some such or something like that comes out of it or just two broken noses or a broken rib or some such or worse if one of the guys pulls a knife or in the worst case you think someone’s been stabbed or something like that and the kid has a witness you imagine things like that or what do i know or else they stole something somewhere or whatever i mean you can only understand something like that what else can you imagine this is the usual bad thing that a child does a boy who is maybe a bit hot in the head can do that he can carry home that heavy air oh how much it weighs

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wusste es nicht wie soll man so etwas wissen wie soll man so etwas erahnen also das übersteigt ja jede vorstellungskraft das versteht ja keiner wie auch wir sind ja auch nur menschen und was stellt man sich vor wenn der sohnemann nach hause kommt und diese masse diese schwere mit sich trägt ins haus hereinbringt was stellt man sich da vor man stellt sich so sachen vor die junge leute eben machen die so junge heranwachsende so jungs eben anstellen was können die schon machen ja was machen die schon so die prügeln sich eben mit anderen jungs so etwas stellt man sich vor die prügeln sich eben und was sonst ja da verletzt sich einer schlimm wie ja so etwas wie eine gebrochene nase oder so so etwas kommt dabei raus oder eben zwei gebrochene nasen oder eine gebrochene rippe oder so oder ja schlimmsten falls zieht einer von den jungs ein messer oder so im aller schlimmsten fall denkt man ist einer erstochen worden oder so und der sohnemann ist zeuge gewesen oder so halt solche dinge stellt man sich vor oder was weiß ich oder die haben irgendwo was geklaut oder so verstehst' so etwas stellt man sich vor was denn sonst was kann man sich schon groß vorstellen das ist so das übliche an schlimmem was ein kind ein junge der vielleicht etwas hitzig im kopf ist machen kann das was er nach hause tragen kann was schwer wiegt das so die luft verdickflüssigt die luft zur materie macht die uns herunterdrückt die so auf uns sitzt was stellt man sich bei so einer schwere vor was kann man sich vorstellen so etwas halt so etwas oder so in der art oder diebstahl oder einbruch oder so oder eine prügelei

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the air thickening becoming matter that weighs us down it presses down upon us how do you imagine such heaviness to experience something like that can you imagine such a thing what can you imagine but something like stealing or burglary or some such or a fight

6

when i jump and land and my body breaks and shatters and my baby lies safe on top of me i know that i made the right decision when i jumped but i don’t know this until after my body is broken and my head fractures only then do i know that i was right to not land on my knees but instead to rotate my body in the air one hundred and eighty degrees i know everything but only after my brain is destroyed what i mean to say is that i no longer comprehend anything that i have made the right decision what i really mean to say is that i am dead

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6

als ich springe und lande und mein körper zerbricht und zersplittert und mein baby unversehrt auf mir liegt weiß ich dass ich die richtige entscheidung getroffen habe beim absprung nur dass ich das erst weiß nachdem mein körper zerbrochen ist und mein gehirn zerstört dann erst weiß ich dass ich richtig entschieden habe nicht auf meinen knien zu landen und auch damit mich in der luft zu drehen also eine hundertachtzig grad drehung zu machen das weiß ich alles aber erst nachdem mein gehirn zerstört ist was ich damit sagen will ist ich kriege nicht mehr mit dass ich die richtige entscheidung getroffen habe was ich damit eigentlich sagen will ist dass ich tot bin

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TIBO HALSBERGHE

BANANAS

The first time I met my mother was at the 1958 World Fair in Brussels. I was 31 and still unmarried. My aunt’s death had prompted her to return from France. For the last three decades, she had been living in a village just over the border where my father had died in an accident shortly after I was born. My father drank. When he tried to maneuver a cart full of sugar beets over a cattle grid he tripped and fell under the wheels. No one ever sat me down to tell me the story of his death but, from as early as I could remember, the memory was kept alive somewhere over my head.

“The cart crushed his bones you know. Mangled his legs,” my aunt would say to the woman sitting across from her.

“He’s lucky to have died before he could draw breath and curse his horse,” the woman would reply without looking up from her pillow.

I remember playing on the big woolen blanket with a box of clothes pegs. I made the pegs walk round and round the cardboard box. Then I made them fall down and pressed them hard into the blanket, wondering just how much weight you had to put on something before it broke.

My mother was much taller than I had imagined her to be. She walked with her head bowed, which gave her an air of solemnity. We had agreed to meet at the central

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aus dem englischen übersetzt von JESSICA S. MIHALYI

BANANEN

Das erste Mal traf ich meine Mutter bei der Weltausstellung 1958 in Brüssel. Ich war einunddreißig und immer noch unverheiratet. Der Tod meiner Tante hatte sie dazu bewegt aus Frankreich zurückzukommen.

Die letzten drei Jahrzehnte hatte sie in einer Ortschaft gleich hinter der Grenze gelebt, wo mein Vater, durch einen Unfall kurz nach meiner Geburt, ums Leben gekommen war. Mein Vater trank. Als er versuchte, einen pferdebespannten, mit Zuckerrüben beladenen 1 Ackerwagen über ein Viehgitter zu lotsen, stolperte er und kam unter die Räder. Keiner setzte sich jemals mit mir zusammen, um mir die Geschichte seines Todes zu erzählen, aber solange ich denken kann, wurde die Erinnerung daran, über meinen Kopf hinweg, aufrechterhalten.

„Der Ackerwagen zerquetschte seine Knochen, weißt du.

Zertrümmerte seine Beine“, würde meine Tante zu der Frau sagen, die ihr gegenüber saß.

1

Als Viehgitter (oder Weiderost bzw. Wildgitter) werden in den Boden eingelassene Viehsperren bezeichnet, die zwar von Menschen und Fahrzeugen passiert werden können, aber für Huftiere ein Hindernis darstellen, da sie darauf keinen festen Tritt haben. Viehgitter sind nicht mit Viehgattern zu verwechseln, die zum Passieren geöffnet und geschlossen werden müssen. (A.d.Ü.)

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station underneath the big clock. She tapped me on the shoulder without hesitation. I had told her I would be wearing a grey jacket with my aunt’s salamander brooch on my lapel. When I turned around she stared at it instead of looking me in the eye. I hugged her. She didn’t cry like I thought she would. She smelled of smoke and damp wool. Her cane ticked against the fresh concrete esplanade as we made our way towards the entrance of the Fair to buy our tickets. I couldn’t help but stare at her. She wore a houndstooth skirt and a knitted cardigan that drooped from her shoulders and made her look what my aunt would have called “ready for death at a moment’s notice”.

She wore a scarf over her head. I had always imagined she would be wearing a hat. A deep green Breton with a pheasant feather sewn into its side. It was a silly thing to imagine. The blue stripes on her black scarf were fading and the fabric was fraying at the seams. I stared at her for so long I felt I had to say something.

“They said on the radio the American pavilion has a machine that can seal soup in a can. It keeps for years, apparently” I said.

“What’s the point of that?” she asked me, looking up only to examine the hand fan of the woman in front of us. The fan was black, with chantilly lace flowers.

My mother eyed the flowers carefully and I was aware she could see things that were invisible to me. My mother had worked as a lace maker before the war. My aunt had told me they’d grown up fighting for the armchair closest to the stove in the downstairs room. She’d told me my mother always won. That she loved the heat of the stove on her body as she worked.

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„Er kann von Glück reden, gestorben zu sein, ehe er Atem schöpfen und sein Pferd verfluchen konnte“, würde die Frau antworten, ohne von ihrem Klöppelkissen auf zu schauen.

Ich erinnere mich, auf der großen Wolldecke mit einer Schachtel Wäscheklammern gespielt zu haben. Ich ließ die Wäscheklammern Runde um Runde um die Pappschachtel laufen. Dann ließ ich sie stolpern und drückte sie fest in die Decke, und fragte mich, wieviel Gewicht man auf etwas legen musste, bevor es zerbrach.

Meine Mutter war viel größer, als ich sie mir vorgestellt hatte. Sie spazierte mit gebeugtem Kopf, was ihr ein würdiges Aussehen verlieh. Wir hatten vereinbart, uns am Hauptbahnhof unter der großen Bahnhofsuhr zu treffen. Sie klopfte mir ohne zu zögern auf die Schulter.

Ich hatte ihr gesagt, dass ich eine graue Jacke tragen würde, mit der Salamanderbrosche meiner Tante am Revers. Als ich mich umdrehte, starrte sie darauf, anstatt mir in die Augen zu sehen. Ich umarmte sie. Ich erwartete, dass sie weinen würde, was sie nicht tat. Sie roch nach Rauch und feuchter Wolle. Ihr Spazierstock tickte über den frisch betonierten Gehweg, als wir uns den Weg in Richtung des Eingangs der Weltausstellung bahnten, um unsere Eintrittskarten zu kaufen. Ich konnte nicht anders, als sie anzustarren. Sie trug einen Rock mit Hahnentrittmuster und eine Strickjacke, die von ihren Schultern herab hing und sie aussehen ließ, wie das, was meine Tante „allzeit bereit für den Tod“ genannt haben würde.

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“I think I read the Finnish pavilion has a hut with a stove in it where people go to sweat,” I said. “And some of the African pavilions have huts with open fires in them”.

“As long as there’s a place to sit down,” she replied “I don’t care one way or the other”. Sensing my disappointment she added, “whatever you want to go and see I’m happy to go with you”.

Growing up I could only imagine my mother with a pillow on her lap. A faceless woman sat in an empty room with her head bowed over a large firm pillow. Over the pillow the pattern of a flower was draped. Every petal was traced by a series of pins. My aunt thought simple roses were hard enough. She made the same lace flowers even after she had gone completely blind from the work.

After the doctor told her she had cancer a single rose took her almost twice as long to finish. She spent all of her time making the knots where she tied off the thread as small and inconspicuous as possible. She could no longer see them but felt them over and over again with the tips of her fingers. It was then that she started talking about my mother more often. My mother had been famous in the village for producing the most intricate and complex flowers imaginable. Exotic geometrical shapes that required double the amount of pins aunt Madeleine could handle. From in between the pins dozens and dozens of cotton threads spread out in a circle to the edges of the pillow, where each thread was wound onto a bobbin.

When I was little, from when I woke up to when I fell asleep, the only sound in the house was the ticking of the beech wood bobbins as they were being thrown under and over each other at the speed of a downpour.

“I’d love to learn how to make flowers” I said to my mother as we were shuffling our way to the ticket booth.

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Sie trug ein Kopftuch. Ich hatte mir ausgemalt, dass sie einen Hut tragen würde. Einen Breton in sattem Grün, mit einer an der Seite festgenähten Fasanenfeder. Albern, sich so etwas vorzustellen. Die blauen Streifen ihres schwarzen Kopftuchs waren verblasst und der Stoff an den Nähten ausgefranst. Ich starrte sie so lange an, dass ich das Gefühl hatte, etwas sagen zu müssen.

„Im Radio haben sie gesagt, der amerikanische Pavillon besitzt ein Gerät, das Suppe in einer Dose verschließen kann. Es hält sich angeblich Jahre“, sagte ich.

„Welchen Sinn soll das haben?“, fragte sie mich, nur aufschauend, um den Handfächer der Dame vor uns zu inspizieren. Der Fächer war schwarz, mit Blumen aus Chantilly-Spitze.

Meine Mutter beäugte die Blumen sorgfältig, und mir wurde bewusst, dass sie Dinge sehen konnte, die für mich unsichtbar waren. Meine Mutter hatte vor dem Krieg als Spitzenklöpplerin gearbeitet. Meine Tante hatte mir erzählt, dass sie und meine Mutter, um den, im Erdgeschosszimmer, am nächsten beim Ofen gelegenen Lehnstuhl kämpfend, groß geworden waren. Sie hatte mir erzählt, dass meine Mutter immer gewann. Dass sie die Ofenhitze an ihrem Körper liebte, während sie arbeitete.

„Ich glaube, ich habe gelesen, dass der finnische Pavillon eine Hütte mit einem Ofen hat, wo Leute zum Schwitzen reingehen“, sagte ich. „Und einige der afrikanischen Pavillons haben Hütten mit offenen Feuern.“

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“I can do fullwork and some other easy horizontal stuff with about twenty bobbins but only if I do it very slowly.

I’d love for you to teach me.”

“There’s no money in it anymore” she replied “I gave that up a long time ago”.

When we got to the front of the queue my mother took out her wallet and opened it. I couldn’t see any notes.

Only coins.

“No. I’ll pay.” I said.

She put her wallet back into her purse and stared through the gates down the central avenue of the exhibition grounds. The avenue was lined with marigolds as far as the eye could see. Crossword puzzle squares of marigolds. Giant unicolour triangles of marigolds. It had rained earlier in the day and some people covered their nose with their handkerchiefs as they crossed the avenue from one pavilion to another. I didn’t think it smelled that bad.

The tickets were 5 cents cheaper than the newspaper said they were going to be so I decided to buy a map.

WELCOME TO THE CENTER OF THE WORLD it said in big capital letters. I folded it open and tried to find where I was. Japan and Iran neighboured each other. Germany was broken in two and had its eastern half flung into the far corner of the Heizel plains.

“Where are we going?” my mother asked, staring up at the pods that were transporting people from one section of the exhibition grounds to the next.

“Let’s go to the American pavilion first” I said, mainly because it was close by and I didn’t want the walking to

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„So lange man sich hinsetzen kann,“ entgegnete sie, „ist mir alles recht.“ Meine Enttäuschung ahnend, fügte sie hinzu, „was auch immer du anschauen willst, ich komme gerne mit.“ Als ich aufwuchs, konnte ich mir meine Mutter nur mit einem Klöppelkissen auf dem Schoß vorstellen. Eine gesichtslose Frau saß in einem leeren Raum, den Kopf über ein großes, fest gepolstertes Kissen gebeugt. Über das Kissen war das Muster einer Blume gespannt. Jedes Blütenblatt wurde von einer Reihe Stecknadeln nachgezeichnet. Meine Tante fand, einfache Rosen seien schwer genug. Sie knüpfte dieselben Spitzenblumen, selbst als sie durch die Arbeit vollständig erblindet war. Doch erst nachdem der Arzt ihr sagte, sie habe Krebs, brauchte sie fast doppelt so lange, um eine einzige Rose fertigzustellen. Sie verwendete ihre ganze Zeit darauf, die Knoten, wo sie den Faden abknüpfte, so klein und unauffällig wie möglich zu machen. Sie konnte die Knoten nicht mehr sehen, befühlte sie aber immer und immer wieder mit ihren Fingerkuppen. Damals begann sie, öfter über meine Mutter zu sprechen. Meine Mutter war im Dorf dafür berühmt gewesen, die raffiniertesten und kompliziertesten Spitzenblumen zu klöppeln, die man sich vorstellen kann. Exotische geometrische Formen, die mehr als doppelt so viele Stecknadeln brauchten, als sie Tante Madeleine bewältigen konnte. Von der mit Stecknadeln übersäten Mitte zogen sich Dutzende über Dutzende von Baumwollfäden kreisförmig bis zu den Rändern des Kissens, wo sich jeder Faden um eine Spule wickelte. Als ich klein war, war das einzige Geräusch im Haus, vom Aufwachen bis zum Einschlafen, das Ticken der Buchenholzspulen, die mit der Geschwindigkeit eines Regengusses unter- und übereinandergeworfen wurden.

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tire her out. Other people overtook us as made our way past the metal and glass structures to the fountains that flanked the American pavilion on either side.

“Have you ever seen fountains that big?” my mother asked me, staring into the distance.

“No” I said, looking at the lines on her face.

There was a large queue in front of a stand with a banner that read AMERICAN ICE CREAM. A man with a mustache straight out of the movies, thin and elegant, was pulling a gleaming stainless steel lever with a bright red knob at the end. When the spout at the base of the lever had dispensed a tower of whipped sludge on top of a cone he handed it to a woman with a blue hat. I regretted spending my 5 francs on a map.

As if reading my mind my mother said to me “It’s alright I don’t want that stuff anyway. Let’s just walk around the fountains. I don’t need to see what’s inside.”

We slowly made our way around and I asked her if she had gone to see the notary. She said that she had.

“Your aunt didn’t leave us any money but she left us the house. Well, she left it to me so I wouldn’t end up having to” She paused. “It was her wish you could stay with me until you got married, and if you never marry the house will go to you and you’ll live there long after I die.”

I was grateful she didn’t ask if there had been any proposals, or if any men were showing interest.

“Where do you work?”

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„Ich würde gern lernen, Blumen zu machen“, sagte ich zu meiner Mutter, während wir uns auf den 2 Ticketschalter zubewegten. „Ich komme mit Vollwerk und anderen, einfachen horizontalen Sachen, mit ungefähr zwanzig Spulen, zurecht. Aber nur, wenn ich ganz langsam klöppel. Ich würde gern von dir lernen.“

„Damit verdient man kein Geld mehr“, antwortete sie, „Ich habe das vor langer Zeit aufgegeben“.

Als wir an der Spitze der Warteschlange ankamen, nahm meine Mutter ihre Geldbörse heraus und öffnete sie. Ich konnte keine Scheine sehen. Nur Münzen.

„Nein. Ich zahle“, sagte ich.

Sie steckte ihre Geldbörse zurück in ihre Handtasche und starrte, durch die Tore, auf die Hauptstraße des Ausstellungsgeländes. Die Straße war gesäumt von Ringelblumen, so weit das Auge reichte.

Kreuzworträtselartige Karrees aus Ringelblumen.

Riesige einfarbige Dreiecke aus Ringelblumen. Es hatte früher am Tag geregnet und einige Leute bedeckten ihre Nase mit ihren Taschentüchern, als sie, auf dem Weg von

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Bei Vollwerk handelt es sich um eine Klöppeltechnik, die mit Leinenschlag- bzw. Halbschlagflächen arbeitet, und ein Grundmuster der Spitze fertigt. Vollwerk wird häufig bei (belgischer) Torchon-Spitze verwendet, die in ihrer Grundgestaltung recht schlicht, klar und teilweise etwas grob ist.

(A.d.Ü.)

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“The Old Foundry,” I said.

“You serve tables?”

“I’m usually behind the bar, but I don’t think I’ll be able to work there for much longer. They’re hiring cleaners at the University Hospital. I might apply.”

“Oh I worked as a cleaner in France! Twenty-eight years I did nothing but clean. That’s what broke my knees in the end” she exclaimed, looking up at me. The moment her eyes met mine I felt a jolt like I had been caught doing something terrible. I looked down at the pavement and then off into the distance. The clouds were darkening, and it was obvious it would rain again before the day was over.

“Do you smell that?” my mother asked.

“The marigolds,” I said.

“Your father,” she said “he smelled like that when he worked in the village. Before he went to France to harvest beets he worked on the flax fields and helped with the retting. That’s what he smelled like the first time I ever saw him. Dew-retted flax. People didn’t want to be near him. It smells of cold and damp at first but when you warm it up, in front of a fire, it smells like something else.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“If you sit a man who’s been out on the flax field down in front of the stove, if you have a drop of jenever with him, the smell changes completely. He smells like moss and leaves that are on fire.” She pulled her cardigan closer

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einem Pavillon zum anderen, die Hauptstraße überquerten. Ich fand nicht, dass es so schlecht roch. Die Eintrittskarten waren zwei Francs billiger, als die Zeitung angekündigt hatte, also beschloss ich, einen Lageplan zu kaufen. WILLKOMMEN IM ZENTRUM DER WELT, hieß es in Großbuchstaben. Ich faltete ihn auf und versuchte herauszufinden, wo ich war. Japan grenzte an den Iran. Deutschland war in zwei gebrochen und die Osthälfte ins hinterste Eck des Heysel-Geländes verbannt worden.

„Wohin gehen wir?“, fragte meine Mutter zu den Gondeln hochstarrend, die die Besucher von einem Teil des Ausstellungsgeländes zum nächsten beförderten.

„Lass uns zuerst zu dem amerikanischen Pavillon gehen“, sagte ich, vor allem, weil er in der Nähe war und ich nicht wollte, dass das Gehen sie ermüdete. Andere Leute überholten uns, während wir, an den Metall- und Glaskonstruktionen vorbei, langsam zu den Brunnen schritten, die den amerikanischen Pavillon auf beiden Seiten flankierten.

„Hast du jemals so große Brunnen gesehen?“, fragte mich meine Mutter, die in die Ferne starrte.

„Nein“, sagte ich, die Linien ihres Gesichts betrachtend.

Es gab eine lange Schlange, vor einem Stand mit einem Banner auf dem AMERICAN ICE CREAM zu lesen war.

Ein Mann mit einem filmreifen Schnurrbart, fein und elegant, betätigte einen glänzenden Edelstahlhebel mit einem roten Knopf am Ende des Griffs. Sobald die Tülle

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around her body. “Let’s go and find the African pavilions,” she said. “Let’s see if we can find those huts with the open fires you were talking about.”

We walked in silence for a while and it dawned on me, as I was sure I would never marry, that I would live with my mother until she died. I wondered if she would take up her bobbin lace again. Even if it didn’t pay a living wage it could help with the bills.

The Congolese pavilion was an authentic village that lay at the edge of the exhibition grounds and was separated from the a dual carriageway beyond by brightly colored panels that were over two stories high. Despite their height, you could still see the street lanterns and the roofs of the factory workers’ houses behind them. We walked passed an open circle of huts that had a Belgian flag next to them and a sign that read POTOPOTO HUTS. The huts were separated from the walkway by a pond with two logboats. At the pond’s edge there were several benches for people to sit and observe the villagers.

Two men with bare torsos and skirts that looked like they were made of hides were gesturing towards the logboats. Four women with a tremendous amount of fabric draped around their bodies came out of one large hut and crossed the sandy inner courtyard before going into a smaller one from which smoke was rising into the dark grey sky.

“Let’s sit over here for a moment. My knees hurt,” my mother said. She looked out over the lake.

A market vendor with a cigarette dangling from his lip yelled from his little fruit stand by the edge of the lake “Bananas! bananas! 2 francs a banana! Throw a banana at your fellow man. They love bananas. The little girl would like a Banana. 2 franks to make the little girl

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Fuß des Hebels einen Turm aus geschlagenem Eisbrei auf einer Waffel hochgezogen hatte, reichte er ihn einer Frau mit einem blauen Hut. Ich bereute, meine fünf Francs für einen Plan ausgegeben zu haben.

Als ob sie meine Gedanken lesen würde, sagte meine Mutter zu mir, „es ist in Ordnung, ich möchte das Zeug sowieso nicht. Lass uns einfach um die Brunnen gehen.

Ich muss nicht sehen, was es drinnen gibt.“

Wir spazierten langsam darum herum, und ich fragte sie, ob sie beim Notar gewesen war. Sie sagte, sie war.

„Deine Tante hat uns kein Geld hinterlassen, aber sie hat uns das Haus vererbt. Nun, sie hat es mir hinterlassen, damit ich am Ende nicht“, sie pausierte. „Es war ihr Wunsch, dass du bei mir bleibst, bis du verheiratet bist, und wenn du niemals heiratest, wird das Haus auf dich übergehen, und du kannst dort leben, nachdem ich gestorben bin.“

Ich war dankbar, dass sie nicht fragte, ob es Anträge gegeben hatte, oder ob irgendwelche Männer Interesse zeigten.

„Wo arbeitest du?“

„Die Alte Gießerei“, sagte ich.

„Du kellnerst?“

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happy by giving her a banana.” He pointed at one of the huts from which a little girl emerged. She wore a white dress with a foreign angular pattern on the hem and ran from one hut to the other. I had never seen a child that dark and when she smiled I noticed her teeth.

A couple approached the vendor. The man spoke. My mother watched them buy two bananas. The woman was in her twenties. Her skirt was elegant and beautiful and her shoes were plum-colored. She leant in and listened to something the man said in her ear. The man was short but well-built and the way he held himself emanated confidence. She threw her head back, laughing too loudly, clutching the man’s arm with her gloved hand. They walked over to the side of the lake. She called out to the huts where the little girl had entered.

“Woo-hoo” she yelled, waving.

The little girl ran out and stood turning from side to side with her hands behind her back.

The woman threw a banana but it fell short and landed in the lake. The man took the other banana from her and pointed at the desired trajectory with one hand before launching the banana with the other. It was an impressive throw and the banana landed about six feet short of the little girl who hadn’t moved as the banana flew through the air towards her.

“Take it! It’s for you!” the woman yelled with her hands by the sides of her mouth.

Suddenly, the girl ran back into the house, leaving the banana in the sand. The man kissed the woman on her forehead but the woman seemed upset. She gestured

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„Ich stehe gewöhnlich hinter dem Tresen, aber ich glaube nicht, dass ich dort noch sehr viel länger arbeiten kann.

Sie stellen Leute zum Putzen im Universitätskrankenhaus ein. Ich bewerbe mich vielleicht.“

„Oh, ich habe als Putzfrau in Frankreich gearbeitet!

Achtundzwanzig Jahre habe ich nichts anderes gemacht als putzen. Das war’s, was mir am Ende die Knie ruiniert hat“, rief sie, zu mir hochschauend, aus.

In dem Moment, in dem sich unsere Augen trafen, fühlte ich einen Schreck, als ob ich bei etwas Furchtbarem erwischt worden wäre. Ich blickte hinunter auf das Pflaster und dann in die Ferne. Die Wolken verdunkelten sich, und es war klar, dass es wieder regnen würde, bevor der Tag vorbei war.

„Riechst du das?“, fragte meine Mutter.

„Die Ringelblumen“, sagte ich.

„Dein Vater“, sagte sie „er roch so, als er im Dorf arbeitete. Bevor er nach Frankreich ging, um Zuckerrüben zu ernten, arbeitete er auf den Flachsfeldern und half bei der Röste. So roch er, als ich ihn das erste Mal sah. Taufeuchter Flachs. Die Leute wollten nicht in seiner Nähe sein. Erst riecht es nach Kälte und Feuchtigkeit, aber wenn man es aufwärmt, vor einem Feuer, ist es etwas völlig anderes.“

Ich wusste nicht, was ich sagen sollte.

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towards the banana and then back at the vendor. I could feel a thick raindrop on my head, quickly followed by another.

“We should go,” I said to my mother. “It’s starting to rain.”

“No,” she said. “Wait.”

The woman was talking excitedly to the vendor now, who shrugged and held up his hands.

“Come with me” my mother said.

She put all her weight on her cane and grunted as she made her way to the fruit stand. Just as we got closer the man put his arm around the woman and they both made to leave. He opened an umbrella that was just big enough for the both of them. He squeezed her tight and they turned away from the vendor, and away from us.

Only ten feet behind then, my mother stopped and screamed at the top of her lungs, “No one wants your banana you stupid cow!”.

They turned around, peeked out from under their umbrella, and stared at my mother. The moment seemed to go on forever. Then the man looked on and pointed to something in the distance. We all turned to look. A black man in a soldier’s uniform wearing a gold watch walked through the rain to pick up the banana as the little girl looked on from the entrance to one of the huts.

“Papa! Come back!” The girl cried.

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„Wenn du einen Mann, der draußen auf dem Flachsfeld war, vor einen Ofen hinsetzt, wenn du einen Tropfen 3 Genever mit ihm trinkst, ändert sich der Geruch komplett. Dann riecht er wie Moos und brennende Blätter.“ Sie zog ihre Strickjacke enger um ihren Körper. „Gehen wir die afrikanischen Pavillons suchen“, sagte sie. „Mal sehen, ob wir diese Hütten mit den offenen Feuern finden, von denen du gesprochen hast.“ Schweigend spazierten wir eine Weile, und es dämmerte mir, da ich sicher war, niemals zu heiraten, dass ich mit meiner Mutter leben würde, bis sie starb. Ich fragte mich, ob sie ihre Spitzenklöppelei wieder aufnehmen würde.

Selbst wenn es nicht reichen würde, um den Lebensunterhalt zu bestreiten, so könnte es doch helfen, die Rechnungen zu bezahlen.

Der kongolesische Pavillon war ein authentisches Dorf, das am Rand des Ausstellungsgeländes lag und von der dahinterliegenden zweispurigen Fahrbahn durch farbenfrohe Paneele, die über zwei Stockwerke hoch waren, abgegrenzt wurde. Trotz der Höhe der Paneele konnte man noch jenseits davon die Straßenlaternen und die Dächer der Fabrikarbeiterhäuser sehen. Wir gingen an Hütten vorbei, die in einem Halbkreis angeordnet waren. Daneben stand eine belgische Flagge und ein Zeichen auf dem POTOPOTO-HÜTTEN zu lesen war.

Die Hütten waren von dem Gehweg durch einen Teich

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Genever ist ein Wacholderschnaps, der in den Niederlanden oder Belgien hergestellt wird. (A.d.Ü.)

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He walked back, threw the banana nonchalantly in a large wicker basket outside one of the huts, picked up the little girl, and went to find shelter somewhere.

On the train back my mother looked me in the eye and said, “you look so much like your father”.

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mit zwei Einbäumen getrennt. Am Rand des Teichs gab es einige Bänke für Besucher, um sich hinzusetzen und die Dorfbewohner zu betrachten. Zwei Männer mit nacktem Oberkörper und Lendenschürzen, die aussahen, als ob sie aus Tierhäuten gefertigt waren, gestikulierten in Richtung der Einbäume. Vier Frauen, die eine gewaltigen Menge an Stoffen um ihre Körper gewickelt hatten, kamen aus einer großen Hütte heraus und überquerten den sandigen Innenhof, bevor sie in eine kleinere Hütte gingen, von der Rauch in den dunkelgrauen Himmel aufstieg.

„Setzen wir uns hier drüben einen Moment hin. Meine Knie schmerzen“, sagte meine Mutter. Sie blickte über den Teich hinweg. Ein Verkäufer, dem eine Zigarette von den Lippen baumelte, schrie von seinem kleinen Obststand am Ufer des Teichs, „Bananen! Bananen! Zwei Francs für eine Banane! Werft euren Mitmenschen eine Banane zu. Sie lieben Bananen. Das kleinen Mädchen möchte eine Banane. Zwei Francs um das kleine Mädchen glücklich zu machen, indem man ihr eine Banane zuwirft.“ Er zeigte auf eine Hütte, aus der ein kleines Mädchen herauskam. Sie trug ein weißes Kleid mit einem fremdartigen, eckigen Muster am Kleidersaum und rannte von einer Hütte zur anderen. Ich hatte noch nie ein so dunkles Kind gesehen, und als sie lächelte, fielen mir ihre Zähne auf.

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Als Einbaum werden Boote bezeichnet, deren Rumpf aus einem einzigen Baumstamm gefertigt wurde. Sie werden i.d.R. von indigenen Völkern hergestellt und verwendet. (A.d.Ü.)

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Ein Pärchen ging zu dem Verkäufer. Der Mann redete.

Meine Mutter sah ihnen zu, wie sie zwei Bananen kauften. Die Frau war in ihren Zwanzigern. Ihr Rock war elegant und schön, und ihre Schuhe waren pflaumenfarben. Sie lehnte sich vor und hörte sich etwas an, was der Mann ihr ins Ohr sagte. Der Mann war klein, aber gut gebaut, und seine Haltung strahlte Selbstvertrauen aus. Sie warf ihren Kopf zurück, lachte zu laut und klammerte sich mit ihrer behandschuhten Hand an den Arm des Mannes. Beide gingen zum Ufer des Teichs. Sie rief zu den Hütten hinüber, wo das kleine Mädchen hineingegangen war.

„Huuu-huu“, rief sie und winkte.

Das kleine Mädchen lief heraus und blieb stehen, die Hände hinter dem Rücken, und drehte sich von einer Seite zur anderen. Die Frau warf, aber die Banane erreichte das Ufer nicht und landete im Teich. Der Mann nahm ihr die zweite Banane ab und zeigte mit der einen Hand auf die gewünschte Flugbahn, bevor er die Banane mit der anderen Hand lancierte. Es war ein beeindruckender Wurf, und die Banane landete etwa zwei Meter vor dem kleinen Mädchen, das sich nicht bewegt hatte, als die Banane durch die Luft auf sie zuflog.

„Nimm sie! Sie ist für dich!“ rief die Frau mit ihren Händen an beiden Seiten ihres Mundes. Plötzlich rannte das Mädchen zurück in die Hütte und ließ die Banane im Sand zurück. Der Mann küsste die Frau auf die Stirn, aber die Frau schien aufgebracht zu sein. Sie gestikulierte in Richtung Banane und dann zurück zum Verkäufer. Ich

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konnte einen dicken Regentropfen auf meinem Kopf fühlen, rasch gefolgt von einem anderen.

„Wir sollten gehen“, sagte ich zu meiner Mutter. „Es fängt an zu regnen.“

„Nein“, sagte sie. „Warte.“

Die Frau sprach nunmehr erregt mit dem Verkäufer, der mit den Achseln zuckte und seine Hände in die Höhe hielt.

„Komm mit“, sagte meine Mutter.

Sie legte ihr ganzes Gewicht auf den Gehstock und ächzte, als sie sich auf den Obststand zubewegte. Gerade als wir näher kamen, legte der Mann seinen Arm um die Frau, und beide machten sich auf, um weiterzugehen. Er öffnete einen Regenschirm, der für beide gerade groß genug war. Er drückte sie fest an sich, und sie drehten sich von dem Verkäufer und von uns weg.

Nur drei Meter hinter ihnen, blieb meine Mutter stehen und schrie aus vollem Hals: „Niemand braucht deine Banane, du blöde Kuh!“.

Sie drehten sich um, lugten unter dem Schirm hervor und starrten meine Mutter an. Der Augenblick schien unendlich lange zu dauern. Dann blickte der Mann auf und deutete auf etwas in der Ferne. Wir drehten uns alle um, um zu schauen. Ein schwarzer Mann in Soldatenuniform, der eine goldene Uhr trug, lief durch

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den Regen, um die Banane aufzuheben, während das kleine Mädchen am Eingang einer der Hütten stand und ihn beobachtete. „Papa! Komm zurück!“ Das Mädchen weinte.

Er lief zurück, warf die Banane lässig in einen großen Weidenkorb vor einer der Hütten, hob das kleine Mädchen auf und ging, um irgendwo vor dem Regen Unterschlupf zu suchen.

Im Zug zurück, blickte mir meine Mutter in die Augen und sagte: „Du siehst deinem Vater so ähnlich.“

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JESSICA MIHALYI DIE GRENZE Sopronkőhida, die Nasenspitze Ungarns, die nach Österreich ragt, wo sich ebene Felder und buschige Laubwälder zum Fertő-tó, unserem Sumpf, ziehen ist unser Zuhause. Das Land ist gold und ocker, gülden und vergilbt, bis Mai, wenn sich die Blätter aufrollen und das Gras grün, blassgrün und dunkelgrün wird. Einige von uns sind nach Sopron gezogen, oder nach Budapest. Die mit Verwandten, großen Familien oder Beziehungen nach oben. Sie gingen in die Städte, wo es laut ist, wo man Menschen trifft, die man nicht kennt. Zu uns kam niemand, außer den neuen Insassen für das Gefängnis.

Aber das waren Politische und sobald sie entlassen wurden, verließen sie uns wieder. Wir bleiben und sind immer geblieben. Wir sind die Söhne und Töchter der Wiesen, des Waldes und des Sumpfes. Als wir klein waren rannten wir durch die Laubwälder, bis unsere Füße kalt und nass waren und unsere Finger von Harz verklebt. Die laubigen Äste strichen über unsere Gesichter wie Daunenfedern, die wir vor dem zu Bett gehen aus unseren Kissen zogen, damit der Kiel uns nicht in die Wange sticht. Wir warfen uns auf die von der Sonne schon gebleichten Wiesen. Nachts hörten wir das Quaken der Frösche und das Zirpen der Grillen. Wir schliefen in den hohen Gräsern und dem Schilf, zählten die Sterne, die zerschmettert und zerstreut im Nachthimmel über uns funkelten.

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translated from the german by TIBO HALSBERGHE THE BORDER Sopronkőhida is our home. It’s the nose of Hungary that juts out into Austria, where level fields and woods dense with leaves stretch toward our swampy lake Fertő-to.

Until May the land here is golden, ocher, flaxen. Then the leaves unfurl and the grass turns green before the heat robs it of its depth. Some of us left for Sopron or Budapest. People with relatives or large families, or those with connections, left for noisy cities where you met people you didn’t know. No one ever came our way, except for new inmates. These were all political prisoners who left us again the moment they were released. We stayed put, as we have always done. When we were little we ran through the woods until our feet were wet and our fingers sticky with resin. The leafy branches stroked our faces like the downy feathers we plucked out of our pillows so the quills wouldn’t prick our cheeks at night.

We sprawled out on meadows bleached by the sun. At night we heard the croaking of frogs and the chirping of crickets, and slept swaddled by high grasses and reeds.

We counted stars that lay shattered and sprinkled across the night sky overhead.

To get to Sopron we walked through the wide flatlands until we reached the country road that led to the city like a dry riverbed, a trail of rocks and dust. There weren’t many street signs. Sounds were muted as if we were

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Um nach Sopron zu kommen liefen wir durch das weite Flachland bis wir auf die Landstraße stießen, die sich wie ein trockenes Bachbett, steinig und staubig, zur Stadt zog. Es gab nicht viele Straßenschilder. Es war still, wie unter einer Glocke. Hundegebell, der Aufschrei eines Vogels, das entschlossene Schlagen von Flügeln. Ab und zu fuhren Mähdrescher an uns vorbei. Oder Autos die zum Bersten gefüllt waren mit Teenagern, die mit ihren Bierdosen nach uns warfen, oder bremsten und uns Zigaretten anboten. Sie sind bis zur Grenze gefahren. Nur um zu schauen, haben sie gesagt. Dort wo die breite Straße durchtrennt war wie eine Nabelschnur und Zäune Wurzeln schlugen. Als sie zurückkamen, hielten die Autos nie an. Es verliefen sich selten Leute aus der Stadt zu uns und wir wollten nicht in die Stadt. Deshalb waren wir es, die an der Grenze saßen und aufpassten.

Wir erinnern uns an die Tage, die sich wie Zwillinge glichen. Tage einer wie der andere: Der Hahn krähte - keiner von uns hat ihn je zu Gesicht bekommen - und unser Tag begann. Die Äcker waren bedeckt von Tau und Reif. Die Luft war frisch, ein fahles Blau über uns, ein roter Streifen am östlichen Horizont. Von unseren Häusern liefen wir durch die morgendliche Wiese, die nach nassem Heu roch. Unsere Schritte waren leise und gleichmäßig, wie das Nagen der Rehkitze an Baumrinde.

Wenn sich das blassblau des Himmels gelblich färbte, kamen wir am Wachhaus an und lösten die Nachtschicht ab. Mit müden Augen verfolgten wir den Dampf des heißen Kaffees, der wie Nebel aufstieg und sich mit kalter Morgenluft mischte.

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walking under a bell jar. The barking of dogs, the shrieking of birds, the determined beating of wings.

Every once and a while harvesters and threshers passed us. Or teenagers packed into cars. They threw beer cans or slowed down to offer us cigarettes. They were driving to the border, where the road was severed like an umbilical cord and fences had taken root. Just to have a look, they said. On their way back the cars never stopped. City people hardly ever came our way and we didn’t make it there either. We stayed close to the border and stood guard.

We remember those days as identical as twins. Each just like the one before: the rooster crowed - none of us had ever actually seen him - and the day would begin. The fields were covered in rime that slowly turned to dew. The air was crisp, a pale blue overhead, with streaks of red on the eastern horizon. From our houses we would walk through morning meadows that smelled of wet hay. Our steps were calm and even, like fawns gnawing at the bark of trees. As the pale blue of the sky was turning a shade of yellow, we would arrive at the guardhouse and relieve the night shift. Our weary eyes followed the steam of our hot coffee as it rose up like mist and became one with the cold morning air.

Most of the time we would sit together in silence, listening to the wind as it either shook the trees frantically or moved through them with tenderness. Or else we’d play cards. Sometimes we read the paper, which was already a few days old. Once in a blue moon we would file our paperwork or call our superior officers in

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Meist saßen wir schweigend zusammen und hörten dem Wind zu wie er verzweifelt die Bäume schüttelte oder liebevoll über sie strich. Oder wir spielten Karten.

Manchmal lasen wir die Zeitung, die immer schon ein paar Tage alt war. Selten ordneten wir die Papiere oder telefonierten mit dem Vorgesetzten in Sopron. Wenn die Sonne im Zenit stand setzen wir uns an den Tisch vor dem Wachhaus und schnitten das Weißbrot und die Hauswurst in dicke Scheiben, dass die Finger fettig wurden und aßen dazu die geschnittenen, gelben Paprika und die im Fass gereiften, salzigen Gurken. Zur Verdauung holten wir den Zwetschgenschnaps vom obersten Regal, den eine unserer Verwandten heimlich im Keller gebrannt hatte. Danach liefen wir die Grenze ab.

Kontrollierten den Signaldraht, und ob Holzpfosten wieder angenagt waren. Die Grenze, das war ein morsches, stacheldrahtbewährtes Holztor. Die Alarmanlage war bedeckt von Vogelkot. Der Signaldraht verrostet. Ersatz haben wir keinen bekommen.

Fehlalarme kamen immer häufiger vor. Manchmal bis zu zehn an einem Tag. Wenn Hasen oder Rehe in den Draht hineingelaufen waren. Oder Betrunkene aus der Stadt.

Oder auch die Kinder, die uns einen Streich spielen wollten. Ein oder zweimal kamen tatsächlich welche, die flüchten wollten. Aber diese Tage waren selten und meistens waren es Leute aus unseren Bruderstaaten. Auf die haben wir dann nicht geschossen. Meist schossen wir auf leere Weinflaschen. Unsere Neun Millimeter sollten wir im Dienst entsichert bei uns tragen, aber seit Béla sich beim Füttern der Hunde damit in den Fuß geschossen hatte, legten wir sie im Wachhaus auf den Kühlschrank. Manchmal kam auch einer aus Sopron oder

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Sopron. When the sun reached its highest point we would sit down at the table in front of the guard house and cut the bread and házi kolbász in thick slices until our fingers were greasy. We had yellow peppers on the side, and pickles that tasted of the salt of the barrel. We grabbed the plum brandy someone in our family had secretly brewed in their cellar off the top shelf to have as a digestif. Afterwards we would walk along the border to check the trip wire and see whether the wooden pikes had been gnawed at again. The border was nothing more than a rotting gate made of wood and barbed wire. The alarm system was covered in bird droppings and although rust had badly corroded the signaling wires we received nothing to replace them with. False alarms were becoming more and more frequent. When hares or deer ran into them we would get up to ten a day. Drunk city people tripped over them too. And children playing tricks on us. Once or twice we were faced with people who actually wanted to flee. But days like that were few and far between, and even then they were mostly people from our socialist neighbours. We didn’t shoot them. We shot empty wine bottles. Ever since Béla shot himself in the foot while feeding the dogs we kept the 9mm on top of the fridge, even though we were supposed to carry it with us on our rounds with the safety off. Every once in a while someone came from Sopron or Györ to check on us.

But all they did was traipse through the grass and look at the fence while swatting at the swarms of mosquitoes that had wrapped themselves around them like a cocoon.

With the enthusiasm of someone giving a speech at a party conference they repeated the border commands: fire a warning shot, take the dogs off the leash, and in

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Györ um zu kontrollieren. Aber die stapfen nur durch das Gras, besichtigen den Zaun, und schlugen um sich, weil Mückenschwärme sie wie ein Kokon eingehüllt hatten.

Enthusiastisch wie eine Parteirede wiederholten sie den Grenzbefehl - Warnschuss, Hunde von der Kette, bei Gefahr für Leib und Leben Schusswaffengebrauch - und fuhren schnell wieder weg. Dringendere Geschäfte warteten auf sie.

Wir erinnern uns auch an den Tag der Zeitungsberichte.

Einen brennend heißen Tag Mitte August. Es war wärmer als üblich, als ob ein konvexes Glas die Sonnenstrahlen heißer auf unseren Teil der Erde scheinen ließ. Die Reporter mit den Fotoapparaten auf der anderen Seite der Grenze, die vielen Fremden auf unserer.

Ein Anruf aus Sopron hatte eine Veranstaltung mit Grenzöffnung angekündigt. Eine Delegation sollte durchmarschieren und das Holztor für einige Stunden offen stehen. Symbolisch, haben sie gesagt. Wir standen schweigend an unserem Wachhäuschen und sahen zu wie sich die Fremden zu hunderten durch unser Holztor zwängten und sich auf der anderen Seite in die Arme fielen, oder auf die Knie gingen und taten, als ob sie den Himmel beschworen. "Stunde der Freiheit" haben sie gerufen, "Vorkämpfer der Freiheit" haben sie gesagt, auf uns gezeigt, applaudiert und gefeiert.

Aber es war nicht zum Feiern und nicht zum Applaudieren. An diesem Tag wurde unser Leben zertrampelt, wie das Gras um das morsche Holztor, das wir Grenze nannten. Veranstaltungsbesucher konnte man meist an der Schärpe um den Bauch erkennen und an der

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case of danger to life and limb employ firearm - then quickly left again. More pressing matters had to be dealt with.

We remember the day made famous by the newspapers.

A scorching hot morning in the middle of August. It was even hotter than usual, as if a magnifying glass was intensifying the rays on our part of the earth. The reporters with their cameras on the other side of the border, the many strangers on our side. A phone call from Sopron had announced an event. A delegation would pass through and the wooden gate would be opened for a couple of hours. Symbolically, they said. We stood guard in silence. We watched hundreds of foreigners struggling to get through the wooden gate. On the other side, they fell into each other’s arms or knelt down in a way that made them look like they were beseeching heaven. They shouted “Hour of freedom”. Pointing at us, they added “Pioneers of freedom”.

They applauded and celebrated, but there was nothing to celebrate and nothing to applaud. On this day our life was trampled like the grass around the rotten wooden gate, we called the border. The handful of official visitors usually gave themselves away by the sash around their torsos. These people had been hanging around for weeks, like vagabonds. At first, we didn’t know why so many of them were showing up. On the day specified on the flyers, next to a precise itinerary that marked our guard posts with an X, more of them showed up. They had no idea what to do with themselves, and neither did we. They waited. They waited, sweated, and swatted mosquitoes.

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Hand abzählen. Diese Besucher lungerten schon seit Wochen herum, wie Landstreicher. Wir wussten erst nicht, warum so viele von ihnen gekommen waren. An dem Tag, der auf den Flugblättern stand, deren genaue Wegbeschreibung unser Wachhäuschen mit einem X versehen hatte, kamen noch mehr von ihnen. Sie wussten so wenig wie wir, was sie mit sich anfangen sollten. Sie warteten. Sie warteten, schwitzen und schlugen Mücken tot.

Wir standen vor der Wache. Wir mussten sie im Auge behalten. Tamás sagte, dass wir die Neun Millimeter bei uns zu tragen hatten. Nur für den Fall. Ab und zu ging einer von uns in das Häuschen um sich hastig ein Stück Brot abzureißen und mit etwas Wurst in den Mund zu stopfen. Nur nicht Péter, der trank vom Schnaps.

"Welche verdammte Delegation sammelt sich da?" Tamás fragte mehr sich selbst als uns. Die Hitze war erdrückend. Uns misstrauische Blicke zuwerfend, bewegten sich einige langsam, zögernd Richtung Tor. Ich hatte die Hand an der Neun Millimeter. Der Griff war warm und lag passgenau in meiner verschwitzten Hand.

Péter ging wieder in die Wache. Diesmal folgte ihm Tamás und sagte, er solle den Vorgesetzten ans Telefon kriegen und ihn, Tamás, dann rufen. Péter hat nicht gerufen. Unser Vorgesetzte in der Stadt war nicht zu erreichen. Péter saß am Tisch bis alles vorbei war: Schnaps vor ihm, Telefonhörer zwischen Ohr und Schulter geklemmt, Zigarette in der Hand.

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We stood guard. We had to keep an eye on them. Tamás said to keep the 9mm on us, just in case. Every now and then, one of us would go into the small guard house to tear off a hunk of bread, grab a piece of házi kolbász, and stuff their face with it. Everyone except Péter, who stuck to schnapps.

“What kind of miserable delegation is that?” Tamás said more to himself than to any of us. The heat was oppressive. While keeping their mistrustful gaze on us some of them drifted slowly and tentatively toward the gate. I kept my hand on the 9mm. The grip was warm and fit perfectly in my sweaty hand. Péter went back inside. This time Tamás followed him and said Péter should shout from the house the moment he got our superior on the line. Péter didn’t shout. Our superior in the city couldn’t be reached. Péter sat at his desk until it was all over: schnapps in front of him, the receiver clasped between ear and shoulder, a cigarette in his hand.

When the first people started tampering with the gate, I told Tamás we should fire a couple of warning shots. I rubbed my hand dry on my pants leg and rested it on the warm grip, which felt as if it had a pulse.

“No,” said Tamás, pacing up and down in front of us. He stopped for a moment before retracing his steps over and over.

“The gate is being opened for the delegation.”

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Als die Ersten sich am Tor zu schaffen machten, habe ich Tamás gesagt, dass wir ein paar Warnschüsse in die Luft feuern müssen. Ich rieb die Hand am Hosenbein trocken und legte sie wieder auf den warmen Griff. Er schien zu pulsieren.

"Nein", sagte Tamás und ging vor uns auf und ab, blieb kurz stehen und zog weiter seine kurzen Bahnen. "Das Tor wird für die Delegation geöffnet."

"Das da ist keine Delegation. Wir müssen die Hunde von der Leine lassen", beharrte ich, "das ist der Befehl." Und Befehl ist Befehl. Die anderen blickten von mir zu Tamás. Ich fühlte den schmeichelnden Griff der Neun Millimeter. Unruhe und Ruhe gingen von ihr aus. Sie schien mit mir zu verwachsen, ein Teil von mir zu werden, eine natürliche Verlängerung meines Arms.

"Es gibt keinen Befehl", antwortete Tamás. Die Wagemutigsten zwängten sich schon durch das leicht geöffnete Tor.

"Wir können nicht gegen Dienstpflichten verstoßen", versuchte ich es noch einmal. Ich fühlte sie war eingezwängt, bedrängt, eingeschlossen. Sie war schon entsichert. Sie musste atmen. Luft holen. Nur für einen kleinen Moment sich aus dem Halfter lösen.

"Gesicht nach Österreich, schauen, ob von dort jemand kommt", hat Tamás dann befohlen, "alles andere sehen wir nicht. Das ist der Befehl."

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“That’s not a delegation. We have to let the dogs off the leash,” I insisted. “That’s the order.” And an order is an order. The others looked at me and then at Tamás. I felt the smooth grip of the 9mm. Turmoil and tranquility emanated from it. The grip seemed to fuse itself to me, becoming a part of me, a natural extension of my arm.

“There is no order,” Tamás answered. The ones who were the least afraid were already forcing their way through the gate’s narrow opening.

“We can’t just throw away the rulebook,” I tried again.

Still it felt trapped in its straight-jacket. It needed to be liberated from its holster, if just for a moment, so that it could breathe freely.

“Keep your face turned toward Austria and watch for anyone who’s approaching us from that side,” Tamás ordered, “we’re turning a blind eye to everything else.

That’s the order.”

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye like a man who’d bet it all on red. His eyes gleamed with suspicion and guts, a defiant look, and for a long time his gaze held mine. I noticed the 9mm separating itself from my body.

I shed it like a snake sheds its skin. The grip felt like it had an outline again. Its grooves had pressed their pattern into the palm of my hand. The 9mm seemed to cool down in a way that was almost alien. It touched my hand reproachfully. I looked at Tamás and felt the sweat trickle down my brow.

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Er blickte mich aus den Augenwinkeln an und dieser Blick war der eines Mannes, der alles auf eine Karte gesetzt hatte. Argwohn und Verwegenheit war in seinen Augen, ein tollkühner Blick, und er nahm seine Augen lange nicht von meinen. Ich merkte wie sich die Neun Millimeter wieder von meinem Körper löste, sich abschälte wie die Haut einer Schlange. Der Griff nahm wieder Konturen an, die geriffelte Oberfläche hatte Muster in meine Handfläche gedrückt. Die Neun Millimeter schien kälter zu werden, fast fremd, vorwurfsvoll meine Hand berührend. Ich schaute zu Tamás und Schweiß lief mein Gesicht hinab.

So standen wir dann da und blickten nach Österreich, als sich die Delegation zu Hunderten auf den Weg in den Westen machte und sich durch die weit offen stehende Symbolik drängte.

Um die Zeit als wir normalerweise unseren zweiten Kaffee trinken und im Winter die Nachtschicht beginnt, kam dann doch noch einer aus der Stadt und hat gesagt, dass wir Menschenschmuggel und Verrat begangen haben. Verrat, Landesverrat, Hochverrat. Wir müssten mit Disziplinarmaßnahmen rechnen. Die kamen genauso wenig, wie die Ersatzteile, die wir für die Instandhaltung der Grenze benötigt hätten. Er hat noch wild gefuchtelt und versucht sich den Leuten in den Weg zu stellen.

Umsonst, aufgehalten hat er keinen. Wir haben weiter nach Österreich geblickt.

Heute reden sie davon, dass wir das erste Loch in den Eisernen Vorhang gerissen haben. Wir kennen die We

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stood there just like that, our faces turned toward Austria while hundreds of members of this so-called delegation shoved their way to the West through the symbolic gesture, which by this time had swung wide open.

By the time when, under normal circumstances, we’d be drinking our second coffee waiting for the night shift to begin, a city official turned up, only to tell us we’d been complicit in human trafficking and had committed treason. Treason against the state. High Treason. We should expect sanctions, he said. The sanctions never materialized, just like the spare parts we’d asked for to repair the border. The official flailed about the place in a futile attempt to block people’s path. He didn’t stop a soul. We just kept our faces turned toward Austria.

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Gedenkstätte und die Denkmäler, die sie aufgebaut haben. Diejenigen, die Abwechslung suchen können jetzt nach Budapest, oder nach Eisenstadt und von dort weiter nach Wien. Oder nach Bratislava wie Tamás, der nie wieder zurück gekommen ist. Wir, die hier geblieben sind, erinnern uns an den Tag, an dem sich die Menschen durch unser Holztor gezwängt haben. Wie ihre Autos auf unserer Straße stehen blieben und später verschwanden.

Wie ihr Müll liegenblieb, bis er von einem Reh gefressen oder von einem Vogel im Schnabel davongetragen und in ein Nest geflochten wurde. Wir müssen nicht mehr an der Grenze sitzen seitdem sie offen ist.

Unser Tag beginnt noch immer mit dem ersten Hahnenschrei. Wenn die Sonne ihre blassen Strahlen kosend über die schon gelben Gräser streifen lässt, betreten wir das von künstlichem Licht erhellte Gefängnis. Statt dem müden Gezwitscher von Nachtigall, Feldlerche und Stieglitz hören wir jetzt das Geknurre der Gefangenen. Wir sitzen im Gefängnis und passen auf die Insassen auf. Der Duft frisch gekochten Kaffees vermischt sich mit dem Geruch von Desinfektionsmitteln, zu weich gekochten Kartoffeln und Suppe mit faserigem Fleisch. Mittagstisch ist um zwölf.

Wir stochern im Essen der Kantine, das sich mit den Zähnen nicht zermahlen lässt, sondern sich im Mund gleichsam auflöst, wenn man mit der Zunge dagegen drückt. Wenn es dunkel wird, trotten wir nach Hause und fallen dort ins Bett. An manchen Abenden gehe ich in den Schuppen hinter dem Haus. Ich hole die Neun Millimeter von damals aus dem rostigen Eisenschrank, wiege sie in meiner Hand und frage mich, ob sie unsere

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Leben bewahrt hätte. Tot und zerbrochen liegt sie in meiner Hand. Die Hände werden mir ganz heiß. Mein Magen wird zu einem schmerzhaften, verkrampften Klumpen. Magensäure frisst sich durch die Magenwand, zieht die Speiseröhre hoch. Ich fresse mich selbst. Dumpf drückt die Übelkeit auf die Brust und kriecht zu meiner Kehle. Ich atme und bekomme doch keine Luft. Ich lege mich mit dem Rücken auf den Boden, dessen Kälte mich umarmt, die Neun Millimeter auf die Brust gepresst. Ob sie etwas geändert hätte? Ob sie unser Leben unter der Sonne gerettet hätte? Würde ich bereuen, wenn ich gehandelt hätte? An diesen Abenden hasse ich Tamás und gehe ohne Essen zu Bett.

In langen Sommernächten treffen wir uns unter freiem Himmel, in den Wiesen und Wäldern die um unser ehemaliges Wachhaus liegen. Hier kennen wir uns am besten. Umgeben von Gestrüpp aus Laub und weicher Wildnis wandern wir durch das hohe Gras und durch die Heckenzüge, manchmal bis hin zum Sumpf. Der Mond überzieht das Land mit einem silbrigen Glanz, der das Laub wie fein poliertes Metall aussehen lässt. Wir liegen in dem vom Tag noch warmen Gras, die Köpfe beieinander und fühlen die immer kälter werdende Luft, suchen den Himmel nach Sternbildern ab, die uns sagen, wann die Zeit wiederkommt, in der wir die Sonne auch wochentags sehen. Die uns sagen, wann wir zu einem neuen Wachhaus, einer neuen Grenze können.

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word for word / palabra por palabra Columbia University School of the Arts Universidad Diego Portales

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NINA WOLPOW from A.D. 11 She would never totally come around to vegan ice cream, Meg thought as she pushed her spoon into the mint chip and dug out a sliver of chocolate. They had told her not to eat dairy, but she’d never asked why not. At least it was a beautiful day. So, the ice cream wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t the type to want to be the first woman in the history of women for whom everything went just the way she wanted it. When she closed her eyes, and stuffed up her nose a little bit, she could barely taste the cashews standing in for lactose, anyway.

A woman with a stroller and a silent baby inside passed by with two little girls in tow, coming from the school down the street. One girl held a picture book and was explaining part of it to the smaller one as they walked.

This impressed Meg — the girl was navigating the city block as if she’d spent a lifetime doing just that, and she couldn’t have been older than eight. As they approached, Meg had smiled at them and though their mother had not noticed her sitting there, the girls — sisters, Meg presumed — waved back shyly. They stared at Meg’s protruding bump, the soft mound of her belly button pressing through her cotton shirt like a poorly hid erection.

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traducido del inglés por ANALAURA NÚÑEZ de A.D. 11 Nunca se podría comprometer completamente al helado vegano, pensó Meg mientras empujaba el chocolate con menta y sacaba una porción de chocolate. Le habían dicho que no consumiera lácteos, pero nunca había preguntado por qué. Al menos era un día hermoso. El helado no era perfecto. Ella no era el tipo de mujer que quisiera ser la primera mujer de la historia de las mujeres que tuviera todo tal y como como ella quería. Cuando cerró los ojos y sorbeteó un poco por la nariz, apenas podía saborear las castañas que sustituían la lactosa.

Una mujer con una coche y un bebé silencioso pasaron junto a dos niñas chicas, que venían de la escuela por la calle. Una niña sostenía un libro ilustrado y le explicaba una parte a la más pequeña mientras caminaban. Esto impresionó a Meg: la niña navegaba por la manzana como si hubiera pasado toda una vida haciendo eso, y no podía tener más de ocho años. Cuando se acercaron, Meg les sonrió y aunque su madre no se había dado cuenta de que estaba sentada allí, las niñas -hermanas, supuso Meg- le devolvieron el saludo tímidamente. Miraron el protuberante bulto de Meg, el suave montículo de su

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Meg took another bite of her ice cream and then decided she had had enough. Just then her water broke.

“Fuck,” Meg said a little too loud. A man kneeling next to a Jack Russell a few feet away turned and looked at her as the spandex pants made to look like blue denim gradually blackened. Meg did not like attention. A pool was beginning to form on the ground. And in spite of it all, she had the urge to reach for the ice cream again.

Why hadn’t she agreed to let Dan stay home from work?

They were getting so close to the due date. She’d wanted to be strong, that’s why.

“I’ll do the same thing a single mother would do,” Meg had told Dan when he’d asked her what she’d do in the event of the very scenario with which she was now faced.

But what Meg did was grow dizzy — no one had told her that the levees, once they broke, continued to emit rush after rush of water, more than she imagined her body contained — with embarrassment and fear. The brown and white of the little dog blurred in her vision and became all that she saw, like a spotted canvas, before she slumped and fainted on the bench outside the shop where she had stopped for ice cream on a seemingly innocuous summer day.

Meg came to with the over-lit spectacle of a Manhattan hospital barreling towards her. No, she was being barreled into it. Someone kept reaching down to hold her hand, but she was moving too fast.

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ombligo presionando a través de su camisa de algodón como una erección mal escondida.

Meg tomó otro bocado de su helado y luego decidió que ya había tenido suficiente. En ese momento su agua se rompió.

"Mierda", dijo Meg un poco demasiado fuerte. Un hombre arrodillado al lado de un Jack Russell a unos metros de distancia se giró y la miró mientras los pantalones de spandex que intentaban parecer jeans lentamente se oscurecían. A Meg no le gustaba la atención. Un charco comenzaba a formarse en el suelo. Y a pesar de todo, tuvo ganas de alcanzar el helado de nuevo. ¿Por qué no había aceptado dejar que Dan se quedara en casa en vez de ir al trabajo? Se estaban acercando tanto a la fecha de nacimiento. Ella había querido ser fuerte, por eso era.

"Haré lo mismo que haría una madre soltera", le había dicho Meg a Dan cuando le preguntó qué haría en caso de que se enfrentara a la misma situación en la que se encontraba ahora mismo. Pero lo que hizo Meg fue marearse; nadie le había dicho que los diques, una vez que se rompieron, continúan emitiendo una ráfaga de agua tras otra, más de lo que imaginaba su cuerpo, con vergüenza y miedo. El café y blanco del perrito se desdibujó en su visión y se convirtió en todo lo que vio, como un lienzo manchado, antes de desplomarse y desmayarse en el banco frente a la tienda donde había parado para tomar un helado en un día de verano aparentemente inofensivo.

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“Alf?” she asked, though no one seemed to hear her. Her throat was dry, her voice smaller than it was usually. She leaned forward and searched for his eyes on the gurneys she passed but none of them were her brothers. Slow down she tried to say. Her own wrists throbbed. Fifteen.

He was so young. Handsome, doing well in school.

Smarter than she was. She’d tell him that now, admit it.

Alex said he’d inherited the family gene, the curse that made them all try to hurt themselves, but Meg believed you could choose against that sort of thing. The indulgence — dammit where was he. She felt dizzy again.

Her legs were wet. She passed into a room. It must have been his room. She could tell him now, before Alex arrived.

The weight in her arms was unfamiliar. It was soft, pulsing. A leg stretched out along her side. Her head rested in the crook of someone’s waist. There was a patterned beeping and the sensation of someone running his hands along her hair. She tilted her chin upwards.

“Meg?” he said, taking hold of it.

It was Dan. His eyes were watery. He kissed her forehead, pressing his lips in hard.

“Look who it is,” he said. “I’ve told them to call him George. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? If it isn’t we can change it. It isn’t too late.”

He was not quite as tall as she’d hoped a husband would be, but besides that, Dan was perfect. A long time ago, if

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Meg recordó el espectáculo sobredimensionado de un hospital de Manhattan que corría hacia ella. No, ella estaba siendo acarreada hacia él. Alguien siguió bajando para tomar su mano, pero ella se movía demasiado rápido.

"¿Alf?", Preguntó ella, aunque nadie pareció escucharla.

Tenía la garganta seca, su voz más pequeña de lo normal.

Se inclinó hacia adelante y buscó sus ojos en las camillas que pasaba, pero ninguno de ellos eran sus hermanos.

“Anda más despacio”, intentó decir. Sus propias muñecas latieron. Quince. Él era tan joven. Guapo, le iba bien en el colegio. Más inteligente que ella. Ella le diría eso ahora, lo admitiría. Alex dijo que había heredado el gen de la familia, la maldición que los hizo a todos tratar de lastimarse, pero Meg creía que uno siempre podía negar ese estilo de cosas. La indulgencia, mierda, dónde estaba él. Se mareó de nuevo. Sus piernas estaban mojadas. La llevaron a otra habitación. Debe haber sido su habitación. Podría decirle ahora, antes de que Alex llegara.

El peso en sus brazos era desconocido. Era suave, pulsante. Una pierna estirada a lo largo de su costado. Su cabeza descansaba en el pliegue de la cintura de alguien.

Había un pitido continuo y la sensación de alguien pasando las manos por su pelo. Ella inclinó su barbilla hacia arriba.

"¿Meg?" Dijo, agarrándolo.

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someone had asked her what she’d give to get Alf back, she would have said anything. It was strange that this could no longer be true.

~

7

“A man walked into the shop today,” Jeanine said to Rudolph when she brought him his tea. “He was the cutest thing.”

Rudolph was watching Antiques Roadshow, like he did every afternoon, on repeat. He went to sip his tea.

“Hot,” Jeanine said, as he flinched. “You’ll never learn.”

She patted his knee.

“He nearly lost his marbles over the bouquet. He’s going to propose tonight. He couldn’t remember whether his girlfriend loved roses or hated them. I tried to reassure him that there are lots of beautiful flowers besides roses, if he didn’t want to take the chance. But he was obsessed!

He kept pacing back and forth saying, there was something about roses, something about roses. I suggested he try a yellow rose, or pink. Some women find red roses tacky, especially with Baby’s Breath.”

Suddenly, Jeanine remembered that Rudolph had given her roses on their last anniversary — the last one they celebrated together, at least. She flushed. “But I don’t, Rudy. I love roses. Every color. I love them all.” Rudolph

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Era Dan. Sus ojos estaban húmedos. Él le besó la frente, presionándola

"Mira quién es", dijo. "Les dije que lo llamaran George.

Eso es lo que querías, ¿verdad? Si no es así, podemos cambiarlo. No es demasiado tarde ".

No era tan alto como ella esperaba que fuera su marido, pero aparte de eso, Dan era perfecto. Hace mucho tiempo, si alguien le hubiera preguntado qué hubiera dado para que Alf volviera, ella habría dicho que cualquier cosa. Era extraño que esto ya no pudiese ser cierto. ~

7

"Un hombre entró hoy a la tienda", le dijo Jeanine a Rudolph cuando ella le trajo su té. "No había cosa más linda que él".

Rudolph estaba viendo Antiques Roadshow, como lo hacía todas las tardes, en repetidas ocasiones. Fue a tomar su té. "Está caliente", dijo Jeanine, al verlo estremecer. "Nunca aprenderás". Le dio unas palmaditas en la rodilla.

"Estuvo a punto de perder sus monedas por el ramo. Iba a proponer matrimonio esta noche. No recordaba si su novia amaba las rosas o las odiaba. Traté de asegurarle que hay muchas flores hermosas además de las rosas, si es que acaso no quería arriesgarse. ¡Pero estaba

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rocked back and forth. Krista, the night nurse, dropped something in the kitchen. She cursed loudly.

“Don’t say the Lord — ” Jeanine began and then decided that God could fend for himself. So she kept telling Rudolph about the man.

“He was really in a tizzy,” Jeanine said. “I just wanted to unplug him!”

It had lifeboats, which you say you lost, but they can be made. And you see it’s named the Puritan. The Puritan was a very famous boat. The Puritan was a very famous line that went from Boston to New York City from around 1889 to around 1908, Noel Barrett said on the television.

Okay, the woman who owned the tin model boat kept saying, okay.

“Why don’t you ask one of her friends? I suggested. But he said he’d tried. They either didn’t know or weren’t picking up. So I said, does she have a sister? And he says no. What about a brother? I asked. And he just looks at me a little crazy, like he’d seen a ghost. And that’s when I knew it. I said Honey, do you know what women really want from a marriage? And he shook his head. So I said, they want it to grow, not wilt. I asked her name and he said Meg. So I said, here, take this paperwhite bulb and tell her Meg, I will be by your side until my dying breath.”

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obsesionado! Siguió caminando de un lado a otro diciendo: había algo sobre las rosas, algo sobre las rosas.

Le sugerí que probara una rosa amarilla o rosada.

Algunas mujeres encuentran vulgares las rosas rojas, especialmente cuando se unen con las de aliento de bebé”.

De repente, Jeanine recordó que Rudolph le había dado rosas en su último aniversario, la última que celebraron juntos, al menos. Ella se sonrojó.

"Pero yo no, Rudy. Amo las rosas. Cada color. Me encantan todas."

Rudolph se balanceó hacia adelante y hacia atrás. Krista, la enfermera nocturna, dejó caer algo en la cocina. Ella maldijo en voz alta.

"No nombres en vano al Señor", comenzó Jeanine y luego decidió que Dios podría valerse por sí mismo. Entonces siguió contándole a Rudolph sobre el hombre.

"Estaba realmente nervioso", dijo Jeanine. "¡Tenía ganas de desconectarlo!"

Tenía botes salvavidas, que dices que perdiste, pero se pueden hacer. Y ves que se llama el Puritano. El Puritano era un barco muy famoso. The Puritan era una línea muy famosa que iba de Boston a la ciudad de Nueva York desde alrededor de 1889 hasta alrededor de 1908, dijo Noel Barrett en la televisión.

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Rudolph’s saucer was flooded. Some tea spilled over onto his pant leg, and ran down into his crotch. Jeanine didn’t worry much about such things anymore. They weren’t in a hurry.

“A paperwhite bulb! After all the fuss about roses,” Jeanine laughed. “It was a beautiful choice. It’ll go into bloom in a couple of weeks.”

~

4

The runs got longer every week, until they reached 24 miles, at which point, Alex brought them back again to 10. She calculated this number precisely: there are 52 weeks in the year, and she assumed that, due to illness or travel (which she didn’t do much of anymore), she would run on 50 of them. So, if she began with 10, increasing by one mile every week, she would have one run for all 52 minus two Sundays of the year. Today was a seventeen-miler, and halfway through, Alex was already exhausted, having had to run on tiptoe most of the way, searching for black ice.

It had snowed several inches the night before. Alex ran regardless of the elements. The harsher, the better, she thought in fact. The more she had to fight, the less she had to think, and the more quickly the lonely weekend hours slipped away from the world, ushering it closer to Monday.

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De acuerdo, la mujer que era dueña del barco modelo de estaño seguía diciendo, está bien.

"¿Por qué no le preguntas a una de sus amigas?”, le sugerí. Pero él dijo que ya lo había intentado. O no sabían o no contestaban el teléfono. Entonces dije, ¿ella tiene una hermana? Y me responde que no. ¿Quizá un hermano, me aventure. Y él solo me mira como loco, como si hubiera visto un fantasma. Y fue entonces cuando lo supe. Le dije: “Cariño, ¿sabes lo que las mujeres realmente quieren de un matrimonio?” Él negó con la cabeza. “Quieren que crezca, que no se marchite.”

Le pregunté su nombre y él dijo Meg. Entonces le dije: “Toma estos narcisos blancos y dile “Meg, estaré junto a ti hasta el día en que muera.”

El platillo de Rudolph estaba inundado. Un poco de té se derramó sobre la pierna de su pantalón, y corrió hacia su entrepierna. A Jeanine ya no le preocupaban demasiado esas cosas. No tenían prisa. "¡Narcisos! Después de todo el alboroto sobre las rosas”, Jeanine rió. "Fue una hermosa elección. Estarán floreciendo en un par de semanas ".

~

4

Las carreras se hicieron más largas cada semana, hasta que llegaron a 38 kilómetros, en ese momento, Alex volvió nuevamente a 16. Ella calculó este número con precisión: hay 52 semanas en el año, y ella asumió que,

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Alex drank on Friday nights. She woke up on Saturdays with splitting headaches and diarrhea that smelled like rum. She combatted the former with Xanax and the latter with an all-fruit diet, which was not so much a cure but an expedient. On Saturday nights, she watched old movies in the dilapidated ranch house where Bug Mortimer lived. Sometimes, in summer, she and Bug sat out on the molded sofa that barricaded the back door, watching the Snake River roll by while the Labrador retriever, Thorn, circled them, or slept at their feet. In the winter, she and Bug took Thorn skinning up Snow King; Bug had been banned from the big resort for tagging rental skis with racial epithets. When he entered her, Alex tried not to think of it as collusion, so much as a gradual tunneling of her mountainous rage. But sometimes, when she closed her eyes, a bleary, hologram-like image of the Confederate Flag did arrange itself on the insides of her lids.

(At the time of this run, she did not know for certain that she was pregnant with Bug’s baby. Two weeks later, she would use one of her allotted days off to get an abortion.

The following week, she would resume at nineteen miles, despite a sepsis-induced fever, of which, like the pregnancy that caused it, she was not totally aware. Alex used her second day off to die in a way that only the dog Thorn, and maybe her brother, also deceased, would understand: she curled up into a ball on her living room sofa and waited for it to come.)

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debido a alguna enfermedad o viaje (los cuales ya casi no hacía), correría aproximadamente 50 de ellas. Entonces, si comenzara con 10, aumentando en un kilómetro y medio cada semana, tendría una carrera para 52 semanas, menos dos domingos del año. Hoy estaba en la carrera de 17 kilómetros, y en la mitad, Alex ya estaba exhausta, había tenido que correr de puntillas la mayor parte del camino, buscando hielo negro.

Había nevado varios centímetros la noche anterior. Alex corrió a pesar de esto. Mientras más duro, mejor, pensó.

Cuando más tenía que pelear, menos tenía que pensar y mientras más rápidamente se alejaban del mundo las solitarias horas del fin de semana, más se acercaba el lunes.

Alex bebía los viernes por la noche. Se despertaba los sábados con dolores de cabeza y diarrea que olía a ron.

Combatió la primera con Xanax y la segunda con una dieta de frutas, que no era tanto una cura sino un recurso. Los sábados por la noche, veía películas viejas en la destartalada casa de rancho donde vivía Bug Mortimer. A veces, en el verano, ella y Bug se sentaban en el sofá moldeado que cerraba la puerta trasera, observando el río Snake mientras el labrador retriever, Thorn, daba vueltas a su alrededor o dormía a sus pies.

En el invierno, ella y Bug llevaron a Thorn a despellejar a Snow King; Bug había sido expulsado del gran complejo por etiquetar esquís de alquiler con epítetos raciales.

Cuando él la introdujo, Alex trató de no considerarlo como una colusión, sino como un túnel gradual de su furia montañosa. Pero a veces, cuando cerraba los ojos,

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With a few miles left between Alex and the apartment she kept above a rug store in the town square, the gray sky began to dissolve into a mesmerizing blue that stretched over the valleys, the bison refuge. The sun was the sort of mustard color one sees only in the West. Alex remembered the jaundiced light of Boston winters and shuddered at the belated embarrassment of unrequited love. Only Meg had tried to stop her going, asking her to come to New York instead. But Alex had pushed aside her younger sister’s worries, citing the artist-in-residency she had been offered at a new community theater as the driving force behind her relocation. After she found out that the theater was built by a wealthy ex-Vice-President with not a little blood on his hands, Alex quit this job, and began waitressing at a Thai restaurant-cum-bar.

Meg continued to call Alex every weekend, so when she returned home, the snot frozen to the tip of her nose, she was not surprised to find several missed calls.

Accordingly, she was not in any rush to call Meg back, and took a scalding shower instead. As the modest trickle from the oxidized head thawed her and her strangled breath relaxed, she constructed an alibi to relate to Meg. Brunch with friends at the place with the big cinnamon buns — Meg loved these — followed by an afternoon of skiing, ended early to get ready for the week ahead.

Alex dried and situated herself in her favorite spot against the arm of the worn-out couch, flipped through the basic cable channels and refolded the throw blanket

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una imagen de la bandera confederada con aspecto de holograma se acomodaba en el interior de sus párpados.

(En el momento de esta ejecución, ella no sabía con certeza que estaba embarazada de Bug. Dos semanas más tarde, usaría uno de sus días libres para hacerse un aborto. La semana siguiente, ella reanudaría sus carreras de 20 kilómetros, aun a pesar de una fiebre inducida por una septicemia, de la cual, como el embarazo que la causó, ella no estaba totalmente consciente. Alex usó su segundo día libre para morir de manera que solo el perro Thorn, y tal vez su hermano, también fallecido, entenderían: se acurrucó encorvándose en el sofá de su sala de estar y esperó a que llegara.)

Con unos pocos kilómetros entre Alex y el apartamento que tenía encima de una tienda de alfombras en la plaza del pueblo, el cielo gris comenzó a disolverse en un fascinante azul que se extendía sobre los valles, el refugio de los bisontes. El sol era el tipo de color mostaza que solo se ve en Occidente. Alex recordó la luz amarillenta de los inviernos de Boston y se estremeció ante la vergüenza tardía del amor no correspondido. Solo Meg había tratado de detenerla, pidiéndole que fuera a Nueva York. Pero Alex había hecho a un lado las preocupaciones de su hermana menor, y citó a la artista en residencia que se le había ofrecido en un nuevo teatro comunitario como la fuerza impulsora detrás de su reubicación. Después de enterarse de que el teatro fue construido por un ex vicepresidente adinerado con un poco de sangre en las manos, Alex renunció a este trabajo y comenzó a servir de mesera en un resto-bar tailandés.

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several times before she picked up the phone and dialed her sister.

Meg answered on the second ring. She did not want to talk about Alex, however. She wanted to talk about Dan.

By ignoring her disappointment, Alex increased it, and she worried that Meg could hear this in her voice. Meg kept stopping her story to ask if Alex was still there.

Alex was running out of affirmative responses. Meg had met someone, this Dan, a former college squash player like she was, at the Athletic Club Christmas Formal. He was cute — a little short, Meg said — but they had gone to similar schools and he had a good job but not a crazy one, one that allowed him enough free time to do things like take Meg to movies in Union Square and surprise her with concert tickets on a weeknight. They had been dating for almost two months now, and Meg wanted to know: should she introduce him to Mom and Dad? They were coming to the city in week, to look at a portrait by Lucian Freud about to go up for auction at Christie’s.

Alex searched for Lucien Freud on Google. In the years since Alf died, their mother had become obsessed with collecting images like this: tangled, sometimes imperceptible bodies in shades of gray, brown, hideous blues and greens. She had spent a small fortune on these works. They filled the walls of their Back Bay townhouse. Alex imagined her, frail and unsleeping in the dowdy nightgowns she liked to wear, peering into the canvasses as if they might spontaneously transform.

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Meg seguía llamando a Alex todos los fines de semana, así que cuando regresó a casa, con los mocos congelados en la punta de la nariz, no le sorprendió encontrar varias llamadas perdidas.

En consecuencia, no tenía prisa por devolverle la llamada a Meg, y en su lugar tomó una ducha hirviendo. Cuando el modesto chorrito de la ducha oxidada la descongeló y su respiración agitada se relajó, construyó una coartada para relacionarse con Meg. Un Brunch con amigos en el lugar con los grandes panes de canela - Meg los amaba - seguido de una tarde de esquí que terminaría temprano para prepararse para la próxima semana.

Alex se secó y se ubicó en su lugar favorito en el brazo del sofá gastado, hizo zapping en los canales de cable básicos y volvió a doblar la frazada antes de levantar el teléfono y llamar a su hermana.

Meg respondió en el segundo ring. Sin embargo, ella no quería hablar sobre Alex. Ella quería hablar sobre Dan.

Al ignorar su decepción, Alex la incrementó, y le preocupaba que Meg pudiera escuchar esto en su voz.

Meg continuó deteniendo su historia para preguntar si ella todavía estaba allí. Alex se estaba quedando sin respuestas afirmativas. Meg había conocido a alguien, este Dan, un ex jugador de squash de la universidad como ella, en el Club atlético de navidad. Era guapo, un poco bajo, dijo Meg, pero habían ido a escuelas similares y él tenía un buen trabajo pero no uno tan exigente, uno

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“Vigilance can’t prevent a disappearance,” Alex had told her mother, the last time they fought. “The point of disappearing is that there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

It was true. Alf had vanished in the face of all the laws of nature.

“Maybe just a coffee,” Alex told Meg. “It’s too early for dinner.”

Two thousand miles away, Alex felt Meg relax. “I wish you could meet him first,” she said.

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que le daba suficiente tiempo libre para hacer cosas como llevar a Meg al cine en Union Square y sorprenderla con entradas de conciertos en una noche de semana. Habían estado saliendo por casi dos meses, y Meg quería saber: ¿debería ella presentarlo a mamá y papá? Venían a la ciudad en una semana para ver un retrato de Lucien Freud a punto de subastarse en Christie's.

Alex buscó a Lucien Freud en Google. En los años transcurridos desde la muerte de Alf, su madre se había obsesionado con coleccionar imágenes como esta: cuerpos enmarañados, a veces imperceptibles, en tonos grises, cafés, azules y verdes horribles. Había gastado una pequeña fortuna en estas obras. Llenaban las paredes de su casa en Back Bay. Alex se la imaginó, frágil y sin dormir en los camisones desaliñados que le gustaba usar, mirando a los lienzos como si pudieran transformarse espontáneamente.

"La vigilancia no puede evitar una desaparición", le había dicho Alex a su madre, la última vez que pelearon.

"El objetivo de desaparecer es que no hay nada que nadie pueda hacer al respecto".

Eso era cierto. Alf se había desvanecido frente a todas las leyes de la naturaleza.

"Tal vez solo un café", Alex le dijo a Meg. "Es muy temprano para la cena."

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A dos mil kilómetros de distancia, Alex sintió a Meg relajarse. "Desearía que pudieras conocerlo primero," dijo.

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ANALAURA NÚÑEZ

EL SONIDO DE LAS LIEBRES

En una tienda de disfraces todos los trajes de

Minnie Mouse Godzilla Sherlock Holmes guardan el olor a naftalina que traía Samanta la dueña en las manos

El letrero de la tienda reza en letras rojas

ABIERTO

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translated from the spanish by NINA WOLPOW

THE SOUND OF HARES

The getups in the costume store Minnie Mouse Godzilla Sherlock Holmes smell a lot like naphthalene like the owner Samanta’s hands

The red-lettered sign outside begs

OPEN

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Los perros se acuestan a tomar baños de sol los niños arrojan sus paquetes vacíos de helado los drenajes del pueblo están llenos de mierda tibia las plazas irradian luz el pasto brilla las parejas ruedan con erecciones notorias y pezones duros

ese día se vendieron cuatro disfraces dos cinturones de cuero diecinueve helados el día se oscureció rápido todos se durmieron temprano

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The dogs lie down to bathe themselves in sun the children toss away their ice cream wrappers the sewers are full of lukewarm shit the lighted plazas glow the grass glimmers couples roll around with notorious erections hard nipples

sold today: four costumes two leather belts nineteen ice cream novelties rapidly the day darkened everybody went to sleep earlier

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EJERCICIO #1 DE ENDURECIMIENTO DEL CUERPO

Las correas de C caen fuerte chocan contra mis piernas lo oigo gritar más fuerte que el perro cuando le lanzamos agua hirviendo

C cambia la correa por un palo lleno de astillitas cuando golpea mi costilla el palo se entierra como un mordisco

Lo desprende con la misma fuerza con que lo metió cuesta debido a la lana blanca de mi chaleco que abraza con fuerza la estaca

Cuando por fin suelta mi piel

veo un ápice de terror y sorpresa escapándose

Me grita que nada duele

ni el palo ni las correas ni las espinas ni el agua la cara sudorosa de C escurre

no para de jadear

Me levanta y me tiende las armas “ahora tú”

Después de dos horas tenemos ojos amoratados la cabeza con fiebre

El perro ya no se nos acerca

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BODY STRENGTHENING EXERCISE #1 C’s whip lands hard smack against my legs His scream is louder than the dog’s we’ve doused in boiling water C exchanges the whip for a splintered stake that strikes and spears my ribs each blow another bite The white wool of my vest will not release the wood the stake comes out with force — the way it went in At last it releases my skin a spasm of terror and surprise He screams at me: it does not hurt neither stake nor straps nor spikes nor water C’s sweaty face is drained he goes on gasping He pulls me up and hands over his instruments “now you” After two hours we have

black eyes and fevered heads The dog on the patio maintains its distance we throw it what’s left of our cold pan con jamón

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le lanzamos restos de nuestro pan con jamón frío escondido detrás de los nogales del patio nos mira con grandes ojos tal y como los niños del colegio

Miramos a la gallina más gorda del corral

corre rápido pero sabemos que nosotros podemos más

Yo seré

la gallina descabezada

que corre a tu alrededor

marcando con mi sangre

tus piernas y calcetines

No podré escuchar tus gritos ni sentir tus lágrimas

En tu boca un fulgor tibio

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hidden by the walnut trees it watches us, big-eyed like schoolchildren

We watch the fattest chicken in the coop dart about we know we can do more

I will be the beheaded hen that runs around you marking your legs and socks with my blood

I will not be able to hear your screams or feel your tears

An ember in your mouth

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CUADRO DE UNA CAZUELA

La pechuga pelada sobresale del plato hondo con bordes azules. Su carne rosada permite ver los restos de sangre que no alcanzaron a cocinarse. El poroto verde, suave y brillante, flota por sobre el arroz blanco esparcido por todas partes. El orégano se hunde. Bolitas de pimienta chocan con las papas hervidas y cortadas en cubos. Se deshacen blandas ahogándose en el caldo dorado, como montes de arena azotados por olas saladas. Las zanahorias finas descansan sobre la pechuga, la tiñen mientras sudan sus jugos rojos, se resbalan lento y flotan.

Las ramas de tomillo intentan incrustarse en el pedazo colorín de zapallo, rompiendo su carne alguna vez tan dura y ahora tan frágil. Al contacto con la cuchara las hilachas del zapallo ceden y no dejan de absorber agua y gotear hasta convertirse en un puré dulce colmado de partes más blandas y otras más duras. El vapor empaña los vidrios de la cocina que dejan entrever las gotas inmisericordes de la lluvia.

Afuera los perros se pelean la cabeza de una gallina embarrada

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PICTURE OF A STEW

The skinless breast is an island in the blue-bordered bowl.

Its rare pink flesh is not a shield against the sight of uncooked blood. Amid scattered rice emerge green beans, slippery and bright. Sprigs of oregano go under.

Peppercorns collide with cubed potatoes. It’s all disintegrating, becoming golden stock, like sand dunes dismantled by salted waves. The carrots on the breast are secreting juices, dyeing it red, and thyme-branches endeavor to embed themselves in a piece of colored squash, to puncture its flesh, so tough and then so fragile.

Squash innards yield to the spoon’s edge and keep absorbing water, dripping, becoming a sweet, heterogeneous puree. In the kitchen, steam fogs glass window panes through which merciless rain drops can be seen.

Outside: dogs descend upon the muddied head of a decapitated chicken.

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Ordené las sillas

puse la mesa las flores los cubiertos la ventana está cerrada

El gato está sentado en el borde maúlla pregunta cosas

hay enredaderas en la espuma de tu boca cuando entras sin tocar

tus manos redondean la circunferencia de mi cuello

la luz corta al gato en dos

como mi tráquea

El gato continúa maullando como si cayera la casa se oscurece

entran insectos tormentas

suben por tus piernas

muerden la carne

el cosquilleo en tus pantorrillas como un sinfín de calambres

tus manos estrujan tus dedos alcanzan a tocarse un paño mojado que gotea

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I will organize the chairs set the table the flowers silverware the window is closed

Sitting on the sill the cat meows asking questions

the foam in your mouth is stringy like vines as you enter unannounced

your hands encircle the circumference of my neck

the light cuts the cat in two as in my trachea

The cat keeps meowing like it knows the house darkens insects enter they climb up your legs bite your flesh

the tingling in your calves is like an eternity of cramps

wringing your hands

your fingers almost touch

a wet rag, leaking

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CUADRO DE UNA TORTUGA GAL Á PAGO COMIENDO UNA SANDÍA

La revista del baño de National Geographic reza

que las tortugas de Galápago viven aproximadamente cien años que son herbívoras

La fruta favorita de Samanta son las sandías desde el verano pasado que no prueba ninguna sueña todos los días con la carne arenosa deshaciéndose en su paladar

en la foto el reptil mastica una con sus fauces gigantes

El final del reportaje informa que la tortuga come-sandías había muerto Samanta no demora en tirar la cadena se mira al espejo estirando el pellejo arrugado de su cuello arranca la hoja de la revista donde está la tortuga

la mete en su boca

La saliva deshace la hoja tortuga muere dos veces

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PICTURE OF A GALAP Á GOS TORTOISE EATING A WATERMELON

The National Geographic in the bathroom explains that Galápagos tortoises live approximately 100 years and are herbivores

Watermelons are Samantha's favorite fruit and though she hasn’t had a single bite since summer she dreams of gritty melon meat decomposing on her palate the reptile in the photo chomps on a rind with giant jaws

The end of the report reveals that the watermelon-eating tortoise is dead now Samanta does not bother to flush she looks in the mirror and stretches the wrinkled skin around her neck tears the tortoise page from the magazine and puts it in her mouth

When her saliva dissolves the page the tortoise dies again

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EJERCICIO DE ENDURECIMIENTO DEL CUERPO #2

Los cubos de hielo se pegan a la piel de nuestras piernas entumecidos aguantamos la respiración

Nos sumergimos hasta tapar la cabeza

abrimos los ojos bajo el agua

los hielos paredes blancas hacen que los ojos ardan juntamos las manos han pasado cinco minutos aún aguantamos la respiración

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BODY STRENGTHENING EXERCISE #2

Ice cubes stick to the skin along our thighs, our calves benumbed we hold our breath

We go under until our heads are topped and open our eyes beneath the surface

sheets of ice walls so white they make our eyeballs burn we join hands five minutes pass but we refuse to breathe

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MEG RICHARDSON MONEYWHIZ If you know what you’re doing, which we do, you can go pretty fast on a bike carrying two Grade 6 girls, their school bags, two cricket bats and a violin. The ride from school to Moneywhiz takes us twenty-three minutes if we don’t stop for fish cakes or freeze pops, or to talk to the private school kids who hang out in the park by the beach. We work at Moneywhiz every day after school and on the weekends. On Tuesdays and Wednesdays we have cricket practice and we have to hurry. Our shift starts at 4:30.

Rubina bikes the big uphill at the beginning. Her legs are longer than mine. She stands up on the pedals and I sit on the seat with one cricket bat in each arm and my violin case strapped to my back. We aren’t allowed to bike on the highway, so we take the dirt road by the sugarcane fields. When they burn the fields, we tie our knee socks around our mouths like cowgirls. They smell like our feet, but it’s better than the smell of burning sugarcane. Then we go past Welches Beach. Sometimes the tourists take our picture. We have to get used to it because after we’re done with secondary school, we’re going to be famous and everyone will want to take our picture. At the gas station, we switch. Rubina sits on the handlebars with the cricket bats in her lap and I sit on the seat and pedal. I can’t stand up on the pedals yet, but Rubina is teaching me.

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traducido del inglés por CRISTÓBAL RIEGO MONEYWHIZ Si sabes bien lo que haces, como nosotras, puedes andar bastante rápido en bicicleta llevando a dos niñas de sexto, sus mochilas, dos bates de críquet y un violín. La ruta del colegio hasta Moneywhiz nos toma veintitrés minutos si no paramos a comprar pasteles de pescado o barritas heladas, o a conversar con los cabros del colegio privado que suelen pasar el rato en el parque, cerca del mar. Trabajamos en Moneywhiz todos los días después del colegio y los fines de semana. Los martes y los jueves nos toca entrenamiento de críquet y tenemos que apurarnos. Nuestro turno empieza a las 4:30.

Rubina hace la subida pedaleando, al comienzo. Sus piernas son más largas que las mías. Se para en los pedales y yo me quedo en el asiento, con un bate en cada mano y la caja de mi violín amarrada a la espalda. No nos dejan andar por la autopista, así que tomamos el camino de tierra que pasa por los campos de caña de azúcar. Cuando queman las cañas nos amarramos un calcetín a la boca, como las vaqueras. Huelen a pata, pero es preferible al olor de la caña quemada. Después pasamos la playa de Welches. A veces los turistas nos sacan fotos. Tenemos que acostumbrarnos porque, cuando terminemos la enseñanza media, seremos famosas y todo el mundo querrá sacarnos fotos. En la bomba de

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Our cricket bats are nicer than anyone else’s at our school. We go to public school, but we’re going to St. Winnifred’s next year. St. Winifred’s is the private secondary school. Rubina applied for the scholarship and I know she’ll get it. My mother can pay for me to go. She is a lawyer in the States and she’s rich. Everyone at St. Winnifred’s will have nice bats like ours, and our cricket team might go to Toronto. In Toronto we’ll see the kinds of trees with leaves that change colors in autumn.

Our cricket bats are from Moneywhiz. My bike and my violin and our sneakers are too. Moneywhiz is our pawnshop. Technically it’s not ours. Technically it belongs to corporate, but we feel like it’s ours. My dad is the country manager for Barbados. He’s in charge of the store in Bridgetown and the one in Oistins where we work. Rubina’s dad is the Oistins store manager. Our dads like to say that me and Rubina run the show and we do. I swerve my bike into the parking lot.

“Yeehaw!” says Rubina and jumps off of the handlebars.

I need her to teach me to do that. I lock my bike. Rubina walks on the curb and holds her cricket bat the way tightrope walkers hold sticks to help them balance.

“Well if it isn’t Miss Jackie and Miss Rubina,” says Remy when we walk in the door. Remy is our favorite guard.

We think he’s cute. He carries two knives and a gun.

When he’s not at Moneywhiz, he’s in the army, but he’s never killed anybody. His girlfriend Sherra brought cupcakes to the store for my birthday and for Rubina’s

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bencina, nos cambiamos. Rubina se sienta sobre el manubrio con los bates sobre la falda y me toca pedalear a mí. Todavía no puedo pararme bien, pero Rubina me está enseñando.

Nuestros bates de críquet son mejores que los del resto de los compañeros. Vamos a una escuela pública, pero queremos entrar a St. Winnifred’s el año que viene. St. Winnifred’s es una secundaria privada. Rubina pidió una beca y sé que se la darán. Mi mamá puede pagar. Es una abogada en Estados Unidos y está forrada. En St. Winnifred’s, todo el mundo tendrá bates buenos como los nuestros, y puede que nuestro equipo vaya a competir a Toronto. En Toronto hay árboles con hojas que cambian de color en otoño.

Nuestros bates de críquet son de Moneywhiz. Mi bicicleta, mi violín y nuestras zapatillas también.

Moneywhiz es nuestra casa de empeño. Técnicamente no es nuestra. Técnicamente es de la compañía, pero se siente como si fuera nuestra. Mi papá es el administrador regional en Barbados. Está a cargo del local de Bridgetown y del de Oistins, que es donde trabajamos. El papá de Rubina es el administrador del local de Oistins.

A nuestros papás les gusta decir que yo y Rubina somos las que realmente mandan, y es verdad. Hago girar el manubrio hacia el estacionamiento.

“¡Yiiiija!”, grita Rubina, y salta desde el manubrio.

Tengo que pedirle que me enseñe a hacer eso. Rubina camina por la cuneta y sostiene el bat del mismo modo en que un funámbulo sostendría un palo para balancearse.

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birthday last year. “You girls behave in school today?”

Remy asks. We nod. “Of course you did. Now get in there and get to work,” he says, and we do.

Dad is counting bills behind the counter. They make a flip, flip, flip noise. Rubina’s dad, Audley is showing a power drill to a group of men. Rubina’s dad and my dad are best friends too. My dad can surf. That’s how he met my mom. He taught her how to surf while she was on spring break from a fancy college. He’s so strong that you can see the veins in his hands and his arms. His hair is blonde and it looks spiky like sea oats, but it’s actually soft. He hates sunblock, so his skin is always dark red.

Audley has almost no hair. He is strong too, but his voice is soft. He’s at least twice the size of my dad. They look like Pooh and Piglet when they walk together. They always wear gold chains, even when they go swimming or take showers. I’ve never seen either of them without their chains, and I’ve seen them almost every day of my life.

“Hey Jackie! Hi Rubina,” says Dad. I give him a hug.

“Good to see you honey. Now go get dressed quick. Me and Audley gotta go to a meeting with corporate about the new software, so you girls are in charge until closing.”

I pump my fist and Rubina does a little dance. We love being in charge. “Scoot,” says Dad, and we scoot. We lock the door to the storeroom and peel off our cricket uniforms.

“I bet our cricket uniforms next year will be awesome.

Don’t you think?” I say.

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“Si acaso no son las señoritas Jackie y Rubina”, dice Remy cuando cruzamos el umbral. Remy es nuestro guardia favorito. Lo encontramos lindo. Lleva dos cuchillos y una pistola. Cuando no está trabajando en Moneywhiz está en el ejército, pero nunca ha matado a nadie. Su polola, Sherra, hizo cupcakes para mi cumpleaños y el de Rubina el año pasado. “¿Se portaron bien en el colegio?”, pregunta Remy. Asentimos. “Claro que sí. Ahora entren y a trabajar”, dice, y lo hacemos.

Mi papá cuenta billetes tras el mostrador. Hacen un ruido flip, flip, flip. El papá de Rubina, Audley, demuestra el funcionamiento de un taladro ante un grupo de hombres.

Mi papá y el de Rubina también son mejores amigos. Mi papá hace surf. Así conoció a mi mamá. Le enseñó a surfear en la época en que ella estudiaba en una universidad pituca, durante las vacaciones de primavera.

Es tan fuerte que puedes ver las venas de sus brazos y manos. Tiene un pelo rubio que parece puntudo como el arroz de costa, pero en realidad es suave. Odia el bloqueador solar, por lo que siempre tiene la piel al rojo.

Audley casi no tiene pelo. También es fuerte, pero de voz suave. Dobla en tamaño a mi papá. Parecen Pooh y Piglet cuando caminan juntos. Siempre usan cadenas de oro, incluso cuando nadan o se duchan. Jamás he visto a uno de los dos sin su cadena, y los he visto a los dos casi todos de los días de mi vida.

“¡Hola Jackie! Hola, Rubina”, dice mi papá. Lo abrazo.

“Qué rico verte, hija. Ahora vayan a vestirse, rápido.

Audley y yo tenemos una reunión con la compañía sobre un software nuevo, así que ustedes quedan a cargo hasta

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“Yeah. Hurry, okay?” Rubina says, and hands me my Moneywhiz shirt. Everyone who works at Moneywhiz wears a black polo shirt with the Moneywhiz logo on it.

They’re made of shiny, slippery material. Our shirts are size extra small, but mine is still too big for me. I hate the way it sticks to my chest. Rubina started wearing a bra almost a year ago. Mom says I should wait awhile until I wear one. Mom lives in Miami and I only see her once or twice a year, so awhile means a long while when it comes to Mom. Rubina says I’m lucky that I don’t need a bra yet. She says they’re uncomfortable, but her shirt curves over her chest and looks silky and elegant. I would wear something uncomfortable to make my shirt fall over my chest like that. My shirt has two embarrassing little bumps poking out of it. Dad told me not to cross my arms when I’m talking to customers, but I’m sure that customers would rather deal with a girl crossing her arms than a girl with bumps under her shirt. Rubina dabs some of her lip gloss onto me and then onto herself. I comb my fingers through my hair and twist it into a bun.

Rubina pats her braids.

I used to wear my hair in braids too sometimes. When we were five, a few days before starting primary school, Rubina came over to my house with beautiful star-shaped beads at the ends of her braids. They clacked together when she turned her head. The story goes that I cried when I saw them, and I didn’t stop crying until Rubina’s mom gave me braids with stars in them too. I watched Home Alone two and a half times while she did them. On my bathroom mirror I keep a picture of me and Rubina on the first day of Grade 1 with matching braids,

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el cierre.” Levanto el puño y Rubina hace un pequeño baile. Nos encanta quedar a cargo. “Vayan”, dice mi papá, y nos vamos. Cerramos con llave la puerta de la despensa y nos sacamos los uniformes de críquet.

“Te apuesto que nuestros uniformes de críquet del próximo año van a ser increíbles. ¿O no?” digo.

“Sí. Apúrate, ¿ya?”, dice Rubina y me entrega mi polera de Moneywhiz. Toda persona que trabaja en Moneywhiz usa una camiseta de polo negra con el logo de la tienda.

Están hechas de un material brillante y resbaloso.

Nuestras poleras son tamaño extra pequeño, pero la mía me queda muy grande. Odio la forma en que se me pega al pecho. Rubina empezó a usar sostenes hace casi un año. Mi mamá dice que yo debería esperar un tiempo antes de hacer lo mismo. Ella vive en Miami y la veo solo una o dos veces al año, así que “un poco” significa bastante tiempo en boca de mi mamá. Rubina dice que tengo suerte de todavía no necesitar sostén. Dice que son incómodos, pero su polera se curva sobre su pecho y cae sedosa y elegante. Yo me pondría algo incómodo para hacer que mi polera cayera así. Mi polera tiene dos puntitos vergonzosos que se asoman por debajo. Mi papá me pide que no cruce los brazos cuando hablo con clientes, pero estoy segura de que un cliente prefiere lidiar con una niña que cruza los brazos que con una niña con puntitos bajo su polera. Rubina me echa un poco de su brillo labial, luego se echa ella. Me peino con los dedos y me hago un moño. Rubina se toca las trenzas.

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matching plaid jumpers, and matching lockets from Moneywhiz. For years after that, Rubina’s, mom braided Rubina’s hair and my hair for the first day of school, until this year. White girls in Grade 6 don’t wear braids unless they’re from the U.S. and on cruise ships.

Sometimes Rubina is jealous of my hair and sometimes I’m jealous of hers, but besides that it doesn’t seem like a big deal to me that I’m white and she’s black unless a grownup brings it up.

Dad knocks on the storeroom door.

“Look, this ain’t prom, girlies. Me and Audley can’t be late for this software meeting. Let’s move it.”

“How do I look?” I ask Rubina. I hunch my shoulders to hide the bumps on my chest.

“Ravishing,” Rubina says.

“You look ravishing too,” I say, though I don’t know what that word means. We make our entrance.

“Took you long enough,” Dad says.

“Sorry,” we say together.

“Don’t say sorry. Just don’t be slow next time,” Dad says.

“Bye. Be good.” says Rubina’s dad. We nod. We are always good. The dads pull out of the parking lot and we

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Yo también solía hacerme trenzas. Cuando teníamos cinco años, unos días antes de empezar la primaria, Rubina llegó a mi casa luciendo unas hermosas cuentas con forma de estrella en las puntas de sus trenzas.

Cuando movía la cabeza la acompañaba un ruido como de cascadas. Me han contado que lloré al verlas y no paré hasta que la mamá de Rubina me hizo unas exactamente iguales. Vi Mi pobre angelito dos veces y media mientras ella trabajaba. Tengo una foto de las dos el primer día de primero básico, cada una con sus trenzas, jumpers a cuadros y el medallón de Moneywhiz, pegada en el espejo del baño. Durante años la mamá de Rubina tuvo que hacernos trenzas el primer día de entrada al colegio, hasta este año. Las niñas blancas de sexto no usan trenzas a menos de que sean norteamericanas que andan de crucero. A veces Rubina se pone celosa de mi pelo y otras yo del suyo, pero aparte de eso da lo mismo que yo sea blanca y ella negra, salvo cuando lo recalca un adulto.

Mi papá toca la puerta.

“No están en la fiesta de graduación, niñas. Con el tío Audrey no podemos llegar atrasados. Apúrense”.

“Cómo me veo”, le pregunto a Rubina. Me encojo de hombros para ocultar los bultitos sobre mi pecho.

“Suntuosa”, dice ella.

“Tú también, suntuosa”, digo, aunque no sé lo que significa. Hacemos nuestra entrada.

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are in charge. It’s a slow afternoon. When we were little we had all sorts of ways to entertain ourselves in the shop. We had competitions to see who could fit the most watches on our arms. We strummed the guitars. We snaked the gold chains around on the countertops. We wrote each other letters in the doll-sized envelopes that the jewelry goes in when it’s been pawned. We held the diamond tester up to the bars on the windows and the washing machines and made it shriek. We never found any secret diamonds.

We don’t play most of our old games anymore, especially not when we’re in charge. We try on the jewelry, but that’s it. Rubina puts on a big ring with a fake emerald on it. She twirls her hand and examines it from different angles.

“Mom said I can get a French manicure for my birthday if I want to. Do you think I should?” she says. Rubina’s birthday is five months before mine. I usually get more presents than she does, but she gets them first, so it’s fair.

“I bet a lot of the girls at St. Winnifred’s have French manicures, so it would be good practice,” I say. Rubina takes off the ring and stops twirling her hand.

“Would you shut up about St. Winifred’s?” she says, with the kind of look she gives to boys at school who we hate, but almost never gives me. The door dings. A man and his son walk in. We slap on our smiles. The man carries a bathroom scale and a stack of video games. He has to pay his water bill, he tells us. Great, we say. We’re here to

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“Siempre tan lentas”.

“Perdón”, decimos al unísono.

“No digan perdón. Simplemente no se atrasen, para la próxima”, dice mi papá.

“Chao. Pórtense bien”, dice el papá de Rubina.

Asentimos. Siempre nos portamos bien. Los papás salen del estacionamiento y ya estamos a cargo. Es una tarde lenta. Cuando chicas habíamos inventado toda clase de entretenciones para cuando estábamos en la tienda.

Competíamos para ver quién podía ponerse más relojes en un brazo. Rasgueábamos las guitarras. Deslizábamos las cadenas de oro por encima de los mesones. Nos escribíamos cartas en los sobres que se usaban para guardar las joyas vendidas. Usábamos el probador de diamantes en los bordes de las ventanas y en las partes metálicas de las lavadoras, y emitía un chillido. Nunca encontramos diamantes secretos.

Ya casi no jugamos esos esos juegos, y menos si estamos a cargo. Nos probamos las joyas y sería. Rubina se pone un anillo enorme con una esmeralda pirata. Gira la muñeca y se examina la mano desde varios ángulos.

“Mi mamá me dijo que me puedo hacer una manicura francesa para mi cumpleaños, si es que quiero. ¿Crees que debería?”, dice. El cumpleaños de Rubina es cinco meses antes que el mío. Normalmente me dan más regalos que a ella, pero los de ella llegan primero, así que supongo que es justo.

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help. We give him Bds$30 for the bathroom scale and Bds$80 for the video games. The little boy looks sad as he watches me line the video games up on the shelf behind the counter. They’re cool games. Rubina gives him a peppermint patty from the dish on the counter. We’re not allowed to eat the candy from the dish but we can offer it to customers. The boy says thank you but he still looks sad. He’s not much younger than us. The door dings shut and we’re mad at each other again.

“Don’t you tell me to shut up,” I say. “It’s really rude.”

“Then don’t talk about stupid stuff that nobody cares about,” says Rubina.

“Are you insane? I was talking about St. Winifred’s. Last time I checked, we both cared an awful lot about St. Winnifred’s. Did I miss something?”. I’m not used to being mean to Rubina but, I try to sound as nasty as I can.

“I don’t care about it anymore. Okay?” she says quietly.

An old woman walks in the door and we put on our smiles again. She touches a few of the laptops and sings to herself. The song doesn’t have words but it sounds mournful. She opens and closes a few dryers and keeps singing.

“Can we help you?” Rubina asks sweetly. The woman shakes her head. She stops singing and coughs a lot. Then she leaves.

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“Te apuesto que muchas de las niñas de St. Winnifred se hacen manicuras francesas, así que es buena práctica”, le digo. Rubina se saca el anillo y deja de mover la mano.

“¿Podrías parar con lo de St. Winnifred's?”, me dice con esa mirada que reserva para los niños que odiamos del colegio, pero nunca me muestra a mí. Suena la campanilla. Entran un hombre y su hijo. Nos obligamos a sonreír. El hombre lleva una balanza de baño y una pila de videojuegos. Nos dice que tiene que pagar la cuenta del agua. Genial, le respondemos. Estamos aquí para ayudarlo. Le damos treinta dólares por la balanza y ochenta por los videojuegos. Veo la cara afligida del niño mientras me ve alinearlos en la estantería tras el mesón.

Son buenos juegos. Rubina le da una galleta del plato sobre el mesón. No nos dejan comer del plato, pero podemos ofrecerlo a los clientes. El niño dice gracias, pero sigue pareciendo triste. Es solo un poco más chico que nosotras. La puerta se cierra y volvemos a estar enojadas.

“No me digas que me calle”, digo. Es muy violento”.

“Entonces no hables estupideces que a nadie le importan”, dice Rubina.

“¿Estás loca? Estaba hablando de St. Winnifred's. Hasta donde entiendo, a las dos nos importa mucho. ¿Me perdí algo?”. No estoy acostumbrada a ser pesada con Rubina, pero trato de sonar tan mala como puedo.

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“Rubina, why don’t you care about St. Winifred’s anymore?” I say. I don’t want to sound as mean as I did before.

“Because I’m not going there next year. I’m going to Murphy,” Rubina says, straightening the videogames on the shelf. She doesn’t look at me.

“Murphy? You can’t go to Murphy!” I say. “Why would you do a stupid thing like that? Don’t you care about me? We have to go to the same school. We always have.

Murphy is full of drug dealers too. Do you want to be a drug dealer?”

“No” she says. I wait for her to keep talking and she doesn’t.

“I’m super confused.” I say. Rubina’s row of videogames topples over and the games fall to the floor with a quiet crash.

“Frick,” she says. “I was alphabetizing them.” I help her pick them up. Rubina takes a deep breath and says, “Jackie, I have to go to Murphy. Okay? I didn’t get a scholarship. I applied for all six of the scholarships, and the letters came in last week. All in separate envelopes.

They couldn’t have just said ‘we regret to inform you’ once. It had to be six different envelopes.” I open my mouth to say something, and nothing comes out.

“Plus,” Rubina continues, “Sending me to St. Winifred’s would be like buying ice and frying it. That’s what

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“Ya no me interesa”, dice muy bajito. Una mujer anciana entra y volvemos a ponernos nuestras sonrisas. Toca un par de láptops y canta para sí. La canción no tiene letra, pero parece lúgubre. Abre y cierra un par de secadoras y todavía canta.

“¿Podemos ayudarla?”, pregunta Rubina dulcemente. La mujer sacude la cabeza. Deja de cantar y tose un montón. Después se va.

“Rubina, ¿por qué te dejó de importar St. Winifred's?”, le pregunto. Trato de sonar menos mala que antes.

“Porque no voy a entrar el próximo año. Voy a entrar a Murphy”, contesta Rubina, ordenando los videojuegos en el estante. No me mira. “¿Murphy? ¡No puedes ir a Murphy!”, digo. “¿Por qué harías algo tan estúpido? ¿Acaso no te importo? Tenemos que ir a la misma escuela. Siempre ha sido así. Además, Murphy está lleno de drogadictos. ¿Quieres ser una drogadicta?”.

“No”, dice. Espero que siga hablando, pero se calla.

“Estoy muy confundida”, digo. La fila de videojuegos de Rubina se desmorona y las cajas caen al suelo con un golpe sordo.

“Chuta”, dice. “Les estaba dando un orden alfabético”.

La ayudo a recogerlos. Rubina respira hondo y dice: “Jackie, tengo que ir a Murphy. No me gané ninguna beca. Postulé a seis; las cartas llegaron la semana pasada.

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Grandma said. What am I gonna to do after St. Winifred’s on this little island? University? Like there’s any money for that? It wouldn’t be fair either, if I got to go to private school and Zavier and Loreen and Oskar didn’t.” I feel stupid and I feel like crying. Rubina and I talk about money every day, but it’s other people’s money, not our money. Of course St. Winifred’s costs money—the rose garden and the cricket uniforms and the big white pillars out in front of it couldn’t exist without money. Still, it’s stupid that money can decide who can go to what school. I thought of Rubina getting that scholarship as a fact, like the planets or the food groups. She is always first in our class in maths, and first or second in language. I am twenty-fifth in maths and thirteenth in language. That scholarship belonged to Rubina.

“Don’t cry, you dummy. I’m the one who has something to cry about,” Rubina says, and squeezes my hand.

“It’s not fair,” I say. Adults were always telling us that life isn’t fair, but it had never felt this unfair. We sit on our heels in the pile of videogames for a few minutes without saying anything. We hear the door ding. We stand up. I wipe my nose.

A woman in flip-flops marches to the counter. She would be pretty if she looked less tired. She shows us a diamond ring in a Ziploc bag. We can tell she’s not in love with whoever gave it to her. She treats it like a crab that might pinch her. I open the bag and hold the ring carefully. I breathe on the diamond. It fogs up like a window. We

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Cada una en su propio sobre. No fueron capaces de escribir 'lamento informarle' una vez. Tenían que ser seis sobres distintos”. Abro la boca para decir algo, pero no sale nada.

“Además”, continúa Rubina, “mandarme a St. Winifred's sería como comprar hielo y freírlo. Es lo que dijo mi abuela. ¿Qué voy a hacer después de ir a St. Winifred's en esta isla enana? ¿Ir a la universidad? ¿Como alcanzara la plata? Tampoco sería justo que yo pudiera ir a la escuela privada, pero Zavier, Loreen y Oskar no”. Me siento tonta y con ganas de llorar. Rubina y yo hablamos de plata todos los días, pero es la plata de otros, no la nuestra. Claro que St. Winifred's cuesta plata –el jardín de rosas y los uniformes de críquet y los grandes pilares blancos de la entrada no podrían existir sin dinero–. Pero es absurdo que el dinero decida quién puede ir o no.

Pensaba en el que Rubina consiguiera esa beca como en un hecho, igual que la existencia de los planetas o los grupos alimentarios. Siempre ha sido primera de la clase en Matemáticas y primera o segunda en Lenguaje. Yo soy la número veinticinco en Matemáticas y trece en Lenguaje. Esa beca le pertenece.

“No llores, tonta. Soy yo la que debería estar llorando”, dice Rubina y me aprieta la mano.

“No es justo”, digo. Los adultos siempre nos están diciendo que la vida no es justa, pero nunca la había sentido tan injusta. Nos sentamos sobre nuestros talones junto a la pila de videojuegos durante un rato, sin decir

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know right away that it’s fake. Sometimes when we feel bad for people who bring in fake diamonds, we get out the diamond tester and put on the gloves and goggles just for show. We shake our heads and say that we’re terribly sorry. But today we’re too busy feeling bad for ourselves to feel bad for flip-flop lady. We say we can give her Bds$20 for the ring. She chomps on her gum a few times and says never mind. She shoves the ring back in the bag and flips and flops out the door. She must have known the diamond was fake or she would have argued with us.

We’re quiet after she leaves until I say,

“Don’t you think we can do something about it? About St. Winifred’s? You do want to go, right?”

“Are you crazy? Of course I want to go. I’ve already tried stuff. I applied for the scholarship but I didn’t get it.

They sent me a snobby letter. I called their office and left a bunch of messages. I’m sorry for not telling you earlier, Jackie. I guess I felt like if I didn’t talk about it then it wouldn’t be true. I haven’t totally given up though.

Maybe there’s something else we could do. I don’t know what it would be though.” We both bite our nails in thought.

~

The next afternoon when we arrive at the shop, our dads are huddling around the computer behind the counter.

Rob is walking around the store and yelling, or maybe just talking loudly. It’s hard to tell with Rob. Rob is from corporate. He lives in Texas but he shows up a few times

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nada. Escuchamos el sonido de la puerta. Nos levantamos. Yo limpio mi nariz.

Una mujer vestida con chalas camina hacia el mostrador.

Sería bonita si estuviera menos cansada. Nos muestra un anillo de diamantes en una bolsa Ziploc. Nos queda claro que no ama a quien se lo regaló. Lo trata como un cangrejo que podría picarla. Abro la bolsa y sostengo el anillo con cuidado. Respiro sobre el diamante. Se empaña como un vidrio. Sabemos de inmediato que es falso. A veces, cuando nos apiadamos de alguien que trae un diamante falso, sacamos el probador de diamantes y nos ponemos los guantes y los anteojos; puro teatro.

Sacudimos la cabeza y decimos que lo sentimos mucho.

Pero hoy estamos demasiado ocupadas sintiendo compasión por nosotras como para sentirla por la señora de las chalas. Decimos que podemos darle veinte dólares por el anillo. Masca su chicle unas cuantas veces y contesta que no importa. Echa el anillo de vuelta en la bolsa y chancletea hasta la puerta. Seguramente sabía que era falso o hubiera intentado discutir. Nos quedamos calladas hasta que se va y digo:

“¿No crees que podamos hacer algo? ¿Sobre St. Winifred's? Sí te gustaría ir, ¿no?”.

“¿Estás loca? Claro que me gustaría ir. Ya he intentado varias cosas. Postulé a la beca, pero no la gané. Me mandaron una carta apestosa. Llamé a su oficina y dejé un montón de mensajes. Perdona por no decirte antes, a

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year and tells everyone what to do. Our dads look worried.

“Pay attention, why don’t you?” Rob says. He slaps my dad on the back in a way that isn’t quite friendly.

“Hi,” I say. A smile spreads across Rob’s face. We put on our fake smiles. We have to be nice to Rob.

“Well howdy!” he says to us, stretching the vowels as if he’s talking to a baby. We shake Rob’s hand. He is sweaty. He smells like he’s just eaten something fried.

“Y’all have grown since I was last down here, huh?”

What are we supposed to say to that? We don’t know. We keep smiling.

“Been playing tennis, I see,” Rob says, pointing at our uniforms.

“Cricket,” Rubina says.

“Oh boy. Excuse me,” says Rob, with exaggerated, fake politeness. We smile some more, then go to the storeroom to get dressed. We listen through the door of the storeroom. We hear Rob yelling about software and our dads apologizing and saying,

“Absolutely sir” and “Certainly sir.” We come out in our polo shirts and I hunch even more than I usually do.

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Jackie. Supongo que sentí que, si no hablaba de eso, entonces no era verdad. No me he rendido del todo todavía. Quizás haya algo más que podamos hacer. No sabría decir qué”. Nos mordemos las uñas, pensando.

~

Al día siguiente, cuando llegamos a la tienda, nuestros papás están encorvados sobre el computador tras el mesón. Rob camina por toda la tienda gritando, o quizás solo habla muy fuerte. Es difícil diferenciar entre las dos con Rob. Él es de la compañía. Vive en Texas, pero aparece unas cuantas veces al año para decirle a todo el mundo lo que tiene que hacer. Nuestros papás parecen preocupados.

“Pongan atención, ¿ah?”, dice Rob. Palmotea a mi papá en la espalda con un tono que no termina de ser amistoso.

“Hola”, digo. Una sonrisa se extiende por la cara de Rob. Nos ponemos nuestras sonrisas falsas. Tenemos que portarnos bien con él.

“¡Hoooola, hola!”, nos dice, estirando las sílabas como si le hablara a un par de guaguas. Le damos la mano. La suya está transpirada. Huele como si acabara de comer algo frito.

“Han crecido desde la última vez que vine, ¿ah?”. ¿Qué se supone que respondamos? No estoy segura. Seguimos sonriendo.

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“I bet they can figure it out,” Rob says, pointing to us.

Dad waves us towards the computer. Rob has installed a new operating system. It’s called Pawn Master. Usually Dad and Audley write down transactions on pieces of yellow paper and then type them up on a spreadsheet to send to corporate at the end of each week. That’s what me and Rubina do too. Rob says that those days are over.

“Come have a look,” he says to us. We bend over the computer and Rob puts a hand on each of our backs. He shows us how Pawn Master works. It looks like the makeup blogs that we read. Everything is dark green and black and elegant. It isn’t hard. It makes graphs of your inventory and tells you how to price different items. You can take pictures of borrowers and track them. People can pay their loans back online. You can track layaways and pawns and sales. We get it. “Good. Very good,” says Rob.

“Bless you girls,” says Audley, and he tugs us away from Rob.

“You’re a whole smarter than your dads. That’s for sure,” says Rob and laughs like a mean Santa Claus.

Nobody else laughs. We hate Rob, but we love our new power. We are the masters of Pawn Master. The dads begin to figure it out too, but we are still better at it. At six, Rob says he has to take off. He’s staying at a resort in Bridgetown with a waterslide. We stand far away from him so he won’t hug us goodbye.

“I’m proud of you girls,” he says, and winks at us. We wish we could make a face at him but we smile and say

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“Veo que han estado jugando tenis”, dice Rob apuntando a nuestros uniformes.

“Críquet”, dice Rubina.

“Oh, disculpen”, dice Rob con una amabilidad falsa, exagerada. Sonreímos más y luego partimos a vestirnos a la despensa. Oímos que Rob grita algo de un software y a nuestros papás disculparse diciendo:

“Por supuesto, señor” y “Claramente, señor”. Salimos con nuestras camisetas de polo e incluso más encorvadas que de costumbre.

“Apuesto que ellas lo pueden resolver”, dice Rob apuntándonos. Mi papá hace un gesto para que nos acerquemos. Rob instaló un nuevo sistema operativo. Se llama Pawn Master. Normalmente, mi papá y Audley escriben cada venta en un pequeño papel amarillo y luego las pasan a una hoja de cálculo para enviarlas a la compañía al terminar la semana. Es lo que yo y Rubina hacemos también. Rob dice que eso ya se terminó.

“Vengan a mirar”, nos dice. Nos encorvamos sobre la pantalla y Rob nos pone a cada una una mano en la espalda. Nos muestra cómo funciona el Pawn Master. Se parece a los blogs de maquillaje que miramos. Todo es verde oscuro y negro y elegante. No es difícil. Hace gráficos con tu inventario y te dice cuánto cuesta cada objeto. Puedes tomar fotos de los prestamistas y hacerles un seguimiento. La gente puede pagar sus préstamos online. Puedes ordenar los préstamos, los empeños y las ventas. Lo entendemos. “Bien, muy bien”, dice Rob.

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thank you. When he leaves we make barfing noises.

Usually the dads would tell us that this is impolite, but they don’t.

~

The next afternoon we don’t have cricket so we can dawdle on our way from school to the shop. We buy fish cakes and mango slices from a stand by Welches Beach.

We sit on the retaining wall and swing our legs. There are tourist boys playing catch beneath us. They’re pretty cute. Normally we might talk to them—try to convince them that we’re fifteen or that we’re models or that we’re from Toronto and just passing through. Not today though. We have a plan to hammer out.

We get out our notebooks. Rubina writes The Plan at the top of her page and underlines it. I do the same. Then we write What we know the way we learned to when we did our research projects on Ancient Rome. We write: 1) We need money for Rubina to go to St. Winifred’s 2) We know how to work Pawn Master better than the dads do, at least for now. 3) Rob is a creep. Then we write out the plan. We draw the shop and ourselves and St. Winifred’s and the rose garden and Rob and lots of arrows and dollar signs.

This is the plan: When we’re in charge at the shop, we will pick out customers who we think won’t come back for the stuff that they pawn. They’re easy to spot—tourists, people pawning wedding rings after divorces, people who seem disorganized. If one of these

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“Gracias a Dios”, dice Audley, alejándonos de Rob. “Son más brillantes que sus padres. Está claro”, dice Rob riéndose como un maléfico Viejo Pascuero. Nadie más se ríe. Odiamos a Rob, pero nos encanta nuestro nuevo poder. Somos las máster del Pawn Master. Los papás también empiezan a entenderlo, pero para nosotras fue más fácil. A las seis Rob tiene que partir. Se aloja en un hotel de Bridgetown que tiene un tobogán. Nos quedamos bien lejos de él para que no se le ocurra darnos un abrazo de despedida.

“Estoy orgulloso de ustedes”, nos dice guiñando un ojo.

Nos gustaría ponerle caras, pero sonreímos y agradecemos. Cuando se va, vomitamos en el aire.

Normalmente nuestros papás nos dirían que somos unas maleducadas, pero esta vez guardan silencio.

~

La tarde siguiente no tenemos críquet, así que podemos distraernos en el camino del colegio a la tienda.

Compramos pasteles de pescado y unos pedazos de mango en una tienda en la playa Welches. Nos sentamos sobre el muro de retención y columpiamos las piernas.

Hay unos niños turistas jugando a la pelota debajo nuestro. Son bastante lindos. Normalmente, intentaríamos hablar con ellos –convencerlos de que tenemos quince o que somos modelos o que venimos de Toronto y solo estamos de paso–. Hoy no. Tenemos que hacer un plan.

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customers brings in, say, a T.V. that we would normally lend Bds$160 on, we’ll write in Pawn Master that we lent Bds$200 on it but we’ll only give the customer Bds$160.

They’ll never know because they won’t come back to pay off the loan. We’ll put the extra Bds$40 in a shampoo bottle. If we can do that with give or take Bds$100 each day, we’ll have enough for the Bds$30,000 St. Winifred’s tuition by early next summer. Rubina calculates it all.

She’s good at long division. I color Rob’s face with my red pen and draw squiggly lines around him to show that he smells bad. Rubina puts a box around her answer the way we learned to in maths—Bds$30,000.

“Well, the numbers will work out if we can pull everything else off,” she says, looking out at the ocean.

“We can,” I say, hugging her arm. It’s a really, really good plan. It’s such a good plan that it makes us shiver.

We know it isn’t right to steal, but it also isn’t right for best friends to go to different schools, or for guys named Rob to yell at our fathers and breathe their stinky breath on us.

~

The Christmas rush at Moneywhiz approaches. We wrap lights around the bars on the windows. We cut out paper stockings and tape them to the counter. It’s the first December of our lives when Christmas doesn’t feel like the most important thing in the world. The plan is working. We have to get a second shampoo bottle for our cash, and then a third and then a fourth. We make plans

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Sacamos nuestras libretas, Rubina escribe “El plan” al comienzo de una página en blanco y lo subraya. Yo hago lo mismo. Después anotamos “Lo que sabemos,” como aprendimos al hacer nuestro proyecto de investigación sobre la antigua Roma. Anotamos: “1. Necesitamos plata para que Rubina pueda ir a St. Winifred's. 2. Sabemos manejar el Pawn Master mejor que nuestros papás, al menos por ahora. 3. Rob es un pervertido”. Entonces anotamos el plan. Dibujamos la tienda y a nosotros y St. Winifred's y el jardín de rosas y a Rob, lleno de flechas y de signos de dólares. Este es el plan: cuando quedemos a cargo en la tienda, elegiremos clientes que nos den la impresión de que no volverán a buscar aquello que empeñan. Son fáciles de identificar: turistas, gente que empeña su anillo de matrimonio tras el divorcio, gente que parece desordenada. Si uno de estos clientes trae, por ejemplo, una televisión por la que normalmente daríamos ciento sesenta dólares, escribiremos en Pawn Master que entregamos doscientos, pero el cliente solo recibirá los ciento sesenta. Nunca se enterará, porque jamás va a volver para pagar su préstamo. Guardaremos los cuarenta extra en una botella de champú. Si logramos hacer eso con, supongamos, unos cien dólares al día, en el verano próximo tendremos suficiente para los treinta mil que cuesta la anualidad de St. Winifred. Rubina lo calcula todo. Es buena para las divisiones largas. Yo le pinto la cara a Rob con mi lápiz rojo y le dibujo líneas curvas alrededor para mostrar lo mal que huele. Rubina encierra su respuesta en un cajita, como aprendimos en Matemáticas: 30 000.

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for when it will be time for Rubina’s brothers and sisters to go to St. Winifred’s. We’ll be able to handle it. We type up a letter from a woman named Madame Cecelia Violet saying that she donated money for Rubina’s scholarship.

The parents are bound to ask about it and we will be ready. We have a stamp of a pineapple that can pass for a coat of arms if we use the right kind of ink. We practice Madame Cecelia Violet’s signature in our notebooks.

Primary school feels hazy and boring, like a dream that we will soon wake up from. Our real lives will begin at St. Winifred’s. We will wear white shirts with mint green pleated skirts. They will fan out when we twirl in them.

We will sing in the choir and take drawing classes. Our cricket team will go to Toronto. Boys in Toronto will fall in love with us and then we will break their hearts.

Eventually, after we graduate from St. Winifred’s, the whole world will fall in love with us. We can’t decide if we will be famous singers or dancers or makeup artists or cricket players, but we will figure it out when the time comes.

The day after we reach Bds$20,000 is a Friday. We’re going to have a sleepover at my house after work. We’re going to eat KFC and Christmas cookies in the pool and make face masks out of bananas. It’s a gorgeous day.

Almost all days in Barbados are gorgeous, but usually we don’t notice them. Today as we bike to Moneywhiz, I notice. I notice the sugarcane saying “hush, hush, hush” in the wind. I notice how Rubina’s laugh sounds like a movie star’s laugh. I notice the Barbie-doll-pink hibiscus bushes skimming our legs as we ride by them. I notice the green water stretching out to touch the blue sky. Across

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“Bueno, los números cierran, si es que logramos que funcione todo lo demás”, dice mirando el mar.

“Lo vamos a lograr”, le digo, tomándola del brazo. Es un plan muy, muy bueno. Es tan bueno que nos hace temblar. Sabemos que está mal robar, pero tampoco está bien que dos amigas vayan a escuelas distintas o que un tipo que se llama Rob pueda gritarle a nuestros papás y tirarnos en la cara su tufo cerdo.

~

Se acerca la locura navideña. Amarramos luces a las barras de las ventanas. Cortamos calcetines de papel y los pegamos sobre el mesón. Es el primer diciembre de nuestras vidas en que la Navidad no se siente como lo más importante del mundo. El plan funciona. Tuvimos que conseguir una segunda botella de champú para la plata, luego una tercera y una cuarta. Averiguamos cuándo le tocará a los hermanos y hermanas de Rubina ir a la secundaria. Vamos a poder hacernos cargo también de ellos. Escribimos una carta de una mujer llamada madame Cecelia Violet en que declara haber donado el dinero para la escolaridad de Rubina. Nuestros papás sí o sí van a preguntar y estaremos preparadas. Tenemos una estampa en forma de piña que puede pasar por un escudo familiar si usamos la tinta correcta. Practicamos la firma de madame en nuestras libretas. La escuela primaria se siente nebulosa y fome, como un sueño del que estamos a punto de despertar. Nuestras vidas realmente empiezan con St. Winifred'. Vamos a usar una camisa blanca y una falda plisada color menta. Se va a abrir como un abanico

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that water are all of the places where we’ll go someday—Toronto and London and Egypt and Japan and California and everywhere else. I realize that I will miss these bike rides. We will take a shiny white bus to St. Winifred’s next year. I realize that I’ve never really had something to miss before, and soon I will. That must be a part of growing up.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” I say to Rubina. She’s sitting on the handlebars.

“Yeah, I’ll miss these bike rides next year,” she says. It’s like we have the same brain.

~

When we pull up to the store there are blue and red lights blinking against the windows. They look like the lights that flash in the nightclubs by the beach. We’ve never been to a nightclub club but we looked inside of one once.

“What the heck?” I say as I lock the bike.

“Look,” says Rubina. She’s pointing to two police cars.

That’s where the lights are coming from. We run inside.

We’re more excited than scared. Inside there are four police officers. Rob is standing behind the counter. Our dads and Remy are standing next to one of the police officers with their hands behind their backs. They’re wearing handcuffs. Rob is yelling. Dad’s eyes meet mine.

Then his eyes get watery as if he’s crying.

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cuando giremos sobre un pie. Vamos a cantar en el coro y tomar clases de dibujo. Nuestro equipo de críquet irá a Toronto. Los chicos de Toronto se van a enamorar de nosotras y les vamos a romper el corazón.

Eventualmente, cuando nos graduemos de St. Winifred's, todo el mundo se enamorará de nosotras. No logramos decidir si vamos a ser cantantes o bailarinas o maquilladoras o jugadoras de críquet, pero vamos a ser famosas.

El día después al que alcanzamos los treinta mil dólares es un viernes. Vamos a hacer una pijamada en mi casa después del trabajo. Vamos a comer pollo del Kentucky y galletas navideñas junto a la piscina y hacer máscaras con plátanos. Es un día hermoso. Casi todos los días en Barbados son hermosos, pero normalmente no lo notamos. Hoy, mientras vamos en bici hacia Moneywhiz, lo noto. Me detengo en las cañas de azúcar, que le dicen al viento shhh, shhh, shhh. Noto que la risa de Rubina es como la de una estrella de cine. Noto los arbustos de hibiscos, rosados como una Barbie, que nos acarician las piernas mientras pasamos. Noto que el agua verde se estira para tocar al cielo azul. Cruzando ese mar están todos los lugares a los que un día viajaremos –Toronto y Londres y Egipto y Japón y California y todo lo demás–.

Me doy cuenta de que extrañaré estos viajes en bici. El próximo año vamos a tomar un bus blanco y brillante hasta St. Winifred's. Me doy cuenta de que, hasta ahora, nunca había tenido algo que pudiera extrañar realmente, pero ahora sí. Seguramente es parte de crecer.

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“Well what do they know about this?” Rob yells and points to us. Suddenly I feel my heart drop into my stomach. I cross my fingers on both hands and hope that “this” does not mean the Bds$20,000 in four shampoo bottles in the storeroom. I look at Rubina. She is shaking.

“Girls,” Dad says. He is really crying. I didn’t know he could cry. “A large amount of money is missing from the store. None of us have any idea what happened to it, but if we don’t find it everyone is going to be in…well, huge trouble. You don’t have any idea what might have happened, do you?” I look at Rubina’s dad and he is crying too. I could put on my fake smile and lie to Rob no problem, but I can’t lie to Dad. I wish that I could. I reach for Rubina’s hand. We lock our fingers together and squeeze.

“I know,” says Rubina. The sixteen eyes on the eight men in front of us widen at the same time. A girl somewhere deep inside of me says, “I know too. We…know.” My voice sounds smaller than Rubina’s. Rob steps around the counter and walks slowly towards us. His face is sweaty and huge.

“Explain, please,” he says. I feel his warm stink-breath on my forehead. I squeeze Rubina’s hand tighter and swallow. My throat feels like it’s full of Styrofoam.

“One second,” says Rubina. She lets go of my hand and walks to the storeroom. No one follows her, not even me.

She comes back with the shampoo bottles in her arms

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“Es muy lindo, ¿no?”, le digo a Rubina. Está sentada sobre el manubrio.

“Sí, voy a extrañar estas bicicleteadas el próximo año”, contesta. Es como si tuviéramos el mismo cerebro.

~

Luces azules y rojas brillan en las ventanas cuando estacionamos junto a la tienda. Se parecen a las luces que brillan en los clubes de la playa. Nunca hemos estado en un club nocturno, pero una vez logramos sapear uno desde la entrada.

“¿Qué cresta?”, digo mientras aseguro el candado.

“Mira”, dice Rubina. Apunta hacia dos autos policiales.

De ahí vienen las luces. Entramos corriendo. Sentimos más entusiasmo que miedo. Adentro hay cuatro carabineros. Rob está parado tras el mostrador. Nuestros papás y Remy están de pie junto a uno de los pacos con las manos en la espalda. Están esposados. Rob grita. Me encuentro con los ojos de mi papá. Se le humedecen como si llorara.

“Bueno, ¿qué saben ellas de esto?” grita Rob apuntándonos. De pronto siento que el corazón se me hunde hasta el estómago. Cruzo los dedos de ambas manos y ruego que “esto” no sean los veinte mil dólares repartidos entre cuatro botellas de champú en la alacena.

Miro a Rubina. Ella tiembla.

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and hands them to Rob, one by one. I want to stop her but it feels like the veins in my arms are full of sand.

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“Niñas”, dice mi papá. De verdad llora. No sabía que pudiera llorar. “Desapareció una gran cantidad de plata.

Ninguno de nosotros sabe qué pasó con ella, pero si no la encontramos todos vamos a estar metidos en… bueno, grandes problemas. Ustedes no tienen idea de lo que pasó, ¿verdad?”. Miro al papá de Rubina y él también

llora. Sin problemas podría sonreír falsamente y mentirle a Rob, pero no a mi papá. Ojalá pudiera. Acerco mi mano a la de Rubina. Entrelazamos nuestros dedos y apretamos.

“Yo sé,” dice ella. Los dieciséis ojos de los ocho hombres frente a nosotros se ensanchan al mismo tiempo. Una niña muy dentro mío dice: “Yo también sé. Nosotras… sabemos”. Mi voz es más chica que la de Rubina. Rob rodea el mostrador y camina lentamente hacia nosotras.

Su rostro sudoroso es inmenso.

“Por favor, explíquense,” dice. Siento su tibio mal aliento golpear contra mi frente. Apreto más la mano de Rubina y trago. Siento la garganta llena de plumavit.

“Un segundo”, dice Rubina. Suelta mi mano y camina hacia la alacena. Nadie la sigue, ni siquiera yo. Regresa con las botellas entre sus brazos y se las entrega una a una a Rob. Quisiera detenerla, pero por mis venas circula solo arena.

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CRISTÓBAL RIEGO

EL CORONEL

Por las mascotas y sus dueños siento poco además de resentimiento, porque cuando era chico siempre me sacaron en cara el vínculo hermoso que los conectaba.

Entraba a la sala de clases y un compañero decía: ayer se murió el Bob Esponja o el Luigi o quien fuera –uno de esos típicos nombres que confirman la poca imaginación que tienen los niños–, lo encontramos estirado debajo de la escalera, duro como palo. Todo el mundo se acercaba a consolarlo. A su alrededor se juntaba una fuerza, una energía que no entendía, pero quería para mí. Y el niño supuestamente triste decía: quería tanto al Luigi, era un miembro más de la familia, y así se le podían morir familiares todo el rato, uno por cada mascota –saltarse clases, faltar a las pruebas, recuperarlas cuando quisiera y atraer amistades y condescendencia con la misma intensidad con que yo parecía rechazarlas. No me dejaban tener mascotas, mi mamá descartó la posibilidad de un gato con la rarísima excusa de que le daba miedo saber que había “alguien” en la casa cuando estaba vacía.

No se negó alegando que los departamentos fueran demasiado estrechos para los animalitos y el gato iba a querer jugar, no dijo que fuera mucha responsabilidad para un niño, sino que le iba a dar vergüenza salir de la ducha y darse cuenta de que el gato estaba ahí, mirándola con esos ojos que parecen expresivos pero que

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translated from the spanish by MEG RICHARDSON

THE COLONEL

I have this grudge against pets and people with pets, because I never had one as a kid, and I always felt like other kids were rubbing it in my face—talking about this amazing bond they had with another living thing—something that I would never get to experience.

Some kid in my class would come to school and say: Yesterday Spongebob or Luigi, or whoever (the pets always had stupid names like that, kids have no imagination) we found him stretched out at the bottom of the stairs, stiff as a board.” The whole class would gather round, trying to make the kid feel better. There would be this force—this energy around the kid. I didn’t understand it, but I wanted it. The kid who was supposedly so traumatized would say: I loved Luigi so much. He was like a member of my family. These kids lost their “family members” all the time, which meant they could skip tests, miss class, and make new friends as fast as I always seemed to be losing friends.

There was no way I was getting a pet. My mom crushed my dreams of cat ownership with the weirdest possible excuses. She could have said that our apartment was too small, or that a cat was too much responsibility for a kid, but no. She said it scared her to know there was “someone” home while we were out. She said it would be

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al centro tienen algo así como un vacío, tal vez un raro efecto de la luz, y hasta ahí llegó la discusión.

Mi papá también dijo que no porque es un monstruo alérgico y odia a todos los animales domésticos. Es el típico hombre que cuando entra a una casa con mascotas –la de mi abuelo, por ejemplo– reacciona como si evidentemente fueran una molestia para todo el mundo: pregunta a los dueños de casa por qué no fueron capaces de encerrar al bicho.

Por culpa de las mascotas me gané el desprecio de mis compañeros. Ni siquiera tuve el consuelo de una compañía razonable, porque a esas alturas mis amigos imaginarios habían muerto, los peluches no hablaban, el viejo pascuero no existía. El ratón de los dientes me acechaba todas las noches con un alicate. Estaba solo con mis estúpidas tortugas, con mis pescaditos de 600 pesos que compraba en una tienda de Providencia. Mascotas de consolación. Por esa plata conseguías unos pescaditos raquíticos, anémicos –a veces con la aleta dorsal picada– que con suerte duraban un par de meses. Mi abuela me llevaba a comprarlos y en la casa les tenía un estanque enano que nunca lavé; cuando mi mamá me gritaba, cada tanto, que los tenía nadando en su propia caca, que estaba segura de que eso en algunas partes del mundo era usado como tortura contra los enemigos del gobierno, yo le respondía que lo hacía sin intención, que lo que pasaba era que se me olvidaban porque eran muy fomes. Y tenía razón: nadaban todo el tiempo en círculos hasta que, de repente, se pegaban al vidrio y seguían en línea recta, sin darse cuenta de que no avanzaban durante horas. Los

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embarrassing to get out of the shower and realize the cat had been sitting there, staring at her with cat eyes that seem expressive, but are actually empty and creepy when they catch the light. The pet discussion with my mom ended there.

My dad also said no, because he’s allergic to everything and he hates pets. He’s the kind of guy who will walk into my grandma’s house, or other houses with pets, and act like it’s a crime against humanity that there are animals running around inside.

Because of this whole pet debacle, nobody liked me. I had absolutely no one to hang out with—and I do mean no one. My imaginary friends had all died, my stuffed animals never talked, and Santa Claus didn’t exist. You’d think the Tooth Mouse could have been a potential friend, but no. I was convinced he spent his nights prowling around, waiting to attack me with a pair of pliers. I was all alone with my stupid turtles and my pathetic little 600-peso fish that I got on Providencia Street, where all the stores are dusty and smell weird.

The fish and the turtles were consolation pets. When you don’t have much money to spend on fish, you end up with these skimpy, anemic little guys with tiny holes in their fins, who only live for a couple of months if you’re lucky. My grandma took me to buy them. I kept them in a tank that I never cleaned. When my mom yelled at me about it, she would say I was forcing them to swim in their own poop, and she was sure that in some parts of the world, governments tortured their enemies that way.

I would tell her that I wasn’t trying to torture them, I’d

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miraba y pensaba en que una vez había escuchado o leído que desde el centro de una pecera redonda se podía hacer una interpretación completa y adecuada de los movimientos del universo, solo que distinta a la nuestra, y me enojaba con ellos porque no eran capaces de empezar a investigar, veía tran claramente la superioridad humana y, sin embargo, la gente se desvivía para adorar a esos cosos, para ponerles nombre y vestirlos y llevarlos al dentista o al personal trainer.

Una vez un amigo del colegio susurró: pero no hay ningún perro que sea Hitler.

Las tortugas eran un poco menos fomes. Su única gracia consistía en que las podías sacar durante un rato y correteaban por el piso desesperadas, directo a esconderse a los lugares oscuros. Para ellas era normal buscar un sórdido rincón mojado, esconder la comida esperando que pasara el peligro, pero en la práctica atentaban contra su propia supervivencia: se perdían, se desperdiciaban.

Después de unos días aparecían totalmente resecas, convertidas en heroicas sobrevivientes, o alguien encontraba sus cadáveres al mover el sillón o el refrigerador una vez al mes para hacer la limpieza profunda, como decía mi mamá. El cadáver de una tortuga: qué cosa más redundante. Comían unos camaroncitos que parecían estar apanados, pero los probé y la verdad es que eran asquerosos. Las quise tan poco que cuando mi mamá las regaló ni siquiera me di cuenta.

Aunque tal vez estoy exagerando, sí lloré a uno de mis

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just completely forgotten about them because they were so freaking boring. I was right. They were so boring.

They did nothing but swim in circles until they bonked into the glass, and then they went back to swimming in circles. They didn’t seem to realize that they never got anywhere, even after hours of swimming. I would look at them and think about how I once read that you can interpret the movement of the universe from the center of a fish bowl, and I would get so mad at my fish, because they weren’t taking advantage of this research opportunity. I knew that the human race was superior to fish, except for the fact that humans obsess over these things—pets—naming them, dressing them, taking them to the dentist, getting them personal trainers.

Once, one of my classmates whispered to me: No dog is ever going to become Hitler.

The turtles were a little less mind-numbingly dull than the fish, but not by much. At least they had one cool party trick. You could take them out of their cage, and they would scamper around until they found somewhere dark to hide. They would stash their food in these gross, damp corners, thinking this was a good move for their survival, when in fact it was extremely stupid. They would get all shriveled and pathetic-looking in their hiding spots. After a few days, they would either come out of hiding, all dried up, feeling like heroes, or else somebody would find their carcasses while moving an armchair or the refrigerator when Mom made us do what she called “deep cleaning” every month. A turtle carcass: it’s almost redundant to say, because turtles are just as

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peces, que se llamaba F, porque ya a esas alturas se me iban agotando los nombres: se habían muerto el Harry Potter y el Cocodrilo y mi única pescadita, Marie Curie, aunque creo que eso de que fuera mujer lo inventé, tal vez muchos de los otros eran mujeres y yo los bautizaba con nombres de hombre. Estaba el Robert Plant y el King Crimson y uno increíblemente fome, que no se movía y según mi mamá tenía depresión, que se llamaba Escuela de Rock; el Gokú, el Pedro y el Picapiedra, el Célula y el Molécula y el Átomo, había millones, muchos otros que he olvidado, y era tal el volumen de nombres que debía poner que me puse a buscar algo más sistemático. Partí con los libertadores de la Patria: José Miguel Carrera, Bernardo O'Higgins, Manuel Rodríguez, y mi papá me obligó a agregar al general San Martín, pues me dijo que su ayuda había sido indispensable. De ahí me quedé en blanco, no conocía a otros libertadores, por lo que le puse a uno Salvador Allende, que según mi abuelo era tan bueno como los otros, y a Pedro Aguirre Cerda, que tenía un cuerpo más largo y se movía con permanente inquietud, le terminé agarrando especial cariño. Luego me cambié a los modos musicales: Jonio, Dorio, Eolio, Frigio, Lidio, Locrio, y como se me acababan incorporé las variaciones, y se volvía cada vez más difícil diferenciar al Lidio del Mixolidio, al Frigio del Hipofrigio, aunque mi mamá, a pesar del enredo creciente, conservó siempre la capacidad de nombrarlos correctamente a todos, o tal vez se aprovechaba de mi confusión y le daba a cada uno, con confianza, un nombre cualquiera. Finalmente quedamos de acuerdo en el abecedario, al menos por un tiempo: F era el sexto pescadito en un legado que iba de la A a la Z. Estoy seguro de que lo lloré para participar de ese at

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boring when they’re dead as when they’re alive. They used to eat these little tiny shrimps that looked pretty good—like the breaded ones—but I tried them and they were disgusting. I had so little love in my heart for those turtles that I didn’t even notice when Mom gave them away. Okay, so I’m exaggerating a little. I’ll admit it. I wept when one of my fish, died, a fish whose name was F, because at that point, I’d exhausted my list of names.

Poor Harry Potter had died, same with Crocodile, and my only girl fish, Marie Curie—I decided that she was a girl arbitrarily. Some of the other ones were probably girls too, baptized with boys’ names. There was Robert Plant and King Crimson, and another one who was even more boring than average, if you can imagine that—he never moved and my mom was convinced that he had depression—his name was School of Rock. There was Goku, Fred, Flintstone, Cell, Molecule, Atom, and millions more that I’ve forgotten. I needed to come up with a better system for naming them.

I began naming them after our founding fathers: José Miguel Carrera, Bernardo O’Higgins, Manuel Rodriguez.

Then my dad made me add one named General San Martín, and told me about how important and amazing the guy was. Then I hit a wall. I couldn’t come up with any more founding fathers. I named one Salvador Allende, because my grandpa said that he was just as important as the others. I named another one Pedro Aguirre Cerda. He was bigger and more anxious than the other fish, and I had to give him extra attention.

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sufrimiento bacán que veía en mis compañeros –F no había sido para mí más importante que los otros. Cuando por fin se murió, cosa que quizás esperaba con ansias, pinté una cajita de fósforos en su honor y lo enterré con una cruz formada por dos palos de helado pegados con cola fría. No era católico, pero me pareció que era lo apropiado. Obligue a mis papás y a los otros niños del barrio a formar parte de la procesión, los hice armar una fila y que uno a uno me dieran su más sentido pésame –lo había visto cuando se murió mi abuelo, no el que yo quería, sino el viejo hijo de puta que se había escapado con toda la plata– y lo enterré debajo de unos arbolitos escuálidos que se asomaban en la parte de atrás del condominio, derramando una lágrima discreta, hay que ser digno en el sufrimiento, me dije, nadie debe darse cuenta, así que les di a todos las gracias con tranquilidad, sorbiéndome los mocos, y les pedí que ahora por favor me dejaran solo con mi familia, pues teníamos mucho en que pensar. Mi papá y mi mamá me consolaron a pesar de que encontraban que estaba exagerando, que no era sano que un niño hiciera tremendo espectáculo por un mero pescado: parece que es hipersensible este niño, deberías llevarlo al psicólogo, mujer, escuché luego que decía mi viejo en voz baja, mientras pensaban que me distraía leyendo.

Así empecé a buscar excusas para sufrir, para suplir el conocimiento y la experiencia que los demás acumulaban. Cuando ellos ya supieran todo de la vida yo iba a estar recién aprendiendo a nadar, a andar en bicicleta, a cuidar de una mascota, las cosas básicas. Mis compañeros pensaban que uno no sabía lo que era

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Next, I started naming them after musical modes: Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, and Lorian. Then I added some variations. I had a terrible time keeping track of who was Lydian and who was Mixolydian, who was Phrygian and who was Mixophrygian. Weirdly, Mom was able to keep the whole mess straight in her head. She always knew which name went with which fish—either that or she took advantage of how confused I always was and she just pretended to know their names.

Finally, I thought I had the answer, at least for the time being. I decided to name them after the letters of the alphabet. F was the sixth little fish in an illustrious line spanning A to Z. I wept when F died, not because he was anything special, but because I wanted to try to genuinely experience the dead-pet-induced grief my classmates were always talking about. A part of me was actually happy when he died. I was so ready to mourn him. I put him in a matchbox and painted a little face on it, then I made a cross made out of two popsicle sticks glued together. F wasn’t Catholic as far as I knew, and neither was I, but still the cross felt right.

My parents and some other kids from the neighborhood marched in the funeral procession. I made them form a line and offer me their condolences one by one. I knew how to organize a funeral because my grandpa had died pretty recently—not the grandpa I liked—it was the son of a bitch who ran away with his secretary and forgot about us. Weeping softly, I buried F under some scrawny trees behind our condo complex. One has to be dignified even in the midst of immeasurable suffering, I told

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realmente hacerse cargo de la vida hasta que cuidaba de otro, así se aprendía a postergar las necesidades propias –todos se hacían los bacanes en ese colegio–, pero tenía que ser una verdadera mascota, no un pescadito al que le dan a comer los papás, sino un perrito, un gatito, incluso un zorrito, dijo alguien, y los demás se burlaron de él: como un zorro, los zorros no son domésticos, a lo que el otro le respondió que podían ser domésticos, que un tío suyo en Chiloé había domesticado un zorro, lo hacía levantar la pata y traerle la pelota de tenis, que él mismo lo había visto. En Chiloé no hay zorros ni hay tenis, dijo otro, y se estuvieron riendo un rato del primer compañero, diciendo que era melómano, melómano y nadie se atrevía a decir otra cosa por miedo a convertirse en el centro de atención. Es por eso que hacía los amantes de los gatos no siento más que un placentero y postergado resentimiento –una pulsación que se vuelve más deliciosa cada vez que la reprimo y la obligo a acumularse–, además de que se creen más sofisticados que los amantes de los perros, que a su vez están convencidos de su autenticidad, como si amar a los gatos fuera marca de una afectación sospechosa. Yo quise quererlos a los dos, pero nunca sentí verdadero cariño, excepto una vez, cuando le regalé un gato a mi polola. Me preocupé harto de encontrar uno negro entero. Me dije que si no podía tener un gato al menos podía regalar el que yo siempre había querido para que lo disfrutara otro, en este caso mi polola, a quien yo admiraba y quería impresionar con un regalo de cumpleaños que no fuera comprado, algo genuino que demostrara que no me preocupaban solo las trivialidades, las cosas mundanas; porque yo pensaba que ella, que estudiaba arte y ponía

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myself. I wiped the drips from my nose and then politely asked the funeral guests if they would leave me and my family alone, as we had a lot to think about. Mom and Dad comforted me until it dawned on them that, I was either being dramatic, or else there was something wrong with me—it isn’t normal for a kid to act like the world is ending when his lame pet fish dies. Maybe he’s too sensitive, they said. Maybe we should take him to a psychologist, they said. I listened in on all of the conversations they had while they thought that I was distracted by a book.

I got into the habit of finding ways to suffer, so that I would have a better understanding of the world. It felt like my classmates knew everything already and I couldn’t keep up. I barely even knew he basics—swimming, riding a bike, taking care of a pet.

The other kids at school were always talking about how a person hasn’t really lived until they’ve taken care of another living thing and practiced selflessness. Everyone at school was way too cool for me, and too virtuous.

According to their rules, this thing you took care of had to be a real pet—a dog or a cat, not just a stupid little fish that your parents feed. Someone argued that a fox counts too, and it turned into a big debate. The kid said that he had an uncle in Chiloé who had trained a fox give high-fives with its paw and to fetch a tennis ball. Then someone pointed out that there are no foxes and there’s no tennis in Chiloé. Everyone laughed at the kid who’d been going on about his uncle and the fox, and we sang, “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” Then nobody said anything else for fear of being made fun of too.

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gran énfasis en su «manifestación positiva», despreciaba un poco mis videojuegos y mis tarjetas gráficas y mis tableros de miniaturas –aunque nunca me lo dijo. Una mascota, entonces, porque como ya hemos visto generan vínculos con las personas que están más allá de los legos mortales. Quería regalarle eso, un vínculo, un secreto, algo que me dejara como como un tipo complejo y creativo y que probara que la cosa iba en serio: a este ser –el uso de la palabra ser me acercaba a la filosofía, poniéndome por encima de las insignificantes preocupaciones del resto– lo vamos a cuidar juntos. Así que encontré, en la casa de la conocida de una tía, un animal perfecto, un gatito hermoso que regalaban porque no lo podían tener, que ellos habían bautizado con el absurdo nombre de Choclillo, porque –me explicaron– era aficionado a las corontas de choclo. Me di cuenta en seguida de que iba a tener que separar a Choclillo de sus humildes orígenes. Él era un gato más en una casa llena de niños que no hacían más que tirarle la cola. Habría que mejorarlo, enseñarle modales, cambiarle el nombre, convertirlo en un animal nuevo. Así que me lo llevé a la casa unos días antes, pensando que su caca iba a tener mal olor –por lo del choclo– y que no podía regalar un gato que la dejara en cualquier parte menos en la arena.

Mi mamá estaba fuera de Santiago y mi viejo llegaba muy tarde a la casa, con globos morados bajo los ojos.

Siempre se iba directo a la cama –durante toda la noche se escuchaba el ruido de la tele prendida a todo dar, lujo que se podía dar solo si no estaba mi vieja, que incluso en el silencio más absoluto dormía con tapones porque escuchaba caminar al vecino. Tuve durante tres días la casa para mí y me aseguré de que el gato aprendiera sus

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I sincerely resent cat people. It’s a feeling I repressed for years, so it’s really strong now. Cat people have this idea that they’re more sophisticated than dog people, but dog people are convinced that liking dogs makes them more real and authentic, while liking cats is pretentious and suspect. There was a time in my life when I tried to like both cats and dogs, but I never really felt love for either species, except for this one time when I gave a cat to my girlfriend. I put in a ton of work to find the perfect cat—one that was all black. I told myself, if I couldn’t have a cat myself, at least I could bring joy to someone else by giving them the thing I had always wanted. I really admired this girl and wanted to impress her with a birthday gift that wasn’t just some store-bought thing. I wanted to show that I was deep and genuine—I wasn’t just focused on things that didn’t matter. Even though she never said it, I had a hunch that this girl who studied art and was always talking about finding inner positivity or something, didn’t really understand or appreciate my video games and graphics cards, or the models I painted in my room. A pet was the perfect gift for her, because as we’ve seen, pets elevate people and create a special bond between human and animal that mere pet-less mortals will never experience. I wanted to give this to my girlfriend: a bond, a secret, something that would make me seem like a creative, thoughtful, put-together guy. I also wanted a gift that would let her know that I was serious about our relationship.

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responsabilidades. Cuando llegaba de la universidad, aunque me daba cuenta de que había un olor raro, diferente, ligeramente desagradable, era tal mi agradecimiento de que no se hubiese cagado en el sillón que lo tomaba en brazos, le daba unos besos tímidos que me parecían un poco inapropiados, le decía que era un campeón, un tipo la raja, un buen amigo y que a mi polola le iba a encantar. Tan contento me tenía que lo bauticé coronel Aureliano, mi personaje favorito en todo el mundo, aunque casi en seguida me acostumbré a llamarlo solamente Coronel.

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JONATHAN HOROWITZ from LIMINAL OBSERVER Episode 5: It Was a Good Day

Out faster than expected, still a couple hours of sunlight left. I stroll past college kids returning from class. It’s funny we call them kids. Never college adults. College men. College women. We say college kids. It makes you wonder. Scoffing at youthful exuberance, I venture into the city.

The downtown Starbucks is the hot spot, humming with compelling characters. It was better with street-side tables, but outdoor seating privileges got revoked after a knife fight. I mosey in, convinced everyone knows I’m high. I don’t care, I’m a regular.

The usuals occupy the space. Ragtag men play chess.

The homeless crew crowds the corner. Corporate folk from J&J and visiting business types await orders. Grad students hug tables topped with Tall drinks. College students stake claims with water bottles and outside food.

College kids can’t seem to grasp the concept that businesses need to make money to survive. This isn’t the student center: don’t hoard tables if you’re one person.

Don’t capture two tables with two people if the place is

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traducido del inglés por JIMENA CRUZ de OBSERVADOR LIMINAL Episodio 5: Fue un buen d ía

En la calle antes de lo esperado. Aún quedan un par de horas de sol. Paseo caminando entre jóvenes estudiantes que van saliendo de clases. Es raro que los llamemos jóvenes estudiantes. Siempre son jóvenes, nunca son adultos o adultas. Decimos jóvenes estudiantes riéndonos de su imberbe exuberancia. Me aventuro hacia la ciudad.

El Starbucks del centro es el lugar de moda en donde murmuran atractivos personajes. Era mejor con las mesas en la calle, pero los privilegios de sentarse afuera fueron revocados después de una pelea con cuchillos.

Deambulo convencido de que todos saben que estoy volado pero no me importa. Soy muy normal.

Busco la mejor locación. Los típicos de siempre ocupan el espacio. Estudiantes de medicina de primer año se reparten en dos mesas. Sé que ella es una estudiante de medicina de primer año porque presume un alto montón de libros, los de primero son casi tan insoportables como los estudiantes internos balanceando sus batas hacia el bar.

Un variado grupo de hombres juega ajedrez. Pandillas de vagabundos concurren la esquina. Gente corporativa de

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packed. Respect the rules. The occasionally homeless violate the sacred Starbucks seating code, but they aim to be obnoxious.

I scout the perfect location. A pre-med student spreads across two tables. I know she’s pre-med because she flaunts a towering stack of pre-med books. Almost as bad as residency students wearing scrubs to the bar.

I join the line and peek to see who’s manning the fort.

The baristas know me even better than the downtown bartenders do. And they’ve never thrown me out, so they like me. I get freebies when orders get screwed up and my favorite gifts me drinks for no good reason. Ines is the best. Witty, hardworking, responsible, superb style, honest smile. And she’s pretty. She values people, listening like everyone has something worthwhile to contribute.

Ines’ grin widens as I drift up to the counter.

“Hey Jacob, Venti Iced Coffee black?”

“You know it,” I hand her my $4 and don’t even regret giving a tip even if she’s doing what she’s paid to do. In fact, I wish I hadn’t bought a Dutch so I could give her a real tip.

“Working on anything juicy today?”

“Got some killer story ideas.”

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J&J y visitadores de negocios esperan sus pedidos.

Estudiantes graduados abrazan sus mesas llenas de bebidas tamaño Alto. Los jóvenes estudiantes ahí con sus botellas de agua y comida traída de fuera, porque ellos no pueden entender el concepto de que los negocios necesitan producir dinero para sobrevivir. Respeta las reglas. No acapares la mesa si eres solo una persona. No retengas dos mesas para dos personas si el lugar está abarrotado.

Hago la fila y doy un vistazo a ver quién controla el fuerte. Los baristas me conocen incluso mejor que los bartenders del centro y nunca han tenido que echarme del lugar, así que me quieren. Me dan yapa cuando se equivocan con los pedidos y algunas veces, mi empleado del mes, manda alguna bebida a mi mesa sin razón alguna. Inés sonríe ampliamente mientras me dejo llevar hacia la caja.

“Hey Jacob, ¿Café negro helado, tamaño Venti?”

“Tu sabes”. Puse en su mano mis 4 dólares y no sentí remordimiento alguno en darle propina a pesar de que era lo único que tenía.

“Trabajando en algo sabroso hoy?”

“Tengo unas ideas mortales para cuentos”

“¿Mortales dijiste?, quiero saber”

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“Killer you say? I wanna know.”

I shift away slightly, noticing the nerd behind me glaring, broadcasting his frustration with pursed lips and rumpled brow. Ines doesn’t care. Must be nearing the end of her shift. When she’s exhausted she forgets to do her job.

“Stop by when you’re done. I’ll be here.”

“Can’t wait, Jacob.”

Grab my seat, always near a cute woman. I refuse to intrude but I’m open to conversation, might as well create opportunity. I drop my belongings on the bench as I ask the pre-med student for her extra table, letting her know I’m taking it. She unleashes a filthy look, annoyed that I would be so rude as to take her extra table, and I smile back, sitting comfortably.

I survey the scene. A bespectacled coed imprisoned in the corner by a mob of part-time homeless folk. Newspaper mystery guy scours newspapers with a magnifying glass, seeking esoteric manuscripts embedded in daily publications. Father and daughter dynamic duo posture.

Lumpy has a huge benign lump on his neck. I confirmed before I named him Lumpy. Grad students type furiously, earpods in. Couple of late 20s or early 30s creative industry types are on the clock, Beats headphones on.

Big belly dudes play games, with headsets. Elderly folk in chairs staring into oblivion. Bag lady. The typical crew.

I wonder where I fit in?

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Eché una mirada a la fila detrás de mí. Un cliente nerd mira fijamente, transmitiendo su frustración con labios fruncidos y ceja arrugada. A Inés no puede importarle menos. Debe ser el final de su turno. Cuando está exhausta se olvida de hacer su trabajo.

“Pásate cuando termines, estaré aquí” “No puedo esperar, Jacob” Tomé mi asiento- siempre cerca de una chica linda- me rehuso a interrumpir pero estoy abierto a la conversación. Eso también puede generar una oportunidad. Dejo mis cosas en una silla y le pregunto a la estudiante de primero de medicina por su mesa desocupada, dejándola saber que ahora es mía. Ella lanza una mirada de fastidio. Le sonrío y me dejo caer en el asiento.

Sondeo la escena. Una estudiante cuatro ojos se esconde en la esquina, aprisionada junto a una muchedumbre de vagabundos de medio tiempo. El tipo misterioso del periódico rastrea el diario con una lupa para descubrir manuscritos esotéricos incrustados en las publicaciones.

Graduados tipeando furiosos con los audífonos puestos.

Una pareja entre los veintinueve o treintas, del tipo industria creativa, está en la barra lista para pagar.

Beats, audífonos puestos. Juego de redondos jugadores.

Un tipo anciano en silla de ruedas contempla el vacío. La típica pandilla. Me pregunto ¿Dónde encajo yo?

“Café helado tamaño Venti para Samson”

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“Venti Iced Coffee for Samson.”

That me? No else ordered iced coffee. I better check, “Ines this me?”

“Yep. Samson. Saaaaaaaaamson,” she holds the vowel.

It’s a Chapelle impression. I get it. Half Baked. Ines falls backward into her co-workers’ arms, mightily amused by a lame joke referencing a movie that’s over ten years old.

She definitely opened today.

Break time. Working an hour and nothing substantial has arrived. I let my pen guide me into brick walls. Can’t write when I’m high. At least I can gawk. Over to my left, we got my favorite mass of vulnerables, commandeering prime window real estate. Starbucks provides free water and they’re keen to corporate policy.

There’s the dynamic duo. The father owns his 19th century prospector beard, resembling a Blue Mountain man who wandered westward seeking untold fortunes.

His daughter styles leopard tights paired with a fur collar jacket by some urban company that you can only find at Burlington Coat Factory. Knock-off designer shades, sunken cheeks, eye luggage.

Bag lady squeezes between tables with an old folks personal shopping cart, stuffed to the brim, looking like a wad of birthday balloons jammed into a sedan. She’s my sister’s friend’s mom who went off the deep end and wandered across the bridge to roam the New Brunswick

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¿Ese soy yo? nadie más pidió café helado. Mejor chequeo.

Inés, ¿soy yo?

Sip. Samson. Saaaaaaamson, dijo alargando la vocal, imitando a Dave Chappelle en Half Baked una película que tiene más de 10 años. Definitivamente a ella le tocó abrir hoy el local.

Recreo. Trabajando durante 1 hora y nada sustancial ha salido. El lápiz me lleva hacia gruesas paredes. Al menos puedo mirar boquiabierto. Sobre mi izquierda, está la masa de mis indigentes favoritos tomando los mejores asientos. Starbucks garantiza agua gratis y todos son fanáticos de esa política corporativa.

Está el dúo dinámico del padre y la hija. El padre es dueño de una barba de buscador de oro del siglo 19, parece un hombre de Blue Mountain deambulando hacia el oeste en busca de fortunas secretas. El look de la hija consiste en unas patas de leopardo y una chaqueta brillante de una marca de ropa urbana que solo puede encontrarse en una estantería de descuento en Burlington coat factory, coronado por unos lentes imitación de diseñador, para esconder las mejillas hundidas y las bolsas de los ojos.

La señora de la bolsa está instalada entre las mesas y la esquina con su propio carrito de supermercado, luciendo como un racimo de globos de cumpleaños metidos dentro de un Sedan. Es la mamá de una amiga de mi hermana que logró salir del lado oscuro y ahora deambula por el

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streets. Unlike most local street dwellers, many of whom live in colonies by the river, she gets alimony checks and has an apartment somewhere.

Dirty Dave waddles over from the counter, double-clutching a Grande coffee. Double D always buys a coffee. There were actually two Dirty Daves at our high school. He’s a couple years my senior but we had classes together. Hair sprouts in all directions, full neck beard, faded black tee dangling on his bony frame. He rejects the shackles of contemporary deodorant. He’s usually silent. Staring. Pensive. His gaze got me thinking something’s going on up there. For some reason I just imagine it’s silent, black-and-white cartoons. He and Lumpy are pals.

Lumpy is always capped, repping some naval ship.

Button downs with armpit stains. Old man slacks. Old man shoes. Nondescript. Brandless. There must be an old man section somewhere in some store. Clothes organized by color and style, not by brand. An aisle for brown slacks. One for black shoes. There were shops like this at the Route 1 flea market.

A few others rotate appearances. Some got banned. I know it’s not politically correct to trash homeless people but these guys don’t respect others, hogging multiple tables, knowing that most customers, those who refuse to make eye contact, are too timid to object. Guess it’s a self-defense mechanism to prove their existence by being jerks. Pre-empting the disrespect. Maybe it’s all they have. Power is derived from denying some privileged

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puente hacia las calles de New Brunswick. Ella, a diferencia de los indigentes de la zona, que en su mayoría viven en grupos cerca el río, cobra su pensión y tiene un departamento en alguna parte.

Dirty Dave camina como pato encima de la caja, agarrando con las dos manos su café tamaño Grande.

Doble D siempre compra un café. Su pelo brota en todas direcciones y una vieja polera negra desteñida cuelga sobre su marco huesudo. La barba de su cuello se ve dolorosa. Es usualmente silencioso, observador, pensativo. Su mirada me hizo pensar que algo pasaba por ahí arriba sin embargo, solo pude imaginar monos animados mudos en blanco y negro. Él y Bulto son compadres.

Bulto grita. Antes de llamarlo así, confirmé que el bulto que tiene en su cuello es benigno. Siempre usa un gorro con un logo de alguna batalla naval. Su pinta se ve como descocida con manchas en los codos, pantalón de viejo y zapatos de viejo- sin descripción y sin marca. Debe haber una sección de Hombres Viejos en alguna tienda donde la ropa sin marca está organizada por color y estilo. Un pasillo de pantalones cafés. Otro de zapatos negros.

Otros pocos individuos aparecieron. Algunos desaparecieron. Sé que no es políticamente correcto basurear a los vagabundos pero esos tipos no respetan a los otros. Quiebran el sagrado código del Starbucks porque conocen a la mayoría de los clientes, aquellos que se rehúsan a hacer contacto visual son demasiado tímidos para opinar. Supongo que es un mecanismo de prick a

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prime seating option at the overpriced coffee spot. My liberal college activist friends always give homeless people the benefit of the doubt, convinced every lump in the street is a fallen angel struck down by systemic oppression or unavoidable circumstances. It’s degrading.

Some homeless people are assholes, like anyone else. I know a couple kids from high school who roam the train station for change. They used to rob us. They suck. Then again, I know their upbringing was rough, so in my own way, I empathize.

“Jacob!” Ines squeaks in my ear as she puts me in a friendly headlock.

“What the shit, you scared me,” I gently unpeel her.

Ines has already assumed a seat at my table.

“That’s cuz you’re high,” drawls Ines turning ‘high’ into a two syllable word, “like always and staring like a weirdo.”

“I’m gathering material.”

“A novella about the trials and tribulations of Starbucks regulars?”

“Nah. No one would want to read that.” Mental note: write a novella about the trials and tribulations of Starbucks regulars.

“I’d read it if it were written well.”

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autodefensa, el reafirmar su existencia siendo unos idiotas, anticipándose a la falta de respeto. Quizás es todo lo que tienen. El poder se gana negando algún privilegio, eligiendo una opción para sentarse en el sobrevalorado lugar del café. Mis amigos universitarios activistas liberales siempre dan a los vagabundos el beneficio de la duda, convencidos de que cada bache de la calle es un ángel derribado por la opresión sistémica o por inevitables circunstancias. Es degradante. Algunos vagabundos son ahueonaos, como cualquier otro.

“Jacob”, Inés chirrea en mi oído mientras me atrapa con una llave, pero amistosa”.

“Qué mierda, me asustaste” amablemente me zafo de la llave.

Inés se sienta y planta sus codos en la mesa. Apoya su mentón en sus manos manicuradas y apretuja su cara. ¿Cómo es que sus uñas lucen tan bien? Dejo caer mis manos manchadas de tabaco bajo la mesa. Hace bailar sus dedos en sus mejillas.

“Eso es porque estás volao”, Inés alarga las vocales, volaaaooo, “como siempre, te quedai pegado como un freaki”

“Estoy recopilando material”

“¿Una novela sobre problemas y tribulaciones de la gente común en Starbucks?”

“Nop, nadie querría leer eso”. Nota mental: escribir una

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“You’d read anything. You left me vampire romance novels on my coffee table.”

“Dude they’re amazing. Pop culture is essential. They’ll teach you how to captivate readers. You gotta write for the people.”

Normally, I hate when single women call me dude. Or my friend. Or man. It’s emasculating, wielded to emphasize a platonic connection. The dude dagger is dull and painful when you’ve caught feelings. Each utterance is a slow twist of the blade. Ines is different. She calls everyone dude. Even her own mom. Anyways, I’m not trying to get with her.

“I’m not worrying about your average readers. I write for writers.”

“I thought you write to impress women? Doing the whole starving artist thing. I see you always setting up next to a cute chick.”

The pre-med student next to me smirks, a glimmer in the corner of my eye.

Ines glows, “Enough making fun of you and your corny game. How’s everything? Feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

I saw her last week. “Same old.”

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novela acerca de los problemas y tribulaciones de la gente común en Starbucks. Inés juega con mi Ipod en la mesa.

“Yo lo leería si estuviera bien escrito”

“Tú lees cualquier cosa. Dejas novelas románticas de vampiros en mi mesa.”

Mi perro, son increíbles. Te enseñan cómo capturar lectores. Sus ojos se abren mientras enfatiza sus palabras con gestos de manos inequívocos. La cultura pop es esencial. Necesitas escribir para la gente.

Normalmente, odio que las solteras me digan perro, o amigo, o viejo, es castrador. Suena ejercido para enfatizar una conexión platónica. La daga del perro es latera y dolorosa cuando te atrapa en lo emocional. Cada declaración es una leve vuelta de la navaja. Con Inés es diferente. Ella le dice perro a todo el mundo. A todos, incluso a su mamá. En todo caso, no estoy tratando de meterme con ella.

“No estoy preocupada por tus lectores promedio. Escribo para los escritores.”

“Pensé que escribías para impresionar a las mujeres.

Haciendo toda la pose del artista muerto de hambre. Te he visto, siempre te sientas al lado de una chica linda.

“Las estudiantes de primer año de medicina sonríen a mi lado.”

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“Getting wasted, acting a fool, and waking up embarrassed?”

“Girl, have you been reading my diary?”

Ines laughs at my jokes like no one else, leaking muted howls. Irrepressible, blooper laughs, like when Jimmy Fallon breaks on SNL. Those fits happen less as you age.

Remember those times as a kid when happiness bubbled up and for minutes and minutes everything was funny, chilling with friends and every word spurt triggered effervescent unconscious reaction. Pulling from what makes you, you. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that.

“Do you really keep a diary?”

“No way. That would be weird for a grown man.”

“What’s in your bag then?”

“Books. A couple pens. Notebooks.”

“That you write in daily.”

“This is different.”

“Sorry to be the one to break this to you but a diary by any other name is still a diary. ‘Dear Diary, today I woke up with a killer headache. Then I got high and went to Starbucks. I was having fun until Ines made fun of me.

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Inés brilla. “Ya basta de reirme de ti y tu juego cursi. ¿Cómo va todo?”

“Siento que no te he visto en años” La vi la semana pasada. “Acá, la misma mierda.”

“¿Quedando loco, tonteando y despertando avergonzado?”

“Amiga, ¿has estado leyendo mi diario?”

Inés se ríe de mis bromas como nadie más, irrefrenable, un estallido de risa, como cuando Jimmy Fallon se mata de la risa en SNL. Me acuerdo de niño cuando la felicidad burbujeaba y por minutos y minutos todo era divertido.

Pasando el rato con los amigos, cada palabra salía disparada como una inconsciente y efervescente reacción.

Sacando lo que hay de ti, dentro de ti, esas cosas pasan menos a tu edad. No puedo recordar cuándo fue la última vez que me reí así.

“¿En verdad tienes un diario?”

“Na que ver. Eso sería raro para un adulto.”

¿Qué hay en tu mochila entonces? Inés arquea sus cejas.

“Libros. Un par de lápices. cuadernos.”

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She thinks she’s all that. But you know what? She’s not.’”

I laugh. A childhood laugh.

“Well, at least I don’t have to worry about getting robbed when I leave here late night. Someone snatches my bag, ducks into an alley and opens it up, all they’ll find are feelings.

“I could imagine. ‘I robbed this fuckin’ white boy and all I got are his bitch ass feelings.”

“Why you gotta make this about race?”

“Everything’s about race.”

“You did insinuate that the person doing the robbing is not white. That’s fucked up.”

“Wow. I did. That is especially fucked up. I guess I pictured my brother’s hoodlum friends. They love robbing the college kids.”

“I’m not a college kid but I forgive you. You fight the good cause.”

“Speaking of which, gotta go home and read for class tonight. Got a date with Frantz Fanon. Work, work, work, study, study, study. The glamorous life of an EOF student.”

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“En los que escribes diariamente.”

“Esto es diferente.” Cruzo mis brazos y evito el contacto visual.

Perdona por ser la persona que te haga ver esto, pero un diario aunque se le diga de otra forma, sigue siendo un diario. “Querido diario, hoy desperté con un dolor de cabeza que me está matando. Después me volé y vine al Starbucks. Estaba pasándolo bien hasta que Inés empezó a reírse de mí. Ella piensa que es la gran cosa. Pero ¿sabes qué? Ella no lo es.

Me reí con una risa infantil. “Bueno, al menos no tengo que preocuparme de que me asalten al salir de acá tarde en la noche. Alguien agarra mi mochila, se esconde en el callejón y la abre, todo lo que encuentra son sentimientos.”

“Puedo imaginarlo. Inés arruga su cara como un gangster en las películas. Gruñe “le robé a este maldito rubiecito y lo único que obtuve son sus maracos sentimientos.”

“Porqué tienes que hacer de esto un problema de raza.”

Todo es un problema de raza, dijo Inés.

“Estás insinuando que la persona robando no es blanca, qué mierda.

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“Wow. Lo hice. Eso es especialmente una mierda. Creo que pensé en los descerebrados amigos de mi hermano.

Les encanta esconderse en los cementerios alrededor de I admire Ines. She’s younger than me and a role model, hustling harder than anyone I know. She calls me a lazy ass piece of shit from a place of love. I strive to do better for her.

“You’re impressive.” Did I say that aloud?

Ines blushes, “Thanks Jacob. I’m flattered. Especially since it came from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re usually a dick. Know how many times you’ve ranted about how these homeless people here annoy you?

Maybe if you said nicer things, you’d find yourself a nice girlfriend, not one of those raving maniacs you mess around with.”

“Don’t even get me started on last night.”

“Please no, Jacob. You’re gonna get yourself in trouble again. You really need to stop this. You even got yourself fired because of a drunken dalliance with a lunatic.”

Now that’s a story. Embarrassing, yet awesome. I hated my job and I don’t make powerful decisions. I let alcohol make my decisions for me. We’ll explore this later.

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esas nuevas residencias universitarias y asaltar a los estudiantes curados cuando vuelven a casa.”

“Esos malditos cuicos lo merecen,” digo

“Nadie merece ser robado.”

Un poco de violencia es buena para entender el mensaje.

Inés asienta pero ella no lo admite. Deja una copia de Wretched of the Earth en mi mochila.

“Te perdono por no tomar las armas contra los colonizadores. Sé que estás peleando una guerra justa.”

“Hablando de eso, tengo que terminar mis lecturas para las clases de mañana y ayudar a organizar esta marcha.

Inés se desparrama en su asiento y aprieta -sus- ojos en un segundo.

Se permitió a sí misma un notorio suspiro. La glamorosa vida de una estudiante becada por programa de igualdad de oportunidades, que es también una activista.

Inés es un modelo a seguir aunque es más joven que yo.

Tiene toda su mierda controlada, más que cualquier otro, y por alguna razón, ella cree en mí. Me llama flojo de mierda desde un lugar de amor.

“Eres impresionable.” ¿Dije eso en voz alta?

Inés se ruborizó. Gracias Jacob, me siento halagada, especialmente viniendo de ti.

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“For you I’ll only pursue respectable ladies. Next time I meet a lady at the bar I’ll ask myself, what would Ines say. If she satisfies your criteria, I’ll be ok.”

“That’s your problem, you chase ladies at bars.”

“Everyone goes to bars.”

“No one worthwhile tries to find a partner at a bar.”

“I go to bars to find a partner.”

Ines raises her brow to say “see?”

“Ha ha. Funny.”

“You’re an exception. You’re weird. Stick to Starbucks.

Even though your game is lame, you might find someone with half a brain.”

“Like her?”

Leopard Pants argues with a young woman who is more Bergen County than Central Jersey. Her assemblage screams Short Hills Mall. She seethes with hands upon hips, glaring at Leopard Pants who wields obnoxious indifference.

“Those are my fucking glasses that you stole from the bathroom. I left them there by mistake and now I want them back.”

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¿Qué se supone qué significa eso?

“Usualmente eres un huevón. ¿Sabes cuántas veces has reclamado sobre cómo estos vagabundos te fastidian?

Quizás si dijeras cosas más simpáticas te conseguirías una linda polola, no como esos maníacos alucinados con los que te juntas”

“Ni siquiera me hagas contarte de anoche.”

“No por favor Jacob. Te meterás en problemas de nuevo.

Necesitas terminar con esto. Incluso hiciste que te despidieran por un devaneo borracho con una lunática.”

“Ahora eso es historia. Odio mi trabajo y dejo que el alcohol tome decisiones por mi.

“Por ti, yo solo perseguiría señoritas respetables”.

“La próxima vez que conozca una chica en un bar, me preguntaré, qué diría Inés. Si ella cumple con sus expectativas, estaré ok.”

“Ese es tu problema, vas tras chicas en los bares.”

“Todo el mundo va a bares.”

Nadie trata de encontrar a alguien que valga la pena en un bar.

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“I don’t believe it.”

“What do you mean you don’t believe it? What the hell.

Give me my glasses. You couldn’t afford these glasses you homeless druggy.”

“Fuck you,” hisses Leopard Pants, storming out of Starbucks, indignant, as if being accused of theft is unthinkable. She glides past the window, turns to woman safely behind the glass, unfurls her tongue, and squints her nose so the shades drift slowly down her forehead into their proper resting place, coughing up a guttural stream of obscenities. I can’t hear it, but sometimes without audio you still know. The woman complains to the baristas who feign helplessness, explaining she’s better off calling the cops.

Ines smiles, “That stuck-up bitch deserved it.”

We share a gaze and agree.

“Maybe we can hang tomorrow night. Smoke a little and watch a movie.”

“I’m always down.” But will I have money for weed?

“Don’t worry, I’ll provide weed. Your check doesn’t clear until Thursday right?”

“How’d you know.”

“You tip generously on Thursday. We baristas talk.”

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“Voy a bares para encontrar pareja.”

Inés levanta la ceja para decir “¿viste?”

“Ja, ja, gracioso”, respondí

“Tu eres una excepción. Eres raro. Pegado a Starbucks.

Aún cuando tu juego es pobre, podrías encontrar a alguien con mitad de cerebro”

“¿Como ella?”

Patas de Leopardo discute con una mujer joven que es más del norte de Jersey que del centro. Su atuendo grita Short Hills, el mall de lujo. Echa fuego furiosa con las manos en la cintura, mirando fijamente a Patas de Leopardo que demuestra una indiferencia feroz.

“Esos son mis malditos lentes que robaste del baño. Los dejé ahí por error y ahora los quiero de vuelta.”

“No lo creo.” Patas de Leopardo maneja una incrédula expresión.

“Qué quieres decir con que no lo crees? Qué mierda.

Dame mis lentes. Tú no puedes pagar esos lentes vagabunda drogadicta.”

“Ándate a la mierda, balbucea Patas de Leopardo y sale furiosa del Starbucks, como si estuviera siendo acusada de un delito impensable. Mira a través de la ventana, se

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“I’ll get you back. I’ll buy next time.”

“I know you will.”

Ines rises with open arms and wraps me in a real hug.

Not a weird hug like awkward cheek kisses from someone who doesn’t expect it. She squeezes so I know she means it.

“You smell like blunts.”

“No I don’t.”

Ines ascends into the evening with a proud gait. She’s amazing, one of my greatest friends beside the people I grew up with, the ones I’ve known forever and can’t get rid of because they’re family. The ones who can’t get rid of you. Ines has only known me a few years but she is part of my crew. I disappoint her at times but there’s nothing horrible on my track record. I worry that one day I’ll reveal a side of me that is unforgivable. I haven’t known her long enough to get away with anything. I worry that one day I’ll get blackout drunk and commit some irredeemable act and lose a cherished friend forever.

Don’t we all?

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da vuelta hacia la mujer, segura ya tras el vidrio, saca la lengua y mirando de reojo su nariz, apoya la cabeza hacia atrás para estornudar una gutural oleada de obscenidades. No puedo oírla pero a veces sin sonido, igual puedes escuchar. La mujer se queja a los baristas quienes fingen ser serviciales explicándole que es mejor que ella misma llame a los pacos.

Inés -como un rayo dispara- “Esa cuica maraca se lo merece. Quizás un poco de robo está bien a veces”. Se estiró para agarrar mi brazo al otro lado de la mesa.

“Hagamos algo mañana. Fumemos un poco y vemos una rara película extranjera”.

Estoy desanimado. “¿Tendré dinero para hierba?”

Inés dijo, “No te preocupes, yo tengo hierba. ¿tu cheque no estará hasta el jueves, cierto?

“Cómo sabes.”

Das buenas propinas los jueves. “Los baristas comentamos.”

“Te recompensaré, yo invito la próxima.”

“Sé que lo harás.” Inés se levanta, abre los brazos y me envuelve en un abrazo de verdad.

No un abrazo raro como esos besos que se reciben en la mejilla de gente inesperada. Me aprieta, así que sé que quiere hacerlo. “Hueles a blunts. ”

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“No, na que ver.”

Entrada la tarde, Inés asciende con paso orgulloso. Ella es mi amiga más cercana aparte de la gente con la que crecí, los que he conocido desde siempre y no puedo deshacerme de ellos porque son familia- y ellos no pueden deshacerse de mí. Inés me conoce solo hace unos pocos años pero ya es parte de mi grupo. La decepciono pero aún no hay nada horrible en mi historial. Solo me preocupa que algún día revele un lado que sea imperdonable. No la conozco hace tanto como para que pueda tolerar cualquier cosa. Me preocupa que un día se me apague la tele borracho y cometa algún acto irremediable y pierda a una querida amiga para siempre. ¿No nos pasa eso a todos?

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JIMENA CRUZ LAS La historia es un niño que construye un castillo de arena junto al mar, y ese niño es toda la majestad del poder humano en el mundo.

-Heráclito

EL DESCUBRIMIENTO DE EGIPTO El demonio el mal la muerte el apocalipsis el dolor físico los años la historia los famosos a veces muchas veces pienso en eso cuando trato de dormir a veces también me acuerdo de la historia de una mujer en la edad media dios nunca me habló lo sabría

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translated from the spanish by JONATHAN HOROWITZ

LAS

History is a child building a sandcastle by the sea, and that child is the whole majesty of man's power in the world.

-Heraclitus

THE DISCOVERY OF EGYPT

satan evil death apocalypse physical pain years history celebrities sometimes often I think of this when I’m trying to sleep also sometimes I recall the story of a middle-aged woman god never spoke to me I knew it

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Soy Nefertiti una figura de oro saqueada y quiero venganza cortar cabezas esparcir ántrax hacer polvo edificios robar diamantes ser una artista moderna recuperar lo que era mío como antes no hace mucho cuando fui adorada como una santa, anoréxica y con las manos llenas de heridas cuando alguna vez te arrodillaste a los pies de mi cama y rezaste por mi alma

Mis medidas son: 72 metros de largo 20 metros de alto y 14 metros de ancho

Aplausos

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Jimena's Original + Jonathan Translation - Google Docs

I am Nefertiti a figure of plundered gold and I seek vengeance beheading spreading anthrax pulverizing buildings stealing diamonds being a modern artist getting back what was mine like before not long ago when I was worshipped as a saint, anorexic with hands covered in wounds whenever you kneeled at the end of my bed and prayed for my soul

My measurements are: 72 meters long 20 meters high and 14 meters wide

Applause

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4/16

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Jimena's Original + Jonathan Translation - Google Docs

Entre 1798 y 1801 me hicieron polvo arena mejor dicho, hubo otros ataques varios cuánta sangre cuántos muertos quién recuerda algún nombre

Yo Persisto

y nada queda de mí, cuando tarde en la noche corre un viento tibio eléctrico el cielo inundado de rojo atemoriza a los perros en sus cuentas un desastre inminente puedo sentir los vagabundos arman sus casas con cajas de detergente y siento vergüenza de lo que tengo las uñas pintadas Se aproxima un temporal debo esconderme perderme exiliarme en alguna embajada un museo de Berlín robará mi cabeza estoy ahí pero nadie me está mirando los veo pasar y aguantar el aire frente al cristal de mi vitrina

392

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5/16

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Jimena's Original + Jonathan Translation - Google Docs

Between 1798 and 1801 they turned me to dust sand rather, there were other attacks several so much blood so many dead who remembers any names

I Persist

and nothing remains of me when late at night a tepid wind blows electric a sky drenched red terrorizes stray dogs in their gutters I sense imminent disaster the vagabonds arm their homes with boxes of detergent and I’m embarrassed by what I have

painted fingernails

Rough weather approaches I should hide myself lose myself hole up in some embassy a museum in Berlin will steal my head there I am but no one is paying attention I see them pass in front of my glass display waiting to exhale

They find me fabulous

393

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6/16

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Jimena's Original + Jonathan Translation - Google Docs

Me encuentran fabulosa

La historia no se trata de tus esposas adorando el falo y el oro aquí todos morirán pero yo existo a pesar

La gran esfinge de Giza fue tallada en la roca caliza de una cantera no se sabe si la mandó a construir Keops o Kefrén se especula con dudosa certeza, que uno fue padre del otro

Estuvo enterrada en la arena hasta el 1400 AC cuando Tutmosis IV se pegó una larga siesta bajo la cabeza y soñó que le hablaba le pedía renacer en esplendor a cambio de todo el poder del Nilo

La gran esfinge de Giza es un hecho está a las afueras del Cairo pero no puedo verla mi cama, es el lugar más triste de la cuadra donde nacen imágenes hermosas de desastres naturales me entretengo imaginando las casas de mis vecinos alguna pierna por encima de las tapas no tengo intereses

394

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7/16

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Jimena's Original + Jonathan Translation - Google Docs

History isn’t about your wives worshipping phallus and gold here they will die but I I exist despite

The Great Sphinx of Giza was carved into quarried limestone no one knows if her construction was ordered by Keops or Kefren with doubtful certainty it is believed that one fathered the other

She was interred in sand until 1400 BC when Tutmosis IV took a long nap beneath her head and dreamed that she spoke to him asking to be reborn splendorous in exchange for the absolute power of the Nile

The Great Sphinx is real it’s on the outskirts of Cairo but I can’t see her my bed is the most depressing place on the block where handsome images of natural disasters are born I entertain myself by picturing my neighbors’ homes one leg on top of the covers I don’t have interests

395

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8/16

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Jimena's Original + Jonathan Translation - Google Docs

no tengo destrezas ni hago trucos de magia para desaparecer a oscuras repaso el techo de un lado a otro adivinando las manchas y su origen la muerte de alguna polilla la grieta formada por los años la espectral presencia de otra mirada fija en este mismo cielo otra promesa otra lengua no hago más que desear que el teléfono suene o aparezcas en mi puerta el goce de las palabras el decirlo todo

396

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9/16

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Jimena's Original + Jonathan Translation - Google Docs

I don’t have skills I have no disappearing act in darkness I stare at the ceiling, end to end contemplating the stains and their origins the death of some moth the crack formed over the years the spectral presence of another gaze fixed on this same ceiling another promise another language I do nothing but long for the phone to ring for you to appear in my doorway the pleasure of words everything said

397

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5/12/2019

Jimena's Original + Jonathan Translation - Google Docs

No podré asistir pero serás hermosa aun cuando nunca seas descubierta al teléfono Nefertiti, emperatriz del Nilo: manda a hacerlo bolsa ha perdido validez el ring de tu llamado se la estarás metiendo a otra

398

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Jimena's Original + Jonathan Translation - Google Docs

I’ll be unable to attend, but you’ll be resplendent even if never discovered Nefertiti on the line, Nile empress: destroy him the ring of your call is no longer valid you’re fucking someone else

399

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Jimena's Original + Jonathan Translation - Google Docs

EL SECRETO DE LA PIRÁMIDE ES QUE NO TIENE SECRETO

El 19 de mayo de 1798 Napoleón al mando de 38 mil soldados y 16 mil marineros distribuidos en 300 navíos zarpaba del puerto de Tolón en la costa mediterránea de Francia, con rumbo desconocido.

Junto a las tropas, iba una completa delegación de expertos: matemáticos, astrónomos, ingenieros civiles, arquitectos, dibujantes, naturalistas, algunos escribas y varios impresores que traducían el latín, el griego y los caracteres árabes.

El promedio de edad no superaba los 25 años.

Desembarcaron en Alejandría. Varios murieron.

Otros se adaptaron a las condiciones de vida en el desierto.

Lograron sortear con éxito algunas batallas, repeler algunos ataques.

La guerra fue declarada a fines de ese mismo año.

Napoleón y la mayoría de sus oficiales volvieron a Europa dejando abandonada la delegación al estudio de los hallazgos que

400

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Jimena's Original + Jonathan Translation - Google Docs

THE SECRET OF THE PYRAMID IS THAT IT HAS NO SECRET

May 19th, 1798

Napoleon at the helm of 38,000 soldiers and 16,000 naval officers in 300 ships set sail from the port of Toulon on the Mediterranean coast of France, course unknown.

Accompanying the troops, a complete delegation of experts: mathematicians, astronomers, civil engineers, architects, draftsmen, naturalists, some writers and several printers who translated Latin, Greek, and Arabic script.

With a median age of no more than 25, they disembarked in Alexandria. Many died.

Others adapted to desert living.

They managed to win some battles, repel some attacks.

War was declared at the end of that year. Napoleon and most of his officials returned to Europe, leaving behind the delegation to study the findings which would reveal ancient mysteries, including that of eternal life.

401

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Jimena's Original + Jonathan Translation - Google Docs

revelarían los misterios ancestrales, incluido el de la vida eterna.

El ejército vulnerable, totalmente desabastecido y enfermo de disentería fue bloqueado por los ingleses, quienes no tardaron en confiscar todo el material recopilado.

Los franceses prefirieron quemarlo. Fuego en El Cairo.

Los bocetos de los obeliscos monolíticos, los retratos de las grandes estatuas.

Apenas se les permitió conservar las escrituras y con un descaro genuinamente inglés, se adueñaron de cada uno de los tesoros encontrados, incluida la Piedra Roseta.

Algunos aún insisten en que eso de la traducción es un capricho literario

402

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Jimena's Original + Jonathan Translation - Google Docs

The vulnerable army, altogether shorthanded and afflicted with dysentery, was blockaded by the English, who wasted no time in confiscating the material that had been collected.

The French preferred to burn it. Cairo aflame.

Sketches of monolithic obelisks, portraits of the great statues.

Still, the English permitted the conservation of writings, and with typical English gall appropriated each of the found treasures, including the Rosetta Stone.

Yet some still insist that translation is a literary conceit

403

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5/12/2019

Nicolás's Original + Nathan Translation - Google Docs

NICOLÁS LABARCA POEMAS va de bajada al pozo han encargado para beber asoma repasa un puñado de piedritas entre bichos y liquen juega a cascar el aire la partida se ejecuta filigrana corta la espuma a puntas de pie proa ensaliva volcando un paladar

404

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1/12

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Nicolás's Original + Nathan Translation - Google Docs

translated from the spanish by NATHAN XAVIER OSARIO FABLE OF NO climb into the well responsible for our thirst peek

at a palm of pebbles caught among crawlers and lichen whip air playfully the game begins filigree cutting the froth the prow drools on its tiptoes spilling out the roof of its mouth

405

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2/12

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Nicolás's Original + Nathan Translation - Google Docs

húmedo acecho en la quebrada al ir dejando estos confines

ha sucedido ventolean remolinos de tiza

permanece quieto definitivo olfatea un poco su hocico próximo

espera ha encontrado algo

escarba muestra los dientes prepara el hurto

animal vierte su pelaje entre los juncos

406

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3/12

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Nicolás's Original + Nathan Translation - Google Docs

it stalks in the damp ravine abandoning its confines this has happened whirlpools of chalk swirl it keeps still permanently it breathes in a little its nose close wait it has found something it digs bares teeth preparing to scalp animal pour your pelt among the reeds

407

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4/12

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Nicolás's Original + Nathan Translation - Google Docs

con cuidado no sé aullar no es lo mismo un cuerpo no es lo mismo cae espesa agua que estanca el diente se quiebra en el diente

408

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5/12

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Nicolás's Original + Nathan Translation - Google Docs

be careful i do not know how to howl isn’t the same a body isn’t the same it falls thick like water that builds teeth break upon teeth

409

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6/12

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Nicolás's Original + Nathan Translation - Google Docs

entonces la puerta cruza aserrín la ventolera se seca deja algunas pozas deja la piel crujen tablas a un costado tengo madera tengo puedo matar a palos (sin embargo este ejercicio de crueldad no implica que sea necesario) esta casa en este aserradero

410

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7/12

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Nicolás's Original + Nathan Translation - Google Docs

so the door

whirlpool crosses the sawdust it dries leaving behind a few puddles leaving behind its skin planks crack on their side

i have wood i have i can kill sticks

(however this cruel exercise does not imply that it is necessary)

this home in this sawmill

411

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8/12

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Nicolás's Original + Nathan Translation - Google Docs

a manera de barco confundió en principio procesión de tablas precisa herramienta al comenzar la faena suenan vértebras lijan retumba el clavado saca costras a ver qué queda carpintero pajarito o martín pescador en la obertura decidiendo pequeños modos de enterrar mástil provisiones velas

412

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9/12

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Nicolás's Original + Nathan Translation - Google Docs

as a boat it confused in the beginning procession of planks precise tool at the start of work sanded vertebrae ring the struck rattle pull off scabs to see what is left little carpenter bird or kingfisher in the overture deciding on tiny ways to bury masts provisions sails

413

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10/12

5/12/2019

Nicolás's Original + Nathan Translation - Google Docs

bocado a bocado la cena se dispone

qué comes murmura qué adivinas mueca

(a veces miento pero como sabes es mi manera de ser)

muestra entonces lo que permite el bisturí

ser de afuera no de adentro

414

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11/12

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Nicolás's Original + Nathan Translation - Google Docs

mouthful to mouthful dinner is served what you eat murmurs what fortunes you tell grin (sometimes i lie but as you know that is the way i am) show me then what the medical knife allows be from the outside not the inside

415

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12/12

416

word for word / mot pour mot Columbia University School of the Arts UniversitĂŠ Paris 8

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Nicolas's Original + Agathe Translation - Google Docs

NICOLAS COMBET

L À UNE

indépendamment de tous, le monde produit des signes dont la totalité non seulement n'est perceptible par aucun, ni par rien mais dont la somme des parties – impossible, impensable, inimaginable – ne saurait jamais être ce tout – ce tout existe-t-il en soi ? - et nos sens individuels, sismographes calibrés – par la somme successive des êtres qui nous ont fait être depuis l'éternité jusqu'à aujourd'hui ? - reçoivent une part de ces informations, les transforment – grossièrement, grossièrement raconté, il n'est pas ici question d'espérer énoncer ne serait-ce que l'image d'une vérité neurologique – en molécules chimiques qui, accueillies par des récepteurs, se traduisent en signal électrique – micro- voltaïque – courant le long de nos nerfs pour, à nouveau, être traduits en molécules chimiques qui deviendront alors des sensations – du chaud, du froid, du mouillé, du dur, du silencieux – le silence est-il une sensation, une absence est-elle une valeur, une qualité - , du bruit, et cetera – qui auront une incidence, parfois douloureuse, comme cela arrive dans le cas de l'hyperalgésie où la sensation devient douleur, où entendre est une souffrance, où voir déchire l'œil, où toucher casse l'os, sensations affolantes, certainement, et dans d'autres cas, parfois, ses sensations, sans être douloureuses, seront des plages émotionnelles et vides et saturées, alors, le monde et ses signes, olfactifs, visuels, sonores arrivent trop, trop vite,

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translated from the french by AGATHE GINDREY

UNTITLED

independently of all beings, the world produces signs whose totality is perceptible neither by anyone nor by any thing, nor could the sum of all their parts—impossible, unthinkable, unimaginable—ever hope to be this whole—does this whole even exist as such?—and our individual senses, calibrated seismic sensors—calibrated by the cumulative sum of beings that have brought us into existence from forever until now?—receive bits of this information and transform it loosely—to put it in the roughest possible terms, this is not about attempting to formulate even the outline of a neurological truth—into chemical molecules that bind to receptors and are thus rendered into electrical signals—micro-voltaic signals—flowing through our nerves to be converted once more into chemical molecules that then become sensations—hot, cold, wet, hard, silent—is silence a sensation, is absence a value, a quality—loud, and so on— that will have an impact, at times painful, as in the case of hyperalgesia, when feeling hurts, hearing wounds, sight gouges the eyes, touch breaks bones—all terrifying, certainly—and in other cases it can happen that our sensations, though not painful, become emotional fields both empty and overloaded, and so the world and its olfactory, visual, and auditory signs reach and crowd our senses much too

419

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Nicolas's Original + Agathe Translation - Google Docs

trop en masse dans les sens, et on tente de rationaliser, de prendre ses sens en défaut, de les convaincre de l'absolue normalité du monde dans lequel l'attraction terrestre continue d'être responsable de notre pesanteur, et toute source sonore est reconnaissable ou, au moins, imaginable, et tout vu est reconnu ou reconnaissable, mais contredire les sens qui appellent la panique crée la panique, une incapacité d'être soi minuscule dans un monde dont l'infinité de signes rend pénible la possibilité même de lui emprunter de l'air qui, une fois entré dans les poumons, sera pollué des atomes de carbone dont l'organisme doit se débarrasser – dont une partie nourrira le végétal - , et alors l'absence de signes, dans la nuit, l'obscurité, la solitude, cet impromptu – ou ressenti comme tel – silence du monde, monde qui, à la portée des sens disponibles, semble interrompu, absent, ce retrait du monde devient alors un immense appel dans lequel le souffle est aspiré, mais avec difficulté, où l'absence de signaux avec ou contre lesquels, bon gré, mal gré, on s'habitue à être mais là, devant l'absence même de ce qui est somme toute perçu comme une violence, devant cette absence de violence qui devient à son tour insupportable, puisqu'alors les sens deviennent avides de pouvoir se reposer sur la présence du monde, et qui, ne reposant alors plus sur rien, étant incapable de reposer sur rien, alors, là, tous les sphincters du corps se resserrent brusquement, l'iris se contracte, la bouche malaisée, le cou trop droit, l'estomac compressé, l'épiderme hérissé, poils drus, muscles tremblants, simulent une forte envie de déféquer tout en rendant la chose impossible, en même temps que la vessie semble se vider et qu'on cherche où l'urine que l'on est sûr de savoir fuir à bien pu passer

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quickly, and we try to rationalize, to fault our senses, to convince them of the world's absolute normalcy, that gravity still bears responsibility for our weight, and that every source of sound can be recognized or at least imagined, and we either recognize or find recognizable all we see, though contradicting the senses that trigger panic creates panic, an inability to accept our own insignificance within this world and its plurality of signs that render onerous the very possibility of borrowing its air and pushing it into our lungs where it will be polluted by atoms of carbon our organism must then expel—atoms destined to nourish plants—and thus in the absence of signs, in this night, darkness, solitude, in this impromptu—or felt as such—silence, our individual senses perceive the world as interrupted and absent, and the world's retreat becomes a tremendous, laborious intake of air as, willingly or not, we grow accustomed to the lack of signs until, faced with the absence of what is altogether perceived as a violent force, faced with this absence of violence that in turn becomes unbearable, our senses suddenly grasp for the world, they yearn for a nonexistent presence and, faced with this nothingness, every sphincter in the body abruptly tightens, the iris contracts, the mouth bulges, the neck stiffens, the stomach clenches, skin prickles, hairs bristle, muscles quiver, every sphincter simulates a strong urge to defecate yet make defecating impossible, while the bladder empties and we look for the urine we're convinced must be leaking because what the hands, which we no longer trust—besides, we are now unable to trust anything, and all the world's noise tingles, like pins and needles that appear to vibrate every single cell in our

421

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puisque ce que les mains – en lesquelles on a alors plus confiance, pas plus qu'en tout le reste et le bruit du monde semble intégralement être devenu ce fourmillement qui semble aussi agiter chaque cellule de notre corps – cela – draps, pantalon, chaise ou bien de quoiqu'il s'agisse – que les mains touchent, pressent et palpent apparaît sec et alors on leurre son corps, ou son âme, ou son être, ce avec quoi on sent alors absolument qu'on ne peut pas y échapper mais dont, en plus, on sait qu'y échapper n'est pas possible, n'est pas une réalité possible, et il est insupportable que seule la réalité, seule la réalité... et on laisse couler de l'eau le long de la gouttière de l'œsophage, et on allume une cigarette pour donner une matière à l'air qui pénètre les poumons - comme on injecte de l'iode à qui s'apprête à passer un scanner et que l'iode - donnant une sensation de chaleur pouvant provoquer la nausée - circulant dans les veines, les tissus, imagine, transforme en image ce qui était la vérité – la vérité toujours dans l'attente d'être plus définie – mais dont personne ne pouvait se faire d'idée certaine jusqu'à ce que l'iode la matérialise, concrétise le soupçon - et l'idée du cancer provoque la joie d'accueillir un corps étranger, l'air commun ne semblant alors pas une manière d'être au monde suffisante, et tout cela est absurde, on sait que c'est absurde, on sait que c'est absurde et que cela ne correspond ou ne doit correspondre à aucune réalité – ou alors on sait que la terreur d'être, à quoi nous sommes réduits, n'appelle que le rire, seule griffure qui se puisse faire sur l'unité du monde et les saccades de ma respiration serait alors la liberté qu'on prend face au monde et on peut le faire, conscient du ridicule qu'il y a à se savoir humain, vivant,

422

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Nicolas's Original + Agathe Translation - Google Docs

body—and the things—bedsheets, pants, chair, or whatever else the hands brush, stroke, probe, feel dry so we trick our body, or our soul, or our being, whatever lets us recognize that escaping is impossible, we know we cannot escape, escaping is not a possible reality, and it is unendurable that only reality, only reality... and we allow water to flow down our throats, and we light a cigarette to give the air entering our lungs a material quality—the same way someone about to undergo an X-Ray gets an iodine injection—spreading warmth that might provoke nausea—and as it circulates the iodine reveals veins and tissue, turns what was an image into a truth—truth that still awaits its specific definition—truth that no one could picture clearly until the iodine revealed it and concretized suspicions—and at the thought of cancer, of welcoming a foreign body into our own, we are overjoyed because at this point the air we share is not enough to fill us, and all of this is absurd, we know it is, we know it is absurd and we know that none of this does or must correspond to any reality—or, diminished, reduced to our terror of existence, we know that laughter is the only solution, that only laughter can scratch at the world's unity, and thus my halted breaths are my only source of freedom in this world, and we laugh, aware of how ridiculous it is to be human, alive, and undeniably certain that no lethal risk threatens us at this particular moment, though we're also absolutely certain that our entire body is dying, too, at this moment, that it wants to die, despite laughter, despite a dual, aporetic certitude that it is both impossible to live and not to live, despite the definite—relative—brevity of the events unfolding, and at that point time ceases to exist, meaning that,

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Nicolas's Original + Agathe Translation - Google Docs

à avoir la certitude indéniable qu'aucun risque létal ne nous menace, là, maintenant, mais en ayant aussi la certitude absolue que le corps complet meurt, là, veut mourir, malgré le rire, malgré la certitude - qui a ce moment là est double, aporétique, où vivre est aussi impossible que ne pas vivre - de la certaine – relative - brièveté de ce qui est en train d'advenir, mais alors le temps n'existe plus, c'est à dire que la trotteuse fait son travail mais que l'être lui-même est incapable - bien qu'il le tente vaillamment et consciemment - de faire appel à un souvenir - tentant tout d'abord de rechercher un souvenir joyeux mais, dans l'impossibilité d'y accéder, comme si la mémoire n'était pas, non, une feuille blanche mais absente, inoculée en elle-même, tentant alors l'appel d'un souvenir douloureux dont on sait qu'ils ont une existence tout autant que les joyeux mais qui s'abstraient eux aussi de la connaissance ou du ressenti - puis, face à l'impossibilité, de projeter un espoir ou une crainte, mais rien de tout cela ne fonctionne, il reste simplement à faire fonctionner la machine du corps avec application, inspirant, inspirant, inspirant jusqu'à ce qu'on se force à expirer, puisque plus rien ne semble nous indiquer qu'il est temps d'expirer – et que l'expiration elle aussi doit être consciemment interrompue pour que lui succède une inspiration sans laquelle tout s'arrête – on voudrait presque bien le croire, mais c'est faux, de cet oubli surgira simplement un étouffement virulent qu'un brusque appel d'air, gêné par la contraction du pharynx qui rendra cette inspiration difficile, essaiera de combler – alors on rit, très fort même, le rire est une libération, de l'air qui s'évacue et du corps qui reprend une existence par lui-même, indépendamment de ce qu'on croit avoir été,

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Nicolas's Original + Agathe Translation - Google Docs

though seconds tick by, our very being, despite our most conscious, valiant efforts, is incapable of summoning a recollection—first attempting to recall a happy one until that proves impossible, as if memory were not a blank page but absent, self-inoculated—thus endeavoring to summon one of the painful recollections that we know exist alongside the happy ones, though they, too, withdraw from understanding or perception and then, faced with this impossible task of projecting hope or fear, nothing can be done and so all that is left, simply, is to apply ourselves to the operation of our corporeal machine, inhaling, inhaling, inhaling, until we force ourselves to exhale, to expire, now that nothing seems to indicate the time to expire has come—and this expiring, too, must be consciously interrupted, consciously succeeded by an inhalation, otherwise everything stops—or so we would almost like to believe, yet this is false, and, stifled by forgetting, we suffocate, our tight pharynx blocks all gasps and inhalations and we cannot overcome this choking, so we laugh, loudly, very loudly, laughter is liberating, it frees air from the body and the body resumes its existence, independently of what we once believed we were, and, finally, everything we once believed existed is nothing but air, water, cells, words, and ideas, all intermittently borrowed— and all of this, without a doubt, has potentially or effectively existed on planet Earth for as long as the planet has been earth, and recalls once more our absolute insignificance—for we might think we have imprinted our own movements, and thus our freedom, upon them, and so we laugh even louder, though perhaps this freedom, too, is nothing but the tentative, sentimental mark we will make on this

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Nicolas's Original + Agathe Translation - Google Docs

mais finalement tout cela qu'on croit être n'est qu'un emprunt ponctuel et de l'air et de l'eau et des cellules et des mots et des idées – et tout cela est sans doute potentiellement ou effectivement présent sur Terre depuis que la Terre est terre et qui renvoie à l'absolu insignifiance de ce qu'on est mais - sur lequel on peut penser avoir imprimé ses propres mouvements et, par-là, sa propre liberté et on rit encore plus, cette liberté n'est peut-être elle aussi que la marque hasardeuse, sentimentale qu'on laissera sur le monde que l'on partage avec tant, chats, rats, souris, animaux, végétaux, minéraux, temps, humains, dont la beauté vous jaillit subrepticement aux sens et les rires s'accompagnent de pleurs, de pleurs de joie face à ce monde peuplé d'absence, de silence, de creux, de trous, d'autant de chose que notre joie comblera, permettant à tous ces signes, reçus non plus comme des violences, comme le signe de notre étique être-là étriqué, comme un affront fait à notre rêve d'ubiquité, d'omniprésence, mais plutôt de proposer une voie, une place au sein de toutes ces lacunes •

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Nicolas's Original + Agathe Translation - Google Docs

world we share with so many, with cats, rats, mice, animals, plants, minerals, time, humans, a world so beautiful it surreptitiously overwhelms our senses, and, laughing still, we shed tears of happiness in the face of this world populated by absence, silence, hollows, and holes, so many things that our joy will fill, so that all these signs no longer come to us as acts of violence, as proofs of our emaciated, limited existence, as affronts to our dreams of becoming pervasive, ubiquitous, but instead offer a path, a place to be in the midst of all these lacunae •

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10/10

5/12/2019

Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

AGATHE GINDREY LAURA, COPING The postcard's waiting at the top of the mail pile. Baby blue, pastel pink. Laura picks it up. “Eva Louise Davis.

Born January 5th, 2016. 7.5 pounds. 18 inches.” She leaves the card on the console. “She's their third.” On her way to the kitchen she drops her purse on the floor.

Dr. Hemmer's brochures peek out between folds of leather.

I resist the urge to grab them and toss them at the back of her head. Then she'd have to look at them.

How Laura Should be Feeling, 2012: 17.5/8 x 14”. Oil on canvas. Laura, as Picasso and Braque would have painted her in their Cubist phase. Muddy browns, ash grey, all angles. Her eyes are closed, her lips point downwards.

Cobalt flames rattle heat into the kettle. Laura's draped a shawl around her shoulders. She comes close and wraps her blanketed arms around me. Her hair's smooth against my lips. We stay like this until vapor hisses out of the metal. I shiver when Laura's warmth leaves. She sprinkles tea into the pot. Shuts off the burner.

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1/27

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

traduit de l’anglais par NICOLAS COMBET

LAURA FAIT AVEC

Le faire-part attend en haut de la pile de courrier. Bleu layette, rose pastel. Laura le prend en pas-sant. « Eva Louise Davis. Née le 5 Janvier 2016. 3kg400, 45cm. » Elle abandonne la carte sur la console. « C’est leur troisième. » Avant d’atteindre la cuisine, elle laisse tomber son sac sur le sol.

Les brochures du Dr. Hemmer s’échappent des replis du cuir.

Je m’empêche de les prendre pour les lui jeter à la tête.

Qu’elle les regarde enfin.

Ce que Laura devrait ressentir, 2012 : 35x25cm. Huile sur toile. Laura, telle que Picasso ou Braque l’auraient peinte dans leur période cubiste. Bruns boueux, gris cendre, tout en angles. Les yeux sont fermés, les lèvres dessinent un sourire inversé.

Les flammes bleues brûlent le fond de la bouilloire. Laura s’est emmitouflée dans un plaid. Elle glisse vers moi et m’enveloppe dans ses bras. Ses cheveux sont doux à mes lèvres. Nous res-tons comme ça jusqu’à ce que la vapeur siffle. Je frissonne quand la chaleur de Laura s’éloigne.

Elle jette du thé dans le pot. Coupe le gaz.

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

“We could sell the place, you know.” Staring at the pot as she fills it.

“Sell?”

“It's just a thought. Since it looks like we won't be needing as much space as planned...”

“So we're not even going to think about adoption? And what about my studio?” I set two cups from our wedding china on the counter.

“We could keep it. It's far enough from the house. It wouldn't get in the way of future owners.”

“And what about adoption?”

“Ollie... It'll take forever. We've already been waiting for so many years. Maybe we should just move on.”

“We shouldn't even be talking about it now. You're obviously in shock.”

“I'm just tired.” She pulls the strainer out of the amber water and pours the tea. She hands me a cup, lays her warm hand against my cheek. Her pupils, pebbles on moss, widen upon impact.

No wonder she can't get pregnant.

Laura's at her desk, glasses on, computer glowing.

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3/27

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

« On pourrait vendre, tu sais. » regardant la théière tandis qu’elle la remplit

« Vendre ? »

« C’est juste une idée. Comme il semblerait que nous n’ayons pas besoin d’autant de place que prévu… »

« On ne va même pas envisager l’adoption ? Et on fait quoi de mon atelier ? » Je sors du placard deux tasses de notre service de mariage.

« On pourrait le garder. C’est assez loin de la maison. On ne gênerait pas les futurs propriétaires. »

« Et pour l’adoption ? »

« Ollie… ça prendrait une éternité. On attend déjà depuis si longtemps. Peut-être qu’on devrait juste passer à autre chose. »

« On ne devrait même pas parler de ça maintenant. Tu es bouleversée, ça se voit. »

« Je suis fatiguée, c’est tout. » Elle retire la passoire de l’eau couleur ambre et verse le thé. Elle me tend une tasse, pose sa main chaude sur ma joue. Ses pupilles, perles noires sur mousse, s’agrandissent.

Pas étonnant qu’elle puisse pas tomber enceinte.

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4/27

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

Any remotely viable cluster of cells would realize that it would be competing with her work, with lectures and journals and reams of research.

Any remotely viable cluster of cells would just give up.

Year 10, Winter, 2015: 36.1/4 x 23.3/4”. Oil on canvas.

Top left, our house on the hill; bottom right: the barn-turned-studio. Snow. Laura, in her hunter green parka, our third and youngest in red between her knees, is sledding. At the bottom of the hill, our second and first perfect their snowmen.

Winter in the studio. Everything is covered in a silvery film of light. Space heaters and thick sweaters.

Most of what Pedro will show at the gallery this weekend is boxed and ready to leave—hopefully, forever. Just sculptures: bronzes, some alabasters, wood from the forest.

Mostly small things that'll end up on mantlepieces like trinkets.

The skylights show pink slivers. I pack the last few pieces. I reach for a rag and my knuckles find something hard.

Maybe she's embarrassed. We had planned on kids.

Maybe she thinks, if he'd known, he wouldn't have married me.

432

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5/27

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

Laura est à son bureau, lunettes chaussées, écran brillant.

N’importe quel groupe de cellules vaguement viables se rendrait compte qu’il entrerait en concur-rence avec son travail, les cours, les publications et toutes ses recherches.

N’importe quel groupe de cellules vaguement viables laisserait tomber.

Année 10, hiver, 2015 : 170x120cm. Huile sur toile. En haut à gauche, notre maison sur la colline ; en bas à droite, la grange transformée en atelier. Il neige. Laura, dans sa parka vert forêt, fait de la luge avec notre troisième, le benjamin. Vêtu de rouge, il est blotti entre ses jambes. Au pied de la colline, l’aîné et le cadet terminent leur bonhomme de neige.

L’hiver dans l’atelier. Une soyeuse lumière argentée.

Convecteurs, pulls épais.

La majorité de ce que Pedro montrera à la galerie ce week-end est empaqueté, prêt à partir — sans retour, espérons. Que des sculptures : du bronze, un peu d’albâtre, du bois glané dans les environs.

Des petites choses qui finiront comme bibelots sur les cheminées…

Les nuages se nouent en trainées roses. J’emballe encore quelques pièces. Voulant saisir un chif-fon, mes phalanges heurtent un truc dur.

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6/27

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

Maybe she never really wanted them.

She tried to make herself want them—what kind of woman doesn't? But she couldn't force it.

Maybe the yearning faded with age. She might be beautiful still but, biologically at least, she's overripe.

Laura's Secret Longing, 2013: 50 x 33”. Crayola, linen, steel on canvas. A playground in summer: leafy greens in the background; in the foreground, left to right, kids on swing sets, kids running through a sprinkler, kids playing on slides. A grey linen curtain is hooked to the top of the painting and can be folded on top of the canvas. When the viewer unfolds it, it covers the painting without completely concealing the image.

“Ollie, are you sure you don't want me to come this weekend?”

“I don't want to distract you. Besides, you'll be there. In sculpture form.”

She smiles. “Yeah. In sculpture form.”

The old people from the retirement home get a free museum visit every Friday. I give them a tour, then let

them roam. They've stopped asking me about having kids.

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7/27

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

Elle doit se sentir fautive. Nous voulions des enfants. Elle se dit peut-être que, si j’avais su, je ne l’aurais pas épousée.

Peut-être n’en a-t-elle jamais vraiment voulus ?

Elle a essayé de se convaincre qu’elle en voulait — quelle genre de femme n’en attend pas ? Mais elle n’a pas réussi.

Et sans doute son désir s’est éteint, avec le temps. Bien qu’elle soit toujours belle, elle se fane, biologiquement au moins.

L’attente de Laura, 2013, 150x120cm ; Crayola, lin et acier sur toile. Un parc en été : en arrière-plan, des arbres feuillus ; au premier plan, de gauche à droite, des enfants sur des balançoires, des enfants jouant avec un arrosage automatique, des enfants glissant sur un toboggan. Une pièce de lin gris est accrochée au haut de la peinture et peut s’enrouler au-dessus de la toile. Quand le spectateur la déroule, le tissu couvre la toile sans dissimuler complètement l’image.

« Ollie, tu es sûr que tu ne veux pas que je t’accompagne, ce week-end ? »

« Je ne veux pas te distraire. Et puis tu seras présente dans mes sculptures….»

Elle sourit. « Ouais. Dans tes sculptures… »

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I imagine the regulars have given up, and debriefed the newcomers.

Laura, More Bad News, 2010: 8.5 x 11”. Watercolor on plain paper. Laura in a mirror. Eyes wet, circled with red, nails leaving tiny marks on her cheeks as they dig. The watercolors, drying, wrinkled the paper.

The skylights show indigo fading into midnight.

Soon, Laura will be at the observatory with her research.

I turn on the studio lights and the marble block glints. I run my fingers on the white surface but I can't remember why, or when, I bought it but

I know what I'll do with it.

Hammer to chisel to marble turned fragment. Again.

Hammer to chisel to marble turned fragment. Again.

Hammer to chisel to marble turned fragment. Again.

Hammer to chisel to marble turned fragment. Again.

Sandy dust swirls and coats sweaty skin and fragment spills.

Smaller hammer to smaller chisel to marble turned fragment. Again. Smaller hammer to smaller chisel to marble turned fragment. Again.

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9/27

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

Les pensionnaires de la maison de retraite ont droit à une visite de musée gratuite chaque ven-dredi. Je les guide un moment puis les laisse flâner. Ils ont arrêté de me demander quand j’aurai des enfants.

J’imagine que les habitués ont perdu espoir et ont passé le mot aux nouveaux venus.

Laura, encore un mauvaise nouvelle, 2010, 90x70cm ; Gouache sur papier. Laura, dans un miroir. Les yeux humides, cerclés de rouge, les ongles creusant de fins sillons sur ses joues qu’ils labou-rent. La gouache séchant a fait se gondoler le papier.

A travers le Velux de l’atelier, le ciel indigo devenu noir.

Bientôt, Laura le verra depuis l’observatoire.

J’allume la lumière et le bloc de marbre brille. Je fais courir mes doigts sur sa surface blanche mais je n’arrive pas à me souvenir pourquoi, ni quand, je l’ai acheté mais

Je sais ce que je vais en faire.

Maillet, burin, marbre : copeau. Encore. Maillet, burin, marbre : copeau. Encore. Maillet, burin, marbre : copeau.

Encore. Maillet, burin, marbre : copeau. Encore.

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10/27

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

Still smaller hammer to still smaller chisel to marble turned fragment. Again. Still smaller hammer to still smaller chisel to marble turned fragment.

Sandy dust swirls and coats sweaty skin and fragment spills. Fragments piled like a pyramid.

Up close, a tiny fragment breaks. From afar, a tiny feature forms.

The block is now all curves, all fleshy shapes.

Finishing touches: chisel here, polish there.

Laura's getting out of her car as I climb up the hill.

Blueish light like the sun's not ready to show itself yet.

With circular motions she scrapes off the chalky sweat.

She rinses the rag. She scrapes again. Her hair's in a pile on top of her head. Tendrils slip out and darken with shower water. When she washes my hair, her body presses into mine, her perfect body drawn and painted and cast and modeled and sculpted again, and again, the great wasteland drawn and painted and cast and modeled and sculpted again and again.

I hand her toast, she hands me coffee.

“What were you making last night?”

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11/27

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

La poussière résiduelle vole et colle à la peau suante ; les copeaux tombent.

Marteau, ciseau, marbre : écaille. Encore. Marteau, ciseau, marbre : écaille. Encore.

Et encore et le marteau et le ciseau et l’écaille de plus en plus petite.

La poussière résiduelle vole et colle à la peau suante ; les écailles tombent, s’entassent.

De près, un minuscule fragment se brise. De loin, une forme se dessine.

Le bloc est maintenant tout en courbes et rondeurs de chair.

Dernières touches : râpe ici, rifloir là.

Laura descend de sa voiture en même temps que je grimpe la colline. Horizon bleuâtre, le soleil n’est pas encore prêt à se montrer.

Frottant en cercles, elle gratte la sueur crayeuse. Elle rince le gant de toilette. Elle frotte et gratte à nouveau.

Ses cheveux sont attachés au sommet de son crâne. Des mèches s’en échappent et s’assombrissent avec l’eau de la douche. Quand elle me lave les cheveux, son corps se colle au mien. Son corps parfaitement dessiné, modelé, sculpté,

439

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12/27

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

I can't remember. “I'm not really sure yet.” It takes just a sip of Laura's coffee to color my bloodstream. “How's your paper going?”

Dewdrops dot the moss in her eyes. “Well. Really well.

And it'll help me get tenure.”

Snow Day, 2015: ceramic, paint, foam, pastel. A paint-your-own pottery store bought-and-painted mug in the shade “Brilliant Blue,” filled with white foam. A snowflake made of thinly-grated, deep brown pastel dusted on top of the foam.

And what if nobody buys? And what if the critics hate it all? Pedro should be worrying about all this, not me, artists aren't supposed to care about how much their works sell for, I got into this for feeling, to sink into a viewer's brain and heart through their eyes and squeeze.

But there's no way of knowing whether or not that actually happens. Hints. A pause. Someone who keeps coming back to the same piece. Someone who lingers.

Then you realize it's just their bodies, that their minds are elsewhere. On their phones, usually.

Laura wraps her arms around my ribcage, nuzzles the tight spot on my spine “It'll be great. Don't be too worried.”

I let go of the inventory sheet, turn to her, smother her against my chest. She comes back up for air with a giggle, tilts her chin up, kiss.

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peint, encore et encore, terre vaine et sté-rile et peinte, modelée, sculptée, encore et encore.

Je lui tends une tartine, elle un café.

« Sur quoi tu travaillais cette nuit ? »

Je ne sais plus. « Je ne suis pas vraiment sûr… » Une seule goutte du café préparé par Laura suffit à me fouetter le sang. « Comment avance ton article ? »

Pétillement sur la mousse de ses yeux. « Bien. Vraiment bien. Et ça me sera utile pour obtenir ma titularisation. »

Jour de neige, 2015 : céramique, peinture, mousse, pastel.

Une tasse à peindre soi-même, dans le ton « bleu roi », remplie de mousse blanche sur laquelle du pastel brun râpé dessine un flocon.

Et si personne n’achetait ? Et si les critiques détestent tout ? Pedro seul devrait s’en soucier, pas moi. Les artistes ne sont pas supposés se préoccuper du prix auquel leurs œuvres seront ven-dues : ce qui m’intéressait c’était de sentir, de me couler dans le regard de mon public et de l’émouvoir. Mais il n’y a aucun moyen de savoir ce qui fonctionne ou pas. Indices. Une pause.

Quelqu’un revient sans cesse vers la même œuvre. Et s’attarde. Puis on réalise qu’il s’agit juste de leur corps, que leur esprit est ailleurs. Dans leur téléphone, la plupart du temps.

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14/27

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

Her pupils placed like black diamonds on velvet. She drops her forehead against my collarbone. Pulls away.

The box she grabs surprises her with its heaviness. She lifts the bundle. Frees it of its rags. “Oh. Wow.” She traces the features with her index finger, slowly, the marble almost skin-like in the midday light. “Oliver... it's beautiful.”

The velvet curdles.

“I'm leaving it here. Pedro hasn't seen it yet.”

Laura nods. Her index stops on the tiny nose. Her nose.

Pedro. Pointing, greeting, exclaiming, introducing, embracing, laughing... selling? With each red sticker she applies, his assistant gives me a thumbs up.

It's hard to tell who's there for the art, who's there to buy, who's there for the free wine.

“You're the artist?” She's tall, taller than Laura, and blonde, unnaturally honey-blonde unlike Laura. She's looking to start a collection of her own, young artists only, you know, art can just be so expensive, and she likes the physicality of sculpture, the way you can walk around a sculpture, it's not as passive, you know. Her Prussian blue dress looks as soft as her naked shoulders.

Her lipstick would leave tiny traces on my lips, my chest, her dress would move like an inverted waterfall as I'd

442

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15/27

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

Laura enserre ses bras autour de mon torse, frotte son nez câlin contre ma colonne tendue. « Ça va bien se passer. Ne t’inquiète pas tant. »

Je lâche la feuille d’inventaire, me retourne et retiens Laura contre ma poitrine. Elle se libère dans un rire, lève le menton, m’embrasse.

Ses pupilles comme des diamants noir sur du velours. Elle laisse tomber sa tête sur ma clavicule. Puis se détourne.

Le poids de la boîte qu’elle saisit la surprend. Elle soulève la couverture, la démaillote. « Oh ! Ouah » De son index, elle suit doucement les lignes du marbre, semblable à la peau dans cette lumière. « Olivier… C’est beau. »

Le velours durcit.

« Je le laisse ici. Pedro ne l’a pas encore vu. »

Laura acquiesce. Son index s’arrête au bout de ce petit nez : le sien.

Pedro. Désigne, salue, s’enthousiasme, présente, embrasse, rit… vend ? à chaque pastille rouge qu’elle colle, son assistante me lance un clin d’œil.

On ne peut pas savoir qui vient pour l’art, qui pour acheter, qui pour boire à l’œil.

« Vous êtes l’artiste ? » Elle est grande, plus que Laura, et blonde, une coloration miel, pas comme Laura. Elle

443

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bunch it up to her hips, her body would receive me the way it should, her belly swelling the way it should, a woman's body doing what it's supposed to do.

Since I'm doing everything I'm supposed to do.

“There are other ways to procreate. Your art, for example.”

“But that's not reproduction, Laura.”

Laura, Dreaming of Pregnancy, 2009: 12.5 x 16”.

Charcoal on recycled paper. Laura, from the side, standing, faceless, hair piled on top of her head with tendrils slipping out. Arms framing a round belly. All lines blurred.

Pedro insists on lunch the next day. “I've read great stuff.

Don't read it! I read it. Not you. That's what I tell all the artists I work with.” A bite of BLT. “You shouldn't bother yourself with critiques. But, trust me, they're good. And you sold well.”

Between lunch and the evening train home, I visit the city's classical art museum. I was six the first time I saw a noseless Greek hero, an armless Venus.

I got home and molded a woman out of Play-Do, then sawed off her arm with a fingernail.

I didn't know the difference between the ravages of time and artistic intent.

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veut entamer une collection, des jeunes artistes uniquement, vous savez, l’art peut être si cher, et elle aime l’aspect physique de la sculpture, la façon dont on peut évoluer face à elle, ce n’est pas inerte, vous voyez…

Sa robe bleu de Prusse à l’air aussi douce que ses épaules.

Son rouge à lèvres laisserait de petites traces sur ma bouche, ma poitrine ; sa robe serait une cas-cade inversée quand je la remonterais sur ces hanches, son corps m’accueillerait comme il faut, son ventre s’arrondissant comme il faut, un corps de femme faisant ce qu’il est censé faire.

Puisque moi je fais tout ce que je suis censé faire.

« Il y a d’autres manières de donner la vie. Ton art, par exemple.

Mais ce n’est pas donner naissance, Laura.

Laura, Rêvant de grossesse, 2009, 20x15 cm ; Charbon sur papier recyclé. Laura, de profil, de-bout, sans visage, les cheveux en chignon dont s’échappe quelque mèches. Les bras entourant son ventre rond. Toutes les lignes sont floues.

Pedro insiste pour que nous déjeunions ensemble le lendemain. « J’ai lu des trucs super. Ne lis rien. Je m’en occupe. Tu n’as pas à le faire, toi. Je dis toujours ça aux artistes avec qui je tra-vaille. » Une bouchée de sandwich. « Tu devrais pas t’intéresser aux critiques. Mais crois moi, elles sont bonnes. Et tu as bien vendu.»

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Sometimes I think I'm just ejaculating into a black hole.

Then Laura pulls me closer to her and she's so warm I forget she'll always be empty.

I drop my weekend bag at the foot of the stairs.

“Laura?” There's cooing and it gets louder with each step. Our bedroom door is open, blankets on the bed but no Laura, and a glowing strip pulls me into... what would've been the nursery.

There's even a crib, from when Marnie suggested nesting to get our psyches “into baby-making mode.”

And above the crib: Laura. Holding a bundle. Singing.

Rocking. She sees me, nods, motions for me to get closer.

Her singing, the light, draw me in, drown my limbs.

Moving freely feels like getting granite to liquefy. So I obey, take the bundle. The dewdrops in Laura's eyes glimmer.

The bundle is heavier than expected. The face is paler than expected. The skin is colder than

I gasp, turn, Laura, the singing, the light, gone.

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

Entre le déjeuner et le train pour la maison le soir, j’ai visité le musée des Beaux-Arts de la ville. J’avais six ans, la première fois que j’ai vu un héros grec sans nez, une Vénus sans bras.

De retour à la maison, je créais une femme en pâte à modeler, avant de lui sectionner un bras avec mon ongle.

Je ne connaissais pas la différence entre les ravages du temps et l’intention artistique.

Parfois, je me dis que j’éjacule dans un trou noir. Et Laura me serre dans ses bras, et elle est si chaude que j’en oublie qu’elle sera toujours vide.

Je lâche mon sac de voyage au pied de l’escalier. « Laura ? » ça roucoule, de plus en plus fort à chaque marche. La porte de notre chambre est ouverte, le lit est défait mais pas de Laura, et un reflet m’attire dans… ce qui aurait dû être la chambre du bébé.

Il y a même un berceau, fruit d’une proposition de Marnie qui voulait que nous soyons en mode « faire un bébé ».

Et au-dessus du berceau : Laura. Portant une couverture.

Chantant. Berçant. Elle me voit, hoche la tête et me fait signe de m’approcher.

Son chant, la lumière, me noient ; mes jambes fondent.

J’évolue léger comme du granit liquide. Donc j’obéis et

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Early rays burn through my lids. My back presses deep into the mattress, and Laura sleeps on my chest as if trying to pin me down. She whimpers when I slide out of the bed but her eyes stay shut.

I fumble to zip jeans and a parka over my pajamas.

Winter snaps at my face. My fingertips stick to the studio's doorknob.

The box is still on the table. I rip off the rags: it's there.

The sculpture. I laugh. Laura hasn't lost it.

I hand her toast.

“How'd you sleep?” She hands me coffee. The crimson streaks in the whites of her eyes thicken.

The coffee bites with an extra row of teeth. “Weird dream. More of nightmare, actually.”

She nods. Mumbles something about having to get ready.

“You know, Ollie... Maybe we weren't supposed to have kids. Look: suddenly your career's taking off. Both of our careers are taking off.” They're making her head of the undergraduate department next year. Another step towards tenure.

No wonder she can't get pregnant. Any embryo would realize that it would spend its entire life fighting, literally, for Laura to get her head out of the stars.

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prends la couverture. Des larmes perlent aux yeux de Laura.

Le paquet est plus lourd que ce que j’attendais. Le visage est plus pâle que ce que j’imaginais. La peau est plus froide que

je hoquète et me tourne Laura, le chant, la lumière, disparus.

La lumière matinale brûle à travers mes paupières. Mon dos s’enfonce profondément dans le ma-telas et Laura dort sur ma poitrine comme si elle voulait m’y incruster.

Elle geint quand je me glisse hors du lit mais ses yeux restent fermés.

Je bidouille pour zipper mon jean et ma parka sur mon pyjama. L’hiver me gifle. Mes doigts collent à la poignée de l’atelier.

La boîte est toujours sur la table. Je l’ouvre : rien n’a bougé. La sculpture. Je ris. Laura ne l’a pas perdue.

Je lui tends une tartine.

« Tu as bien dormi ? » Elle me tend un café. Des filaments rouges injectés dans le blanc de ses yeux.

Le café me mord d’une rangée de dents inattendue. « Rêves bizarre. Plutôt des cauchemars, en fait. »

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Agathe's Original + Nicolas Translation - Google Docs

Laura's First Doubts, 2008: 8.5 x 11”. Pastel on paper.

Laura, sitting at her desk, grading papers. Holding a pen, but not writing. Head angled to the side. Gaze lost.

The morning at the museum is all “how'd it go?” and “I've read great things!.” Marnie brings her second-graders in that afternoon. “My brother Oliver here is an artist, too!” A boy asks me if I made all the art in the museum.

Once they're busy sketching their favorite works, Marnie comes up to me with a grin. “I'm glad about the show.

I'm glad the two of you are finally getting some good news!”

I leave work early. I buy wine and lemon cheesecake, scatter shallots and garlic on pork chops, sauté spinach.

Laura opens the front door, sniffs her way to the kitchen: “Aw, Ollie. This is so nice!”

I'm trying to re-learn to have sex like in the early years, just for pleasure, no simultaneous wondering whether or not it worked this time.

Aunt Marnie, 2014: 55 x 45.5”. Oil on canvas. Painted in the style of 18th century court portraits. Marnie, in the center, a calm smile, cupping her belly as it fills with Alex, surrounded by, from left to right, Annabelle, Ian, and Lily. Sitting, bottom left, is Laura, staring at Marnie's belly.

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Elle acquiesce. Et grommelle quelque chose à propos de mise en route.

« Tu sais, Ollie… On était peut-être pas fait pour avoir des enfants. Regarde : ta carrière décolle subitement. Nos deux carrières décollent. » Elle a été promue responsable de la Licence pour l’an prochain. Un pas de plus vers la titularisation.

Pas étonnant qu’elle puisse pas tomber enceinte. Un embryon se rendrait compte qu’il aurait à passer sa vie à lutter, littéralement, pour que Laura sorte la tête de ses étoiles.

Les premiers doutes de Laura, 2008 ; 21x15cm ; Pastel sur papier. Laura, assise à son bureau, corrigeant des copies.

Tenant un stylo mais n’écrivant pas. La tête penchée sur le côté. Le regard perdu.

Le matin au musée est tout de « comment ça s’est passé ? » et « J’ai lu de bons retours! ». Marnie amène sa classe de CE2 dans l’après-midi. « Mon frère Oliver est artiste, lui aussi ! ». Un garçon me demande si c’est moi qui ai tout fait dans le musée.

Pendant que les élèves sont occupés à croquer leurs œuvres favorites, Marnie vient me voir, tout sourire. « Je suis contente pour l’exposition. Je suis contente que vous ayez finalement tous les deux de bonnes nouvelles. »

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Laura puts down her notes for the following week's lecture. “Do you hear that?”

“No.” I'm looking at summer internship candidates' resumes.

“It's like a cry...” She pauses, concentrates on whatever she's hearing. “The baby's crying.” She gets up. “Must be the end of nap time.” She's at the foot of the stairs before her words sink in.

I run up behind her, I probably misheard, the first time wasn't real, anyways, right? Yes, right, because the marble's still in the studio.

She goes straight to the nursery. Leans over the crib.

Cradles the bundle. “Sh... sh... Mommy's here.” She kisses the hairless forehead.

She goes straight to the nursery. Now I can hear it, too: a faint wailing, a scratch and a tap against shingles.

Laura opens the window. “Ollie, look! It's a kitten!”

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Je quitte le travail en avance. J’achète du vin et du cheesecake au citron ; j’émince ail et échalote que je disperse sur des côtes de porc, des épinards sautés.

Laura ouvre la porte, son nez l’entraîne à la cuisine. « Oh, Ollie. Comme c’est gentil ! »

J’essaie de réapprendre à faire l’amour comme aux premiers temps, pour le plaisir, sans passer mon temps à me demander si oui ou non ça a marché, cette fois.

Tante Marnie, 2014, 85x65cm ; Huile sur toile. Peint dans le style des portraits de cour du XVIIIème siècle. Marnie, au centre, au sourire bienheureux, les mains en coupe sur son ventre plein d’Alex. Autour d’elle, de gauche à droite, Annabelle, Ian et Lily. Assise par terre, à sa gauche, Laura, les yeux rivés sur le ventre de Marnie.

Laura pose ses notes pour la conférence de la semaine prochaine. « Tu entends ? »

« Non. » Je regarde la liste des candidatures pour le stage de cet été.

« C’est comme des pleurs… » Elle se tait, essaie de comprendre ce qu’elle entend. « Le bébé pleure. » Elle se lève. « C’est la fin de la sieste. » Elle est au pied de l’escalier avant que ces mots ne m’atteignent.

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Je cours derrière elle, j’ai dû mal entendre, de toute façon, la première fois, ce n’était pas vrai, hein ? Oui, sûr : de toute façon le marbre est toujours à l’atelier.

Elle file dans la chambre du bébé. Se penche sur le berceau. Berce la couverture. « Ch..Ch.. Ma-man est là. » Elle embrasse la tête lisse.

Elle file droit à la chambre du bébé. Maintenant, je l’entends aussi : un couinement faible, ça gratte, tapote sur les tuiles.

Laura ouvre la fenêtre. « Ollie, regarde ! C’est un chaton.

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ALEX DABERTIN from AVERTING A KILLING, A DIME WESTERN Joseph Wesley Harper Harper & Brothers 331 Pearle Street, New York City June 10th, 1898Miss Pierpont, I am sorry to hear of the death of Mr. Morgan. It is clear that, in your own way, you loved the man. But this story you present is not fit for publication, even only by a dime novel house.

The language is the coarse vernacular of the vulgar west, and the subject matter is obscene. And the language does not have the decency to be consistent, moving into a style that even the European avant-garde would struggle to decode.

I admit that I am responding at all on the basis of your name alone. Your position in Colorado is, I think, inappropriate for any woman, certainly inappropriate for a woman of your breeding.

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traduit de l’anglais par NICOLAS ATTAL

un extrait de É VITER UN MEURTE, UN WESTERN À DEUX SOUS Joseph Wesley Harper Harper & Frères 331, Pearle Street, New-York City Le 10 juin 1898, Mademoiselle Pierpont, Je suis désolé d’apprendre la mort de M. Morgan. Il est clair que vous aimiez cet homme, à votre manière. Mais l’histoire que vous présentez n’est pas publiable, y compris par des maisons d’édition à deux sous.

Le langage employé le grossier jargon du vulgaire Far-West, et le sujet est obscène. De plus, le langage n’a pas la décence d’être consistant, évoluant vers un style que même l’avant-garde européenne aurait du mal à déchiffrer.

J’avoue que je vous réponds uniquement en raison de votre nom. Votre situation dans le Colorado me semble

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I do feel that you have some skill in recreating the voices of your home, but that is not literatures great work. I recommend you focus on hospitality and local politics. Words are not your forte.

On a final note, you lean heavily on the issue of the Civil War. We are now a full generation’s time from that terrible conflict, and I must say that I feel that digging up the dead does no good to any.

Joseph Wesley Harper.

We find Sarahlynn pirootin’, as Morgan did. See her there, plumb unshucked with her knees either side of young Robert Thorton’s rather weak hips. He was a plowchaser and was terrible affeered of hitching to his sweetie on account of he had no spondoolicks and thought he couldn’t mine the furrier holes to any satisfaction. So, he had gone down to the vaulting house in hopes of acquiring practice with some kind gal he trusted. And Sarahlynn was that girl.

Now, of course, Robert Thorton did have as little idea of how to buck at a lady as he did for how to uncork a bronco. So Sarahlynn was having to take matters into her own hands. She had, to get young Thorton becalmed enough to rut, gotten him just a bit tipsy on Prairie Dew, and that had had the added benefit of elongating his endurance well beyond what it should have been for a nervous young boy. This was not enough, not by crow mile, but it gave Sarahlynn enough time to help herself.

See her now, she had her hand at the Devil’s Jointure and

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inappropriée pour n’importe quelle femme, et encore plus pour une femme de votre lignée. J’ai le sentiment que vous avez un certain talent pour retranscrire les voix de votre région, mais ce n’est pas un grand dessein de la littérature. Je vous recommande de vous concentrer sur l’hospitalité et la politique locale. Les mots ne sont pas votre maestria.

Pour finir, vous vous étendez lourdement sur la question de la guerre de Sécession. Nous sommes maintenant une génération entière après ce terrible conflit, et je dois dire que j’ai le sentiment que déterrer les morts ne fait de bien à personne.

Joseph Wesley Harper

On retrouve Sarahlynn qui pirouette, comme Morgan en arrivant. Là, regardez-la, complètement dénudée avec ses genoux de chaque côté des hanches faiblardes du jeune Robert Thorton. C’était un laboureur et il était vachement effrayé de s’atteler à sa douce, parce qu’il n’avait pas un kopeck et parce qu’il pensait qu’il ne pourrait pas explorer les trous de fourrure jusqu’à leur donner satisfaction. Il était donc descendu au bordel dans l’espoir d’acquérir de la pratique avec une chouette donzelle en qui il avait confiance. Et Sarahlynn était cette fille.

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is cruelly abusing the little miner in the hole. This is a trick few of the other women would attempt. It gave the wrong impression, you see. Told the rough and ready riders that they could not bring the cattle all the way to the ranch. But Sarahlynn had started out in a town where, as was normal at the time, some of the men had taken on the role of the wives and this had starved the inhabits (Those that still wanted to partake of Sarahlynn’s particular offerings) of any knowledge of women’s needs. But as long as the gun fires in that kind of a place, it is enough. That Sarahlynn additionally knew about using her mouth was enough to make even the most hard-ridden houseman blush. Anyways, knowing that no man in the west knew enough to activate that most important lady’s organ, but enough of them having girth enough to provide the necessary satisfaction in that other department, Sarahlynn had learned to please herself quite well.

And when that calico queen would rumble her hips, even the roughest tumbling panner, cattleman, or highwayman would pop like French champagne and say nothing about Sarahlynn’s semi-onanistic behavior.

Her gyrations worked on young Thorton: his legs jiggled around under Sarahlynn’s caboose. The payload is about to be delivered—and, incidentally, to Thorton’s credit, he noted Sarahlynn’s manipulation and realized that it was necessary, and his soon-to-be wife was always very happy about that—anyways, watch him! Ah, wait. No. Yes! No. Now! Yes! There! The young man popped his cherry, and Sarahlynn came in not too far behind.

Robert Thorton was a nervous boy and so bucked Saralynn off a little too fast, pulling his own punitized peter out of her without attending to the sheepgut armor

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Bon, bien-sût, Robert Thorton avait tout aussi peu idée de comment chevaucher une dame que de comment dompter un bronco. Sarahlynn devait donc prendre les choses en main. Pour rendre le jeune Thorton assez calme pour le rut, elle l’avait mis un peu pompette avec du Prairie Dew, et ça avait eu l’avantage d’allonger son endurance bien au-delà de ce qu’on aurait pu attendre de la part d’un jeune garçon nerveux. Ça ne suffisait pas, loin de là, à vol d’oiseau, mais ça donnait à Sarahlynn assez de temps pour se contenter se servir elle-même.

Regardez-la maintenant, avec sa main à la Jointure du Diable, elle abuse cruellement du petit mineur dans le trou. C’est un tour que peu d’autres femmes auraient tenté. Ça faisait mauvais genre, vous voyez. Ça disait au cavaliers rudes et aguerris qu’ils étaient incapables d’amener le bétail jusqu’au ranch. Mais Sarahlynn avait commencé dans une ville où, comme c’était normal à l’époque, certains hommes avaient assumé le rôle des épouses et ça avait privé les habitants (ceux qui voulaient toujours participer aux offrandes particulières de Sarahlynn) de toute connaissance des besoins d’une femme. Mais tant que le revolver tire, dans ce genre d’endroit, c’est suffisant. Que Sarahlynn sache en plus utiliser sa bouche suffisait à faire rougir même les plus endurcis des hôtes. De toute façon, étant donné qu’aucun homme dans l’Ouest n’en savait assez pour activer cet organe de la plus haute importance chez une femme, mais la plupart d’entre eux ayant assez de circonférence pour pourvoir à la satisfaction nécessaire dans cet autre domaine, Sarahlynn avait plutôt bien appris à se faire plaisir elle-même.

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he had worn (Sarahlynn was a very fancy lady of the mountains, as she had three of these contraptions—her mysterious personal wealth having to do with actions in her previously pampered life in the East—and she had maintained her business quite well with them), so she pulled out the sticky thing on her own as she knelt. She laid it over the tin washbasin’s lip and gave Robert Thorton a kiss.

“Now, don’t forget what I just showed you, and I know Kitty will be very happy.”

“Of course ma’am. Thank you so much Miss Sarahlynn.

Here, ma’am. You have a nice day.”

“Oh now, Sarahlynn, you be sure to let him wash up before he goes, he’ll be all sticky and uncomfortable.”

This was Sarahlynn’s roommate Daisy who was herself taking care of Solomon Runtman (who lived up to his name in spirit if not in shape).

“Yeah, Sarah, after his first time, a man needs a bit of tenderness.”

“It’s Sarahlynn to you, Runty. And then why don’t you ever take that lesson and apply it to us? We women need tenderness too.”

Solomon laughed, and in laughing he caught eye of a particular jiggle in Daisy’s breasts that excited him like a gorilla in heat, something Daisy was used to and kenned that it meant Runty was close to pulling into the station, so she squealed her fake squeals in time with Runty’s greasy laborings. Robert Thorton concluded his gentle and tender toilette (Sarahlynn noted the tenderness with a wry smile), planked out his fee, and departed to the

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Et quand cette reine en guenilles faisait gronder ses hanches, même le plus grossier pionnier, vacher ou bandit de grand chemin éclatait comme un bouchon de champagne français et ne mouftait pas à propos du comportement semi-onaniste de Sarahlynn.

Ses girations fonctionnèrent sur le jeune Thorton : ses jambes se trémoussèrent sous la cambuse de Sarahlynn.

La marchandise sur le point d’être livrée (et, soit dit en passant, pour rendre justice à Thorton, il remarqua la manipulation de Sarahlynn et réalisa qu’elle était nécessaire, et sa promise s’en réjouit toujours), enfin, observez-le ! Ah, une minute. Non. Oui ! Non. Maintenant ! Oui ! Là ! Le jeune homme dénoyauta sa cerise, et Sarahlynn jouit pas trop longtemps après.

Robert Thorton était un garçon nerveux et avait chevauché Sarahlynn un peu trop vite, retirant d’elle son popole puni sans faire attention à l’armure en boyaux de mouton qu’il avait enfilée (Sarahlynn était une femme très classe des montagnes, elle avait trois de ces engins, sa mystérieuse fortune personnelle ayant à voir avec des actions bancaires datant de sa vie jadis cossue à l’Est, et elle avait plutôt bien maintenu sa petite entreprise grâce à eux), donc elle retira la chose gluante elle-même en s’accroupissant. Elle la posa sur le rebord de la bassine en fer blanc et embrassa Robert Thorton sur le front.

« Bon, n’oublie pas ce que je viens de te montrer, et je sais que Kitty sera très contente. »

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distinctly animal accompaniment of Daisy Miller getting discomfitably timbered.

After Robert Thorton left, Sarahlynn turned and unlocked her moneybox and laid those precious bills in with their partners. Then she turned to the fourth, and final, inhabitant of this pleasant enough clapboard room on the second floor of a saloon in Silver, Colorado: Joe Morgan, whose sad, blue eyes followed her hand from the moneybox to his cheek. She pushed his boneless warbonnet back from his forehead. What a durn fool is this man, she thought.

Now, some folks would ideaize that Sarahlynn, in bonking Thorton in front of Morgan, was trying to give him the mitten rather than the kitten. But that was not the case. You might think Morgan was some odd European gentleman, perhaps, for sitting and watching this woman ride. But that, too, ain’t true. Morgan didn’t mind watching. Matter fact, he loved to watch Sarahlynn work, and especially when he could block out the bloke’s face with a particular angle. But watching wasn’t why he was sitting there. Perhaps you would think he was Sarahlynn’s employer. But that, neither, ain’t right. Nary a woman in all of the Colorado Territory was run by a man, and none up in the mountains around Silver. No, Morgan was sitting in that greyed old hoopback chair because he had two problems: One dumpling sweet, one deadly serious.

The sweet problem was that Morgan loved Sarahlynn more than anyone in Colorado loved anything, but no matter how mashed Morgan might be with Sarahlynn, it wasn’t goin’ to save him from the deadly serious problem:

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« Bien-sûr m’dame. Merci infiniment Mademoiselle Sarahlynn. Voilà pour vous, m’dame. Bonne journée. »

« Oh, bon, Sarahlynn, occupe-toi donc de le laisser se laver avant qu’il parte, sinon il s’ra tout collant et inconfortable ». C’était Daisy, la coloc’ de Sarahlynn qui prenait soin de son côté de Salomon Lavorton (qui vivait en accord avec son nom dans l’esprit sinon dans la forme).

« Oui Sarah, après sa première fois, un homme a besoin d’un peu de tendresse. »

« C’est Sarahlynn pour toi, Salo. Et alors pourquoi tu ne prends pas cette leçon pour nous l’appliquer ? Nous, les femmes, on a besoin de tendresse aussi. »

Salomon rigola, et en riant il remarqua un trémoussement particulier dans les seins de Daisy qui l’excita comme un gorille en chaleur, quelque chose d’habituel pour Daisy qui sut que ça signifiait que Salo allait bientôt arriver en gare, alors elle simula ses faux hurlements en rythme avec ses labourages graisseux.

Robert Thorton termina sa tendre et douce toilette (Sarahlynn nota la tendresse avec un sourire tordu), il paya son dû et quitta la pièce au son clair de l’accompagnement bestial de Daisy Miller, qui se faisait poutrer de manière déconcertante.

Après le départ de Robert Thorton, Sarahlynn se tourna, déverrouilla sa tirelire et allongea ces précieux billets à l’intérieur avec leurs partenaires. Elle se tourna alors vers le quatrième et dernier habitant de cette salle de bardage

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Nick Hornsby was coming to cut him down. By sundown, Morgan would be dead.

Morgan’d watched Sarahlynn help Thorton and listened to Daisy and Solomon, but he’d been ruminatin’ ‘bout Hornsby. His eyes bounced in time with Sarahlynn’s work, but with every bounce he imagined lead bein’ flung at him. And as he looked at Sarahlynn leanin’ over him, all he could think was, “God she’s beautiful, if I’d lived, I’d’ve kept her by someway. I’d’ve made myself sheriff and given her no trouble.” But he was gallows-bound no matter what way he ran.

Sarahlynn looked at him, his scared blue eyes. She loved this man. He was a dirty cowpoke without eight nickels to his name, but he was the person who’d love her right.

When he first showed up with big puppy-love eyes and asked to share her bed, she’d told him, “Don’t come lookin’ to me as your sweet lass. I ain’t got no time for nothin’ but workin’.” And he said to her, “Cain’t you be workin’ and be my sweet lass?”. Sarahlynn’s mouth had hung open like a bad rancher’s barn.

After some eight times, each time at a lower tariff than before, They were lyin’ in bed and she said, “Well, ain’t ya got nothin’ better than to hang around here?”

“Naw, not ‘till the cows’re ready to run.”

“Well, go somewhere else in your spare time. You’re losin’ me money.”

“What you wanna do with all that money, Sarahlynn?”

“What all money?”

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assez plaisante au deuxième étage d’un saloon à Silver, dans le Colorado : Joe Morgan, dont les yeux tristes et bleus suivirent du regard sa main de la tirelire à sa joue.

Elle poussa son chapeau informe vers l’arrière de son front. Quel satané imbécile ce mec, pensa-t-elle.

Bon, certains pourraient imaginer que Sarahlynn, en s’envoyant en l’air devant Morgan, essayait de lui faire prendre des vessies pour des lanternes. Mais ce n’était pas le cas. Vous pourriez penser que Morgan était un gentleman européen étrange, peut-être, parce qu’il s’asseyait et regardait la chevauchée de cette femme.

Mais ça aussi, c’est faux. Ça ne dérangeait pas Morgan de regarder. À vrai dire, il adorait regarder Sarahlynn travailler, surtout quand il pouvait cacher le visage du mec avec un angle particulier. Mais il ne s’asseyait pas là pour mater. Vous pourriez peut-être penser que c’était l’employeur de Sarahlynn. Mais ça non plus, ce n’est pas exact. Presque aucune femme sur tout le territoire du Colorado n’était tenue par un homme, et pas une dans les montagnes autour de Silver. Non, Morgan était assis dans cette vieille chaise à bascule parce qu’il avait deux problèmes : l’un doux comme une sucrerie, l’autre sérieux comme la mort.

Le doux problème était que Morgan aimait Sarahlynn plus que n’importe qui dans le Colorado aimait quelque chose, mais peu importe à quel point Morgan était mordu de Sarahlynn, ça n’allait pas le sauver du problème mortellement sérieux :

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“What money you keep in the box.”

Sarahlynn had spun around like a bobcat defending her pups. “You know about that money? Who else does?”

“Nobody but me, far’s I know. I ain’t gonna do nothin’ to it. ‘Cept, I wanna know what you’re savin’ it up for.”

Sarahlynn blinked real slow and deliberate-like. She could tell him, or she could kick him out. “I want to run this place.” She made a fist hidden ‘neath the covers.

“Samantha’ll die sometime. And I’m her favorite. She always says it. I want to do it.”

“How come?”

Such secret reasons weren’t somethin’ to tell a John, even a John you was beginning to suspect certain things about. Certainly not somethin’ to tell to a John unshucked and sticky in bed.

Sarahlynn had growed up pampered in the East, had been, for reasons as idiotic as they are predictable and uninteresting, disgraced. Soon as she was delivered and the daddy went back to Twenty Third Street Sarahlynn took her infant boy and headed West. She had the family money by birthright and death right. Her brother were the one Daddy’d loved, but he’d died real young—so the young hellraising bitch was his only heir. And, if Daddy’d ever dared look into her eyes, he’d a seen himself more than in Brother Johnston, who was all wilty like Momma. But money just makes livin’ possible for a single lass; it don’t make it easy. And when Baby Edward died as an infant in Chicago on account of Sarahlynn choosing to save her money and live too close to the slaughterhouses and their bloodstink and slummy

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Nick Hornsby était en route pour le couper en morceaux.

D’ici le crépuscule, Morgan serait mort.

Morgan observa Sarahlynn aider Thorton et il écouta Daisy et Salomon, mais il ruminait au sujet d’Hornsby.

Ses yeux bougeaient en rythme avec le travail de Sarahlynn, mais à chaque rebond il imaginait qu’on le plombait. Et alors qu’il regardait Sarahlynn se pencher sur le garçon, tout ce qu’il pouvait penser c’était : « Bon Dieu, qu’elle est belle, si j’étais resté en vie, je l’aurais gardé d’une façon ou l’autre. Je serais devenu Shérif et je ne lui aurais pas causé d’ennuis ». Mais il était attaché à la potence, peu importe la direction dans laquelle il fuyait.

Sarahlynn le regarda, lui et ses yeux bleus apeurés. Elle aimait cet homme. C’était un cow-boy sale avec moins de huit dollars à son nom, mais il était la personne qui l’avait aimé de la bonne façon. Quand il était apparu pour la première fois avec ses grands yeux de chiot plein d’amour et lui avait demandé de partager son lit, elle lui avait dit, « Commence pas à me regarder comme ta douce. J’ai pas le temps pour aut’ chose que pour travailler ». Et il lui avait dit, « Tu peux pas travailler et être ma douce ? ». La bouche de Sarahlynn s’était décrochée, ouverte comme l’enclos d’un mauvais propriétaire de ranch.

Après environ huit fois, chacune à un tarif plus bas qu’avant, ils étaient étendus sur le lit et elle dit : « Bon, t’as rien d’mieux à faire que traîner là ? »

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diseases, Sarahlynn learned what hard living really was.

She threw herself at everyone who came along, drank every penny her damned tight-fisted Daddy’s ghost in her brain would let her. Sarahlynn even once prayed for the consumption like a European Bohemian. But Sarahlynn’s health refused to break. It was blazing Bronco. It chewed through every bit. So Sarahlynn decided that if her Good Reputation had been long ago ruined and folks were gonna see a damn whore when they gleamed her, and she liked pirootin’, then blazes take em.

If booze and disease wouldn’t kill her, no man ever would. She felt quite a cruel power when she demanded payment. Twenty Third Street could burn for that.

Daddy might even have said she was a good businessman.

She still had Edward’s ashes. In the room where Morgan was sittin’, Daisy was towelin’, Solomon was washin’, and Sarahlynn was stretchin’, Edward’s vase sat atop the mantelpiece. He had been on the mantelpiece of every one of her rooms. He was still her child, in her lifetime and her deathtime and in his. None but Morgan knew what was inside.

Edward’s ashes were what had inspired her to go farther West. Eventually dyin’ became a tiresome prospect and all the squeals of bleedin’ pigs drove home the memory of Edward’s cholic coughs. At the same time, she finally got sick—just a minor case of the burns that cleared up pretty quick, nothing but cramping and an angry fever then nothing—and she was done with Chicago and done with thinkin’ getting’ sick or cryin’ were Romantic. She took up her son, gathered all her money, bought the condoms, and started steppin’ west again.

She had been in meat markets where the girls were beaten every night. She had seen the lengths the girls had

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« Nan, pas avant qu’les vaches soient prêtes à courir ».

« Bon, va aut’ part pendant ton temps libre. Tu m’fais perdre de l’argent. »

« Qu’est-ce tu veux faire avec tout cet argent Sarahlynn ? »

« Quel argent ? »

« Cet argent que tu gardes dans la boîte. »

Sarahlynn s’était retourné comme un lynx défendant ses p’tits. « Tu sais à propos d’cet argent ? Qui d’autre ? »

« Personne à part moi, autant qu’je sache. J’vais pas y toucher. Sauf que j’veux savoir pourquoi tu l’économises. »

Sarahlynn cligna des yeux très doucement et de façon délibérée. Elle pouvait lui dire, ou elle pouvait le virer. « Je veux diriger cet endroit ». Elle serra le poing sous les couvertures. « Samantha mourra un jour. Et j’suis sa favorite. Elle le dit tout le temps. Je veux le faire. »

« Pourquoi donc ? »

Des raisons secrètes comme celles-là n’étaient pas quequ’chose à dire à un Jules, même un Jules au sujet duquel tu commençais à avoir certains doutes. Sûrement pas quequ’chose à dire à un Jules à poil et collant au lit.

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gone to to get an hour’s rest, had seen the girls take poison to keep from foalin’. Sarahlynn had been lucky about foalin’, she knew. Her sheepsgut armor was a blessing. But Sarahlynn had seen all of it, and, with her self-knowledge, her monies, and her will, she kept most of it from happening to her. One time a man busted her ribs because he was too scared to hurt her face. The doctors thought she might die then, but all she did was go ‘round to his ranch with her shirt torn at just the right space for the Missus to see her bruise. The Missus weren’t happy to see a Calico Gal at her front stoop, but then she didn’t ‘pect her husband not to whore. Men had it easy in that respect. The Missus had slapped Sarahlynn, but then Sarahlynn merely said that she wanted the Missus to know she might die and that Sarahlynn expected her to take care of her son if she left. The Missus shut up then and gave Sarahlynn biscuits and the men in the place treated her nicely.

She had been hit very badly one other time: The bastard who’d scraped her with his spurs. She could still finger the scars ‘cross her back. Son of bitch was foreman at a ranch. Sarahlynn paid the rancher good money and slander to get in when the cowpuncher was sleeping. She tied him down just like some men like then took his spurs and proceeded to gouge them up and down his belly. Only when he was howlin’ did Sarahlynn show him his horse’s plums what she had cut off with a butcher’s hack. She said that she’d do the same to the bastard if he ever hurt another girl. He spat at her and she pulled down his pants and started rubbing at the soft, wrinkled flesh with the hard, bright points of the spurs, and he howled and howled with even the littlest twinge. He cried for mercy and his momma both. And only when he was cryin’ salt tears in thick rivers did she stop. One of his mates was waiting outside the door, but she shot through it with her

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Sarahlynn avait grandi choyée dans l’Est, et avait été, pour des raisons aussi idiotes que prévisibles et sans intérêt, disgraciée. Sitôt libérée et le père retourné à la 23e rue, Sarahlynn prit le nouveau-né et se dirigea vers l’Ouest. Elle avait l’argent de la famille par droit de naissance et de mort. Son frère était le préféré de Papa mais il était mort très jeune – donc la jeune salope infernale était sa seule héritière. Et, si jamais Papa avait osé la regarder dans les yeux, il se serait reconnu lui-même plus que dans Frérot Johnston, qui était tout frêle comme Maman. Mais, pour une fille seule, l’argent rend juste la vie possible ; ça ne la rend pas facile. Et quand Bébé Edward, encore nourrisson, mourut à Chicago parce que Sarahlynn avait choisi d’économiser son argent en vivant trop près des abattoirs, de leur odeur sanglante et de leurs maladies des bas-fonds, Sarahlynn apprit ce que c’était de vivre à la dure. Elle se jeta sur tous ceux qui passaient, but chaque cent que le satané fantôme de son Papa au poing serré dans son cerveau lui permettait. Sarahlynn pria même une fois pour se consumer comme une bohémienne européenne.

Mais la santé de Sarahlynn refusa de rompre. C’était un Bronco flamboyant, mâchant chaque mors. Alors Sarahlynn décida que si sa Bonne Réputation avait été depuis longtemps ruinée et que les gens allaient voir une sale putain en la lustrant, vu qu’elle aimait faire des pirouettes, qu’ils soient emportés par les flammes. Si l’alcool et la maladie ne la tuaient pas, aucun homme ne le ferait jamais. Elle ressentait un pouvoir assez cruel en demandant le paiement. La 23e rue pouvait bien brûler d’ailleurs. Papa aurait même pu dire qu’elle était un bon homme d’affaires.

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pistol before she went out. She never knew what happened to the friend. She left town shortly after and finally made it to Colorado. Her reputation began to precede her—good and bad both. No ever tried to come at her with spurs. Nor with anything.

She ended up in Silver on the strength of Samantha’s reputation as a reformer. And Sarahlynn intended to continue that reforming herself long as she could. She knew what thinking was worming West with the railroads and money. She knew that how she lived her life would become impossible. But by then, she knew, looking at Morgan, she’d own a damn saloon, be married to a well-endowed cowboy-cum-sheriff, and be giving money to politicians with her real name: Pierpont. See them try and take me out to pasture then. She’d protect the women as best she could. As she squatted, getting ready for Morgan, she smiled at the thought of their future. All she had to do between now and then was enjoy the clients she wanted, keep Daisy in line, and keep Morgan from getting shot by Hornsby.

“Solomon, did you drop seed again?”

“Not all of us are young boys like Thorton. Not all of us are as enthralled with clunge as to shoot when all covered up.”

“Gummy sakes, Runty, I’ve seen you explode if Daisy so much as puts her hand down your pants.”

“Oh, lighten up, Sarahlynn, I’m not bleedin’, and you know you can’t get pregnant if you aren’t bleedin’.”

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Elle avait toujours les cendres d’Edward. Dans la pièce où Morgan était assis, Daisy s’essuyait à la serviette, Salomon se lavait, et Sarahlynn s’étirait, le vase d’Edward était posé sur le manteau de cheminée. Il avait été posé sur celui de chacune de ses chambres. C’était toujours son enfant, à la vie à la mort. Personne ne savait ce qu’il y avait dedans, à part Morgan.

Les cendres d’Edward étaient ce qui l’avait poussée à se diriger plus loin vers l’Ouest. Finalement, la mort devint une perspective ennuyeuse et tous les couinements de cochons ensanglantés ramenaient à elle le souvenir des toux de crises de colique d’Edward. Au même moment, elle tomba finalement malade, juste un petit cas d’inflammation qui se résorba assez rapidement, rien que des crampes et une fièvre féroce, c’est-à-dire rien ; elle en avait assez de Chicago et assez de penser que tomber malade ou pleurer était Romantique. Elle prit son fils, rassembla tout son argent, acheta les capotes, et recommença à se diriger vers l’Ouest.

Elle avait été sur les marchés de viande où les filles étaient battues chaque nuit. Elle avait vu les distances parcourues par les filles pour obtenir une heure de repos, avait vu les filles prendre du poison pour éviter le poulinage. Sarahlynn avait été chanceuse à ce sujet, elle le savait. Son armure en boyaux de moutons était une bénédiction. Mais Sarahlynn avait tout vu, et, grâce à sa connaissance d’elle-même, son oseille et sa volonté, elle évitait que la plupart de ces choses lui arrivent. Une fois, un homme lui cassa les côtes parce qu’il avait trop peur

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“The last words of many a sweet young girl.” Sarahlynn knew this too intimately. But she saw how Daisy blushed and tucked her knees up like she’d heard from that midwife. And Sarahlynn saw too the ruddy glow in Solomon’s gawmless face. They wanted a little one. An excuse for Daisy to quit, an excuse for Solomon to take her away. But Sarahlynn didn’t think this was a good idea. Solomon was barely a ranchhand. Daisy would be making the money. She was already as it was. And Solomon wasn’t a guy like Morgan. There wouldn’t be any calico work after that baby was born for any wife of Solomon Runty.

But Sarahlynn sighed, she couldn’t bother with those dumb roughnecks today. Today was about averting a killing.

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de lui blesser le visage. Les docteurs pensèrent alors qu’elle allait peut-être mourir, mais tout ce qu’elle fit c’est aller autour de son ranch avec sa chemise nouée juste au bon endroit pour que la M’dame puisse voir ses ecchymoses. La M’dame n’était pas très contente de voir une fille en guenilles à son seuil, mais après tout elle ne s’attendait pas à ce que son mari n’aille pas forniquer.

Les hommes s’en tiraient bien de ce point de vue. La M’dame avait claqué Sarahlynn, mais Sarahlynn avait seulement dit qu’elle voulait que la M’dame sache qu’elle allait peut-être mourir et que Sarahlynn s’attendait à ce qu’elle prenne soin de son fils si elle quittait ce monde.

Alors la M’dame se tut, donna des biscuits à Sarahlynn et les hommes présents la traitèrent gentiment.

Elle s’était fait frapper très violemment une autre fois. Le bâtard qui l’avait écorché avec ses éperons. Avec ses doigts, elle pouvait encore sentir les cicatrices sur son dos.

Ce fils de pute était contremaître dans un ranch.

Sarahlynn paya un bon paquet de fric au propriétaire du ranch et dit du mal de lui pour pouvoir entrer quand le bestiau était endormi. Elle l’attacha, comme certains hommes aiment le faire, prit ses éperons et commença à creuser dans son ventre de haut en bas. C’est seulement quand il commença à hurler que Sarahlynn lui montra les prunes de son cheval qu’elle avait découpées avec un couteau de boucher. Elle lui dit qu’elle lui ferait la même chose si ce bâtard refaisait du mal une autre fille. Il lui cracha dessus, elle le défroqua et commença à frotter la chair douce et et ridée avec les pointes dures et acérées des éperons, et il hurla, hurla au moindre petit pincement. Il demanda pitié, et à voir sa mère aussi. Et

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c’est seulement quand il se mit à pleurer des rivières épaisses de larmes salées qu’elle s’arrêta. Un ami du mec attendait devant la porte, mais elle tira à travers avec son pistolet avant de sortir. Elle ne sut jamais ce qu’il était arrivé à cet ami. Elle quitta la ville peu de temps après et arriva enfin dans le Colorado. Sa réputation commença à la précéder, en bien comme en mal. Personne n’essaya plus jamais de s’approcher d’elle avec des éperons. Ou avec quoi que ce soit.

Elle termina à Silver, attirée par la force de la réputation réformiste de Samantha. Et Sarahlynn avait l’intention de continuer à se réformer elle-même aussi longtemps qu’possible. Elle savait quel état d’esprit se faufilait vers l’Ouest avec les chemins de fer et l’argent. Elle savait que la façon dont elle vivait sa vie deviendrait impossible.

Mais d’ici-là, elle savait, en regardant Morgan, qu’elle posséderait un satané Saloon, serait mariée à un cow-boy bien monté, shérif en dev’nir, et donnerait de l’argent aux politiciens sous son vrai nom : Pierpont. Qu’ils essaient donc de me mettre au vert à ce moment-là. Elle protégerait les femmes du mieux qu’elle le pourrait.

Pendant qu’elle s’accroupissait, en se préparant pour Morgan, elle sourit à l’idée de leur futur. Tout ce qu’elle avait à faire d’ici-là c’était apprécier les clients dont elle avait envie, tenir Daisy hors des griffes de Salomon, et éviter à Morgan de se faire tirer dessus par Hornsby.

« Salomon, est-ce que t’as encore laissé tomber de la semence ?»

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« On n’est pas tous des gamins comme Thorton. On n’est pas tous séduits par la fouffe au point de tirer un vrai coup alors qu’on est couverts. »

« Bon sang, Salo, j’t’ai vu exploser quand Daisy avait mis rien qu’sa main dans ton pantalon. »

« Oh, tranquille, Sarahlynn, je n’saigne pas, et tu sais qu’on n’peut pas tomber enceinte si on n’saigne pas ».

« Les derniers mots d’beaucoup d’gentilles jeunes filles. »

Sarahlynn savait cela trop intimement. Mais elle vit comment Daisy rougit et referma ses genoux en les pliant, comme elle l’avait entendu dire par une sage-femme. Et Sarahlynn aperçut aussi la lueur rougeoyante sur le visage écervelé de Salomon. Ils voulaient un petit. Une excuse pour Daisy d’arrêter, une excuse pour Salomon de l’emmener. Mais Sarahlynn ne pensait pas que c’était une bonne idée. Salomon était à peine garçon de ranch. Daisy serait celle qui rapporterait l’argent. C’était déjà elle en l’état actuel des choses. Et Salomon n’était pas un type comme Morgan. Il n’y aurait plus de travail en guenilles après la naissance du bébé pour n’importe qui mariée à Salomon Lavorton.

Mais Sarahlynn soupira, elle ne pouvait pas se soucier de ces deux bouseux débiles aujourd’hui. Aujourd’hui il s’agissait d’éviter un meurtre.

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NICOLAS ATTAL CICATRIX « Rien ne distingue les souvenirs des autres moments. Ce n’est que plus tard qu’ils se font reconnaître, à leurs cicatrices. » Chris Marker, La Jetée

1.

Mon premier souvenir est un choc violent. Un son sec.

Crac. À trois ans, je me suis cassé le tibia. Il a été brisé net.

La nourrice qui me raccompagnait au chalet ce soir-là a glissé sur une plaque de verglas. Elle m’est tombée dessus de tout son poids. 83 kilos. Je me souviens des cris perçants et des larmes flocons de neige.

Le médecin de garde était un vieillard gris au regard fou, armé d’une lampe frontale et d’un scalpel. Ce tortionnaire en blouse blanche voulait m’extirper des informations. Sans l’intervention de mes parents, je crois qu’il aurait fini par m’amputer la jambe.

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translated from the french by ALEX D. DABERTIN

CICATRIX “Nothing distinguishes memories from other moments. You can only recognize them later, by the scars.”

Chris Marker, La Jetée

1.

My first memory is a violent shock. A dry snap.

Crack.

At 3, I broke my tibia. It was a clean break.

The nanny slipped on a patch of ice taking me back to the chalet and fell on me with all her weight. 180 pounds.

I remember piercing cries and snowflake tears.

The doctor on duty was a wild-eyed, grey old man armed with a headlamp and scalpel. This inquisitor in a lab coat wanted to extract whatever information I had by any means necessary. If my parents hadn’t intervened, I seriously believe he would have finished by hacking off the leg. I was taken to another hospital where a different

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J’ai été transporté dans un autre hôpital, plâtré par un autre médecin. C’était une femme fabuleuse, un moment féérique. J’étais déjà sous l’effet des analgésiques.

Couleurs et formes floues. Bleu fluo. Noir total.

Mon plâtre était équipé d’une petite talonnette. J’ai appris à marcher avec, à courir avec. Quelques mois plus tard, une fois découpé, j’ai découvert une grosse cicatrice violette, répugnante mais étrangement douce. J’ai appris à marcher avec un plâtre, je suis un déséquilibré.

Le chirurgien a dit : « c’est une double fracture du tibia-péroné »

Le pédiatre a dit : « ne vous inquiétez pas, cela n’affectera pas sa croissance et il retrouvera l’intégralité de ses capacités motrices »

Mon père a dit : « je suis maudit »

2.

Je me souviens d’une sensation bizarre, l’impression d’avoir un organe fantôme. Mes mots exacts de l’époque ont été : « j’ai une troisième couille ». Mes parents ont d’abord cru à une lubie sexuelle précoce, puis ont cédé à mes plaintes et m’ont emmené faire des tests.

À six ans, j’ai été opéré d’une hernie.

Et je connaissais le mot couille.

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doctor fit me with a plaster cast. She was luminous, almost an angel. I was also on several painkillers. Colors formed and blurred—neon blue—total darkness.

My cast had a cute little heel, and I learned how to walk in it, how to run. After several months, when they cut open the plaster, I discovered the huge, revolting, but silkily-soft purple scar. I had learned to walk in a cast. I was lopsided.

The surgeon said, “A double fracture of the tibia.”

The pediatrician said, “Don’t worry, this won’t affect his growth, and he’ll recover his motor skills in no time.”

My father said, “I’m cursed.”

2.

I remember the bizarre sensation, like having an extra, phantom organ—my exact words were: “I have three testicles.” At first my parents thought this was a precocious sexual whim, but finally they caved to my constant complaining and took me in for testing.

At 6, I had a hernia operation.

And I knew the word “testicles.”

They put me under general anesthesia. The nurse was nice. I ate applesauce. I was scared I would never wake up. They gave my teddy bear a bandage, too, but he

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On m’a fait une anesthésie générale. L’infirmière était gentille. J’ai mangé de la compote de pomme. J’ai eu peur de ne jamais me réveiller. Mon ours en peluche avait aussi un pansement. Mais il n’avait pas cette minuscule cicatrice blanche au creux de l’aine, ligne droite, parfaite, sans relief.

Le chirurgien a dit : « ce n’est rien »

L’infirmière a dit : « vous devriez lui faire porter des caleçons, pas des slips, pour éviter les frottements »

Ma mère a dit : « on va t’acheter des caleçons »

3.

J’avais oublié mes crayons de couleur sous un banc, dans la cour. Une boîte toute neuve avec plus de couleurs que l’arc-en-ciel.

Le cours de sport allait commencer dans deux minutes, j’ai couru à toute vitesse dans le gymnase pour aller les récupérer. Au milieu du couloir une porte s’est ouverte d’un coup sur ma droite et m’est rentrée dedans. Bam. J’étais sonné, je voyais des tâches noires apparaître et disparaître comme quand on passe ses doigts sur un écran à cristaux liquides.

À onze ans, je me suis enfoncé une poignée de porte dans le bras.

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didn’t get a little white scar on his groin—a perfectly flat, totally straight line.

The surgeon said, “It’s not a big deal.”

The nurse said, “He should wear tighty-whiteys instead of boxers, to prevent friction down there.”

My mother said, “We’re buying you some briefs.”

3.

I had forgotten my colored pencils under a bench in the schoolyard, a brand-new box with even more colors than the rainbow.

With only two minutes left until P.E., I ran fast as I could through the gym to retrieve them. Halfway down the hall, a door to my right burst open and I ran into it—Bam—I was stunned. I saw little black dots appear and disappear like when you run your finger over an LCD screen.

At 11, I impaled myself on a door handle.

It went right through my arm, but, at first, I thought I’d just bumped it. I was more upset by the girls laughing in the background, the shame of crashing into a door just because I absolutely had to get my rainbow-colored pencils back. It wasn’t for another couple steps, until I tried to open the next door, that I looked down at my right arm: my t-shirt sleeve was soaked in blood to the

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Je me suis empalé dessus. J’ai d’abord cru que je m’étais juste cogné. Je m’inquiétais moins de la douleur que des rires des filles en arrière-plan, de la honte de m’être pris une porte dans la face et des crayons de couleur arc-en-ciel que je devais absolument aller chercher. Ce n’est qu’au bout de quelques pas, au moment d’ouvrir la porte suivante, que j’ai regardé mon bras droit : la manche de mon tee-shirt était imbibée de sang jusqu’à l’épaule. Mon bras dégoulinait par terre en laissant des traces au sol.

J’ai couru vers l’infirmerie. Le sang continuait à gicler à flots réguliers, un par battement de cœur. L’infirmière m’a mis un garrot et a un peu épongé. J’ai aperçu le trou dans mon bras, de la taille d’un pouce. Un trou rempli de ma chair et d’une matière grise qui ressemble un peu à de la cervelle, la graisse.

Ma grand-mère est venue me chercher et m’a emmené à l’hôpital, à pied.

Aux urgences, j’ai immédiatement été pris en charge par un jeune médecin souriant qui m’a dit que j’avais eu beaucoup de chance, que l’entaille s’était arrêtée à un millimètre de mon biceps et à deux millimètres d’une artère principale. Dans un cas, je n’aurais pas pu utiliser mon bras droit pendant un an, avec une très longue rééducation. Dans l’autre, je serais mort dans le couloir du collège en rampant avant d’avoir pu rejoindre l’infirmerie.

Le médecin a dit : « vous l’avez échappée belle »

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shoulder, and my arm was dripping on the floor, leaving bloody streaks.

I ran to the infirmary. The blood continued to spurt in time with my heart. The nurse fit me with a tourniquet and sponged me clean. I saw the inch-wide hole in my arm, a trough filled with grey fat that looked like brains.

My grandmother came and walked me to the hospital.

In the emergency room, I was immediately put in the care of a smiling, young doctor who told me I was very lucky, that the hole wasn’t even a millimeter into my bicep, and that two millimeters down lay a major artery.

If it had gone the full millimeter, I wouldn’t have been able to use my arm for a year followed by a very long rehab period, and if 2 millimeters, I would have been dead from blood loss in the school hallway long before I reached the infirmary.

The doctor said, “You were very lucky.”

My grandmother said, “I’ll make you some galette.”

My mother said, “I’ll buy you another box of colored pencils.”

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Ma grand-mère a dit : « je vais te faire des galettes » Ma mère a dit : « je vais te racheter une boîte de crayons de couleur » 4.

On a bu quelques shots dans la bouteille de vodka et mis un peu d’eau dedans pour dissimuler visuellement la baisse de niveau. On a appuyé sur play, musique à fond sur la chaîne hi-fi : Rage Against The Machine.

On a commencé un gros pogo, ce rituel entre danse collective et baston générale en vogue chez les adolescents. Dans la mêlée, je me suis fait plaquer au sol par un de mes camarades.

J’ai glissé sur le tapis, je suis tombé sur le parquet, le parquet a craqué. J’ai entendu un autre crac. J’ai crié.

J’ai ri. J’ai pleuré. À treize ans, je me suis déboîté l’épaule.

L’alcool m’anesthésiait, je me suis endormi affalé sur le canapé. Le lendemain, j’ai réalisé que mon bras droit ne l’était plus.

Mes parents venaient de divorcer, ils étaient en week-end, l’un sur la côte d’azur, l’autre sur la côté d’émeraude. Ils étaient partis chacun de leur côté, comme les os de mon épaule. L’asymétrie est encore flagrante.

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4.

We knocked back a few shots of vodka and disguised the loss with tap water. We pressed play, and music blared from the stereo system: Rage Against the Machine.

We started a mosh pit, that collective ritual of dancing and brawling so popular with teenagers. Amid the scrum, one of my friends tackled me.

I slipped on the carpet and fell on the parquet; the parquet cracked.

I heard another crack. I yelled. I laughed. I cried.

At 13, I dislocated my shoulder.

The alcohol anesthetized me, and I slept sprawled out on the couch. The next morning, I noticed that my right arm was not quite right.

My parents had just divorced, and I split my weekends between them. One weekend I would be on the Cote d’Azur, and the next I would be on the Cote d’Emeraude.

They had gone their separate ways, much like my shoulder bones—the asymmetry of my life again apparent.

The next weekend, armed with only one arm, I slept with a girl for the first time. A poor penguin conquering a cold fish.

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La semaine suivante, j’ai couché pour la première fois avec une fille, sur un bras. Un missionnaire manchot à la conquête d’une étoile de mer.

À force d’utiliser la main gauche, je suis devenu presque ambidextre. Le seul truc impossible, c’est jouer à Street Fighter.

Le médecin a dit : « je vais remettre la clavicule en place.

Je compte jusqu’à trois. Un… Deux… »

Mon pote a dit : « tu penses que tu pourras te branler de la main gauche ? »

Ma psy a dit : « c’est un poids trop lourd à porter pour de si jeunes épaules »

5.

À la sortie des cours, je me suis fait poursuivre par deux types d’un groupe rival, rattraper par le col et plaquer contre le mur du bahut. Ils me gueulaient dessus et me traitaient de tous les noms. J’essayais de me débattre, sans succès. Deux poings, ouvrez les guillemets.

À quatorze ans, je me suis fait casser le nez et les deux dents de devant. J’ai pissé le sang par les narines et recraché plusieurs morceaux d’émail. Ça a tout de suite calmé les deux mecs, qui sont devenus encore plus pâles que moi. On ne m’a pas emmené voir le docteur mais la proviseure.

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Forced to use my left hand for the next few months, I became almost ambidextrous. The only thing that proved impossible was playing Street Fighter.

The doctor said, “I’m going to put the clavicle back in place on the count of three. Alright. One…Two…”

My buddy said, “Do you think you’ll be able to jerk off with your left hand?”

My therapist said, “You cannot shoulder this cruel harvest.”

5.

After class, I was followed by two kids from a rival gang.

They grabbed me by the collar and smacked me into the school wall. They yelled at me and called me every name in the book. I tried to fight back, but to no avail. Two fists swung, and my nostrils started gushing.

At 14, I broke my nose and two front teeth.

Blood pissed out of my nostrils, and I swallowed chunks of enamel.

The gore shut up the two tough guys real quick. They went whiter than me. But I wasn’t taken to the doctor. I was taken to the headmaster.

My nose became a cross between Cyrano de Bergerac and Rocky Balboa. Cyrano de Balboa.

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Mon nez était devenu un mélange de Cyrano de Bergerac et Rocky Balboa. Cyrano de Balboa.

La proviseure a dit : « vous avez tous trois heures de colle »

Le dentiste a dit : « ce sont les incisives centrales supérieures, je vais les réparer avec un composite en résine »

Ma psy a dit : « ils avaient une dent contre vous depuis que vous êtes né »

6.

J’allais vite, très vite. Je descendais à fond, tout schuss.

En plein slalom mental, j’ai réussi à esquiver l’enfant qui est apparu devant moi. Le virage a été brutal, mon ski droit a dérapé sur une plaque de verglas. J’étais l’incarnation de l’effet boule de neige.

À quinze ans, je me suis cassé le poignet gauche.

Je trouvais mon attelle super stylée, une sorte de bras bionique. Mais l’odeur de sueur en dessous me dégoûtait un peu.

Le médecin a dit : « heureusement, c’est le gauche »

Ma mère a dit : « fais attention à toi »

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The headmaster said, “Three hours of detention.”

The dentist said, “Those are your two major incisors.

They’re going to need veneers.”

My therapist said, “The world has ground its teeth at you since the day you were born.”

6.

I was fast, very fast. I shot down the hill.

Even though I was totally in the zone, I managed to avoid the child that materialized right in front of me, but the brutal turn required screwed me over. My right ski skidded across an ice patch, and I became the living embodiment of the snowball effect.

At 15, I broke my left wrist.

I found my splint very stylish, like a bionic arm, even though the smell of sweat underneath made me gag a little.

The doctor said, “Lucky it’s your left.”

My mother said, “Watch yourself.”

My therapist said, “The wrist—what a twist.”

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Ma psy a dit : « un poignet, c’est un poids nié »

7.

La première fois que je suis tombé amoureux, j’ai eu une réaction épidermique. D’énormes plaques rouges en relief ont recouvert mon corps pendant plusieurs semaines.

D’abord sur les bras, puis le torse, et enfin le visage.

J’étais bouffi, boursouflé. Quasiment Quasimodo.

À seize ans, j’ai eu une allergie à l’amour.

Ça ne s’invente pas.

Le médecin a dit : « c’est sûrement psychosomatique »

Ma mère a dit : « c’est peut-être son parfum »

Ma psy a dit : « vous l’avez dans la peau »

8.

J’étais en vacances avec mon père et mes frères. On passait nos nuits, entre jeunes, à tester nos limites à coups de whisky frelaté et de tabac à rouler, de blagues débiles et de paris à deux balles.

À dix-huit ans, je me suis brûlé le bras avec une cigarette pour tenter de gagner 50€.

Un jeu sadique : tu enroules un billet de banque autour de l’avant-bras d’un cobaye ; tu lui tends une cigarette allumée ; tu lui dis qu’il gagne le billet s’il réussit à le

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7.

The first time I fell in love, I had a dermatological reaction. Huge red scabs covered my body for weeks—first on my arms, then my chest, and, finally, my face. I was swollen and scabby. A quasi-Quasimodo.

At 16, I was allergic to love.

You can’t make this shit up.

The doctor said, “It’s probably psychosomatic.”

My mother said, “I bet it’s her perfume.”

My therapist said, “It’s only skin deep.”

8.

I was on vacation with my father and brothers. My brothers and I spent the nights as young men do: testing our tolerance for backyard whisky and rolling tobacco, dirty jokes and stupid bets.

At 18, I burned my arm with a cigarette trying to win 50 Euros.

A sadistic game: a banknote is rolled around the victim’s forearm; a cigarette is lit; the victim is told that they win if they burn a hole in the note. I tried it. Due to the lack of air between skin and the paper, the bill cannot ignite, but the heat still blisters the skin, cremates it.

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transpercer à l’aide de la braise. J’ai essayé. L’absence d’air entre la chair et le papier empêche le billet de se consumer. C’est la peau qui se met à cramer, à frémir.

La brûlure est une blessure particulière, pernicieuse, qui ne révèle pas tout de suite sa puissance. Elle est progressive et lancinante.

On voit encore la marque ronde, le dessin de la braise sur ma chair. Une superbe ex-peau.

Mon grand frère a dit : « ne le dis pas à papa, il va nous tuer »

Mon père a dit : « quel jeu stupide, en plus tu as perdu »

Ma psy a dit : « Bonjour, je suis actuellement en congés, veuillez laisser un message après le bip »

9.

À vingt ans, je me suis fait enlever d’un coup les quatre dents de sagesse. C’est une idée qui en manque cruellement.

Le dentiste était un psychopathe. Il m’a arraché les chicots à coups de pince, comme des vieux clous rouillés.

Une dent était plus résistante que les autres, il a forcé cinq fois avant de réussir à l’extraire. Je me souviens du goût de fer dans la bouche (la pince ? le sang ?) et du grincement horrible dans ma mâchoire. Crac. Crac. Crac.

Crac dans mon crâne.

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The burn is a particularly pernicious kind of wound because it doesn’t hit all at once. It slowly grows from pins and needles to an outright stabbing.

Everyone could see the burn mark on my skin, a perfect circle. A superb exhibition.

My big brother said, “Don’t tell dad, he’ll kill us.”

My father said, “What a stupid game, and, worst of all, you lost.”

My therapist said, “Hi! I’m on vacation right now, so please leave your message after the beep.”

9.

At 20, I got my wisdom teeth taken out.

It was not a wise decision.

The dentist was a psychopath. He wrenched at the poor little things with pliers as if they were old rusty nails.

One tenacious tooth held on: it took five tries before the dentist could force it out. I remember an iron taste in my mouth (The pliers? The blood?) and a horrible grinding in my jaw. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunching through my skull.

The dentist said, “Yeah, buy cotton and paracetamol, because it’s going to keep bleeding.”

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Le dentiste a dit : « achetez des compresses et du paracétamol à la pharmacie, ça va continuer à beaucoup saigner »

Ma mère a dit : « je serai là vers 19h, va t’acheter une glace »

Mon petit frère a dit : « tu ressembles à un hamster »

10.

C’était une free-party champêtre, dans une clairière. Les baffles et les caissons de basse étaient puissants, il y avait quelques stroboscopes, lasers et spots lumineux. La nuit tombait, l’ambiance montait.

Les gendarmes sont arrivés, ils ont menacé de confisquer le matériel. Le stress et la pression ont commencé à devenir intenses. Les organisateurs ont négocié avec les flics qu’on parte sur le champ (sic) sans laisser de trace et sans subir de contrôle. L’ambiance tombait, la drogue montait.

Suite de flashs, de photos expérimentales floues, à moitié brûlées :

je m’allonge sur le toit d’une voiture / je me roule dans l’herbe folle / je trébuche sur une pierre / je perds l’équilibre / une bouteille la main / je ne lâche pas la bouteille / je m’effondre au sol / désarticulé / Crac / la

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My mother said, “I’ll be over at 7 o’clock. Buy yourself an ice cream.”

My little brother said, “You look like a hamster.”

10.

It was a bucolic rave, held in a clearing. Speakers and bass thumping, strobe lights, lasers, spotlights. The night fell. The ambiance rose.

The cops arrived, and they threatened to confiscate everything. The stress and the pressure intensified. The hosts negotiated with the fuzz to let us clear out, no arrests. The ambience died. The drugs lived on.

A suite of snapshots, blurry and experimental, half burned out:

I’m lying on the roof of a car/ I’m rolling through the tall grass/ I trip on a stone/ I lose my balance/ a bottle in my hand/ I didn’t drop a drop/ I fall to the ground/ inarticulate/ Crack/ the bottle breaks/ in my hand/ shards of glass/ my palm/ in blood/ shards of glass/ my arm too/ the drops/ the drops/ I’m drenched/ I’m in my underpants/ under an ice cold shower/ the water/ the blood/ streams/ down the drain

I wake up feeling like I’ve been mauled, the wounds still fresh on my arms, a huge shiner and aches all over that make me walk like an old cripple.

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bouteille se brise / dans ma main / éclats de verre / ma main / en sang / éclats de verre / mon bras aussi / des gouttes / des gouttes / je suis trempé / je suis en caleçon / sous une douche glacée / l’eau / le sang / ruissellent / dans le tourbillon

Je me réveille avec l’impression de m’être fait tabasser, des plaies encore vives sur les bras, un énorme coquard et des courbatures qui me donnent la démarche d’un vieil éclopé.

À vingt-deux ans, je me suis cassé la gueule tout seul, comme le mec de Fight Club. Lutter contre soi-même est un combat perdu d’avance.

Le médecin n’a rien dit, je ne suis pas allé le voir.

Ma mère n’a rien dit, je l’ai esquivé pendant une semaine.

Ma psy a dit : « vous avez l’impression d’être un bras cassé ? »

11.

C’était une super soirée. On avait dansé, sué, bu et soufflé de la buée dans une ambiance survoltée. Six heures du matin, le parvis était vide. Je me dirigeais vers le métro avec deux potes, mais l’accès était bloqué par une immense barrière grillagée.

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At 22, I beat myself up like the guy in Fight Club—

Fighting yourself is a fight you can’t win.

The doctor didn’t say anything: I didn’t go to see him.

My mother didn’t say anything: I avoided her for a week.

My therapist said, “Do you feel you are a broken arm, metaphyiscally?”

11.

It was a great party. Everyone danced; everyone sweat; everyone drank; and everyone smoked in an electric atmosphere. Six AM, the dancefloor was deserted. I headed for the metro with two friends, but the entrance was blocked by a massive chain link fence.

I climbed it like a ninja. I swung my legs to the other side like a ninja. I jumped like a ninja.

But I landed with all my weight on one leg, nothing like a ninja.

Crack.

At 23, I broke my heel bone.

I didn’t go to the hospital. I went straight home on a foot and a half. The next morning, however, I couldn’t walk without screaming. The doctor had to make a house call.

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J’ai escaladé comme un ninja, passé mes jambes de l’autre côté et sauté. Je me suis mal réceptionné, sur une seule jambe, pas comme un ninja. Crac.

À vingt-trois ans, je me suis fêlé le talon.

Je ne suis pas allé à l’hôpital, je suis rentré directement à la maison, sur un pied et demi. Le lendemain, comme je ne pouvais pas marcher sans crier, j’ai fait venir un médecin à domicile. Il m’a conseillé de rester allongé sans bouger pendant au moins un mois.

Pour le talon, il n’y a rien à faire. Rien. C’est la loi du Talon, vieille comme Achille. Quand l’atmosphère est humide, je sens la blessure qui tire : elle se réveille et m’empêche de dormir.

Le médecin a dit : « pour le talon, il n’y a rien à faire »

Ma mère a dit : « Paris c’est dangereux »

La mère d’Achille a dit : « Pâris est dangereux »

12.

J’avais des sortes de kystes, des petites boules dures sur le haut du front, à la lisière du cuir chevelu.

En bon hypocondriaque, je commençais à m’inquiéter, et à imaginer le pire : tumeur au cerveau, caillots de sang,

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He told me to lie on my back without moving for at least a month.

There’s nothing you can do for a heel. Nothing. It’s the Law of the Heel, old as Achilles. I can still feel the old break when the weather’s humid—It wakes up and keeps me from sleeping.

The doctor said, “There’s nothing you can do for a heel.”

My mother said, “Paris is dangerous.”

Achilles’ mother said, “Paris is dangerous.”

12.

I had some sort of growths—these hard bumps along my hairline.

Like a good hypochondriac, I started to worry and imagined the worst: brain tumor, blood clots, a life sentence with no chance of parole.

The dermatologist cut in with a scalpel and removed the growths one by one with tweezers. Snik. Snik. Sniks in my skull.

At 27, I had my head cut open with a blade.

The doctor told me after the exam that they weren’t anything major, just little balls of fat, meaningless cysts.

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jugement (dernier) sans appel. Après examen, ce n’était pas grand chose, juste des petites boules de graisse.

La dermatologue a incisé avec un scalpel puis retiré les excroissances une à une à coups de pince. Crac. Crac. Crac dans mon crâne. À vingt-sept ans je me suis fait découper le crâne avec une lame.

Quelques cicatrices pas très nettes. Indolores et invisibles, elles résonnent dans ma tête.

La dermato a dit : « ne vous inquiétez pas, c’est une opération bégnine »

Ma mère a dit : « j’ai eu la même chose, c’est sûrement héréditaire »

Le Dr Frankenstein a dit : « il est vivant, vivant ! »

13.

C’était le dimanche de Pâques, il pleuvait.

J’étais semi-inconscient en bas de l’escalier du métro, KO à cause du choc autant que des shots de rhum. Une femme angélique m’a tendu un mouchoir, le regard plein de pitié. Je l’ai accepté machinalement. C’est là que j’ai réalisé que ma chemise blanche était rouge.

À trente ans, je me suis ouvert l’arcade sourcilière.

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Some scars remain indistinct, but, painless and invisible, they reverberate through my mind.

The dermatologist said, “Don’t worry. It’s a very minor procedure.”

My mother said, “I had that. It’s probably hereditary.”

Dr. Frankenstein said, “It’s alive! It’s alive!”

13.

It was Easter Sunday and raining.

I was semi-conscious at the foot of the metro stairway, unable to tell if it was the rum shots or the fall that had knocked me out. With a face full of pity, an angel woman handed me her handkerchief. I accepted mechanically, only afterward realizing that my white shirt was red.

At 30, I split open my supraorbital ridge.

An hour later, I had a black eye worthy of the greatest boxers, or, maybe better, worthy of their opponents. My left eyebrow was three times its normal size, and I couldn’t open the eye. I was a beautiful Easter egg, color and all.

The worst thing is, when you have a shiner, no one believes you got it falling down stairs.

I had to wait for more than three hours at the emergency room. When you tell them you’re in a rush, they put you

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Une heure après, j’avais un œil au beurre noir digne des plus grands boxeurs, ou plutôt de leurs adversaires. Mon arcade avait triplé de volume, je ne pouvais plus ouvrir la paupière gauche. Un bel œuf de Pâques.

Le pire, c’est que personne ne te croit quand tu as un coquard et que tu dis que tu es tombé dans les escaliers.

Aux urgences, j’ai dû attendre plus de trois heures.

Quand tu es bourré, tu es tout en bas de la liste d’attente.

Le jeune interne avait l’air trop saoulé. Il m’a fait cinq points de suture sans anesthésie. Une sensation presque agréable : le rafistolage de mes tissus corporels, la précision chirurgicale.

Pour vérifier que je n’avais pas d’hémorragie interne, il m’a fait passer un scanner du cerveau.

L’hémorragie.

La mort agit.

Je devrais en parler à ma psy.

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at the bottom of the list. The young intern was fed up with drunken accidents.

He gave me five stitches without anesthetic. It was almost an agreeable sensation: the tinkering with my bodily tissues, the surgical precision.

Some scars remain indistinct, but, painless and invisible, they reverberate through my mind.

The dermatologist said, “Don’t worry. It’s a very minor procedure.”

He had me do an MRI to make sure there wasn’t a anything fatal, like a hemorrhage.

My brain might’ve died?

I’m mortified.

I should talk to my therapist.

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AMANDA HORN

AIRPLANE

Passengers board the plane, and sit waiting. In first class, they stretch their legs out, check cell phones for messages they are not expecting, fidget with wristwatches, bottles of sparkling water, the seat's cooling vent. They sigh impatiently at the coach passengers who are still boarding, bulky backpacks and carry-ons buffeting the sides of the upholstered seats.

Beyond the velvety, navy blue curtain divider, passengers are elbow-to-elbow, hoisting baggage into the overhead bins, shuffling past each other, trading seats, shouting to companions several rows away. A young mother in sweatpants scolds a small child for having sticky hands, and the child begins wailing. In front of her, two complete strangers make eye contact and smile tensely before looking away.

Take off goes smoothly, and by the time the Boeing 747 has reached a cruising altitude of 34,000 feet, the passengers have settled in. In business class, they doze with arms crossed over their chests, while the coach passengers shift restlessly, reading cheap paperback novels or chatting quietly with each other. It’s a surprise when the aircraft suddenly begins to shake, little jolts that grow into a violent turbulence.

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traduit de l’anglais par ALMA ADILON

AVION

Les passagers embarquent dans l’avion, s’installent, et attendent. Les première classe étendent leurs jambes, regardent leurs téléphones dans l’attente de messages dont ils n’ont que faire, tripotent les bracelets de leurs montres qu’ils ajustent, leurs bouteilles d’eau pétillante, la ventilation de leurs sièges. Ils soupirent d’impatience en regardant arriver les derniers classe éco qui attendaient encore pour monter, affublés de sacs à dos trop chargés et dont les bagages à main heurtent les accoudoirs des sièges tapissés, entre lesquels ils se cognent.

Derrière le rideau de compartimentage en velours bleu marine, les coudes se touchent presque sur les accoudoirs des sièges ; les passagers hissent leurs affaires dans les compartiments à bagages, ils se faufilent comme ils peuvent, ils échangent leurs places, appellent leurs proches placés à quelques rangs de distance. Une jeune femme en survêtement sermonne un enfant pour avoir sali ses mains, l’enfant se met à pleurnicher. Sur les sièges devant elle, les regards de deux inconnus se croisent ; ils échangent un sourire forcé avant de détourner les yeux.

Le décollage se fait en douceur, et au moment où le Boeing 747 atteint une altitude de dix mille quatre cent mètres, les passagers ont fini de s’installer. En classe business, on s’assoupit, les bras croisés sur la poitrine,

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It is a crash—an explosion, fire, smoke pouring from a bent and ruined structure. But not the plane; in an unexpected turn of events, it is the Earth that crashes. It simply falls out of the sky, drawn downward by some unfathomable gravity. It bursts into flames and burns to blackened cinders, leaving nothing, nobody, only the plane.

Pinned by the nylon seat belts, the passengers are shaken from side to side, reminded that they are nothing but animals caught in something bigger than themselves. The fear is dizzying, or electric, or numbing. First class and coach alike yell, pray, curse. In coach, some of the children start to cry, but then—the shaking stops, replaced by an immeasurable soft stillness.

The breathless passengers look back and forth at each other. Nobody knows what to say because nobody knows what happened. Numb, they remain seated, belts fastened, waiting for an explanation. They lift the shades and look out the plastic windows, but find only a void where the Earth used to be, and the lonesome smell of brush fire in November.

Finally, the reassuring and dishonest announcement comes over the intercom. The cockpit’s crew doesn't know what else to do, doesn't know what to say.

Everyone is told to wait, that an unexpected air disturbance has knocked them off-course. It will be corrected soon, thank you for your patience. They wait for a long, long time.

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tandis que les classe éco remuent sans arrêt, entre deux lectures de romans de gare et sans cesser de discuter à mi-voix. Lorsque l’avion est soudainement secoué, c’est une surprise pour tout le monde : de petites secousses d’abord, qui se déploient jusqu’à devenir de violentes turbulences.

C’est bien un crash : une explosion retentit, et puis du feu, de la fumée qui s’élève au-dessus de constructions vrillées, transformées en un champ de ruines. Mais ça n’est pas l’avion : par un inconcevable renversement de situation, c’est la Terre qui implose. Tout naturellement, elle se décroche du ciel, attirée qu’elle est vers le bas, poussée par une insondable gravité. Elle s’enflamme et se transforme en un tas de cendres noircies, pour ne plus rien laisser derrière elle, aucun survivant ; personne, sinon l’avion.

Cloués à leurs sièges par les ceintures en nylon, les passagers sont secoués de droite à gauche, dans un soudain rappel à l’ordre : ils ne sont rien de plus que des animaux pris dans quelque chose qui les dépasse. Leur peur est vertigineuse, électrique, pour certains engourdissante. En première classe comme en éco, on hurle d’une seule voix, on prie, on jure. En classe éco, certains des enfants se mettent à pleurer — mais soudain, plus rien : les secousses s’arrêtent, et laissent lieu à un silence d’une infinie douceur.

Le souffle coupé, les passagers se regardent les uns les autres. Personne ne sait que dire, parce que personne ne comprend ce qui vient de se produire. Abasourdis, ils

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“What happened?”

In coach, someone asks the panicked question, and it spreads. The stewards and stewardesses repeat the intercom announcement, but look around uneasily. They wring their hands, disappear into the cockpit, and come out still wringing their hands.

“What happened? What's going on?” The passengers in coach repeat the question so many times that it loses meaning, and the words begin to feel foreign in their mouths.

“Please, calm yourselves. We're figuring it out, everything will be figured out soon.”

The booze goes first, of course, as the first class passengers fumble with the little plastic baggies of prescription pills they brought for the lengthy flight.

They need something to take the edge off their nerves, they need to forget the crash, they need to forget the future. The plastic, single-serving bottles of Chardonnay and Merlot line the aisle. They lapse into a warm, humming doze as the pills mute any panic or fear. Some of the children are quietly crying.

Eventually there is no more booze, and the plastic baggies have been emptied and turned inside out. The sleepiness has worn off and everybody is awake, alert, and tense. Fights break out in coach. Some end with bruised knuckles and bloody noses, but nothing is any

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restent assis, leurs ceintures attachées, dans l’attente d’une explication. Ils relèvent les rideaux et regardent par les hublots en plastique, mais ils ne voient rien d’autre qu’un grand vide là où la Terre aurait dû se tenir, et l’odeur isolée d’un feu de brousse au mois de novembre.

Enfin, les haut-parleurs soufflent une annonce rassurante et malhonnête. L’équipage du cockpit ne sait que faire, ou que dire. On invite les passagers à attendre : une turbulence imprévue a dévié l’avion de sa trajectoire.

Tout sera bientôt rétabli, merci pour votre patience. Ils attendent longtemps, très longtemps.

« Qu’est-il arrivé ? »

En classe éco, une voix paniquée pose cette question, qui se répand. Les stewards et les hôtesses répètent l’annonce dans l’interphone, mais ils détournent les yeux, le regard mal assuré.

Ils se triturent les mains, ils disparaissent dans le cockpit, puis ils reviennent, les mains toujours crispées.

« Qu’est-il arrivé ? Que se passe-t-il ? »

Les classes éco répètent la question tant de fois qu’elle finit par perdre de son sens ; les mots qu’ils prononcent leur deviennent étrangers.

« S’il vous plaît, essayez de garder votre calme. Nous sommes en train de chercher une solution, tout sera réglé bientôt. »

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different—they're still on a plane with no Earth beneath them, and could perish at any minute, alone in space.

Hours and hours and hours pass. The coach passengers grow restless, then bold. They leave their seats, pace the aisles, pull down their carry-on bags and dig through them. Some shout over the stewards and stewardesses, force their way through the blue velvet divider curtain into first class, and then into the cock pit. Some of the first class passengers try to stop them, others sit and watch. Upon finding no answers, no explanation, and no clear leader, a sense of hopelessness settles over first class and coach alike. Reality has been upended, overturned, and they have been left with nothing but the endless expanse of black space beyond the airtight plastic windows.

As cellphone batteries die, the passengers lose track of time, and fear fades to numbness. At any moment, the air recycling system could fail, or one of the engines might explode. They will eventually run out of food, clothing will wear to pieces, people will die. What will they do with corpses? A body won't fit down the the vacuum flushing toilet, and they ran out of hand sanitizer quite some time ago.

They discuss these issues amongst themselves, try to come up with some sort of plan. The businessmen in first class grind their teeth, insisting, “What we need is a leader, someone in charge.”

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Naturellement, l’alcool part en premier : les passagers de première classe farfouillent dans leurs petits sachets plastique de pharmacie, à la recherche des calmants qu’ils ont achetés pour le long vol. Il leur faut un moyen de calmer leurs nerfs, ils veulent oublier le crash, ils veulent oublier ce qui les attend. Des bouteilles en plastique de Chardonnay et de Merlot 25 centilitres s’entassent dans l’allée. Ils sombrent dans une somnolence rassurante, le bourdonnement provoqué par les pilules fait taire la panique et l’angoisse. En silence, certains enfants pleurent.

Au bout d’un moment, il n’y a plus d’alcool ; les petits sachets plastique ont été vidés et jetés par terre. La somnolence s’est arrêtée et les passagers sont éveillés, vigilants, tendus. En classe éco, des bagarres éclatent.

Certains passagers ont les articulations démises, des nez saignent, mais rien n’a changé : ils restent dans un avion, privés de la Terre en contrebas, et ils pourraient mourir à tout instant, seuls dans l’espace.

Des heures passent, puis d’autres. Les passagers classe éco sont agités, de plus en plus, puis effrontés. Ils quittent leurs sièges, s’avancent dans l’allée, descendent leurs bagages à mains et farfouillent à l’intérieur.

Certains d’entre eux hurlent sur les stewards et les hôtesses, forcent le passage, traversent le rideau de velours bleu qui abritait la première classe, puis ils parviennent jusqu’au cockpit. Certains des passagers de première classe tentent de les arrêter ; d’autres restent assis, regardent. Puisqu’on ne leur donne aucune réponse,

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Unwillingly to submit to self-appointed authority from beyond the velvet blue divider curtain, passengers in coach roll their eyes, threaten to fight back, challenge first class’s right to authority. Housewives tell everyone that they need to calm down. The stewards and stewardesses do their best to keep things in order, but their faith has been shaken by the entire experience. The gold crosses around their necks seem tacky, now, and during the quiet moments, they become aware of a certain hollowness in their chest, a certain space that didn't used to be there.

Tension between first class and coach continuously mounts and dissipates, but in the meanwhile many coach passengers curl up under the paper-thin blankets provided by the airline and doze. They sit in the aisles and play with the children. They reread the books they brought, then trade them with others and reread those.

They share little packages of sawdust pretzels, and talk about the things they miss: families, and friends, and pet dogs that used to lick their toes in the mornings; favorite jogging routes, the smell of snow, and restaurants with a butternut squash risotto that was just to die for.

At least it doesn't matter when they run out of fuel—there is no longer an atmosphere for them to propel against, no longer any gravity to fight, no more places for them to go to. The plane is simply suspended, drifting through space, much the same as it was before. Except, perhaps, a little quieter.

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pas d’explication, pas de meneur identifié, un désespoir diffus s’empare d’un même coup des passagers éco et première classe. La réalité a été disjointe, mise sens dessus dessous, et rien ne leur a été laissé que l’infinie extension d’un espace noir, qui les encercle derrière les hublots étanches.

Lorsque les batteries des téléphones sont épuisées, les passagers perdent tout repère temporel — alors, l’effroi laisse place à la torpeur. A tout moment, le système de ventilation pourrait s’arrêter, ou l’une des pièces de l’avion, exploser. Ils finiront par être à court de nourriture, leurs habits partiront en lambeaux, des gens mourront. Que vont-ils faire des cadavres ? Un corps ne rentrera pas dans le système d’évacuation des toilettes, et il y a bien longtemps que les flacons de désinfectant pour les mains sont vides.

Ils débattent de ces problèmes, s’efforcent d’élaborer un semblant de plan. En première classe, les hommes d’affaires grincent des dents, ils insistent : « Ce qu’il nous faut, c’est un leader, quelqu’un de responsable ».

Les passagers de classe éco n’ont pas l’intention de se soumettre à l’autorité revendiquée derrière le rideau de séparation en velours bleu. Leurs yeux se révulsent, ils menacent de représailles, ils contestent le droit des première classe à l’autorité. Les mères de famille implorent tout le monde de se calmer. Les membres du personnel de bord s’efforcent de maintenir le calme, mais leur foi a été émoussée par le traumatisme. A présent, dans les croix dorées qu’ils portent au cou, ils ne voient

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Over the course of months, their bodies grow accustomed to the dry, recycled air. After a difficult adjustment, they find themselves perfectly capable of living on pretzels and syrupy-sweet ginger ale. When the pretzels run out, they consume little bags of peanuts. When the ginger ale is gone, they switch to bottled water. It tastes like plastic, but no one says anything and soon they don't even notice.

The issue of leadership has slowly fallen by the wayside.

Does it matter, with no land to fight over, no taxes to be collected, no religion to spread or resources to be claimed? Once the velvet divider curtain is taken down, there’s no socioeconomic ladder to be climbed.

Everybody's hair is equally greasy, after enough time.

They all smell equally bad. It becomes increasingly difficult for anyone to cling to pride; eventually, it becomes impossible.

Driven by boredom and the need for more leg-room, they focus their attention on the plane's interior. There are several engineers on board, and a few particularly clever hobbyists; with unlimited free-time, they are able to figure out a way to remove most of the seats, and they cannibalize the parts for building a space more conducive to habitation. They fashion beds out of the buoyant cushions, and pillows from the excess upholstery. They create space to move, to lie down, to stand up. The airline blankets can be used to make small tents, the most privacy anyone has. Satisfied with their work, the engineers and hobbyists see it as the crowning achievement of their respective careers.

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plus que de vulgaires bijoux en toc ; et lorsque les passagers leur laissent un peu de répit, ils découvrent un creux étrange dans leur poitrine — comme un espace vide qui n’était pas là avant.

Tour à tour lourde et contenue, la tension entre les première classe et les classes éco ne cesse de fluctuer — mais dans les intervalles, nombreux sont les passagers éco qui s’assoupissent, enveloppés dans les couvertures fines comme du papier prêtées par la compagnie. Ils s’assoient dans l’allée, jouent avec les enfants. Ils relisent les livres qu’ils avaient apportés, puis ils les échangent avec leurs voisins, et relisent les leurs.

En piochant dans de petits sachets de bretzels, ils racontent ce qui leur manque : familles, amis, leurs chiens qui léchaient leurs orteils au matin ; les sentiers où ils faisaient leur jogging, l’odeur de la neige, le petit restaurant qui servait un risotto de courge à tomber.

Arrive un moment où le manque de carburant n’a plus d’importance : elle n’existe plus, l’atmosphère dans laquelle l’avion devait se projeter ; plus de gravité à contrebalancer, plus de lieux où aller. L’avion est tout bonnement suspendu ; il dérive à travers l’espace, comme il le faisait jusqu’alors. Seule anomalie : il est, peut-être, un peu plus silencieux.

A mesure que les mois passent, les corps des passagers s’accoutument à l’air sec, sans cesse recyclé dans l’habitacle. Après un épineux temps d’adaptation, ils deviennent parfaitement capables de se nourrir de bretzels et de Canada Dry. Lorsqu’ils sont à court de

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But these changes are only the beginning. Years pass, and by the time they finally run out of peanuts, something incredible has happened. They find they no longer need to eat, that the chemical composition of their bodies as shifted in such a way that they are capable of producing all of the nutrients they need in order to survive. They are amazed—how could this be possible?

They think back to high school science classes and try to remember what they learned about evolution, adaptation, Darwin, but it has been so long that they can't recall. All they know is that they have changed, that the rules that bound them on Earth are no longer applicable. Now that the threat of starvation has been removed, and the human race will be able to thrive in the plane.

Decisions begin to be made collectively. Disputes are settled by witnesses or close friends, and the lack of privacy keeps anyone from acting out. A collective consciousness begins to form, as the housewives become indistinguishable from the teens, from the stewards and stewardesses, from the businessmen and former-bullies and engineers.

Without a planet to orbit the sun, there's no way for them to mark the passage of time as they did, but it does pass. People grow old and wrinkled, their eyes grow filmy.

When the time finally comes, a clever adaptation of the pressure-sealed garbage chute in the back of the plane allows for a dignified means of disposal.

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bretzels, ils se tournent vers les sachets de cacahuètes.

Lorsqu’ils ont bu toute la bière ambrée, ils ouvrent les bouteilles d’eau minérale. L’eau a un goût de plastique, mais personne ne le fait remarquer ; et, bientôt, ils n’en s’en aperçoivent même plus.

La question du commandement est doucement retombée.

Quelle importance, puisqu’il n’y a aucun pays à qui faire la guerre, aucun impôt à collecter, aucune religion à répandre ni ressources à s’arroger ? Une fois mis à bas le rideau de séparation en velours, il n’y a plus d’échelle sociale à laquelle grimper. Au bout d’un certain temps, tous les cheveux sont devenus gras, sur tous les crânes sans distinction. Tous sentent aussi mauvais. Garder sa dignité est devenu de plus en plus difficile ; et puis, finalement, c’est impossible.

L’ennui, et l’envie de pouvoir étendre leurs jambes, concentrent leur attention sur l’aménagement de l’appareil. L’avion compte plusieurs ingénieurs, et quelques bricoleurs particulièrement doués. Puisqu’ils jouissent de tout le temps libre nécessaire, ils parviennent à trouver un moyen d’enlever de leur socle une bonne partie des sièges, et ils phagocytent l’espace ainsi libéré pour s’y installer plus confortablement. Ils fabriquent des lits en utilisant les oreillers gonflables, et des oreillers grâce aux restes de garniture. Ils libèrent de l’espace pour se mouvoir, pour s’étendre, se lever. Les couvertures de la compagnie aérienne peuvent faire office de petites tentes, c’est le mieux qu’on puisse faire pour trouver un peu d’intimité. Les ingénieurs et les bricoleurs sont satisfaits

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The children have grown to be adults, explored sex under the too-thin airline blankets and in the lavatory, the red “occupied” lit up. They have given birth to children whose bodies grow to be smaller than their own, more compact for the limited space. Their skin is a soft bluish hue—the air recycling system has been slowly failing for years, and their bodies have been forced to adapt to decreasing oxygen levels. Still, their elf-like children thrive, and their children's children thrive, and their children after that.

Such a long time passes, generation after generation of people, each more remarkable than the next. Without the gravity of that blue-green planet to anchor them down, more and more changes occur, small chemical shifts in the molecular makeup of tightly-curled DNA. When the plane finally fails, when the welding breaks apart and the airtight plastic windows crumble, the people find they don't even need it. The great, metal hull has served them only as a chrysalis, housing the incredible transformation that has taken place. Leaving the curling hunks of metal and plastic to slowly drift apart, forgotten, they evolve outward and into the expanse.

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de leurs trouvailles : ils voient là le couronnement de leurs carrières respectives.

Mais ces évolutions ne sont que des prémisses. Les années passent, et lorsqu’ils se trouvent à court de cacahuètes, un incroyable phénomène a eu lieu. Ils s’aperçoivent qu’ils n’ont plus besoin de se nourrir : la composition chimique de leurs corps a évolué d’une manière telle qu’ils sont devenus capables de produire par eux-mêmes tous les nutriments nécessaires à leur survie. Ils sont émerveillés : comment est-ce possible ? Ils repensent à leurs cours de science du lycée, et s’efforcent de se rappeler ce qu’ils avaient appris alors : l’évolution, l’adaptation, Darwin ; mais tant de temps a passé qu’ils en sont incapables. Tout ce qu’ils savent, c’est qu’ils ont changé, que les règles qu’ils observaient sur Terre ne sont plus en vigueur. A présent que la menace de la famine n’a plus lieu d’être, la race humaine va pouvoir prospérer dans l’avion.

On se met à prendre des décisions collectives. Les disputes sont apaisées par les témoins, ou les amis proches, et l’absence d’intimité dissuade les comportements agressifs. On voit émerger une conscience commune, puisque les mères de famille deviennent indissociables des adolescents, des stewards, des hôtesses de l’air, des hommes d’affaires, des anciens voyous et des ingénieurs.

En l’absence d’une planète reliée au soleil, il leur est impossible de quantifier le passage du temps comme autrefois ; mais le temps passe bien. Les passagers

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deviennent vieux et ridés, leurs yeux sont vitreux. Le moment venu, un usage ingénieux du vide-ordure autoclave offre un moyen d’évacuer les corps en toute dignité.

Les enfants sont devenus adultes ; ils ont découvert le sexe en s’abritant sous les maigres couvertures de la compagnie aérienne, et dans les sanitaires, protégés par le voyant rouge « occupé ». Ils ont donné naissance à des enfants dont les corps, en grandissant, restent plus petits que les leurs : plus compacts, taillés pour un environnement étroit.

Leur peau est teintée d’une fine nuance de bleu : le système de recyclage de l’air s’est détérioré au fil des ans, et les corps ont bien dû s’adapter à la baisse des taux d’oxygène. Malgré tout, leurs enfants aux allures d’elfes s’épanouissent, et s’épanouissent les enfants de leurs enfants, puis leurs enfants à leur suite.

Tant de temps s’écoule, des générations succèdent à des générations, chacune étant plus étonnante que la précédente. En l’absence d’une gravité offerte par la vieille planète bleue et verte, de plus en plus d’évolutions ont lieu : de légères mutations se produisent dans la structure moléculaire des ADN ondulés.

Lorsque l’avion finit par se déliter, lorsque le fuselage se rompt et que les hublots étanches se fissurent, les passagers s’aperçoivent qu’ils n’en ont plus même l’utilité. La gigantesque coque en métal n’était pour eux rien de plus qu’une chrysalide, un abri pour l’incroyable transformation qui s’est produite. Ils laissent dériver les

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parois de tôle ondulée qui s’éloignent lentement derrière eux ; ils les ont déjà oubliées, et ils s’élancent au-dehors, à travers l’infini.

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ALMA ADILON

Je t’avais pas reconnue, bon ben enchanté, tu es plus belle que sur ta photo tu sais ? mais on doit te le dire souvent ça, bon en tout cas je suis ravi de faire ta connaissance, tu m’excuses je suis hyper timide, on dirait pas comme ça, mais en fait je t’assure je suis timide, en plus aujourd’hui je suis pas au top de mon charme, j’ai eu une sale journée au boulot, boulot de merde franchement enfin je vais pas te gaver avec mes histoires, en plus faut que je te dise mon chauffage est tombé en panne, du coup il va faire un peu froid dans mon appart je suis désolé, faudrait que je passe chez Darty choper un truc d’appoint, mais là avec tes talons et tout j’imagine que ça va te saouler si on fait le détour — ah merde je parle je parle et je me suis trompé de chemin, fallait tourner à gauche, pas grave viens on prend à droite ça va rejoindre la route — en tout cas je suis ravi de faire ta connaissance, et tu sais c’est sympa de pas m’avoir jugé pour — enfin pour ce que je t’ai dit par message : moi mes potes c’est des bonhommes, si ils savaient ça, je te dis pas comment je me ferais chambrer, mais toi t’es sympa tu juges pas, en même temps si ça fait longtemps que tu fais ça t’as dû en voir des vertes et des pas mûres, tiens c’est là attends que je trouve mes clés.

Sur la façade de l’immeuble j’observe un pimpant logo Résidences sociales — Réinsertion participative. Le bâti est ancien ; pas sale, seulement vétuste : une fois passé le hall

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translated from the french by AMANDA K HORN I didn’t recognize you—it’s so nice to finally meet!—you know you’re even more beautiful than your photo?—but I don’t need to tell you that—anyway, glad to meet you—sorry, I’m a little nervous—you probably can’t tell, but I promise you, I am—and I’m not at the top of my game right now either, I had a bad day—a real shitty day, to be honest, but I won’t bore you with the details—oh, and by the way, the heating in my apartment is out, so it might be cold, sorry about that—I need to swing by Darty to grab a few things, but what with your heels and all, I’m sure you’d prefer to avoid any detours—oh shit, here I am, babbling like an idiot and we went the wrong way, we should have turned left—that’s no problem, we’ll take a right instead—anyway, it’s so nice to meet you—you know, it’s really refreshing to not to be judged for—well, for what I told you about in my message… my friends are stuck up, if they knew what I was into I could never show my face again—but I can tell you’re not like that, you don’t judge—then again, oh boy, some of the things you must see in your line of work!—here, let me find my keys.

On the building’s facade, I spotted a sign: this was a housing project. The place was old—not dirty, just run-down. Beyond the lobby, the hallway’s salmon colored paint had faded to a grayish pastel. And then there was the stink—the smell of public housing, there’s

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d’entrée je devine qu’à l’époque les couloirs avaient dû être peints en rose saumon, qui s’est transformé en un pastel grisâtre ; et puis l’odeur, ça sent le logement social, je ne peux pas le dire autrement : une odeur d’humidité, de renfermé et de cuisine des familles.

Les couloirs rose saumon auraient dû m’avertir mais pourtant je ne m’attendais pas à ça ; quand il a ouvert la porte de chez lui j’ai été prise aux narines par une odeur de pisse de chat, tellement forte qu’on aurait dit celle des clochards dans le métro, j’aurais voulu partir mais c’était trop tard. Je m’en suis voulu, je me suis dit : ma petite, va falloir prendre sur toi, tu vas passer une sale demi- heure. Je ne suis pas partie parce que j’ai des principes, pour partir il y a tout un protocole, des excuses à trouver qui se présentent à certains moments précis pour ne pas trop heurter le client, mais là c’était trop tard : partir en voyant s’ouvrir la porte de l’appartement aurait été ouvertement insultant. Je m’en suis voulu, je me suis dit que j’aurais dû m’en douter dès ses premiers messages sur le site, il était déjà beaucoup plus bavard que la moyenne, c’est très gentil à vous de ne pas me juger, je suis très impatient de faire votre connaissance, pour moi c’est vraiment important le respect mutuel, dites-moi ce que vous aimez boire j’irai faire des courses avant votre venue, vous êtes sûre que vous ne me jugez pas ?

Il était trop tard pour partir, je l’aurais fait si j’avais été en danger, mais partir pour une simple odeur de pipi de chat c’était vraiment trop stupide, dans tous les boulots il y a des moment où il faut prendre sur soi.

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no other way to describe it: a damp smell, a stale smell, the smell of anonymous families cooking.

I should have known as soon as I saw the salmon pink hallways. That should have been a warning sign, but I missed it. When he opened the door to his apartment, I was overwhelmed by the tang of cat piss, as strong as the stench of drunk bums on the subway. I wanted to leave right then and there, but it was too late. I blamed myself, thinking: Sweetie, you have to go through with it—maybe it won’t be so bad.

I stayed because I had principles, and because leaving is such a process, finding excuses at just the right moment to avoid offending the client. And anyway, it was too late now: to change my mind as soon as the door opened would be downright insulting. It was my fault, really, I should have known from his messages online. He was so eager, far more chatty than the usual type—It’s sweet of you not to judge me, I can’t wait to meet you, it’s all about mutual respect, tell me what you like to drink, I’ll go shopping before you come—are you sure you’re not judging me?

There was no backing out now. It would have been one thing if I was actually in danger, but leaving because the place smelled like cat pee? That was just stupid—after all, every profession has drawbacks.

I took a seat on the edge of the couch to avoid touching the plaid blanket protecting it (from what?). While he settled in, I looked around the living room: dirty

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Je me suis assise sur le rebord du canapé, en faisant en sorte d’être le moins en contact possible avec le plaid bouloché qui le protégeait (de quoi ?). Pendant qu’il s’agitait pour faire un peu de rangement, j’ai eu le temps d’observer le salon : mouchoirs sales, vieux reste de poulet rôti, aquarium mal filtré.

Il s’est assis à l’autre bout de la pièce, bien droit sur une chaise de récup, et il a parlé longuement. Il m’a raconté sa vie, les mésaventures qu’il avait eues avec des filles comme moi, la perte de sa mère un mois plus tôt, l’héritage qui lui attirait pas mal de faux amis, et puis finalement il en est venu au sujet qui m’intéressait. Il m’a redemandé si je ne le jugeais pas, j’ai dit : on a tous nos fantasmes. J’avais hâte qu’il se taise et qu’on s’y mette.

Il a dit d’un air inquiet, tu parles pas beaucoup ; j’ai dit que j’étais timide et j’ai pris l’air timide.

Il a dit, ça t’ennuie si j’allume ma fenêtre ? J’ai dit « comment ça ? » et il dirigé une télécommande vers un cadre en bois accroché au mur. Le fond du cadre s’est allumé pour afficher comme un menu de télé. Il a navigué entre les options : vue de Manhattan, paysage tibétain, aquarium de Tokyo. Il a choisi l’aquarium. Sur le petit écran, des poissons exotiques pas possibles se dandinaient dans leurs robes bleues et jaunes. Pour la première fois depuis mon arrivée j’ai eu un sourire franc : cet aquarium virtuel affiché au-dessus du vrai bocal à poissons rouges miteux, c’était trop marrant. Je lui ai dit gentiment : « trop classe », ça l’a fait sourire et ça l’a détendu un peu.

Il a dit « j’avais besoin d’air. »

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handkerchiefs, the remains of an old roast chicken, an aquarium with a broken filter.

On the other side of the room, he sat stiffly on a refurbished chair and started to ramble. He told me all about his life, the misadventures he’d had with girls like me, losing his mother last month, the big inheritance she left him that attracted so many fake friends, and—finally—the topic that interested me most. He asked again if I was judging him, and I said: We all have fantasies. I wanted him to shut up and get on with it.

Anxiously he said, you don’t talk much; I told him I was shy, and tried to look shy.

He said, will it bother you if I turn on my window? I said, “What?” and he pointed a remote control at a wooden frame on the wall. The bottom of the frame lit up to display a TV menu. He scrolled between options: Manhattan skyline, Tibetan landscape, Tokyo aquarium.

He picked the aquarium. On the small screen, impossibly exotic fish drifted by, clad in blue and yellow. I smiled genuinely for the first time all night: seeing a virtual fish tank displayed above the real thing—a shabby little goldfish bowl—was too funny. I said sweetly: “Very cool!” and he smiled, seeming to relax a little. He said, “I needed some air.”

Still he wouldn’t stop talking, stalling, clearly too nervous to make a move. Gently, I said: It’s time, let’s do this.

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Il n’arrêtait pas de parler, il repoussait le moment, je voyais bien qu’il n’osait pas se lancer. J’ai pris une voix suave et j’ai dit : c’est l’heure de plonger dans le grand bain.

Il a souri timidement et il s’est levé. Il est resté planté là.

J’ai indiqué le sol avec mon index et j’ai dit : viens là. Il est venu s’asseoir à genoux sur la moquette sale.

J’ai tendu le pied et il a fait son truc. Les cinq premières minutes ça m’amusait, c’était la première fois que je faisais ça avec un fétichiste. Je me distrayais en prenant des tas de poses sexy avec mes jambes. Mais au bout d’un moment j’ai trouvé ça répétitif, alors je me suis mise à penser à tout et à rien. J’ai pensé à mes clients réguliers, aux grosses décapotables au volant lesquelles ils viennent toujours me récupérer en bas de chez moi. Leurs bonnes manières dans la rue quand ils me prennent doucement par la taille pour m’inviter à les suivre. La façon dont, une fois rentrés, ils accrochent leur veste sur un cintre avant même d’avoir quitté leurs chaussures. Le soin qu’ils mettent à me vouvoyer et à me lancer des oeillades élégantes. Et puis, une fois dans leur chambre, le peu de temps qu’il leur faut pour me sauter dessus et enlever mes habits — et pour faire leur affaire en gardant leurs chaussettes, en s’essoufflant parce qu’ils n’ont pas l’habitude.

Lui, à mes pieds, il était plutôt mignon. Un peu miteux bien sûr, mais finalement, il était sympa.

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He smiled shyly and got to his feet, but hung back. I pointed at the ground and said: Come here. At last, he came over and kneeled on the dirty carpet.

I presented my feet and he began to do his thing. The first five minutes were fun, it was my first time with a fetishist. I entertained myself by striking sexy poses with my legs, but after a while it became repetitive, and my mind began to wander. I thought about my regular customers, the big convertibles in which they would pick me up from home. Their good manners in public when they gently slip an arm around my waist, inviting me to follow them. How, alone at last, they hang their jacket before even taking off their shoes. How courteously they address me, their elegant glances And then, in the bedroom, how little time it takes for them to pounce on me and yank off my clothes. These men do it with their socks still on, panting because they’re so out of shape.

This guy at my feet wasn’t bad looking, actually. A little scruffy, sure, but all things considered—he was nice.

How was he able to afford an experience like this, a privilege usually reserved for millionaires who were numb to physical pleasures? He must have wondered the same thing, seeing me arrive in my expensive miniskirt at the rendezvous point. It must have been that big inheritance.

While he continued to get off with my high heels, his cat wandered over and rubbed up against me—a misshapen little thing. Her jaw was overdeveloped so the beautiful triangle that typically adorns any self-respecting feline

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Je me suis demandé comment il était arrivé sur ce site, réservé d’ordinaire aux millionnaires en manque de sensations. Lui aussi, en me voyant arriver en minijupe au point de rendez-vous, avait dû se demander comment tout ça avait pu se goupiller. L’effet de l’héritage, sans doute.

Pendant que le type continuait à s’exciter sur mes chaussures, son chat est venu se frotter à moi. C’était une petite chatte boiteuse avec une malformation du visage.

Sa mâchoire était surdéveloppée, si bien que son visage, au lieu du beau triangle qu’arbore fièrement tout félin qui se respecte, était dans une forme d’ovale très proche de celle des humains. A cause d’une patte amputée, elle tenait à peine sur ses pattes ; mais elle était affectueuse : ça m’a plu. Je l’ai caressée discrètement pensant que, de toute manière, le type était trop occupé pour s’en rendre compte.

Quand l’heure de finir est arrivée, je l’ai invité à se relever et je lui ai dit d’une voix autoritaire : « c’est bien. »

Il m’a paru un peu misérable, tout maigre à mes pieds.

Pendant qu’il se rhabillait, je me suis rendu compte que je m’étais faite à l’odeur. D’avoir vu le chat, aussi, me l’avait rendue moins désagréable.

Il est venu s’asseoir à côté de moi sur le canapé et il m’a remerciée. Il avait perdu son bagou du début, quand il ne me laissait pas en placer une. Il ne disait plus rien, il souriait.

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face was elongated into an oval, like a human face. She had only three legs and could barely walk, but she was affectionate and I liked that. I petted her discreetly, figuring he was too busy to notice.

When time was up, I said, “That’s enough,” and ordered him to stand.

He’d seemed so miserable, scrawny on his knees in front of me. While he was getting dressed, I realized that I’d gotten used to the smell—maybe seeing the cat had made it more bearable.

He sat down next to me on the couch and thanked me.

He had lost his chattiness, unlike in the beginning when he wouldn’t shut up. He now said nothing, smiling.

I’d never seen anyone so skinny! I gave him a motherly kiss on the forehead—I regretted being so cold earlier.

After all, he really had been nice. Meekly, he handed me my envelope. I took it, feeling a little ashamed. It embarrassed to accept all this money. On the way to the bus stop, he asked if he would ever see me again; but the bus arrived before my response.

In the subway, suddenly doubtful, I pulled out the envelope to double-check. There was 250, along with a card that read Gilles Pinson - Word Dealer. On the back, there was a Facebook link.

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Je n’avais jamais vu quelqu’un d’aussi maigre. Je l’ai embrassé sur le front en essayant de faire comme une mère. J’ai regretté d’avoir été si froide au début. Après tout, il avait été sympa. Il m’a tendu mon enveloppe timidement, j’ai eu un peu honte de lui ponctionner tout cet argent. En me raccompagnant à l’arrêt de bus, il m’a demandé si on se reverrait; mais le bus est arrivé avant ma réponse.

Dans le métro, prise d’un doute, j’ai sorti l’enveloppe pour recompter. Il y avait bien 250, et puis un petit carton sur lequel était écrit Gilles Pinson — Dealer de mots. Au dos de la carte, il y avait un lien vers une page Facebook.

Le soir, je suis allée sur Facebook. Sur sa page, j’ai choisi un poème au hasard et je l’ai lu.

Quand passent les voitures au-dehors Que la fumée s’étend sur mon corps mort, Le silence est mon ami.

Quand j’éteins les lumières chez moi, Reste le filet étroit Du lampadaire sur la paroi Pour éclairer mon désarroi

Le silence est mon ami.

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Alma's Original + Amanda's Translation - Google Docs

That evening, I followed the link to his Facebook page, and chose a random poem:

As outside the cars go by The smoke covers me where I lie, Silence is my only friend.

When I turn out the light, The heavy net I cannot fight The lamp on the wall Reveals my mess to all

Silence is my only friend.

In the morning when I go out Knowing there’s no one about When down the stairs I go Loudly, but all alone When through the cloudy sky do shine Rays of sun, but not mine,

Silence is my only friend.

I don’t know why, but I didn’t want to make fun of it. I clicked “like”—so much for anonymity. I guess I needed a breath of fresh air. According to Google Maps, he lives 28 kilometers away. I’ll probably never see him again—but who knows?

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Quand j’ouvre la porte au matin Et que personne ne m’attend Quand je descends les escaliers Et que je me cogne les pieds Quand je vois luire le mauvais temps, Le soleil aux rayons déviés,

Le silence est mon ami.

Je ne saurais pas dire pourquoi, mais je n’ai pas eu envie de me moquer. J’ai liké le poème, tant pis pour l’anonymat, et j’ai eu envie de sortir prendre l’air.

D’après Google Maps, il habite à 28 kilomètres. Peu de chances que je le recroise un jour.

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Janey's Original + Helene's Translation - Google Docs

JANEY TRACEY

from THE THIRD TWIN

Nox had never before considered entering into the contract of pregnancy, but rather walked straight into it and slid a few steps like it was an especially squeezed compartment of a revolving door.

She thought she must have been dying. Exhausted to the point that she could hardly lift her arm, she worried an incubus had been visiting her at night, siphoning her vitality until she needed to sleep even more so he could lay with her once again. Her vomit formed a projectile high and arched like the stream from a cherub-fish fountain and adhered to the bathroom walls with a viscous slime, forming globs that weighed themselves down with gravity until they split into inert branching rivulets that slowed and then stalled before they reached the floor. She remembered when she had food poisoning she could feel the raw fish bacteria eat away at her stomach acids, only for them to turn on the invisible animals viciously, encasing them in harmless food particles and consumptive black bile until the body did its equalizing work and sent them back where they came from.

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Janey's Original + Helene's Translation - Google Docs

traduit de l’anglais par HÉLÈNE LAURAIN

un extrait de LA TROISÈME JUMELLE

Nox n’avait jamais envisagé de s’engager dans le contrat de la grossesse, elle y était plutôt entrée de plain-pied, en glissant quelque peu, comme dans le compartiment particulièrement étroit d’une porte tambour.

Elle croyait être en train de mourir. Épuisée au point de pouvoir à peine lever son bras, elle craignait qu’un incube ne lui ait rendu visite la nuit, aspirant sa vitalité jusqu’à ce qu’elle doive dormir encore plus afin qu’il puisse de nouveau coucher avec elle. Son vomi formait un projectile haut et arqué, comme le jet d’une fontaine chérubins et poissons et adhérait aux murs de la salle de bain en une matière visqueuse formant des gouttes gluantes qui s’écoulaient par l’effet de la gravité avant de se diviser en petits ruisselets ramifiés et inertes qui ralentissaient puis calaient avant d’atteindre le sol. Elle se rappelait son intoxication alimentaire, elle avait senti les bactéries du poisson cru dévorer les acides de son estomac alors qu’ils se retournaient vicieusement contre les animaux invisibles, les recouvrant de particules de nourriture inoffensives et de bile noire corrosive jusqu’à ce que le corps fasse son travail de rééquilibrage et les renvoie là d’où ils venaient.

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It was different this time, though. The invader was nesting a home inside of her. She could feel it anchoring itself with her own veins and tissue and blood and calcifying them into a shelter, like worker bees building a hive in a natural hanging cavity.

When she learned she was pregnant, she supposed her body was, in fact, expelling the foreign agent, but in such slow motion she couldn’t see or feel it. She could only feel this intermediate phase, in which the intruder was hiding in plain sight, convincing her sentries that she was the trespasser all along, growing stronger and bolder and more at home all the time.

Nox already had their names picked out, for the sole reason that she could already tell them apart. They already dizzied her with their differences, and she for very practical purposes needed distinctive sounds associated with specific connotations that could articulate the separate personhoods of the three entities inside her. Betha--Beth for short. The whimsical child who looked straight into the camera during the ultrasound, making a sedate fist and opening it into a watery wave. Anastasia--the beloved elfin child. Annie.

The stalwart runt who swelled slowly and sweetly with every scrap of resources she could muster. She had the slowest, softest heartbeat. Nox imagined she would grow up to be a diffident child, drawing the sky purple because she’s too afraid to ask for a blue marker, perpetually last to run for the pinata so all that’s left are Mounds.

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Mais cette fois, c’était différent. L’envahisseur faisait son nid à l’intérieur d’elle. Elle le sentait s’ancrer en elle, dans ses propres veines et tissus et dans son sang et les calcifier en un refuge, comme les abeilles ouvrières qui construisent une ruche dans une cavité naturelle en suspension.

Quand elle apprit qu’elle était enceinte, elle s’imagina qu’en fait, son corps était en train d’expulser le corps étranger, mais dans un mouvement tellement lent qu’elle ne pouvait ni le voir, ni le sentir. Elle ne sentait que cette phase intermédiaire où le clandestin se cachait au vu de tous, convaincant ses sentinelles qu’elle était l’étrangère depuis le début, tandis qu’elles se sentaient en même temps de plus en plus fortes et confiantes et chez elles.

Nox leur avait déjà choisi un nom, pour la seule et unique raison qu’elle pouvait déjà les distinguer. Elles l’avaient déjà étourdie par leurs différences, et elle, pour des raisons purement pratiques, avait besoin de sons distincts associés à des connotations spécifiques qui pouvaient différencier les personnalités séparées des trois entités installées en elle. Betha – Beth pour faire court. L’enfant espiègle qui regardait droit dans la caméra pendant l’échographie, serrant calmement son poing puis le rouvrant en un salut liquide. Anastasia – l’enfant-elfe chéri. Le vaillant avorton qui gonflait lentement et doucement à chaque once de ressource qu’elle parvenait à arracher. Le battement de son cœur était le plus lent et le plus léger. Nox s’imaginait qu’elle deviendrait un enfant différent, elle colorierait le ciel en violet parce qu’elle aurait trop peur de demander le feutre bleu, elle serait

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And then lastly, there was Loralie. The healthiest and most robust, she drank from her mother’s person through the umbilical cord like a mosquito through an ovipositor until Nox feared this child, this rapidly tumefying ball of skin, would burst into a crumpled splat of blood. Nox’s stomach distended further and further away from her, but her arms and legs almost grew skinnier. Her friends commended her dainty restraint, but Nox knew better.

She knew Loralie was gulping down every molecule of food from Nox’s bloodstream before they could be absorbed into Nox’s cells. Nox ate and ate and ate, hoping to overload Loralie with nutrients and keep the surplus for the other babies and, eventually, herself. But Loralie was ravenous as a great blue whale, gulping down everything in her aqueous path and filtering out the excess into sad pieces of detritus too small to eat. She had a stronger will to live than any being Nox had ever seen.

Nox felt as if she were about to give birth to a bag of writhing snakes. Beth somersaulted and tumbled with a playful flourish. She was the only baby to learn to smile in the womb.

Anastasia touched her own body with an innocuous curiosity, had a tactile experience of her face, belly, privates that hadn’t developed yet. Loralie, on the other hand, kicked with a choleric fury, relentlessly, day and night. Nox screamed when strangers touched her stomach on the street, not least because the entire inside layer of her stomach was covered with mottled, angry bruises that couldn’t be seen from the outside. Loralie was the first baby to devour the downy coating of hair

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toujours la dernière à se ruer sur la piñata et tout ce qu’il resterait, ce serait des Mounds.

Et enfin, il y avait Loralie. La plus saine et robuste, elle buvait le corps de sa mère par le cordon ombilical comme un moustique à travers son ovipositeur, si bien que Nox craignait que cet enfant, cette boule de chair se tuméfiant à grande vitesse, finisse par exploser en un splash sanguinolent. Le ventre de Nox se distendait de plus en plus loin d’elle mais ses bras et ses jambes mincissaient presque. Ses amis louaient sa délicate retenue mais Nox connaissait le fin mot de l’histoire. Elle savait que Loralie engloutissait chaque molécule de nourriture provenant de son propre système sanguin avant qu’elles ne soient absorbées par les cellulles de Nox. Nox mangeait, mangeait, mangeait, espérant submerger Loralie de nutriments et garder le reste pour les autres bébés et, accessoirement, pour elle. Mais Loralie était vorace comme une grande baleine bleue, engloutissant tout dans son tunnel aqueux et laissant filtrer le surplus sous forme de tristes et minuscules déchets, trop petits pour être mangés. C’était l’être doté de la plus forte pulsion de vie que Nox ait jamais connu.

Nox avait l’impression d’être sur le point de donner la vie à un paquet de serpents entremêlés. Beth sautillait et culbutait dans un élan enjoué. C’était le seul bébé qui apprenait à sourire dans l’utérus. Anastasia touchait son propre corps avec une curiosité innocente, effectuant des expériences tactiles sur son visage, son ventre et ses parties intimes qui n’étaient pas encore développées.

Loralie, quant à elle, donnait des coups de pied de furie

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shed from her own skin and then eaten greedily from the placenta. She would grow up to be a biter.

Nox woke with pains one day, thinking Loralie must be in another one of her moods. But Beth was kicking up a clamor as well, kicking harder than Nox even thought possible, stretching thin translucent bulges of skin on her stomach like hands stretching into a rubber glove.

Goosebumps embossed on Nox’s arms as blood burned on its way out. The babies were screaming at her.

It was Anastasia. Nox felt no pain, only bled something fierce, as if she were menstruating again, as if she had never been pregnant at all.

Her doctor said Nox was lucky the baby would be reabsorbed. She wouldn’t have to deliver a stillborn, lips purple, eyes bulging out of the sides of the head like a glutinous squid, the skin bright red like it was burnt.

And now, he said, the pregnancy symptoms would diminish.She would be more comfortable. Her cervix would close up to protect the two thriving babies growing inside her. Everything would work the way it was supposed to now.

But for now, Anastasia remained, eyes closed, legs curled, fists clenched. Nox was a black hole, becoming so small and dense that she had no choice but to produce a plethora of offshoots, only to take them in, reingest them, swallow them whole and recompress them into nothing. Her body held death inside her, and she had never felt so powerful.

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colérique, sans relâche, nuit et jour. Nox criait quand des étrangers touchaient son ventre dans la rue, notamment parce que toute la surface intérieure de son ventre était recouverte de furieuses contusions marbrées, invisibles de l’extérieur. Loralie était le premier bébé à dévorer la couche de poils duveteuse tombée de sa propre peau puis avalée goulûment par le placenta. Elle deviendrait sûrement une mordeuse.

Un jour, Nox s’était réveillée avec des douleurs, pensant que Loralie devait encore avoir une saute d’humeur. Mais Beth aussi tabassait en vociférant, frappant plus fort que ce que Nox croyait être possible, faisant apparaître des bourgeons fins et translucides sur son ventre comme des mains enfilant un gant de caoutchouc. La chair de poule piqua les bras de Nox alors que le sang la brûlait en s’écoulant hors d’elle. Les bébés l’avertissaient.

C’était Anastasia. Nox ne ressentait aucune douleur, saignait seulement à mort comme si elle avait de nouveau ses règles, comme si elle n’avait absolument jamais été enceinte.

Son médecin disait que Nox avait de la chance que son bébé soit réabsorbé. Elle n’aurait pas à accoucher d’un mort-né, les lèvres violettes, les yeux protubérant des deux côtés de la tête comme un calamar gluant, la peau rouge vif comme si elle était brûlée. Et maintenant, disait-il, les symptômes de la grossesse allaient diminuer.

Elle se sentirait plus à son aise. Le col de son utérus se refermerait pour protéger les deux bébés qui se

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Beth started turning somersaults again within the day, while Loralie kicked with a renewed bile. With every sonogram Anastasia shrunk to a smaller pinprick, as if the picture were taken from further and further away, until one day nothing. An empty sac.

Loralie vainly attempted to cry for the rest of the pregnancy. She lacked the equipment to produce tears, and the space to make a sound, but every time Nox saw the child she was opening her mouth, taking harsh hiccuping breaths, and turning her head inward away from the oncoming world, staring into the cavernous depths of Nox’s inner sepulcher.

Nox suspected Loralie was getting impatient, that the womb had been a disappointment for her and she was ready for something new. Nox felt her pelvis come loose months in advance, as if Loralie were telling her, All right then! I’m ready now! Nox’s body was split down the middle; she worried the babies would just tumble out at any moment. Her legs came further and further apart, as if someone were turning a screw looser in her hips with every step. She found herself walking with a side-to-side gait, like a reanimated corpse shuffling towards the nearest noise, searching for a sacrificial lamb to sustain its own dead-life.

The day she went into labor, the pain turned her cold.

Her body indifferently expelled Beth, who was ready, who made a quick yet battered exit, like trash bags bouncing down a chute. Loralie, infuriatingly, wouldn’t make an appearance. She had wanted to come out for

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développaient en elle. Tout fonctionnerait comme prévu maintenant.

Mais pour l’instant, Anastasia était encore là, yeux fermés, jambes repliées, poings serrés. Nox était un trou noir, devenait si petite et dense qu’elle ne pouvait faire autre chose que produire pléthore de rejetons, rien que pour les assimiler, les ingérer encore, les avaler tout entier et les comprimer en un rien. Son corps retenait la mort en elle, et elle ne s’était jamais sentie aussi puissante.

Beth recommença à faire des sauts périlleux le jour même, tandis que Loralie donnait des coups de pieds avec une hargne retrouvée. À chaque échographie, Anastasia se réduisait à une piqûre d’épingle se rétrécissant, comme si la photo était prise de plus en plus loin, jusqu’à ce qu’un jour rien. Une poche vide.

Loralie tenta en vain de pleurer pendant le reste de la grossesse. Il lui manquait l’équipement pour produire des larmes et l’espace pour faire un son, mais à chaque fois que Nox voyait l’enfant, celle-ci ouvrait la bouche, prenait des inspirations sèches et hoquetantes et détournait sa tête vers l’intérieur, loin du monde qui fonçait vers elle, fixant les profondeurs caverneuses du sépulcre intérieur de Nox.

Nox soupçonnait Loralie de devenir impatiente, que l’utérus avait été une déception pour elle et qu’elle était prête pour quelque chose de nouveau. Nox sentait son pelvis se ramollir des mois à l’avance, comme si Loralie lui disait OK très bien ! Je suis prête maintenant ! Le corps de Nox était déchiré en deux en plein milieu ; elle

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months, impetuous and testy, but now, of course, she had changed her fickle mind and just wanted to stay in the womb where it was warm. Loralie held onto her mother’s innards and kicked with all her strength, grabbing onto her mother’s entrails with her newly grown fingernails and pulling everything she could on the way down.

After forty-eight hours of pushing, of her body clenching into itself as if she were on a reverse rack, Nox knew for absolute certain Loralie wasn’t coming out. As she and Loralie locked into their final battle of wills, Nox distracted herself from the pain with the image of a woman, a woman who allows hellhounds to enter her every month and menstruates them out only to take them into her dark murky womb again and start the process all over. The woman who holds inside her a part-time kennel. The woman with serpents for legs. An abomination.

Loralie didn’t give up without a fight. She came out screaming, and tore Nox from vagina to anus, opening her up like the gaping mouth of a succulent. A mesmerizing dark spiral that flaps in the wind.

In spite of their voracious appetites, the babies were small enough to fit in Nox’s cupped hands. Their faces were already starkly different from each other: Beth’s features forthright and a little squashed, Loralie’s delicate and eerily proportional. Loralie set her eyes upon Nox, her stare hard and ice-blue.

How dare you.

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craignait que les bébés ne finissent par dégringoler à tout instant. Ses jambes s’éloignaient de plus en plus l’une de l’autre, comme si quelqu’un desserrait une vis dans ses hanches à chaque pas. Elle se retrouvait à avancer d’une démarche claudiquante, comme un cadavre réanimé qui traîne vers le bruit le plus proche, cherchant un agneau sacrificiel pour sustenter sa propre mort-vie.

Le jour où son travail commença, la douleur la rendit froide. Son corps expulsa indiféremment Beth qui était prête et qui fit une sortie rapide quoique brutale, comme des sacs poubelle dégringolant d’un vide-ordure.

Loralie, exaspérante, refusait de faire son entrée. Elle avait voulu sortir pendant des mois, impétueuse et irascible, mais maintenant, évidemment, son avis capricieux avait changé et elle voulait absolument rester dans l’utérus, là où il faisait chaud. Loralie tenait fermement les tripes de sa mère et donnait des coups de pieds de toutes ses forces, s’accrochant aux entrailles de sa mère avec ses ongles tout neufs et tirant tout ce qu’elle pouvait en descendant.

Après quarante-huit heures de poussée, alors que son corps se resserrait sur lui-même comme si elle était sur un chevalet d’écartèlement, Nox était absolument certaine que Loralie ne sortirait pas. Alors qu’elle et Loralie s’engageaient dans leur dernier bras de fer, Nox détournait son attention de la douleur grâce à l’image d’une femme, une femme qui autorise chaque mois des chiens de l’enfer à la pénétrer et les expulse en règles, rien que pour les aspirer à nouveau dans son utérus trouble et

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Beth struggled to focus her barely opened eyes, and then settled into sleep as if her baby blanket were simply an extension of the womb. Loralie screamed herself into a fitful sleep in which she kept wide open her blue eyes, reproachful and fluttering with dreamlike delirium. Her little body twitched and convulsed in a nightmare. Beth snuggled up to her sister, as she would do many times in the future, warming Loralie’s sunken, stained face with her apple cheek. Loralie stilled and quieted, her eyes rolling backwards into her head until there was only a spleenful white.

~

Nox found Annie in the features of her daughters, in between them and intertwined with them. Loralie grew a shock of white-blonde hair, her eyes translucent, as if one could see all the way inside her skull only to find a far-more-opaque mind. She smiled with a mischievous gap in her front teeth like she was about to place your king in checkmate. Beth’s hair was a gentle in-between color, neither blonde nor brown. Her bulbous nose charmingly matched her happy little smile, her eyes dark and warm and on-the-surface. Nox could see entire futures in those expressive faces.

If Beth and Loralie seemed destined to occupy two extremes--tomboy and girly-girl, prose and poetry--Annie would have been the misfit accident. She would have had watery eyes and mousy hair and stick-out ears. She would have had a sweet heart-shaped

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noir et recommencer depuis le début. La femme qui détient au fond d’elle un chenil à temps partiel. La femme aux jambes de serpent. Une abomination.

Loralie n’abandonna pas sans se battre. Elle sortit en hurlant et déchira Nox du vagin à l’anus, l’ouvrant comme la bouche béante d’une succulente. Une envoûtante spirale noire pendue au vent.

Malgré leurs appétits voraces, les bébés étaient assez petits pour tenir dans le creux des mains de Nox. Leurs visages étaient déjà très différents l’un de l’autre : les traits de Beth francs et un peu froissés, ceux de Loralie délicats et sinistrement bien proportionnés. Loralie posa ses yeux sur Nox, son regard dur et bleu glace.

Comment oses-tu.

Beth lutta pour ajuster son regard à peine ouvert puis plongea dans le sommeil comme si sa couverture de bébé n’était qu’une extension de l’utérus. Loralie cria jusqu’à ce qu’elle tombe dans un sommeil agité, gardant ses yeux bleus grand ouverts, pleins de reproches et clignant dans un délire onirique. Son petit corps était pris de spasmes et de convulsions dans un cauchemar. Beth se blottit contre sa sœur, comme elle le ferait souvent à l’avenir, réchauffant le visage creux et tacheté de Loralie avec sa pommette. Loralie s’apaisa et se calma, ses yeux roulant vers l’intérieur de sa tête jusqu’à ce qu’il n’y ait plus qu’un blanc bilieux.

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face that looked up at Nox and smiled. A daughter that looked like a daughter.

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Nox retrouva Annie dans les traits de ses filles, entre elles et entrelacée en elles. Loralie développa une crinière de cheveux blonds-blancs, ses yeux translucides comme si l’on pouvait voir à travers son crâne pour trouver finalement un esprit bien plus opaque. Son sourire découvrait un trou espiègle entre les dents de devant, comme si elle allait mettre votre roi en échec et mat. Les cheveux de Beth étaient d’une couleur douce et entre-deux, ni blonde ni brune. Son nez bulbeux était joliment assorti à son joyeux petit sourire, ses yeux foncés et chauds et avenants. Nox voyait des avenirs entiers dans ces visages expressifs.

Si Beth et Loralie semblaient être destinées à occuper deux extrêmes – garçon manqué et fifille, prose et poésie – Annie aurait été l’accident, l’inadaptée. Elle aurait eu les yeux humides et les cheveux ternes et les oreilles décollées. Elle aurait eu un doux visage en cœur qui lève les yeux vers Nox et sourit. Une enfant qui aurait eu l’air d’une enfant.

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Hélène's Original + Janey's Translation - Google Docs

HÉLÈNE LAURAIN un extrait de LES MAINS Anouar m’aide à sortir du bain, les gouttes perlent sur mes seins gonflés et mon ventre, lune verte percée d’un seul cratère, polie sous l’éclairage glauque de notre salle de bains années 70. La vague de douleur resurgit. Un étau serti de lames qui labourent mes reins avec application. C’est une douleur révoltante, qui m’enfonce les yeux dans leurs orbites et me déséquilibre. Je m’allonge de côté pour chercher un soulagement, genoux légèrement fléchis, oreiller broyé sous mes doigts blanchis aux articulations. Je me cabre sous les contractions. Je commence à lancer des incantations crescendo, dans un registre moyen, en « a ». Je pense aux voisins, j’ai honte.

Je me lève à nouveau pour trouver une position moins douloureuse. Je sens le sang chaud couler de mon sexe, que je ne vois plus depuis des mois. J’ai peur. Je veux enfin aller à l’hôpital, je veux des médicaments.

J’insère une serviette hygiénique très épaisse dans ma culotte tachée avant de partir pour la maternité. Dans la voiture, je crois que je mets ma ceinture. Nous traversons un Berlin vide balisé par des éclairages faiblards, dépareillés. Je crie en pétrissant l’appuie-tête en mousse un peu rigide, ce putain d’enfoiré d’appuie-tête. Mon père, taxi du soir, tour à tour se tait puis essaie de me

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Hélène's Original + Janey's Translation - Google Docs

translated from the french by JANEY TRACEY from THE HANDS Anouar helps me out of the bath, droplets of water forming beads on my swollen breasts and belly. My stomach, a green moon marred by a single crater, glistens under the olive lighting of our 70s-era bathroom. The wave of pain resurges. It’s like the jaws of a vice are crushing my kidneys, applying ever-increasing pressure.

The pain is disgraceful; it knocks me off my feet and sends my eyes rolling back into their sockets. I lie down for relief, knees slightly bent, pillow crushed under my white-knuckled fingers. I’m bucking against the contractions. I hurl incantations that crescendo in the middle register, in the key of “Ah!” I think of the neighbors and am humiliated. I get up again to find a less painful position. Hot blood flows from my crotch—a part of my body I haven’t seen for months. I’m scared. I finally agree to go to the hospital. I want drugs.

I place a very thick pad into my stained panties before we set off for the maternity ward. Anouar calls my father—we had agreed he would bring us to the hospital when the time came. When we get in the car, I think I put my seatbelt on. We drive across a deserted Berlin punctuated by feeble, patchy lighting. I scream and

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Hélène's Original + Janey's Translation - Google Docs

rasséréner, son ton léger de pique-nique me désarçonne.

Arrivée aux urgences, il faut monter un escalier. Je crie, les mains posées sur mes cuisses, le buste en avant, essayant de respirer comme je l’ai appris, mais mon souffle tremble, je me noie régulièrement. Je ne vais pas y arriver. En cours de préparation à la grossesse, deux mois avant l'accouchement, nous avions appris à respirer en couple : j'étais pliée en deux, le dos plat, les mains sur les hanches d'Anouar, lui debout, les cinq autres couples dans cette même position, inspirant expirant bruyamment, essayant de ne pas rire. Les femmes devaient alors plier les genoux jusqu'à ce qu'elles ressentent une douleur dans les cuisses, puis tenter d'évacuer cette douleur par le souffle. J'avais trouvé cela facile. J'y arriverai. J'y repense et j'ai encore plus mal. Il y a des gens dans la salle d’attente, j’ai honte mais je suis fière aussi, après tout je suis La Femme qui Accouche, la douleur noble et mythique. En cours de religion, à sept ans, j’avais appris que la Vierge Marie était tombée enceinte, et non en sainte ; grande déception.

Une fois arrivés à l'étage, il faut sonner à une porte blanche et épaisse. Nous entrons et nous asseyons dans la salle d’attente. Une sage-femme menue arrive et attend que je lui explique ce qu'il m'arrive, m’interrogeant du regard. Je ne peux pas parler, je lance un regard irrité à Anouar pour qu’il lui parle. Elle me couche et installe tant bien que mal la ceinture de monitoring autour de mon ventre tendu et dur. Je me cambre à chaque contraction, être allongée fait exploser la douleur. Elle m’examine, elle paraît si seule, trop peu assurée pour donner naissance à mon bébé. Je sens le sang s'écouler

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Hélène's Original + Janey's Translation - Google Docs

squeeze the stiff foam headrest, crushing it beneath my fingers—that fucking motherfucking headrest. My father, our nighttime taxi driver, alternates between silence and attempts at reassurance, disarming me with his light, picnicky tone. We arrive at the emergency room and I have to climb a staircase. I scream, hands on my thighs, upper body tilted forward, trying to breathe the way I’ve taught to... but my breath is shaky, I drown over and over again. I’m not going to make it.

Two months before the birth, while preparing for labor, we learned how to breathe in pairs: I was doubled over, back flat, hands on Anouar’s hips as he stood before me, the other five couples in the same exact position, loudly breathing in and out, trying not to laugh. The women were told to bend their knees and hold the position until they felt the burn in their thighs, and then expel the pain with their breath. It was easy for me. I think to myself, I’m going to make it, and the pain gets worse. There are people in the waiting room. I’m ashamed, but also proud.

After all, I am the Woman Who Gives Birth, the one who suffers that noble, mythic pain. In my religion class, when I was seven years old, I learned the Virgin Mary was no angel, just a girl in trouble: what a disappointment.

When we get to the ward, we come to a heavy white door and ring the bell. We go into the waiting room and sit down. A tiny midwife arrives and looks at us expectantly, waiting for an explanation. She looks at me inquisitively, but I can’t speak. I shoot Anouar a glare so he’ll talk to her. She lays me down and cinches the heart rate belt

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Hélène's Original + Janey's Translation - Google Docs

abondamment et cela me fait paniquer, elle me rassure, c’est normal, je suis dilatée à six centimètres. Elle me félicite sincèrement, je ne comprends pas pourquoi mais par réflexe je m’en réjouis. Est-ce que je veux la péridurale, j’hésite quelques secondes, pour le suspens, ou bien je n’arrive pas à penser. Oui, je la veux. À ce même cours de préparation, nous avions aussi abordé les différents moyens de soulager la douleur lors de l'accouchement, par ordre croissant d'efficacité : la chaleur, les spasmolytiques, les massages, l'acupuncture, les opioïdes, le gaz hilarant, et enfin la péridurale. Il fallait, nous disait la sage-femme formatrice, éviter la péridurale qui déconnectait le nouveau-né de la mère.

Dans la salle, j'étais la seule à vouloir une péridurale. Il y avait une très jeune femme dont les jambes musclées émergeaient d'un mini-short en jean, sous son ventre lourd— elle avait déjà dépassé son terme. Son ami était médecin, il était sans cesse allongé contre ses cuisses, nonchalamment, entre les coussins et les ballons d'exercice. La sage-femme recherchait souvent son assentiment. Il avait demandé s'il fallait signer un papier lors de l'accouchement, en cas de décès de la mère, afin de pouvoir récupérer le bébé. J'avais ri trop fort, suivie par les autres, un frisson me chatouillant l'échine. Son expression restait inchangée.

On nous conduit en salle d’accouchement, ses murs sont jaune fade, au-dessus de ma tête il y a une toile IKEA aux teintes orange et bleu. La sage-femme essaie de me calmer avec douceur et lassitude. J’ai l’impression que mes geignements la dérangent.

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Hélène's Original + Janey's Translation - Google Docs

around my belly with some difficulty. I arch with each contraction; lying down sets the pain on fire. She examines me. She appears to be alone, and far too unsure of herself to deliver my baby. I feel blood gushing out of me and begin to panic. She reassures me, this is normal, I’m dilated to six centimeters. She gives me her sincere congratulations. I don’t understand why, but I’m reflexively happy. Do I want an epidural? I hesitate for a few seconds, for suspense, or because I can’t think. Yes, I want it.

At that same preparation course, we talked about the myriad ways to relieve pain during childbirth, in order of increasing effectiveness: heat, muscle relaxants, massages, acupuncture, opioids, laughing gas, and finally the epidural. It was essential, said the midwife teacher, to avoid the epidural—it severs the connection between newborn and mother. I was the only one in the room who wanted to exercise this option. There was a very young woman in the class who was already past her due date, whose muscular legs sprouted from denim short-shorts under her hefty stomach. Her boyfriend, a doctor, was constantly lying down with his head in her lap, all casual-like, with plenty of cushions and exercise balls on either side of him. The midwife often sought his approval. At one point, he asked if it were necessary to sign a form during the delivery, so that in the event of the mother’s death, he would be able to collect the baby. I laughed way too hard, and others followed suit. A shiver prickled my spine—his expression remained unchanged.

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6/18

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Hélène's Original + Janey's Translation - Google Docs

Une fois installée sur le lit de la chambre d’accouchement, l’anesthésiste arrive, il est jeune et timide. Entre-temps, je suis déjà dilatée à neuf cm. Il est presque 4h30. Je me demande si j’ai bien fait de demander la péridurale aussi tard. Mon dos est dénudé, on m’a mis la chemise de nuit d’hôpital rêche à l’odeur aigre. Il me pose la péridurale, je ne dois pas bouger. Je ne bouge pas, j'ai peur mais je n'ai pas mal, lui et la sage-femme me félicitent.

Je ne ressens plus la douleur. Je souris. Je commence à être euphorique. J’informe Anouar que la péridurale est la meilleure invention du monde. Je ressens un mélange d’assurance et de bonheur simple. J’écoute de la musique – Sorry de Justin Bieber – et j’ondule du buste dans mon lit. J’aurai une anecdote à raconter, dans le genre des : « Qu’est-ce que ça fait mal, mais franchement ça vaut le coup ». Tout va bien se passer, je le sais. Comme dirait ma mère, j’ai les hanches larges — manière de dire aussi qu’elle était beaucoup plus fine que moi. J'ai le corps de celles qui accouchent sans problème. Une sage-femme un peu taciturne et calmement autoritaire et son assistante succèdent à la précédente. Leurs mains sont douces et prévenantes.

La péridurale a fortement ralenti la dilatation. Les heures passent rapidement. La sage-femme croit reconnaître que la position de notre enfant n’est pas optimale. C'est une « Sternengucker », elle regarde les étoiles, son dos est contre le mien alors que ses yeux devraient être dirigés vers l'une de mes hanches. La sage-femme me change de côté de temps en temps, je ne comprends pas pourquoi,

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Hélène's Original + Janey's Translation - Google Docs

They take us to the delivery room—its walls are pale yellow. Wall art from IKEA hangs above my head, painted in various shades of orange and blue. The midwife makes a half-hearted, weary effort to calm me down. I get the feeling that my whimpering annoys her.

Once I’m set up in a bed, the anesthesiologist arrives.

He’s young and skittish. At this point, I’m dilated to nine centimeters. It’s almost 4:30am. I wonder if I did the right thing, asking for an epidural so late in the game. My back is bare—they put me in an itchy hospital gown that has a sour smell. He inserts the epidural, tells me not to move. I don’t move. I’m afraid, but it doesn’t hurt, and he and the midwife both congratulate me.

The pain is gone. I smile. I become euphoric. I inform Anouar that the epidural is the best invention in the world. I feel a mixture of confidence and just plain happiness. I’m listening to music—“Sorry” by Justin Bieber—and shoulder-rolling in the hospital bed.

Someday I’ll have an anecdote to tell, something along the lines of: “It hurt like hell, but honestly it was so worth it.” Everything will be fine, I know it. I have wide hips, as my mother liked to point out—mostly to insinuate that she was much thinner than me. I have the type of body that gives birth without trouble. A rather taciturn, calmly authoritative midwife takes over for the last one, her assistant in tow. Their hands are gentle and considerate.

The epidural drastically slows the dilation process. The hours go by quickly. The midwife notices that our baby’s

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Hélène's Original + Janey's Translation - Google Docs

avant de repartir presque en courant vers les autres salles. Elle passe toutes les heures, on ne l’appelle jamais, ne surtout pas déranger.

La dilatation totale se fait encore attendre. Je me figure cet objectif inaccessible, cette ouverture maximale de dix centimètres, comme la seule chose qui m'empêche d'accoucher. Je m’endors entre les contractions. À chaque réveil, je pouffe doucement de rire, l'euphorie a laissé la place à une confusion molle. Anouar somnole sur sa petite chaise orange en plastique dur à ma gauche.

La gynécologue passe : elle est souriante, jolie brune méditerranéenne, le corps discrètement sculpté par une pratique sportive régulière et une hygiène alimentaire irréprochable — dans cet hôpital qui a formé de nombreux prix Nobel, les médecins, fringants trentenaires aux dents blanches et aux cuisses fuselées, multilingues et non-fumeurs, travaillent dans un décor vétuste. Je ne ressens pas de douleur car je suis anesthésiée, mais j’ai l’impression qu’elle me rabote violemment l’entrejambe, une table vermoulue qu’il faut remettre d’aplomb sans traîner. Sous ses mains gantées, mon corps est un objet en panne et sale.

Si le cœur du bébé montre des signes de faiblesse, dit-elle, il faut m’injecter un liquide pour accélérer les contractions. Je m’endors encore entre les contractions.

Sage-femme et médecin reviennent, la sage-femme a oublié de me poser la perfusion, le médecin la réprimande, la sage- femme lui dit qu’elle est débordée. Ma tension est trop basse, comment voulez-vous que le bébé descende si

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Hélène's Original + Janey's Translation - Google Docs

position isn’t optimal. She’s a “stargazer baby”: she’s looking up at the sky, her back pressed against my spine, when she should be facing one of my hips. I don’t understand why, but the midwife keeps turning me on my side and then hurrying off, almost running, to other rooms. She spends all of her time there, and we don’t call her back. Don’t cause any trouble.

Still waiting for full dilation. I start thinking of this elusive goal, this maximum opening of ten centimeters, as the only thing standing in the way of me giving birth.

I fall asleep between contractions. Every time I wake up, I let out a muffled giggle—the euphoria has given way to a sluggish confusion. Anouar is dozing on the hard little plastic chair to my left.

The gynecologist passes through—she’s a pretty, smiling Mediterranean brunette, her body subtly sculpted by an irreproachable diet and exercise regimen. In this hospital, which has trained many Nobel laureates, the doctors—spry, multilingual, non-smoking 30-year-olds with white teeth and tapered thighs—appear at odds with their dilapidated surroundings. I’m anesthetized so I don’t feel the pain, but I feel her violently scraping my crotch, planing it like a worm-eaten table that’s about to be junked. Under her gloved hands, my body is a broken and dirty object.

If the baby’s heart shows signs of distress, she says, I’ll have to give you an injection to speed up the contractions. I fall asleep between contractions again.

Midwife and doctor come back; the midwife has forgotten

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Hélène's Original + Janey's Translation - Google Docs

sa tension est à 8, dit le médecin, je ne comprends pas le rapport, la sage-femme répond sèchement qu’elle est obligée d’aider ses collègues dans les autres salles puis se tait, vexée. C’est trop tard maintenant. On fait une petite ponction sur la tête du bébé qui révèle qu’elle est stressée.

On m’injecte un liquide pour ralentir les contractions pendant une demi-heure afin de la ménager : si cela ne fonctionne pas, ce sera peut-être la césarienne. J’ai une demi-heure pour enfin réussir à accoucher. Je prie mais je ne crois pas souvent en Dieu. Nous ne parlons pas. Je dors comme on s’évanouit. Anouar ne parvient plus à cacher son angoisse.

Ma compréhension des événements s’amenuise encore.

On me met sur le dos pour me faire une perfusion, je me sens m’évanouir, j’essaie de le dire au médecin et à la sage-femme concentrées sur mon milieu, ich, ich, je n’entends plus rien, mes oreilles bourdonnent, elles ne m’écoutent pas, elles râpent et fouillent, Anouar intervient, elles me mettent sur le côté de nouveau. Ce n’était qu’un vertige, me dit la gynécologue, j’ai envie de la contredire, non bien pire que ça, pas à la hauteur, je n’ai pas la force.

Il est 12h30. Le médecin est formel : le rythme cardiaque du bébé est trop élevé (ou trop bas ?). Le bébé est encore plus stressé — ce mot si incongru —, le médecin-chef, une femme d’une cinquantaine d’années, débarque essoufflée et m’annonce qu’on part au bloc, « nicht enttäuscht seeeein », ne soyez pas déçue, d’un ton théâtral en me caressant les joues, avec cette façon qu’ont les Allemands de laisser traîner les mots quand ils

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Hélène's Original + Janey's Translation - Google Docs

to set up the injection. The doctor reprimands her, she tells the doctor she’s overwhelmed. My blood pressure is too low—the doctor says how do you expect the baby to come out when her blood pressure is at 8. I don’t see the connection. The midwife responds curtly that she had to help her colleagues in the other rooms and then falls silent, annoyed. It’s too late now. They make a small puncture in the baby’s head, which reveals that she’s in distress. They inject a liquid to slow the contractions for half an hour while they deal with the problem: if that doesn’t work, they may have to perform a cesarean. I have half an hour to finally manage to give birth. I pray, although I don’t often believe in God. We don’t speak—I fall asleep like I’m fainting. Anouar can no longer hide his anguish.

My awareness of what’s happening is waning again. They put me on my back to give me an injection, I feel faint, I try to speak German to the doctor and the midwife, who are concentrating on my middle, ich—ich, I—I—I don’t hear anything, my ears are buzzing, they don’t listen to me, they scrape and probe. Anouar intervenes, they turn me on my side again. It was only a dizzy spell, the gynecologist tells me. I want to contradict her: no, much worse than that, on a whole other level, but I don’t have the strength.

It’s 12:30 pm. The doctor speaks formally: the baby’s heart rate is too high (or is it too low?). Now the baby is even more stressed—such an ill-fitting word, stressed.

The lead doctor, a woman in her fifties, emerges and breathlessly tells me that we’re going to the OR.

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s'adressent aux enfants. Ne surtout pas pleurer, garder le sanglot bien noué dans la gorge. D'autres personnes arrivent, je ne comprends plus rien à ce qu'elles disent, ce n'est pas ma langue, je n'ai plus la force, je pense à ma mère, je l'appelle en silence. Je pense à ma grand-mère, qui a accouché de ses six enfants, parfois seule, pendant la guerre. Je pense à mon arrière grand-mère, accoucheuse dans son petit village bourguignon, qui disait que pendant l'accouchement, on avait toujours un pied dans la tombe. Je pense à mes amies qui ont accouché, j'invoque ce chœur de femmes, elles me tiennent la main, elles y croient, elles m'encouragent, je leur dis que je vais mourir, que nous allons toutes les deux mourir, elles me grondent, elles ont toutes réussi, elles me serrent dans leurs bras, me bercent, me caressent le front, me soulèvent.

On me pose sur le brancard, j’ai honte d’être à moitié nue devant l’assistance pressée, fesses, poils, vergetures, graisse.

Je suis téléportée sous la lumière blafarde du bloc opératoire, un autre jeune anesthésiste affable m’explique comment l'équipe prépare mon ventre à l’opération. Je suis le clou d’un spectacle trash, il y a tellement de monde dans la salle. Mon corps est parcouru de tremblements, je claque des dents. L’anesthésiste me dit que c’est normal, l’adrénaline, l’épuisement. Il est doux, avec sa barbe de trois jours et sa petite queue de cheval, son corps un peu chétif et pâle. J’ai envie de m’accrocher à lui, qu’il me prenne dans ses bras, qu’il me chante de la folk à la guitare, je suis seule, où est mon

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Nicht enttäuscht seeeein, don’t be saaad, she says, petting my cheeks, theatrically dragging out her words the way Germans do when they speak to children. No more crying, keep that sob lodged in your throat. Other people come, I don’t understand a thing they say, it’s not my language, I no longer have the strength. I think of my mother, I call for her without making a sound. I think of my grandmother, who gave birth to six children, sometimes all by herself, during the war. I think of my great-grandmother giving birth in her little Burgundian village, my great-grandmother who once said that during childbirth, you always have one foot in the grave. I think of my friends who’ve given birth: I invoke this chorus of women, they hold my hand, believe in me, encourage me, I tell them I’m going to die, we’re both going to die, they chide me, they have all prevailed, they hold me in their arms, rock me, caress my forehead, raise me up.

They’re putting me on a stretcher now. I’m ashamed to be half-naked in front of all these hurried spectators: buttocks, hair, stretch marks, fat.

I’m teleported to the white light of the operating room.

Another young, friendly anesthesiologist explains how the team will prep my belly for surgery. There are so many people in the room—I’m the centerpiece of a splatter film. My body shakes, my teeth clatter. The anesthesiologist tells me that’s normal—adrenaline, exhaustion. He’s sweet, with his three-day beard and his little ponytail, his body slight and pale. I want to cling to him, want him to take me in his arms, to play me folk songs on his guitar, I’m alone, where is my husband?

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Hélène's Original + Janey's Translation - Google Docs

mari ? Il est dans le couloir, vous êtes plus détendue que lui, me dit l’anesthésiste, je lui réponds d’un ton maladivement enjoué que ça ne m’étonne pas. Plaire, même en accouchant. La table d’opération est légèrement inclinée sur le côté pour que je ne m’évanouisse pas.

On va me découper. Et par l’ouverture sortira mon bébé.

Je vais vous appliquer un spray sur le ventre, dites-moi quand vous le sentez, dit la queue de cheval. Je me concentre, oui je sens, oui, oui, non, je ne crois pas. C’est bien, trouve l’anesthésiste. Anouar rentre enfin, je lui prends la main, lui souris, on va la rencontrer. Il va mal.

On ouvre, madame. De fortes pressions sur le ventre, je suis ballottée avec force de gauche à droite. Je tangue, barque en pleine tempête, champ opératoire au vent, j’ai un sourire figé aux lèvres. Des chuchotements. Le temps passe, c’est imminent.

Puis une autre histoire commence, et celle-ci se finit mal.

Un médecin entre en trombe. Les murmures sont secs.

Les secondes, les minutes passent. On tire, déchire, extirpe. Trente doigts qui grattent, enserrent, déboîtent, tordent à l’intérieur de moi. En ombre chinoise sur le champ opératoire, un banquet d’ogres. L’anesthésiste, si prompt à tout expliquer, se tait dans un rictus tendu. Je regarde Anouar, qu’est-ce qui se passe ? Votre bébé est né, me dit l’anesthésiste, presque déçu, je le saisis à peine, mon bébé est né mais il ne se passe rien, pourquoi pas de cri, je veux le voir, la pédiatre court dans la salle d’à côté, que se passe-t-il, l’anesthésiste ne répond pas, Anouar est à côté de moi et se tait, je vomis tandis que l’on « m’aspire », longtemps après je rêverai de mon estomac

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He’s out in the hall, you’re more relaxed than him, the anesthesiologist tells me. That doesn’t surprise me, I answer in a morbidly cheerful voice. I live to please, even while giving birth. The operating table is tilted slightly so I won’t pass out.

I will be cut open. And out of the opening my baby will come. I’ll apply a spray to your stomach, says the ponytail, tell me when you feel it. I concentrate, yes I feel that, yes, yes, no, I don’t think so. That’s good, the anesthesiologist pronounces. Anouar finally comes back in, I take his hand, smile at him, we’ll get to meet her.

He’s in bad shape. We’re making the incision now, Madame. Strong pressure on my belly, I’m thrown from left to right. I pitch, boat in a storm, caught in a vortex of wind. A smile on my lips. Whispers. Time passes, any second now.

Then another story begins, and it doesn’t end well. A different doctor comes in. The murmurs grow terse.

Seconds, minutes pass. They pull, tear, remove. Thirty fingers scratch, grab, yank, twist inside me. On the operating curtain I see shadow puppets, a banquet of ogres. The anesthesiologist, usually so quick to explain everything, is silent behind his tense smile. I look at Anouar, what’s going on? Your baby is here, the anesthesiologist tells me, almost disappointed. I barely grasp what he’s saying, my baby is here but nothing is happening, why no crying, I want to see the baby, the pediatrician runs into the side room, what is happening, the anesthesiologist does not answer. Anouar is next to me, he’s quiet, I vomit as they “aspirate” me. Long after,

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ouvert sous la lumière blanche, rempli de haricots rouges à la sauce tomate se faisant engloutir par un aspirateur, Anouar me tient les cheveux et recueille ma salive dans un récipient en papier mâché gris, infiniment triste ce gris souris et les aspérités de ce récipient jetable, rien ne sort, juste les spasmes interminables, la lassitude sans fond du corps vidé, elle est morte alors, c’est ça ?

Une sage-femme attend dans notre dos. Il faut que je vous présente quelqu’un, avec un petit sourire dans la voix, je vomis de l’air encore. Anouar se retourne furtivement puis se concentre à nouveau sur moi, agacé ; il ne comprend pas. Je tourne enfin la tête, c’est elle, elle est posée sur moi, nous sanglotons, elle est tellement belle, dit Anouar, mon bébé, c’est maman et papa. Vous avez été très courageuse madame, c’est vrai, ses yeux sont si noirs, si grands, ils ne se ferment pas, elle est calme, étonnée, elle nous sonde et nous comprend, nous sommes tous les trois la même personne. Elle attend qu’on lui donne tout. Je m’évanouis toutes les dix secondes. Dans l'air plus dense et la lumière vibrante, je vois qu'elle a de minuscules plaies sur le visage, les cheveux sombres et collés, la peau rose et grise sous le néon. Son ventre n’a pas besoin de se soulever plus, ses petits tétons sont bruns, ses mains violacées, ses pupilles profondes plaquées dans les nôtres. C’est doux et violent, c’est un surgissement impossible. Ma brune.

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I will dream of my stomach open under white light, bursting with red beans and tomato sauce that are swallowed by a vacuum cleaner. Anouar holds my hair and collects my saliva in a gray paper mache container.

So infinitely sad, the mouse-gray color and sterile nature of this disposable container. Nothing comes out, just never-ending spasms, the bottomless lassitude of the emptied body. She died then, is that it?

A midwife is waiting behind us. There’s someone I’d like you to meet, with a small smile in her voice. I’m still vomiting air. Anouar turns a little, then focuses his attention on me again, annoyed. He doesn’t understand.

I finally turn my head: it’s her. They place her on me, we sob, she’s so beautiful, says Anouar, hi baby, it’s mom and dad. You have been very brave Madame, it’s true, her eyes are so black, so big, they don’t close, she’s calm, astonished, she probes us and understands us, we are all three the same person. She’s waiting to be given everything. I lose consciousness every ten seconds. In the heavy air and vibrating light, I see that she has tiny wounds on her face, her hair dark and glued to her forehead, her skin pink and gray under the fluorescent bulbs. Her belly inflates almost imperceptibly, her little nipples are brown, her hands purple, her deep pupils inscribed in ours. It’s sweet, violent, an emergence I never thought possible. My brown-haired girl.

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acknowledgments

Columbia University and the other participants in the 2018 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: Carol Becker and Jana Wright, Deans of the School of the Arts Sam Lipsyte, Chair of the School of the Arts Writing Program Susan Bernofsky, Director of Literary Translation at Columbia, School of the Arts Writing Program Alicia Meier, Global Programs Manager, School of the Arts William Wadsworth, Director of Academic Administration, School of the Arts Writing Program Binnie Kirshenbaum, Professor of Fiction, School of the Arts Writing Program Trenton Pollard, Global Programs Assistant, School of the Arts Writing Program Roberto Taddei, Márcia Fortunato, and Livia Lakomy, Instituto Vera Cruz Lionel Ruffel, Dieter Hornig, and Vincent Message, Université Paris 8 Jörn Dege and Hannes Becker, Deutches Literaturinstitut Leipzig Martino Gozzi and Mattia Zuccatti, Scuola Holden Rodrigo Rojas, Universidad Diego Portales Safwan Masri, Executive VP, Columbia Global Centers Thomas Trebat, Director, Columbia Global Centers | Rio de Janeiro Karen Poniachik, Director, Columbia Global Centers | Santiago

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participating institutions

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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.

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.

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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.

The program in Creative Writing in Spanish at New York University is a two-year MFA housed within NYU's Department of Spanish and Portuguese Languages & Literatures. Its goal is to enable talented young writers to discover their strengths and develop their craft under the guidance of prominent Latin American, Spanish, and Latino writers. The program is uniquely situated in the unique Latino & Latin American community of New York City, which has been a meeting point for Spanish and Latin American writers and journalists since the 19th century, and a home to many of them.

The Master in Creative Writing at UniversitĂŠ 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.

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