Litro #94 Spain Teaser

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Ernest Farrés Harkaitz Cano

Xurxo Borrazás Lois Pereiro

Anton R Reixa Maria Barbal

Víctor García Tur Suso de Toro

Cassandra Passarelli Joseba Sarrionandia

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WELCOME TO ISSUE 94 OF LITRO From the Editors Eleven months ago we ran a Spanish-language themed issue. A broad brief indeed; we were dazzled by all the options. This issue has a narrower focus – on three sectors of non-Castilian writing from Spain – yet this fiction is anything but narrow.

From Catalunya, Ernest Farrés renders his life’s career through the prism of Edward Hopper’s paintings (recreated by brilliant translator Lawrence Venuti), and grande dame of Catalan writing Maria Barbal brings us intimacy and horror of civil war memories.

From Galicia, a lively avant-garde scene is represented by poets Antón Reixa and Lois Pereiro, and vivid, menacing short stories

by Xurxo Borrazás and Suso de Toro.

From Basque country, we have two stories from Joseba Sarrionandia, a heart-on-sleeve fan of the English romantics, and Harkaitz Cano’s unromantic tale of a father and son in tough circumstances.

Cassandra Passarelli rounds off the issue with a story of almostfreedom sparked in a scrapyard.

And I’m sad to say that this is my last issue as Editor. I will continue to contribute to Litro as Associate Editor from May, but Editorship will pass into the capable hands of Katy Darby.

Thanks to all Litro’s writers and readers of the last year. It’s been wonderful remaking Litro every month for you.

Sophie Lewis

LITRO IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY EDITOR IN CHIEF AND PUBLISHER ERIC AKOTOEDITOR-SOPHIE LEWIS EVENTS EDITOR-ALEX JAMES DESIGN/PRODUCTION-EMILY ATKINS

Litro is sponsored

by UK Trade and Investments

Contents Two poems from Edward Hopper Ernest Farrés ..................................................7 The Mattress Harkaitz Cano .................................................9 Bodyguard Xurxo Borrazás .............................................14 Dandy Lois Pereiro ....................................................20 Murrai is pondering Anton R Reixa ...............................................21 from Stone in a Landslide Maria Barbal ..................................................22 Attractions Víctor García Tur ..........................................26 Up Early Suso de Toro ..................................................28 Where Old Cars Die Cassandra Passarelli ....................................30 Briar Neck 1912 Ernest Farrés ...............................................38 Alone Joseba Sarrionandia ....................................39 The Ancient Mariner Joseba Sarrionandia ....................................40 Litro Events Listings, from Alex James ...........................................44

Railroad Train, 1908 Ernest Farrés No sooner is the caboose out of sight than they’ve already forgotten you.

It’s like losing clout or taking a load off their minds. That’s just how they, who are out to lunch or do nothing with their lives, wash their hands of you. Got it? Yet the trains you catch are determined, air-conditioned, carnivorous, in fine fettle. Thickening fogs rise yet fail to intimidate them.

They breathe in, breathe out, iridesce, seethe.

They need a ton of room to levitate in a hurry, heading for the possibility of other worlds or an extraordinary order of things.

Their windows give evidence of valleys, depressions.

Leaving on days beneath a leaden sky is true to type, as if clouds were formed through contact with sweat and hot breath.

Hours later you’ll be swaddled in strange lights and shadows, gusts and twittering colours, unaccustomed racket.

Compartment C, Car 293, 1938 Face stern, hair more or less blonde, eyes with an inward-looking glint, skin in the pink, wearing a stare-till-you’re-bored attitude in a black dress that hugged her breasts and a pair of long legs, in good working order, she looked real swell, sure enough, and ‘independent’, as the saying goes.

The down time on the train was just the ticket for stealing looks at her as she sat across the aisle, reading – poor kid – with such concentration that at dusk she completely missed the sun’s last rays burning in the west, stuck to the limitless vault of the sky.

from Edward Hopper by Ernest Farrés, translated from the Catalan by Lawrence Venuti (Carcanet, 2010). Reproduced by permission of Carcanet Press (www.carcanet.co.uk).

Catalan poet Ernest Farrés was born in Igualada in 1967. A journalist at La Vanguardia, he has published three collections. In Spain, Edward Hopper won the Englantina d’Or Prize. English versions of Farrés’s poems have appeared in PN Review, Words without Borders and World Literature Today.

Lawrence Venuti is a translation theorist, historian and translator from Italian, French and Catalan.

The Mattress Harkaitz Cano Translated by Elizabeth Macklin and Linda White The roof of the trailer was patched with green asbestos shingles and the dingy interior was filled nearly wall to wall by a large mattress, making it impossible to walk without tripping over it. Sol sat on the edge of the mattress, smoking a cigarette. In addition to serving as a jerry-rigged bed, the mattress was also an office. It had the look of serving in many capacities. The edges were stained with nicotine and coffee, and the mattress was piled with bills, empty beer cans, and instant soup containers. A telephone sat on one corner of the mattress, the dirty mattress. The cord stretched through the window to a telephone pole on the sidewalk where the copper wire was connected to the Telefónica network by a clandestine sailor’s knot. The mattress was torn in a thousand places, as if it had been dragged countless times from room to room through doors too small for it. It had been ineptly mended in a dozen places with thread and fishing line of various colors.

A beautiful beach graced the labels of the soup containers scattered on the mattress and the floor. “We’re raffling off a trip to the Cayman Islands.” The Caymans are Paradise on earth, so they say. Maybe the mattress itself was a map of the world, with its own Cayman Island, one of those stains, perhaps. Everything that happened in the trailer happened around the mattress. Each blotch had its own meaning, told its own story, just as the names and colours of countries on a map tell us something about the dictator who rules there.

A father and son lived in that trailer of contracting metal, and despite the green asbestos there were leaks here and there in the roof. The door creaked unbearably with the sound of rusty scissors being forced. They lived in a poor neighbourhood, at the tail end of a poor neighbourhood, and six months ago they had tied the trailer to a tree. And surprisingly, as we saw, they had a clandestine phone. Sol sat on the mattress, smoking his cigarette, and the phone rang.

“Is this Sol?” “That’s me.”

“Sol what?”

“Sol, that’s all.”

“Is that your first name or your last?”

“Both. My father worked in a lighting store. Sol. Sun. Get it?”

BODYGUARD Xurxo Borrazás Translated by John Rutherford ‘Attack the seagulls’ nest,’ a man’s voice repeated on the intercom. ‘Attack the seagulls’ nest.’

‘The seagulls’ nest?’ he tried to confirm. ‘That’d be the fourth day running, Queen!’ But the communication was cut short at the other end without further explanation.

Attacking the seagulls’ nest meant, in their current code, modifying the route once again and driving through a different square from the scheduled one – and it turned out to be exactly the same square as on the previous days. Either he was totally mistaken or something was up, and he got ready to improvise.

The driver and he looked at each other for a few seconds with iron faces, bodyguards’ faces. Heavies in suits. There’s likely to be a traffic jam, they must have thought. On their left sides their pistol butts were beating against the linings of their jackets.

He folded up his sunglasses and fiddled with them on one of his legs, smoothing down the trouser crease. He heard how in the back of the car his charge, the Egg, was going through the press cuttings that somebody had selected for him hours before, turning the plastic pages of a folder.

The three were dressed impeccably, in designer shirts, shiny shoes and dark suits that concealed their weapons, their intercoms and their bulletproof vests. In the car it stank of cologne like a powder-room at a party.

It was seven thirty and dawn was pushing its way through.

He inserted the tip of his tongue between his upper teeth to remove, in exasperation, the remains of his breakfast croissant, and it was then that he thought of a sentence: ‘The city was a mystery behind those tinted windows.’

He’d been accompanying the President for months, which was unusual, and whenever he saw him on television in the midst of a forest of microphones he remembered the strange phone conversations from the back seat, always filled more with silences than with words. But he, too, was capable of interpretation, of subtle reasoning. And he had his theories.

The vein that ran vertically down his left temple swelled perceptibly on these occasions, when his temper would push him into action.

It was fine that the Egg hardly spoke to him, but a few days back he’d been landed with an idiot driver who put his nerves on edge; his handkerchief always at the back of his neck and hitching up his trousers to sit down; with that air

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Dandy Lois Pereiro The mirror of elegance before my eyes and my eyelids sleep a sinewy sleep in liquid lines of the expressions etched on a face of cruelty close to mine.

I become fear the murderer and while an angel passes un ange passe all would like to see after the orgy if what I have kept back is a thought threaded through needles of irony.

(From Poems 1981-1991, 1992) Lois Pereiro (1958-1996) published two collections in his lifetime: Poemas 1981-1991 and Poesía de amor e enfermidade (‘Poems of Love and Illness’). He edited the magazine La Naval and was responsible for introducing a certain central European aesthetic into Galician poetry.

In addition to translating Don Quixote and La regenta from Spanish to English, John Rutherford directs translation workshops at Oxford University’s Centre for Galician Studies, which have produced Them and other stories by Mendez Ferrín, Things by Castelao and From the beginning of the sea: An anthology of Galician contemporary short stories.

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‘murrai is pondering…’

Antón R Reixa murrai is pondering a profound study on ignorance but does not want to devote himself to writing it until he acquires greater general unknowledge yes yes the paper towels for after

(From Stories of Rock-and-Roll, 1985) Antón R Reixa (born 1957) is one of the most radical innovators in Galician poetry. Since the 1980s he has been experimenting with multimedia poetry and artists books. He is associated with the Galician poets known as ‘Rompente’ (‘white breakers’), and was also lead singer and lyricist in Os Resentidos, the first band to sing entirely in Galician.

This poem was translated by Alan Floyd, a lecturer at the University of Coruña.

Both poems will appear later this year in Breogán’s Lighthouse: An Anthology of Galician Literature, edited by Antonio R. de Toro Santos (Francis Boutle, 2010).

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from Stone in a Landslide Maria Barbal translated by Laura McGloughlin and Paul Mitchell The rattling of the engine made me drowsy, but I was wide awake. I wasn’t dreaming now. On one side Elvira, on the other Angeleta and faces all around me. All unfamiliar, all quiet and withdrawn. No, this was no dream. It was real.

They’d called at midday and asked in Spanish for the wife and children of Jaime Camps. Tia had answered all their questions calmly. I’d just obeyed. I had to get into the lorry with my children. We could snatch a little to eat for the day. Quickly. At the last minute, Tia had given a mattress to Elvira. It seemed unnecessary to me, but I didn’t say anything. I looked at the weapons and those tall strong boys, and they looked at Elvira out of the corners of their eyes.

I just went along. Old Mrs Jou came and asked them to have mercy and let the little boy stay with his grandmother because he’s only six and he’s sick. They pushed her away but they didn’t take the boy, who clutched Tia’s black dress like a leaf curled up by the wind against an old tree trunk. And no news from him, from Jaume.

They came for him at daybreak. I was still in bed and so were the girls and little Mateu. I think they didn’t hear anything. Three short sharp knocks on the door. In Spanish: Camps, Jaime… – then all of his names – Justice of the Peace of the town of Pallarès under the Republic… come with us.

As I got dressed quickly, I thought the baker had been right the night before. Get out of here Jaume, take my word for it. I’ve heard they want everyone who’s stood out in some way. They’re out for revenge because the guard at the Algorri bridge was killed. And Jaume said, I haven’t done anything wrong and I don’t have to hide from anything.

And then… before he’d even combed his hair, a hug. A goodbye. I didn’t cry, but inside I felt as if they had wrenched my soul from my body. And he just says: Don’t worry… don’t do anything.

And seeing him from behind, walking between the guards. He looked much smaller than usual to me. The village seemed deserted. There was nobody on the street.

Roseta Sebastià poked her head out onto the balcony. She wasn’t afraid. She gave a twisted little smile as they passed underneath her. The priest’s housekeeper also opened her

Attractions Víctor García Tur Translated by Patricia Seta “In Blow-up I used my head instinctively!”

Michelangelo Antonioni.

“In the centre of the picture, just under the surface” Margaret Atwood, This is a Photograph of Me You see an amusement park. In the background of the picture there’s the big wheel and part of the metal structure of a rollercoaster. The carousel is a mixture of fin-de-siècle animals and plastic imitations of pop characters—Winnie the Pooh riding a bike, Bugs Bunny canoeing, Knight Rider, etc. Although this is a still image, you can feel the movement, in both machines and people: human bustle emanates from families with balloons tied to buggies to stop them flying away; blurred images of kids running around, street vendors selling popcorn. And don’t forget the man with the furry costume histrionically waving his arms. And there, right in the centre of the photo, you see a dark-haired girl running towards the camera.

Because of the poorly contrasted colours, the jumble and the apparent banality of the scene, you reckon that it’s an amateur’s picture: the frame is tilted a bit to the right, and also the photographer has failed to wait for the plane to fly out of the scene so it appears cut in half by the photo’s edge.

As it is a digital photo, the date appears in the frame: 6/6/2006. A Saturday, to be more accurate: the day that Laura G., a six-year-old girl, disappeared from the Tibidabo amusement park, although she was accompanied by her father.

The photograph is part of a series of snapshots her father took in a six-second period: the time it takes Laura G. to climb down from the little horses and run over to cling to her father’s legs. Laura G. looks straight at the lens. Her lips are full and open. It’s not hard to imagine her shouting to her father something like: “One more time!” Or “I’ll go up once more and then I’m done!”.

Experts say that a good photograph, besides containing a fragment of the world, portrays its author – including his or her passions and phobias. In this case, it renders the father’s obsession with capturing his daughter’s gestures, perhaps to preserve the child’s innocence from the passage of time.

And besides, you might register a certain perverse degree of spying, half-obscured by instrument of the camera, in the

Up early Suso de Toro Translated by John Rutherford So sleepy. The light comes in round the edges of the blind.

Net curtains. She’d just woken up. She half-covered her face, so cold out there, and snuggled up. Her feet touched a bulky form, some legs. There was someone in the bed, there was someone with her in that bed. She moved her feet away with care, very slowly. She remained motionless. Where was she?

She’d just woken up, she’d slept there that night. Now the morning light was coming in there. And who was by her side? She was still motionless. She had to get out of there.

First she slipped her feet out, inch by inch, without making any noise, without moving the sheets very much, and then she slid her whole body out. There were some red slippers on a flower-patterned carpet, she put them on. She noticed her breasts, large and drooping, inside her nightdress. On the bedside table there was an alarm clock, a crossword-puzzle magazine and an imitation oil-lamp. She turned round and looked at the form in the bed. It was a man. A bit bald. And fat. A broad hairy hand was sticking out. She looked for the door, it was on the other side of the room. She passed by the mirror on a wardrobe door, she caught a glimpse of herself, fat and with salon-blond hair, she turned back and stopped in front of it. How old would she be? Fifty-odd. Fifty-seven or fifty-eight. She had wrinkles under her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Reflected behind her was the form of the man in the bed. She left without making any noise and carefully pulled the door to.

A dark corridor, there was an open door through which came the grey light of dawn. She walked slowly. It was a kitchen. A window with semi-transparent plastic curtains filtered light from an inner yard. It was a small kitchen. The bedroom too, the whole flat must be small. This must be her home. She was the woman of the house. And the fat man must be her husband. Did he love her? Who could tell.

Maybe they had children. She switched the light on. There was a small fridge on the right. She opened it. A couple of chicken thighs on a plate. Tomatoes, greens, a small saucepan of milk. Breakfast. She’d have to make the breakfast. Where would the coffee be? Or would they have hot chocolate? The alarm clock, soon it would ring. What time would it be set for? She closed the fridge without making any noise, with small, light steps she went to the bedroom, she entered, the fat man was still asleep. She walked to the bedside table, picked up the alarm clock and held it to the light coming

Where Old Cars Die Cassandra Passarelli A bright chink of sunshine falls in through the open flap of a tepee onto two sleeping forms. The smaller one tosses and turns: ‘An early start godamnit... that’s what it is, hombre.

Well who’s to say what’s early or what isn’t? One man’s early is another man’s... and godonlyknows what time it is in Karachi, say, or Kinshasa, or in Napoli where Mama is making pasta, hands all covered in flour, hair whipped up on top of her head... . ‘ All of a sudden the speaker lifts his head, looks around and lowers it. A bit of time passes till he raises himself on one arm with difficulty and begins again: ‘Now for the loveofchrist I’m awake! All I need is a good strong coffee and... Titán, hombre, wake up!’

And after a bit: ‘Goliat, heuvón, for christsake despiértate!’

And after a little more: ‘Gigante, levántate! Move your arse!’

And after a quite a bit more: ‘Monstruo, vamos, godamnit, let’s go!’

A huge roar cuts through the silence: ‘No, no, no. Titán, Goliat or Gigante I can live with, hombre. But Monstruo is too much. You make me angry, Ratón. Now I’m awake.’

‘Precioso – if I’d known it would have that effect on you I’d have said it earlier.’

‘Like you’re wide awake yourself! Look at you; eyes full of crusts... .’

‘Hey Gigante, don’t waste time talking all your bullshit, hombre, we got things to do today, places to go, people to see.’

Ratón busily fills a pot with coffee and water and sticks it on the gas ring.

‘Stop fooling around, heuvón, we don’t have anything to do today,’ groans Gigante.

‘You forget already?’

‘Forget what? I know what I need to do. I need coffee, I need marijuana, I need a woman.’

‘We have coffee and weed, hombre, but no women.’

‘What we doing wrong, man? The valley’s filled with them.’

‘We ain’t doing nothing, hombre. Speak for yourself.’

‘Eh? Eh? Eeeeeeeh? Like you had Venus de Milo in the sack last night. No, if you had, I’d have borrowed her.’

‘Can’t manage one every night, Gigante, I’m getting old

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Briar Neck, 1912 Ernest FarrĂŠs Barren, sun-baked and glistening from rough weather, rocky crags with deep gnawn-away gorges and warped landings hanging plant growth and rubble as the base of cliffs descend as far as the sea.

The sea! An eagle at odds with blackbirds and finches, a debauchery of countenances and murmurs fading beneath the arch of the sky, a mass of indigo gleaming in the filtered sunlight, a terminus.

On the outcrop a free wind intoxicates the senses.

from Edward Hopper by Ernest FarrĂŠs, translated from the Catalan by Lawrence Venuti (Carcanet, 2010). Reproduced by permission of Carcanet Press (www.carcanet.co.uk).

Alone Joseba Sarrionandia Translated by Linda White She’s alone in the world.

She loves getting letters, but when she looks in the mailbox it’s always empty.

She decided to write to herself. She put the letter in an envelope and wrote her address on it twice, once as the recipient and once as the sender.

She went out for a walk down the empty streets and dropped the letter in a random city mailbox. She has been waiting ever since, for two or three days. Every morning she looks in her mailbox. The letter hasn’t arrived.

She is truly alone in the world.

“Alone” was originally published in An Anthology of Basque Short Stories edited by Mari Jose Olaziregi (Center for Basque Studies-University of Nevada, Reno, 2004).

The Ancient Mariner Joseba Sarrionandia Translated by Linda White “Sooner or later everyone knows All the routes of escape are closed.”

Joannes Etxeberri of Ziburu A cluster of old houses surrounded an ivy-covered church at the foot of a terrible cliff on the steep seaward slope.

Narrow paths led down to the port. No railway served these smugglers’ stores, and there was no road for cars. The smuggler had to travel on foot or by mule, and on my bosses’ orders, I set out on foot as well.

Seagulls coming to shore is the sign of a storm, and they’d been flying over my head since I reached the coast. By the time I set eyes on the Cantabrian Sea, there was thunder overhead, looming dark over the mountains and the waves.

At dusk I began to run along the empty pathways, slipping on the dirty stones. My bosses told me there would be a small, solitary inn facing the port, and inside I would find an old fisherman. My errand was with him.

I came into the town, down to the dock, and into the dark old inn with its glazed windows. I saw the man I wanted at a worn wooden table, sitting alone. Wrinkles and a white beard. No strangers must ever come in there because he recognized me at once and invited me to sit.

“They say a storm is coming,” he said, peering into my eyes. “Did you see it from the hill?”

“Yes. I had to run all the way down,” I replied.

“A black storm.”

The bartender lit an oil lamp. Now the old man’s dark eyes looked blue to me. There was surely a big storm coming.

Mariners’ wives were standing at their windows with worried faces. We could see them through the windows of the inn.

Also visible was the murky, churning sea, and there was not a single fisherman on its dark and choppy surface.

The bartender brought gin for the old salt and red wine for me, both in heavy glasses. The mariner lifted his glass roughly.

“The sea’s a cup, an avenger stirred up,” he said.

Gin splashed on the table. I wondered if he was drunk, but something else glinted in his blue eyes.

I asked the bartender if he had a room available for the night, and he said yes. Today, at least, I knew I would have dry sheets.

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EVENTS Litro Listings Bag an international book deal, get an actor to read your story and see immortal words put to ballet with some of the word-lover’s best events of the month, edited by Alex James.

2nd April, Kew Palace Summer Opening, Kew Gardens. Kew Palace nestles in the heart of Kew Gardens. Experience authentically recreated Georgian rooms in the family home of King George III. This year being the 250th anniversary of George III’s accession to the throne, Kew Palace will be exhibiting some new and unique items belonging to this infamous monarch, including his literature collection.

8th April, 7.30pm, Wapping Project Bookshop.

Acclaimed novelist Jeanette Winterson will return to the greenhouse bookshop with a special reading to celebrate the 25th anniversary of her first novel, Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit, the acclaimed story of Jeanette’s adoption by working-class evangelists in the North of England in the 1960s.

10th April to 5th June, Royal Ballet presents Cinderella, Royal Opera House. Folklore in its most elegant form, Cinderella is a perfect piece of storytelling set to music and dance.

13th April, Liars’ League, 7pm, Downstairs at The Phoenix, 37 Cavendish Square, W1, £5. A monthly short fiction event where trained actors read new stories by up and coming writers. Anyone is welcome to submit, audition to read or come along. Five brand new short stories on the theme of “Then & There” are performed by actors. Happy Hour on wine all night.

EVENTS 14th-18th April, Free the Word!, Southbank Centre.

Back for a third year, International PEN’s festival of world literature takes London on a global journey of words with the great writers you know and the ones you don’t. This year’s theme of ‘Words, Words, Nothing but Words...?’ offers a reader’s box of delights, with events interrogating the graphic nature of crime writing, readings from the stories of international best-selling writers and the voices of bright new talents.

15th April, 7.30pm, Wapping Project Bookshop.

Lebanese author Hanan al-Shaykh’s moving writing challenges the traditional roles of women in the Middle East. She will be reading from The Locust and the Bird: My Mother’s Story, which tells the remarkable life of her mother, from her forced marriage to her widowed brother-in-law at 14 to the love affair that made her escape.

18th April, 6pm, Curry on Laughing, Potions Cocktail Bar & Lounge, 291-293 King Street. A night of poetry, stand-up and free curry, with new face of comedy and spoken word, Samantha Lyster taking the stage.

19th to 21st April, London Book Fair, Earls Court. The publishing trade’s event for the sale and negotiation of publishing rights, www. londonbookfair.co.uk, has a full programme of talks and readings. Check out the new Literary Translation Centre…

20th-25th April, London Burlesque Week. After the overwhelming sell-out success of London Burlesque Festival 2009, veteran producer Chaz Royal has pulled out every big name in the burlesque book to produce the greatest showcase the world has ever seen of international burlesque talent. This time round it includes live reading of erotica. Warning: It could get hot in there.

EVENTS 23rd April, St George’s Day and Shakespeare’s Birthday, Bankside. Two great figures of English cultural heritage will be commemorated the length of Bankside by a day of traditional festivities, frivolities and fun, fine foods and brews, festoons and fanfares. Borough Market and its environs will host a street party, to coincide with the bard’s birthday.

23rd April-3rd October, Shakespeare’s Globe 2010 theatre season. Start of one of the UK’s most anticipated theatre seasons. Building on the record success of 2009, the Globe announces plans for a ‘Kings and Rogues’ season. Opening on Shakespeare’s birthday and embracing some of the playwright’s most regal rogues, the season launches with Macbeth and includes a revival of the acclaimed 2008 production of The Merry Wives of Windsor.

24th-25th April, the Ultimate Spy and Sci-Fi event, London Film Museum, County Hall. Get out your old John Buchan, Ian Fleming and Bram Stoker books. London Film Museum is proud to present its first collectors’ convention and signing event.

The weekend will be packed with opportunities to meet your favourite actors from the British film industry. Stars of the Bond films, Thunderbirds and the Hammer films will be on hand for signings among the tables.

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“There’s been an accident Queen.

The Egg has broken” Xurxo Borrazás, BodyGuard 14

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