word for word parola per parola palavra por palavra 一字换一字 wort

word for word

parola per parola

palavra por palavra

一字换一字

wort für wort

palabra por palabra

mot pour mot

2022

word for word

parola per parola

palavra por palavra

一字换一字

wort für wort

palabra por palabra

mot pour mot

9 - word for word / 一字换一字

Columbia University School of the Arts

Fudan University

table of contents

6 - foreword

361 - word for word / palabra por palabra

Columbia University School of the Arts

Universidad Diego Portales

45 - word for word / mot pour mot

Columbia University School of the Arts

Université Paris 8

289 - word for word / wort für wort

Columbia University School of the Arts

Deutsches Literaturinstitut Leipzig

445 - word for word / parola per parola

Columbia University School of the Arts

Scuola Holden

325 - word for word / palavra por palavra

Columbia University School of the Arts

Instituo Vera Cruz Formação de Escritores

469- acknowledgments

Word for Word is an exchange program that was conceived in 2011

by Professor Binnie Kirshenbaum, then Chair of the Writing

Program in Columbia University’s School of the Arts. The exchange

was created in the belief that that when writers engage in the art of

literary translation, collaborating on translations of each other’s

work, the experience will broaden and enrich their linguistic

imaginations.

Since 2011, the Writing Program has conducted travel-based

exchanges in partnership with the Deutsches Literaturinstitut

Leipzig in Leipzig, Germany; Scuola Holden in Turin, Italy; the

Institut Ramon Llull and Universitat Pompeu Fabra-IDEC in

Barcelona, Catalonia (Spain); the Columbia Global Center | Middle

East in Amman, Jordan; Gallaudet University in Washington, D.C.;

and the University of the Arts Helsinki in Helsinki, Finland.

In 2016, the Word for Word program expanded to include a

collaborative translation workshop that pairs Writing Program

students with partners at two of these same institutions—the

Deutsches Literaturinstitut Leipzig and Scuola Holden—as well as

new ones: Université Paris 8 in Paris, France; Universidad Diego

Portales in Santiago, Chile; and the Instituto Vera Cruz in São

Paulo, Brazil. These workshop-based partnerships offer participants

the chance to expand their horizons even without travel via personal

and literary exchange and collaboration, establishing a new model

for cross-cultural engagement. In 2022, we welcomed a sixth

institutional partner: Fudan University in Shanghai, China.

The present volume offers selections from the works (originals and

translations) written by members of the Spring 2022 Word for

Word Workshop in the Columbia School of the Arts and their

Chinese-, French-, German-, Italian, Portuguese- and Spanish-lan-

guage partners in Shanghai, Paris, Leipzig, Turin, São Paulo, and

Santiago. This ninth in our series of Word for Word anthologies

FOREWORD

collects the work of twenty-four exceptionally talented writers,

presented here in tribute to all the ways in which artistic exchange

can build bridges between peoples and cultures. Especially in light

of the challenges of the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic and the

restrictions on travel we’ve experienced, we are grateful for the

opportunity this project gives us each year to forge new relation-

ships and artistic collaborations around the world. Singly and

together, these twenty-four new literary voices offer suggestions for

how to reach across the borders that divide us and strive for a global

community based not on political or economic interests but on

human connection.

Susan Bernofsky

Director, Literary Translation at Columbia

word for word / 一字换一字

Columbia University School of the Arts

Fudan University

Translator’s Note

The short story “Lost Horse Mine” by Kevin Wang

reminds me of some real masters such as Raymond

Carver, Ernest Hemingway, and even Kazuo Ishiguro.

No doubt, this story is brilliant: elegant, charming, and

delicate. This ction reveals an acute understanding

of the lives of Chinese immigrants in America. Their

dreams, illusions, and imaginations are composed into a

complicated literary image that reaches an ambiguous

and mysterious point between history and reality, which

is a most essential ability for a ne young writer.

When I was translating this story, the toughest

challenge was to understand the main character. After

communicating with Kevin, I started realizing that this

story was more like an epic imagined by an adorable and

innocent young “cowboy”. In the literary world, there

are prototypes of these kinds of stories such as Don

Quixote. Therefore, I tried to mimic an epic storyteller in

my translation. I hope that my choice of elaborate words

could create an atmosphere like a dream—a story told by

a boy describing an imaginary world.

From my perspective, the experience of a gap between

reality and imagination may be cause for suffering, yet

only through enduring such suffering can writers and

their characters nd the courage to create a new world.

In this story, we see the young cowboy pursued by

historic ghosts. His naive and frivolous adventure is no

match against an uncanny castle built by past hands.

Despite this cowboy’s failed adventure, I admired his

courage. I think this character will continue to discover

himself and his world, and so will Kevin Wang.

KEVIN WANG

LOST HORSE MINE

For a long time, I’d wanted to know what

people were talking about when they talked about the

“American west.” My summer internship had just ended

and I knew someone in LA with an apartment I could

squat in for a week. A handful of novels had given me a

cynical idea of their city: brutal, deluded, mill of make-

believe. LA’s saving grace, though, was its proximity to

enchantment, to the myths of mobility and escape. One

needed only to drive a few hours out to experience what

one writer calls “California before the cowboys.” There

was no place like that around where I lived in New York,

not in the Catskills or the Hudson Valley. I imagined I

could play the cowboy. Not the cattle ranching kind, but

the type that wore a poncho and chased down outlaws.

Looking at the mirror, I slipped on a khaki shirt

that I’d bought when I started college and never wore.

It was close to what I was going for, so I added it to the

growing stack of shirts in the luggage, knowing I had

to leave the designer brands behind to avoid certain

judgments.

On a weekday morning, with the palm trees

still glowing from daybreak, I left my friend’s place

and steered toward the hills. The backseat was lled

with snacks and a gallon of water. One gallon, not two,

for the challenge of scarcity. I could be tough like my

grandparents, who survived two famines and three

migrations before father got rich from the ore processing

business.

The rental car from LAX accelerated with a roar

that would have made me guilty if it hadn’t been for the

other cars doing the same. I followed their lead, passing

中文译者

佘东昊

失马矿

很长一段时间，我都想知道人们谈论“美国西部”

时在谈论什么。暑期实习刚刚结束，而我认识一个人，正

好在洛杉矶有间能挤上一周的公寓。几本小说曾使我对他

们这座城市有一种偏见：凶狠，狡黠，混沌着似是而非、

弄命使运的风气。不过，尽管如此，洛杉矶那种触手可及

的迷魅，颠簸与逃亡的神话，仍是它残存的优雅。一个

人，只要开上几小时的车就能体味某个作家所称的“前牛

仔加州”。在我纽约的居所附近，无论是卡茨基尔，还是

哈德逊河谷，没有一个地方是像这样的。我想象着自己能

做个牛仔。不是放牛的，而是披着斗篷，追击法外之徒那

种。

看着镜子，我套了一件上大学时买的却从未穿过的

卡其色衬衫。它跟我要做的事情挺配。我将它放在行李中

一堆越来越厚的衬衫里面。得离那些大牌子远点，以免受

人偏见。

一个平日的清晨，棕榈树还闪着破晓时分的光芒，

我离开朋友的住所驶向群山。后座堆满零食，还有一加仑

的水。一加仑，为了挑战缺水的困难，多一加仑都不要。

父亲凭矿探生意发财之前，祖父母从两次饥荒和三次迁徙

中活下来，我也能像他们一样坚韧。

要不是其它车也一样，这辆从洛杉矶国际机场租来

的车给油时的轰响得让我愧疚得多

。我跟着它们，超过

一个近我们一半速度的白色旅行车。为了把注意力从胸

间的搏撞上分开，我试着打开电台，听到一些福语圣音

a white station wagon going nearly half our speed. To

distract myself from the pounding in my chest, I tried

the radio and, after hearing ecstatic voices, turned it

back off.

A yellow sign on the side of the highway read:

AVOID OVERHEATING

TURN OFF A/C

NEXT 30 MILES

I have never ventured beyond the cold climes of my

schools, so I obeyed for fear of catastrophic failure. My

armpits were soon soaked in sweat, though I barely

registered this. An enormous tug of gravity seemed to

emanate from the elephantine hills. After slipping past

the mess of malls and gas stations, what was left was

strikingly simple, half beige, half blue.

In the bathroom of the Cottonwood Visitor Center, I

was admiring the severity of the “Don’t Die Today” sign

before a park ranger came in and joined me. We sized

each other up across the urinals. The plastic partitions

in between were so insubstantial that we had a full view

of each other’s costume. The gold badge and boxy green

pants made him look like a camp counselor. Under the

wide-brimmed hat was a slim face, his chin framed by a

pubey beard that grew in patches.

“How you doin’?” he asked.

“Trying to stay cool,” I said.

I went around him for the sink, staying clear of

the gun on his hip.

In the gift shop I spun a shelf around to look at

the postcards, retro illustrations in the optimistic style

of WPA posters. A beat-up binder for guest sign-ins

was open to today’s empty page. I picked up the blue

ballpoint and added my name, having decided that I did

not want to leave here without trace.

The ranger found me looking at a paper map of

the park and asked if I wanted suggestions on where to

后，将它关掉了。

一个高速路边的黄色标牌写道：

前方30英里内

避免过热

关掉空调

我从没冒险越过我读过的学校里的那些寒严之地

，

如今也就屈服了对可能惨败的恐惧。尽管几乎没法接受，

但是，我的腋窝很快就被汗水浸透了。一股巨大的引力似

乎从群象般的山脉显生出来。穿过盘乱的购物中心和加油

站，留在身后的，是一种简了得令人惊诧的一半米白，与

一半蓝。

在卡顿伍德

游客中心的洗手间，我咂赏着严肃兮兮

的标识“今日勿死”，直到公园巡查员进来，走到身边。

透过小便池，我们相互打量。间隔的塑料挡板很虚，我们

完全能看到彼此的扮装。金色徽章与方方正正的绿裤子让

他看起来像个野营向导。宽檐帽下是一张纤瘦的脸，阴毛

般的胡须星斑丛生，框着他的下巴。

“你怎么样？”他说。

“还不错，”我说。

我绕过他，向水池走去，和他胯上的枪保持距离。

在礼品店，我转着一副旋转架，看着那些明信片，

那些公共事业振兴署海报乐观主义风格的怀旧图绘

。游

客登记册让一只破破烂烂的活页夹夹着，敞着今日的空白

页。我拿过蓝色圆珠笔写上名字，决定不想无所痕踪地离

开这里。

那个巡查员发觉我在看公园的纸质地图，问我是否

要些出行建议。“为了你的安全，你或许想听听。”他从

他的衬衫口袋拿出一根笔，简快地圈出我能走马观花的地

方。

go. “You might want to hear them for your safety.” He

took a pen from his shirt pocket and drew quick circles

around places I could swing by.

I put a nger on the route to the Lost Horse

Mine, a place I actually wanted to see. It was one of the

abandoned things here, an artifact that a time-traveling

cowboy from the 1800s would paid homage to. “How

about the mine?” I said.

“That thing? A whole loop takes half a day,” he

said. “Just be sure to get out before sundown.”

Standing in a cactus patch, I felt a dry wind whip up

around me. It was noon and the sky was cloudless. Far

from being empty, the place teemed with growing things,

the stubbornest characters of the plant kingdom. This

harsh openness was what attracted the jaded artists,

desert divas, and libertarians, or, in parts farther out,

meth cooks, people who came to bury bodies, leaving

dishonored beings behind to haunt these hills.

Along the path, dusty signs warned not to veer

off the park’s boarded walkway, but what’s the harm in

seeing a cactus up close? As I took a step onto the sand,

a child coughed like an alarm clock somewhere on the

other side of the patch. The guest book had misled me

into thinking I’d be the only visitor this morning. The

wind carried along their murmurs and laughter, a camera

shutter, a door slam.

Back on the road, the other visitors rode ahead

of me in a white station wagon. A scenic pulloff came

into view where I could park and be educated by the

signs. The car in front stopped too. A man and a kid

stepped out. Both wore clunky hiking boots. They moved

lightly, almost unsure of the ground, and whether from

the shimmer of the asphalt’s heat or dehydration, I saw

their forms blur along the direction of their motion, as if

their bodies were not fully realized.

The unreal moment passed as the man held up a

grey video camera and spoke a Mandarin that sounded

as though he were narrating a documentary, a sound that

我将一根手指放在去失马矿的路线上，一个我真正

想去看看的地方。它是这里被遗弃的东西之一，一个从

1800年代穿越来的牛仔将致以崇高敬意的人迹。“这矿怎

么样？”我说。

“那玩意儿？走一趟得半天，”他说。“确保日落

前能赶出来吧。”

站在一小丛仙人掌旁，我感到身边激起一股干燥的

风。那时是正午，天空少云。这里远非空旷之地，满是活

物，那些植物王国最顽强的家伙们。正是这份粗砺的辽放

吸引着心灰意懒的艺术家，沙漠“名媛”，还有自由派，

或者，更远些，制毒的，来掩埋尸体的，将那些脏秽的东

西抛诸脑后，游猎这群山的人们。

沿着道路，积满尘灰的标牌警称不要偏离公园里铺

着木板的人行道，可是，离近了看一株仙人掌又有什么坏

处呢？当我踏上沙土，在另一边的什么地方，一个孩子闹

钟般地咳起来。我让导览手册误导，以为自己是今早唯一

一个游客了。风将他们的低语与笑带过来，一声快门，一

声门响。

回到路上，一辆白色旅行车里的另一些游客走到了

我的前面。一处观景点露出来，我可以在这里停车，还能

在宣传牌前受受教。那辆车也在前面停下来。一个男人和

一个小孩走出来。两人都穿着肥笨的登山靴。他们移动得

很轻，几乎是试探着地面，并且，不知是否由于沥青热气

闪烁的微光，还是缺水，我看见他们的身廓顺着动作的方

向模糊了，好像身体不完全实在似的。

当男人举起一个灰色的摄像机，说着像给一部纪录

片旁白的普通话的时候，这不真实的时刻才过去。一个声

音碎灭了我沉浸的幻想：“我们已经来到另一个停车区

了。据说以前这里有水。岸边住着印第安人。”他缓缓转

着身体，面向整片景色。

“印第安人是印度来的，”男孩说。他不断地跳

shattered my fantasies of immersion: “We’ve come to

another parking area. It says there used to be water here.

Indians lived along the riverbank.” He turned slowly for

the panorama.

“Indians are from India,” the boy said. He kept

jumping into the frame to make faces at the camera until

the man shooed him away.

A woman got out from the driver’s seat. She also

had on hiking boots. She looked at me and her brows

sunk into perplexity. I returned the look and thought,

what are you doing here? Not wanting to break out into

tedious talk about our native provinces, I walked the

long way to my car.

There wasn’t much of a human presence on the road,

just signs. They cautioned against ash oods and the

feeding of coyotes. The rst Joshua trees started showing

up after another mile. Joshua, a gure I’d learned about

in Catholic school, was handed the baton from Moses

to lead his people out of the wilderness. I could not

remember whether Joshua got to settle down—whoever

named these trees after him either did it out of optimism

or spite.

I’d lathered on a dollop of sunscreen every

time I stepped out of the car, though I hadn’t bothered

to spread it around. It sat on my face in chunks. After

parking on the side of Park Boulevard, I ipped open

the sun visor. I looked like Queen Elizabeth the First. I

evened out the chunks and remembered the coronation

scene in Elizabeth, the one with Cate Blanchett where

her ladies-in-waiting worked paste onto her face as she

pronounced: “I have become a virgin.”

The trees were shielded by thousands of little

daggers, yet their postures were open. Their limbs

reached out in a manner that was either whimsical or

tortured. I ran my hand along the trunk and, soothed

by the crackle of bark, continued absentmindedly until

a splinter dug into my hand. I howled and leapt back.

In the car, I dug out tweezers from my bag of toiletries.

着，让脸出现在摄像机里，直到男人将他推走。

一个女人从驾驶座里走出来。她也穿着登山靴。她

看着我，眉毛困惑地拧作一处。我回敬她的目光，思忖

着，你在这里做什么？我不愿挑起那种关于各自原籍省县

的沉闷的交谈，便长长地走回去，上了车。

路上没有太多人迹，只有路标。它们义正辞严地面

对着暴洪与郊狼的餐猎。又一英里后，第一片约书亚树

开始显露出来。约书亚，一位我在天主教学校学到的人

物，从摩西手中接过指挥棒，带领他的子民走出荒野。我

记不清约书亚是不是得其所终了——不管是谁，以他命名

这些树的人，要么出于乐观主义，要么就是报怨。

每次从车里走出去，我都会涂上一小圈防晒霜，但

不怎么在意将它抹匀。它在我的脸上结成了块。在林荫大

道泊车场的边上停下后，我将遮阳板的小镜子翻开。我

看起来就像伊丽莎白女王一世。我摊平双颊，记起《伊

丽莎白》里加冕典礼的一幕，那场凯特·布兰切特

的戏，

女官将粉浆

涂在她的脸上时，她开口颁言：“我已成处

子。”

这些约书亚树被数以千计的细小匕首般的树皮围覆

着，姿态却是开放的。它们的枝杈以一种奇异或受折磨的

模样伸着。我的手抚着树干，树皮噼啪作响，我心绪平

静，始终心不在焉，直到一片木碎扎了进来。我叫着跳回

去。在车里，我从盥洗袋翻出镊子。乌鸦尖嚎着，从巨石

上飞起。

我愈攀愈高，向失马矿而去。郁沉的脚步间，我想

着之前看见的家庭，读宣传牌时，他们脸上冷木的困惑，

围着拥在一起就像一张深咖色的我父母的照片。

群山从米白变成鲜褐色。最初，那座矿机看起来像

个小棚屋。接着它才露出实貌，一种密封在盒子里的，由

锈朽的钢与沉重的木材构成的机器。它的体积和质料，让

它变得比我想象的更有些特别。全不像州北

的谷仓那样

Crows cackled as they ew up from the boulders.

I hiked on a gradual incline toward the Lost Horse Mine.

Between pensive steps I thought about the family I saw

earlier, the stony perplexity on their faces as they read

the sign, huddled around it like a sepia-toned image of

my parents.

The hills turned from beige to russet. At rst,

the mine looked like a small shack. Then it came into

denition, a machine of rusted steel and heavy timber

enclosed in a box. Its solidity and substance made it

somehow more particular than what I’d imagined.

Instead of being cracked and rotten like the barns

upstate, which looked like they could be blown down by

the wind, the planks that made up the walls did not seem

that old and still had a yellow sheen.

The chain-link fence around the structure was as

useless as one of those ropes guarding a museum exhibit.

The bottom of one section was folded up and made

enough space for someone to crawl through. The wheel

on the side of the mill was covered with the etchings of

hearts, dates, Chris, Rob, Megan. A sign by the fence

read: stay out and stay alive.

There was a time when the valley was lled with

the screeches and groans of this machine as it pulverized

rock to powder. Like the cactus patch from earlier, this

thing now also belonged to the park. Then, there was

the problem of this place being called a “park,” as if it

were owned by the Walt Disney Company. Nothing really

owned the land. So who was I within its borders, what

kind of subject?

Cowboys did not ask these kinds of questions.

There was not a soul from here to the horizon. I got down

on all fours and scampered into the grounds. There must

be something I could do here, a test to prove my daring.

The entrance to the mill was boarded up, but through a

sliver in the wall, I saw a dark space inside where people

used to work and heard the beckoning groan of old

ghosts from behind the wall.

开裂腐坏，看着能被风吹倒似的，那作墙的木板并不像那

么旧，仍然有一种黄色的光泽。

绕着这座建筑的链式围栏像那种博物馆保护展品的

绳子一样没什么用处。底部有一处折了起来，留出的空当

正够一人爬进去。矿机一侧的轮子上，覆满了心形、日

期、克里斯多芬、罗勃、梅根一类的刻痕。围栏旁的一处

标记写道：保持远离，保护生命。

曾经有段时间，这架机器将石块碾打成粉的时候，

山谷间充斥着它的厉声与哀鸣。就像早先的仙人掌丛，这

东西现在也属于公园。那么，把这地方叫“公园”就成了

一个问题，好像它属于华特·迪士尼公司一样。没谁真的

拥有这块土地。所以在它的边界以内，我又是谁呢，是哪

种类型的物品呢？

牛仔可不会问这种问题。在这里是神不知，鬼不

觉。我四肢着地，扭蹦着爬了进去。一定有什么能在这儿

做的，一项证明勇气的试炼。矿机的入口敞开着，但借墙

里的一条裂缝，我看见内里人们曾工作的黑暗之地，听到

墙后苍老的鬼魂诱召的呜嚎。

我寻找着上面的踏脚点。墙里嵌着些罅隙，我爬上

去便能透过它开放的上顶瞥见其中的构造。我在挑战我的

肉体，挑战那些律条，却又是完全安于所规的。我将我的

脚放入第一条裂缝。一只整路跟随着我的苍蝇让其它两只

引到一起去了。我挥手将它们赶走。到下一条裂缝时，我

想到了破伤风，那些所有的或许附生在这些表面上的细

菌。

那是第三条裂口，在我的重量下，尽管看起来和其

它缝隙坚固无异，还是崩断了。疼痛撼穿骨头，我的视线

一片模糊。我在大庭广众之下摔过跤，好在如今身边一个

人也没有，所以也是种宽慰。我透过卡其衬衫看着起起伏

伏的腹部，现在盖着沙土。没摔破，只是手和腿遍布着擦

痕，右膝有块深口，一小张血皮像道门似的豁开。后面是

I searched for footholds. There were slats nailed

to the wall, and I could climb up to peek past the rooess

top at the innards of the machine. I was testing my body,

testing the law, all within reason. I put my foot on the

rst slat. A y, which had followed me this whole way,

was joined by two others. I waved them away. Reaching

for the next slat, I thought of tetanus, all the bacteria

that might be thriving on these surfaces.

It was the third slat that, under my weight,

chose to give, though it had seemed as sturdy as the

others. My vision blurred as pain shook the bone. I’d

fallen on my ass before in public so it was a relief to

have no one around. I watched my stomach rise and fall

through the khaki shirt, now coated with sand. There

had been no crack, just scrapes all over my hands and

legs, and a gash on my right knee, a ap of skin that

opened like a door. Behind that was either a sliver of fat

or bone.

The wind was picking up and I shivered at the

day’s rst hint of cold. I hopped to the fence and rolled

back over, where I drank the last sip of water from the

bottle in my drawstring pack. I had to get to a pharmacy.

Jumping one-legged every few yards I would test the

other foot to see whether I could put any weight on it.

Before starting the hike, I’d seen a sign, lot closes

at sundown. Would there be a park ranger waiting at the

end of the trail, one foot tapping? I remembered the gun

on the ranger’s holster, how easy it would be to see it as

a prop from another century. But no, it held live rounds

and implied something that shattered the innocence of

our exchange. There were dangerous things he needed to

protect his park from.

A pack of gures emerged on the path I’d taken

to get here. My jaw dropped when I saw them clearly. It

was the same family from earlier, the one whose car I’d

followed. Were we so similar that they’d also chosen to

visit the mine at this hour?

The low sun gave the slopes an eerie glow. The

child bounced along as the other two walked steadily up

一片脂肪，要么就是骨面。

风大起来，我在这日的初寒中发着抖。我单腿跳向

围栏，滚回去，喝下了拉绳包里水瓶的最后一口水。我必

须去个药店。每跳过几码，我就要看看另一条腿能不能承

些重量。

远足前我看过一张告示牌，停车场日落关闭。小径

尽头会有个一边等着，一边轻轻叩着脚的公园管理员吗？

我记起来他皮套里的手枪，多容易就能把它当成一柄来自

其它世纪的道具啊。但并不，它上着实弹，暗示着某种破

坏我们交谈的清白的东西。他得保护他的公园免受那些危

险的东西之害。

一团人形在我到这里的路上露现出来。看清他们以

后，我的下巴掉了下来。那正是之前遇见的一家人，我跟

着他们的车的那家人。当他们也选择参观这座矿的时候，

这一刻我们竟如此相像吗？

低低的太阳使山坡闪着怪诞可怖的光亮。那两人拄

着登山杖，稳稳地攀上来，孩子蹦蹦跳跳地随着他们。我

掸掉衬衫的灰尘，按下膝盖那块皮，蹒跚地向着他们走

去，动作间尽是漫不经心。

“你怎么了？”女人用普通话说道。她似乎肯定这

是我们共通的语言——直觉，或是某种我举止模式里无法

错淆的标志。我不知道是不是被冒犯到了，因为我做这个

国家的公民已经很多年了。

“我绊倒了，”我说，将血从胫部擦去。“当心

点。”

他们要通知附近的一家医院或游客中心，兴许能派

个人过来。我当然拒绝了，坚称那只是刮伤。“我车里有

绷带，”我确定地说。男孩大笑着过来抱住一截枯树干，

尽管这突如其来的热情使他一阵猛咳。

“你要点儿水吗？”父亲问。

“不了，”我说。

with hiking poles. I dusted off my shirt, pressed down on

the ap of knee skin, and hobbled toward them with as

much nonchalance as the movement allowed.

“What happened to you?” The woman said in

Mandarin. She seemed sure that this was our shared

language—instinct, or some unmistakable sign in my

mannerisms. I didn’t know whether to be offended, since

I’d been a citizen of this country for years.

“I tripped,” I said, wiping at the blood on my

shin. “Be careful.”

They offered to call a nearby hospital or the

visitor center, which might be able to send someone over.

Of course I declined, insisting that it was a scratch. “I

have bandages in my car,” I assured. The boy laughed

and ran over to hug a barren trunk, though this sudden

exuberance sent him into a coughing t.

“You need some water?” The father asked.

“No,” I said.

He dug through his bag and handed me a full

bottle. They lived in Los Angeles, he said, and were on a

day trip like me.

The mother gave him a look. “The poles.” He

blinked, then nodded and offered them to me.

“You need to save those knees more than I do,”

I said.

“No, You’ll need them to get back.”

It was easiest to simply accept this kindness. We

looked at the mine. The father raised his camcorder and I

heard a digital shutter click.

“Why is it called lost horse?” The mother asked.

“Do you know?”

I was surprised they’d missed the story at the

entrance. A cowboy named Johnny Lang was camping

out here some time in the 1890s and lost all his horses in

the middle of the night. He travelled into the hills and,

instead of horses, found gold. So he built the spot up and

employed at least thirty, forty workers.

“Lose a horse, nd forty more,” The child said.

He was by the tree, spinning his arms from side to side

他掏着他的包，递给我一满瓶水。他们住在洛杉

矶，他说，像我一样，正在一日游。

母亲看了他一眼。“登山杖。”他眨眨眼，接着点

点头，将它们递给我。

“你比我更需要省着用那点膝盖骨，”我说。

“不，你必须得靠它们回去。”

直接接受这份好意是最简单的。我们看向矿井。父

亲举起他的便携摄影机，我听见一下数码快门的声音。

“为什么叫它“失马”？”母亲问。“你知道

吗？”

我诧异他们错过了入口处所写的故事。1890年代的

某个时候，一个名叫强尼·朗的牛仔在这里扎营并在午夜

失去了所有的马。他行进山脉，没有马，却发现了金矿。

所以他将这个地方建起来，雇了至少三十，四十个工人。

“丢掉一匹马，找回四十个，”小孩说。他在树

边，将他的胳膊从一侧转到另一侧好像它们是意大利面。

我惊讶他原来在听。“骑烈马，摔断腿，”我回道。

母亲轻声笑起来。接着她将她的下巴抬高，向着矿

机，要么对我要么就是对那个孩子，说道，“那就是我们

怎么在这个国家立足的，你知道的，整天对着石头晃。我

们曾在一个这样的地方工作。”

当他们继续朝矿井前去时，那孩子曾短暂地折返。

他毫无此前一丝的顽劣气息，并以一种超乎年岁的审慎的

目光看着我。接着，他回到了父母身边。他们前后走着，

相互隔着一臂距离，长长的阴影在身后，与他们一起，在

转角处消逝了。

___________

1 这里指汽车的轰鸣会让“我”意识到此种出行方式

不够环保。

2 指宗教曲乐和经讲。

as though they were spaghetti. I was surprised he’d been

listening. “Ride a wild horse, fall and break your leg,” I

replied.

The mother chuckled. Then she raised her chin

at the mill and said, either to me or the child, “That’s

how we started in this country, you know, swinging at

rocks all day. We worked in a place like this.”

As they continued toward the mine, the child

hung back for a moment. He had none of the air of

mischief from earlier and looked at me with a precocious

scrutiny. Then, he rejoined his parents. They walked

ahead at an arm’s distance from one another, shadows

long behind them, before they vanished around a bend.

3 老型号的汽车会由于过热而故障，因此高速路边才

有这种告示牌。但在这篇小说的时代背景下，汽车早已换

代，只是高速路长年缺乏照管，牌子没有取换。

4 原文为古英语说法。

5 位于加利福尼亚州以北，亚利桑那州的一个城市。

6 公共事业振兴署是美国大萧条时期罗斯福总统实施

新政时建立的一个机构，旨在解决失业问题。为兴盛公共

事业，鼓舞人心，该机构发行的海报采用了一种乐观主义

风格，感情洋溢，造型经典。如今，这种风格的海报或明

信片依然在国家公园游客中心一类的地方出售，作为怀旧

主义的纪念品。这一风格也会被用来调侃世事，幽默活

泼。

7 传说中美国的摩尔门教徒移民将短叶丝兰命名为“

约书亚树”，树的样子好像约书亚伸直的手臂。

8 著名澳大利亚女演员，曾获奥斯卡奖。

9 伊丽莎白女王一世患天花，以铅粉遮瑕。

10 这一场景出自1998年的英国电影《伊丽莎白》。

伊丽莎白女王一世终生未婚，被称为“童贞女王”。

11 一般用来形容美国某些边远地区。

Translator’s Note

“Little Finger” opens with one character’s warning to

another on an icy mountain road. In Chinese, Luosang

tells the narrator that his 命 (fate, life) is so 硬 (rm,

hard) that it is liable to 克 (overcome, subdue) the lives

of others. A tenacious researcher with the right resources

might be able to nd precedence for how a concept like

克 has been translated into English, but even then,

those verbal choices may not t the context of the story.

These words, so resistant to translation, are from the

oral language of fortune telling, a vast, overlapping,

chaotic assortment of folk practices with no centralized

source of authority. Such practices appear throughout

the story: an efgy made to represent an unborn child, a

sinister version of acupuncture, a cursed strand of hair.

Some of these may be She Donghao’s inventions, but

one can never be sure. Later in the story, a diviner uses

his knowledge of feng shui to assess whether a house’s

architecture is favorable to conceiving a son. His tool, a

bagua (eight trigrams) compass, uses a mathematical and

cosmological system as old as the I Ching, a divination

text whose present form was assembled between the

and 4

centuries BC. On the other hand, the same

character interprets the burning patterns of incense,

a tool with no discernable origin in the classical texts,

though there are numerous blog posts dedicated to

its practice. Trying to translate these practices is a

noticeable undoing of the metaphor of the translator

as a “cultural ambassador” tasked with representing a

singular culture.

There is no singular guide or key to the story’s “old

customs,” just as there is no center that can hold in its

moral sensibility, aside from the sense of a pervasive

wickedness in its characters. Within a single page of

She’s text, the dialogue might it from the rhetoric of

Buddhism, to Daoism, to Confucianism, to the ideology

of the state. None of the characters actually seem to

have real spiritual aspirations. Instead, they are tossed

about in a world that, though open to the supernatural,

has no reliable logic or sense of causality. This quality to

She’s work possibly reects his biggest literary inuence,

Yu Hua, an avant-garde writer who, in the 1980s,

popularized postmodern and metactional approaches to

Chinese writing.

While translating this story, I mostly sat at my desk

by the apartment window, a poor buffer for the quick

sounds of various machines on the street. To cover them,

I turned to the stark organ drone of Kali Malone’s The

Sacricial Code and the whirl of snowstorm recordings.

佘东昊

小指

洛桑说我这条命太硬，是要克死人的。

说这话的时候，我们正往川地深进，大雾锁着盘山

公路，汽车抛锚了，他跳下去查看引擎，登山靴踩着冻实

的地面，犁出两列冰碴子。我向外看了看，远处的松林落

满了霜，崖下，五六辆轿车仰翻。上路的时候，一个老太

太在山口卖防滑链，铁环像拳头那么粗。我不愿花钱，洛

桑争着拿了两根。路就容一辆车过，越往上爬雪越大，车

轮太滑，一个险弯没别过去，洛桑一脚急刹，车熄火了。

他回来的时候就说，你的命克我。我说，你是信佛

教的，不应该说这个。他说，你要克我，我肯定把你推下

去。我笑笑。

他也笑了。车摇晃地尖叫时，我就知道这趟不是好

跑的。我背着相机四处拍照，险境也有过，但自恃运旺，

从来都是大大咧咧。枪弹擦着我的头皮，我也是晃着腿就

走了过去。死的是个毒贩。姓马的警察第一天出任务，闭

着眼睛把板机扣下去了。

洛桑不知道这个故事。他那样说，是因为我告诉

他：这条命是我姐给的。天色青暗，呜咽着凛峻处落鸟的

断鸣。我看着后视镜挂着的毛泽东像，说，那时候，我还

没生出来，我爸去寻医问药，问来一个人。

我伸手在他腰上比了比。就这么高，我说，一个男

的，上来就说，你听过吗，小鬼难缠，我这样的，生来就

该吃这碗饭。

都说他道行高，谁知道，我说，死马当活马医。

那时候我姐是七岁，我说，七岁半，刚上一年级。

translated from the chinese by

KEVIN WANG

LITTLE FINGER

Luosang said the fate set into motion by my birth was so

unyielding it might kill him.

When we rst got on the road, an elderly

woman at the foot of the mountain had been selling

snow chains. Each link on the chain was the size of a

st. I didn’t want to spend the money, but Luosang

bought two anyway. The snow on the ground thickened

as we climbed. There was barely enough road for one

car and we slipped a bit on a turn. Luosang slammed

on the brakes, stalling the engine. He jumped out to

check under the hood. I looked at the rows of frosted-

over pines. The sky’s gloom had deepened, and a bird

whimpered from somewhere on the frozen slope. The

remains of ve or six cars lay half buried at the bottom

of the cliff.

Luosang’s boots crunched against the crust of

snow. After getting back in, he came at me again: your

fate will overwhelm mine. I said, you’re a Buddhist, are

you people supposed to talk like that? He said, I’d push

you off this cliff if I were any wiser. I smiled at him. He

smiled back. The car started again with a shudder.

I wondered whether the good luck I’d enjoyed all

my life would run out on this mountain. I’ve taken my

camera to shoot in all kinds of dangerous places, careless

in my belief that the universe was benign, at least to

me. A bullet once grazed my scalp during a standoff

involving a drug trafcker. I kept snapping my pictures.

The cop’s name was Ma. It was his rst day on the job

and he pulled the trigger with his eyes closed.

What made Luosang spooked, though, was the

story I’d told him about owing my life to my sister.

我姐脑子有点笨，学话晚，认字也晚，就是体格好，别的

孩子刚走，她已经上树了。

一共是三回，我打了个手势，就是这个三要命，中

国人就这样，坏在三上。

头一回人没来，我说，请了一个纸人，还有名字，

叫暮暮，我爸取的，意思是全家人朝思暮想，就为了盼

我。纸人的脸是用毛笔勾的，墨浓，眼角垂一道黑泪，扎

着红发髻，捆着红腰带。我姐说，爸，这是啥？我爸说，

这是你弟弟。她说，我啥时候有弟弟了？我爸说，现在没

有，过阵儿就有了，今天起，你就认他作弟弟。她说，

爸，我不要弟弟。

我爸没理她。纸人倚着墙，立在床前。一天三趟，

我姐得叫它，暮暮弟弟，暮暮弟弟。我爸妈都是工人，白

夜班来回倒，大多时候，我姐都自己在家。过了一周，纸

人霉了，墙壁浸出尸油，腐臭冲天。我爸拉着她，说，让

你叫弟弟，叫了吗？我姐说，叫啦。我爸把纸人扔出去，

后背破了一条口子，里面填的是狗胃狗舌头。小个子男人

笑嘻嘻地说，你家姑娘不定怎么骂呢。我爸说不会。他

说，我干了小半辈子啦，这点儿事都看不出来，出门让车

轧死。我爸心就重了。我妈说，算了吧，这些人说话怎么

都那么不吉利？我爸说，就是因为人家捏得准呢。

其实中国人吧，就是爱赌咒，我对洛桑说，赌咒发

誓，所有事都是这么弄的，没必要。

我爸对我姐说，你好好的，端正态度，老师怎么教

你的？得有奉献精神，眼看大局，舍小家为大家，丢车保

帅，为人民服务。我妈就乐：这是厂领导教你的话吧。我

爸说，不管怎么样，你得帮爸爸妈妈一次，好吗？我姐

说，爸，妈，你们就想要个弟弟呗。我爸说，对。我姐

说，我妈头天把弟弟生下来，第二天我就给他掐死。我爸

把头垂在胸间，跟男人说，没法弄。男人说，有的是办

法。我爸说，人在做，天在看，凡事有报应。男人说，那

My parents had always wanted a son. My father

looked all over for doctors and fertility experts and

managed to nd someone. People said he was a master

of his art. True or not, he was a desperate measure for

desperate times.

I pointed at Luosang’s waist. That’s how tall the

man was. He’d tell people that an imp like him was born

to serve the lords of hell.

My sister was seven years old then. Seven and

a half. She had just started rst grade. She was a bit…

thick in the head. It took her a while to learn how to

speak and read, but she was strong in body. When other

kids were just starting to walk, she was already climbing

trees.

It took three tries to bring me into the world.

What’s that thing people like to say? Three times a

mishap. The rst time, the little man had someone deliver

a stuffed doll with paper skin to our family. My father

even gave it a name, Mumu. He named it after the sunset

because the whole family yearned day and night for my

birth. The face on the doll was painted on with a brush.

The ink had left a tear running down the corner of one

eye. The doll wore a red hair clip and a red belt. My sister

said, Ba, what’s this? He said, this is your brother. She

said, since when do I have a brother? He said, not yet,

but soon. From now on, just accept it as your brother.

She said, I don’t want a brother. My father ignored her.

The doll was left on the bed where it leaned against the

wall. My sister was instructed to speak to it three times a

day, addressing it as “Mumu” and “brother.”

That’s the way with our old customs, I said,

looking at the little portrait of Mao Zedong that hung

from the rearview mirror. They’re not so easy to get rid

of.

My sister was home alone while my parents

worked shifts around the clock. After a week, the doll

began to rot. The oils of its decomposing corpse seeped

into the wall and a stench of decay lled the air. My

father pulled my sister aside and said, I told you to call

倒是，随你吧。

没多久，我姐就病了，低烧不退，查不出病因。我

姐说，爸，给我送医院吧。我爸说，送医院得输液，西医

的办法，伤身。他找来一个老头。老头带着一副银针，剥

开我姐的衣服，乳下，脊梁，刺了一十二下，针留了一个

钟头。

这是第二回，我说，可针拔出来的时候，血都没

流。

男人烧柱香看了看，我爸一去，他点点头，我知道

了，你姑娘是硬啊。我爸说，是。他说，想好了？我爸

说，好了。男人就说，走。

男人进家，我姐跟在后面。他拿着一个镶着水银的

八卦盘，绕家一圈，我姐说，叔叔，你怎么跟桌子一般

高。他笑笑，说，你们家啊，装修时候找人看过吧。我爸

说是。他说，已经是个送子的盘势了，问题在哪儿，不用

我说了吧？我爸说，奶奶的，弄吧。男人就点点头，看着

我姐，说，姑娘，头发一直没剪过？

那时候，我姐的辫子能在脚腕打个结。男人过来，

双指由鬓角一合，合下一缕头发，捡出一根，往我姐左手

食指打了个结。我爸说，这就行了？男人说，行啦。

一年，我说，我妈就把我生下来了。

洛桑说，你姐呢？

我说，发结看着细，一绷就断，可没用，怎么扯也

下不来，指头开始发红，最后发乌，半年过去，像萎落的

花茎，忽然断了。我姐也跑了，我说，我爸意思意思，找

了两天，不再动了。我妈哭，我爸说留着也是祸害，算

逑。

洛桑理理佛珠。我掏出烟盒，还剩两根。他全嘬在

嘴里。我说，歇歇。他说，天快黑了，再不开，今晚难

说。

我说，早知道，四个轮子全上防滑链。

him brother. Did you? My sister said, I did. My father

took the doll outside and tore a hole in its back. It had

been stuffed with the tongue and stomach of a dog.

The little man grinned and said, if only you

knew how your girl curses behind your back. My father

couldn’t believe it. The man said, I’ve been doing this

work for nearly half my life, don’t you think I know

what goes on? If I turn out to be wrong, you can send me

back to hell.

Forget it, my mother said. How can these

people talk such bad luck? My father said, you know

they always get these things right. He went to my sister

and pleaded: you’re a good girl with a proper attitude.

Haven’t you learned from your teachers? Serve the

people. Lift up your spirit of devotion. Keep your eyes on

the big picture. Crash the chariot, save the king. Sacrice

one for the sake of many. My mother laughed: that’s

what the factory bosses tell you. My father said, doesn’t

matter. Just help us this once, okay? My sister said, the

two of you only want a boy? My father said, that’s right.

She said, if Ma gives birth to a son, I’ll strangle him to

death.

My father lowered his head and said to the little

man, there’s no use. The man said, you know there are

other options. My father said, the heavens are watching.

I’m afraid of bad karma. The man said, fair enough. You

have to make that choice.

Not long after that, something made my sister

sick. No one knew why her fever would not go away.

She said, Ba, take me to the hospital. My father said,

they’ll put you on an IV, Western medicine hurts the

body. Instead, he invited over an old man who put a

dozen silver needles under her breasts and along her spine

and left them there for an hour. That was their second

attempt. Contrary to the plan, the needles came out

without a drop of blood.

My father went back to the little man, who lit

some incense, observed the smoke, and nodded: your girl

really is stubborn. Have you made up your mind? My

他瞪我一眼，拔出一杆刀，柄上的红宝石像麻雀的

眼睛，顺着左手食指拉了一道，又拍了拍脸。他的棉袄全

湿了，油门压着，车蹒跚着过弯，猛地一紧，我眼前一阵

模糊，一个女人殷红的身影现在山石之间。

她双手护着，戴着手套，穿得陈旧不堪，红围巾绕

了脖子好几圈。洛桑死盯着她。这段路老碰见藏族女人。

我说，反正后车分量不够，让她上。

女人年纪不大，很瘦，一摘帽子全是筋，脸黄黄

的，嘴唇是紫色，头发倒很厚，皮绳捆不住。洛桑说，有

钱吗？没声，我看看后视镜，她鼻子挺拔，尖尖的。不要

你钱，我笑笑。车很慢，还没过一个弯，云已经连到一处

了，山影青靛，四下只余若有若无的风响。洛桑把手刹一

拽，我说，要不我来。他偏偏头：非得滚下去。我一看，

半个前车轮探了出去。天黑，没看清，洛桑说。我说，实

在不好意思。他说，没事。我说，我来吧，你沉，坐后面

去。他拉开车门。我扒着仪表盘，慢慢曲身，伸到离合那

里，对着他的肚子笑笑。女人很快地向右边一移，我刚想

喊，洛桑坐了进去。车停止晃动，我看着天边的云。好一

会，只有洛桑沉重的吸气声。我说，明天冰能化不？洛桑

笑笑。我打开双闪，掏出空烟盒一点点撕。洛桑说，有老

婆了吗？我说，没有。你一个人来的？他说。是，女人

说。洛桑深出一口气，把棉袄敞开，白毛衣染满了黄渍。

我看向后视镜。女人一圈圈地旋下围巾，脖子很细。她穿

的是旧风衣，大扣子别在肋条那儿，掏了几下没掏到，洛

桑一把拽开了。女人又脱毛衣，刺啦啦地响，好多火花。

她又理头发，双手并在背后解胸罩。洛桑扯住她的脖子，

按去身下顶着。她的鼻子撞着洛桑的大腿，头发缎子似的

闪光。洛桑把她的裤子拉下一半，爬上去。车晃起来。我

脚下狠狠地踩着，一块块雪花落在前挡玻璃。女人要叫，

洛桑把一条白色毛巾从置物盒里拿出来，塞进她的嘴里，

压着她。我听见他用藏语骂人，骂得很厉害。洛桑把毛巾

father said, yes.

The little man came to our house and read his

bagua compass as he circled around the space. My sister

followed him and said, how come you’re as short as the

table? He smiled faintly: did someone check the feng

shui while you were xing up the place? My father said

yes. The man said, it’s already auspicious for bearing a

son. You don’t need me to tell you what’s in the way. My

father said, damn it, do what you have to do. The man

looked at my sister and said, little girl, have you ever cut

your hair?

At the time, my sister’s braids reached down

to her ankles. The man took a strand of hair from her

temple and knotted it around the base of her left index

nger. My father said, that’s it? The man said, it’s done.

My mother gave birth to me within a year.

Luosang said, what about your sister?

I said, that strand of hair looked thin, but

it wouldn’t break. Her nger was red at rst. Then

it turned dark as a wilted ower stem. The nger fell

off within half a year, and my sister ran away. My

father spent two days looking for her just to keep up

appearances. When my mother wept, he brushed aside

her desiderium: the girl was a disaster, he said. Forget it.

The clouds to my right looked heavy as they slid

past the blue cliffs. Luosang rolled a strand of prayer

beads between his ngers as he drove. He was getting

tired. I pulled out my box of cigarettes. There were two

left and he lit up both of them in his mouth. I said, let’s

take a break. He said, not with the night still ahead of

us. The road only gets worse.

I said, if I’d known earlier, there’d be snow

chains on all four tires. Staring at me, he pulled out

a knife. The ruby on the hilt ashed like the eye of a

sparrow. He made a cut on his nger and slapped himself

in the face. His jacket was damp with nervous sweat.

Suddenly, the red shadow of a woman appeared

in the headlights. We lurched to a stop. She held up her

gloved hands. Her coat was so old it looked rusty and

提出来，女人嘴里冒出一股混着白沫的口水。他坐好，用

毛巾擦下体。车猛然一抖，什么东西碎了，轮子向前窜了

一下，整个车身都沉下去，我大声叫骂，一脚脚地踹刹

车，洛桑扑上来，死命旋了一把方向盘，车呼啸着偏头，

撞在山上。

我大口喘着气，左边倒车镜压碎了，石渣埋了半面

玻璃。洛桑跳下车，趴下去看。镜子里的女人擦擦嘴，把

内衣穿好，也走过去。防滑链碎了，剩下半条像蛇。我

说，洛桑，你个傻屄。他乐起来，走到车后的另一侧，看

那个轮子。车屁股擦着山崖，我说，小心点。他说这一边

没事，刚要抬身，只穿着内衣的女人从我后面走来，一把

将他推了下去。我愣愣地看着漆黑的高山。掉下去的洛桑

什么声音都没有，像片雪花一样无影无踪。大雪落满女人

的身体。她说，走吗？我的心脏怦怦直跳，她坐回汽车。

路上，冰一寸寸地从黑暗里冒出来，车灯照到许多

断裂的防滑链。我一边开车，女人把手套摘下，左手搁在

置物盒上，食指是缺的。

过了一会，她把一只漂亮的刀拍在那里。我说，洛

桑的。她说，对。我说，你想要？她说，这是削水果的

刀。摇下车窗，一把扔了出去。她掀开风衣，将一把抽下

牛皮鞘的宽刀撂在我们之间。她说，这是我的刀。她把右

手拍到我的座位上，操起刀劈，椅背使劲敲着我的头。我

看过去，她的手血肉模糊，搁在置物盒上，再一剁，整根

小指滚落下来。她往小指上吐了口水，用围巾擦干净，打

开置物盒放了进去。

小指是幸运符，留给你，她说。

我说，以后再不要动刀了。她笑了笑。指头算什

么？

盘山公路颤抖着倾延，车灯闪烁几下，灭了一边，

雪花扑来，在前窗撞碎。她的手仍然滴血不止，将毛巾包

上。我的眼前飘忽着这抹洁白的阴影。车碾着滑落的碎

there was a red scarf looped around her neck. Luosang

glanced at her and said, I run into women like this all the

time. I said, let her in, we need more weight in the back

anyway.

The woman took off her hat. Veins on her sallow

face strained against the skin. Her lips were purple. Her

hair was too thick for a hair tie to hold. Her age was

hard to guess. She looked middle-aged, barely. Luosang

said, any money? Silence. I looked at her in the rearview

mirror. It’s alright, you don’t need to pay us, I smiled.

The car was creeping slowly down a sharp bend

when I heard metal creaking. The wind moaned faintly

from somewhere beneath my feet. Luosang pulled up the

emergency break. How about I try? I said. He twisted

his head slightly: we’d fall if we switched. I looked out

the window and saw half the front tire hanging over

the void. Didn’t see the edge, he said. I’ll drive, I said,

you sit in the back since you’re heavier. He opened his

door. I kept a hand on the dashboard, slid past the stick

shift, and smiled at his stomach as he squeezed out.

The woman shifted to the right. I yelled for her to be

careful. Luosang climbed into the backseat. We just sat

there for a while and listened to his heavy breathing.

I asked, will the ice melt by tomorrow? He laughed. I

turned on the hazard lights. Took out the cigarette box

and tore at it bit by bit. Luosang said, do you have a

wife? I said no. He said to the woman, you’re traveling

alone? She said yes. Luosang let out a long exhale. I

looked in the rearview. He took off his jacket, his white

sweater covered in yellow stains. The woman unwound

her scarf loop by loop. Her neck was very thin. She was

having trouble with a button on her coat and Luosang

wrenched it open. As she took off her sweater, the wool

crackled with sparks. She unclasped her bra with both

hands and readied herself, pulling her hair aside. Luosang

grabbed her neck and yanked her toward him, smashing

her nose against his thigh. Her hair had a satiny sheen.

Then, Luosang tugged her pants halfway down and

climbed on top. The car began to rock. I leaned forward

石，轮胎不时上下颠簸，好像被一只只手接连托起。

你要去哪里？我看着她的一双眼睛。

往前面开。她说。

to keep the weight even and listened to the snowakes

as they disintegrated against the windshield. The

woman began to shout. Luosang took out a towel from

the seat pocket and stuffed it in her mouth. He pressed

her down. I heard him swear in Tibetan. The things he

said were hard to repeat. He took the towel out, sat up,

and wiped his lower half. White foam spilled out of the

woman’s mouth. The car suddenly jerked. Something

had snapped. The wheels rolled forward and the whole

front of the car seemed to dip. I yelled and stamped on

the brake. Luosang reached over from the back and gave

the steering wheel a desperate yank to the left. The car

crashed into the side of the mountain.

A mass of ice and gravel slid down, landing in

a blast of powder. Shards of the smashed side mirror

glinted from the snow on the rock face. Luosang jumped

out to inspect the car. The woman wiped her mouth, put

on her underwear, and followed. We fucked so hard it

broke the snow chain, he said. You dumb cunt, I said to

him. He laughed and walked around the car to check the

side facing the cliff. Don’t slip, I said. He stooped down.

Not a scratch on this end. He was about to get up when

the woman went over and, with a shove, sent him over

the edge.

I stared at her blankly. Nothing but silence rose

from below. Luosang had disappeared like a snowake.

The woman was still in her underwear. Thick strands of

snow clung to her hair. She turned to look at me before

getting in on the passenger side. Sacrice one for the sake

of many, she said. We sat listening to the panic in my

chest.

The headlights pulled the road inch by inch out

of the dark. Other broken, abandoned chains twisted

along the frozen ground like snakes. As I drove, the

woman took off her gloves and stretched her arms. There

was a stump where her left index nger should be.

She took out Luosang’s knife from the glove

box. You can have it, I said. She opened the car door and

tossed it out. That’s for peeling fruit. She opened her coat

and drew a butcher knife from its leather sheath. Here’s

mine, she said.

She spread her legs, placed her palm on the

edge of her seat, and began to hack at her esh with a

methodical rhythm. Then she pressed her mangled hand

against the dashboard and gave it one more chop. Her

little nger fell on the oor mat. She spat on the nger,

wiped it clean with her scarf, and dropped it in the cup

holder.

My gift, she said. Maybe it’ll protect you from

bad luck.

I said, please don’t pull the knife again. She

laughed: what’s a nger worth?

The car rattled as it crawled down the mountain.

The left headlight gave a few ickers before it faded,

leaving behind a rush of grey shadows. I could still

see blood dripping from her hand in the half dark. She

wrapped the towel around it. The tires rolled unevenly

over bump after bump as though we were driving over an

endless column of curled up ngers.

Where do you want to go? I tried to catch her

eye.

Just drive.

word for word / mot pour mot

Columbia University School of the Arts

Université Paris 8

Translator’s Note

Entrer dans les poèmes de Latif c’est plonger dans une

matière épaisse, qui, en nous enveloppant, projette des

images vives et frappantes sur la rétine. L’une des choses

saisissantes dans la lecture de ses textes c’est l’aisance

avec laquelle il parvient à nous immerger dans une déam-

bulation au cœur d’une nuit, d’un corps, d’une - voire

plusieurs langues- en usant de métaphores toujours plus

singulières.

Chez lui la plongée se caractérise par une désintégration

du corps qui ne trouve aucun miroir et qui, se faisant,

coule, s’évapore, ou se transforme en un liquide grinçant

et incisif.

S’enfoncer plus profondément c’est sentir se dessiner

la forme d’une famille, deviner ses distances dans une

organisation textuelle parfois distendue. Percutante et

poreuse, l’écriture de Latif fait entendre toute son inten-

sité dans les espaces blancs entre les mots. La lecture est

une avancée ondoyante à travers une nuit obscure, mais

surtout peuplée, car avancer à tâtons, c’est avancer en

s’appuyant sur ce qui nous entoure. C’est exactement ce

que fait Latif en mobilisant ses parents, ses oncles, ses

frères, des djinns, le Wolof ou encore l’arabe.

Néanmoins avancer à tâtons n’est pas sans risque, par

un vocabulaire abrasif et par la nonchalance que peut

revêtir le slang, la langue creuse des entailles sur la

peau des lecteur.ices. L’atmosphère est inquiétante et

brumeuse lorsque Latif donne à voir les injonctions qui

pleuvent sur les corps non conventionnels, les menaces

qui pèsent sur les identités non conventionnelles, non

parfaitement identiables, non parfaitement uniformes.

L’immobilité guette toujours, et quand elle enserre ses

victimes, le sarcasme est souvent ce qui offre une porte de

sortie.

Atteindre les abysses Latiennes ce n’est pas subir la

paralysie qu’impose le monde, ni se noyer complètement,

mais s’autoriser à arriver aux limites, au seuil, juste

avant que l’air ne devienne irrespirable, au moment où

le cerveau, privé de son apport habituel en oxygène, fait

fuser des visions irréelles, presque magiques, dont on

parle encore après être remonté à la surface.

Traduire les poèmes de Latif, c’est aussi faire ce plongeon,

remonter et essayer de témoigner au mieux de ce qu’on a

vu : au-delà des difcultés à en rendre compte, le plaisir

de la tentative est immense.

LATIF ASKIA BA

POEMS

Me in Marble

I learned to be black

from my mother—

who held my jittering body in her cracked white hands

and to be white

from my father—

who balanced my liquid legs on his long black feet.

They never taught me

to be crippled—

though they tried: this is how you walk,

this is how you talk,

this how you keep the drool

in your mouth. I never saw anything like

me:

not in any book,

not on any screen.

I’d see, perhaps, some related thing with one or two parts

missing. And maybe if I,

like Daedalus,

switched one part for another— my looking

glass

would straighten like a Greek statue,

all marble and white-washed.

This is how you keep still, this is how you ex.

Those Olympians

and their objective beauty,

they chip and pale.

traduit de l’anglais par

LINA BENAYADA

POÈMES

Moi de Marbre

J’ai appris à être noir

Par ma mère –

Qui tenait mon corps gigotant

dans ses blanches mains craquelées

et à être blanc

par mon père –

Qui maintenaient en équilibre mes jambes liquides

sur ses longs pieds noirs.

Ils ne m’ont jamais appris

a être éclopé –

bien qu’ils aient essayé :

c’est comme ça qu’on marche,

c’est comme ça qu’on parle,

c’est comme ça qu’on retient la bave

dans sa bouche.

Je n’ai jamais rien vu qui me ressemble :

dans aucun livre

sur aucun écran.

j’y aurais vu, peut-être, quelque

chose de ressemblant avec une ou deux parties

manquantes. Et peut-être que si,

comme Dédale,

j’échangeais une partie pour une autre –

mon miroir

se redresserait comme une statue grecque

tout de marbre et blanchi.

C’est comme ça qu’on se tient tranquille,

c’est comme ça qu’on gone les muscles

Ces Olympiens

et leur beauté objective,

ils s’ébrèchent

et pâlissent.

And it was night

The night is vague, and in it, I can hear

each sound. And sometimes I fold my legs and

become. I heard my great grandfather used to

speak to the river-jinn. It was night, it was

night, it was night. He reached out to shake

them and tell them and make them. But they

just laughed their smokey jinn-laughs and

went on whispering among themselves.

The meandering night with her

strenuous banks, and sometimes I sit and

think and stretch out my legs like baobabs—

the village under them stripping off their

opulent bark: look a house and a cart and

a boy and a horse. They run and play and

forget themselves in their soccer ball—ripe

with sweat and sand-plumes.

The night, her humming faces, her

spilling tongues—I sit like a delta after all

that dancing, in the midst of dancing, in

the strangely choreographed before. I listen

to the vague unfolding, the moonspeak of

the 4th avenue drunk: he’s trying to align

his body with the stars; he’s trying to fold

himself like a cat; he’s trying to ll his eyes

with midnight. I hear her pouring.

Et la nuit est tombée

La nuit est vague, et en elle, je peux entendre

chaque son. Et parfois je replie mes jambes et

je suis en devenir. On m’a dit que mon arrière-

grand-père avait pour habitude de parler à la

rivière-djinn. La nuit était tombée, tombée,

tombée. Il tendit le bras pour les faire bouger,

les faire parler, pour les faire. Mais ils se

contentaient de rire de leur rires vaporeux de

djinns et continuaient à chuchoter entre eux.

La nuit sinueuse, avec ses rives épuisantes,

et parfois je m’assoie et je pense, j’étire mes

jambes comme des baobabs – le village en

dessous d’elles les dépouillant de leur opulente

écorce : regarde une maison et un charriot et

un garçon et un cheval. Ils courent et jouent

et s’oublient dans leur ballon de foot – gorgé

de sueur et de panaches de sable.

La nuit, ses visages bourdonnants, ses langues

jaillissantes – je m’assoie comme un delta

après toutes ces danses, au milieu d’une danse,

dans l’avant étrangement chorégraphié.

J’écoute le vague déploiement, la langue-lune

du soûlard de la quatrième avenue : il essaie

d’aligner son corps avec les étoiles ; il essaie de

se replier comme un chat ; il essaie d’emplir

ses yeux de nuit. Je l’entends couler.

Agency

I call the agency; mornings are preferable. “Hello,” I say,

“This is Latif. May I please have what I need now?”

I would like them to say “No,” maybe even hang up. At

least this way

I know what I am, where I stand, what it is I’ve been

denied,

and when.

But instead, there is just a meander of words that turn

on themselves like a Hegelian dream or a confused

swarm of butteries; a bundle of words that boils

down to some vague future-tense or some sterilized

verb—

beaten into its predicate form.

“I don’t suppose you can help me at all.”

“No,” they don’t say.

I hear the owers growing from their lips.

“But who will fry my eggs and button my shirt and loop

the hooks of my mask behind my ears? And who,

most importantly, will peel all these ripe avocados?”

I can hear the machine on the other end

like the humming of a motherboard

or the chugging of an engine.

Someday soon, I’ll emerge

almost human.

Agence

J’appelle l’agence ; les matins sont préférables.

« Bonjour, » dis-je, « C’est Latif. Pourrais-je avoir, ce

dont j’ai besoin maintenant, s’il vous plaît ? »

J’aimerais qu’ils disent « Non, » peut-être même qu’ils

raccrochent. Au moins comme ça

Je sais ce que je suis, où je suis, ce que l’on m’a refusé et

quand cela m’a été refusé.

Mais à la place, il y a juste un méandre de mots qui se

retournent sur eux-même comme un rêve Hégelien ou

une nuée confuse de papillons ; un paquet de mots qui se

résume à une sorte de vague futur ou une sorte de verbe

stérilisé -

violemment réduit à sa forme prédicative.

« J’imagine que vous ne pouvez pas du tout m’aider. »

« Non, » ne disent-ils pas.

J’entends les eurs pousser de leurs lèvres.

« Mais qui fera cuire mes œufs, boutonnera ma chemise et

nouera les attaches de mon masque derrière mes oreilles ?

Et, surtout, qui épluchera ces avocats mûrs ? »

Je peux entendre la machine à l’autre bout

comme le bourdonnement d’une carte mère

ou le soufe d’un moteur.

Un jour ou l’autre, j’émergerai presque humain.

Locals

Kyle is afraid of Morningside Park

after dark. Mustapha rolled up carefully.

We sat underneath the mosaic branches.

Africans. In the dark. My body

nally eyeless. The yogis waited till their borders

were ambiguous.

On my corner

someone got shot. Around the corner

another. Around 3 pm.

Just across the avenue. They call it Park Slope. No more

Boricuas. Just co-op moms and petites boulangeries.

White. Like Morningside Drive. Past minuit. The colonizer

is asleep. The paths like Jazz. The lamppost magic.

How the fuck you read all the Harry Potters. You didn’t even speak

English.

Your father took me to the library

and made me choose a book. Mustapha.

You betta pass that. Kyle

says someone got robbed right on 1-teenth-something.

My brother Omar turns

to my brother Mustapha turns

to my brother Tarek turns

to my brother Ardo. Why. We all have such funny names

that will disappear in the news. In the night. In the day.

in the petit matin of central booking. Omar

Omar Omar Ofcer. That’s my grandfather’s name

in the back of your paddy wagon. Omar Antonio

even. Both our grandfathers’ names. Overnight.

In a Brooklyn precinct. I text my mother.

It’s 1 am. In the East Village. She and her wandering

children. Brown

in her White hands. She is probably afraid.

I am not coming home. I’ma

take the bus back up. Damien and I cross over

Locaux

Kyle a peur du parc Morningside

à la nuit tombée. Mustapha s’est prudemment recroquevillé.

On s’est assis sous les branches en mosaïque.

Africains. dans la nuit. Mon corps

sans yeux enn. Les yogis ont attendu jusqu’à ce que leurs bords

soient indistincts.

Dans mon coin

quelqu’un s’est fait descendre/abattre. Au coin de la

rue

un autre. Vers 15 heures.

Juste de l’autre côté de l’avenue. Ils l’appellent le Park Slope. Fini

les Boricuas. Seulement des mères membres de coopératives et de

petites boulangeries.

Blanches. Comme la route de Morningside. Après minuit. Le

colonisateur

est endormi. Les sentiers semblables au Jazz. Les lampadaires

magiques.

Comment t’as pu lire tous les putain de Harry Potter. Tu parlais

même pas

Anglais.

Ton père m’a emmené à la bibliothèque

et m’a fait choisir un livre. Mustapha.

T’as intérêt à réussir ça. Kyle

dit que quelqu’un vient juste de se faire voler 1-gramme-et-

quelque.

Mon frère Omar se tourne

vers mon frère Mustapha qui se tourne

vers mon frère Tarek qui se tourne

vers mon frère Ardo. Pourquoi. On a tous des prénoms

aussi

drôles

qui disparaitront dans les infos. Dans la nuit. Dans le jour.

au petit matin du service central de réservation. Omar

Omar Omar Ofcier. C’est le nom de mon grand-père

Harlem. Her deep night. He ain’t from here.

We talk amongst ourselves. I ain’t

either. We split by Amsterdam.

Somewhere in the 120’s.

3 am. Kyle’s sleep. And very lovable.

All I fear is this.

à l’arrière de ton fourgon de police. Omar Antonio

même. Les noms de nos deux grands-pères. Dans la nuit.

Dans un commissariat de Brooklyn. J’envoie un

message à ma mère.

Il est 1 heure du matin. Dans l’East Village. Elle et ses

enfants

Errants.

Marrons

dans ses mains blanches. Elle a probablement peur.

Je ne rentre pas à la maison. J’vais

prendre le bus dans l’autre sens. Damien et moi traversons

Harlem. Sa nuit profonde. Il n’est pas d’ici.

On parle entre nous. Je n’en suis pas

non plus. On se sépare au niveau d’Amsterdam.

Quelque part sur là 120

ème

3 heure du matin. Kyle est endormi. Et vraiment adorable.

Tout ce que je crains c’est ça.

Wet Monasteries

We’re nothing but drunks in wheelchairs

A bottle of vodka for the wash

We dossy around the room

We roll on the wet oor

The straws bow and we bow back

Joking, laughing, dancing

Ruined from birth

Or accident

We’re all the same to the bottle

Awaiting emancipation

Through twitching lips or broken necks

And it doesn’t matter to us

We’re all sitting here anyway

Waiting for another love to look beyond

Our sheepskin faces

Hanging like jerky

Drying in gin

They’re all the same to us

They blend into one

But when they come out

They come by the knees

We drink for nothing for no one at all

Until one needs to be put down

Until one needs his dead legs

Tucked under a blanket

Until one needs to be shat and washed

Stripped and clothed

Pilled and pumped

Emptied by a catheter

Bags of piss on a good day

Bags of blood on a lucky one

They walk in with their gloves

Knowing they’ll join us soon

In our wet monastery

That’s when we scatter like ants

Monastères mouillés

On est rien qu’des alcoolos en fauteuils roulants

Une bouteille de vodka pour s’laver

On zone dans la chambre

On roule sur le sol humide

Les pailles s’inclinent et nous nous inclinons aussi

Blaguant, riant, dansant

Foutus de naissance

Ou d’accident

On est tous pareil par rapport à la bouteille

En attente d’émancipation

A travers des lèvres qui se contractent involontairement

ou des cous brisés

Et ça n’a pas d’importance pour nous

On est tous assis ici de toute façon

A attendre qu’un autre amour voie plus loin que

Nos visages en peau de mouton

Pendants comme de la viande séchée

Séchant dans du gin

Elles sont toutes pareilles pour nous

Elles se confondent en une seule

Mais quand elles sortent

Elles sortent par les genoux

On boit pour personne pour rien du tout

Jusqu’à ce qu’un de nous ait besoin d’être euthanasié

Jusqu’à ce qu’un de nous ait besoin que ses jambes

mortes

Soient repliées sous une couverture

Jusqu’à ce qu’un de nous ait besoin d’être chié et lavé

Dénudé et habillé

Pillulé et pompé

Vidé par un cathéter

Sacs de pisse les bons jours

Sacs de sang un jour de chance

Ils rentrent avec leurs gants

Sachant qu’ils vont bientôt nous rejoindre

Away from our glasses and into our beds

Alone we return

We sit and we lie like monks

Sprawled out across ourselves

The bitter winds turn warm

Against our smiles

Dans nos monastères mouillés

C’est là qu’on se disperse comme des fourmis

En s’éloignant de nos verres pour aller vers nos lits

Seuls nous revenons

On s’assoit et on s’étend comme des moines

Affalés en nous-mêmes

Les vents amers deviennent chauds

Contre nos sourires

Langue Pochée

dad said wash your face you have buttons

stop bouncing around up there

you’re obsessed with games

why you don’t study

always nding a briquet

in my brothers’ coat pockets

poches poches poches and poches

my langue

bien pochée

you fumes hein

this

more beacon than lighter

i the city of d’accord

a owing djellaba

my uncle’s voiture

from st louis to sali

attention

you eat too fast

why you don’t relax you eat

like cochon

dad tried to give us

himself

in english rek

mamiyo

nangadeft me

but i didn’t know

whether i was here

or there

Langue Pochée

papa a dit lave ton visage tu as des boutons

arrête de t’agiter dans tous les sens

t’es obsédé par les jeux

pourquoi tu étudies pas

je trouve toujours un lighter

dans les poches de manteaux de mes frères

pockets pockets pockets pockets pockets

ma tongue

well poached

tu smoke huh

non

ça

plus phare que briquet

je la ville of all right

une djellaba uide

la car de mon oncle

de saint louis à sali

watch out

tu manges trop vite

pourquoi tu te détends pas tu manges

comme pig

papa a essayé de nous donner

sa personne

en anglais rek

mamiyo

m’ont nangadeft

mais je ne savais pas

si j’étais ici

ou là-bas

a whole langue

pressing down inshallah

on the black skull

a little black france

a little black portugal

phonetic hell

washed up with speckled

sh carcass

sandy crescent

dusty fez

that attening waalo

je te jure was a sound

like a sneeze

or a cough

before i found it

slinking across the page

dad on the phone

the whole house

ringing with waaw’s

and nakawakergi’s

and we were always

there

there and too much jaam

that jamaican asked if

i was ready

 ñaam

some fulfulde

must’ve kept that sacred word

rammed under her tongue

waiting till the cane was bien coupée

the sun incapable

of beating

dad gave up

on his surahs

une tongue entière

pressant inshallah

tout contre le crâne noir

une petite France noire

un petit Portugal noir

enfer phonétique

nettoyé avec une carcasse

de poisson tacheté

croissant sablonneux

fez poussiéreux

cet écrasant waalo

i swear était un son

comme un éternument

ou une toux

avant que je le trouve

se faulant à travers la page

papa au téléphone

la maison entière

retentissant de waoow

et de nakawakergi

et on est toujours

là

là et trop de jaam

cette jamaïcaine a demandé si

j’étais près

 naam

un peu de fulfulde

j’aurais dû garder ce mot sacré

éperonné sous sa langue

attendant que la canne soit well cutted

le soleil incapable

de taper

papa a abandonné

alif alif alif

his mother made him

a grigri for his nal exams

he said no we are tested

on the greeks

ses sourates

alif alif alif

sa mère lui a fabriqué

un lucky charm pour ses examens naux

il a dit non on est évalués

sur les grecs

Translator’s Note

One of the most striking qualities of Lina Benayada’s

piece is its hospitality. Her text alternates between a

monologue from her father (the italicized passages)

and her own internal monologue (the non-italicized

passages). In doing this, Benayada makes the reader

feel like their active participants in an ongoing

conversation, so that when the father says something

like “je te sers, tu me dit stop,” the reader may

accidentally nd themselves at Beneyada’s dinner table

contemplating how much of a serving they’d like.

This effect is achieved not only through diction,

tone, and pacing, but (more radically) through

Benayada’s dilation of the sentence. In this piece,

independent clauses rarely constitute a complete

thought—and why should they? Do we really think

and speak in the connes of single sentences, or do

we tend towards Benayada’s sinuous run-ons, where

a thought is not a simple vector from A to B, but an

accumulation—a wave, washing over the reader?

I don’t think this piece is concerned with answering this

question, but I do think Beneyada’s formal decisions

successfully embodies all the various feelings of

estrangement that recur throughout her writing. Her

long complications of thought (where the text was most

resistant to my translation) are where the author reveals

her relationship with her country, her culture, her family,

and of course, herself. And though her sentences are

usually long, their individual components, whether literal

or metaphorical, have a degree of self-containment.

This piece shines in the way these components play

off of each other, following an underlying logic,

allowing the narrative to constantly unfold.

LINA BENAYADA

Abdelhak, Ghani, Mohammed, Younes, Rachid, Amine…

et le dernier, dont j’oublie toujours le nom…Abdelhak,

Ghani, Mohammed, Rachid, Younes, Amine…dans cet

ordre-là peut-être. Ou alors celui que j’oublie est l’aîné, je

ne sais plus très bien, c’est celui que j’ai le moins vu, alors

ça explique le trou de mémoire. Pas de prénom pour le

dernier, pour le septième, car ils sont sept, papa me l’a dit

souvent, et souvent je me suis dit que sept garçons pour

une seule femme c’était beaucoup, que ça n’avait pas dû

être facile pour elle, enn pour eux. Parce qu’iels étaient

pauvres, et que la pauvreté ça fait toujours beaucoup de

ravages.

J’y suis depuis dix-huit heure ma lle, tu aurais pu

descendre, m’aider à préparer, tu vois, on est tous les deux,

on discute et comme ça, ça va plus vite, là ça fait long, et tu

vois je prépare pour nous deux, je t’ai appelée, tu m’as pas

entendu ?

Enn bon, c’est prêt, passe-moi le couteau s’il te plaît, merci,

bon, c’est prêt je crois, encore cinq minutes ma lle, tu veux

boire un truc, du rouge, une bière, avec des olives comme

ça waw la classe quoi, mange pas celles-là, fait attention,

elles arrachent, je me suis fait avoir hier, oui y’a plus de

noires, elles sont pleines de (demander à papa) alors j’en

achète plus…

A la maison, on mange comme on pense. Papa en

arabe, de droite à gauche, de la mélancolie à la joie et

de l’envie à la satiété. Chez maman, en émotion, de la

colère au dégout, des yeux à la bouche, dans le noir et en

cachette, pour n’être vu d’aucun œil, par Dieu seul, qui

sent les notes aigues du chocolat noir même depuis le ciel,

tout en haut du monde. Moi je mange ce qu’on me donne,

les odeurs fondent en idées lorsqu’elles montent depuis la

translated from the french by

LATIF ASKIA BA

Abdelhak, Ghani, Mohammed, Younes, Rachid, Amine…

and the last one, I always forget his name—actually,

maybe it’s Abdelhak, Ghani, Mohammed, Rachid,

Younes, Amine… in that order, or maybe the one I keep

forgetting is the eldest, I’m not sure anymore, he’s the

one I’ve seen the least, that explains why I’ve forgotten

his name. No name for the last one, the seventh, since

there are denitely seven, dad always said so, and I’ve

always said (to myself) that seven is a lot for just one

woman, and that it must not have been easy for her… or

them. They were poor after all, and being poor always

ends in disaster.

I’ve been here since six ma lle, you could have come down

to help you know, it would’ve been just the two of us, we

could’ve talked a little, that would’ve made things go by

faster, alone it felt like forever, and look, I made dinner for

both of us, I called you, didn’t you hear?

Anyway, it’s ready, pass the knife, thanks, okay, I think

it’s ready, ve more minutes ma lle, you want something to

drink, some wine, beer, look at those olives, now that’s class,

careful though, those ones are spicy, they fooled me yesterday,

yeah there’s no more black ones, they’re full of you-know-

what so I don’t buy them anymore.

At home, we eat as we think, papa in Arabic, from right to

left, from melancholy to joy, from desire to contentment.

At maman’s, emotions often go from anger to disgust,

from eye to mouth, in darkness and in secret, to go unseen

by any eye but God’s, who smells the sharp notes of dark

chocolate all the way up from the summit of heaven.

Me? I eat what I’m served, the kitchen aroma fades into

cuisine jusqu’à l’étage, et l’humeur du jour se règle selon

que l’ail, audacieux conquérant du moindre interstice,

se marie aux poivrons noyés d’huile (nombreux sont les

noyés, qui, épuisés, décharnés et visqueux, abandonnent

au liquide brûlant leurs dernières forces, et parfois même,

une légère teinte orangée, semblable aux éclaboussures

de lumière que le soleil dépose sous des paupières closes),

ou que les efuves d’un bœuf bourguignon s’étirent en

tranchées dans l’impossible chaleur d’un feu de cheminée.

Il n’existe aucune frontière entre l’espace de la cuisine

et le reste de la maison, la déchirure se trouve entre

l’extérieur et l’intérieur du corps, entre le lieu qui s’offre

et celui qui désire. C’est pourquoi partout, j’ai désiré,

partout, j’allais les pores avides de vapeurs gourmandes,

la langue écrasée contre le palais, le plaisir dans tout le

corps d’ingérer comme on jouit, seul.e et repu.e, honteux.

se après coup du soupir désespéré qui m’échappe, vestige

éphémère d’une saveur. Moi, sur les mots comme sur un

bateau pris dans la tempête, comme un poivron-épave en

mer huileuse. Maman semi-aliment, maman ingère et se

transforme, maman donne la becquée à ses petits (mari

compris) et ce faisant maman se donne elle-même.

A la maison, papa cuisine, maman dévore et je pleure

devant l’incompréhensible tajine. Plus grande, on m’a dit

que ça n’allait pas, ce corps qui n’avait pas l’air français

mais qui ne savait rien de l’arabe, comme si c’était simple

de discuter avec navets et patates (alors j’ai mangé

beaucoup, j’ai fait taire tous les aliments qui m’opposait

une résistance, une fois disparus, leurs bavardages

cessaient, j’étais tranquille pour quelques heures). Il a

donc fallu craindre la nourriture, mais aussi mon corps,

qui tous deux, en plus d’être analphabètes, sont fourbes

comme pas possible. Les leçons sont venues de maman,

mais difcilement, alors quand elle m’a dit qu’elle

quitterait papa un jour, j’ai su que c’était foutu.

Ça va, on se débrouille bien quand même tous les deux, hein

ma lle…

thought as it makes its way upstairs, and the day’s mood

is set by garlic, a conquistador, getting into every nook

and cranny, harmonizing with the oil-drenched peppers

(all drowned, drained, accid and viscous, they let their

last breath slip into the grueling oil, some even give off

a golden hue, like the little splashes of light the sun

leaves under closed eyelids) or by the beef bourguignon

melting and rilling in the insurmountable heat of the

replace. It’s hard to tell where the kitchen stops and the

rest of the house begins, the only clear border is the one

separating the inside and outside of the body, the part

that offers itself and the part that desires. That’s why I

was always wanting no matter where I was, everywhere I

went, I went with my pores open and eager for tantalizing

vapors, tongue crushed against palate, pleas ure coursing

through the body, I swallow as I climax, alone, satiated,

and afterwards, ashamed of the sheepish sigh I let out,

a vanishing aftertaste. I cling to words like a raft taken

by storm, like a pepper-wreck in an oily sea. Demi-food-

maman, she ingests and transforms, she feeds her young

(her husband included) by the beakfull, and in doing so

feeds them a little of herself each time.

At home, papa cooks, maman eats, and I cry in front of

the incomprehensible tagine. When I was older, I was

told that something was off, something about my body,

it didn’t look French and didn’t know a word of Arabic

either, as if it were easy to hold conversations with turnips

and potatoes (so I ate a lot, silencing the food that resisted,

and once it was gone, the chatter ceased, and I could

relax for a few hours). In this way I grew afraid of food,

afraid of my own body, both being not only illiterate, but

deceitful as hell, that was one of the few things maman

bothered to teach me, so when she told me she was leaving

papa, I knew I was fucked.

It’s ok, we’re gonna be ne, right ma lle?

“Catastrophe” in Arabic is nakba.

« Catastrophe » se dit « nakba ».

Bon, c’est prêt, attends, je te sers, tu me dis stop, attends, tu

veux un peu de sauce, encore ? ah ouais t’en mets beaucoup

toi, c’est vrai, je te mets de la viande, c’est bien que tu sois

plus végétarienne, tu sais c’est important de manger de la

viande, pour la santé, après, tu aurais eu des carences, c’est

dangereux, c’est bien, ça te va ? vas-y j’arrive.

Ah, attention c’est chaud, il est où le pain, ok, bon appétit.

Alors franchement c’est excellent, bon, c’est pas aussi bon

que quand c’est ma mère qui prépare, mais c’est peut-être

à cause des légumes, tu sais quand j’étais petit les légumes

étaient pas pleins de pesticides, enn au Maroc en tout cas,

ceux qu’on mangeait étaient bio donc ils avaient du gout,

je regrette que t’aies jamais gouté des vrais bons légumes,

il faudrait que tu goutes un jour des vraies tomates, si on

retourne au Maroc je te ferait gouter.

C’est vrai que quand j’étais petit j’étais un peu le gouteur de

la famille, maintenant je regrette, j’étais pas tendre avec ma

mère…j’avais des avis tranchés, si c’était pas bon, j’étais

très critique, très pointu, mais on m’écoutait quand même.

Abdelhak (celui qui est mort, et dont la disparition a

provoqué la deuxième dépression de mon père, celle qui

l’a poussée à partir de la maison pour un mois, à aller à

Cuba avec le frère qui n’était pas venu au Maroc pour

l’enterrement, car il voulait régler ses comptes, même

si Cuba c’est joli et qu’on pense rarement à gâcher un

voyage avec de la colère et de la peine), Younes (celui qui

travaille à la RATP), Ghani, Mohammed (celui qui ne

donne presque jamais de nouvelles), Rachid (celui qui est

mon père), Amine (celui qui a une femme très belle, dont

tous les traits du visage semblent légèrement enés par la

joie), et le septième…

Tout à l’heure j’ai eu ma mère au téléphone, elle va bien, elle

m’a demandé de tes nouvelles, elle voulait savoir si tu savais

cuisiner, si tu t’occupais bien de moi, je lui ai dit que tu te

Okay, it’s ready, wait a sec, I’ll serve you, just tell me when to

stop, you want some more sauce? Yeah, cause I know you like

to have way too much, here, take some meat too, good thing

you’re not a vegetarian anymore, you gotta eat meat, it’s good

for you, you don’t want to end up with deciencies, that’s

dangerous, okay, you good? go ahead, I’m coming.

Be careful, it’s hot, wait where’s the bread, okay, bon appétit.

So you gotta admit, this is pretty good, still not as good as

my mother’s, probably because of the vegetables, you know

when I was little they didn’t use pesticides, well at least not in

Morocco, our vegetables were organic, you could actually taste

them, it’s a real shame you never got a chance to taste fresh

veggies, you’ll have to try a real tomato one day, if we ever go

back to Morocco you’ll have to try one.

In fact, when I was young I unfortunately slipped into the

position of family taste-tester, which I regret, I wasn’t really

that nice to my mother… I was quite the critic, if something

wasn’t good, I’d let you know, I could be a little harsh, but

they listened to me all the same.

Abdelhak (the one who is dead, and whose passing caused

my father’s second bout of depression, which made him

leave for a month to go to Cuba with his brother who

hadn’t come to Morocco for the funeral because he’d been

busy dealing with something else, though to be fair, Cuba

is gorgeous and nobody wants to spoil a trip with anger

and sorrow), Younes (the one who works for the RATP),

Ghani, Mohammed (the one we almost never hear from),

Rachid (the one who is my father), Amine (the one with

a very beautiful wife, whose facial features seem to be

slightly swollen with joy), and the seventh…

I just got off the phone with my mother, she’s doing good,

she asked about you, she wanted to know if you know how to

cook, and if you’re taking good care of me, I told her you’re

débrouillais, que tu étais sortie parce que tu avais un truc

avec la fac. Elle vieillit ma mère, bon après tu sais elle se

plaint beaucoup, mon épaule, mon dos, oui maman, elle veut

que je la plaigne un peu c’est comme ça…

Ma grand-mère maternelle est une femme rousse à la

peau mutilée de milliers de grains de beauté. A neuf ans

j’ai compris qu’elle ne m’aimait pas comme il l’aurait

fallu, qu’elle aurait préféré autre chose pour sa lle (un

autre homme que mon père). A onze ans je n’ai plus

voulu aller chez elle, nous nous sommes disputé.es avec

colère à grands coups de cris dégoulinants et amers. Elle

a un prénom très joyeux, comme son rire, car elle est

soprano à la chorale de sa ville, le reste du temps, elle

parle à son chat, alors soprano ou silencieuse, ça n’est

pas si différent. D’aussi loin que je me souvienne, c’est

la première personne à qui je dois mon intérêt pour la

beauté (pas uniquement celle du corps, car elle était

très coquette mamie Laurette, mais aussi à la beauté du

dessin, de la peinture, de la musique, des décors, car son

appartement en est un, bien trop chargé en bois et en

tapis, bien trop baroque, mais joli tout de même).

Il faut juste que je l’écoute, que je lui dise que je vais prier

Allah pour elle, ça lui fait plaisir, c’est comme ça… elle me

manque tu sais, c’est dur d’être expatrié, de vivre loin de sa

famille, du lieu où on a grandi, ça me manque de pouvoir

être proche de ma mère, de mes frères, ceux qui sont restés

au Maroc, de leurs enfants que je n’ai pas vu grandir, ça

me manque parfois, tu sais ça a été dur quand je suis parti,

au début tu es tout seul, après j’ai travaillé, et j’étais à

l’université, mais la famille c’est pas pareil, il y avait plus

personne pour me faire à manger * il rit*.

C’est dans ma première année d’étude après le bac que

j’ai découvert, étonné.e, que je n’étais pas blanc.he.

Comment ça ! Ah oui d’accord, très bien, ah non je ne

savais pas, au temps pour moi, je me mets là alors, voilà,

oui là c’est beaucoup mieux, pardon, mais je vous en prie,

vous ne pouviez pas savoir ! La place est chaude sous moi

doing alright, and that you just stepped out for your thing at

the university. My mother’s getting old, so you know how she

loves to complain, my shoulder, my back, oui maman, she

wants me to feel for her a little, that’s just how she is.

My maternal grandmother is a redhead covered in moles.

When I was nine I realized that she didn’t really love

me, that she’d have liked other things for her daughter

(namely, a better husband than my father). When I was

eleven I decided I didn’t want to visit her anymore, we

got into a nasty argument with pungent, bitter screams.

She has a pretty joyful name—and a laugh to match

because she’s a soprano in her town choir, the rest of

the time, she talks to her cat, so soprano or silent, she’s

basically the same. As far as I can remember, she’s the

rst person who got me curious about beauty (not just

of the body, though she was quite the irt, but beauty

found in drawings, paintings, music, and interior design,

which her apartment is a testament to, lled to the brim

with carpets and wooden furniture, way too baroque, but

beautiful all the same.

I just have to listen, to say that I’m praying for her, that

always makes her happy, that’s just how it is… she misses

me you know, it’s hard being away, being so far from your

family, being so far from the place you grew up, I miss being

around my mother, my brothers, the ones who are still in

Morocco, and all of their children who I couldn’t see grow

up, I get homesick sometimes, it was hard when I rst came

here, you’re all alone at rst, eventually I began to work and

go to school, but nothing can replace family, there was no one

to cook for me anymore.

* He laughs *

It wasn’t until my rst year of college that I gured out,

to my surprise, that I wasn’t White. How is that even

possible! Oh ok, cool, nah I didn’t know, my bad, I’ll just

sit over there then, yup, it’s ne, pardon me, ah, much

better, don’t worry, you couldn’t have known. My seat is

et je ne comprends pas vraiment quel rôle je suis sensé.e

jouer désormais. Mais où suis-je ? Ah mais tu parles

arabe toi, non, dis-moi une phrase en arabe, allez, vite

fait quoi, non, mais je ne sais pas parler arabe désolée,

ah ouais, ouais, oh dommage. Ah ça oui ! N’importe

quoi, mais ta culture binti, que reste-t-il d’elle si ce n’est

le sang du père qui t’inonde ? Par quels mauvais sorts

l’as-tu manquée ? Qui es-tu, si tu t’ignores à moitié ?

Comme si ma vie se découpait. Comme si, de là où vous

vous trouviez, vous pouviez extraire de moi ce qui m’est

étranger. Car je suis apatride sur mes propres terres, dans

mon propre corps, tout en moi m’est étranger.

C’est la vérité hein, mais quand on s’appelle Rachid

Benayada c’est pas facile en France, heureusement que

je maîtrisais bien le français et que Hassine m’a hébergé

au début, et gratuitement. Après j’étais dans un foyer

d’immigrés, c’était pas pareil, là c’était chaud, mais je suis

resté que quelques mois là-bas… c’était pas des studios,

c’était des chambres, des trous à rats, des tous petits trucs

de rien du tout complètement délabrés, j’ai eu la chambre

parce que le gars d’avant était en prison, il s’était fait

choper en train de vendre du cannabis, je te jure, et dans les

escaliers parfois il y avait des lles…tu vois, elles étaient là,

à peine vingt an, des sénégalaises beaucoup, et puis aussi

des marocaines, trente francs, trente francs, ça fait environ

quatre euros, t’imagines, quatre euros la passe…c’est

rien…c’était triste…

Je ne m’appelle pas Lina comme on s’appelle Pierre. Je

m’appelle Lina et je n’y peux rien, on s’appelle Pierre et

ça n’a pas beaucoup d’importance, va, on verra ça plus

tard ! A 10 ans j’ai voulu m’appeler Astrid, j’ai demandé

à la maîtresse de changer mon nom sur la liste de la

classe, Lina ne me gênait pas, mais je voulais choisir,

je voulais me nommer pour décider comment on me

percevrait (elle n’a pas voulu). Je suis rentré.e et maman

m’a dit que nous aurions dû garder son patronyme,

et non celui de mon père, pour te faciliter la vie, tu

burning underneath me though, and I’m not sure what

anyone wants from me. Anyway, where was I? Wait, you

speak Arabic right? say something in Arabic, come on,

do it. Um, no… I don’t speak Arabic, sorry, yeah, I know,

such a shame. Yeah, it really is, but I mean, what’s left

of your binti culture besides your father’s blood pulsing

through you? What voodoo did you do to escape it? Who

are you if you ignore half of yourself? As if my life

were cut in half. As if from right where you stand, you

could extract whatever it is in me that I nd foreign. For

I’m an exile in my own land, and every inch of my body

seems alien.

I’m telling you though, in France, when your name is

Rachid Benayada, life is not easy, it’s a good thing I learned

French so well, and that Hassine let me stay with him at

rst, for free. But then I ended up in migrant housing,

there’s nothing like it, I’m telling you, it was a real mess. I

stayed for a few months… it wasn’t your studio apartments,

it was tiny rooms, ratholes, and useless old crap scattered

everywhere, I got a room because the guy who was in it before

me went to prison, he got caught selling weed, I swear, and

sometimes there’d be girls in the stairways… there were just

“hanging out,” you know, barely 20 years old, most of them

Senegalese, and some Moroccans too, 30 francs, 30 francs,

that’s what, like 4 euros, can you imagine, 4 euros, that’s

barely anything, that’s sad.

You don’t call someone Lina like you call someone Pierre.

They call me Lina and there’s nothing I can do about it,

if you name someone Pierre it doesn’t really matter, well

maybe it does, but I’ll come back to that later. When I

was ten I wanted to be called Astrid, I asked the teacher

to make the change on the class roster, it’s not that I

didn’t like the name Lina, I just wanted to be able to

choose, I wanted to name myself so that I could decide

how people would see me. (My teacher refused.) When I

came home, maman said that she should have given me

her last name, not my father’s, that it would have made

comprends bien. Lina ça sonne doux, ça se prononce

vite mais on est obligé de ralentir à cause du « n » et du

« a » en français, et à cause du « i » en arabe. Ça fait pas

mal d’obstacles à la douceur, mine de rien. Je m’appelle

Lina, mais les inconnu.es le savent bien, ça n’est pas si

surprenant, ça fait partie de leurs horizons d’attentes de

lecteurices de la vie réelle de tous les jours. Je m’appelle

Lina, et je ne suis pas dans ce nom comme Pierre est

dans le sien, d’abord, Pierre, il a la Bible, il a presque la

France, et moi je n’ai que ce nom, un territoire à quatre

lettres, pour exister. Pierre a faim et Pierre chie, moi je

m’assoie et je demande à sortir de table, car on m’a bien

élevé.e. Et puis surtout, Pierre a de la consistance, il a un

peu la classe, Lina coule, se fait discrète, Lina sourit et

Lina nananère, erre sur la Pierre entière.

Je passais mon DESS de droit, le soir j’allais dans le

réfectoire où on mangeait, et j’apprenais mes cours par cœur,

j’avais tout l’espace pour moi, et la vue était belle, parce que

la cantine était tout en haut, au treizième étage, c’était bien

ça, et le silence tu vois, c’est top ça pour travailler.

Après avoir passé mon baccalauréat on m’a dit

l’université c’est du gâchis, va en prépa et maman

répétait à la mère Michelle, son chat et aux cailloux du

jardin que je faisais une classe préparatoire littéraire

à Paris. Alors le sourire aux lèvres, un peu gêné.e, un

peu èr.e, un peu bête, je répondais oui mais c’est pas la

meilleure, c’est presque rien. Et j’y suis allé.e. J’ai pris le

train, le rer et le métro, j’ai acheté les livres inscrits sur

les listes des professeurs, je me suis assis.e dans la classe

du lycée Jules Ferry Place de Clichy, sur une chaise très

loin du plafond. Là, et pour la première fois de ma vie,

j’ai appris la honte. C’est un sentiment qui s’apprend

avec lenteur et violence, qui se grave dans la chair à

mesure qu’elle martèle le corps. La honte collective

(l’ignorance), nous l’avions toustes en partage, toustes,

nous aurions pu montrer sur nos peaux les endroits bleuis

par cette honte-là, mais l’autre, celle de ne pas pouvoir

my life a lot easier. Lina sounds gentle, it’s pronounced

fast but you have to slow down for the French “n” and

“a,” and in Arabic you linger on the “i.” But in the end,

that’s quite the hassle for a little sweetness. My name is

Lina, but strangers already know that, it’s not surprising,

it’s part of the expectations of the average reader. My

name is Lina, but I don’t carry my name the way Pierre

carries his. First of all, Pierre has the Bible behind him,

he has almost all of France. I only have this name, a

four-letter province. Pierre’s hungry, Pierre takes a shit.

I, on the other hand, take my place at the dinner table

and ask to be excused when I’m done. I was raised with

manners. But nonetheless, Pierre has consistency, a bit

of a classic, Lina trickles out, she’s elusive, Lina smiles

and teases, she clambers all over the hard surfaces of

Pierre.

I was doing my DESS in law, in the evening I had dinner

in the dining hall, that’s where I would memorize my lecture

notes, there was plenty of space and a gorgeous view, I was

all the way up on the thirteenth oor, the top oor, it was

nice, the silence you know, it was the perfect place to get your

work done.

After I graduated high school, I was told that uni was

a total waste, that I should get into a prépa, maman

kept telling mère Michelle, her cat and the pebbles in her

garden that I was studying literature in Paris, taking

a classe préparatoire. So feeling a little embarrassed, a

little proud, and a little stupid, I’d put on a smile and

say yes, that’s right, but it’s no big deal really. And I

went. I took the train, the shuttle, the metro, I bought

all the books on the syllabus, I sat in a Jules Ferry Place

de Clichy classroom, in a chair that made the ceiling

seem very far away. That’s where I rst learned shame,

it was a slow and violent lesson, that engraved itself in

my esh and reverberated throughout my body. Our

collective shame (our ignorance), we all shared it, all of

us, the shame leaving blue blotches on our skin, but the

être plus que soi-même, n’en réunissait que quelques-un.

es. Les ami.es que je me suis fait lors de la première année

n’étaient pas blanc.hes et ne sont pas resté.es l’année

suivante. Contrairement aux élèves qui résidaient aux

alentours du lycée, nos horizons dépassaient les rails de

la gare Saint-Lazare, si nous vivions les mêmes journées,

nos espaces connaissaient d’innis distances. Plus tard, je

leur en ai voulu d’avoir fait de mes lieux des obsessions.

Je leur en ai voulu de me regarder comme iels l’avaient

fait, d’avoir transformé mon entrain en inertie.

Haha, t’as eu de la chance toi à côté, c’était la belle vie hein,

collège privé, lycée privé, classe prépa, ça va hein, on s’en

est donné du mal pour toi, non, je rigole ma lle, mais t’as

toujours été sérieuse de toute façon, tu as bien travaillé, bon

c’est vrai au collège un peu moins mais t’avais besoin de

prendre conance, après ça a été tout seul.

Lors des premiers échanges avec les autres, une lle,

Solène, a déclaré que la banlieue c’était la province et

qu’elle ne sortait jamais de Paris intra-muros-tu-connais-

pas-le-cyrano-c’est-super-sympa. Solène elle vivait à

Pigalle et elle aidait aux restos du cœur le mercredi

après-midi. Je lui ai répondu qu’elle était bourgeoise sans

savoir vraiment ce que ça voulait dire et lui ai demandé

si elle avait déjà nettoyé le sol de son appartement elle-

même, avec ses mains fripées par l’eau javélisée, mais

Solène, elle avait jamais rien rendu beau de ses mains,

elle connaissait pas la distance entre ses épaules et le sol,

entre ma vie et la sienne, dans sa famille on faisait du ski

en janvier, alors elle avait une femme de ménage. Dans

la réalité du corps et de la conversation j’ai ri, mais moi,

j’avais des amies dont les mères avaient lavé le sol de chez

Solène, je croisais les dames de cantine quand je rentrais

à la maison le soir, j’avais le pied dans the gap between the

train and the platform.

On a de la chance quand même, tu t’en rends compte un peu

ou pas trop ? en parlant avec tes copines, tu vois qu’elles ont

pas toutes cette relation avec leur parents, avec leur père,

otherness, the not being able to be more than oneself,

created small enclaves. The friends I made in my rst

year weren’t White and didn’t return the following year.

Unlike the students who lived in that area, our futures

stretched far beyond the rails of the Saint-Lazare

station, and though we all shared the same routine, we

inhabited vastly different spaces. In the end, I resented

them for making my space their obsession. I resented

them for looking at me the way they did, for turning my

enthusiasm into inertia.

Ha, you were lucky, you had it good, private middle school,

private high school, classe prépa, pretty nice huh, we went

to a lot of trouble for you, just kidding ma lle, you were

always so serious, you worked hard, well except in middle

school, but you just needed a little more condence, then you

were off.

One of my interactions at the lycee was with a girl,

Solène, who told me the banlieue was outside of Paris

and she never left Paris intra-muro-you-probably-

never-been-to-Cyrano’s-it’s-like-super-chill. Solène lived

in Pigalle and volunteered at the soup kitchen every

Wednesday afternoon. I told her she was just another

yuppy who didn’t know what she was talking about, I

asked her if she’d ever cleaned the oor of her apartment

herself with her hands all shriveled up from bleach, but

Solène never made anything beautiful with her hands,

she didn’t know the distance between her shoulders and

the ground, between my life and hers—her family went

skiing in January, so they hired a cleaning woman. With

respect to my body and the conversation, I laughed, I

had friends whose mothers had probably washed Solène’s

oor, I’d run into the lunch ladies on my way home at

night, I put my foot in “the gap between the train and

the platform.”

At the end of the day we’re pretty lucky, you realize that or

what? talking to your girlfriends, a lot of them say they don’t

qu’ils se disent pas qu’ils s’aiment, si, oui, tu t’en rends

compte, enn ça a été naturel pour nous, on a toujours été

tendres l’un envers l’autre, et puis on parle, c’est bien quand

les enfants sont petits, mais moi je préfère maintenant, on

peut discuter pour de vrai, avoir des conversations où tu vois

que je suis pas toujours dans une posture d’homme fort, on

peut parler comme des adultes en fait, c’est bien, je t’aime

ma lle.

have this type of relationship with their parents, with their

fathers, that they rarely tell each other I love you, I mean,

you do realize that don’t you? but you know, it was pretty

natural for us, we were always sweet to each other, and we

talked a lot, that’s the best way to raise a kid, but it’s even

better now that you’re grown, we can talk for real, I don’t

have to play the infallible father, we can just talk as two

adults, it’s great, I love you ma lle.

Translator’s Note

Damien m’a coné sept poèmes. J’ai regardé sur internet

des vidéos de Damien en train de dire ses textes en

public. Je comprenais tout et j’ai eu la chair de poule.

Ensuite j’ai lu ces sept poèmes et d’abord, je n’ai rien

compris. Lorsque nous avons commencé à échanger sur

nos textes respectifs, je lui ai demandé de me lire les siens

à voix haute. Ce n’était pas beaucoup plus clair mais une

ambiance était posée, qui avait percé l’opacité première

des textes. Durant un peu plus de trois mois, la durée de

nos séances de travail hebdomadaires, je lui ai demandé

de me les expliquer chacun en détail. Il s’est chaque fois

patiemment prêté au jeu. Les notes que je prenais étaient

plus longues que tous ses poèmes réunis. C’est un luxe de

traductrice et j’en ai conscience.

Il fallait, je crois, plonger dans l’histoire de Damien pour

réussir à me saisir de toutes les images qu’il mobilise pour

évoquer ses thèmes d’écriture. Dans ces poèmes, il prend

des mots, les arrange en images et avec elles, il efeure

les histoires qu’il adresse à son passé, à ses proches, à lui-

même et parfois à la vie entière.

La langue de Damien est pleine de références à la culture

africaine américaine. Elle est habitée par la foi et les

spiritualités. L’histoire de l’exploitation prolétaire y

croise celle de l’esclavage et se prolonge dans l’évocation

des violences policières. Ses poèmes racontent les

traumatismes intergénérationnels, la cohabitation de

l’amour et de la violence dans les gestes et la nourriture,

dans les paroles et le silence, dans l’inquiétude et

l’insouciance – celle qui manque à l’enfant qui se cache

à la rivière. Ils racontent la mémoire de la mort qui peut

surgir à n’importe quel moment – et ne se prive pas de

faucher ses victimes. Damien nous parle de son enfance

et de son enfant, cette vie qui le maintient en vie, lui et

peut-être bien d’autres au-delà ; cette vie qui s’épanouit

dans l’amour et quelques tessons de verre.

Ici, la famille est un grand corps collectif. Elle protège

autant qu’elle colle à la peau, elle est capable de blesser

ses membres autant que de veiller sur eux à tout prix.

Je me suis demandé quelles saveurs pouvaient avoir ces

des repas partagés concoctés avec des fonds de frigos,

mais qui traduisent l’acharnement maternel à protéger

l’âme de sa famille noire. Est-ce que les blancs peuvent

comprendre ça ? Est-ce que je peux moi-même avoir

la moindre idée de ce dont il parle et que je n’ai pas

expérimenté dans ma chair ? Est-ce que ma famille

juive et les sentiments violents qu’elle a plantés en moi

peuvent m’aider à mettre des mots sur l’idée même de la

lutte que son existence représente?

J’ai eu quelques sueurs froides : le français était mon

ennemi. J’ai fouillé les tréfonds d’internet. J’ai usé

les dictionnaires de synonymes jusqu’à la corde pour

fabriquer mes propres images.

Avant cela, je n’avais jamais traduit de poème. Le

plus difcile était peut-être, ici, qu’il fallait traduire

l’expérience d’une vie, peuplée de personnages nombreux,

mais racontée par un seul visage. Il fallait trouver dans

les ronces le chemin de la rivière, et y emmener tout le

monde.

DAMIEN MCCLENDON

POEMS

Life on Lease

I sold God to the landlord

for one month’s rent

I mean, I sold God on Craigslist

for cash — landlords don’t accept God

I offer forty times the price

as proof — hope

this land-god believes in a lower power

That’s how it starts

Showing of stubs

history of wear

work a double

double security

deposit down — and out of deities

The rst voice is an invoice

The baby is rent this month

traduit de l’anglais par

NORAH BENARROSH ORSONI

POÈMES

Une vie sous caution

J’ai vendu ma foi au proprio

Pour un mois de loyer

En fait, j’ai vendu ma foi sur Craigslist

pour du cash – les proprios ne prennent pas la foi

Je promets trois fois le montant du loyer

comme preuve – comme espoir que

ce divin-bailleur croit en une puissance ouvrière

Ça débute comme ça

Montrer ses ches de paie

toute une vie de labeur

à faire les trois huit

un loyer d’avance

acompte versé – poches percées – dieux échoués

La première créature : une facture

La prochaine fois, je vendrai le bébé

The House

The house

has nothing to do with walls

everything to do with doors

Family a group of people walking

through each other

calling to let you know

we on the way.

We live in different rooms

of the same heart

not paying rent

but giving love free.

The Family is a streetlight

screaming come home

in the dark with grass-stained school clothes

chlorophyll and cotton pressed

against each other like hands

praying for a child’s safety.

Whose nerves become a place

for the whole family to sit

and carry on as if weightless

until it’s time to eat

We have a pot’s appetite

cook with our foot in the food

every bite tastes like a mile in mama’s shoes

La maison

n’est faite d’aucun murs

n’est faite que de portes

La famille : des êtres qui avancent

les uns dans les autres

qui appellent pour te dire

on se ramène.

On habite dans différentes pièces

du même cœur

on ne paie pas de loyer

on donne de l’amour gratis.

La Famille est un réverbère

grondant qu’il est l’heure de rentrer

dans la nuit vêtements d’école tâchés d’herbe

chlorophylle et coton pressés

l’un contre l’autre comme des mains

priant pour que l’enfant rentre sain et sauf.

Ses nerfs transformés en espace

où toute la famille vient s’asseoir

comme si elle ne pesait rien

jusqu’à ce qu’il soit l’heure du repas

Nous avons un appétit vorace

notre âme entière dans un repas

chaque bouchée a le goût du labeur de mama

a consumption of survived trauma.

We part our curtains

open our windows

to arms that reach out and embrace you

like summer’s heat

The family is the biggest hug

when you need it most,

living until living becomes

mostly remembering

l’absorption des traumas traversés.

Nous écartons les rideaux

ouvrons les fenêtres

sur des bras qui viennent nous enlacer

comme la chaleur estivale

La famille est une étreinte immense

quand ça devient vital,

jusqu’à ce que vivre prenne surtout

la forme du souvenir

Let it take forever

The last time I spoke

to grandpa

he was in the hospital dying

despite our desperate effort

to love him back to health

On the way to the hospital

Nile (4-year-old) Says, daddy

I want something from ol McDonalds

I told him we can stop after

we go see grandpa

he says that’s gon’take forever

The last thing grandpa said to Nile was

I love you too. 45 minutes

later the smell of French fries lls

the car as grief and guilt build-up

like bad cholesterol

I should’ve made Nile wait

spent more time

I should’ve let it take forever

for a few more minutes

Que ça dure des plombes

La dernière fois que j’ai parlé

à papi

il mourait à l’hôpital

malgré nos efforts désespérés

pour le guérir à force d’amour

Sur le chemin de l’hôpital

Nile, 4 ans, dit Papa

Je veux aller au Macdo

Je lui dis qu’on ira après

être allés voir papi

Il répond Mais ça va durer des plombes

Les derniers mots de papi à Nile étaient

Moi aussi je t’aime. 45 minutes

plus tard l’odeur des frites s’insinue dans

la voiture pendant que deuil et culpabilité enent

comme du mauvais cholestérol

J’aurais dû laisser attendre Nile

Rester plus longtemps

J’aurais dû faire que ça dure des plombes

Pour quelques minutes encore

A war older

River’s footprint across my chest.

Carry a boy

through forest of glass.

To stay alive I call home

but there was no tomorrow.

Heavy rain did not blot the shore but attened it.

Edges of a day too heavy to move

Retires at night, before the knife

comes out.

Jaws gather memories

like tomb.

River Intrudes

on argument to demand a monster.

I want to yell my life’s name at her.

Now, I am a war older, running late as usual

Une guerre de plus

Les petits pieds de Mon Ruisseau sur mon torse.

Charrier un garçon

à travers une multitude de tessons.

Pour rester en vie j’essaie de rentrer chez moi

mais il n’y a pas de lendemain.

Les orages n’ont pas lavé le rivage – ils l’ont détruit.

Fin de journée, déjà épuisé

Se transforme en nuit, avant que surgisse

le couteau.

Mes mâchoires recueillent les souvenirs

comme un tombeau.

Mon Ruisseau s’immisce

dans les cris pour réclamer son nounours.

Je voudrais qu’elle se bouffe tout ce que j’ai traversé.

Voilà que j’ai mené une guerre de plus, en retard comme toujours

100

Baptism

I used to play,

in a shallow creek

jump rock-to-rock,

trying not to fall.

My sneaker and the moss and the lack

of friction between them, slipping

on each other, like new lovers.

You are the river my feet fell into, running

from ourselves to ourselves.

When smoke lls the damaged house,

you exhale into me

We share

a single breath,

now all things can exist.

Take it all from me and become yourself.

Say nothing.

Everything in nature has your voice,

and speaks to me in language only I know.

101

Un baptême

Souvent je jouais

dans un petit ruisseau

sautant d’un caillou à l’autre,

tâchant d’éviter les chutes.

Mes baskets et la mousse et entre elles

aucun frottement, elles

s’efeuraient comme de jeunes amants.

Tu es le euve où mes pieds ont glissé, en s’élançant

de nous à nous.

Quand la fumée envahit la maison meurtrie,

c’est en moi que tu expires

Nous partageons

le même soufe,

désormais tout est possible.

Prends tout ce que j’ai et réalise toi.

Ne dis rien.

La nature toute entière a le son de ta voix

et me parle une langue que moi seul comprends.

102

Sacrice

A wound the shape of a smile

keeps the blood a secret.

Then it all became

a wound. The shape of a smile

a memory.

Keep the blood a secret.

Before it is born, a ghost

is a memory

Resentment grows old

before it is born. A ghost

nds a way to speak.

Resentment grows old.

Keep the blood. A secret

nds a way to speak.

103

Sacrice

Une plaie grimée en sourire

garde secret le sang versé.

Alors tout s’est transformé

en plaie. Et la forme du sourire

en souvenir.

Garde secret le sang versé.

Avant de voir le jour, les fantômes

sont des souvenirs

La rancune se étrit

avant de voir le jour. Les fantômes

s’inventent un langage.

La rancune se étrit.

Garde le sang versé. Les secrets

s’inventent un langage.

104

In the river’s shelter

When i walk at night Peace comes down,

throwing itself towards

a rotted oor

accepting the oncoming shatter.

i am sobered

by dark thicket of childhood.

A soul with empty stomach

expelled from the mouth

Just yesterday it was yesterday and now its already today

And we will never be the same

In the river’s shelter, we felt no threat.

Walking into the house

standing together wondering, does God see that little piece of light

in danger of blowing away.

105

À l’abri de notre ruisseau

Quand la nuit je marche La paix retombe,

et s’élance

vers le plancher pourri

pour accueillir le fracas qui vient.

je suis dégrisé

par le noir bosquet de l’enfance.

Ma bouche recrache

un spectre affamé

À peine hier on était hier et voilà qu’on est déjà aujourd’hui

Et nous ne serons plus jamais les mêmes

A l’abri de notre ruisseau, on n’avait peur de rien.

On marchait dans la maison on

se tenait tous ensemble on se demandait si

Dieu pouvait voir cette minuscule lueur

qui menaçait d’être emportée.

106

Translator’s Note

When I rst read “Les Semaines”, I initially thought that

the subject matter made me feel as though a higher level

of sensitivity than usual would be needed to translate

the text properly. Then I learned that the author was

a character in this poem about experiencing the loss

of a friend who died of suicide, made me nervous. This

wasn’t just a poem but a collection of memories, a way

of remembering — and remembering is already an act

of translation in which details can be lost or skewed.

I knew in my translation some things might be lost or

skewed but I still wanted it to be able to function as

memory for Norah, and not just tell the story of Tal,

not that that wouldn’t have been substantial in itself.

Les Semaines translated as The Weeks documents the

collective mourning of a group of people connected by

a mutual friend who become closer in the wake of their

friend’s death. It begins one week after and I chose to

retain the syntax of the French Une Semaines as“One

week” instead of reversing it to “Week one” as I felt

the latter carries an analytical connotation that didn’t

feel present in the text. With the phrase Il reste which

can translate to he stays or remains, two words that

carry distinct connotations in English but not in the

same way in French, I chose “Still there is” each word

individually communicating the idea of being without

the same corporeal connotations associated with them as

a word such as “remain” . English aided in translation

of this text because for the translation Norah requested

that I use a gender neutral pronoun for the late friend

which was not used in the original text. Her decision

to use “il” rather than “iel” was made in part based

on the connotations of these gender neutral pronouns.

In this way “The Weeks” lives in a space that may be

in some ways closer to the original than the original

107

itself. This is a choice I wouldn’t ever have made if not

for the author’s input which I know isn’t a translator’s

usual experience to have — but I think it goes to show

what can happen in the space of collaboration.

108

NORAH BENARROSH

LES SEMAINES

Une semaine

Il doit être à l’hôpital

Il va se réveiller

J’aurais voulu ne pas lui rendre le pull qu’il avait oublié chez moi

Sur ses photos institutionnelles, il porte ce pull au logo Champion

Toutes les lles qui ont été amoureuses de lui s’en souviennent

Ce pull qui a dormi deux mois entre les miens

Ce pull que je n’ai jamais essayé de porter

Que j’ai pas non plus osé renier

Ou peut-être que je l’ai fait

Il reste le souvenir de ce pull et les trous de mémoire pour tout le reste

Il reste des questions

On me dit vendredi soir dans la cuisine

Je cuisine des champignons parce que c’est ce qu’il préférait

Et dans ma tête :

Est-ce qu’on a mangé des champignons cet hiver dans la maison de

campagne ?

J’aimerais qu’on ait mangé des champignons

J’aimerais qu’il m’ait dit combien il aimait ça

Ou plutôt : ne pas avoir oublié s’il me l’a dit

J’aimerais lui avoir cuisiné des champignons

Et j’aimerais lui avoir dit que moi aussi, c’est ce que je préfère

J’aimerais poser ces questions aux personnes qui étaient là cet hiver

Mais ce n’est pas le moment d’emmerder des gens en deuil avec des trous

de mémoire

109

translated from the french by

DAMIEN MCCLENDON

THE WEEKS

One week

They must be in the hospital

They will wake up

I didn’t want to give them back the sweater they forgot at my house

The one with the Champion logo they wore in their college photos

All the girls who’ve been in love with them remember

This sweater that slept among my own for two months

This sweater that I never tried to wear

And didn’t dare to sniff

Or maybe I did

Still there is the memory of this sweater but for everything else the

memory lapses

Still there are questions

Our friends tell me Friday night in the kitchen

I cook mushrooms because that’s what they liked best

And in my head:

Did we eat mushrooms that winter at the lake house?

I wish we had eaten mushrooms

I wish they had told me how much they enjoyed them

Or rather that I hadn’t forgotten if they told me

I wish I had cooked them mushrooms

And I wish I had told them that I liked mushrooms best too

I would like to ask the ones who were there this winter

These questions about mushrooms

110

J’ouvre mes agendas pour compter le nombre de fois

J’ajoute les rendez-vous que j’avais négligé de noter

Je garde l’espoir secret qu’il y en ait eu d’autres et que je les ai oubliés

Parce que pourquoi je suis ravagée s’il n’y a eu que ceux-là ?

Il reste :

son nom dans mon répertoire téléphonique

Je dois changer de téléphone et peut-être que c’est le moment

L’éteindre avant qu’il ne soit cassé

Pour le rallumer quand je voudrai lire ses messages

Il reste :

Son nom sur Facebook, sur Twitter, sur Instagram

Il reste nos conversations dans les messageries et une grande inquiétude :

Quand sa famille désactivera ses comptes, combien de personnes perdront

des années de discussions intimes avec lui ?

On me dit

Ça faisait deux semaines qu’il appelait son psy tous les jours pour lui dire

qu’il voulait mourir

On me dit

Il ne l’avait dit à personne

On me dit

Quand le temps sera venu, on se vengera du psy

En face de moi

Celle qui a essayé de le joindre tout le week-end

Celle qui a eu une histoire d’amour avec lui

Celle qui était trop malade pour se déplacer dans la nuit malgré

l’inquiétude

Celle qui le mercredi d’avant, mangeait un gâteau avec lui en parlant

d’inceste

Celle qui le connaissait quand il avait encore les cheveux longs

En face de moi aucun corps ne s’effondre

Elles attendent les ruelles, leurs lits et les bras d’autres amies pour hurler

dans le noir, défoncer des vitrines à poings nus et avaler des anxiolytiques

Tout autour de moi :

Une constellations de corps qui se rencontrent parce qu’un ami est devenu

111

But this is not the time to piss off grieving people with my lapses in

memory

I open my diaries to count the number of times we hung out

I add the dates I had neglected to note

I secretly hope that there were more and that I just can’t remember

Cause why am I so devastated if it’s only been this many?

Still there is:

their name saved in my contacts

I need to change phones

maybe it’s time to turn this one off before it dies

I can turn it on again later to read the messages

Still there is:

their name on Facebook, on Twitter, on Instagram

Still there are our conversations in the messages and the greatest worry:

When their family deactivates their accounts, how many of us will lose

years of irreplaceable memories with them?

I hear from our friends

They’d been calling their shrink every day for two weeks to tell him that

they wanted to die.

I hear

They didn’t tell anyone

I hear

When the time is right, we’ll take revenge on the shrink

Facing me

The friend who tried to reach them all weekend,

The friend who had a love affair with them,

The friend who was too sick to leave the house that night despite the

worry.

The friend who the Wednesday before, ate a cake with them while

discussing incest

And the friend who knew them when they still had long hair

In front of me none of their bodies are collapsing

They wait for the alleys, their beds and the arms of other friends to

112

précisément ça :

un corps

Des verres de vin dans des bars où on n’avait jamais mis les pieds mais où

l’on reste chaque soir jusqu’à la fermeture

Des inconnues qui se serrent dans leurs manteaux se partagent des clopes

s’échangent des numéros de téléphone s’appellent tous les jours et se

disent des mots d’amour dans un groupe Whatsapp

Une succession de jours fériés

Trente personnes qui deviennent le centre du monde les unes des autres

C’est comme un attentat

Des soutiens de soutiens de soutiens

Un jour peut-être on dessinera la cartographie des corps qui se sont mus

ensemble ces dix jours-là

Et puis quelqu’un dit

Voici sa sœur

Et le lendemain

Voilà son frère

Et je me demande

S’ils vont s’effondrer maintenant qu’ils sont ensemble

S’ils vont réaliser qu’ils ne sont plus que deux

Ou s’ils vont continuer

à sourire

à manger notre nourriture

à dormir chez leurs parents et que se passe-t-il dans cet endroit où notre

ami ne voulait plus mettre les pieds ?

On me dit

La police a demandé :

Est-ce qu’il possédait une barre de traction ?

Est-ce que cette corde d’escalade lui appartenait ?

On me dit

La police a demandé à ses amies dans le hall de l’immeuble :

Pourquoi vous dites Il alors que c’est une dame qui est pendue à cette

corde ?

Et que l’une a retenu l’autre de mettre son poing dans la gueule du ic

La police a écrit dans le dossier médical :

la table était couverte de lignes de coke

113

scream in the dark, smash windows with bare sts and swallow anxiety

pills.

All around me :

A constellation of bodies that meet because

a friend has become precisely this: a body

Glasses of wine in bars we’ve never gone to but where we now stay every

night until closing time

Strangers who huddle in their coats share cigarettes exchange phone

numbers call each other every day and share words of love in a Whatsapp

group

A series of holidays

Thirty people who become the center of each other’s world

It’s like an attack

Supports of supports of supports

One day perhaps we will draw a map of the bodies that moved together

these ten days

And then someone says

Here is their sister

And the next day

Here is their brother

And I wonder

If they’re gonna fall apart now that they’re together

If they’ll realize it’s just the two of them

Or if they will continue

to smile

to eat our food

to sleep at their parent’s

and what happens in this place where our friend

no longer wanted to set foot?

I hear

The police asked:

Did they have a pull up bar?

Did that climbing rope belong to them?

I hear

114

On se demande entre quelles pièces était installée la barre de traction

On dit qu’on ne veut pas la réponse

On se demande s’il a laissé une lettre

On apprend que non

Je suis soulagée

Je me raconte :

je préfère qu’il ait sombré plutôt qu’il ait planié de nous abandonner

Je demande

Mais est-ce qu’on sait quand il est mort ?

L’une me regarde pendant trente seconde en silence et nalement

Lundi matin

Et le silence ensuite encore, dans le bar vide qu’on a choisi exprès

On me dit

C’est mercredi pour aller voir son corps à l’Institut médico-légal

Je dis Vous êtes sûres que ça lui aurait plu que vous le voyiez comme ça ?

L’une répond

Ca faisait des mois que je le ramassais défoncé et qu’il refusait de

consulter un psychiatre

Alors tu vois, là tout de suite, son consentement je m’en fous

On dit aussi

C’est vendredi pour se recueillir devant le cercueil ouvert avant la mise en

bière

On se demande à quoi ressemble un cercueil ouvert dans une mort juive

Est-ce qu’un linceul c’est un drap avec un zip fermé

Ou plutôt comme une momie, une tête le nez les yeux le menton visible

sous le drap enroulé autour de son visage

On se demande

Est-ce qu’on peut empêcher des parents de faire un discours à

l’enterrement de leur enfant ?

Qui vide l’appartement d’un ami mort sans devenir fou ?

Quelqu’un dit

Il devait prendre l’avion pour s’installer à Berlin le lendemain

115

The police asked our friends who were in the lobby of the building:

“Why do you say He when it’s a lady hanging from this rope?”

And one of them stopped the other from putting their st in the cop’s

face

The police wrote in the medical le:

the table was covered in lines of coke

We wonder where in the apartment the pull-up bar was installed

We say we don’t want the answer

We wonder if they left a letter

We learn… no

I am relieved

I tell myself:

I’d rather they fell into despair than planned to abandon us

I ask

But do we know when they died?

One friend looks at me for thirty seconds in silence and nally

Monday morning

And silence then again, in the empty bar that we chose on purpose

I hear

on Wednesday we will go see their body at the Forensic lab

I ask, are you sure they would have liked you to see them like that?

One friend responds

I had been picking them up stoned for months and they refused to see a

psychiatrist.

So you see, right now, I don’t care about their consent

We also say

On Friday we will gather in front of the open cofn before the funeral

One friend wonders what an open cofn looks like at a Jewish funeral

Is a cerement a sheet with a closed zip

Or is the head, nose, eyes, chin visible under the sheet

that’s wrapped around his face like a mummy

116

Il avait rangé toutes ses affaires dans des cartons

Il avait dit au revoir à tout le monde

Pendant des jours ma tête répète une comptine à trois vers

Pauvre pauvre enfant

Qu’est-ce qu’ils lui ont fait ?

Et l’écho de la voix de ma sœur, en larmes dans le téléphone :

Tal s’est suicidé

117

We wonder

Can parents be prevented from giving a speech at their child’s funeral?

Who empties a dead friend’s apartment without going mad?

One friend says

“They were to y to Berlin the next day

They had packed all their things in boxes

They had said goodbye to everyone”

For several days my head repeats a three-line nursery rhyme

poor poor child

What did they do to you?

And my sister in tears

her voice on the telephone echoing

Tal committed suicide

118

Deux semaines

À l’entrée du cimetière une foule colorée

Des gens en noir mieux sapés que nous

Leur air effrayé sur notre passage

On le voit dans leurs yeux : nous sommes trop jeunes pour être ici

Quand on se retourne, dans l’allée la foule

Va si loin que les dernières personnes sont oues

Une famille embarrassante et dévastée

Les parents à gauche, les enfants à droite

Le visage sec de la mère

Des chaussures à talon

Un micro comme dans une salle des fêtes

Un discours avec des listes

Ca pourrait aussi bien être un mariage

Si cette vie n’était pas racontée au passé

Je pense à ma mère

Je pense à tous les bras qu’elle aurait pour se blottir

Après les discours et les poignées de terre jetées on reste encore

Ça dure longtemps on retrouve nos voix

Soudain on complote on entend même des ricanements

Le bruit court des bouches aux oreilles

On se retourne sur le bruit de l’étincelle :

Devant sa tombe le fumigène est craqué

Le bras est levé haut

Les yeux suivent la fumée

Les volutes oranges claquent contre le ciel bleu

On se dit c’est bizarre ça donne envie d’applaudir

Mais ça se fait pas et nos gorges sont serrées alors

On se contente du silence pour décorer notre tristesse

Et c’est terminé

Le Rabbin beau gosse vient nous voir

C’était vraiment une belle idée les lacrymos, bravo

119

Two weeks

At the entrance to the cemetery a colorful crowd

People in black, better dressed than us

As we pass they look frightened

We see it in their eyes: we’re too young to be here

When we turn around to look back down the byway

the crowd is vast, the people furthest away are a blur

An embarrassing, devastated family

Parents on the left, children on the right

mother’s dry face

High heels

A microphone like in a reception hall

A speech full with lists

It might as well be a wedding

If this life were not told in the past tense

I think of my mother

I think of all the arms that would cuddle her

After the speeches and the handfuls of dirt we stay behind

It lasts a long time, we nd our voices

Suddenly we’re plotting, we even hear giggles

The rumor goes from mouth to ear

We turn at the sound of the spark:

In front of their tombstone the smoke bomb is lit

The arm raised high

Eyes follow the smoke

Orange swirls slap against the blue sky

We say to ourselves, it’s weird, it makes you want to applaud

But it wouldn’t be right and our throats are tight so

We settle for silence to decorate our sadness

And it’s over

120

Merci Rabbi mais ça s’appelle des fumigènes

On rit sous cape

Cette phrase est déjà en train de devenir une bonne histoire

Oui oui pardon mais il continue

Ah ces lacrymos, quelle beauté

Dans nos têtes on dit

Tu vois Tal, nalement il n’y a pas de hasard

Ca fait des jours qu’on se dit

Calmons-nous, c’est pas un happening

Et malgré nous, on t’a organisé une manif

121

The hot Rabbi comes over to us

The tear gas was really a great idea, well done

Thank you Rabbi but they’re called smoke bombs

We laugh under our breath

This sentence is already becoming a good story

Yes yes sorry but he continues

Ah this tear gas, what a beauty

In our heads we say

You see Tal, ultimately it’s no coincidence

There’s been days that we say

Let’s calm down, this isn’t a scene

And despite ourselves, we organized a demonstration for you

122

Trois semaines

Enfoncé dans un canapé (comme lui)

En chaussettes (comme lui)

La bouche tendue par l’histoire drôle qui emporte sa voix (comme lui)

Il reste l’ami qui lui ressemble le plus

On se demande qui a piqué les mimiques à l’autre

On imagine combien ils devaient être collés pour à ce point se ressembler

On imagine les nuits et la tristesse de l’ami qui a perdu son miroir

On voudrait lui ouvrir nos bras

On fait les gestes du deuil

Mais d’autres aussi et à chaque instant

La vie nous revient en pleine gueule

On dit On a gagné quinze amis

On dit Des fois j’y pense et je me trouve chanceux d’être parmi vous

On dit Il nous a laissé ça

On dit Maintenant, c’est comme avoir un petit habitant supplémentaire à

l’intérieur

On dit Ou alors un petit diable sur l’épaule

On dit Oui ça lui irait bien

123

Three weeks

Lying on a sofa (like them)

In socks (like them)

Mouth stretched by a funny story that uplifts the voice (like them)

Still there is the friend who resembles them the most

We wonder who stole the other’s facial expressions

We imagine how much they must have been glued to each other to look so

similar

We imagine the nights and the sadness of the friend who lost his mirror

We would like to open our arms to him

We make gestures of mourning

But joy too

At every moment life hurries back to us

We say

We gained fteen friends We say

Sometimes we think about it and feel lucky to be here with each other We

say

They left us this We say

Now it’s like having a little extra inhabitant inside We say

Or a little devil on the shoulder We say

Yes it would suit him well

124

Quatre semaines

Je donnerais cher aujourd’hui pour qu’il ait laissé un petit mot

Enterrez-moi avec mon pull préféré

Amenez moi vous aussi vos petits mots

Dans les jours avant l’enterrement, je regarde la boite

Décorée des plus adorables oiseaux peints

Posée sur ma bibliothèque, près de la porte de ma chambre

Je passe devant vingt-cinq fois par jours

Dans les jours avant l’enterrement, je voudrais proposer qu’on y glisse

Des objets, des petits mots, des trucs

Je voudrais proposer qu’on la glisse, cette boite, dans le cercueil

Dans les jours avant l’enterrement

Sur la bibliothèque près de la porte de ma chambre

Il y a aussi une cigarette en céramique

Le corps bleu, le ltre orange

C’est un amoureux qui me l’a offerte

C’est une artiste qui l’a fabriquée

Dans les jours avant l’enterrement, on dit

Pas de eurs dans les enterrements juifs, apportez des petits cailloux

Sur la bibliothèque près de la porte de ma chambre

Je prélève la cigarette en céramique et un lapis-lazuli volé en Espagne

Je les pose sur sa tombe avec tous les autres cailloux

Je prends une photo de sa tombe

J’ai un peu honte

J’aimerais que l’Occident ne nous ait pas privé des corps de nos mortes

Qu’on n’aie pas peur d’aller embrasser leurs joues froides

Qu’il n’y ait pas d’institut médico légal

Pas de chambre impersonnelle et au mobilier ignifugé

Dans les maisons de retraite qui font mourrir nos grand-mères

J’aimerais avoir écrit l’histoire de la mort cruelle de ma grand-mère

Le respirateur, les sushis, l’urgentiste juif, la main tenue, le râle et l’oxygène

qui le calme

Mourir seule quand-même un matin où on se lève juste un peu trop tard

J’aimerais qu’on ait cette audace

125

Four weeks

I would give a lot today for them to have left a note a little word

—Bury me with my favorite sweater

Bring me your little words too

In the days before the funeral, I look at the box

Decorated with the cutest painted birds

Lying on my bookshelf, near my bedroom door

I walk past it twenty-ve times a day

In the days before the funeral, I would like to propose that we slip

Objects, messages, other stuff

I would like to propose that we slip

this box, into the cofn

In the days before the funeral

On the bookshelf by my bedroom door

There is also a clay cigarette

blue body, orange lter

It was a lover who gave it to me

It was an artist who made it

In the days before the funeral, we say

No owers at Jewish funerals, bring small pebbles

On the bookshelf by my bedroom door

I take the clay cigarette and a lapis lazuli stolen in Spain

I place them on his grave with all the other pebbles

I take a picture of his grave

I’m a bit ashamed

I wish the Western world didn’t dispossess us of the bodies of our dead

loved ones

That we weren’t afraid to kiss their cold cheeks

I wish there were no forensic lab

No impersonal rooms with reproof furniture

In the retirement homes that kill our grandmothers

I wish I had written the story of my grandmother’s cruel death

The respirator, the sushi, the Jewish paramedic, the hand held, the

126

Pomponner nos mortes pour leur dire adieu

J’aimerais que nous soyons des croque-morts aimants et inventifs

Que nous soyons des familles de croque-morts

Des pièces d’or sur les paupières

Du rouge sur les joues

Chanter vingt-quatre heure autour du cercueil d’un bien-aimé

Qu’on aie le droit de le faire

J’aimerais qu’on lui ait chanté ses chansons préférées ou rien du tout

Mais qu’on lui ait dit au-revoir et même des blagues

127

crackle

and the oxygen that soothed her

To die alone anyway on a morning when we get up just a little too late

I wish we had the audacity

To doll up our dead to say goodbye

I wish we were loving and inventive undertakers

That we were entire families of undertakers

Gold coins on the eyelids

Red on the cheeks

Singing twenty-four hours around a loved one’s cofn

I wish we had the right to do it

I wish we had sung their favorite songs or nothing at all

But that we still said goodbye to them and even played around

128

Cinq semaines

Rendez-vous dimanche pour vider son appartement

L’amie n°1 dit : je ne veux jamais y remettre les pieds, je veux résilier le

bail, ne récupérer aucun meuble, je ne veux rien savoir

L’ami n°2 fait réparer la fenêtre que les pompiers ont cassée

Pour chaque chose, il y a un numéro suivant sur la liste

Qui souffrira moins que le précédent

Ses parents veulent venir voir les lieux

On fait un conciliabule : faut-il le leur interdire ?

On leur fait un mot

Surtout, n’emportez rien, c’est décidé, tout nous appartient

Dans la conversation collective, l’amie n°3 dit

Ne vous inquiétez pas, c’est rangé et il n’y a rien de choquant

Dans la conversation collective, l’amie n°4 dit

Si vous changez d’avis, personne ne vous en voudra

Elle dit, S’il y a des choses rassurantes à faire avant d’entrer

Elle dit, Que ce soit le plus doux possible

On lit les messages de loin, c’est affreusement émouvant et à la n

On ne sait pas ce qu’elles ont fait

Une cinquième demande si elle pourra les rejoindre après

Une sixième demande qu’on l’appelle en vidéo quand on y sera

Sur le pallier, l’ami n°7 écrit

J’ai apporté des croissants et les autres répondent avec des cœurs

Dans sa chambre maintenant, quatre amis qui ont hésité à entrer

Plus tard, on lit le message d’une autre, qui dit

J’ai pas entendu mon réveil, j’arrive

Et puis d’un autre encore qui répond

On a ni mais on t’attend

Sa chambre est maintenant une pièce vide qui sent le tabac

Les amies ont fumé des cigarettes et bu des cafés et

D’autres choses qu’on ne m’a pas racontées, sauf que ça a tout adouci

Les clés vont être rendues

Les parents n’ont rien emporté

129

Five weeks

See you on Sunday to empty his apartment

Friend number 1 says: I never want to set foot in there again, I want to

end the lease, abandon all the furniture, I don’t want to know anything

Friend n°2 gets the window xed that the reghters broke

For every little thing there’s a number coming next on the list

Who will suffer less than the one before

Their parents want to come see the place

We hold a discussion: should we forbid this?

We tell them

Above all, don’t take anything, it’s decided, everything belongs to us

In the group chat, friend n°3 says

Don’t worry, it’s tidy and there’s nothing too shocking

In the group chat, friend n°4 says

If you change your mind, no one will blame you

She says, If there’s any reassuring things you need to do before entering

She says, let it be as gentle as possible

We read the messages on our phones, it’s terribly moving and at the end

We don’t know what they wound up doing

The fth asks if she can join them afterwards

The sixth requests that we FaceTime him when we get there

On the landing, friend n°7 writes

I brought croissants and the others respond with hearts

In their room now, four friends who hesitated to enter

Later, we read another’s message, which says

I didn’t hear my alarm clock, I’m coming

And then another one who answers

We’re done but we’re waiting for you

Their room is now an empty room that smells like tobacco

The friends smoked cigarettes and drank coffees and

Did who knows what but they said

130

L’état des lieux est : Tal est mort, son appartement est vidé, ses affaires

sont dans la cave d’une des amies numérotées

Ses rêves et ses cauchemars, maintenant, c’est notre affaire

131

It made everything sweeter

The keys will be returned

The parents took nothing

The inventory is: Tal is dead, their apartment is empty, their things are in

the basement of one of the numbered friends.

Their dreams Their nightmares, all of it

is now our business

132

Translator’s Note

Luciana et moi sommes géographiquement très éloignées,

il y a 6 heures et 6 ans d’écart entre nous (pas un monde,

mais quand même !) et pourtant par la grâce d’allez

savoir quoi, je me sens très proche de Luciana.

Notre rencontre a été une des meilleures expériences que

j’ai vécues cette année, tant sur le plan relationnel que

textuel.

L’écriture de Luciana est poétique, organique, sensorielle.

Elle m’a immédiatement plu.

Rentrer dans le texte de Luciana, c’est comme rentrer

dans de la matière changeante, uide, concrète. On sent

qu’elle a accordé un soin particulier non seulement aux

images, mais aussi aux sons, aux rythmes aussi bien en

prose qu’en poésie, et c’est comme se sentir investie d’une

mission délicate de la traduire. Délicate dans le sens ne,

subtile, comme son écriture, mais aussi dans le sens de la

difculté, surtout dans les poèmes où j’ai senti et reconnu

l’importance de chaque mot.

Pouvoir échanger avec Luciana a non seulement rendu

cette mission plus agréable mais m’a aussi permis de

produire une traduction beaucoup plus juste : au cours

de nos échanges, Luciana a parfois mis en geste un mot

ou une expression pour me permettre de m’approcher au

plus près du sens. C’est précisément ce que permet son

écriture ; son écriture fait corps.

Et bien sûr cette écriture et nos échanges - autant

sur mon texte que le sien - m’ont aussi fait rééchir

différemment à ma propre écriture et l’ont nourrie.

Au cours de notre dernier échange, Luciana m’a coné

un secret qu’elle m’a autorisée à révéler ici : le texte et

les poèmes que vous allez lire ont été écrits lorsqu’elle

133

n’avait que 17 ans. Et je vous laisse maintenant découvrir

pourquoi cette nouvelle m’a fait l’admirer davantage.

134

LUCIANA SIRACUSANO

PAST THE FLOWER FIELDS

It was the fourth year since the woman had

come, and still sometimes he would think of her in the

early mornings when the sun slipped in and greeted the

lilies. He wiped his glove off on his apron, dressing the

name tag on his left breast-pocket with dirt. It might’ve

said Arthur or something but perhaps he had forgotten

because lots of people did and maybe it didn’t matter

anyway. There was a permanent lm of soil that layered

his skin and the oor and the benches but he took

comfort in it. He knew that soil, he lived and loved and

breathed that soil. Sometimes the sunlight sifted through

the dirt-stained windows and set re to the suspended

particles of dirt in the air. The scent of earth and ora

would hang in the shop, growing thick and rich before it

clung to his arms and the stubble on his chin. He took

comfort in not sweeping the soil away, for in the soil lay

hidden the memory of all the people that had come to his

shop, and in that memory existed that woman.

The morning the woman had come he had

been wearing the green sweater, the one with the long

sleeves that covered his left arm. He didn’t have many

sweaters that did that anymore. He had been tending to

the hydrangeas when she had come in, the wind chime

twinkling against the glass window pane, a zephyr of the

outside world stealing in.

She was sweet in white sweater fashion, bundled

in scarf and wool, and under her red winter gloves there

lay hidden delicate, perfect hands, hands that touched

but weren’t marked by soil, hands that could splay

ngers and pluck strings and caress faces. What he

remembered most were her hands.

135

traduit de l’anglais par

LÉA CUENIN

AU-DELÀ DES CHAMPS DE FLEURS

Cela faisait quatre ans qu’elle était venue, et

certains jours, il lui arrivait encore de penser à elle,

tôt le matin, quand le soleil se faulait à l’intérieur et

embrassait les lys. Il essuyait ses gants sur son tablier,

recouvrant de poussière le badge accroché à la poche de

sa chemise, au niveau de sa poitrine. Le nom d’Arthur

y gurait probablement, mais celui-ci l’avait sans doute

oublié comme tout le monde, et ça n’avait peut-être pas

d’importance après tout. Une pellicule de terre recouvrait

en permanence sa peau, le sol et les bancs, mais c’était

son élément. Il connaissait cette terre, il vivait, aimait

et respirait cette terre. Parfois, les rayons du soleil se

glissaient par les vitres entre les tâches et enammaient

les particules de poussière en suspension. L’odeur de

terre et de ore ottait dans le magasin, grandissait,

s’épaississait jusqu’à s’accrocher à ses bras et sa barbe de

trois jours. Ça le rassurait de ne pas épousseter la terre,

car dans cette terre reposait, caché, le souvenir de toutes

les personnes qui étaient passées dans sa boutique, et

dans ce souvenir se trouvait cette femme.

Le matin de sa visite, il portait le pull vert,

celui aux manches longues qui couvraient son bras

gauche. Il n’avait plus beaucoup de pull comme celui-

ci. Il s’occupait des hortensias quand elle était entrée,

le tintement du carillon contre le carreau de vitre,

l’inltration d’un zéphyr du monde extérieur.

Elle était douce dans son pull blanc, emmitouée

dans une écharpe et de la laine, et sous ses gants d’hiver

rouges se cachaient des mains délicates et parfaites, des

mains qui touchaient sans être imprégnées de terre, des

mains qui pouvaient écarter les doigts, pincer des cordes

136

It had been a common interaction. Hello she

had said, swinging her way into the shop. How can I

help you he had said and she had waltzed toward him,

drifting in and burying her nose in roses as she went. Oh

I’m just looking she had said. And then she spun around

and leaned through the scented air to rest her elbow on

the counter where he was, and stretched like a gazelle

across the table to smell the hydrangeas in his arms.

Her buttery eyes uttered as she took in the scent.

The man was a bit startled by the manner in which

she had come in, and even more so once she swept up

the nearest bouquets and held them to her chest and

exclaimed Oh I want to buy them all! But she had no

money, and although the man was willing to give her

a bouquet for free she said she couldn’t. So she settled

for staring at the hydrangeas and watching as the man

tended to them, preening and doting on each one with

his right hand while his left arm hung graciously behind

his back. At one point the woman couldn’t help herself

any longer, and tore her gloves off to cup the buds in

her Raphaelesque hands. The sight of such lovely hands

softened the man’s guarded expression, and thus he felt

that longing rise up again, the one he had tried to forget

back at the hospital when the pain had been fresh and

the nerves still tingled.

“Arthur, is that your name, Arthur?” she said as

she leaned over to inspect his tag.

“Yes.”

“That’s a wonderful name. Solid. More people

should be named Arthur.”

“Enough people are already.”

“What! No! You’re the only Arthur I know.”

“I suppose you just haven’t met many Arthurs

then.” He removed himself from the counter and came

around to gather more hydrangeas. He was well aware

of his left arm, and took care not to show it. It would

be too shameful, in front of those angel hands, it would

be like standing naked, drenched in a thousand years of

sin before God. Slow and deliberate the man gathered

137

et caresser des visages. Ce dont il se souvenait le plus,

c’était de ses mains.

L’échange avait été banal. Bonjour avait-elle dit,

en entrant dans la boutique avec un léger balancement,

Comment puis-je vous aider avait-il demandé, et elle

avait valsé vers lui, se laissant dériver et plongeant son

nez dans les roses au passage. Oh je ne fais que regarder

elle avait répondu. Puis elle avait tourné sur elle-même

et s’était penchée dans l’air parfumé pour poser son

coude sur le comptoir où il se trouvait, elle s’était étirée

par-dessus la table comme une gazelle pour sentir les

hortensias dans ses bras. Ses yeux avaient papillonné

quand le parfum lui était parvenu. Il avait été légèrement

surpris par la manière dont elle était entrée, et plus

encore lorsqu’elle avait rassemblé les bouquets les

plus proches pour les porter à sa poitrine, s’exclamant

Oh je voudrais tous les acheter ! Mais elle n’avait pas

d’argent, et bien qu’il soit prêt à lui offrir un bouquet,

elle avait répondu qu’elle ne pouvait pas. Alors elle

s’était contentée de xer les hortensias et de l’observer,

lui, s’en occuper, lissant et dorlotant chacun d’eux de

sa main droite, tandis que son bras gauche pendait

gracieusement dans son dos. Au bout d’un moment, elle

n’avait pu s’empêcher de retirer ses gants pour prendre

les boutons dans le creux de ses mains, des mains dignes

d’un Raphaël. À la vue de mains aussi jolies, l’expression

réservée qu’il afchait s’était adoucie, alors il avait senti

renaître ce désir, celui qu’autrefois il avait tenté d’oublier,

à l›hôpital, lorsque la douleur était nouvelle et que les

nerfs le picotaient encore.

- Arthur, est-ce votre nom, Arthur ? avait-elle demandé

en se penchant pour examiner son badge

- Oui.

- C’est un nom magnique. Sérieux. Plus de gens

devraient s’appeler Arthur.

- Il y en a déjà sufsamment.

- Quoi ? Non ! Vous êtes le seul Arthur que je connaisse.

- J’imagine bon, mettons que vous n’avez pas rencontré

138

the hydrangeas, but was soon distracted by the woman

stretching up to the ceiling to touch one of the hanging

snapdragons. She was on tippy-toe and when she slipped

and the snapdragons came down on top of her the man

caught her before she could hit the ground. She grabbed

onto his arms as he pulled her up, gripping him in

thanks. The man quickly retreated back into his sweater,

sheltering the arm he had so carefully tried to hide. But

the woman had felt the arm, and bid him wait and turn

towards her once again. She touched his shoulder and

inspected the useless heap attached.

“How did it happen?” she asked, still grasping

his arm gently.

“How it always happens,” he replied. The man

was perhaps only a couple years her senior and yet he felt

to her as frail and as old as rotten wood. How strange he

must seem to this lithe being that had wandered into his

cave, how shaggy and haggard he must look, the lonely

monster under the cliff, hiding his ugly face behind ower

elds of azure and bubble gum. What sorrow she must

have seen strewn over his face that she let go quickly,

startled by his sincerity. She looked at him with brow

furrowed, eyes drooped in sympathy as if to say, I don’t

mean no harm, but thats what everyone said so he turned

away before he could judge the truth that welled up in

her eyes.

“My brother fought too, you know. Lost his leg,”

she said. When the man did not respond, she continued.

“He would sit by the window and stare at the people

passing. Usually he’d be quiet but from time to time he’d

whisper when he thought no one was listening that he

wished he could run one more time. Just one run, just

to the end of the block.” The woman bent to gather the

fallen dragons in her arms, caressing each one as they

purred orange and pink against her skin. “But I know if

he could run he’d run to the end of the world and never

come back. He’d just keep running.”

The man too, wished he could run. Run out

of his cave, past the ower elds and shatter through

139

beaucoup d’Arthur, alors.

Il s’était extrait du comptoir et l’avait contourné pour

rassembler plus d’hortensias. Il avait bien conscience de

son bras gauche, et prenait soin de ne pas le montrer.

Cela aurait été trop honteux devant ces mains d’ange,

comme s’il s’était tenu nu devant Dieu, dégoulinant de

1000 ans de péchés. Lentement et avec application, il

rassemblait les hortensias, mais il avait vite été distrait

par la silhouette qui s’étirait vers le plafond pour toucher

l’une des gueule-de-loup suspendues. Elle était perchée

sur la pointe des pieds quand elle avait glissé, faisant

tomber les gueule-de-loup qui avaient fondu sur elle,

il l’avait rattrapée avant qu’elle ne touche le sol. Elle

s’était agrippée à ses bras pendant qu’il la hissait, et

l’avait enlacé pour le remercier. Il s’était rapidement

retranché dans son pull, dissimulant le bras qu’il avait si

soigneusement tenté de cacher. Mais elle avait senti son

bras, et lui avait intimé d’attendre et se tourner vers elle

à nouveau. Elle avait touché son épaule et inspecté le

bout de peau inutile.

- Comment est-ce arrivé ? avait-elle demandé, sans lâcher

sa prise délicate sur son bras.

- Comme toujours, avait-il répondu.

Il était probablement à peine plus âgé qu’elle, et

pourtant il lui avait semblé aussi frêle et vieux que du

bois pourri. Comme il devait lui paraître étrange, à cet

être léger qui s’était égaré dans sa grotte, comme il devait

être hirsute et hagard, le monstre solitaire sous la falaise,

dissimulant son visage hideux derrière des champs de

eurs d’azur et de bubble gum. Quelle peine avait-elle dû

voir voiler son visage pour qu’elle le lâche si rapidement,

surprise par sa sincérité. Elle l’avait regardé, les sourcils

froncés, les yeux baissés en signe de sympathie, comme

pour dire Je ne vous veux aucun mal, mais c’est ce que

tout le monde prétend, alors il s’était détourné avant de

pouvoir juger de la vérité qui montait à ses yeux.

« Mon frère a combattu aussi, vous savez. Il a

perdu une jambe », avait-elle dit. Comme il ne répondait

pas, elle avait continué. « Il s’asseyait près de la fenêtre et

140

the dirt stained glass. Run past the roses and the

snapdragons and the hydrangeas, run past till he left all

the world behind. But his arm, his brutal, despicable

little stump of an arm would still be there, to remind

him that he could never run. He’d always have a cursed

keepsake from his life as the useless one-armed orist on

that corner of that street down which people walked and

didn’t run.

Sometimes when he remembered the woman

he wished she hadn’t come at all. Then he would have

forgotten the feeling of want, the feeling of running and

sighing and leaping.

The snapdragons seemed to protest as he took

them from her beautiful hands. We are beautiful too,

the owers told him, we should be touched and loved

by hands of beauty, not your rough, mangled stump!

Patience he told his children. He shufed back to behind

the counter, and gathered the snapdragons with the spare

hydrangeas that were too small for arrangements. He

collected the buds and tied them with straw, the special

straw that he saved for the wedding bouquets and the

Christmas laurels.

“Here. They’re too small for me to use anyway,”

he told her as he handed her the owers.

“Oh no I couldn’t!”

“Please, you must, they’ll be thrown out if you

don’t.”

“Oh. We wouldn’t want that.”

“No, we wouldn’t.”

“I’ll take care of them for you!” she said as she

grasped the owers, taking his hand in hers at the same

time in gratitude. She smiled and he smiled and then she

was gone, evaporated into dust that sparkled across the

ower elds like the dirt that hung in the sun-lit air.

141

regardait les gens passer. En général, il restait silencieux,

mais de temps en temps, quand il pensait que personne

n’écoutait, il murmurait qu’il souhaitait pouvoir courir

une dernière fois. “Juste un sprint, seulement jusqu’au

bout de la rue.” » Elle s’était penchée pour rassembler

dans ses bras les gueule-de-loup qui étaient tombées,

caressant chacune d’elles tandis qu’elles faisaient

ronronner l’orange et le rose sur sa peau. Mais je savais

que s’il pouvait courir, il irait jusqu’au bout du monde et ne

reviendrait jamais. Il ne s’arrêterait jamais de courir.

Lui aussi souhaitait pouvoir courir. S’enfuir de

sa grotte, aller au-delà des champs de eurs et faire voler

en éclats les vitres tachetées de terre. Dépasser les roses,

les gueule-de-loup et les hortensias, courir jusqu’à laisser

le monde entier derrière lui. Mais son bras, son brutal et

minable petit moignon serait toujours là pour lui rappeler

qu’il ne pourrait jamais fuir. Il aurait toujours un

souvenir maudit de sa vie de euriste manchot inutile, à

cet angle de cette rue où les gens marchent et ne courent

pas.

Quand il se souvenait d’elle, il lui arrivait de

souhaiter qu’elle ne soit jamais venue. Alors, il aurait

oublié le sentiment de désir, le sentiment de courir, de

soupirer et de sauter.

Les gueule-de-loup avaient semblé protester

quand ils les avait reprises de ses belles mains. Nous

sommes belles aussi, avaient dit les eurs, nous devrions

être touchées et aimées par les mains de la beauté,

pas par ton moignon rêche et mutilé ! Patience, avait-

il répondu à ses enfants. Il était retourné derrière le

comptoir et avait réuni les gueule-de-loup avec le reste

des hortensias, trop petits pour les arrangements. Il avait

ramassé les boutons et avait noué une celle de paille

autour, la paille spéciale qu’il gardait pour les bouquets

de mariage et les lauriers de Noël.

- Tenez. Ils sont trop petits pour que je les utilise de toute

façon, avait-il dit en lui tendant les eurs.

- Oh non, je ne peux pas !

- S’il vous plaît, vous devez les prendre, sinon elles

142

143

niront à la poubelle.

- Oh. Personne ne voudrait ça.

- Non, personne.

- Je prendrai soin d’elles pour vous ! avait-elle dit,

saisissant les eurs et serrant sa main en signe de

gratitude. Elle avait souri, il avait souri, et comme ça, elle

était déjà partie, évaporée dans la poussière qui étincelait

sur les champs de eurs, comme la terre suspendue dans

la lumière du soleil.

144

Re: Addresses to the Homeless

i.To December

When your God created the Earth He took

the long knife and cut,

jagged, into your frozen stone.

Through these battered crevices He poured

silver dust, drips

of moon and star whisked in the

primordial blender on His kitchen counter.

I call the silver dust rivers but sometimes

you think they look like people

but maybe better since they sparkle.

In the early mornings you like to

touch the silver

and lick solid its mercurial feet

but it will escape you.

Lazy-eyes, one morning you forgot

about the silver specks,

and the air particles,

and the sweet ferns.

And over your sloth eyes

One Lonely Sun awoke in the

neighboring galaxy,

and glanced, briey, at the silver dust.

And when the silver dust bursted with the lonely sun

You cried, poor one,

but your ice-tears blew dry from your Decembersphere.

Did you know that I cried too?

145

Re : Adresses aux sans-abris

i. À décembre

Quand ton Dieu créa la Terre Il prit

le long couteau et trancha,

en dents de scie dans ta pierre gelée.

Dans ces crevasses usées, Il versa

de la poussière d’argent, des gouttes

de lune et d’étoiles fouettées dans le

mixeur originel de Sa cuisine.

J’appelle rivières la poussière d’argent même si parfois

tu penses qu’elles ressemblent à des personnes

mais peut-être en mieux car elles étincellent.

Au petit matin, tu aimes

efeurer l’argent

et lécher avec soin ses pieds mercuriels

mais tu seras dépassé

Yeux oisifs, un matin tu oublias

les taches argentées,

et les particules d’air,

et les douces fougères.

Et au-dessus de tes yeux de paresseux

Un Soleil Solitaire s’éveilla dans la

galaxie voisine,

et jeta un bref coup d’œil à la poussière d’argent.

Et quand la poussière d’argent s’embrasa avec le soleil solitaire

Tu pleuras, pauvre de toi,

Mais tes larmes-de-glace s’évaporèrent de ta décembrosphère

Savais-tu que j’avais pleuré aussi ?

146

ii.To the Lonely Sun

Whoever invented birthing didn’t know about you, hot stuff.

The mundane ones sometimes gaze

with burning eyes into

your fuzzy orange,

their retinas scorched like

a sizzling gun shot wound.

Must have been awfully boring before we homo sapiens came

along,

you know, what with our worshipping

and our superstitions

and our 24 in 7 in 4 in 12.

Was it hard, the waiting?

It must have been quiet, there,

at the center of all things.

Making eyes at STAR 6203409

and swallowing the perfume

of the pink comets.

Married to gentle Moon soul, you loomed, explosive

you, almost swallowed her.

If not for the falling sparkles.

We little beings called them “shooting,”

But you drifted, before we opened day old eyes to

the dawn of blessed wombs

and rosy skies.

Crackling re ower, you breathed

at the edge of the fth dimension,

under the watchful eyes,

and behind hazy matter,

like the woman that waits on the shore

for him to wander home.

147

ii. Au Soleil Solitaire

Quiconque inventa l’accouchement ne te connaissait pas, petite bombe.

Les gens terre-à-terre contemplent parfois

avec des yeux brûlants

ton halo orangé,

leurs rétines calcinées comme

la blessure d’une balle chauffée à blanc.

Ça devait être atrocement ennuyeux avant que nous arrivions, nous, les

homo sapiens,

tu sais, avec nos cultes

et nos superstitions

et nos 24 sur 7 sur 4 sur 12.

Était-ce difcile, l’attente ?

Ça devait être calme là-bas,

au centre de toute chose.

Faire les yeux doux à l’ÉTOILE 6203409

et boire le parfum

des comètes roses.

Marié à la douce âme de la lune, tu as surgi, explosif

toi, l’avalant presque.

S’il n’y avait pas eu les étincelles tombantes.

Nous, les petits êtres, les appelions « fusillade »,

Mais tu as dérivé, avant que nous n’ouvrions nos yeux vieux d’un jour sur

l’aube des utérus bénis

et des ciels rosés.

Fleur de feu crépitante, tu as respiré

au bord de la cinquième dimension,

sous les yeux vigilants,

et derrière la matière trouble,

comme la femme qui attend sur le rivage

qu’il rentre à la maison.

148

iii.to Neanderthal Man

Long nights did you gaze over shallow waters

At the silver sphere roamers of the above-ground.

Broad-browed, blunt-bodied, boulder-shouldered

warrior of forgotten.

Outrun, outfought, outbid.

No, you never liked learning about Darwin at school.

In the cold months, did your shallow seers drift upward,

as mine did, and watch

as their God sprinkled the silver specks,

and try to speak to the Lonely Sun?

Scratch your fouled ear, lonesome man,

and listen. Is it me,

that you hear, whispering

below the earth?

Or Lady of the caves, keeping vigil near

the re, bearing your fruitless seed?

And you coughed, grunted, shrugged,

‘liked’ her newest prole picture,

and thought to yourself,

what is “to be” anyway?

149

iii. À l’homme de néandertal

De longues nuits durant tu as regardé les eaux peu profondes

Les vagabonds de la sphère d’argent de la surface de la terre.

Tes sourcils épais, ta charpente émoussée, tes épaules de pierre

guerrier de l’oubli

Dépassé, débordé, démodé.

Non, tu n’as jamais aimé étudier Darwin à l’école.

Pendant les mois froids, tes prophètes peu profonds ont-ils erré vers le haut

comme les miens l’ont fait, et regardé

leur Dieu saupoudrer les taches argentées,

et ont-ils tenté de parler au Soleil Solitaire ?

Nettoie ton oreille sale, loup solitaire,

et écoute. Est-ce moi

que tu entends, chuchotant

sous la terre ?

Ou la Dame des cavernes, veillant

près du feu, portant ta semence stérile ?

Et tu as toussé, grogné, haussé les épaules,

« liké » sa dernière photo de prol,

et tu t’es demandé,

qu’est-ce qu’être de toute façon ?

150

Translator’s Note

TAIRE by Léa Cuenin is a lyrical, interiorly oriented

piece following the end of a writer’s life. In her nal

months, the book she is supposed to have written launch-

es into outer space while her body deteriorates from a

brain tumor that will eventually take away her words.

Translating the piece was a deeply meaningful endeavor

for me, as Léa’s writing is precise and poetic, conjur-

ing up the palpable loneliness of her protagonist Line

Stevens against the carefully selected language of her

Ireland coast backdrop. Working in tandem to translate

each other’s work was also, simply, a lot of fun: We are

both writers concerned with language and playing with

words and sounds, we both were writing pieces that dip

into science ction but leave a foot in poetry, we were

both creating characters that had some element of iso-

lation, haunted by the memory of a beloved woman. To

put it simply, we are well matched. I sometimes attribute

our ability to communicate well to our both being Scor-

pios, and having November birthdays, hers one day after

mine.

Translating seems to be a form of rewriting, or writ-

ing through, or writing again. I found that if I did not

understand the mechanics of the text, the story would

be lost in translation. But if I understood the meaning

behind Léa’s French, then I could sort of, transcribe that

meaning down through my English, as if the story ex-

isted up in the air somewhere, and I had to hear it in my

mind before writing it over in English. The same seemed

to be true for my own text, which, once read in the

French, seemed to take on a whole other life. As Léa said,

she was looking forward to my discovering my poems in

French, and likewise, I looked forward to her discovering

her story in English. Since much of my creative expe-

rience has been in acting and directing for the theatre,

I was able to recruit a different mode of interpretation

151

that aided this transcribing of meaning. And so, part of

the translation process was almost a performance study,

where Léa would use gestures to demonstrate what she

imagined, her hands holding a ring between her thumb

and index nger in front of the laptop camera. And, of

course, our meetings were always over Zoom, which in

itself is a form of translation, shooting our images across

the Atlantic, meeting up in the ether somewhere where

the meaning behind our texts oated.

There were a few key elements to Léa’s original French

story that had to be modied in the English. First, was

the title of the piece, Taire. In Léa’s original text, Taire

is the name of the logbook that Line Stevens writes in

during the last months of her life. Terre, on the other

hand, is the title of the book she is paid to write, but

delegates to an AI program. Terre and Taire, though

spelled differently, are pronounced the same way. While

Terre means Earth, its homonym Taire is a verb, meaning

to be silent, to hold one’s tongue, to keep secret. To translate

it literally to English, however, would lose the sonic ele-

ment and pun of the French terre/taire. Instead, I tried to

nd a parallel in English that could work, preserving the

sonic resonance but translating the meaning differently, a

sort of, sideways translation.

Several options were considered for the two titles. We

started with Earth/Heart. The letters were similar, the

story was concerned with the body, and Line’s cabin

became a home for her, a place in her heart that re-

minded her of her lover. I then suggested Hearth, which

contained the words Heart and Earth, and its meaning

had a quality of home. But that still was not exactly

right, since Hearth is pronounced in a way that does not

rhyme with Earth. Hearse was considered, the car that

carries the cofn to the grave, which worked to bring

in the element of Line’s degenerating body. Finally, the

word Dearth presented itself as the right t. Earth and

Dearth rhymed and shared the same vowel, which was

152

an improvement on Hearth. Dearth also had the word

Earth in it, and was one letter away from Death. Read

in French, D’earth would mean of earth. Finally, Dearth

means a lack, and has tones of missing, or an emptiness,

which seemed not a far cry from Taire/to be silent. Line

was alone in her Irish cottage, her words were starting

to slip from her brain due to the tumor, she was remem-

bering her missing lover, there was a lack. It was settled,

Earth would be the title of the book hurling through the

interstellar void, Dearth would be the title of the book

she was writing into the void of death.

Other translation concerns arose from the bilingual na-

ture of Léa’s original text. In the French text, mentions

of Erin, Line’s lover, evoke English, as Erin is Irish. In

the English translation, these moments are for the most

part translated back into French, to preserve the bilin-

gual texture, while some lines retain the original English.

In this way, other puns and sonic elements of the original

are preserved. In the original text, Léa writes the bilin-

gual phrase: It’s a curse, chérie followed later on by C’est

une course, chérie, which links the English curse to the

French course. Connecting curse/course only works when

you have both languages together, as curse in French is

malediction. Course is a false-friend — translated to En-

glish it should become race. But in the English version, I

decided to tweak the line to be about the disease running

its course, in order to preserve the sonic quality of curse/

course.

Thinking about how to articulate such words in order to

express Léa’s haunting story resulted in rich, deliberate

work that made translating Taire a delightful challenge

and a true pleasure.

153

154

LÉA CUENIN

TAIRE

En 1977, la NASA envoya dans l’espace les sondes Voyager

1 et 2 avec, à leur bord, des Golden Records ; ces disques

contiennent entre autres : des informations sur la Terre

et ses habitants, des enregistrements sonores, des extraits

de musiques, des photographies de nature, de musées, une

déclaration de Jimmy Carter.

En 2026, une commission internationale présidée par

l’astrophysicien James Lyers décida d’envoyer un nouveau

Golden Record, contenant cette fois une œuvre littéraire

porteuse du récit de l’Humanité. L’écrivaine Line Stevens

fut sélectionnée pour écrire le roman Terre, embarqué dans

la sonde spatiale Voyager 3 le 11 novembre 2029. La sonde

lancée par la NASA comprend le manuscrit, ainsi qu’un

disque sur lequel sont gravées les 140 traductions du texte,

versions écrites et orales.

Voyager 1, 2 et 3 poursuivent leur trajectoire à la rencontre

d’éventuelles populations extra-terrestres.

Sur volonté de l’écrivaine, nous vous présentons l’édition

posthume de Taire, le journal de bord rédigé dans les mois

précédant son suicide. La publication a été autorisée sur

décision de la Cour Internationale de Justice du 3 juillet

2032.

155

translated from the french by

LUCIANA SIRACUSANO

DEARTH

In 1977, NASA launched Voyager 1 and 2 into space,

the Golden Records on board. Among other things, these

discs contained: information on Earth and its inhabitants,

natural sound recordings, musical selections, images of

nature and art, a written message from Jimmy Carter.

In 2026, astrophysicist James Lyers presided over an

international commission that decided to send a new Golden

Record into space, this time containing a work of literature

bearing the story of humanity. The author, Line Stevens,

was selected to write the novel Earth, which embarked on the

interstellar probe Voyager 3 on the 11th of November, 2029.

The NASA-launched probe contained the manuscript, as

well as a disc engraved with 140 translations of the text,

including versions both written and oral.

Voyager 1, 2 and 3 continue on their mission to seek out

possible extra-terrestrial populations.

By the will of the writer, we present the posthumous edition

of Dearth, the logbook and diaries from the months leading

up to her suicide. This publication was authorized by

decision of the International Court on this 3rd of July,

2032.

156

Spinning like a ghost

on the bottom of a

top,

I’m haunted by all

the space that I

will live without

you

Richard Brautigan - Boo, Forever

157

Spinning like a ghost

on the bottom of a

top,

I’m haunted by all

the space that I

will live without

you

Richard Brautigan - Boo, Forever

158

ALORS,

REMBOBINONS

Rembobinons pour tenter d’empêcher la mort de

l’oiseau.

Si le sang a coulé, la terre le recrache lentement, la

rigole se tarit petit à petit, à mesure que son crâne boit le

liquide. Déjà l’oiseau se redresse comme une feuille d’érable

soulevée par un coup de vent. Une ou deux plumes rouges

ondulent, aimantées par son corps.

Mes yeux volettent du thé renversé à la fenêtre

et entament une longue glissade à la surface de la vitre

; dehors, la pluie est aspirée par un nuage gris et gras.

Les éclats de céramique se rassemblent sur le sol, l’émail

cicatrise, la tasse avale le thé d’une traite et bondit dans

ma main.

L’oiseau fait une embardée, choque contre la

vitre, il passe de la mort à la vie en déployant ses ailes. Il

se stabilise.

Voilà, nous y sommes : l’oiseau me fait face à

nouveau, quelques centimètres avant l’impact. Fixons

l’image : il est rouge, entièrement rouge, à l’exception d’un

large sourcil blanc. Juste en-dessous, dans ses iris marron-

noirs, traverse un reet. L’éclair est bref, mais il y passe

l’essentiel. Que voit-il au juste ?

Bon, une personne assise à un bureau, ça c’est

entendu. Elle écrit, un stylo dans une main, une tasse de

thé noir fumant dans l’autre. La raison de sa présence à

ce bureau dans cette cabane sur cette falaise ne lui est pas

évidente, mais comment lui en vouloir quand elle-même

en doute parfois (tout ça n’est pas très clair encore). Elle

159

SO,

REWIND

Let’s rewind and try to prevent the death of the

bird.

Since the blood has already spilled, the soil spits

it up slowly, the rivulet running dry little by little, as the

bird’s skull drinks up the liquid. Already the bird rights

itself like a maple leaf lifted by a gust of wind. One or two

red feathers undulate, magnetized towards its body.

My eyes utter from the spilled tea over to the

window, where my gaze starts a long slide along the surface

of the glass; outside, the rain is sucked up by a cloud, grey

and greasy. The ceramic shards reassemble themselves on

the ground, the enamel heals, the mug swallows the tea in

one gulp and leaps up into my hand.

The bird swerves, a shock against the glass, it

passes from death to life, respreading its wings. It stabilizes

itself.

Here we are once more: the bird faces me again, a

few centimeters before impact. Let’s pause here and focus

the image: the bird is red, entirely red, with the exception

of one large white eyebrow. Right beneath, in its brown-

black irises, a reection its. The ash is brief, but it

captures enough. What exactly does the bird see?

Well, a person sitting at a desk, that’s for sure.

She writes, pen in one hand, cup of steaming black tea

in the other. The reason for her presence at this desk in

this cabin on this cliff escapes the bird, but how can we

blame it when she sometimes doubts the reason herself

(all of this is still not yet clear to her). She seems calm,

160

semble calme, organisée : elle a un programme. L’oiseau ne

sent pas sa douleur, mais il peut l’imaginer à la régularité

avec laquelle sa main passe de sa tasse à sa tête, à la

fréquence des aller-retours et à sa façon de se masser le

crâne de tous ses doigts : lentement mais avec application.

Ou bien elle rééchit, tout simplement, qu’est-ce qu’il en

sait ?

L’oiseau ne voit pas ce qui la tue - pas plus qu’il

ne voit la vitre - mais il perçoit sans doute qu’elle n’a plus

beaucoup de temps. Plus que lui, c’est certain. Beaucoup

plus ? C’est peu probable.

Elle est en train de disparaître

. (Elle raye cette dernière

phrase : trop solennelle) à la place, elle écrit : Ses contours

sont ous, ils se confondent avec la vapeur qui s’élève

de la tasse. Tout se mélange. Ses yeux sont brumeux, ils

ont perdu de leur éclat. Ses gestes sont ouatés, comme

estompés. C’est déjà un fantôme. Elle n’est pas encore

triste, elle n’est plus effrayée, seulement affairée. Elle

est concentrée, un fantôme entouré de fantômes. Une

écrivaine.

L’oiseau rouge s’éloigne à l’horizon comme un coup de

fusil.

161

organized: she has a plan. The bird does not feel her pain,

but can imagine it by the regularity with which her hand

goes from teacup to temple, by the frequency of back and

forth movements and the way she massages her skull with

all her ngers: slowly but with force.

Or she’s thinking, simply — what would it know?

The bird does not see what is killing her —

anymore than it sees the glass — but it no doubt perceives

that she doesn’t have a lot of time left. More than the bird,

that’s for sure. Much more? It’s unlikely.

She is disappearing.

(She crosses out that

sentence: too solemn). In its place, she writes: Her outlines

are vague, they merge with the steam rising from the cup.

Everything blends. Her eyes are hazy, they have lost their

luster. Her gestures are faded, as if blurred. She’s already

a ghost. She is no longer sad, she is no longer frightened,

only busy. She is focused, a phantom surrounded by

phantoms. A writer.

The red bird streaks across the horizon like a

gunshot.

162

TENIR BON

J’ai prévu de mourir le 11 novembre 2029, à

l’instant précis où la sonde Voyager 3 avec Terre à son bord

pénétrera l’exosphère, vers l’inni et au-delà. Tout est en

ordre, il me reste quelques mois pour :

Five

Achever ce texte

Four

Le rendre à mon éditeur

Three

Blinder les contrats

Two

Liquider les en-cours

One

Quitter ma capsule

Lift-off

Taire pourra être publié dès le 12 novembre 2029.

Il est peu probable qu’il le soit avant quelques années.

La NASA, les ministres de, les chargés de, les

attachés à la culture tenteront d’empêcher sa sortie. Les

43 membres de la commission responsable de ma sélection

se rejetteront la balle qui nira par exploser entre les

mains de son président, er, gominé et dominant, James

Lyers.

C’est une belle petite bombe.

La maison d’édition sera attaquée en justice.

Mais, si j’ai bien fait mes comptes, la hausse des ventes

devrait amortir le coût du procès. Et plus.

Ils ont misé sur le bon cheval.

163

STAND FIRM

I plan to die on November 11th, 2029, at the

precise instant when Voyager 3, Earth on board, penetrates

the exosphere, en route to innity. Everything is in order.

I still have several months to:

Five

Finish this text

Four

Give it back to my editor

Three

Bulletproof contracts

Two

Eliminate leftover assets

One

Exit my capsule

Lift-off

Dearth will be ready for publication on November 12, 2029.

But the book is unlikely to appear in print until a few

years after that.

NASA, its ministers of culture, its commanders, the people

in charge, will try to prevent its release. The 43 coalition

members responsible for my selection will pass the buck,

playing Russian roulette, until it ends up exploding in

the hands of their president, the proud, slicked-back and

dominating James Lyers.

It’s a beautiful little bomb.

The publisher will get sued. But, if I did my

accounts correctly, the increase in sales will amortize the

cost of the lawsuit. And more.

164

Un pur-sang ! Mes livres se vendaient déjà très

bien, ils s’arrachent à présent. L’ensemble de mon œuvre

se résume à 11 romans, 3 recueils de poésie et une dizaine

de performances dont il n’existe aucun enregistrement

- je m’y suis catégoriquement opposée - mais qui se

racontent. Plus ou moins bien. Les meilleurs lignes que

j’ai pu lire à leur propos gurent sur le blog kennings.com.

C’est peu, mais ce n’est pas rien.

Et c’est tout : carnets, épreuves, brouillons,

manuscrits non publiés ont été noyés dans le lac de Genève.

J’ai accordé très peu d’entretiens. Je n’ai rien de plus à

dire que ce que j’ai écrit dans mes livres. Si bien que tout

ce qu’on peut lire sur moi est : au mieux inexact, et le plus

souvent à côté de la plaque.

On lit : vie réglée et solitaire, mondaine et dissolue.

Et aussi : boit un whisky tous les soirs, une coupe de

champagne aux rentrées littéraires et n’a pas bu une seule

goutte d’alcool depuis 12 ans.

Et encore : ses deux lévriers galgo portent des noms de

déserts.

Foutaises.

On me prête une histoire tumultueuse, chaotique,

enammée, donc destructrice avec E.

Mais ça mon amour, je ne le commenterai pas.

(À la n, tout ce qui compte c’est cette nuit de 2011,

où je découvre que trois ou quatre pintes de Guinness

constituent un repas qui tient bien au ventre, que le ciel

nocturne de Dublin est constamment voilé d’un noir-bleu-

rose laiteux, et qu’en bonne Irlandaise tu n’as pas froid

aux yeux. De l’index, tu traces un mot sur la table du

pub. Entre chaque lettre, tu trempes ton doigt dans la

condensation de mon verre : COME.

165

They bet on the right horse.

A thoroughbred! My books were already selling

very well, but now they are being snapped up. My oeuvre

can be summed up in 11 novels, 3 collections of poetry, and

a dozen performances of which there doesn’t exist a single

recording — I am categorically opposed to recordings —

but which have been written about. Good reviews, more

or less. The best stuff I’ve read about them is on the blog

kennings.com.

It’s not much, but it’s something.

And that’s it: notebooks, proofs, drafts,

unpublished manuscripts — all drowned in Lake Geneva.

I have given very few interviews. I have nothing more to

say than what I wrote in my books. So everything one can

read about me is, at best, inaccurate, and mostly misses

the mark.

Things like: a well-ordered and solitary life… high society

and debauchery.

And also: she drinks a whisky every night, toasts with a

glass of champagne at the start of the publishing season…

and hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol in 12 years.

And another: her two greyhound galgos are named after

deserts.

Bullshit.

I hear a story about me and E, a tumultuous, chaotic,

incendiary — and therefore destructive — story.

But that, my love, I won’t comment on.

(In the end, all that matters is that night in 2011 when I

discover that three or four pints of Guinness add up to a

meal that will hold well in my stomach, that the Dublin

night sky is constantly veiled in a milky black-blue-pink,

and that as a good Irishwoman, you’re not afraid of the

166

La suite, tu la connais : une relation long courrier où le

va-et-vient de nos corps est calé sur le rythme des marées.

À marée basse, le vent nous éloigne, chacune reprend son

soufe et sa solitude, tu m’envoies des baisers from miles

away, je te rends tes caresses en faisant rouler, au creux

de ma paume, la bille verte que nous avions trouvée sous

les galets de la plage de Howth. À marée haute, nous

nous retrouvons sur ta côte ou la mienne, je parcours

le chemin de crête entre ton menton et ton oreille, nos

langues avancent et se retirent, se heurtent aux dents, aux

lèvres, comme les vagues contre les falaises qui déposent

de l’écume au coin de ta bouche.)

Mais ça mon amour, je ne le commenterai pas.

Ma nomination pour le Golden Record n’est pas

vraiment une surprise. Je peux aisément imaginer les

critères de sélection : un écrivain mondialement connu

(oui), primé de préférence (oui !), légèrement subversif

mais globalement consensuel (oui et oui), et - puisqu’il

ferait beau envoyer en orbite l’œuvre d’un pédophile -

moralement irréprochable (moui...). Ajoutés à cela ma

nationalité américaine, mes langues écrites et parlées

(anglais, allemand, français), et ma domiciliation en Suisse

- la neutralité par excellence - au fond, j’étais, sur le papier,

la candidate idéale pour rédiger le récit de l’Humanité.

Je n’en ai pas écrit une seule ligne.

Que ce soit clair : j’ai eu l’intention de le faire.

Simplement, je ne m’en sentais pas capable.

Depuis quelques mois, les mots me fuient.

La tumeur est localisée dans la zone de Broadmann

39 de mon cerveau.

Le nombre de mots qu’elle engloutit croît de manière

167

cold, you’re not afraid to dive right in. With your index

nger, you trace a word on the pub table. Between each

letter, you soak your nger in the condensation of my

glass: VIENS.

You know the rest: a long-term relationship, where the

back and forth of our bodies is set to the rhythm of the

tides. At low tide, the wind blows us away, we each catch

our breaths and our solitudes, you send me kisses from

miles away, I return your caresses by rolling, in the palm

of my hand, the green marble we found under the pebbles

on the beach at Howth. At high tide, we nd ourselves on

your coast or mine, I trace a path along the crest between

your chin and your ear, our tongues advance and retreat,

clashing with teeth, with lips, like waves against cliffs that

drop foam at the corner of your mouth.)

But that, my love, I won’t comment on.

My nomination for the Golden Record doesn’t

really come as a surprise. I can easily imagine the criteria:

world-famous writer (yes), preferably award-winning

(yes), slightly subversive but still globally commercial (yes

and yes), and morally impeccable (yeahhh…). Add to that

my American citizenship, the languages I read and speak

(English, German, French), and my Swiss domicile — the

ultimate neutrality — basically, I was, on paper, the ideal

candidate to write the story of Humanity.

I didn’t write a single line.

Let me be clear: I intended to do it. I just didn’t

believe I had the capacity to manage it.

For months now, words have eluded me.

The tumor is located in the Broadmann area 39 of

my brain.

168

désordonnée. Je dois sans cesse partir à la pêche : la ligne

coule, demeure molle dans la matière grise, l’hameçon

pend au bout de son l. Vide. Je reste les yeux écarquillés,

transpirante, happant l’air comme une carpe koï échouée

sur la rive, les ouïes agitées.

Ma nomination a été rendue publique avant que je

ne puisse réagir / décliner.

Mon téléphone n’en pouvait plus de vibrer sous les

sollicitations et félicitations. Je l’ai déposé au centre de

l’allée et j’ai roulé dessus. Trois fois.

En avant, en arrière, en avant.

Deux jours, il m’a fallu deux jours pour engloutir

l’à-valoir conséquent qui m’avait été versé pour l’écriture

de Ter re. Je l’ai couché en jetons sur le tapis d’une table de

blackjack, en liquide au bar du Casino, en chair sur le tapis

de la suite présidentielle. Et le lit.

Il m’en restait juste assez pour nancer le programme

d’intelligence articielle qui allait se charger de l’écriture

de Terre.

Terre est déjà terminé. Il a fallu 24 jours au

programme d’intelligence articielle pour ingurgiter

et digérer (disons “processer”), sous forme de données,

les mille et quelques romans que j’avais au préalable

téléchargés en open source. Et 6 jours supplémentaires

pour régurgiter une pâte molle et sans âme que certains ne

se gêneront pas pour appeler “roman”.

Moi la première.

La perspective de voir un robot tirer la ligne

du récit de l’Humanité me plaisait assez. Le résultat ne

pouvait être que peu convaincant. Il est, en dénitive,

extrêmement mauvais.

169

The number of words it gobbles up increases in a disorderly

way. I can’t help going shing all the time: the line casts,

rests softly in the grey matter, the hook dangles at the end

of its line. Empty. I remain wide-eyed, sweaty, snapping

at the air like a koi sh stranded on the shore, my gills

collapsing.

My nomination was made public before I could

react / decline.

My phone would not stop vibrating with

solicitations and congratulations. I dropped it in the

middle of the driveway and drove over it. Three times.

Forward, backward, forward.

Two days, it took me two days to burn through

the entire advance I had been paid to write Earth. I laid

it down in chips on the blackjack table, in liquid at the

casino bar, in esh on the rug of the presidential suite.

And in the bed.

I had just enough left to nance the AI program that was

going to take care of the writing of Earth.

Earth is already nished. It took 24 days for the

AI program to ingest and digest (let’s call it “process”),

in data form, the thousand and a couple open data novels

that I had previously downloaded. Six days more to

regurgitate a soft and soulless paste that some will not

hesitate to call “a novel”.

I’ll be the rst.

I liked the idea of a robot writing the lines of

the story of Humanity. The result, inevitably, was hardly

convincing. It is, in the nal analysis, extremely bad.

Would it have been any better if I’d written it myself?

Probably not. To think that a writer can sustain a

170

Aurait-il été meilleur si j’en avais été l’autrice ?

Probablement pas. Penser qu’un écrivain puisse tenir un

discours neutre et universel est un non-sens absolu.

Il me reste 258 jours à vivre et je les passerai dans

cette ancienne cabane de pêcheur relativement isolée sur

la côte irlandaise.

L’aménagement est sommaire. L’isolation est bonne.

Je n’ai pas emporté de téléphone. Pour communiquer, ou,

en cas d’urgence, j’ai toujours la possibilité de me rendre

au village, accessible par le sentier qui longe la falaise (env.

30-35 minutes à pied, plus s’il pleut – et il pleut souvent).

Je ne suis pas exactement coupée du monde, mais je fais

comme si.

Le temps est à la fois dilaté, ralenti à l’extrême, et

terriblement pressant. L’échéance se rapproche avec une

fulgurante lenteur. Je dois composer avec ce paramètre,

l’apprivoiser.

Tenir bon.

La tumeur a aujourd’hui la taille d’une petite

noix bien dense. Elle s’étend rapidement. À mesure que

les mots s’effacent, mon espace se rétrécit. Mon seul

objectif à présent est d’achever Taire avant que les mots

ne s’évanouissent totalement.

Et ensuite ?

J’ai prévu de mourir le 11 novembre 2029, à

l’instant précis où la sonde Voyager 3 avec Terre à son bord

pénétrera l’exosphère, vers l’inni et au-delà. Il paraît

assez peu probable qu’il rencontre un jour son public cible,

171

discourse in a neutral and universal way is utter nonsense.

I still have 258 days left to live and plan to spend

them in this relatively isolated ancient shing cabin on the

Irish coast.

Basic layout. Good insulation.

I did not bring a telephone with me. To

communicate, or in case of emergency, there’s always the

option of returning to the village, accessible by the cliff-

path (about 30-35 minutes by foot, more if it rains — and

it often rains).

I am not exactly cut off from the world, but I’m pretending

I am.

Time both dilates, slowing to an extreme, and

then begins to run out terribly. The deadline approaches

slowly and all at once. These are the parameters I must

work with.

Stand rm.

Today the tumor is the size of a small, dense

nut. It’s rapidly expanding. While words fade, my space

shrinks. My only objective now is to nish Dearth before

the words completely vanish. And then?

I plan to die on November 11th, 2029, at the

precise instant when Voyager 3, Earth on board, penetrates

the exosphere, en route to innity. It is unlikely that the

book will ever reach its intended audience, nor is it certain

that Dearth will know a better fate.

After all, isn’t this a feature of every creative

process?

172

et il n’est pas certain que Taire connaisse meilleur destin.

Après tout, n’est-ce pas une caractéristique inhérente à

tout processus créatif ?

Une bouteille à la mer.

173

A message in a bottle.

174

IT’S A CURSE, CHÉRIE

J’ai choisi cette cabane pour la bande de gros

goélands posés sur une pierre très plate et très exposée,

tapissée de chiures glaireuses vertes grises blanches, pour

leur rire gras quand le vent me charge, m’envoie une bonne

gie d’iode avant d’aller tourbillonner dans le jonc.

J’ai choisi cette falaise suspendue dans le blast d’une

déagration pour toutes les fois où, descendant lentement,

lourdement le sentier vers la mer, je me retrouve au cœur

de l’explosion : la charge placée au creux des rochers, la

poudre et le temps soigneusement empilés, et dynamités

juste avant mon arrivée.

J’ai choisi ce plateau pour le tapis de sphaigne gluante

qui palpite à proximité avec des bruits de succion pour le

moins suggestifs, pour la tourbe puante qui engloutit tout,

prend tout, et rend à contrecœur, mais n’abîme rien.

J’ai choisi l’Irlande pour une raison évidente : Erin.

Et parce que j’apprécie, de temps en temps, un bon whisky

- et il n’est jamais aussi bon qu’à sa source (comme toute

chose ?).

Certains jours, quand la brume est bien basse, bien dense,

bien sèche, c’est un mur. La mer disparaît entièrement :

elle pourrait tout aussi bien ne plus exister. Je pourrais

tout aussi bien être seule au monde. Ce sont probablement

là les journées les plus douces de ma - trop courte ou trop

longue, c’est selon - vie.

Malgré tout, je maintiens : the void is sweeter in good

company

Je me suis toujours demandé ce qui avait bien pu

te séduire en premier lieu chez moi.

À part, bien sûr, la magie.

175

IT’S A CURSE, CHÉRIE

I chose this cabin for the squabble of large gulls

roosting on a rock that’s very at and very exposed,

carpeted with green-grey-white phlegmy specks, for the

gulls’ great laughter when the wind charges against me,

sending me a good slap of iodine before whirling away in

the rush.

I chose this cliff suspended in the blast of an explosion

for all the times when, slowly, heavily descending the

path towards the sea, I’ve found myself at the heart of

the detonation: the charge placed in the hollow of the

rocks, powder and timer carefully stacked, dynamite lit

just before my arrival.

I chose this plateau for the carpet of slimy sphagnum

moss that quivers nearby with suggestive sucking

sounds, for the stinking peat sod that engulfs everything,

swallows everything, and reluctantly gives back, but

spoils nothing.

I chose Ireland for one obvious reason: Erin.

And because I appreciate, from time to time, a good

whisky — and it’s never as good as it is at the source (like

everything else?).

Some days, the mist is very low, very dense, very dry, it

becomes a wall. The sea disappears entirely: It might

as well not exist. I might as well be alone in the world.

These are probably the sweetest days of my life — too

short, or too long, depending on — life.

Still, I maintain: le vide est plus doux en bonne compagnie

I’ve always wondered what could have rst

seduced you into my house. Apart from, of course, the

magic trick.

176

Ça, c’était fort.

Ta bague est maintenue entre mon pouce et mon index,

à trente centimètres environ de ton visage brûlant,

troublé, déjà électrisé. J’exerce une pression très mesurée

de la pulpe des doigts sur le bijou. C’est un oiseau. Je le

tiens fermement pour éviter qu’il ne s’envole, mais avec

souplesse de crainte de l’écraser. Je le fais rouler à l’aide

de mon index, et le guide jusqu’à la racine de mon pouce,

ma main se referme et le coince entre deux bourrelets de

ma paume. Dans quelques secondes à peine, ta bague

sera dans ma bouche, ma langue prendra le relai et la

conduira jusqu’à une cavité entre deux molaires, une

simple mortaise dans laquelle le bijou se logera de champ.

Encastré ainsi, je pourrais, si je le voulais, poursuivre mon

boniment pendant des heures. Mais assez duré, ma langue

se retire à nouveau à l’arrière de ma mâchoire et d’un coup

sec (bien que tout à fait humide) décroche la bague pour

se glisser dedans, puis elle ressort sertie par mes lèvres

entrouvertes. Je la retire - elle est retenue par un l de

salive - je ne l’essuie pas avant de la remettre à ton majeur.

Oui, il faut avouer que c’était fort.

Laisse-moi te révéler le truc derrière tout

escamotage : le geste, la voix, le regard, l’intention,

tout est question de synchronisation. Toi, moi, une

synchronisation. La magie, comme l’amour, est une

science et un art, elle ne s’improvise pas, elle ne s’acquiert

pas sans peine.

C’est une affaire sérieuse, j’y ai consacré des heures.

(Je porte ton anneau à mon majeur à présent. La bague au

doigt ne me va pas mal du tout.)

J’ai choisi la proximité de la mer aussi pour apaiser un mal

177

That magic, that was something.

Your ring is held between my thumb and index nger,

about thirty centimeters from your burning, troubled,

already electried face. I exert a carefully calibrated

pressure from the pads of my ngers against the jewel. It

is a bird. I hold it tightly to prevent it from ying away,

but with a soft suppleness, for fear of crushing it. I roll

it with my index nger, and guide it right up to the root

of my thumb, my hand closes and wedges it between two

folds of my palm. In just a few seconds, your ring will be in

my mouth, my tongue will take over the relay and conduct

it to a gap between two molars, a simple mortise in which

the ring will lodge itself horizontally around the tooth.

Wearing it like that, I could, if I wanted to, continue my

sales pitch for hours. But soon enough, my tongue retreats

once more to the back of my jaw and sharply (although

the tongue is quite soft) unhooks the ring to slip through

it, then it emerges from my half open lips. I remove it — it

is held by a thread of saliva that I do not wipe away until

I surrender the ring to your middle nger.

Yes, I must admit, that was quite something.

Let me reveal to you the trick behind all that

conjuring: the gestures, the voice, the glances, the

intention, it’s all a question of synchronization. You, me,

a synchronization. Magic, like love, is a science and an art,

it is not improvised, it is not easily learned.

This is a serious matter, and I’ve spent hours on it.

(I’m still wearing your ring on my middle nger right now.

My hand with your ring on my nger doesn’t look half

bad.)

I chose the proximity to the sea also to soothe an impossible

178

de crâne chronique pas possible.

Dans l’espace, le corps vieillit prématurément. Les

muscles s’atrophient, les os s’effritent, les rayonnements

cosmiques brisent les molécules d’ADN, endommagent

ou tuent des cellules, la cornée se détériore, le cristallin

s’opacie - autrement dit, la lumière ne pénètre plus à

l’intérieur de l’œil - nausées, vomissements, mutations

génétiques, attaques du système nerveux central, et

éventuellement, mort. Le bruit, l’absence de gravité,

l’isolement, et le connement favorisent le stress et

l’épuisement.

Survivre dans l’espace nécessite de connaître les limites du

corps, de les accepter, de jouer avec, en sachant que de

toute façon, le corps ne peut pas gagner.

It’s a curse, chérie.

Survivre avec une tumeur au cerveau sur une falaise

irlandaise demande plus ou moins les mêmes aptitudes.

Time is running out.

C’est une course, chérie.

(Quoi te dire encore ? Que je t’aime, mais c’est faible…)

179

chronic headache.

In outer space, the body ages prematurely. Muscles

atrophy, bones crumble, cosmic radiation unravels DNA

molecules, damaging or killing cells, corneas deteriorate,

the lens opacies — in other words, light no longer enters

the eye —nausea, vomiting, genetic mutations, attacks

to the central nervous system, and eventually, death.

Noise, absence of gravity, isolation, and connement all

contribute to stress and exhaustion.

Surviving in space requires an awareness of the limits of

the body, accepting them, playing with them, and knowing

that in the end, the body can not win.

It’s a curse, chérie.

Surviving a brain tumor on an Irish cliffside demands

more or less the same skills.

Le temps presse.

It will run its course, chérie.

(What else can I say? That I love you. But how weak a

thing to say…)

180

Translator’s Note

Aiden Farrell délivre un texte où un contrôle démesuré

de la langue pose un regard sur lui-même, et où l’humain

qui tire les celles travaille éperdument à son propre

effacement. C’est le vertige de contrôle. Je suis entrée dans

ce texte comme on entre en contact avec un vase brisé : il

y a les bris et les espaces entre eux, le tranchant des mots,

la trace d’une cohérence et notre regard sur la scène qui

cherche à se poser partout à la fois. On trouve peut-être

même quelque chose de la scène de crime : les humains

sont manquants, il y a eu des chocs.

Sauf qu’ici, les mystères semblent être également des

élucidations. Il en va ainsi de la logique : Aiden Farrell

brise les raisonnements habituels, les liens de cause à

effet, il travaille à la collision d’abstractions et d’éléments

concrets – sans doute sa plus grande folie selon moi

– mais se faisant il décentre notre raison et donne de

la substance à la matière de la pensée. Il permet une

distance qui, paradoxalement, nous rapproche de cette

matière d’une façon inédite. Ses jeux sur la grammaire

produisent le même effet : la langue de contrôle est très

incorrecte mais avec une grande précision et une grande

justesse ; elle évoque et introduit un twist, comme un sol

se déroberait sous nos pieds, et pourtant le sens est là,

vibrant sous les mots. Comme un moteur.

Par ailleurs les mots de Aiden Farrell s’inscrivent dans

la duplicité : ils sont mots et sens, signiants et signiés,

matière et horizons. Ils sont deux fois pleins, agitent le

texte en de multiples directions, alors même que chaque

poème respecte, sur la page, un carré scrupuleux et

soigné.

C’est une tâche passionnante que de rendre dans

une autre langue cette complexité et cette rigueur,

ces paradoxes qui le traversent, tout en conservant

181

l’incroyable naturel que déploie Aide Farrell, quasiment

jusqu’à la désinvolture. Cette désinvolture, je l’attribue

au rythme que Aiden met en place, à sa vitesse, mais

aussi aux ruptures abruptes de tonalités et de niveaux de

langue qu’il met en œuvre. Mes formations de jeunesse

m’avaient appris, à l’inverse, à viser l’homogénéité

d’un texte. Ici, les poèmes associent des concepts et des

sandwichs pastrami, des questions wittgensteiniennes et

des images irréelles de jardiniers gelés, parfois même un

humour explosif et soudain.

Ainsi ce travail de traduction s’est fait dans un

mouvement de libération progressive, alors que je

saisissais peu à peu les jeux de ruptures et que je

m’approchais de l’équilibre très singulier ménagé par

Farrell, de l’espace très spécique qu’il ouvre, me ant

autant à l’évocation et au trouble qu’à la raison pour

accéder au sens. Il a fallu se libérer dans l’extrême

rigueur des phrases, se libérer dans l’extrême contrôle,

être sensible aux courants contradictoires qu’il met en

place, et ça a été une formidable leçon.

Je remercie Aiden pour sa grande conance et sa

générosité.

contrôle est constitué d’une série de poèmes dont environ

la moitié a été donnée ici à traduire.

182

AIDEN FARRELL

CONTROL

a lm or a photograph is like a diamond that rose from the earth a million years ago

that someone has only now excavated because of the right conditions.

it is like that.

it is not that.

183

traduit de l’anglais par

CHARLÉNE DINHUT

CONTROL

un lm ou une photographie est comme un diamant né de la terre il y a un million d’années que

quelqu’un a sorti de terre seulement maintenant

car les conditions sont bonnes.

c’est comme ça

ce n’est pas ça.

184

control intends.

meanwhile—a tree bends. it suffers nothing and gains nothing.

its perspective exerts nothing to a wind of the hollowed-out

garden bed. the gardener frozen in a thicket—

waiting for thaw. alienation is along the word. otherwise

speaks a mathematics that corrects the blade in

a stretch of grass—stretching. the wooden cupboard of

a room forgets how to bend

but for swinging open at

a nger’s pull. there is a thought

that folds from the tablecloth retrieved from said cupboard.

said cupboard exists in glimpses. its room

advances via the subordinations of its user whereby

control intends.

desire calms to now. priorly caught off guard by a mistake as

unannounced as a view past a window. that which dares warp

pure envy. expression as in movement. expression as in preconception.

as if the affect of something so natural

as to be dened by the number of times it has been touched.

a rock in a simple desert.

roll over.

roll over rock.

185

contrôle détient une intention.

pendant ce temps — un arbre plie. il ne souffre pas, ne gagne rien.

son point de vue n’exerce rien pour un vent de la parcelle pioché du

jardin. Le jardinier gelé dans un fossé –

le dégel bientôt. l’aliénation est au long du mot. autrement

parle une mathématique rectiant la

lame d’un brin d’herbe – qui s’étire. l’armoire en bois d’une

pièce oublie comment plier

mais s’ouvre grand sous la

traction d’un doigt. il y a une pensée

qui se replie de la nappe venue de la dite armoire.

la dite armoire existe dans l’entraperçu. son espace

avance via les subordinations de son usager par lesquelles

contrôle détient une intention.

le désir s’apaise jusque maintenant. auparavant pris au dépourvu par une erreur aussi

intempestive qu’une vue par une fenêtre. celle qui ose voiler

l’envie pure. l’expression comme dans mouvement. l’expression comme dans

préconception. comme l’affect de quelque chose de si naturel

qu’il est déni par le nombre de fois qu’il a été touché.

une pierre dans un simple désert.

au panier.

allez, pierre, au panier.

186

loose pride keeps the war ticking. not all kinds.

the distinction lasts a while but its application might not. the effort

to see less of the other. to see less of the self. the conditions for

which it will matter ruminate—live in a lean-to by the bridge— watching

the river’s constant release. people together ostracize

the moment this describes. mistake as a condition of being

has innite faces. correctness shaves everything down to one.

familiarity

deems fact with what is common plus faith.

can differences be reconciled with saying

though saying articulates

a difference consequential

with articulation. the treasure

therein is unfortuitous—resists documentation. fact

is neither immodest nor polite and certainly not patriotic until

drawn and brandished opportunistically. truth lacks the

substance to fulll any of this—the graveyard of a caved-in

church on a hill in gray. abandoned locations are a beautiful fetish.

187

une erté oue garde la guerre alerte. pas vraiment tous les genres.

la distinction dure mais ça pourrait ne pas être le cas de son application.

l’effort pour voir moins de l’autre. pour voir moins du soi. les conditions pour

lesquelles ça aura de l’importance ruminent – vivent dans un abri à côté du pont –

y regardent la constante relâche du euve. les gens ensemble ostracisent

le moment décrit ici. l’erreur comme condition d’être

a des visages à l’inni. la correction réduit tout jusqu’au singulier.

la familiarité

considère le fait avec ce qui est commun plus la foi.

les différences peuvent-elles être réconciliées en parlant

alors que parler exprime

une différence due

avec l’expression. ce trésor

là n’est pas fortuit – se laisse mal documenter. le fait

n’est ni immodeste ni poli et surtout pas patriotique jusqu’à ce qu’il soit

dégainé et brandi opportunément. la vérité manque de consistance

pour répondre à tout cela – le cimetière d’une église en ruine sur une colline

c’est gris. les lieux abandonnés sont de magniques fétiches.

188

stillness paints a picture.

its relief from time remains incomplete. still

miles to go. on an empty street corner—

a wind unobstructed. nothing interrupted.

the offspring of thoughtlessness is thought—left to fend for itself in

scraps of color. thought begets the elsewheres language talks

about. like skin as air’s negative—the elsewheres of which no one has

yet thought circumvent control. desire for control

is the darker side of controlling desire. objects fragment at the

swing of a door—slowly. miles to go. elsewhere can be right

here.

actually—it is. practically—it is not.

what is potentially true is not determined by practicality.

it is not determined. it is not

an interactive

video game. it is not a reuben

sandwich. it has nothing to do with

a reuben sandwich except that it is made of ingredients. it is una-

vailable. it measures in increments. it has taken vows.

“actually” corresponds to control insofar as judgment. as in

nevermind. that’s the important stuff. the stuff that crawls sweaty into

bed—sticking to sheets. to inherit is to be told what isn’t.

second by second crowds of pink plastic shopping bags. a room

resonates all at once with the many things it could contain. a

vase—ashtray—

bookcase—space— chair—space—

full of miles.

189

le calme peint une image.

son soulagement loin du temps reste incomplet. pourtant

encore du chemin à faire. à un coin de rue vide

un vent que rien n’arrête. rien n’interrompt.

la pensée est lle de ne pas y penser - livrée à elle-même dans des bouts de

couleur. la pensée engendre les ailleurs dont parle le langage. comme

la peau dans le rôle du négatif de l’air - les ailleurs auxquels personne

n’a encore pensé contournent contrôle. le désir de contrôle

est la face obscure du contrôle de désir. des objets se fracassent contre le battant

d’une porte – lentement. encore du chemin à faire. l’ailleurs peut être ici-même.

dans les faits – ça l’est. en pratique – ça ne l’est pas.

ce qui est potentiellement vrai ne peut être déterminé par la pratique.

ça n’est pas déterminé. ça n’est pas

un jeu vidéo

interactif. ça n’est pas un sandwich

pastrami. ça n’a rien à voir avec

un sandwich pastrami sauf qu’il y a des ingrédients. c’est

indisponible. ça se mesure en incréments. ça a prononcé des vœux.

«dans les faits» correspond au contrôle dans la mesure où le jugement. comme dans

peu importe. c’est le truc important. le truc qui rampe

en sueur dans le lit - collé aux draps. hériter, c’est se faire dire ce qui n’est

pas. seconde après seconde des foules aux sacs de courses en plastique rose. une

pièce est remplie toute entière d’un coup de tout ce qu’elle peut contenir.

un vase – cendrier

étagère – espace chaise – espace –

encore du chemin.

190

appearance makes a move on a backdrop of sky.

appearance obliges. appearance is a stock broker. either

this or there are only consumers. the framing business is

booming. at the framer’s they make a series of deductions

—see to the necessary adjustments and

contentions. outside convokes the surrounding material to its gown

of day and night. an interpretation’s worth of belief awaits

its syringe. it is ever enough. the whittling down of walking out the

door.

in winter

there is no more space. there is less in winter of light.

control can be touched. a vessel submits to appearance.

appearance takes a shape complimentary to submission.

this and this. so on.

blank frames on the wall.

control says no.

191

l’apparence passe à l’action sur un décor de ciel.

l’apparence oblige. l’apparence est un agent de change. soit ça

soit il n’y que des consommateurs. il y a un boom du business de

l’encadrement. chez les encadreurs on fait toute une série de déductions

- on veille aux ajustements nécessaires et

aux contentions. le dehors convoque la matière du coin à sa robe de chambre de

jour et de nuit. Le potentiel d’interprétation d’une croyance

patiente pour sa seringue. c’en est toujours assez. la réduction jusqu’à l’os de

sortir par la porte.

en hiver

il n’y a plus d’espace. il y a moins en hiver de lumière.

contrôle peut être touché. un vaisseau se soumet à l’apparence.

l’apparence prend une forme complémentaire à la soumission

ceci et ceci. etc.

le blanc encadre sur le mur.

contrôle dit non.

192

no one is the same. nor one thing.

the avant garde is a spectrum of yesterdays. no one knows

how it is doing. everyone is the same in this manner. control has an

intern in pavement. pavement

and soil were friends—they don’t speak anymore.

no one sees this. everyone walks across it.

conversations people are not having are the potential to be had.

unused language in a storage facility. change dictates

an unreasonable physics. intention takes up room in time. the

falling into place of glass coke bottles. one thing is all the poten-

tial everyone will ever need.

math is given to it.

formulas described

language takes an empty night bus to the store where only one

speaking. a man moves to America to control himself in

the 1800s. many novels are written.

193

personne n’est pareil. aucune chose non plus.

l’avant-garde est un spectre des jours d’hier. personne ne sait

comment elle va. En ce sens tout le monde est pareil. contrôle a un

stagiaire en goudron. le goudron

et le sol étaient amis – ils ne se parlent plus.

personne ne le voit. tout le monde traverse dessus.

les conversations que les gens ne sont pas en train d’avoir sont le potentiel d’être tenues.

le langage inutilisé dans un dépôt. le changement dicte

une physique déraisonnable. l’intention accepte l’espace à temps. la

mise en place des bouteilles de coca-cola en verre. une chose est tout le

potentiel dont on aura jamais besoin.

les maths lui sont données.

les formules décrivent.

le langage prend un train de nuit vide pour le magasin où il n’y a qu’une caisse de libre.

il achète une ventouse. futuristiquement parlant.

un homme emménage aux Etats-Unis pour se garder sous contrôler

dans les années 1800. beaucoup de romans sont écrits.

194

a rule

determines its exception. the determination of the aw—

unexpected. it is unaware that it doesn’t know what it is. to

accept this fully is to stop trying. not to try to. control

is tempting. the attempt to depict the wish in a hollowed out tree

stump. light can be seen in it.

the forest is full until it is stabbed.

it learns that directionality

is aesthetic essence—spread across the broad side

of the knife.

195

une règle

détermine son exception. la détermination d’un défaut ;

inattendu. il n’a pas conscience qu’il ignore ce qu’il est.

accepter vraiment ça c’est arrêter d’essayer. sans essayer.

contrôle est tentant. l’essai de décrire le vœu dans une souche d’arbre

creuse. de la lumière peut y être vue.

la forêt est pleine jusqu’à ce qu’on la poignarde.

elle apprend que la directionnalité

est essence de l’esthétique – étalée sur le côté large

du couteau.

196

the space of a grass bends in the wind.

the grass in a space believes in bending.

a vacant shoe in a vacant lot—a street

closed for a block party. precedents are unclear until after them.

a tumbleweed gathers where there was not enough cleaning

done. then emptiness. attention

to detail excludes all else one at a time. the wind beating at the

door. to make sure the door is locked every possibility must have

been considered. a wound sleeps.

what there is to do falls short of doing. ingredients are preex-

isting matter. they change a construction. a garbled message

lands anyway. hope is against the wilderness—unless it is

disease. an icon looks down at personality.

history is in a word—spoken from different angles in

different bedrooms throughout space.

197

l’espace des herbes plie dans le vent.

les herbes dans un espace croient dans l’action de plier.

une chaussure vacante est un terrain vague. une rue

fermée pour fête de quartier. les précédents ne sont pas clairs jusqu’à après eux. un

tumbleweed se forme là où le ménage a été insufsant.

puis le vide. le souci

du détail exclut tout le reste, un par un. le vent qui frappe à

la porte. pour être sûr que la porte est fermée toutes les possibilités doivent

être considérées. une blessure dort.

ce qu’il y a à faire est à court de faire. les ingrédients sont

de la matière préexistante. ils changent une construction. un message brouillé

atterrit de toute façon. l’espoir est contre le sauvage – sauf si c’est une maladie.

une icône regarde de haut ce qu’est la personnalité

l’histoire est dans un mot — dit sous différents angles dans

différentes chambres à travers l’espace.

198

Translator’s Note

“Plak” is a quintuple-entendre. It’s the same word

in English: “plaque”, which has two uses. Firstly, it

designates an ornamental slab or plate commemorating a

person, group of people, a place, or event. Secondly, it is

what the dentist scrapes from your teeth, or the organic

material that may shorten your breath if it gathers on

the walls of your arteries. It also connects with “plaque

d’égouts”, which translates to “manhole cover” or

“sewer grate”. The reexive verb “se plaquer” means to

suddenly depart, leaving everything behind including

spouse, kids, family, job, social standing, one’s home and

possessions: “j’ai envie de tout plaquer”—“I want to give

up and abandon everything.” It describes an escapism.

Finally, the sound is most playful in its onomatopoeic

usage. “Plak” imitates the sound of individual droplets

of water falling and coming into contact with a hard

surface. It’s somewhat interchangeable with the English

“drip” or “plunk.” I decided to leave it as “plak” because

it’s at once a hard and light sound. It echoes the bleak

tunnels in which it is found.

Such a variety of meanings is an apt primer for Charlène

Dinhut’s world of Plak, a series of prose vignettes that

withhold as much as they allow and are quick to redene

objects, to make familiarities new. The narrative assumes

several guises: it is at once a fairy tale with a dark riddle

at its center, childish and full of looming awe; a critique

of gender and gender roles, class, and maybe even of

capitalist sentiments too; a place rife with uncertain

identities; and an underground domain whose lack of

resources necessitates resourcefulness, a rethinking of

the functions of commonplace tools, like reading empty

cigarette packs as literature, for example. Balancing

these registers, helping them both contrast and support

one another, was the most difcult task in translating

199

this excerpt of Plak.

While any of these interpretations might individually

or simultaneously be the case, I’ve resisted the idea that

any of Plak is to be taken directly as allegory for any

one idea or stance. The experience of these subterranean

female gures is far too specic, detailed, and too playful,

too close to home to be read as such. Part of Plak’s

success is that the logic of its sensations, its emotions,

its behaviors, are reminiscent of something primal, and

all point to the inevitable seesaw between community

and loss, learning and isolation. Dinhut’s gures are

raw in their mental and social pubescence, so plain and

forthcoming that it’s almost vulgar. But this vulgarity

is alluring. It’s us. The specicity of her framing, the

simplicity of her language and register, the way her

gures know just enough to make their own sense of

events but far too little to become jaded by them, bring

out Plak’s humanity. This is not a mythology. It’s

as rooted in the “world above” as the water passing

through its canals.

On the other hand, Dinhut has stitched together her

“Great Big Beneath” with a curious gathering of

syntactical defamiliarizations. The language—the

material of the narrative—is what’s least recognizable.

However, the story’s unorthodoxy facilitates the space

for invention, much like the resourcefulness of its

characters. Her playing with language and association

becomes Plak’s magic. Dinhut slips meaning in and out

of unusual phrasings and nonlinear logic with a deft ear.

She normalizes her experimentation as she experiments.

The effect is subtle, awkward but without revealing

exactly why.

The process of translation became more certain when I

stopped treating it like a game of interpreting metaphor

and instead encountered the text at face value, nding

that the work’s literality is its liberation. Why should it

200

be so hard to picture? How much more “gurative” can

a state of affairs become if it is already permeated by

uncertainties, by the innocent ignorance of a child, for

example? The way from the French to its recapitulation

in English is imperfect, the tunnel dark and sticky.

Plak’s logical and associative congurations are just

as rewarding when understood literally as otherwise.

The creation of this hard-edged yet fantastical “Great

Big Beneath” benets from its insistence on humility

and asks as much of its readers. This is comparable

to Dinhut’s characters, whose experiences of life are

obscured by the unlit, resonant tunnels in which they

dwell. It remains to be seen, however, if they are ever

truly devoid of light.

I’d like to thank Charlène for her openness, playfulness,

and her ear for subversion. The following is a sample of

“Plak.”

201

202

CHARLÈNE DINHUT

PLAK

Avant, elles sont dans les égouts, avec les alligators et

les mites noires, elles sont leurs amies. Elles mangent

les cadavres de chats, de chiens, de serpents ;

elles chassent les rats, font pousser des pissenlits.

Elles s’ennuient et elles lisent beaucoup, elles lisent tout

ce qui leur vient ; elles parlent peu, sauf lors des battues

des gros animaux égarés dans ces souterrains, les cerfs et

sangliers. Le son à la gorge leur est venu de la nécessité de

se repérer les unes et les autres dans les tunnels emmêlés,

les cavernes de bétons, les puits aux échelles en fer, pour

échanger au sujet du lieu vers lequel court l’animal traqué,

au sujet de la voie qu’il avait prise, vers où il croyait

s’échapper. La bête fait du bruit, halète dans l’humidité,

fait claquer ses sabots au sol. Tous ces bruits résonnent

hardiment dans les réseaux souterrains. Les sons viennent

de toutes parts dans l’obscurité aux oreilles des chasseresses.

Plak. Plak. Plak-plak. Ces bruits aux milles répercussions

sur les murs n’indiquent rien de la géographie en cours.

Alors il a faut qu’elles, elles sachent crier, mais sans échos.

203

Before, they’re down in the sewers with the alligators and black moths—their

friends. They eat the corpses of cats, dogs, of snakes. They hunt rats and grow

dandelions.

They’re often bored and read a good deal—they read whatever they can get their

hands on. They don’t speak much, except for when prowling for large animals

stuck underground; deer and wild boar. They learned how to make guttural

noises with their throats to orient themselves in the intricate tunnels—concrete

caves, wells of iron ladders—to discuss where the stalked creature ees, the path

it took, which way it thinks it can escape. The beast pants in the wet air, hooves

clattering along the ground. All these sounds resonate throughout the wide

subterranean network. They come from every corner of the darkness, reaching

the ears of the hunters. Plak. Plak. Plak-plak. These sounds—thousands of

resonances against the walls—are not indicative of the present geography. The

women had to—had to know how to shout, but without echoes.

translated from the french by

AIDEN FARRELL

PLAK

204

Il y a toujours un indice du monde du dessous, lorsque

les femmes apparaissent sur terre, quand elles sortent de

terre, à l’âge qu’on leur désigne. C’est qu’à force de mener

une vie de piratage de tuyaux, de suspens aux échelles,

d’amours dans le béton, de guerre contre le froid, les

mains de nos femmes gagnent en largeur et en rugosité ;

des paquebots de chair crevassées, jaunes, et sèches.

Quand elles arrivent à l’air frais de la dite civilisation,

ces mains de manuelles font état de la vie souterraine.

Personne ne veut le voir. Les mains se mettent vite dans

les gants du monde, deviennent étroites, minutieuses.

205

There are always clues to the world beneath—when the women appear, when

they come out of the ground at a designated age. It’s from a life of pirating

underground pipes, hanging from ladders, love amid concrete, war against the

cold, the womens’ hands grow and strengthen: ocean liners of cracked esh,

yellow, dry. When they reach the fresh air of civilization, their tempered hands

bear witness to subterranean life. No one up there wants to see that. The hands

slip immediately into the gloves of the world—becoming narrow and fussy.

206

C’est toujours effrayant quand l’une de nous part en

haut. On ne sait pas quand on part en haut nous-mêmes.

Nous ne partons pas toutes au même âge.

Caille est légèrement plus âgée que moi mais ça ne dit rien

de l’ordre dans lequel nous monterons. Caille ne me sert pas

d’horloge, elle ne viendra pas annoncer mon départ par le sien.

Parfois je la regarde dormir et je lui en veux de ne

pas être ma grande horloge, de ne pas m’offrir une

tranquillité que seule sa montée viendrait rompre.

(tout ici, le je est Lampe)

207

It’s always a shock when one of us goes up for good. No one here knows when

it will be their turn. We don’t all leave at the same age.

Quail is slightly older than me but that has no inuence on the order in which

we leave. Quail isn’t my clock—her departure will not inform me of my own.

Sometimes I watch her sleep and resent her for not being my clock—she can’t

offer me the ease that her departure would disturb.

(from here on out, the I is Lamp)

208

Les femmes des souterrains lisent beaucoup, entre leurs

promenades, leurs virevoltements, leurs embrassades, leurs

dîners, et les danses, les chasses. Elles lisent beaucoup de

ce qu’on trouve ici-bas, c’est beaucoup de tickets de caisse,

alors elles savent ce qu’on mange dans tel endroit et dans

tel autre, quelles richesses y habitent, quels produits aux

saisons froides aux saisons chaudes. Une fois à la surface, elles

savent où trouver tout ce dont elles ont besoin dans la ville.

Les femmes lisent aussi les paquets de cigarettes,

les canettes, les tickets de métro, les étiquettes de

bonnets, les post-it, et, par-dessus tout, elles aiment

lire les paquets de céréales. Ils sont rares, mais il y a

là des jeux de l’oie, des jeux des sept différences, des

couleurs vives, rouges, et vertes, des grenouilles qui

s’exclament. C’est d’une grande suavité. Elles s’y

enfoncent comme dans des bras. Elles les relisent chaque

jour, encore et encore, jusqu’aux pourcentages de sucre.

La lecture de ces courtes phrases n’aide pas à

savoir écrire ; les femmes ne savent pas écrire ;

Stine voudrait écrire ; quel culot, disent-elles.

La lecture de ces formes courtes n’aide pas non plus à

penser très loin. Mais on peut faire des ponts, imaginer des

liens, entre le ticket de caisse et la liste de courses tachée

209

The subterranean women read a lot—between their walks, their sudden twirls,

their embraces, their dinners, and the dances, the hunts. They read everything

they can nd down here, receipts for the most part. They know what people eat

above one zone and what they eat above others, which neighborhoods are more

expensive, which dishes are available during the cold seasons and which when

summer arrives. Once on the surface, the subterranean women know where to nd

everything they need in the city.

The women also read empty cigarette packs, soda cans, metro tickets, the tags

of purchased hats, post-its, and, above all, they love to read cereal boxes. Cereal

boxes are rare, but sometimes they have puzzles like snakes and ladders and spot

the difference, with vivid colors—red and green—and pictures of yelling frogs.

It’s a real delight. They sink into cereal boxes as if into an embrace. They reread

them daily, over and over, everything down to the sugar content.

Reading such short sentences doesn’t help anyone learn to write—the women

don’t know how to write. Stine would like to—“what nerve,” the women say.

Reading such short passages doesn’t help anyone learn to think through an idea

either. But we can build bridges, dream up connections between a receipt and a

rain-battered shopping list, imagine a route, smell smells, scour corridors to nd

a story.

210

par une pluie, imaginer un parcours, renier des odeurs,

faire déler des couloirs de marche pour trouver une histoire.

211

212

Nous avons développé le sens de l’écoute du grain de

l’air. Nous, femmes des sous-sols, savons, même si moins

promptement que les rats et les sauterelles naines, savons

quand la pluie est sur le point d’être brutale. Nous

devons rejoindre au plus vite les couloirs hauts et quitter

les impasses, celles-ci sont les plus terribles des pièges.

Nous sommes de grandes nageuses mais personne ne

peut survivre quand les tourbillons d’eaux inondent les

tranchées. Et nous n’aimons pas perdre l’une des nôtres.

Les nôtres meurent une fois en haut, c’est l’ordre

des choses, elles ne doivent pas mourir ici.

213

We’ve developed a sense that let’s us hear the air’s texture.

We, women of the underground, know—even if the rats

and little grasshoppers knew rst—when the rain is

about to get brutal. We have to make it back to the upper

walkways, away from the dead ends—they’re the worst

spots to get stuck. We’re great swimmers but no one can

survive when torrents ood the trenches. And we don’t

like to lose one of our own.

We die once above ground. It’s the order of things. We

don’t have to die down here.

214

215

216

Une fois Caille et moi avons vu des

égoutiers faire l’amour malgré le

froid. Deux vieux bonshommes

vêtus de combinaisons rouges et

jaunes imperméables, qui ont peiné

à descendre l’une des échelles au

Sud de la zone 4C et sont allés droit

au but, comme si le désir s’était

amassé depuis des nuits ; le barbu

a embrassé l’autre après avoir posé

ses mains fortes et grandes sur ses

joues, et l’autre l’a entouré de tou

s ses bras, avec l’affection

qui chuchotait dans tous ses

mouvements. Le barbu s’est

agenouillé tout béat, a ouvert le

pantalon de l’autre, a saisi très

gourmand le pénis dans sa bouche.

Moi j’ai un peu tressailli et j’ai

senti le sang battre dans mes lèvres.

Nous avons observé. Caille m’a

doucement pris le bras, doucement

m’a tirée en arrière, m’a placée

contre un mur, sa main sur ma tête

an que je ne heurte pas le ciment

ruisselant et glacial, a picoré mon

217

This one time Quail and I saw some sanitation

workers making love despite the cold. Two old

guys in red and yellow waterproof overalls,

who’d struggled to climb down one of the

ladders south of zone 4C went right at it, as if

the tension had built over the course of several

nights. The bearded one kissed his companion

after carressing his face with huge, rugged

hands, and his companion pulled him close, his

arms coiled around him, af f ection echoing

in each movement. The bearded one knelt

in eager delight, unzipped his companion’s

pants and nursed hungrily on his penis.

With a faint shudder, I felt blood pulsing in

my lips. We watched. Quail took me gently

by the arm, gently pulled me back, pressing

me up against a wall, her hand behind my

head so it wouldn’t slam against the dripping,

frozen concrete, and pecked at my neck with

hot kisses. Her ngers combed me, tousling

my hair. At one little spot on my skin, right

there, where the shoulder meets the neck,

the tip of her tongue made little icks, little

upward icks, a hundred times, maybe even a

thousand times, on a stretch of skin the size

218

cou de baisers chauds. Ses doigts en

peigne me décoiffaient. Sur un petit

endroit de ma peau, là où l’épaule

rencontre le cou, le bout de sa

langue s’est mis à faire de petits

mouvements, de tout petits

mouvements de bas en haut, cent

fois, mille fois peut-être, sur ce ténu

timbre-poste de peau. À un moment,

je n’ai plus pu me tenir debout, je

me suis laissée aller au sol, emplie

des effets de cette langue ; il y avait

de grandes lumières aveuglantes

et des électricités, et la langue a

continué à jouer de son humidité et

de sa pression tandis que mon sexe

gonait fort, battait fort, occupait

tout l’égout. Il en fut ainsi de ma

première jouissance : à distance,

cou au sexe, tout le corps foudroyé

par deux centimètres de peau. Nous

sommes retournées épier les vieux

hommes, l’un venait de prendre

l’autre, la jouissance était partout.

219

of a postage stamp. Eventually, unable to hold

myself up, I let myself fall to the ground under

the inuence of her tongue. There were huge

blinding lights and shocks of electricity, and

her tongue continued to tease me with its

wetness, building till my sex swelled hard,

throbbed hard, took up the whole sewer.

That’s how I had my rst orgasm: from

a distance, from my neck to my sex, my

entire body struck down by two centimeters

of skin. We went back to spying on the old

sanitation workers. One was taking the

other in his mouth. Orgasm was everywhere.

220

Caille a de l’espace dans les jambes. Elle doit marcher

chaque pas loin devant elle sinon elle ressent qu’il la

travaille dans ses jambes. En marchant avec ses pieds Caille

fait tourner le noyau du monde. Caille marche beaucoup

mais comme toutes ici sauf Stine qui ne regarde même

pas les autres marcher. Caille marche beaucoup et prend

la main de l’une des femmes, qui devient feuille verte à son

contact. Caille marche en balançant le bras, le bassin, en

balançant sa langue tirée dans un sourire. Lampe et elle

prévoient d’aller loin bientôt : bientôt le départ pour le loin.

221

Quail has ants in her pants. She has to stretch her legs way out in front

when she walks or else it feels like they’re gnawing at her. When she

walks with her feet Quail spins the core of the world. Quail walks a lot,

like everyone here except Stine who doesn’t even watch anyone walk.

Quail walks a lot and takes one of the women’s hands, who turns into a

green leaf on contact. Quail walks swinging her arms, her pelvis, tongue

hanging limp through a smile. Her and Lamp plan to go far away soon—

soon they’ll depart for the far away.

222

Allègrement Caille et Lampe marchent jusqu’au

quartier des Grandes résidences. C’est jour de lessive,

Belle-Sœur a dit un jour que tout le monde fait

sa lessive à la même heure au-dessus de nos têtes.

On s’installe au bord d’un canal, l’une à côté de l’autre,

on grapille des cafards et des scolopendres pour que

le ventre soit plein. C’est facile ici car ils fuient leur

cachette quand l’odeur savonneuse se fait sentir.

Leur odeur à elles, à Caille et Lampe, cette odeur épice

(c’est, il faut le dire, plutôt l’odeur de Caille que celle

de Lampe), une odeur rouge et rouille, perd du terrain,

disparait. Caille et Lampe apprennent alors à reconnaître

la lavande, le pin, ces senteurs qui piquent légèrement le

nez. Et peu à peu l’eau du canal change de texture. Dans

le grand obscure de leur jour les deux femmes perçoivent le

blanc d’une mousse qui avance vers elles, régulière, épaisse.

A pas d’enfant. C’est le spectacle, Lampe admire en silence.

223

Quail and Lamp walk joyfully to the suburb zone. It’s laundry day. Sister-In-

Law said once that everyone does laundry on the same day up there, above our

heads. We sit next to each other on the edge of a canal and grab cockroaches and

centipedes to ll our stomachs. Here there’s good hunting because they scurry

from their corners as soon as they smell the detergent.

Their own smell—Quail and Lamp’s, that spicy smell (though it should be

noted that the smell is more Quail’s than Lamp’s), a red and rusted smell, losing

ground—disappears. Quail and Lamp learn to recognize lavender, pine—scents

that arouse the nose lightly. And little by little the water in the canal changes

texture. In the great big darkness of the day the two women see suds advancing

toward them: steady, thick. As a child steps. This is the show. Lamp admires in

silence.

224

Chaque soir, avant dîner, nous nous asseyons en cercle

et Stine nous montre des lettres, des mots, sur des bouts

de papier, de cartons, des emballages, sur des pièces de

monnaie. Stine prononce les sons qu’elle imagine être liés

à ces lettres. Nous faisons circuler ces supports sur lesquels

ces mots sont inscrits.

Il est probable que, à force de se les passer de mains en mains,

nous perdions de vue le mot précis que Stine prononce de sa

bouche sans lèvre.

Alors chaque soir nous changeons de place, que chacune

reçoive un jour les papiers directement des mains de

Stine. Que chacune reçoive la juste indication, arrache

correctement son savoir, arrache correctement un peu de

terrain à son ignorance. Nous sommes consciencieuses.

225

Every evening, before dinner, we sit in a circle and Stine

shows us letters, words, on scraps of paper, cardboard,

packaging, on coins. Stine makes the sounds she imagines

are linked to these letters. We pass around the material on

which the words are written.

It’s likely that, by passing them from one hand to the

next, we could lose the exact sound Stine pronounces with

her lipless mouth.

Every evening we rotate places, so that each of us gets a

chance to receive the scraps of paper directly from Stine—

so that each of us receives the right instruction, claims

their knowledge, reclaims a little bit of ground from their

ignorance. We are conscientious.

226

Quand il est l’heure pour l’une d’entre nous d’être appelée

à la vie du haut, elle disparaît, tout simplement. Un jour,

à la leçon, nous ne la voyons plus.

Nous partons toutes la chercher, toutes ensemble ou en

petits groupes, en silence. La chercher dans les recoins

du grand dessous. Voir s’il a pu lui arriver malheur.

Nous plongeons dans les points d’eau, dans les galeries

les plus sombres des zones les plus profondes, où l’on

peut se perdre, dans les carrières où parfois des blocs de

pierre tuent tout dans leur chute. Nous sommes munies

de torches, nous cherchons le moindre indice avec le peu

de lumière que nous avons, sachant que jamais nous n’en

avons trouvés. Nous errons longtemps, souvent toute

une nuit. Troupe silencieuse et hagarde. Satie continuera

à chercher pendant des jours, puis nous devons nous

réjouir, car il est dit de tout temps qu’en haut c’est mieux.

Il est dit qu’une fois en haut les femmes des égouts

oublient tout de leur passé dans le monde du bas.

Elles ignorent que celles qui les aiment grouillent encore

ici.

Lampe se demande est-ce qu’une fois mortes les femmes

se souviennent de leur vie du Grand dessous.

227

When it’s time for one of us to be called to life above,

she disappears—plain as day. One afternoon during our

lesson, she’s nowhere to be seen.

We leave to look for her in silence as one team or in smaller

groups—to look for her in the corners of the Great Big

Beneath, to make sure nothing awful has happened to her.

We dive into the waterholes—in the darkest tunnels of

the deepest zones, where it’s easiest to lose your way—

in the quarries where stone blocks kill everything as they

collapse. Equipped with torches, we look for the slightest

clue with our meager light, knowing none has ever been

found. We wander for a long time, often the whole night.

Silent and haggard company. Satie will continue for days

at a time, but eventually we feel we should cheer up as it’s

always been said that life’s better up there.

It’s said that once they’ve made it up there, the sewer

women forget their past in the world below, unaware that

those who still love them swarm down here.

Lamp asks herself if the women only remember their lives

in the Great Big Beneath once they’re dead.

228

229

230

Tous les après-midis Stine s’assoit pour tenter de déchif-

frer des caractères inconnus de nous sur des cartons qu’elle

a trouvés.

D’une main, elle les tient, de l’autre elle range régulière-

ment ses cheveux courts derrière l’oreille, pour les empê-

cher d’aller sur son visage. Ça ne marche pas car elle a

la tête penchée sur les mots. Les cheveux reviennent tout

aussi obstinément qu’elle tente de lire. Sa bouche reste

close mais sa mâchoire, derrière, est détendue. Ses joues

sont creusées et le menton glisse à droite, à gauche, Stine

est concentrée.

Même assise, Stine est un piquet. Si droit que l’on voit la

planche en bois qui maintient son dos par derrière. Cette

planche a deux clous, ce sont ses yeux, qui scrutent les

autres chacune à tour de rôle, méprisants et amusés. Ces

yeux, des cercles, des mondes. Selon Caille, Stine conçoit

en silence des discours politiques et acharnés ; elle saura

les adresser à toutes les femmes des égouts qui, rapidement

convaincues, la suivront d’un seul mouvement.

Stine est un costume cintré. Quand Stine se lève, elle entre

sur scène et son corps tranche l’air lentement.

231

Every afternoon Stine sits herself down to try to decipher

the characters we can’t read from the carboard she’s found.

With one hand she holds them, with the other she routinely

tucks her short hair behind her ear to stop it from getting

in her face. It doesn’t work because of the way she bends

her head over the words. Her hair falls back, just as

stubborn as her attempt to read. Her mouth stays closed

but her jaw relaxes behind it. Her cheeks are gaunt and

her chin slides left and right. Stine is focused.

Even when sitting, Stine is a stake in the ground: so

straight that you can see the wooden plank keeping her

back upright. The plank has two nails—her eyes—that

examine each other, disdainful and amused. Her eyes—

circles, worlds. Quail says that Stine silently composes

ruthless political speeches. She knows how she’ll present

them to the sewer women who, easily convinced, will

follow her in one fell swoop.

Stine is a tted suit. When she stands, she enters the stage

and her body cuts through the air slowly.

232

Pour l’étude et le dîner les femmes disposent en cercle les

chaises de jardin en plastique blanc trouvées çà et là dans

les couloirs longs, des chaises aux dossiers fendus et aux

pieds inégaux. Toujours il semble à Caille que les femmes

du bas rejouent alors avec précision des gestes très anciens.

Toutes, malgré leurs errements, savent leur partition.

Elles composent un espace connu de longue date, prises

par une danse à peine visible. Avec une fermeté tombée

des épaules, elles empoignent les montants branlants des

dossiers, elles sirotent dans l’espace des chemins sinueux

parées de ces attributs blancs à quatre pattes, ces trônes

du Grand dessous, ces animaux d’avant l’histoire - comme

elles. Qui leur donnent en grandeur lorsqu’ils sont dans

leurs bras. Elles traversent l’espace. Elles s’évitent les unes

les autres en imprimant à leurs bustes des quarts de tour

qui ne sont que la partie apparente des longs élans qui les

traverse.

Quand elles se penchent pour placer ces chaises, qu’elles

échissent les genoux ou qu’elles courbent le dos, elles dé-

posent au sol, à leur sol à elles, des lettres d’amour tout

autant que des regards de déance. Les pieds des chaises

atterrissent en produisant, entre les coussins de mousse,

des bruits sourds et incertains. Du fait de leur instabilité

irréductible.

Et, parfois, ils glissent au sol en grondant. Belle-sœur

aime ce bruit.

Belle-sœur a d’immenses membres, lorsqu’elle remue sur

sa chaise en désignant du doigt la direction dans laquelle,

sans doute, une situation engendre son ire et fournit le

prétexte à son despotisme, la chair, sous ses bras, pen-

douille avec langueur, d’avant en arrière, deux paresseux

accrochés là à un idiot d’arbre. Son visage est chèvre-

pâle, ses petites lunettes rondes trouvées sans verres

sont aussi étroites que les trous de ses yeux, eux-mêmes

évoquant le couloir qu’emprunte son âme chaque matin,

et jusqu’au coucher. Il faut dire, il faut dire, que tout

repose sur elle.

233

234

Tout est en ordre dans ces cercles de femmes. C’est l’au-

tomne, certaines se haïssent et prévoient de se battre, les

autres s’aiment et courront ensemble. Certaines cuisinent

les rats, d’autres ajoutent les verdures trouvées au creux

de promenades oisives, deux d’entre elles jouent à faire

écouler des graviers doucement pour imiter le son des

pluies.

Stine ne lâche pas un carton sur lequel elle cherche à dé-

chiffrer un mot encore inconnu.

Pour trouver un peu de calme, Satie tourne la tête vers le

haut, et par la bouche d’égout, sous laquelle toujours elle

s’assoit, voit se développer le tuyau d’un tronc et les cro-

chets de petites branches qui, toutes, découpent l’air, de

sorte que la magie semble sans n, et

un grand feu brûle entre toutes.

Satie ne sert à rien, mais qu’est-ce que je l’aime. Elle a des

eurs sur les tempes, des eurs des plus simples : cœurs

jaunes et pétales blancs. Elle ne retient pas ses leçons,

n’a jamais réussi à chasser, n’aime pas lire, ne sait pas

nager, alors qu’il faut savoir nager quand on vit dans les

égouts. Elle passe ses journées à sautiller, à regarder par

les bouches, les nôtres et celles qui donnent vers l’air du

haut, dans une humeur de grimpe perpétuelle.

235

236

Il y a une chose qu’elle sait faire, c’est dérober les asques

des égoutiers qui partent jouir dans les recoins des cou-

loirs. Grâce à elle, calva, rhum et whisky s’offrent aux

femmes presque chaque soir, pour adresser nos saluts à la

Grande Nocturne.

Caille, quand ira-t-on marcher pour de bon?

237

238

Translator’s Note

When the French writer Guillaume Perilhou and I rst

started having conversations about his epistolary novel

based on the making of the lm, Death in Venice, he

showed me a picture of a family crest. This image,

meant to represent the Visconti noble family known

for ruling a tract of Italian cities during the 14th and

15th centuries, was a thick blue snake wearing a crown,

swallowing a screaming boy. One of the descendents of

this ruling family just happens to be Luchino Visconti,

the lm director Guillaume’s novel brings to life again. As

I began working on this English translation, I couldn’t

help but be shaken by the eerie concurrence between

the pedophilic voice of Guillaume’s Luchino and the

centuries-old symbol of the predator meant to resemble

his family name. In order to translating Dans le gueule

du serpent, I was going to have to nd the voice of a man

in his 60s (Visconti) enamored with an adolescent boy

(Björn Andrésen).

The Most Beautiful Boy in the World, a documentary

lm about the now nearly seventy-year-old Björn

Andrésen, came out in 2021, inciting a reckoning with

Death in Venice 50 years after its making. In writing

Dans le gueule du serpent, Guillaume draws much of

the language and stories from the what Andrésen and

the people in Andrésen’s life say in The Most Beautiful

Boy in the World. I learned that much of the language

Guillaume wrote in French come from English subtitles

while Andrésen and others speak Swedish onscreen.

In this way, Guillaume’s work, like mine, is an act of

translation, especially since the cast of actors and friends

featured in Dans le gueule du serpent speak different

languages to each other – Swedish, Italian, French,

German, English. Guillaume had stayed pretty faithful

to the stories and language of the lm, or at least the

239

translator’s translations via subtitles. Though my initial

translation philosophy was to remain most faithful to

Guillaume’s storytelling in French, watching Andrésen

speaking in Swedish in the documentary made me

feel comfortable taking departures from Guillaume’s

interpretation, especially since this is a true story.

Of all the voices in this novel, Luchino’s was the easiest

to nd on the page in English. A man of the lm world

and descendent of noble culture speaking in multiple

languages, Luchino speaks a bit like a bad actor –

melodramatic, clunkily, too formal in places. Björn’s

voice, on the other hand, was harder for me to nd in

English. At rst, his spirit showed itself as too mature

in my reading of Guillaume’s work. But then I took

more time to think about Björn, to remind myself that

he had lost his mother to suicide, that he was being

pressured by his grandmother to become a star, that

he was praised and admired by Visconti and the other

lmmakers in a way he was too young to understand. I

was able to see Björn as someone naive, but who grew

up quickly when he became a child actor. Maybe writing

victims are harder than writing villains, but I also think

another part of what made Luchino easy to write is that

Guillaume wrote Luchino’s voice in a way that dialed up

Visconti’s language to a point that made a fool of suc

romanticizing.

The voices of other characters — the grandmother,

Björn’s grown up daughter, the interviewers at press

conferences, as well as the receivers of the letters – their

reactions were easier to nd in English. This cast of

voices are more like what readers’ are – open to the

adventure, or complicit in it, or at the very least, just

stupid to what they don’t know. These characters easily

showed themselves to me as they are: human — too

wrapped up in themselves to see perhaps some important

and frightening things as they are, or perhaps being

240

enchanted enough by the glamour to notice what they

should.

This story maps the last link on on a great chain of

perverted desire: it’s a story about a boy (Björn) who

plays a boy (Tadzio) who is a rendition of a boy (the

literary Tadzio) that is inspired by a boy (Wladyslaw

Moes, a boy in a hotel the writer Thomas Mann

supposedly lusted over, the real boy who inspired the

book). Like The Most Beautiful Boy in the World,

Guillaume’s In the Jaws of the Serpent nally allows

something twisted and cruel to show itself as it is.

It has been an honor to translate this project.

241

242

GUILLAUME PERILHOU

DANS LA GUEULE DU SERPENT

roman

Il est bon assurément que le monde ne connaisse que le

chef-d’oeuvre, et non ses origines, non les conditions et les

circonstances de sa genèse

Thomas Mann, La Mort à Venise

243

translated from the french by

CATE VALINOTE

IN THE JAWS OF THE SERPENT

Il est bon assurément que le monde ne connaisse que le chef-d’oeuvre, et non ses

origines, non les conditions et les circonstances de sa genèse

– Thomas Mann, La Mort à Venise, trans. Felix Bertaux, Axel

Nesme, Charles Sigwalt

It is surely for the best that the world knows only the lovely work and not also its

origins, not the conditions under which it came into being; for knowledge of the

origins from which ows the artist’s inspiration would surely often confuse the world,

repel it, and thus vitiate the effects of excellence.

— Thomas Mann, Death in Venice, trans. Clayton Ko

244

Grand Hôtel de Stockholm,

10 février 1970,

Maria,

amore,

Habemus angelus : la fumée peut s’envoler dans le ciel de

Rome. L’ange est passé. Celui que je cherchais dans le monde

entier depuis des années m’est apparu ce matin. ll aura fallu

traverser la Hongrie et la Russie avant de le trouver ici enn.

Il s’appelle Björn — je crois savoir l’orthographier —, venu

accompagné de sa grand-mère qui, je l’ai compris d’emblée,

veut faire de lui une célébrité. Elle ne sait pas que son rêve

sera exaucé, ni du moins que je le partage… L’enfant est

très blond comme le sont les Suédois, grand, trop pour ses

quinze ans et ça m’embête, mais on oublie vite les défauts

de ceux qu’on aime. J’exagère, Maria, mais pas tant. Je

n’ai pas appris un mot de sa langue et lui bien sûr ne parle

pas la nôtre : en silence, il a d’abord marché. Pas un instant

ses joues n’ont rosi, pas même quand je lui ai demandé de

se déshabiller. De long en large, il a arpenté le salon de ma

chambre et tourné sur lui-même après avoir enlevé son pull

à col roulé. Il a hésité quelques secondes mais il l’a fait en

souriant malgré sa gêne. Face au spectacle, j’en ai proté

pour l’intimer à dévoiler sa gaieté plus encore face caméra.

Tu aurais vu ses dents, Maria, amore, toi même à qui j’écris

245

Great Hotel of Stockholm

February 10th, 1970

Maria, amore,

Habemus Angelus. Smoke lls the Roman skies. An angel has nally

arrived! The one I was searching for all over, all these years, just this morning!

It took crossing Hungary and Russia to nd him here at last. His name is Björn

– I think that’s how you spell it – and he came with his grandmother who I

immediately could tell wants to make him a star. She does not know her dream will

come to fruition, or at least that she shares it with me… The child is blond like all

Swedes, tall for age fteen – this annoys me, but it’s easy to forget the things that

bother us about those we adore.

I know I exaggerate sometimes, Maria, but I wouldn’t this much.

I didn’t understand a word of his language, and of course he doesn’t speak

ours, so he walked into the room without saying a word, and his cheeks didn’t ush,

not even for a moment, not even when I asked him to take off his clothes. Whirling

around the room, trying to take off his turtleneck, managing to do it in so many

seconds, smiling in his beautiful deance against the fabric. Taking in this little

show, I took advantage of the opportunity to invite him to reveal even more of that

shyness for the camera. And those teeth - if you had seen them, Maria, you who I

conde in because you never needed beauty to strike you in the face to see it – you

would have not been able to contain yourself. Lucky for me, I was the one dgeting

in the director’s chair.

I write you this in a ash. I still don’t think I’ll call off my trip to Warsaw,

246

parce que la beauté t’a choisie à qui tu as consacré ton

art et ta vie, que tu t’en serais pâmée. C’était moi alors

qui m’agitais sur le canapé. Je t’adresse de premiers mots

à la cavalcade, mû par l’excitation du chercheur d’or qui

trouve la récompense de sa chevauchée. Mon périple doit

m’emmener encore à Varsovie, à Munich et à Helsinki

les jours prochains et je crois que je ne vais pas annuler,

je vais y aller pour être sûr. Pour que le visage de Björn

s’impose. Je dois redescendre déjà mais comme toujours je

t’embrasse, maintenant et toujours,

Fiévreusement,

Luchino

PS : Envoie ta réponse à Rome, je ne serai pas long. Raconte-

moi comment se passe le tournage de Médée. Pasolini est-il

à ta hauteur ? J’ai hâte de t’entendre de vive voix.

247

Munich, and Helsinki again in the next few days, I will go there to be sure, hoping

that Björn’s face stays in my mind, that he will be the one. I have to go down now,

but I send you kisses as always.

Un abbracio,

Luchino

PS: Send your answer to Rome, I won’t be long. Tell me how the lming of Medea is

going. Is Pasolini up to you? I look forward to hearing from you in person.

…

248

« Björn,

Reste tranquille. Fini les mots qui font mal. Il ne reste plus

grand chose de moi. Ne pleure pas pour moi, il n’y a plus de

feu à éteindre ici. Ne me regarde pas, je suis prête à tomber.

Je vais m’effondrer à tout moment. Je ne veux pas que tu

me vois m’écraser. Ne pleure pas pour moi, il n’y a plus de

feu à éteindre ici. J’ai donné tout ce que j’avais. Je n’ai rien

gardé pour vivre. C’est pour ça que je suis de plus en plus

invisible, mais je ne vais pas mourir. Il reste une porte. Que

faire d’autre que de sortir de cette pièce en moi ? Je ne meurs

pas, je disparais seulement. Peut-être que mes inquiétudes

me ramèneront aux certitudes et aux doutes. Alors, je

reviendrais te chercher.

Maman »

249

Björn,

Stay calm. Words can’t hurt me anymore. There is not much left of me

now.

Don’t cry for me. There’s no more res to put out here. I don’t want you

to see that I’m ready to surrender – I will collapse any moment and I don’t want

you to see me crash and burn.

Don’t cry for me. There’s no more res to put out here. I gave everything

I had. I didn’t have anything to hold on to, to live for. That’s why I’m more and

more invisible, but don’t see this as my death. There is only one door left. What

else can I do but get out of this room inside me?

I am not dying, just disappearing. I’ll come back to you, be with you in

times of both certainty and doubt. I’ll be your forever angel.

— Mamma

…

250

Cannes, printemps 1971, une conférence de presse du festival.

« — Tout le monde connait l’immense talent de Dirk

Bogarde, c’est donc inutile de le souligner une fois de plus,

mais on ne connait pas bien Björn Andrésen. Pourriez-vous

nous dire comment vous l’avez découvert ?

— Je vais vous raconter toute l’histoire de Björn Andrésen, s’il

me le permet (Visconti se tourne vers lui). Il ne comprend pas

le français très bien, mais enn… Je suis arrivé à Stockholm.

Le premier jour, quand j’ai commencé à visionner les garçons

suédois, le cinquième, je vous dis le cinquième qui est entré

dans la chambre était Monsieur Björn Andrésen. Et moi

j’étais sûr que c’était lui, Tadzio. J’ai pas eu de doute, j’ai

commencé à le photographier de la tête au pied de tous les

côtés, tu te souviens ? (Le réalisateur se tourne de nouveau en

direction de l’acteur.) Tadzio était trouvé. Il était plus beau

que ça, hein ! Il a vieilli maintenant, il est un peu trop grand,

il a les cheveux trop longs, il était beaucoup plus beau à ce

moment-là. Il ne le sait pas mais il est en train de changer,

peut-être ce sera un très bel homme, mais pour le moment,

bon… C’est l’âge ingrat, c’est l’âge ingrat. Il a maintenant

quinze ans… non sixteen, seize ! Il est très vieux ! (Rires dans

la salle.) »

251

Cannes, spring 1971, a the lm festival press conference.

INTERVIEWER: Everyone knows the immense talent of Dirk Bogarde, so

let’s not get into that, but we do not know Björn Andrésen well. Could you tell

us how you discovered him, Mr. Visconti?

LUCHINO: I will tell you Björn Andrésen’s whole story if he allows me.

[The director turns to Björn. The boy looks at him blankly.]

LUCHINO: He doesn’t understand French very well, but anyway… I arrived in

Stockholm. The rst day, when the Swedish boys lined up for the casting call,

the fth boy…oh the fth boy who entered the room… Mr. Björn Andrésen… I

was sure it was him – Tadzio. I had no doubts.

I started photographing him from all sides, from head to toe. Remember,

Björn?

Anyway, Tadzio was found. He was more handsome than we could have

imagined, eh? He’s older now, a bit too tall, his hair too long, oh he was much

more handsome back then. He doesn’t know it, but he’s changing. Maybe

he will be a very handsome man, but for the moment, well… it’s a dull age, the

lackluster age really. He’s fteen now… no sixteen! Sixteen! Far too old!

[The room erupts with laughter.]

…

252

Stockholm,

10 février 1970,

Maman,

Tu es partie pour que je grandisse. Tu nous observes, tu sais ce

qui se passe, tout ce qui se passe, tu sais que grand-mère veut

faire de moi une star, tu sais ce que j’ai fait aujourd’hui mais

je t’imagine en écrivant, je maintiens ta voix enfermée dans

mon oreille. Aujourd’hui donc j’ai rencontré un réalisateur

italien que je ne connaissais pas. Nanna m’a dit mon chéri

il faut absolument que tu réussisses cette audition-là, elle le

connaissait Nanna, enn ses lms pas lui personnellement,

elle dit que c’est un maestro, le plus grand maestro d’Italie,

alors on est allé au grand hôtel où il recevait. Il y avait d’autres

mecs à attendre, on faisait la queue mais c’était rapide, on

m’a vite fait entrer dans sa chambre où il était assis dans le

fond sur un canapé à côté de celle que je devinais responsable

du casting. Il m’a demandé mon âge, il parlait français je

ne sais pas pourquoi, j’ai compris qu’il me trouvait grand il

l’a dit d’emblée, il est très grand il a même dit, j’ai compris

ça, la déception dans sa voix. Il disait il est très beau aussi

et m’a demandé de tourner la tête, il faisait des gestes pour

m’indiquer ce qu’il voulait pendant que la lle traduisait en

suédois, tu as des photos il m’a demandé, tu as des photos ici

253

Stockholm,

February 10th, 1970

Mamma,

I like to believe you left me so I could grow up. You watch over us,

you know what’s going on — that grandma wants to make me a star, and you

know what I did today. As I write, I imagine your voice in my ear. Today I

met an Italian director I haven’t heard of. Nanna said to me: “Älskling, you

absolutely have to pass that audition.” Nanna knew him, not personally, but

she knew his lms. She says he’s a maestro, the greatest in Italy.

So we went to the big hotel where he was staying. There were other

guys there and we had to wait in line, but it went fast. Right away I was

taken to his room where he was sitting in the back, on a sofa next to the guy

I guessed was in charge of the casting. He asked me my age, he spoke French

but I understood that he thought I was tall. He said it straight away – il est

très grand. I could hear the disappointment in his voice.

But he also said I’m handsome, and asked me to turn my head, giving

me directions through the girl translating into Swedish. “Do you have photos

with you?” he asked me, or something like that. I understood that he wanted

photos, but I didn’t have any – I didn’t know I was supposed to have them.

Then the girl asked me to walk up and down the room to see if I knew how.

Quanto è alto the director exclaimed, quanto è alto!

And then he asked me to take off my sweater. At rst, I thought I

just didn’t understand what he was asking, but then the girl repeated what he

254

? ou quelque chose comme ça, j’ai compris qu’il voulait des

photos, j’ai fait non, je ne savais pas. La lle m’a demandé

de marcher, de long en large dans la pièce pour voir si je

savais, quanto è alto il s’exclamait, quanto è alto comme il est

grand ! et puis il m’a demandé d’enlever mon pull. Au début

je n’ai pas compris, la lle a répété ce qu’il voulait et moi je

ne voulais pas, comprenais pas, j’ai eu envie de partir et j’ai

pensé à Nanna et à toi, t’aurais sans doue été contente que je

sois là et puis visiblement c’est pas n’importe qui alors je l’ai

fait. Molto bello il continuait, molto bello je devais regarder

la caméra, regarder la caméra et sourire, regarder sans rien

faire d’autre. Il commençait à s’énerver un peu, s’impatienter

plutôt, il gueulait Mario ! Mario photos ! J’ai dû enlever mon

pull et mon t-shirt, mon pantalon ensuite. En caleçon contre

un mur, le visage tourné dans un sens puis dans l’autre, je

devais xer l’objectif la tête légèrement penchée vers le bas.

J’ai eu très froid.

Björn

255

wanted. I understood the words but I still didn’t understand. …I didn’t want

to undress. I wanted to leave but I then thought of you and Nanna and how

happy you would be that I was there. He was not just any stranger.

So I did it. Molto bello, he said, molto bello! I had to look at the

camera, look at the camera and smile and look at nothing else. He was

starting to get upset, rather impatient, he was yelling at Mario! Mario!

Photos!

I had to take off my sweater and my t-shirt, then my pants. In my

underwear, against a wall, my face turned rstin one direction, then in the

other, I had to tilt my head down ever so slightly and stare into the lens. I was

so cold.

Björn

…

256

Helsinki, 1970, interview dans un salon d’hôtel.

« — Pourquoi voulez-vous d’un garçon nlandais dans votre

lm ?

— Je ne veux pas nécessairement d’un garçon nlandais, je

veux un garçon blond aux yeux clairs. Et pour trouver un

garçon comme ça je suis venu à Stockholm, à Helsinki, et je

vais me rendre ensuite à Varsovie et Munich. Je cherche là où

les cheveux blonds et les yeux bleus sont des caractéristiques

raciales. Bien sûr, je ne peux trouver cela en Italie.

— Et les yeux verts, ça va ?

— Oui, les yeux clairs.

— Comment sélectionnez-vous les acteurs ?

— J’ai fait appeler de nombreux garçons ici, le plus possible.

Ensuite je les sélectionne petit à petit, et j’espère trouver le

bon.

— Vous aurez des problèmes pour la langue…

— Non, car le personnage ne parle pas beaucoup. Il parle

son propre langage, qui est le polonais dans le livre, mais ce

pourrait être du nnois, du suédois, peu importe du moment

qu’il parle une langue incompréhensible pour les autres

personnages. »

257

Helsinki, 1970, in a hotel lounge:

INTERVIEWER: Why do you want a Finnish boy in your lm?

LUCHINO: I don’t necessarily want a Finnish boy, I want a blond boy with

light eyes. And to nd a boy like that I traveled to Stockholm, to Helsinki,

and after that, I’ll go to Warsaw and Munich. I’m going to a place where

blonde hair and blue eyes are racial characteristics. Of course, I can’t nd

that in Italy.

INTERVIEWER: Green eyes, will they sufce?”

LUCHINO: Yes, light eyes.

INTERVIEWR: How do you select the actors?

LUCHINO: I had many boys called here, as many as I could. Then I’m

weeding them out, them little by little. I hope I nd one.

INTERVIEWER: You won’t have language problems?

LUCHINO: No, because the character doesn’t talk much. He speaks his

own language, which is Polish in the book, but it could be Finnish, Swedish,

it doesn’t matter as long as he speaks a language the other characters don’t

understand.

258

Cannes,

le 3 mai 1971,

Ma soeur,

Projection hier devant un parterre de stars, tonnerre

d’applaudissements avant la conférence de presse.

Luchino répondait en français aux journalistes, je ne

comprenais rien. Envie de crier. L. m’a désigné comme « le

plus beau garçon du monde ». J’ai le sentiment ici d’être

constamment survolé par une nuée de chauves-souris, les

gens s’intéressent à moi subitement, me complimentent,

murmurent mais qu’il est beau, bravo monsieur, bravo

jeune homme vous êtes exceptionnel, et tout cet amour

volatile sonne creux. J’ai pourtant rencontré Romy

Schneider hier, qu’est-ce qu’elle est belle… Je t’écris

surtout pour regretter que tu ne sois pas à mes côtés, je

m’ennuie, Nanna est fatiguée de tout ce cirque et moi aussi.

C’est à cause d’elle, tout ça. Je ne pouvais pas répondre aux

questions des journalistes alors j’en ai vu sourire, se foutre

de moi, il n’y avait même pas de traducteur… Comment

j’aurais du faire ? Je n’ai même pas appris l’italien pour

le lm vu je n’avais aucune réplique. Seulement des

brouhahas, des rires forcés sur une plage dans une langue

que l’on ne devait pas comprendre. Les instructions de

259

Sister dearest,

Picture me… the screening in front of an audience of stars…

the booming applause and the press conference soon to come... Luchino

responded to the journalists in French. I didn’t understand anything.

I wanted to scream. He selected me as “the most beautiful boy in the

world.” It felt like a swarm of bats around me, people are suddenly

interested in me, compliment me, murmur: he is handsome, well-done sir,

well done young man you are exceptional. All this volatile love rings hollow.

But I met Romy Schneider yesterday, how pretty she is.

I am writing to you mostly because I wish you were by my side.

I’m bored. Nana is tired of this circus too. But it’s all because of her. I

couldn’t answer journalists’ questions and they grinned and laughed at

me. There wasn’t a translator! How could I have done it? I didn’t even

need to learn Italian for a lm I didn’t have lines in. Only brouhaha…

even the forced laughter was a language I wasn’t supposed to and didn’t

to understand. Visconti’s instructions during lming came down to four

words: walk, stop, turn around, smile. So yesterday I also smiled, as I had

learned in front of the camera the rst day. I smiled stupidly, not knowing

how to do anything else.

I am writing to you facing the Mediterranean, from my room at

the Martinez hotel, which is almost entirely lled up by the lm crew. All

this is a bit over my head. Tonight Luchino and Dirk told me we are going

out, I don’t know where – again, I didn’t understand. I doubt it was one

of Nana’s plans for me. I think they want to party all night.

260

Visconti pendant le tournage se sont résumées à quatre

mots : marche, stop, tourne-toi, souris. Alors hier aussi je

souriais, comme j’avais appris, comme devant la caméra

le premier jour, je souriais bêtement de ne savoir faire

autre chose. Je t’écris face à la Méditerranée, depuis ma

chambre de l’hôtel Martinez presque entièrement occupée

par l’équipe du lm. L’engouement me dépasse.

Ce soir, Luchino et Dirk m’ont dit qu’on allait sortir, je ne

sais pas où je n’ai pas compris. M’étonnerait que ce soit un

truc pour Nanna, j’ai compris qu’ils veulent faire la fête

toute la nuit. Je voudrais qu’on m’oublie, me cacher sous le

lit de la maison.

Puss,

Björn

261

I would like to be forgotten, to hide under the bed at home.

Kisses,

Björn

262

Stockholm,

le 7 juin 2020,

Papa,

Bien sûr que je vais t’aider, tu sais que tu peux compter sur

moi. J’essaye de t’appeler depuis ce matin, depuis que j’ai

reçu ton mot mais tu ne me réponds pas alors je t’écris à

mon tour. Tu sais pourtant combien je m’inquiète quand tu

ne réponds pas au téléphone, je te l’ai déjà dit. Quand j’étais

petite ou plus jeune, non, quand ça n’allait pas tu ne me

répondais pas, ni à moi ni à personne. Depuis quelques années

tu as changé, tu as pris la bonne habitude de décrocher même

quand ça ne va pas, peut-être que ta mélancolie s’adoucit

? Si c’est un mauvais jour tu me dis non, pas maintenant,

je ne réussirai pas à tenir une conversation rappelons nous

plus tard alors j’accepte, je recule face à tes jours noirs et on

raccroche. Ça me va, papa. S’il-te-plaît continuons comme

ça, ne fais pas le mort avec moi, pas encore.

Jessica m’a appelé justement hier soir. Elle s’inquiète de cette

histoire de voisins. Elle est passée chez toi, apparemment tu

n’étais pas là mais quelqu’un l’a reconnue et lui a expliqué la

situation. L’as-tu vue depuis, ton amie Jessica ? Les voisins

en effet ont l’air remonté. Je vais passer dès que je peux,

disons ce soir, aussi tu recevras cette lettre après que je sois

263

Dear Papa,

Of course I’ll help you. You know you can count on me. I’ve been trying to

call you since this morning, since I got your note. You didn’t pick up, so I’m writing

you back. I told you how much I worry when you don’t answer the phone.

When I was little or younger, when things weren’t good, you wouldn’t open

up to anyone, but I’ve noticed a change with you. You pick up the phone when

things aren’t going well (even though you change your mind, when I ask about the

depression, but at least you have the courage to say you can’t hold a conversation

before you hang up). That’s ne with me, Papa, if you need me to step away from

your darkness, if you continue need to keep hanging up.

But don’t play dead on me. Not again.

Jessica called me just last night. She’s worried about this neighbor situation.

She went by your house, apparently you weren’t there, but someone recognized her.

Have you seen your her since? The neighbors seem upset. I’m going to come by as

soon as I can, let’s say tonight, so you’ll get this letter when I come by. I don’t want

to waste any more time.

I’ll see you tonight then. Tonight being perhaps yesterday or the day before

for you when you read my letter, but why not this tonight again? I will help you as

you ask me, dad, I will help you to get up and talk. I am grown up, I am not afraid

anymore, actually I am strong enough for us both. Believe me.

It’s time you told me. Maybe that’ll help you too. Maybe you should write

because writing suits you better than talking, as you once told me. It’s easier to be

sincere in writing.

Let’s not be afraid.

Your daughter,

Robine Andresen

264

passée mais tant pis, je n’ai plus envie de laisser passer le

temps.

Je te dis à ce soir, donc, ce soir étant peut-être hier ou

avant-hier pour toi quand tu liras ma lettre, mais après tout

pourquoi pas ce soir encore ? Je vais t’aider comme tu me

le demandes, papa, je vais t’aider à te relever et à parler. Je

suis adulte, je n’ai plus peur, au contraire j’ai de la force pour

deux, crois-moi. Il est temps que tu me racontes. Peut-être

que t’aider passera aussi par cela, écrire, parce qu’écrire te

convient mieux que parler, tu me l’as dit un jour. Il est plus

facile d’être sincère par écrit alors n’ayons pas peur.

Robine

265

Cannes,

May 4, 1971,

My Helmut, mein Schatz,

I pick up my pen in the later hours of the afternoon. Last night’s

tipples and the views of the Mediterranean Sea from my bed kept me from

getting up any earlier.

The stress died down after the screening and the press conference that

followed. The most beautiful boy in the world was – you guessed it – greatly

applauded/widely adored. We had dinner with Dirk and others at the hotel

– Romy was there too. We drank a lot – bottles of champagne passed over

the table, ordered by the relieved producer, Robert. Dirk wanted to go out

afterwards – he said we’re going out – and he tried to convince everyone to

come. He knew a club here popular with the boys. We had to take Björn there,

to share his beauty with the world. I think Dirk was proud to show him off.

But rst we had to cross the city. The photographers were waiting at

the exit of the Martinez. The little one was frightened... I’m not sure what’s

up with all his seriousness. When we got there, he was all stuck up too, but we

took care in making him feel comfortable. Dirk had found a lot of friends who

were interested in him... Shouldn’t sixteen year olds be happy? In his place,

how happy I would have felt to be there, in freedom, and in the center of

attention. At my age, on the other hand, this is no longer a place for hunting. I

didn’t stay until the end (the horrible music depressed me) and I left the little

one with Dirk and his friends ready to pounce on him like tigers. (I hope D was

266

Cannes,

le 4 mai 1971,

Mein Helmut,

Je prends mon stylo à une heure tardive de l’après-midi.

L’alcool de la nuit et la vue sur la Méditerranée depuis

mon lit ne m’ont pas incité à me lever plus tôt.

Le stress est retombé après la projection et la conférence

de presse qui a suivi ; le plus beau garçon du monde fut,

tu t’en doutes, acclamé. On a diné avec Dirk et d’autres à

l’hôtel, Romy était là aussi. Beaucoup bu : les bouteilles

de champagne délaient à table commandées par Robert

en producteur soulagé. Dirk voulait sortir ensuite, il nous

l’avait dit d’emblée et tentait de convaincre toute le monde,

il connaissait une boite ici fréquentée par les garçons, il

fallait y emmener Björn, partager sa beauté au monde. Je

crois que Dirk était er de le promener. Première difculté

: traverser la ville. Les photographes attendaient à la

sortie du Martinez, le petit était apeuré… Qu’est-ce qu’il

est sérieux ! Une fois là-bas il était tout coincé aussi, on

a pourtant fait attention à le mettre à l’aise, Dirk avait

retrouvé plein d’amis qui s’intéressaient à lui… N’est-on

pas joyeux quand on a seize ans ? À sa place, quel bonheur

j’aurais ressenti de me trouver là, dans la liberté, au

267

still careful. I’ll meet him tonight if his hangover allows it).

How are you, my love? Tell me about the shoot. That the lm is

called “A Beautiful Monster” delights me every time I think about it. I

am sure your deviant tendencies allow you to play the most convincing of

perverts without much effort ;)

Kisses to you, mostro mio,

Luchinaccio

268

centre de l’attention qui plus est. À mon âge en revanche,

ce genre d’endroit n’est plus qu’agressions. Je ne suis pas

resté jusqu’au bout, l’horrible musique m’a déprimé, j’ai

laissé le petit avec Dirk et ses amis prêts à bondir au garrot.

(J’espère que D. a tout de même fait attention, je le retrouve

ce soir si son état le permet.)

Comment vas-tu toi, meine Liebe ? Raconte-moi ton

tournage. Que le lm s’appelle Un beau monstre me ravit à

chaque fois que j’y pense. Je suis certain que tes adorables

penchants te permettent de jouer sans forcer le plus

convaincant des pervers.

Je t’embrasse, mostro mio,

Luchinaccio

269

270

CATE VALINOTE

NOVEL EXCERPT

Chapter 1

With her index, Aiyla plucks the milk petal from

the coffee she will drink half of and wipes it on the sau-

cer. She had not asked for milk.

She presses her cold ngers around the cup,

looks out the window for the animal trainers she’s seen

in pictures. In all the morning light refracting, her face

shows up in the glass window too. Her mother’s going to

hate it — if not just the septum piercing, or perhaps the

blanket of strawberry blond hair, all of this body that’s

becoming her own.

Despite the absence of her mother’s hair trims

and lack of color in her cheeks, Aiyla still inherited some

of her distinguishing features. Her warm coloring and

wide hips give her a ashy sort of femininity, and her

hair, however drying and splitting at the ends, retains

that color and takes up enough of her to make it the

main subject of compliments from strangers.

But everything else is growing cold and even

falling off the axis of those hips — her moon-colored

boobs and her thighs, that once full and ery hair dwin-

dling like sunset. Especially now that she had used up

almost the last of the powders and pigmented creams her

mother left in the bathroom, even the dusting of freckles

on her cheeks has faded in all those months unexposed

to UV. That color no longer distracts from hollows in her

cheeks, the darkness under her eyes. If you hadn’t seen

her for a while, you might think she had aged out of girl-

hood. It was all her fault.

Outside, the tourists hover over ride apps, or

271

traduit de l’anglais par

GUILLAUME PERILHOU

NOVEL EXCERPT

Chapitre 1

De son index, Aiyla enlève le nuage de lait de son café

qu’elle ne boira qu’à moitié et l’essuie sur la soucoupe. Elle

n’avait pas demandé de lait.

Elle serre la tasse de ses doigts froids, regarde par la

fenêtre les dresseurs d’animaux qu’elle a vus en photos.

Par la lumière réfractée du matin, son visage apparaît

dans la vitre. Sa mère va le détester — si ce n’est seulement

le piercing au septum, ou peut-être sa tignasse blond

vénitien, tout ce corps qui devient le sien.

Bien qu’elle n’ait pas la coupe de cheveux ni la pâleur de

sa mère, Aiyla a hérité de certains de ses traits. Sa couleur

et ses larges hanches lui confèrent une sorte de féminité

tape-à-l’oeil, et ses cheveux, bien que secs et cassants aux

pointes, conservent ce reet et prennent sufsamment

de place pour être la principale raison des compliments

d’inconnus.

Mais tout le reste de son corps se refroidit et tombe même

le long de ses hanches — de ses seins couleur de Lune et de

ses cuisses, cette chevelure autrefois pleine et ardente qui

s’étiole comme le coucher du soleil. Surtout maintenant

qu’elle a presque terminé les dernières poudres et crèmes

pigmentées que sa mère a laissées dans la salle de bain,

même les taches de rousseur de ses joues se sont estompées

au cours de ces derniers mois sans exposition aux UV. Sa

pâleur ne détourne plus l’attention du creux de ses joues,

de l’obscurité sous ses yeux. Si vous ne l’aviez pas vue

depuis un certain temps, vous pourriez penser qu’elle

n’était plus une jeune lle. C’était de sa faute.

272

struggle to express their destinations into taxi windows.

They will return saying how fast and confusing the city

was, and rave about the bread.

She’s more interested in the moving crowd of

people returning to their lives, quickly sliding into cabs

or talking on the phone while they wait. Her mother

probably speaks just like them, now — the people on the

curb. Eighteen-year-old Aiyla, not a part of either of

these crowds, waits for the animal trainers — loved ones

to her mom, strangers to her.

She sips the good and strong coffee so that it

lasts until it’s cold. Then the studio van pulls up in the

pickup lane, and she struggles out with her bags that are

too heavy for her.

Marina and Felix are just as her mother rst de-

scribed them — city people enchanted by the two realms

of her career: the animal world in Marina’s case, the

lm scene in Felix’s. They both have ugly teeth but nice

smiles. Felix, swallowed by his Studio Animals jacket,

has shaggy dark hair and eyes that get bigger with the

expressions peeking underneath it. For a French person,

he seems approachable and warm. Marina has a buzzcut

and carries herself like a feminine Napoleon that might

make a great animal trainer. She’s beautiful, maybe not

conventionally, but in a way that makes Aiyla afraid

to approach her. She looks artistic in a non-expensive,

non-pretentious way. Her personal dog, a wiry-haired

Cairn terrier, takes Felix’s place in the front seat as he

gets out to help Aiyla with her bags.

“You look just like Caroline,” Marina tells her.

Aiyla is not sure if this is true or if her moth-

er’s co-worker is just being polite. She wraps her ngers

around the smallest part of her wrist, meets her own eyes

in the rearview mirror. These little grabs at herself have

become routine comforts. She’s accepted that she is just

an ember of her great mother, now just nding a way to

take that smallness farther, shrinking into something her

own.

The animal trainers hug her even though she was

273

Dehors, les touristes désespèrent de trouver un chauffeur

sur des applis ou luttent pour épeler leur destination à

travers les vitres des taxis. Ils reviendront en disant à quel

point la ville était rapide et tumultueuse, et s’extasieront

sur le pain.

Elle s’intéresse davantage à cette foule retournant à sa vie,

s’engouffrant rapidement dans des taxis ou téléphonant

en attendant. Sa mère parle probablement comme eux

maintenant — ces gens sur le trottoir. Aiyla, dix-huit ans,

qui ne fait pas partie de cette foule, attend les dresseurs —

des proches de sa mère, des étrangers pour elle.

Elle sirote le bon et fort café pour le faire durer avant

qu’il ne devienne froid. Ensuite, la camionnette du studio

s’arrête au dépose-minute et elle se débat avec ses sacs trop

lourds pour elle.

Marina et Felix sont exactement comme sa mère les a

décrits — des citadins passionnés par les deux faces de sa

carrière : le monde animal dans le cas de Marina, celui du

cinéma dans celui de Felix. Ils ont tous deux de mauvaises

dents mais de jolis sourires. Enseveli sous sa veste Studio

Animals, Felix a des cheveux bruns hirsutes et des yeux

qui grossissent selon leurs expressions. Pour un Français, il

a l’air accessible et chaleureux. Marina a les cheveux ras et

se comporte comme une Napoléon au féminin qui pourrait

faire une excellente dresseuse. Elle est belle, peut-être pas

d’une beauté conventionnelle, mais d’une façon qui rend

difcile pour Aiyla de l’aborder. Elle semble avoir la bre

artistique, sans être expansive ou prétentieuse. Son chien,

un Cairn terrier à poils longs, prend la place de Felix sur

le siège passager alors que celui-ci sort de la voiture pour

aider Aiyla à porter ses sacs.

« Tu ressembles à Caroline », lui dit Marina.

Aiyla ne sait pas si c’est vrai ou si la collègue de sa mère

cherche à être polie. Elle entoure de sa main la plus petite

274

told they wouldn’t. Her mother has this kind of effect

on people, even Parisians. Naturally, they love Aiyla by

proxy.

Somehow on the way to the greeting, Aiyla’s

forearm brushes the beginnings of what would be Mari-

na’s curls. Usually, Aiyla does not enjoy or even notice

sensation much, but the static of Marina’s hair on her

skin somehow makes her feel that she’s in a place of

unexpected calm.

They get in the car, Felix insisting that Aiyla

take the passenger seat next to Marina. He sits in the

back, leaned up against the same beige, dirt-smudged,

large animal crates they use to transport dogs and cats to

Hollywood. These ones are stacked two layers high, emp-

ty except for one with two different species of baby deer,

standing up now, expecting action. He sticks his ngers

between the grates and the deer smell him like cats, raises

his voice so Aiyla’s mom on speakerphone can hear what

sound like greetings in French.

They drive out of the airport into some of the

landscapes Aiyla had own over, beginning what will be

a long ride to the Alps. It’s been a long time since she’s

ridden in a studio van, but the rattle of the crates and

the presence of other creatures in the back provide a

distantly familiar feeling in this unfamiliar place.As Felix

and Marina ask her questions, she keeps track of a brief

race they keep with a train headed in the same direction.

The last of the train disappears into a tunnel,

abandoning their neck-and-neck game as they make

progress through the valley. As the tidy canal boarding

the highway splits into disappearing rivers beside them,

Aiyla tries to orient herself. In her awed mental map of

cardinal directions, she decides downstream must point

straight to the ocean or sea, to where she came from.

Then she remembers: rivers curve.

Because she is there, the conversation between

Marina and Felix is stilted — they keep stopping them-

selves, slow down to speak in English to ll Aiyla in

about who or what they are talking about. They spend a

275

partie de son poignet, croise son propre regard dans le

rétroviseur. Ces petites manies sont devenues une routine

réconfortante. Elle a accepté de n’être qu’un vestige de sa

grand-mère, essayant simplement de trouver un moyen

d’aller plus avant dans sa petitesse, se rétrécissant en

quelque chose qui lui serait propre.

Les dresseurs la prennent dans leurs bras alors qu’on lui

avait dit qu’ils ne le feraient pas. Sa mère fait ce genre

d’effet sur les gens, mêmes sur les Parisiens. Bien entendu,

ils adorent Aiyla par procuration.

Lorsqu’elles se saluent, l’avant-bras d’Aiyla efeure les

boucles de Marina. D’ordinaire, Aiyla n’apprécie pas ou ne

remarque pas beaucoup ses sensations, mais l’électricité

statique des cheveux de Marina sur sa peau lui donne en

quelque sorte l’impression d’être dans un lieu de calme

inattendu.

Ils montent dans la voiture, Felix insistant pour qu’Aiyla

prenne le siège passager à côté de Marina. Il s’assoit

derrière, appuyé contre les mêmes grandes caisses

beiges, sales, destinées au transport de chiens et chats à

Hollywood. Celles-ci sont empilées sur deux niveaux, vides

à l’exception de l’une d’elles contenant deux petits cerfs,

tenant debout à présent, attendant qu’il se passe quelque

chose. Il passe ses doigts entre les grilles et les cerfs le

renient comme des chats, hausse la voix pour que la mère

d’Aiyla, sur haut-parleur, puisse entendre ce que sont des

salutations en français.

Ils quittent l’aéroport pour des paysages qu’Aiyla avait

survolés, entamant ce qui sera un long voyage vers les

Alpes. Cela fait longtemps qu’elle n’est pas montée

dans un fourgon de studio, mais le bruit des caisses et la

présence d’autres êtres vivants à l’arrière lui procurent un

sentiment familier dans cet endroit inconnu. Tandis que

Felix et Marina lui posent des questions, elle suit la brève

course que leur voiture mène avec un train lancé dans la

même direction.

Le dernier wagon du train disparait dans un tunnel,

276

while debating which producers they think are the most

attractive, then pull over in one of the towns, buy sand-

wiches with butter and thick slices of ham. Aiyla stays

in the van with the deer, lies to the trainers, telling them

she already ate while she was waiting for them at the

airport. But when they get back in the van, sandwich in

hands, Aiyla nds it hard not to stare at Marina’s narrow

ngers as they slowly peel the foil.

Marina gestures to the sandwich towards

her.“Have half,” she says, “Your mother won’t be happy

to hear we didn’t feed you.”

Aiyla wants to make a good impression on her

mother’s co-workers, even if she doesn’t want to eat. She

takes a bite of the bread, which sticks in her throat for

a moment. As it works its way down, she feels kind of

anxious, kind of sick, kind of giddy. She quickly covers

the rest of the half and looks out the window as they

zip through modest cutouts in the trees, where there are

breathtaking views of conforming cities, always with

church towers, below. Aiyla ghts the urge to close her

eyes. From up here, the landscape seems to overcome the

noise of life turning inside it.

...

When she wakes up, Felix and Marina are talking

about papillons. She recognizes this word because she

knows dog breeds. Papillons, because of the shape of

their ears, are named after butteries.

When Marina notices that Aiyla is awake, she

touches her shoulder and gestures to the road.

“Do you see them?”

At rst Aiyla had mistakes them for scraps of

paper, but as she looks closer, yes, more and more of

them, white-winged and docile, like those she caught

in California as a girl, like those she once believed were

fairies, y straight into the moving trafc, atten into

sudden deaths on windshields, under wheels. Don’t they

see the others? It is horrible to be a part of this move-

277

abandonnant leur partie de coude-à-coude tandis qu’ils

progressent dans la vallée. Alors que le petit canal qui

longe l’autoroute se divise en deux rivières disparaissant à

leur côté, Aiyla tente de s’orienter. Dans sa carte mentale

imparfaite des points cardinaux, elle décide que l’aval doit

pointer vers l’océan ou la mer, de là d’où elle vient. Puis

elle se souvient : les rivières sont courbes.

Parce qu’elle est là, la conversation entre Felix et Marina

est guindée — ils ne cessent de s’interrompre, ralentissent

pour parler en anglais an d’expliquer à Aiyla de qui

ou quoi ils parlent. Ils passent un moment à parler des

producteurs qu’ils estiment les plus séduisants, puis font

une halte dans l’une des villes, achètent des jambons-

beurre aux tranches épaisses. Ayla reste dans le fourgon

avec les cerfs, ment aux dresseurs leur disant qu’elle a déjà

mangé lorsqu’elle les attendait à l’aéroport. Mais quand ils

remontent dans le van, sandwiches à la main, Aiyla a du

mal à ne pas xer les doigts ns de Marina qui lentement

enlèvent le papier d’aluminium.

Marina fait un geste en direction du sandwich en face

d’elle. « Prends la moitié, dit-elle, ta mère ne sera pas

contente d’entendre qu’on ne t’a pas nourrie. »

Aiyla veut faire bonne impression aux collègues de sa

mère, même si elle n’a pas faim. Elle prend une bouchée de

pain, qui reste un moment coincée dans sa gorge. Au fur et

à mesure qu’elle descend, Aiyla se sent comme anxieuse,

presque malade, étourdie. Elle recouvre rapidement la

moitié du sandwich et regarde par la fenêtre alors qu’ils

passent par d’étroits raccourcis entre les arbres ; la vue est

imprenable sur les villes en contrebas, toutes parsemées de

clochers. Aiyla lutte contre l’envie de fermer les yeux. De

là-haut, le paysage domine le bruit de la vie qui court en

son sein.

...

Quand elle se réveille, Felix et Marina parlent de papillons.

Elle reconnait le mot parce qu’elle connait les races de

278

ment against them.

Marina, driving and certainly not the victim in

this buttery trolly problem, winces with Aiyla as hun-

dreds of what look like origami fall around them. Their

fractioned wings are everywhere, raising up and down

with the wind in and around the road.

“We shot near here last week,” Marina says.

“You think the smoke made them crazy?” Felix

says.

“They set some of the forests on re,” Marina

lls Aiyla in, “for a scene.”

“You should have seen us” Felix says, “We were

all black with ash. Your mom more than anyone.”

Aiyla wishes the notion of her mother being

covered in toxic ash (something she did not mention to

her in her emails) made her worry about her. Instead it

contributed to the confusion about what she often tried

not to think about: why would her mother return to this

brutal world over the life they had once had together?

How could she?

Shufing with the deers’ water dishes in the back

of the moving vehicle, Felix touches her shoulder, and

says, in a way that feels telepathic, “Your mom can’t

wait to see you.”

...

There is a basil plant sitting precariously on

the windowsill. It casts a long basil plant shadow on the

oor. The room is cold, but the big white dogs — Gar-

eld, Fort, and Sarge — drool and pant nonetheless.

Gareld, the most gregarious, clambers for Aiyla. Fort

— the gentlest, gingerly licks her hands. Sarge, the most

devoted, stays looking at Aiyla’s mother, waiting for the

next cue. Marina and Felix sit smoking on the balcony

outside, waiting until it’s time to go down to the animal

compound.

Because her mother is the head trainer, for once

she has the nicest apartment out of all the trainers. It’s

279

chiens. En raison de la forme de leurs oreilles, on a appelé

les papillons d’après les insectes du même nom. Quand

Marina se rend compte qu’Aiyla est réveillée, elle touche

son épaule et fait un geste en direction de la route.

« Tu les vois ? »

Au début, Aiyla les avait pris pour des bouts de papiers,

mais à mesure qu’elle regarde de plus près, oui, de plus

en plus d’entre eux, aux ailes blanches et dociles, comme

ceux qu’elle attrapait en Californie quand elle était petite,

comme ceux qu’elle croyait des fées, volent entre les

voitures, meurent subitement contre le pare-brise, sous les

roues. Ne voient-ils pas les autres ? C’est horrible de faire

partie du mouvement qui va contre eux.

Au volant, ne se percevant pas comme le bourreau des

papillons, Marina grimace néanmoins avec Aiyla alors que

des centaines de ce qui ressemble à des origamis tombent

autour d’eux. Leurs ailes fractionnées sont partout, volant

au gré du vent au-dessus de la route et autour d’eux.

« On a tourné près d’ici la semaine dernière », dit Marina.

« Tu penses que la fumée les a rendus fous », rétorque

Felix.

« Ils ont mis le feu à des certaines forêts pour une scène »,

explique Marina à Aiyla.

« Tu aurais dû nous voir, reprend Felix, on était noirs de

cendres. Ta mère encore plus que quiconque. »

Aiyla aurait aimé que l’idée de sa mère recouverte de

cendres toxiques — ce qu’elle n’a pas évoqué dans ses

mails — l’inquiète. Au lieu de quoi, cela a nourri son

questionnement : pourquoi sa mère voulait-elle retourner

à ce monde brutal plutôt qu’à la vie qu’elles avaient eue

ensemble ? Comment le pourrait-elle ?

Alors qu’il s’affaire aux gamelles d’eau des cerfs à l’arrière

du véhicule en train de rouler, Felix lui touche l’épaule et

lui dit, comme par télépathie : « Ta mère est impatiente

280

just a studio, but there’s a wide window on almost every

wall, giving the space a sense of expansiveness, espe-

cially with the green slopes all around them. There are

the elements of her mother’s usual “on-location” setup

— the colossal pile of visibly dirty laundry, call sheets

and Vitamin waters and candy bars, dog teeth marks on

all the pens from every time the dogs have been asked to

practice fetching.

When she nally hugs her mom, Aiyla feels her

bones — the tops of her shoulders and the protrusions

at the top of her back where her mom’s forearms hold

her. What’s worse is that her mother seems to feel for

more, squeezing the tops of Aiyla’s arms, taking her

hollowing cheeks in her hands. For the rst time in a long

time, Aiyla feels afraid of what might be the truth. Only

her mother has this power.

“You’re so thin,” her Mom says, holding Aiyla in

front of her, those full-of-life blue eyes, looking Aiyla up

and down in a way she has not been looked at in a long

time, in the way only mothers are allowed to. Somehow

Aiyla wants to both disappear into her mother’s em-

brace, which smells like a return to the house after a long

trip. She also feels naked, some impulse to hide.

Her mother, already youthful-looking in her pix-

ie cut, almost looks younger — lean and tan and strong

from months out working in the sun. She doesn’t wear

makeup anymore, the touch of darkness under her eyes

and the natural pink of her lips almost a statement of

her return to her Frenchness. She hurries to the counter,

wipes it with a kitchen sponge. Seeing Aiyla seems to

enliven the domesticity in her.

“They’re even bigger than I thought they would

be,” Aiyla says, sitting down on the bottom bunk with

the dogs, instead of at the table where her mother had

pulled out a chair.

“Let me make you something,” her mother says,

opening the cupboards.

“When do you have to go back to work?” Aiyla

says.

281

de te voir. »

...

Il y a un plant de basilic posé dangereusement sur le rebord

de la fenêtre. Il projette son ombre de basilic sur le sol. La

pièce est froide, mais les grands chiens blancs — Gareld,

Fort et Sarge — bavent et halètent malgré tout. Gareld,

le plus grégaire, grimpe sur Aiyla. Fort, le plus doux, lui

lèche les mains délicatement. Sarge, le plus dévoué, reste

regarder la mère d’Aiyla en attendant le prochain signe.

Assis sur le balcon, Marina et Felix fument en attendant

qu’il soit temps de descendre dans l’enclos.

Parce que sa mère est l’entraineuse principal, pour une fois

elle a le plus bel appartement de tous ses collègues. C’est

juste un studio, mais il y a une large fenêtre sur presque

chaque mur, donnant à l’espace un sentiment de grandeur,

ce que soulignent les grands pans de murs verts. On y

trouve tous les éléments de l’installation habituelle de sa

mère : la pile immense de vêtements manifestement sales,

des listes de coups de ls à passer, des eaux vitaminées et

des barres chocolatées, des traces de dents sur ses stylos

dues à toutes les fois où l’on a demandé aux chiens de

s’entraîner à rapporter.

Lorsqu’elle serre enn sa mère dans ses bras, Aiyla sent ses

os — le haut de ses épaules et les saillies de ses omoplates

quand sa mère l’a enlacée. Le pire est que sa mère semble

en vouloir encore plus, serrant le haut des bras d’Aiyla,

prenant ses joues dans ses mains. Pour la première fois

depuis longtemps, Aiyla a peur de ce qui pourrait être la

vérité. Seule sa mère a ce pouvoir sur elle.

« Tu es si mince », dit sa mère en tenant Aiyla devant elle,

ses yeux bleus pétillants, regardant Aiyla de haut en bas

comme elle n’a pas été regardée depuis longtemps, d’une

façon que seules les mères sont autorisées à faire. D’une

certaine manière, Aiyla a l’envie de disparaître dans cette

étreinte qui a l’odeur des retours à la maison après un

282

“Eggs?” her mother says.

“I don’t like eggs.”

Her mother pours a lot of oil into the pan. Aiyla

can not see what kind, because she doesn’t know the

words in French yet. Then she closes the cap, opens it

again, and adds more. In a bowl, she cracks two eggs and

milk and whisks, before cracking one more, then more

milk.

As her mother cooks, Aiyla and Marina make eye

contact through the window. Marina is the rst to look

away, and then she checks her watch, takes another puff,

and returns to her conversation with Felix. Even through

the glass, Aiyla can discern that she sounds like she’s

someone made for the world, her voice somehow both

heady and honeyed. It might have just been the capacity

of French and anyone who could speak it to overawe her

though.

“I don’t like eggs,” Aiyla repeats as her mother

sets them down at the table.

“Since when?” her mother says. She pulls out

a chair for Aiyla, then takes two beers from the fridge,

cracks the caps, and sits down at the table. She takes

off her baseball cap, the bump on her forehead from the

latest boon stick accident still showing.

“Everyone here smokes a lot,” Aiyla says.

“I don’t smoke,” her mother says.

“They look good doing it,” Aiyla says.

“They’re killing themselves.”

Her mother pauses for a moment, checks the

time, “You don’t smoke, right?” she says.

“I don’t smoke.”

Sometimes Aiyla feels like the love between her

and her mother is less about their knowing of one anoth-

er, and more about their mutual longing for each other.

“Do you want to try it?”

“What?”

Outside, Marina stands up, opens the sliding

glass door.

“It’s 6pm,” she says.

283

long voyage, et elle se sent également nue, elle ressent une

certaine envie de se cacher.

Sa mère, qui a déjà l’air jeune avec sa coupe de lutin, l’est

presque encore davantage — svelte, bronzée et musclée

après des mois à travailler au soleil. Elle ne porte plus

de maquillage, la touche de noir sous ses yeux et le rose

naturel de ses lèvres étant presque la déclaration de son

retour à sa francité. Elle se précipite vers le comptoir

qu’elle essuie avec une éponge. Voir Aiyla semble raviver

sa domesticité.

« Ils sont encore plus grands que je ne le pensais », dit

Aiyla, s’asseyant sur la couchette avec les chiens au lieu de

venir à table où sa mère lui a tiré une chaise.

« Laisse moi te préparer quelque chose », dit sa mère,

ouvrant les placards.

« Quand dois-tu retourner au travail ? », demande Aiyla.

« Des oeufs ? », répond sa mère.

« Je n’aime pas les oeufs. »

Sa mère verse beaucoup d’huile dans la poêle. Ayla ne peut

voir quelle sorte d’huile puisqu’elle ne connait pas encore

le mot français. Ensuite elle referme le bouchon, le rouvre

à nouveau et en rajoute. Dans un bol, elle casse deux oeufs,

verse du lait et bat le tout, avant de casser un autre oeuf,

puis verse à nouveau du lait.

Tandis que sa mère cuisine, Aiyla et Marina se regardent

à travers la fenêtre. Marina est la première à détourner

les yeux, puis elle vérie sa montre, tire une autre bouffée

et reprend sa conversation avec Felix. Même à travers

la vitre, Aiyla peut deviner que Marina est faite pour le

monde, sa voix est à la fois capiteuse et mielleuse. Mais

c’est peut-être tout simplement parce que le français, et

tous ses locuteurs, l’impressionnent terriblement.

« Je n’aime pas les oeufs », répète Aiyla alors que sa mère

les pose sur la table.

« Depuis quand ? », dit sa mère. Elle tire une chaise pour

Aiyla, puis prend deux bières dans le réfrigérateur, fait

284

“Yeah, let’s go,” her mother says.

The dogs jump off the beds, scamper around the

front door. Felix and Marina leash them while her mother

kisses her head and reminds Aiyla that she used to like

eggs, and that she would call Aiyla before she went to

sleep, and trainers hurry out the door to begin their

evening of work.

Then, the room is quiet. Aiyla can tell her moth-

er spends little time there because it isn’t as tidy as she

usually keeps her space. Aiyla sits there for a moment

with the plate of eggs and the two cold undrunken beers.

She gets up, scrapes her eggs into the trash bin, reaching

in with her hands to make sure they are hidden under-

neath some containers and old fruit. Then she opens the

sliding door, steps out onto the balcony. The biting air

gives her goosebumps, but she sits down anyway, looks

out at the great mountain she will watch reect sun and

catch shade for weeks after this. She picks up Mari-

na’s cigarette bud... no, that’s not what if was called…

cigarette butt, and places it on her tongue. It tastes like

pressed owers and dry hair, and scraps of many tastes

she thought might become familiar as she got older.

She holds the little charred thing in her hand again and

looked out at the mountain, white and reecting the

orange of the setting sun.

285

sauter les capsules et s’assied à la table. Elle enlève sa

casquette de baseball, découvrant la bosse que son dernier

accident de hockey lui a laissée sur le front.

« Tout le monde fume beaucoup ici », dit Aiyla.

« Je ne fume pas, moi », répond sa mère.

« Ca les rend beaux », dit Aiyla.

« Ils se tuent. »

Sa mère fait une pause, regarde l’heure, « Tu ne fumes pas,

si ? », dit-elle.

« Je ne fume pas, moi. »

Parfois Ailya se dit que l’amour entre elles ne tient pas

tant au fait qu’elles se connaissent mais à leur désir d’être

ensemble.

« Tu veux essayer ? »

« Hein ? »

Dehors, Marina se lève et ouvre la porte coulissante. « Il

est 18h », dit-elle.

« Oui, allons-y », dit sa mère.

Les chiens sautent des lits, s’agitent près de la porte

d’entrée. Felix et Marina les tiennent en laisse pendant que

sa mère embrasse sa tête et rappelle à Aiyla qu’elle aimait

les oeufs avant, qu’elle l’appelait avant de s’endormir, et

que les dresseurs se dépêchent dehors pour commencer

leur soirée de travail.

Puis, la pièce devient silencieuse. Ayla devine que sa mère

y passe moins de temps qu’avant parce qu’elle n’est pas

aussi bien rangée que d’habitude. Ayla reste assise là un

moment avec l’assiette d’oeufs et les deux bières froides

qui n’ont pas été bues. Elle se lève, jette ses oeufs dans

la poubelle, y plongeant les mains pour s’assurer qu’ils

sont bien cachés sous quelques emballages et des vieux

fruits. Puis elle ouvre la porte coulissante et sort sur le

balcon. L’air mordant lui donne la chair de poule, mais

elle s’assied quand même, regarde la grande montagne sur

laquelle elle contemplera le reet du soleil et les ombres

286

287

durant des semaines. Elle saisit le magot de cigarette de

Marina… non, ce n’est pas comme ça qu’on dit … le mégot

de cigarette, et le pose sur sa langue. Ça a le goût de eurs

séchées et de cheveux secs, et de nombreux autres goûts

auxquels elle se dit qu’elle s’habituera avec l’âge. Elle

tient à nouveau la petite chose carbonisée dans sa main

et regarde la montagne, blanche et reétant l’orange du

soleil couchant.

288

289

word for word / wort für wort

Columbia University School of the Arts

Deutsches Literaturinstitut Leipzig

290

Translator’s Note

Working on this translation has taught me a lot about

grammar in relation to humor. In the original, some

of the wittiest parts are supported by unusually long,

metaphor-dense sentences. Those help the pacing

immensely, building up to comedic climaxes by piling

details and asides on top of each other without letting

the reader get lost in the grammar.

Translating those parts as closely as possible made for a

rather dry, confusing read with great losses in character.

Due to the different German syntax, the words that

really make the joke often had to change places. The

necessary added commas and nouns tipped the eloquent

style into stilted territory. I decided to place some periods

to better highlight the punch lines and help readers

where I felt that sentences got too long to keep up with

in German.

Some words and phrases I have not been able to translate

satisfactorily, but I hope I have been able to replicate

the angry, self-pitying but clever voice of this not-

quite-lovable protagonist. Especially the dialogue seems

a little unnatural in German, possibly due to literary

conventions more than the translation itself.

I’ve tried to keep up with the somewhat violent

vocabulary by choosing corresponding German words,

but I feel that some of their depth has been lost anyway:

Somehow, the scratching seems even more brutal in

the translation, which diminishes the comedic effect.

The same goes for the swearing. In general, I feel like

the protagonist in the translation has gotten angrier

somehow, even though I tried to soften some parts later

on in the process.

This has been a fascinating project to work on. I’ve been

291

lucky to read the entire text with great joy and had a lot

of fun sinking my teeth (or the stumps of my ngernails)

into translating this excerpt.

292

AZIZA KASUMOV

MARTINIQUE (EXCERPT)

I came down with the plague a couple of months after

Erika started working for us. Turns out, when you lay

on the beach after the tropical afternoon rainfall has

come and gone with the violence of a biblical deluge, no

towel, just your half-naked body on the sand, trialing the

clinically endorsed insanity cure otherwise known as rest

and relaxation, you are making yourself a ripe target for

a pest called sand eas, hundreds of them, crawling all

over you without your brain having even the faintest idea

because they’re so small your sleep-deprived retina won’t

be able to register them. The average surface area of

an adult male body is 20.45 square feet, and because an

individual sand ea takes up no more than 0.001 square

feet, there is hypothetically speaking space for close to

19,000 of them on your skin, which means that, even at

a rate of only one percent of your surface area falling

under the imperial control of the sand ea industrial

complex, there are 190 of the beasts tripping over your

chest hair to get in on the action. And when you wake up

in the middle of the night, a couple of hours after your

beach excursion, your self-prescribed rest-and-relaxation

retreat, you want to literally peel off your skin, for once

not because your kids are screaming through the baby

monitor or because your wife is relentlessly sobbing in

fetal position on the bathroom oor mat, but because

you cannot for the sake of it stop the total and absolute

urge to scratch every single one of the red marks that

by now are disparagingly splattered all across your skin,

rendering it into a Jackson Pollock painting of purgator-

ial dimensions. So you give in to the overwhelming urge

that has come to dene the entire spectre of your life, but

293

aus dem englischen übersetzt von

AMY WITTENBERG

MARTINIQUE (EXCERPT)

Die Seuche erwischte mich ein paar Monate, nachdem

Erika bei uns angefangen hatte. Wer hätte gedacht, dass

man sich, während man an einem Strand liegt, über

den sich gerade ein tropischer Regen mit der Gewalt

einer biblischen Sintut ergossen hat, ohne Handtuch,

nur dein halbnackter Körper im Sand, mittendrin in

der vom Arzt verordneten Heilmethode namens Ruhe

und Entspannung, zu einem Leckerbissen für eine Plage

macht, die man Sandöhe nennt, hunderte von ihnen, die

auf dir herumkrabbeln, ohne dass dein Gehirn was davon

bemerkt, weil sie so klein sind, dass deine übernächtigte

Netzhaut gar nicht in der Lage ist, sie zu registrieren.

Die durchschnittliche Oberäche eines ausgewachsenen

Männerkörpers beträgt 1,89 Quadratmeter, und weil ein

einzelner Sandoh weniger als einen Quadratzentimeter

besetzt, ist auf deiner Haut theoretisch Platz für mehr

als 19.000 von ihnen, sodass selbst wenn nur ein Prozent

deiner Oberäche vom industriellen Sandohkomplex

erobert wird, immernoch 190 dieser Viecher in deinem

Brusthaar herumkraxeln um mitzumischen. Und wenn

du mitten in der Nacht aufwachst, ein paar Stunden

nach deiner Strandexkursion, der selbst verordneten

Besinnung auf Ruhe und Entspannung, willst du dir

buchstäblich die Haut abschälen, ausnahmsweise mal

nicht, weil deine Kinder aus dem Babyphon schreien oder

weil deine Frau sich unablässig schluchzend auf dem

Fußhandtuch im Bad zusammengerollt hat, sondern weil

du dem unbedingten und allumfassenden Drang nicht

widerstehen kannst, an jedem einzelnen der roten Punkte

zu kratzen, die inzwischen wie Farbspritzer überall

auf deiner Haut verteilt sind, ein Jackson-Pollock-

294

here’s the catch, the harsh, despairing, sisyphean catch:

you can’t and won’t be satised, not even for a second,

because you only have so many ngers and your nger-

nails are all chewed down to the edge of the nail bed on

top of that, because life has been stressful, not just lately

but as far back as you can remember.

---

On day one of the plague, I try to go to work. I have

showings booked all day, across the island, and it’s too

late to cancel or reschedule, mostly because people on

this goddamn island never check their email unless

they’re physically sitting in their ornamental home

ofce, gawking through the window at the birds shitting

up the swimming pool. So I get up, shower, try to rinse

the itching off my body, little success, but at least the

cold water has a meditating effect on my skin, because

a cold shower is the rst and most important break-

fast-of-champions ingredient, and I get the sense that

I can get through this, ready, set, go, sprint or stumble,

doesn’t matter, just keep moving. To be safe, I also pack

a ask of rum — the second and sometimes most import-

ant breakfast-of-champions ingredient — into the glove

box of our diarrhea green Citroën, leased from the same

guy who owns the house we’re renting, some retired, fat

bastard with a face as leathery as shedded snakeskin,

cracking here and there from the salt in the air and the

tropical sun that’s been unapologetically beaming upon

him for years. On the way to the rst property, I pull

over three times just to give myself a good scratch all

over my chest and legs, and take a big gulp of rum each

time. Some of it drools from my mouth down my chin

and onto my chest, and when it runs over a bite or two,

it feels good, almost as good as the liquid’s warmth that’s

spreading through my intestines simultaneously, distract-

ing me, if just for a moment, from the urge of the bites.

Then I get driving again.

I last about 20 minutes into the rst showing be-

fore I start slurring my words from the rum and cannot

feasibly excuse myself to go to the bathroom for a third

295

Gemälde infernalischen Ausmaßes. Also gibst du dem

überwältigenden Juckreiz nach, der nun dein komplettes

Sein bestimmt, aber es gibt einen Haken, einen brutalen

Sisyphus-mäßigen Haken, der dich zur Verzweiung

treibt: du kannst und wirst keine Befriedigung nden,

nicht mal für eine Sekunde, weil du einfach nicht genug

Finger hast und deine Fingernägel außerdem alle bis auf

das Nagelbett abgekaut sind, weil du eine stressige Phase

hattest, nicht nur kürzlich, sondern schon immer, solange

du denken kannst.

Am ersten Tag der Seuche versuche ich zur Arbeit zu

gehen. Ich habe für den ganzen Tag Hausbesichtigungen

quer über die ganze Insel eingeplant und es ist zu spät

zum Absagen oder Umplanen, vor allem weil die Leute

auf dieser gottverdammten Insel nie in ihre Mails

gucken, außer sie sitzen gerade in ihrem dekorativen

Home Ofce und glotzen durchs Fenster die Vögel

an, die den Swimming Pool vollscheißen. Also stehe

ich auf, dusche, versuche ohne Erfolg das Jucken von

meinem Körper zu waschen, aber immerhin hat das

kalte Wasser auf meiner Haut einen meditativen Effekt,

denn die kalte Dusche ist die erste und wichtigste

Zutat des Breakfast Of Champions, und ich glaube

langsam daran, dass ich das hinkriege, auf die Plätze,

fertig, los, Sprint oder Stolpern, egal, Hauptsache

vorwärts. Vorsichtshalber packe ich eine Flasche Rum

ein – die zweite und manchmal wichtigste Zutat des

Breakfast Of Champions – ins Handschuhfach unseres

Durchfallgrünen Citroën, von dem Typen geleast, von

dem wir auch unser Haus gemietet haben, so ein fetter

Rentner-Bastard mit einem Gesicht, das so ledrig ist wie

die abgeworfene Haut einer Schlange, hier und da rissig

von der salzigen Luft, die ihn seit Jahren erbarmungslos

anstrahlt. Auf dem Weg zum ersten Grundstück halte

ich dreimal an, nur um meinen Oberkörper und meine

Beine ordentlich zu kratzen, und ich nehme jedesmal

einen großen Schluck Rum. Ein bisschen läuft mir aus

296

time to pull my pants down, claw my bitten-down nger-

nails into my legs and take a massive gulp from the ask

before ushing the toilet for good measure and stumbling

back out. I ask to reschedule, evil side-eye, unprofes-

sionalism personied, yes, kick a man while he’s down,

get back into the car, drink the rest of the ask and drift

home through the highways and dirt roads leading all

the way to our hill, feeling my alcohol blood content rise

inversely proportional to the functionality of my motor

skills.

At home, I call for Erika, conqueror of my fa-

therly duties, simulacrum of my married self, substitute

for my persona. François Bertrand 2.0, debugged and

automated.

“François?”

“Erika, Erika. Look at this,” I say and unbutton

my shirt, revealing the Jackson Pollock.

“Aïe! Those are denitely sand ea bites, mon

dieu, and how many of them. Beastly. I’m so sorry, mon

petit chou.”

“Erika, what am I to do? It’s driving me mad,

mad!”

I cry a little out of desperation. Erika pats me

on the cheek, her hands soft like a pillow despite all the

heavy cleaning she’s done around the place.

“Go upstairs and lay down. You need rest and

rum. And don’t scratch,” she says, slapping me on my

wrist as I attempt to get another satisfying scrape at

my chest. I whimper. Then I walk down the hallway,

catch a glimpse of the living room — the usual scene,

wife bundled up in her thermal blanket on the couch,

staring holes into the ceiling, while my sons are laying on

the play quilt on the oor, choking on their drool — be-

fore crawling up the stairs. I jump under the covers and

begin to scratch myself again, punctuating my ngernail

stumps into my esh.

Erika comes through the door ve minutes later

and catches me scratching, in agranti. She shakes her

head and puts a bottle of rum on the bedside table, no

297

dem Mund, mein Kinn runter und auf meine Brust, und

als es über ein, zwei Bisse läuft, fühlt sich das gut an, fast

so gut wie die wärmende Flüssigkeit, die sich zeitgleich in

meinen Innereien ausbreitet, die mich, wenn auch nur für

einen Moment, von den juckenden Bissen ablenkt. Dann

fahre ich weiter.

Ich halte die erste Besichtigung ungefähr 20 Minuten

durch, bevor ich anfange, von dem Rum zu lallen, und

ich kann mich nicht zum dritten Mal entschuldigen, um

mir auf dem Klo die Hose runterzuziehen und meine

abgekauten Fingernägel in meine Beine zu krallen und

einen Riesenschluck aus der Flasche zu trinken, bevor

ich vorsichtshalber die Klospülung drücke und wieder

rausstolper. Ich bitte um eine Terminverschiebung,

bekomme einen bösen Blick aus dem Augenwinkel, die

personizierte Unprofessionalität, ja, gib mir den Rest,

zurück zum Auto, ich trinke den Rest der Flasche aus

und lasse mich über die Highways und Schotterpisten

treiben bis zu dem Weg, der unseren Hügel hinaufführt,

ich spüre den Alkoholspiegel in meinem Blut steigen,

umgekehrt proportional zur Funktionalität meiner

motorischen Fähigkeiten.

Zuhause rufe ich Erika, Bezwingerin meiner väterlichen

Pichten, Scheinbild meines verheirateten Selbst, Ersatz

meiner Person. François Bertrand 2.0, debugged und

automatisiert.

„François?“

„Erika, Erika. Guck dir das an“, sage ich und knöpfe

mein Hemd auf, um den Jackson Pollock zu enthüllen.

„Aïe! Das sind auf jeden Fall Sandoh-Bisse, mon dieu,

und so viele. Garstig. Das tut mir echt leid, mon petit

chou.“

„Erika, was soll ich jetzt machen? Das macht mich noch

wahnsinnig, wahnsinnig!“

Vor Verzweiung weine ich ein bisschen. Erika tätschelt

mir die Wange, ihre Hände sind weich wie Kissen, und

das trotz des ganzen Geputzes, das sie hinter sich hat.

298

glass, slaps my wrist again, and then hands me two packs

of frozen peas.

“Put this on your skin, to cool off the bites,

mon petit chou. Don’t drink all of the rum at once. Just

enough so you can go to sleep. And don’t scratch,” she

says. I cry.

“Erika, Erika. How long until it will go away?”

“It could be a week, it could be a month. It all

depends on how much you scratch.”

I whimper.

“A month! I can’t be out of work for a month.

Shouldn’t I be going to the doctor?”

“The doctor will tell you nothing else. Don’t

scratch, drink the rum. I will go and pick up some oint-

ment for you, too; that should move things along faster.

Call for me when the peas get too warm. We have more

in the freezer, and some carrots and corn bags too, and I

can always get more.”

She places her palm on my cheek and runs her

thumb over the skin between my left eye and nose, strok-

ing it with tender movements.

“At least they didn’t come for your face! Get

some rest now, I’ll take care of everything downstairs.”

“Erika, Erika. What would I do without you?”

She sighs, raising her thick, gray eyebrows, and

looks at me, and then, for the fraction of a second, I

am staring right back into my own eyes, the brown ring

around the pupil pulsing gently against the olive green

backdrop of the iris, framed by another wooden circle

that’s separating all the colors from their off-white can-

vas. I shake my head and press my lids together tightly,

trying to focus on my breathing, but my throat feels as if

it’s been put in a chokehold. I want to open my eyes and

look back at Erika, but I decide that it’s too soon to seek

out conrmation on whether I am now just actually and

fully losing it, and so I squeeze my eyelids together even

tighter, closing the shutters on the vision of madness in

front of me.

“François, is everything alright?”

299

„Geh nach oben und leg dich hin. Du brauchst Ruhe

und Rum. Und nicht kratzen“, sagt sie und schlägt

meine Hand weg, als ich wieder versuche, befriedigend

an meinem Oberkörper herumzukratzen. Ich winsel.

Dann gehe ich den Flur entlang, werfe einen Blick ins

Wohnzimmer – die übliche Szene, meine Frau, auf der

Couch eingerollt in ihre Thermo-Decke, starrt Löcher

in die Wand, während meine Söhne auf der Spielmatte

auf dem Boden liegen und an ihrem Sabber ersticken –

dann krieche ich die Treppe hoch. Ich springe unter die

Bettdecke und fange wieder an, mich zu kratzen, pieke

mir meine Stumpen von Fingernägeln ins Fleisch.

Erika kommt fünf Minuten später zur Tür rein und

erwischt mich beim Kratzen, in agranti. Sie schüttelt

den Kopf und stellt mir eine Flasche Rum auf den

Nachttisch, ohne Glas, haut mir wieder auf die Finger

und reicht mir zwei Beutel gefrorener Erbsen.

„Leg dir das auf die Haut, um die Bisse auszukühlen,

mon petit chou. Und trink nicht den ganzen Rum auf

einmal. Nur gerade genug, dass du schlafen kannst. Und

nicht kratzen“, sagt sie. Ich heule.

„Erika, Erika. Wie lange, bis die wieder weg sind?“

„Könnte eine Woche sein, könnte ein Monat sein. Das

kommt ganz darauf an, wie viel du kratzt.“

Ich winsel.

„Ein Monat! Ich kann auf der Arbeit nicht einen Monat

ausfallen. Soll ich nicht zum Arzt gehen?“

„Der Arzt wird dir auch nichts anderes erzählen.

Nicht kratzen, trink den Rum. Ich gehe jetzt auch

noch eine Salbe für dich besorgen; das dürfte die Sache

beschleunigen. Ruf mich, wenn die Erbsen zu warm

werden. Wir haben noch mehr im Tiefkühler, und auch

ein paar Beutel Möhren und Mais, und ich kann jederzeit

mehr holen.“

Sie legt mir die Hand auf die Wange und streicht mit

dem Daumen über die Stelle zwischen meinem linken

Auge und meiner Nase, streichelt mich zärtlich.

300

I open my eyes and stop shaking. Erika’s eyes are

tinted reddish-brown, like the wood from the mahogany

trees animating the island. I guess I’m not going mad. I

just have the sand eas.

“Yes, yes, I am. What would I do without you,

Erika? What would I do?”

I hired Erika because the bottom of your feet are packed

with over 20,000 sensory receptors, and when just 7.3

percent of those sensory receptors come into contact at

about 18 miles per hour with acrylonitrile butadiene sty-

rene because you’re ramming your foot into the oor in

an attempt to turn on your heel in time to make it across

the kitchen to catch a cup of coffee currently tipping

over the counter edge, it hurts. It hurts like a fucking

bitch. It hurts so much that you curse every single car-

bon and hydrogen molecule making up that fucking lego

stone, you curse your mother for the day you were born,

and you curse every single moment of your life that has

led up to this one, every decision you’ve made, because

it has set off a chain reaction of you meeting Elise, you

marrying her, her becoming pregnant with Baptiste, then

Vincent, you being so sleep-deprived that you’re big-

time messing up at work, you getting consequently quasi

exiled to this godforsaken island, and before you even had

the time to blink your entire house is lled with tropical

lizzards, volcanish ash and screaming children while your

wife disappearing into the couch, leaving you with no one

and nothing to pick up the fucking lego stones sprikled

all over your kitchen oor like a herd full of crabs peak-

ing out of their sand tunnels on the shore.

“We need to hire someone,” I screamed across

the house in the immediate aftermath of the foot-lego

encounter, direction living room, direction couch where

my wife was clutching a wool blanket like it was the last

piece of plywood in the ocean, the only thing saving her

from drowning in a sea of her never-ending tears, tears

over the top button of her favorite jeans not closing any-

more, tears over her breasts not producing enough milk

301

„Wenigstens haben sie dein Gesicht nicht erwischt! Jetzt

ruh dich aus, ich kümmer mich unten um alles.“

„Erika, Erika. Was würde ich bloß ohne dich tun?“

Sie seufzt mit hochgezogenen grauen Augenbrauen

und schaut mich an, und dann, für den Bruchteil einer

Sekunde, starre ich mir selbst in die Augen, der braune

Ring um die Pupille herum pulsiert sacht, dahinter

die Olivgrüne Kulisse der Iris, umrahmt von einem

weiteren hölzernen Kreis, der die ganzen Farben von

ihrer schmutzig weißen Leinwand abhebt. Ich schüttle

den Kopf und kneife die Augen fest zusammen, versuche

mich auf meine Atmung zu konzentrieren, aber meine

Luftröhre fühlt sich an, als würde sie jemand mit einem

Würgegriff zusammendrücken. Ich will die Augen

öffnen und Erikas Blick erwidern, entscheide aber, dass

ich noch nicht bereit bin für den Beweis, dass ich jetzt

möglicherweise tatsächlich und vollständig durchdrehe,

also drücke ich meine Augenlider noch fester zusammen,

zieh die Gardinen vor dieser irren Vision meiner selbst zu.

„Alles okay, François?“

Ich öffne die Augen und höre mit dem Gezitter auf.

Erikas Augen haben Rot-Braun-Töne, wie das Holz der

Mahagoni-Bäumen, die die Insel beleben. Schätze, ich

werde doch nicht wahnsinnig. Ich hab bloß Sandöhe.

„Jaja, alles gut. Was würde ich bloß ohne dich tun,

Erika? Was nur?“

Ich habe Erika angeheuert, weil Fußsohlen mit über

20.000 Nervenenden vollgestopft sind, und wenn auch

nur 7.3 Prozent dieser Nervenenden bei etwa 29 km/h mit

Acrylnitril-Butadien-Styrol-Copolymeren in Berührung

kommen, weil du deinen Fuß bei dem Versuch in den

Boden rammst, auf dem Absatz kehrtzumachen,

um rechtzeitig durch die Küche zu hechten und eine

Kaffeetasse zu fangen, die gerade auf der Kante der

Küchentheke balanciert, dann tut das weh. Verdammte

Scheiße, tut das weh. Es tut so weh, dass du jedes

302

for Vincent, tears for her breasts producing too much

milk and staining her last clean shirt with two identi-

cal wet circles about three times the size of her actual

nipples.

“I’ve had it with this mess,” I screamed, again,

rubbing the balm of my hand against the bottom of my

foot, hoping, if not to stop the pain, to at least spread it

out across the 18,540 sensory receptors unharmed by the

lego, the coffee mug long shattered on the kitchen oor,

its shards taking a bath in a silky mixture of caffeine and

expired milk while Vincent was cheering on the destruc-

tion from his highchair, laughing.

“I’ve fucking had it,” I said to myself, quiet-

er now, because no one was listening anyway, and why

waste any breath on it when I already had no energy left

for anything, or anyone anymore. This was what my life

had become: a series of inconveniences that I would give

anything, anything, to have taken off my hands.

I also had hired Erika because she was the rst

and only person to respond to the ad I’d placed in the

local island newspaper. She called the day that it ran and

came the next morning, an old French woman who had

been, similarly to our landlord, left in the sun for too long

until her skin looked like aged leather and desert drought

at once. She wore shorts and a T-shirt that read, in En-

glish glitter letters that she likely couldn’t understand,

“Namastay in Bed,” and I remember standing there, door

open, Vincent’s poopy diaper in my hands, at the crack

of dawn, when all you could hear across the island were

the sounds of the waves rolling in with their raspy voice

and the chirping of birds chipping away at the hour, and

thinking, this is it.

303

einzelne Karbon-Hydrogen-Molekül veruchst, das

in diesem scheiß Legostein steckt, du veruchst deine

Mutter, weil sie dich auf die Welt gebracht hat, und du

veruchst jeden einzelnen Moment deines Lebens, der zu

dem hier geführt hat, jede deiner Entscheidungen, weil

sie eine Kettenreaktion in Gang gebracht haben, du hast

Elise kennengelernt, sie geheiratet, sie ist mit Baptiste

schwanger geworden, dann mit Vincent, du warst so

übernächtigt, dass du auf der Arbeit total verkackt hast,

dadurch wurdest du praktisch ins Exil geschickt auf

diese gottverdammte Insel, und ehe du dich versiehst, ist

dein ganzes Haus voller tropischer Echsen, Vulkanasche

und schreienden Kindern, während deine Frau in der

Couch versinkt und dich ganz alleine zurücklässt, und

nichts und niemand hebt die scheiß Legosteine auf, die

überall auf dem Küchenboden verstreut liegen wie eine

Herde Krabben, die an der Küste die Köpfe aus ihren

Sandtunneln strecken.

„Wir müssen jemanden einstellen“, schrie ich quer durch

Haus, gleich nach der Begegnung von Lego und Fuß,

in Richtung Wohnzimmer, Richtung Couch, wo meine

Frau sich an eine Wolldecke klammerte, als wäre die das

letzte Stück Pressspan im Ozean, das einzige, was sie

vor dem Ertrinken schützen kann im Meer ihrer niemals

versiegenden Tränen, Tränen wegen dem obersten

Knopf ihrer Lieblingsjeans, der nicht mehr zugeht,

Tränen wegen ihren Brüsten, die nicht genug Milch für

Vincent produzieren, Tränen wegen ihren Brüsten, die

zu viel Milch produzieren und einen Fleck auf ihr letztes

sauberes Hemd machen, zwei identische nasse Kreise,

etwa dreimal so groß wie ihre eigentlichen Nippel.

„Ich hab die Schnauze voll von dem Chaos“, schrie

ich weiter und rieb mir mit dem Handballen die

Fußunterseite, in der Hoffnung, wenn der Schmerz schon

nicht aufhören würde, könnte ich ihn wenigstens auf die

18.540 Nervenenden aufteilen, die von dem Legostein

nicht verletzt worden waren, die Kaffetasse lag längst

zerbrochen auf dem Küchenboden, ihre Scherben

304

305

badeten in der seidigen Mischung aus Koffein und

abgelaufener Milch, während Vincent die Zerstörung von

seinem Hochstuhl aus abfeierte, und zwar lachend.

„Scheiße, ich hab die Schnauze voll“, sagte ich zu mir

selbst, leiser jetzt, weil mir sowieso niemand zuhörte,

und warum sollte ich mir die Mühe machen, wenn ich eh

schon keine Energie für irgendwas übrig habe, oder für

irgendjemanden. Das war aus meinem Leben geworden:

eine Reihe von Unannehmlichkeiten, und ich würde alles

dafür geben, wirklich alles, die an jemanden abgeben zu

können.

Außerdem hatte ich Erika eingestellt, weil sie die erste

und einzige Person war, die auf die Anzeige reagierte, die

ich in der lokalen Inselzeitung aufgegeben hatte. Sie rief

mich am gleichen Tag an, an dem die Anzeige erschien,

und kam am nächsten Morgen, eine alte Französin,

die wie unser Vermieter zu lange in der Sonne liegen

gelassen worden war, bis ihre Haut wie altes Leder und

Wüstendürre zugleich aussah. Sie hatte Shorts und ein

T-Shirt an, auf dem etwas in glitzernden Buchstaben

auf Englisch stand, was sie wahrscheinlich gar nicht

verstehen konnte, „Namastay in Bed“, und ich kann

mich erinnern, wie ich da stand, die Tür offen, Vincents

vollgekackte Windel in der Hand, bei Tagesanbruch,

und alles, was man auf der Insel hören konnte waren

die Wellen, die mit ihren Reibeisenstimmen aufs Land

rollten, und das Zwitschern der Vögel, die an der Zeit

knabberten, und ich dachte, das ist es.

306

Translator’s Note

Reading “Nightmare Chronicles” is an auditory

experience. When the text’s author, Amy Wittenberg

makes her narrator string hundreds of supersized

instruments every night, there’s a nightmarish

dissonance ringing through the image. We read of words

echoing off the walls, of frantic stomping sounds and

hectic beats conducting our absorption of this language.

Wittenberg’s words are charged with audible rhythm.

It’s what makes reading this text such a gripping

undertaking – but it’s also what makes translating it an

auditory challenge.

German, the language Wittenberg originally composed

this text in, has a way with rhythm that’s quite distinct

from its English counterpart. It is that the sounds of

the German language are harsher, more expressive, or is

it just Wittenberg’s word choices that makes it seem so?

Let’s take, for instance, Tischkreissäge, “circular table

saw” in English. Tischkreissäge, through its “sch” and

back-to-back “s,” carries several hissing sounds that

resemble the fade of a cymbal or the snare of a drum.

“Circular table saw,” on the other hand, yields much less

musicality, one may argue none at all. Similar problems

arise with gelackt, which in English turns into “polished”

and loses its sharp “ckt”; or hämmern, which, in the

context of the line, most logically translates not to its

auditory cousin “hammering” but rather to “pounding,”

a verb no longer echoing the drumming sound intrinsic to

its German counterpart.

Preserving the musicality and rhythm of Wittenberg’s

text has been my primary objective in this translation.

There are, therefore, moments when I deviated from the

original, allowed myself a degree of literary freedom,

307

to try to replicate – or, if that wasn’t possible, at

least create a new – audible sensation for the reader.

For instance, Fliesen im Flur – literally “tiles in the

hallway” – I substituted for “limestone-tiled landing,” to

preserve the alliteration. German also loves multisyllabic

words, much more so than English, and I often found

it necessary to switch to a slightly looser translation to

preserve the word length intrinsic to the rhythm of the

text.

I may not always have succeeded in fully capturing

the sizzle and staccato and sharpness of Wittenberg’s

original text. Perhaps this means something loud,

dissonant and precious got lost in translation. Perhaps it

also means that something more tonally uid, connected

and harmonious now stands its place: a translation that

is a different interpretation, the same and something new

altogether.

308

AMY WITTENBERG

ALBTRAUMTAGEBUCH

ach das haus kenn ich, das heißt, der mann der sich

da hinter der tür versteckt, muss also derselbe sein wie

mein vater, muss also der mann sein, der mir kleine

apfelpfannkuchen gebacken hat bei ohrenbetäubender

jazzmusik –

one two three four ve six seven eight

one two three four ve six seven

one two three four

ta-ta-ta-ta

dass ich um jemanden getrauert habe, der noch steht,

ergraut, gebeugt, ein atemloser greis,

dass ich nachts hunderte von saiten einspanne in

schrankgroße instrumente, bleierne müdigkeit in den

händen,

dass ich im ersten jahr umwirbelt werde von prüfenden

blicken und schwankenden sprints in die werkstatt im

keller, runter-polter rauf-polter türquietschen kling-kling

über die iesen im ur,

dass das poltern im dritten jahr immer zaghafter wird,

bis ich mir den lärm fast zurückwünsche,

zwischen kisten und an die wand gelehnten holzbalken

309

translated from the german by

AZIZA KASUMOV

NIGHTMARE CHRONICLES

ah, I recognize this house, which means that the man hiding

behind the door over there must be the same as my father, and

must therefore be the man who used to make me little apple

pancakes to the sound of ear-splitting jazz improvisations –

One two three four ve six seven eight

One two three four ve six seven

One two three four

Ta-ta-ta-ta

that I’ve been in mourning for someone who’s still stand-

ing here, graying, hunched over, a breathless old man,

that I am spending night after night stringing hundreds

of supersized instruments, leaden sleeplessness in my

hands,

that my rst year is a constant whirl of questioning looks

and staggering sprints down to the workshop in the base-

ment, downstairs-stomp-stomp upstairs-stomp-stomp

creak-eek door clack-clack across the limestone-tiled

landing,

that, in my third year, the stomping becomes ever more

timid, until I almost yearn for the noise to come back,

I toss my backpack full of clothes among the boxes and

wooden planks leaning against the wall, I must have come

for a visit, the oor is snowed in with sawdust,

that it’s always cocktail hour when I stop by in the mid-

310

werfe ich meinen reiserucksack, ich muss wohl zu besuch

gekommen sein, der boden ist mit spänen eingeschneit,

dass es immer cocktails gibt mitten am tag, wenn ich

komme,

dass ich bewegungslos in höchster panik neben der

tischkreissäge stehe, bereit, nach jemandem zu greifen,

als könnte ich den fall in die säge stoppen, und die arme

sinken lasse nach einer stunde oder fünf,

two three four

one two three four ve six seven eight

ve six seven eight

ta-ta-ta-ta

dass jemand, der mir worte und noten lesen

beigebracht hat, vergisst, wie ich bin, und endlose, leere

konversationskreise zieht: was studierst du – wie heißt

dein freund – in welchem semester bist du – und dass

ich lerne, diese kreise stoisch mitzugehen, wutlos zu

antworten: philosophie – wir sind nicht mehr zusammen

– erstes, zweites, drittes, viertes semester,

dass jemandes hände bedeckt sind von kleinen wunden,

die nicht mehr heilen können,

ich höre den mann hinter mir atmen, ein rasselndes

geräusch, drehe mich um und checke nochmal: doch, das ist

immernoch der gleiche mann, im grunde also –

dass meine mutter eine panikattacke bekommt bei dem

stück, bei dem die musiker sekundenschlaf vortäuschen,

so als gag

311

dle of the day,

that I stand motionless in an alert panic next to the

circular table saw, ready to grab hold of someone, as if I

could stop a fall into the saw, eventually I drop my arms,

after one hour or ve,

two three four

one two three four ve six seven eight

ve six seven eight

ta-ta-ta-ta

that someone who taught me how to read words and

music forgets how I am and endlessly converses in empty

circles: what are you studying – what’s your boyfriend’s

name – what semester are you in – and that I learn to

stoically join the circles, to answer, dully: philosophy –

we broke up – rst, second, third, fourth semester,

that someone’s hands are covered in little wounds which

refuse to heal,

I hear the man behind me breathing, a rattling sound, I turn

around and check once more: indeed, it is still the same man,

so therefore –

that my mother had a panic attack during the part where

the musicians feign a few seconds of microsleep as a gag,

that, twenty-four-seven, steve reich pounds from my

headphones, nearly perfectly drowning out the shrill

sawing noise from the basement, drumming, that I’ve

already seen someone in concert, polished shoes, the gaze

still steady,

that I stop listening to music, that I stop going to con-

certs,

that someone locks himself in his workshop and sleeps

312

dass twentyfour-seven steve reich in meinen kopfhörern

hämmert, der das schrille sägen aus dem keller beinahe

lückenlos übertönt, drumming, dass ich jemanden schon

habe spielen sehen, die schuhe gelackt, der blick noch

gerade,

dass ich aufhöre, musik zu hören, dass ich aufhöre,

konzerte zu besuchen,

dass sich jemand in der werkstatt einschließt und

zwanzig stunden zwischen bambusrohr und importierten

patronenhülsen schläft, sägemehl im haar, wir laufen erst

auf zehenspitzen, sprechen später sehr laut, aus angst,

jemand könnte nicht mehr herauskommen,

dass ein mensch sich von seiner hülle trennen kann,

wie ein umgekehrter geist ein haus heimsucht, eine

bewegliche abwesenheit,

one two three four

one two three four ve six seven eight

two three four

ta-ta-ta

die küche ist schmutzig, hier stehen neue möbel, gestapelt

und sortiert nach klangqualität, ich klopfe auf klingende

holzkörper, auf glasaschen, so also wohnt der mann,

vielleicht hat er immer so wohnen wollen –

dass meine mutter aufhört zu weinen und beginnt,

stundenlang am küchentisch zu sitzen, die arme

herabhängend, die augen starr geradeaus gerichtet,

313

amid bamboo pipes and imported cartridge cases for

twenty hours, hair full of sawdust, at rst we’re tiptoe-

ing around, later we talk very loudly, out of fear that

someone may never come back out,

that a person would separate from his shell like a return-

ing ghost haunting a house, an absence in motion,

one two three four

one two three four ve six seven eight two three four

ta-ta-ta

the kitchen is lthy, full of new furniture, stacked and sorted

by sound quality, I knock on resonant woodwork, on glass

bottles, so this is how the man lives, perhaps he’s always

wanted to live like this –

that my mother stops crying and starts sitting at the

kitchen table for hours, arms dangling, eyes staring

straight ahead,

that I wish someone would nally break down, so that a

paramedic can inject a dose of sleep,

that, every morning, I have to either turn away or put on

makeup when I’m looking bleary-eyed in the mirror,

That, every day, I’m awaiting news of someone’s death,

one two three four ve

ta-ta-ta-ta-ta

I ght my way through the clutter in the kitchen all the way

to the patio door, hear how the man lights himself a cigarette

at the gas stove, a deeply familiar sound, I too have mean-

while taken up smoking, I clumsily make small talk with

the man reected in the window, who stands in a strangely

314

dass ich mir wünsche, jemand würde endlich

zusammenbrechen, damit ein sanitäter schlaf erzwingen

kann,

dass ich mich abwenden muss oder schminken, wenn ich

übernächtigt in den spiegel schaue,

dass ich auf die todesnachricht warte jeden tag,

one two three four ve

ta-ta-ta-ta-ta

ich kämpfe mich durch den krempel in der küche vor bis zur

terassentür, höre, wie der mann eine zigarette am gasherd

entzündet, das ist ein bekanntes geräusch, auch ich rauche

inzwischen, ich smalltalke unbeholfen mit dem mann, der

sich im fenster spiegelt, in einer seltsam schiefen position

dasteht und mir auf den hinterkopf starrt –

dass ich schließlich die frage stelle, und jemand ohne

zu zögern erklärt, das mit den kindern sei ein versehen

gewesen, und ich sehe, wie das gesicht meines kleinen

bruders zerfällt,

dass ich die kopfhörer in regelmäßigen abständen

abnehme, um auf das kreischen der säge zu horchen, das

mir bestätigt, dass jemand noch alle gliedmaßen hat,

dass ich lerne, so einzuschlafen, und nach dem erwachen

zuallererst auf lebenszeichen zu lauschen,

315

slanted position, staring at the back of my head –

that I eventually pose the question and someone ex-

plains, without hesitating, that the whole having-chil-

dren thing was a mistake, and I see my little brother’s

face quietly fall apart,

that I periodically take off my headphones, waiting for

the screech of the saw to conrm that someone still has

all his limbs,

that I learn to fall asleep like this, and to listen for a sign

of life the moment I wake up,

that I vomit whenever my friends tell me they’ve been

up all night working, that I want to conscate their work

and send them all to bed,

the man approaches with a shufing gait, his scent is unfa-

miliar to me, I realize that I don’t recognize this man, that

he cannot be my father, who’s dead, and yet –

that someone, TK worried about his treasures, hides the

workshop keys from us before sneaking off to the bar on

his fortieth hour without sleep,

that someone tells my little brother he’s utterly use-

less when, sometime between the two-hundredth and

three-hundredth string, three end up snapping,

that, every day, someone insists everything’s alright, a

mask-like grin engraved on his yellow, emaciated face,

I make small talk about the food, the plants, the chick corea

concert, if I turn around, the man who’s so close to me now

we’re almost touching will swallow me up –

that someone forgets about my presence and inches

every other minute as I’m prep-cutting wood, sanding

316

dass ich mich übergebe, wenn freunde mir erzählen, dass

sie die nacht durcharbeiten, dass ich ihnen die arbeit

wegnehmen will, sie ins bett schicken will,

der mann kommt näher, setzt schlurfend schritt vor schritt,

sein geruch ist mir fremd, mir wird klar, dass ich den mann

nicht kenne, dass der mann nicht mein vater sein kann, der

tot ist, und doch –

dass jemand den werkstattschlüssel vor uns versteckt,

ängstlich besorgt um seine schätze, um nach vierzig

wachen stunden in die kneipe zu schleichen,

dass jemand meinem kleinen bruder gesagt hat, er könne

eigentlich gar nichts, nachdem diesem irgendwo zwischen

der zweihundertsten und der dreihundertsten saite drei

reißen,

dass jemand täglich wiederholt, es sei alles in ordnung,

ein maskenhaftes grinsen im gelben, verhungerten

gesicht,

ich smalltalke über das essen, über die panzen, über das

chick corea konzert, wenn ich mich umdrehe, wird der

mann, der jetzt so nah ist, dass er mich fast berührt, mich

verschlingen –

dass jemand meine anwesenheit vergisst und sich im

minutentakt erschreckt, während ich holz vorsäge,

kanten schleife, schrauben sortiere, in bin versteckt

zwischen zwei rätselhaften bambusklangkörpern,

dass manche worte ihre bedeutung verlieren: eiß,

begabung, stolz, tochter, dass ihre buchstaben labyrinthe

ergeben, in denen es hallt, dass ich die schule schwänze,

317

edges, sorting screws, hidden from sight between two

mysterious, reverberating sound bodies carved from

bamboo,

that certain words lose their weight: diligence, talent,

pride, daughter, that their letters form labyrinths with

echoing walls, that I skip school to follow someone

around, phone in hand, 911 pre-dialed, unseen,

that I inch whenever people tell me that I resemble

someone, my face aching with tension,

that I don’t hear from someone for a year after I move

out, much to my relief, I haven’t reached out either,

one two three four two three

two three

ta-ta

that we’re all still leaving the house, though only after

setting up a schedule to monitor whether someone is still

alive,

that certain items disappear from the fridge after days

of fasting: three packs of cheese, ten apples, a pound of

yogurt,

the man hanging from the ceiling over there looks like my fa-

ther, though this one has six ngers on each hand which are

covered in blood, the head hangs at an acute angle, the eyes

have been plucked out, their sockets scarred-up caves –

318

um jemandem mit dem handy in der hand zu folgen, den

notruf bereit, unsichtbar,

dass ich ein neues gesicht mache, wenn menschen mir

sagen, dass ich jemandem ähnele, ein gesicht, das vor

anspannung schmerzt,

dass ich ein jahr lang nichts höre nach meinem auszug,

was mich erleichtert, ich frage auch nicht,

one two three four

two three

ta-ta

dass wir zwar alle das haus verlassen, vorher aber einen

schichtbetrieb vereinbaren, um überwachen zu können,

ob jemand noch lebt,

dass nach tagen des hungerns einzelne lebensmittel

über nacht aus dem kühlschrank verschwinden: drei

packungen käse, zehn äpfel, ein kilo quark,

der mann, der da an der decke hängt, erinnert an meinen

vater, hat aber sechs nger pro hand, blutüberströmt, der

kopf hängt in einem spitzen winkel, die augen sind entfernt,

sind vernarbte höhlen –

dass jemand ein alter mann werden kann in drei jahren,

sodass ich nun die letzte bin mit diesem forschen,

schnellen gang, den ich abwechselnd festhalten und

ablegen will,

319

that someone can turn into an old man in three years,

leaving me the last to walk with a certain assertive, brisk

step that at times I want to cling to and at others aban-

don,

that someone tells me he’s not going to live much longer,

a ction-turned-fact since someone in his mid-fties now

inhabits the body of a seventy-year-old,

that someone will die all over again and be mourned

twice, that I still fear nding a frozen corpse in my arms

whenever someone leans in for a hug,

that I am the only one who hears the saw at night in my

bedroom above the workshop, in the mornings my moth-

er asks me for how long,

that the sleeping sounds of my childhood are the melodic

nger exercises of my father playing the vibraphone,

I’ve never seen this man we’re burying before, awkwardly I

throw my little bouquet on the naked cadaver –

that someone might not come to again, the EMTs arrive

and my mother bangs on the door for twenty minutes, I

make coffee for the abashedly prying paramedics, it’s un-

palatable, they sip it courteously, my mother knocks and

screams until someone bolts out, madness in his eyes,

that my grandmother, with her starched blouse and xed

stare, tells me she wouldn’t be surprised if her son killed

himself as she’s scraping the dirt out from underneath

320

dass jemand zu mir sagt, dass er nicht mehr lange leben

wird, was zum fakt gemacht worden ist, weil jemand mit

mitte fünfzig nun den körper eines siebzigjährigen hat,

dass jemand erneut sterben wird, zweimal betrauert

werden wird, dass ich noch immer, wenn jemand mich

umarmt, angst habe, leichenkälte zu spüren,

dass ich in meinem zimmer über der werkstatt die einzige

bin, die die kreissäge nachts hört, und meine mutter mich

morgens fragt, wie lang,

dass die schlafklänge meiner kindheit die melodiösen

ngerübungen meines vaters auf dem vibraphon sind,

den mann, den wir begraben, habe ich noch nie zuvor

gesehen, unbeholfen werfe ich mein blümchen auf den

nackten kadaver –

dass jemand nicht mehr zu wecken ist, als die transporter

kommen, und meine mutter zwanzig minuten lang an

die tür hämmert, ich gehe kaffee kochen für die betreten

schauenden träger, der ungenießbar ist, sie trinken ihn

höich, meine mutter klopft und schreit, bis jemand

herausstürzt mit irrem blick,

dass meine großmutter mit gestärkter bluse und

unbewegtem blick zu mir sagt, es würde sie nicht

wundern, wenn ihr sohn sich umbringt, und sie sich

dabei den dreck unter den ngernägeln raus- und wieder

reinpult, um nicht die fassung zu verlieren,

der mann, der an meinen vater erinnert, bewegt sich noch,

321

her ngernails, only to scrape it back in, to keep from

losing her mind,

the man who looks like my father is still moving, his legs

twitching –

that a suicide can be hectic and slow all at once, spread

over three frantic years, a soul slipping out like a leak

from a valve,

two three four

one two three four ve six

one two three four ve six seven eight

ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta

322

zuckt mit den beinen –

dass ein selbstmord hektisch und langsam zugleich sein

kann, verteilt auf drei rasende jahre, eine entweichung

der seele wie durch ein leckes ventil,

two three four

one two three four ve six

one two three four ve six seven eight

ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta

323

324

325

word for word / palavra por palavra

Columbia University School of the Arts

Instituo Vera Cruz Formação de Escritores

326

Translator’s Note

Imagine entrar de cabeça na bandeira LGBTQIA+ e

em meio as cores observar os corpos que se decompõe

anonimamente sobre nossos olhos. Ou então mergulhar

sem corpo em conversas virtuais, perdendo o contorno

das falas que oprimem. Ou mais, vivenciar no corpo

a linguagem binária dos computadores que ditam

regras por meio de oleodutos que cortam comunidades

originárias.

Como todos esses estados acontecem no texto de Joel?

Em uma primeira leitura a forma nos salta, parece pedir

calma para compreensão mais profunda... conforme

a leitura avança passamos a conar que a experiência

é mais importante que a própria racionalização do

texto. Aliás: um texto que é performance, ou seria

uma performance que é um texto? Não importa muito

a ordem, e sim o que sentimos enquanto lemos, e há

reverberação em nós através dessa vivência. É isso que

motiva nossa leitura contínua, quase asxiada – como as

personagens travestis que acompanhamos – dos textos de

Joel.

Enquanto lia e traduzia só conseguia imaginar que isso

deveria ser feito em voz alta, tanto em inglês quanto em

português. O texto de Joel foi feito para ser declamado

e projetado, conversando com o público através das

sensações que ele provoca. Tanto de ojeriza pela

sociedade em que estamos, quanto pela forma que as

palavras são conduzidas, nos levando a um vórtice físico

das inconsequências, daquilo que acontece e tentamos

segurar com as mãos, mas se torna impossível pelo

tamanho.

Há saídas no texto, mesmo que elas nos mostrem o

327

concreto pelo absurdo, e elas são imperativas. A frase

nal nos resume bem o que estou querendo trazer:

devolva tudo;

Não devolva tudo. Mas devolva tudo;

O que cabe em tudo? É a dúvida do ponto e vírgula e

do que cabe na palavra tudo que nos abriga, nos diz, a

saída é sempre possível, já que com esse ponto e vírgula

paramos para observar o vazio do que vêm depois,

vírgula, pois podemos observar o vazio, e não apenas o

ponto antes da queda

328

JOEL SEDANO

POST-PRISMATIC

RED

An effulgent metallic intruder permeates

opaque layers, searching and searching,

yet all that remains are the trucking, frag-

mented burgundy columns in retinal vessels

ORANGE

there appeared to be a bit of a struggle

off-white eshy particles clumped under

meretricious vermillion almond-shaped nails,

he or whatever it fucking was put up quite a ght

YELLOW

gubernatorial documentation enumerating

personables: lemon chiffon stained itsy bitsy

teenie weenie brand whore lingerie, golden

trinkets opulently canvassing decaying ngers…

GREEN

she/he? shim? fuck, whatever It was was in for a wild night

a lurid skirt hemmed, perfectly, hair as black as coal,

329

traduzido do inglês por

CAMILLA LORETA

PÓS-PRISMÁTICO

VERMELHO

Um intruso resplandecente metálico permeia

camadas opacas, procurando e procurando,

ainda tudo que resta são as trocas, frag-

mentadas colunas vinho em veias da retina

LARANJA

parece que houve uma certa luta

partículas carnudas esbranquiçadas aglomeradas sob

meretrício unhas amendoadas de vermelhão,

ele, ou qualquer porra que seja, empenhou uma luta e tanto

AMARELO

documentação governamental enumerando

itens pessoais: biquíni de bolinha lima chiffon manchado

marca de lingerie de prostituta, douradas

bugigangas opulentamente vasculhando dedos em decomposição...

VERDE

ela/ele? shim? porra, qualquer Coisa que foi ia ter uma noite selvagem

uma saia vívida com bainha perfeita, cabelos negros como carvão,

quadro perfeito, o que se faz, aqui que se paga sulfemoglobina

erradiando verde intenso decomposição, aparência maculada

AZUL

hora da morte depois da meia-noite blue e trinta minutos

marcas pretas de ligadura entrelaçadas

na maçã proibida de Adão, rasteja cruzada

através da expulsão angelical, paraíso asxiado

330

picture perfect, you got what you paid for, sulfhaemoglobin

radiating verdant green decomposition, tarnished appearance

BLUE

time of death half-past midnight blue and

black ligature marks interweaved within

Adam’s forbidden apple, criss-cross slithering

across angelic expulsion, asphyxiated paradise

INDIGO

latex lled digits sprawl across stiff to death cadaverous

arms, there was no trace of illegal substances found in the body,

aged old indigo rings found at various intersections where blood

and water met, folds jacked up on life, discolour into death

VIOLET

anal ssures and tears are consistent with sexual assault,

eddies spilt dried amethyst all over mahogany-kissed skin

an amalgamation of semen and shit that no one cares about

nameless and soon to be forgotten, just another dead tranny.

331

ÍNDIGO

dígitos preenchidos por latéx esparramam-se sobre o rigor dos cadavéricos

braços, não havia vestígios de substâncias ilegais encontradas no corpo,

envelhecidos anéis índigo achados em várias intersecções onde o sangue

e a água se encontraram, na ssura da vida, descolorindo para a morte

VIOLETA

ssuras anais e rasgos são consistentes com abuso sexual,

redemoinhos derramaram ametista seca por toda a pele beijada de mogno

uma amálgama de sêmen e merda com quem ninguém se importa

sem nome e logo esquecido, apenas mais uma traveca morta.

Sangue nas ruas

Ruddy nas marés de carmesim,

o fruto iníquo de Adão,

pálido e oco,

envolto em buracos e lesões,

com óleo aveludado, derramando

como um rio inquietante,

uma fusão

de prejuízo e

animalidade.

Por que, Ó por que, Ó por que, Ó

–

outro Zé Ninguém, assinalado, em

uma cama de gelo, 28° 47’ 22’’ N,

81° 16’ 32’’ W

, mais outra maçã

cai a 1,002

milhas da árvore

fraturando contra o pavimento,

e o caule de mais um é encontrado

balançando, solitário, em um vendaval úmido.

1 Alusão à música “Strange fruit”, de Billie Holiday. (N.A.)

2 “Ohio”, música de Betty Comden e Adolph Green, do musical Wonderful town. (N.A.)

3 As coordenadas para Stanford, Flórida, onde Trayvon Martin foi morto. (N.A.)

4 O número de milhas de Sanford, Flórida para Ferguson, Missouri, onde Michael Brown

foi morto. (N.A.)

5 Alusão a Sandra Bland que foi morta na Prisão de Waller County em Hempstead,

Texas. (N.A.)

332

Blood on the Streets

Ruddy in tides of crimson,

Adam’s iniquitous fruit,

pallid and hollow,

enveloped in dents and lesions

with velvety oil, pouring

like a disquieting river,

an amalgamation

of detrimentality and

animality.

Why, OH why, OH why, OH

another John Doe, tagged, on

a bed of ice, at 28° 47’ 22’’ N,

81° 16’ 32’’ W

, yet another apple

drops 1,002

miles from the tree

fracturing against the pavement,

and the stem of another is found

swinging, lonesome, in a humid gale.

Can’t you see it

No. I don’t think it’s a systemic race problem in this country

Can't you feel it

That’s why our blacks are so much better than their blacks

It’s all in the air

If white privilege is a thing, why are people working so hard to be black?

I can't stand the pressure much longer

I had a dream, well

it was more of phantasmagorical

nightmare, an All-American holocaust,

the land of opportunity, but the trouble was,

these was states, Trumped, where there was very little

room for foolish black boys.”

1 Allusion to Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit”

 Betty Comden and Adolph Green’s “Ohio” from the musical Wonderful Town

3 e coordinates for Sanford, Florida, where Trayvon Martin was murdered.

4 e number of miles from Sanford, Florida to Ferguson, Missouri, where Michael Brown was murdered.

5 An allusion to Sandra Bland who was murdered in Waller County Jail in Hempstead, Texas.

6 Steve Bannon’s appearance on Karen Hunter’s SiriusXM show

7 Ann Coulter’s appearance on The Sean Hannity Show

8 Milo Yiannopoulos’ tweet in regards to comedienne/actress Leslie Jones

9 African American activist James Cameron’s A Time of Terror: A Survivor’s Story

333

Você não vê

Não. Não acho que seja um problema racial sistêmico neste país

Você não consegue sentir

É por isso que nossos negros são muito melhores que os negros deles

Está tudo no ar

Se o tal privilégio branco existe, qual o motivo para as pessoas estarem trabalhando tanto para

serem negras?

Eu não suporto a pressão por muito mais tempo

Eu tive um sonho, bem

era mais fantasmagórico

pesadelo, um holocausto americano,

a terra da oportunidade, mas o problema era,

estes eram estados, Trumpetizados, onde havia muito pouco

espaço para meninos negros tolos.

Sabe, há um

lugar que todas as pessoas com o

maior potencial estão reunidas

e aparentemente é isso

sete palmos abaixo.

Inimizade eletrônica

“Uma conclusão geral ou inferência; (com conotação negativa) uma declaração

excessivamente ampla ou geral baseada em evidências limitadas ou inadequadas;” –

Oxford English Dictionary

Você está brincando comigo, porra?!?! Homens brancos são lixo!

– Iniciando sequência de Padrões Comunitários –

1 Steve Bannon em participação no programa de Karen Hunter, na rádio SiriusXM. (N.A.)

2 Ann Coulter em participação no programa de televisão e Sean Hannity Show. (N.A.)

3 Tweet de Milo Yiannopoulos em relação à comediante/atriz Leslie Jones. (N.A.)

4 Ativista afro-americano James Cameron em A Time of Terror: a survivor’s story. (N.A.)

5 Viola Davis, em discurso ao Oscar 2017. (N.A.)

6 Comentário feito por mim numa postagem no Facebook, que incluía uma foto do ministro da educação de Quebec,

Jean-François Roberge, ao lado da vencedora do Prêmio Nobel da Paz e ativista, Malala Yousafzai, que ele twittou em 5

de julho de 2019 e declarou, em francês: “Bom encontro com @Malala Yousafzai, ganhadora do Prêmio Nobel da Paz,

para discutir o acesso à educação e o desenvolvimento internacional. @UNESCO.” Folxs foram rápides em destacar a

hipocrisia desse momento da divulgação devido ao projeto de lei de reforma secular (Projeto de Lei 21) aprovado em

Quebec, que proíbe servidores públicos em cargos de autoridade de usar símbolos religiosos. O partido de Roberge foi

fundamental para adicionar emendas rígidas ao projeto de lei. (N.A.)

334

You know, there’s one

place that all the people with the

greatest potential are gathered

and apparently that is

six feet underneath.

Electronic Enmity

“A general conclusion or inference; (with negative connotation)

an excessively broad or general statement based on limited or inadequate evidence;

-Oxford English Dictionary

Are you fucking kidding me?!?! White men are trash!

-Initiating Community Standards sequence-

public classication: hate speech

mustHegemonicallyBowdlerise

vagrant voices reverberating

calumny from piceous apertures, or {

publicity will metastasize,

rising like an exanimate

zealot

fumbling hallowed prognostication;

unless we void ab initio to

maintain (Stringent[] margins){ we must

1 Viola Davis’ 2017 Oscar speech1 Viola Davis’ 2017 Oscar speech

2 “generalization, n.” OED Online, Oxford University Press, June 2019, www.oed.com/view/Entry/77505. Ac-

cessed 9 July 2019.

3 Original comment from me on a Facebook post that included a photo of Quebec education minister Jean-

François Roberge alongside Nobel Peace Prize winner and activist Malala Yousafzai, which he tweeted on July

5, 2019 and stated in French “Nice meeting with @Malala Yousafzai, recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize, to

discuss access to education and international development. @UNESCO” (translation by me). Folxs were quick

to highlight the hypocrisy of this press moment due to the secular reform bill (Bill 21) passed in Quebec, which

bans public servants in positions of authority from wearing religious symbols. Roberge’s party was implemental in

adding stricter amendments to the bill.

4 Allusion to Reza Aslan’s Zealot: The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth.

335

deveHegemonicamenteExpurgação

vozes vagabundas reverberando

calúnia de abertura obscura, ou{

publicidade vai ter metástase,

subindo como um desmaiado

fanático

desastrado prognóstico sagrado;

a menos que anulemos ab initio para

manter (Restritas[] margens){ nós devemos

forticar (& interceder na ⠿

da branquitude{⚨} iniqua< 1455

; MCDXCII

✝✝)

Sistema.de.repressão(est.inquisição ✝1478

✝ : paraRedigir

besteira herética e imposta);

Sistemas.de.opressão(estruturas obstrutivas signicavam); como

// bloqueios limitados de GELO onde as coisas selvagens estão

enviado para lamentar; em

Sistemas.persecutórios (arraigados ✝ “∵

“ ✝ da.integração

de um contingente de Natividade totalitarista Adstringente(

no peso as pontes das nossas costas

conseguem aguentar));

1 Alusão ao livro de Reza Aslan, Zelota: a vida e a época de Jesus Nazaré. (N.A.)

2 Símbolo braille que signica omissão. Na impressão, a omissão de material matemático ou literário

pode ser indicada por um espaço em branco, um traço, um ponto de interrogação, pontos ou uma

combinação destes ou de outros sinais concebidos pelo autor. Salvo indicação em contrário, o símbolo

de omissão a ser usado em braille deve corresponder ao sinal impresso. Se o sinal de omissão usado na

impressão não tiver equivalente em braille no código, o sinal pode ser representado por um símbolo

em braille inventado ou por um desenho. Uma nota do transcritor deve ser incluída para explicar

qualquer símbolo braille criado. (N.A.)

3 Papa Nicholas V publicou Romanus Pontifex, uma encíclica dirigida ao rei Afonso V de Portugal,

que sanciona a conquista de terras não cristãs e a redução das populações nativas não cristãs à “es-

cravidão perpétua”. (N.A.)

4 1492 em algarismos romanos; ano em que Colombo “descobriu as Américas”, seguido por duas

cruzes latinas para simbolizar o papel cúmplice da religião na colonização. (N.A.)

5 Ano em que a Inquisição espanhola foi estabelecida pelo Rei Fernando II de Aragão e pela Rainha

Isabela I de Castela.

6 Alusão ao livro infantil epônimo de Maurice Sendak (1963). (N.A.)

7 Símbolo matemático de “pela razão de.” (N.A.)

8 Alusão a is bridge called my back: writings by radical women of color (1981). (N.A.)

336

fortify(& intercede in the ⠿

of yt {⚨} iniquity < 1455

; MCDXCII

✝✝) System.

of.repression(est.inquisition ✝1478

✝ : toRedact

heretical balderdash and impose);

Systems.of.oppression(obstructive structures meant); as

//bounded blockades of ICE where the wild things are

sent to wail; at the

Systems.of.persecution(ingrained ✝ “∵

” ✝ of.the integration.

of an Astringent totalitarianistic Nativity contingent(

on the weight the bridges of our backs

can hold));

* preemptive: empire strikes

the westbank

stripping Salvia apiana

in mass; leaving

streams of coagulated H2S

overriding aquatic circuits

with lactescent and honey-tinted lms;

must * Sever postcaval: passageways= apply stoppage

1 A Braille symbol meaning omission. In print, omission of mathematical or literary material may be shown

by a blank space, a dash, a question mark, dots, or a combination of these or other signs devised by the author.

Unless otherwise stated, the omission symbol to be used in braille should correspond to the print sign. If the

omission sign used in print has no braille equivalent in the code, the sign may be represented by a devised

braille symbol or by a drawing. A transcriber’s note must be included to explain any devised braille symbol

2 Pope Nicholas V publishes Romanus Pontifex, an encyclical addressed to King Afonso V of Portugal, which

sanctions the conquest of non-Christian lands, and the reduction of native non-Christian populations to

‘perpetual slavery’

3 1492 in Roman Numeral, year Columbus “discovered the Americas,” followed by two Latin crosses to sym-

bolise religion’s complicit role in colonisation.

4 Year Spanish Inquisition was established by King Ferdinand II of Aragon and Queen Isabella I of Castille.

5 Allusion to Maurice Sendak’s eponymous children’s book (1963).

6 Mathematical symbol for “because.”

7 Allusion to is Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color (1981).

8 Allusion to George Lucas’ e Empire Strikes Back (1980).

9 Allusion to the Israeli-Gaza Conict.

10 White sage, allusion to white sage being culturally appropriated and mass produced by big corporations for

New Age spiritualism.

11 Chemical formula for Hydrogen sulde.

337

* preventivo: contra ataque do império

o westbank

decapagem Sálvia-apiana

em massa; deixando

correntes coaguladas de H2S

sobrepondo circuitos aquáticos

com lmes lactescentes e cor de mel;

deve * Cortar veia cava: passagens = aplicar paralisação

algoritmo para deliquescer neve compactada liberal em bacia de supremacia;

implementar ltro1848

, tecendo em redes como a Naja naja usando

*/ sua língua wish-bone

para gravitar em direção à essência refulgente de sua presa,

que estaticamente Atravessa oCicloBinário (um intermediário entre animação e

quietus){

Implementar fórmula:

booleano éNeg =

porque se o pensamento corrompe a linguagem, a linguagem também pode corromper o

pensamento

#FAKENEWS

-ISSO É UMA POLÍTICA DE CAÇA ÀS BRUXAS;

Rebaixar a credibilidade do criador de conteúdo

por amortecimento míope das modulações do indivíduo

saídas da esquerda, eu não acho, então você deve falar

1 Alusão ao lme Guerra nas estrelas: o império contra-ataca, de George Lucas (1980). (N.A.)

2 Alusão ao conito Israel-Gaza. (N.A.)

3 Sálvia-branca, alusão à planta culturalmente apropriada e produzida em massa por grandes corporações

voltadas ao espiritismo New Age. (N.A.)

4 Fórmula química do sulfureto de hidrogênio. (N.A.)

5 Alusão ao início da Corrida do Ouro na Califórnia. (N.A.)

6 Wish-bone é um termo em inglês que, em português, seria literalmente “osso da sorte”. Escolhi não tradu-

zi-lo, pois não fazemos a mesma ritualística popular, que consiste em “disputar” quem o ganha ao puxar o

osso de galinha, peru, ou qualquer ave, após uma refeição, o que traria boa sorte ou a realização dos desejos

do vencedor. Uma prática que se iniciou na data da Ação de Graças, mas que, nesse contexto, não se conecta

com essa origem, apenas com a prática em qualquer data da superstição. (N.T.)

7 Livro 1984, de George Orwell (1949). (N.A.)

8 Allusão ao 45º presidente dos Estados Unidos, em tweet de 10 de janeiro de 2017, e seus problemas contín-

uos com o politicamente correto como um problema neste país e os efeitos do racismo reverso em relação

aos folxs, particularmente e Squad, criticando a América “por não ser grande” e os “ataques a Israel”.

(N.A.)

9 Alusão a um diálogo entre Alice e o Chapeleiro Maluco no capítulo 7, “Um chá de loucos”, de Alice no País

das Maravilhas, de Lewis Carroll. (N.A.)

338

algorithm to deliquesce liberal snowpack into supremacy basin;

implement lter1848

, by weaving within networks like the Naja naja using

*/ its wish-bone tongue to gravitate towards its prey’s refulgent essence,

who statically Straddles theBinarycycle(an intermediary between animation and quietus){

Implement formula:

boolean isNeg =

because if thought corrupts language, can language also corrupt thought

#FAKENEWS

-THIS IS A TOTAL POLITICAL WITCH HUNT;

Debase credibility of content creator

by myopically mufing individual’s modulations

outlets from the left, I don’t think, then you should talk

These constringent beats= “”;

palpitate through blooming arterial terrains

〰〰so(KXL

)ve{DAPL

}re (TMX

) ign{TAPS

}ty〰〰

resulting in = coal lubricating;

split sublunary skirts

1 Allusion to the beginning of the California Gold Rush.

2 George Orwell’s 1984 (1949).

3 Allusion to 45’s January 10, 2017 tweet and his ongoing issues with political correctness as a problem in

this country and the eects of reverse racism in relation to folxs, particularly e Squad, criticising America

“not being great” and the “attacks on Israel.”

4 Allusion to an interchange between Alice and the Mad Hatter says in Chapter 7: “A Mad Tea-Party” from

Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

5 Allusion to Keystone Pipeline System

6 Allusion to Dakota Access Pipeline

7 Allusion to Trans Mountain Pipeline System

8 Allusion to Trans-Alaska Pipeline System

339

Essas batidas constringentes = “”;

palpitam através de terrenos arteriais orescentes

〰〰so(KXL

)be{DAPL

}ra (TMX

) ni{TAPS

}a〰〰

resultando em = lubricante de carvão;

saias sublunares divididas

Restauração = brilho no revestimento de pátina privado de oxigênio

dado por fraturamento hidráulico da terra, e aí transferindo elétrons entre fragmentos = de rugas

mais profundas que ainda foram aliviadas de reservas inchadas --

como(o ponto de ruptura desliza transversalmente, o espelho racha sob pressão

= uma maldição nos espera,

por Negligenciar)

para dar resultados nais = “✝”

Fim de jogo;

* esposa: o lábio rosado, o bronzeado agridoce manchado, e o rosto retorcido que grita olhe

para minhas obras, ó Poderoso, e desespere!

* medidas preventivas: obstruir ! = narrativa difamatória em ordem

para reforçar a sanção pública, segurando o alusivo copo que decreta a mais bela da

terra para pérolas valentes! = : “ ou careta rubicunda ou com botões de berilo

desabrochando

“;

de bocas cheias de nitrato e fosfato;

avaliar carregamento de charivari venenoso; para a nal

internet interface = cynosure vs. cipher:

devolva tudo;

1 Alusão ao Sistema de Oleoduto de Keystone. (N.A.)

2 Alusão ao Sistema de Oleoduto de Dakota. (N.A.)

3 Alusão ao Sistema de Oleoduto Trans Mountain. (N.A.)

4 Alusão ao Sistema de Oleoduto Trans-Alaska. (N.A.)

5 Alusão a Ricardo II, de Shakespeare. (N.A.)

6 Alusão a “A senhora de Shalott”, de Lord Alfred Tennyson. (N.A.)

7 Alusão a “Ozymandias”, de Percy Bysshe Shelley (1818). (N.A.)

8 Alusão ao poema “Not in a silver casket cool with pearls”, de Edna St. Vincent Millay’s (1931). (N.A.)

340

Restaurate = lustre on the oxygen-deprived patina coat

given by fracking glass, and therein transferring electrons between fragments = of deeper

wrinkles that have yet been relieved of swelling reserves--

as(the breaking point transversely glides, the mirror cracks under pressure

=a curse awaits us,

for Neglecting)

to yield end results = “✝”

Endgame;

* espouse: the snarled lip, the bittersweet stained tan, and the gnarled visage that shrieks look

on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

* preventive measures: occlude != defamatory narrative in order

to bolster public sanction, by holding the allusive glass that decrees the fairest of the

land to valanced pearls != : “or rubicund grimace or with beryl buds blossoming

“;

from heavily nitrated and phosphated mouths;

assess veined charivari charging; towards nal

internet interface = cynosure vs. cipher:

return all;

1 Allusion to Shakespeare’s Richard II

2 Allusion to Lord Alfred Tennyson’s “e Lady of Shalott”

3 Allusion to Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Ozymandias” (1818).

4 Allusion to Edna St. Vincent Millay’s Not In A Silver Casket Cool With Pearls” (1931).

341

342

Translator’s Note

Camila Loreta’s History: Hand in Hand, History: Mouth

to Mouth, is an exploration of the human experience

through a historical lens that transgresses colonial

conceptions of time and space. Her work asks us to

examine the interconnection between the various

relationships within one’s life of the material and

immaterial worlds, a perspective long forgotten by

those willing to open to the (im)possible. If a reader

attempts to classify her piece, they lose the magic and

beauty of Loreta’s art and storytelling that cannot

be understood in binary terms. Through her imagery

and diction, Camila offers readers an intuitive way of

observing the world. Her innovative writing, as seen

with her use of repetition, alliteration and enjambment,

opens the spacetime continuum and allows us to visit

multiple planes and universes all in a single page. Time is

nonlinear and non-sequential. Moments bleed in and out

of our existence. Every memory is woven within the ber

of daily lives such that, at any moment, a part of them

awakens and haunts us.

343

344

CAMILLA LORETA

HISTÓRIA DE MÃO-PARA-MÃO

HISTÓRIA DE BOCA-PARA-BOCA

Cada um de nós vagando

Como estrelas cadenciadas

No terreno fértil e brilhante

De água turva

Como uma noite innita

O solo cede sobre nossos pés

Ventres se tocam

–

isso antes

Um toque macio nas costas quentes

Boca vermelha, língua passa entre os dentes. cheiro de canela no canto das orelhas.

A noite abriu as conversas, olhos de espanto me observam, há portões armados que se mostram nos

meus ombros tensos, boca semi aberta emite poucas opiniões e olhares furtivos.

Chovia

Entramos no bar. Há uma geladeira, que gruda no meu casaco plástico, o lanche chegou, comemos e

o gosto de carne me dá náuseas. Me arrependo, sabendo que isso deveria acontecer.

Suspiro o afastamento. Falamos sobre rios enormes, galhos, folhas e arestas virgens.

Ele me olhava e eu duvido se é para mim ou é receio que eu chore.

Digo. Tá tudo bem. Não passa nada.

Acendo um cigarro, mesmo sem fumar tenho fumado, pra ter o gosto do cigarro dele dentro de

mim. Um sorriso pequeno e tenso de saudade se instala no meu peito, mesmo sabendo pulsante: ele

te desconhece.

345

translated from the portuguese

JOEL SEDANO

HISTORY: HAND IN HAND, HISTORY:

MOUTH TO MOUTH

Every one of us wanders

like shooting stars

on bright and fertile ground

from water that’s murky

like an unending night

the soil gives in under our feet

bellies touch

–

On a warm back,

before this, a soft touch

mouth red, tongue sliding between teeth, the smell of cinnamon at the corners of ears.

The night opens conversations, eyes bewilderedly observe me, armed entrances show in my

tense shoulders, half-opened mouths spit scanty opinions and furtive glances.

It was raining,

we entered a bar. There’s a fridge that fuses to my plastic coat, our lunch arrives, and we eat– the

taste of meat makes me nauseous. I regret knowing this would happen.

I sigh slowly. We talk about large rivers, bowers, leaves, and new edges.

He looks at me but I doubt it or am I afraid I’ll cry.

I tell myself–It’s okay. Nothing happened.

Although I hadn’t smoked in some time, I lit a cigarette, just to have the taste on my tongue.

A small and strained smile of saudade settles in my breast, all the while my heart pulsates: he

doesn’t recognize you.

We walk down the street, passing those churches and their arches. An intuitive two-faced cat is

watching us. I say: ‘He likes you.’ He said: ‘Then why did he run away?’

346

Andamos pela rua, ultrapassamos igrejas pelo meio de arcos, um gato de duas caras nos observa,

digo: ele gostou de você, e ele: acho que fugiu de mim.

No bar mesas na rua, pessoas desconhecidas, um homem tenta nos vender seu cd por cinquenta

centavos. A capa é vermelha.

Ele me dizia sobre o mês de agosto. Incêndios e roubos, tomamos uma água que eu não pedi, mas

acabo percebendo que estava com sede.

Começa a chover. Senta aqui do meu lado. Ele senta. Seu corpo parece menor do que o meu, sem

casaco, treme de frio.

Vamos entrar?

Fumamos um cigarro. Mesmo que eu não fume, há uma tensão estranha no ar. Lembro do nosso

último encontro

Seu olho perto do meu, uma respiração quase inexistente, imaginei que ele era um tanto lunático.

Comemos romã na sua casa. Estava tudo escuro, a luz da farmácia brilhava no teto, a faca que abriu

a fruta da sorte apoiada num prato sem cor.

Dentro do bar um cheiro de fritura, ele se afasta. Minha cabeça apoiada na geladeira, mastigo o

hambúrguer.

Já vim tantas vezes aqui, penso, eu era outra pessoa. Até a cor do cabelo mudou.

Tenho vontade de abraça-lo. Uma fenda entre os dois banquinhos do balcão nos separa. Passo a mão

em suas costas, está quente, mais do que eu.

Falamos sobre impossibilidades. Ele se arrepende, mas parece aliviado, resignado talvez.

Eu suspiro novamente. Está chegando a hora de ir embora, pedir a conta, seguir a vida. Pagamos e

andamos pela rua falando sobre santos e homens, ninguém nos pergunta nada.

Damos dois abraços, um não foi suciente, não há nenhum cheiro, meu peito parece pedir mais

tempo, dou um passo pra trás. Falamos de rios e coragem.

347

Bar tables dot the street, lled with people. At one table, a man tries to sell us his CD for 50

cents, but the cover is a socialist red…

He talks about August: a month of robberies and res. We drank water, which I didn’t order.

Eventually, I come to realize my thirst.

It starts to rain. He sits next to me. His body is smaller than mine, especially now shivering in

the cold without a jacket.

‘Shall we enter?’

We shared a cigarette. I don’t smoke. There’s a strange tension in the air. I recall the last time we

met:

Your eye is near mine, your breath is almost nonexistent. I thought he was mad. We shared a

pomegranate at his house.

Dark throughout, except the light from the pharmacy that reected on the ceiling, the knife

opened the fruit which brings good fortune, sitting on a muted plate.

A frying smell wafts inside the bar. He moves away. My head rests against the refrigerator as I

chew on a burger.

I’ve come here so often I think I’m someone else. Even the color of my hair has changed.

I feel like hugging him. There’s a gap between these two stools that separates us. I run my hand

across his back. He’s warm– hotter than me.

We talk about what ifs. He regrets the conversation, but seems relieved, perhaps resigned.

Someone requests the bill. I sigh anew. It’s almost time to leave, to move on with life. We paid,

then walked along the street conversing about men and their God. There’s no one around to

bother us.

We hugged twice because once wasn’t enough. He has no scent, but my chest yearns for more

time. Eventually, I step back. We speak of rivers and courage.

He said, ‘later.’ I reply, ‘We’ll see.’

348

Ele diz: até, eu: tchau.

O encontrei de novo, caminhava na rua

o livro aberto

as palavras no chão

Dessa vez era uma pessoa de passagem, anunciei a despedida

quem estava dentro do restaurante era outro

um outro com os braços de cozinheiro

o rosto de poeta

havia algo em seu movimento que lhe fazia enigmático

respiramos em conjunto

arroz

feijão

peixe grelhado

anda tudo muito caro, muito caro

ainda a classe média acredita que é só se endividar, já que sempre alguém vai pagar por nós

co em silêncio, a verdade daquilo me doi, me sinto pequena

mesmo que ele não perceba, me desconhece

349

I’m surprised, thereafter, to see him once again.

Words spill onto the sidewalk

from the book in my hand.

A passing moment, I say my farewells

to those inside the restaurant. Someone else,

with arms like a cook,

and a poet’s countenance

something enigmatic about the way he moves.

Jointly, we inhale

rice

beans

grilled sh

everything is expensive–

very, very expensive

middle class believes

in going into debt,

no matter the cost

because someone

will foot the bill.

I remain silent. The truth thereof hurts. I feel small,

even if he doesn’t realize it. He doesn’t see me.

Outside, another leaves, even as I let go.

A sundry of torsos, each a different size.

Just like sex

dampening or drying from within.

350

lá fora o outro foi embora, até larguei

são tantos os torsos de tamanhos diversos

assim como o sexo

que molha ou seca por dentro

no seu carro, já a caminho da gasolina

muito caro

você reclama da mania de fazer pão com alvéolos

pão é água e farinha, pô!

Estendo a mão até seu cabelo, sabendo que seria o meu primeiro toque no seu corpo

que revoltado, que gracioso

você desmonta e sorri

desmonta tanto que se curva até mim, numa diagonal sobre o câmbio

aproximo a minha respiração da sua

o beijo é quente

e lá vem

o cheiro de canela

seus lábios de casca de planta

penso se ele não chupou uma bala redonda

mas nada

parecia mais um perfume, um cheiro de verdade

351

Now in your car, en route for gas

very, very

expensive

you complain about the bread-making trend with all its air bubbles

Pal, bread is nothing but water and our!

I reach for your hair, knowing this will be my rst touch of your

body

how insurgent, how comely

you smile and disassemble

so much that the charade bends towards me, diagonally upon the

exchange.

I draw my breath closer to yours

the scent of cinnamon

your lips like tree bark

and here it comes

the kiss, so warm.

I wonder if he sucked on a cinnamon candy

yet nothing

seemed more like perfume, a sincere smell

not honeyed

rising spicy to my nose

352

não de doce

apimentado, subindo no meu nariz

um beijo simples,

assumido

no meio da rua girassol

um mapa geológico de

um pequeno objeto, diversos monumentos esmagados,

sobre a mulher e seus envolvimentos.

tudo é possível de ser dito

com uma colher de mel na boca

isso para os querem as coisas para sí, ou para todos

você disse

conforme a tarde se aprofundou sua sala também já não tinha muita luz

moro numa pirambeira, no fundo a mata cheia de entulho

a proprietária não se interessa por trocar as janelas

muito caro

353

a single kiss,

accepted

in the middle of Rua Girassol.

a geological map of

a small object, several smashed monuments,

about a woman and her encumbrances.

everything possible can be said

with a spoon of honey in your mouth

this for those who want things for themselves, or for everyone

you said

as the afternoon deepened, his room didn’t have much light either

I reside on a steep pirambeira, at the bottom a thicket

ooded with rubble

the landlord doesn’t care to replace the windows

too expensive

on the shelf a rose quartz, identical

to the one by my bed

the smell of bark in the breeze

I lean over, your warm body covered in the white t-shirt

354

sobre a prateleira uma pedra rosa, a mesma que ca ao lado da minha cama

o cheiro de casca no ar

me debruço, seu corpo quente coberto pela camiseta branca

a pele cheia de pintas

mais parece o céu noturno

não sei que pode acontecer

o pote de granola na cozinha, as panelas no armário aberto

os livros escolhidos cuidadosamente

lá embaixo vi um pacote de camisinha jogado no meio da terra, aberto

essa evidência como curiosidade e distância

você pelado com outro corpo pelado

sua boca passando pelo seio

você disse

é tão rosa

nunca ninguém tinha reparado

como o bico dos meus seios são assim

macios

com a blusa já caída na cintura, a língua preenche

logo atrás, na sua nuca, vejo a tempestade chegar.

355

skin speckled

like the night sky

I don’t know what will happen

the jar of granola in the kitchen, pots and pans on the opened

shelves

books carefully curated

At the bottom, I saw a pack of condoms nestled in the dirt,

exposed

this evidence, curious and distant,

of you with another body, both naked

your lips brush across my breast

you whisper

they’re so pink

no one’s ever noticed

my nipples are so

tender

like the blouse hugging the waist, the tongue swells

right on the nape of your neck, I see the storm coming.

in the background we listen to the clarinet, the saxophone

...History: hand in hand,

History: mouth to mouth...

...At the time when life began...

...The air turned into a mass of water...

... A current ... A seashell ... A palm seed ...

...He ew, and ew, and ew....

I listen to

the beginning of the earth

in the hollow of every chest

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no fundo escutamos o clarinete e o saxofone

...História de mão-para-mão, história de boca-para-boca ...

...No tempo que a existência começou ...

...O ar transformou-se em massa de água …

... Uma corrente ... Uma concha do mar ...Uma semente da palmeira …

...Ele voou, voou, voou....

eu escuto

o início do mundo

no buraco de cada peito

como um feitiço antigo

sobre sua prateleira o rastro da fé

que repousam em meus sonhos

os tambores de uma música que nem mesmo eu sabia

sob o manto branco

Cada um de nós vagando

Como estrelas cadenciadas

No terreno fértil e brilhante

De água turva

357

like an unsung spell

on your shelf the trace of faith

that resides in my dreams

the drums of a tune that even I didn’t know

beneath the white veil

Every one of us wanders

like shooting stars

on bright and fertile ground

from water that’s murky

like an unending night

the soil gives in under our feet

we y, and y, and y

the wide earth underfoot

where did we come from

where are we going

I close my eyes

think about the creator of each

humanly body,

of a tree,

the one who sees inside and out

...History: hand in hand,

History: mouth to mouth…

Author’s Note:

The portions in italics are excerpts from the oldest myth-poem of

the Nagos. The poem is a creation story about Òrisa òbátálá also

known as Orisha the Creator. The work entitled “Òrìsà dídá ayé:

òbátálá” was translated by Luis L. Marins as Orisha the Creator

and When the Yoruba World was Created.

358

Como uma noite innita

O solo cede sobre nossos pés

nós voamos, voamos, voamos

a terra larga sob os pés

da onde viemos

pra onde vamos

fecho os olhos

penso no criador dos corpos

para cada humano

uma árvore

aquele que vê por dentro e por fora

...História de mão-para-mão, história de boca-para-boca …

nota:

Os trechos em itálico são trechos que pertencem ao mais antigo mito-poema dos nagôs sobre a criação

do mundo. Traduzido por Luis L. Marins em Òrìsà dídá ayé: òbátálá e a criação do mundo iorubá

359

360

361

word for word / palabra por palabra

Columbia University School of the Arts

Universidad Diego Portales

362

Translator’s Note

Mateo Alexander Rispoli, estudiante de la Universidad

de Columbia (Nueva York), presenta aquí un fragmento

de Angelo, un proyecto narrativo. A lo largo de nuestras

conversaciones, me hizo saber de su ación por el cine,

conocimiento que anexo a su habilidad para crear escenas

a detalle. Aquellos con un paladar renado para el true

crime notarán ciertas semejanzas con el género, incluso

se podría establecer un tenue vínculo entre cómo el autor

muestra a su protagonista y cómo lo hace Capote con

Dick y Perry.

Como lector de poesía, traducir una novela implicó

adentrarme en un terreno que no conozco del todo

(sospecho que traducir mis poemas fue algo más o

menos parecido). A esto se suma la distancia cultural,

especícamente ciertos códigos y estilos de vida

estadounidense, desde la prepotencia del “frat boy” hasta

un juicio estético y social al “hillbilly”; la infraestructura

de las ciudades en el estado de Delaware fue otro

tema a tener en cuenta, en especial encontrar una

traducción exacta para “driveway” y un ocio similar a

“masterweight”. La creación de escenas es una habilidad

del autor de esta narración, ellas surgen a partir de un

imaginario de precariedad, tales como planchar ropa

pasando una olla con agua hirviendo o niños haciendo

guras en el barro con sus bicicletas tuneadas. A esto se

suman conductas y vocabulario recurrentes en los medios

de comunicación estadounidenses, como el orgullo étnico

del ítalo-americano.

A lo largo del proceso de traducción sentí cierta

envidia expresiva por el inglés. Como escritor envidié la

capacidad de síntesis, al punto que fue necesario recortar

algunas oraciones que, en el original, abarcaban una

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cantidad considerable de información. En ese sentido,

mi traducción puede parecer menos compacta, con

“sobrepeso” en comparación a la original. Aun así, la

experiencia de traducir y conversar con el autor fue muy

enriquecedora.

364

MATEO ALEXANDER RISPOLI

ANGELO

We were out on the driveway smashing the door off the safe and laughing at the

violence of it. Someone, unknown to all but myself, had already violated the intimacy of the

door, bolt, and wall in an attempt to force a sale of the contents inside. My father was too

afraid to render a verdict as to who did the business with it, worried that an unjust accusation

would bring more undesired attention to his house, of which he received quite a bit in the week

prior. Matt, a nice local frat boy of inrm convictions on any matter that does not concern his

brothers or the brute destruction of something, came in with a sledgehammer. His cut octagon

vents into the face of the door, sending a cement smoke into the air.

“Caustic stuff, that’s how they reproof it. The bastard wasn’t getting in there no

matter how hard he tries” said my dad, letting cigarette smoke lter through his front teeth and

veil his face in sunlight.

I agreed. “He could have tried until the sun rose and fell and he wouldn’t have popped

that lock.”

“You just get my les out of there and give them to me. Whoever had a go at it came

in through a storm door that leads right to the basement. Ed would have heard it.” But I did

hear it, and I knew who did it.

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traducido del inglés por

MARTÍN NÚÑEZ

ÁNGELO

Estábamos afuera, en la entrada de nuestra casa, destrozando la puerta de la caja

fuerte y riéndonos de la violencia en ello. Alguien, desconocido para todos menos para mí,

ya había violado la intimidad entre la puerta, la bisagra y el muro buscando apoderarse de

los contenidos. Mi padre temía dar su opinión al respecto. Le preocupaba que una acusación

falsa atrajera más atención a su casa, de la cual ya había recibido bastante la semana anterior.

Matt, un zorrón buena onda y de convicciones débiles en asuntos que no giraran en torno a sus

“hermanos” o la destrucción de algo, entró con un mazo. Hizo una abolladura octagonal en la

cara de la puerta, levantando polvaredas de cemento.

“Tiene esa mierda cáustica que la vuelve a prueba de fuego. El bastardo no iba a

entrar ahí por más que lo intentara” dijo mi papá, dejando que el humo del cigarro se ltrara

entre sus dientes y que la luz del sol cubriera su cara.

“Podría haberlo intentado todo el día y no lo hubiera logrado”. Asentí.

“Saquen mis archivos de ahí y pásenmelos. Quien sea que lo haya hecho, entró por

la puerta que conduce al sótano. Ed lo habría escuchado”. Pero sí lo escuché y sabía quién lo

había hecho.

“¿Se considera allanamiento si la puerta está sin llave?” Pregunté.

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“Is it considered a break in if the door was unlocked?” I asked.

“It’s an unlawful entry, you’re still walking into someone’s house uninvited.” my

father replied.

“Well at least whoever did it didn’t take anything else. Damn good safe here too.” said

Matt. He broke back into the spirit of sanctioned demolition and swung half circles into the

side of the safe. He was having fun. He took up a digging pole to it and tried to pry the door out

of itself. The metal on metal scrape as the wedged tip of the pole skinned the grey paint on the

safe off reminded me of the sound of the cellar door opening.

My dad and Matt didn’t know who did it but I did.

––––

It all started less than a week earlier with a post to the New Castle Community

Facebook group:

Angelo Mendoza

5 days ago

I truly believe that christopher conrad ordered jack’s muder,and the communication when like

this;order went Theresa gamly ,gormley to her hairdresser thomas villiam yeats,thomas to

antonio mendoza, the owner of the establishment thomas villiam yeats works at. From there

my pimp brother antonio (he is my brother and I want to make clear that I do love him, i

just want the truth, and I don’t want to implicate his illegitimate son, who is not his, not a

Mendoza,) would dispatch one of his whores to manipulate the target,in this case the whore

that he dispatched is a well known one is this area,my wife and the biological mother of my

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“Sigue siendo ilegal, estarías entrando a la casa de alguien sin ser invitado.”

Respondió mi padre.

“Bueno, al menos no se llevaron nada más. Tienen una caja muy buena” dijo Matt.

Regresó a su espíritu demoledor e hizo semicírculos contra el costado de la caja fuerte. Se

estaba divirtiendo. Agarró un poste de excavación e hizo palanca contra la puerta. El roce del

metal contra el metal, cuando la punta del poste raspó la pintura gris de la caja fuerte, me

recordó al sonido de la puerta del sótano abriéndose.

Mi papá y Matt no sabían quién lo había hecho, pero yo sí.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Todo comenzó, hacía menos de una semana, con una publicación en el grupo de

Facebook de New Castle:

Ángelo Mendoza

hace 5 días

En vrrdad creo qe christopher conrad msndó a matar a jack,y la xosa fue así;la orden fuede

Theresa gamly .gormley a su peluqero thomas villiam yeats y de thomas a antonio mendoza,

dueño del establecimento en que trabaja thomas villiam yeats. De ahi el kbrón de mi hermano

anntonio (es mi herrmano y kiero dejar en claro qe lo amo, solo quiero la verdad, y no qiero

imvolucrar a su hijo ilegítimo, qe no es de él, no es un Mendoza) habría mandao una de sus

putas a manipular al objetivo,en este caso la puta que mandó es konocida en mi barrio,mi

esposa y madre biológica de mis tres hijos,sra. María Mendoza (quien sospecho es tambien

la madre del huacho de antonio, cenvebido y parido en secreto repugnante [y cambiado, sí

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three children,mrs. Maria Mendoza (who i believe to also be the mother of antonio’s bastard,

conceived and birthed in a degenerate secrecy [and switched, yes swapped without my knowing

for another child I do not know the origin of and suspect I never will, some Italian boy that

looks like me but] Neither I nor the dedicated team of investigators at the Investigation

Discovery channel have ye t been able to discern the idenitiyy of the actual killers.

Will someone out there please debate me on this?

and be constructive about it,

No Likes 0 Comments

It was a glorious bit of nonsense, written atop a repost of an episode of a true crime

show in the disordered grammatical depravity indicative of any well-crafted monomaniacal

scrawl. Between the lines festered a singular quality of abandonment, the type felt only

by a man down bad on his luck with no other outlet for his bilious pain than social media.

The author was one of my ve uncles on my father’s side. My godfather, cast down to such

desperate depths by the cold heart of an unfaithful wife and the greasy palms of a bank in

savage pursuit of delinquent loan payments. Angelo Mendoza, weighmaster at The Cherry

Island landll, assiduous drinker, and the father of three boys fond of treaded wheels and mud,

found himself one night hunched over a time-yellow mechanical keyboard with a lit cigarette

resting snug between the keys of the seldom used number pad, slandering the name of his

own brother on the town square Facebook page, his wrists, I like to think, shaking with the

arrhythmic excitement of a free jazz pianist following the direction of some force beyond all

human understanding and taste. Yes, this was the state of my uncle Angelo when he decided

to jettison all social credibility and announce himself as the latest in a never-ending series of

exciting town grotesques. He had probably taken in a few drinks that scattered his wits, and a

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cambiado sin que yo lo supiera por otro niño del que no conozco su origen y sozpecho

que nunca lo sabré, un niño italiano qe se parece a mí pero] ni yo ni el esmerado equipo

de ynvestigadores del Investigation Discovery ha podido dicernir la identidaad de los

verdaderos asecinos.

Puede alguien debatir esto conmigo?

y ke sa constructivo porfa,

0 Me gusta 0 Comentarios

Era una lesera hermosa, comentada en la publicación de un episodio de un

true crime show y en la depravación gramatical de cualquier garabato bien hecho. Entre

líneas supuraba cierta especie de abandono, del tipo que solo siente un hombre con mala

suerte y sin otra salida para su amargo dolor que las redes sociales. El autor era uno de

mis cinco tíos por el lado de mi padre. Mi padrino, hundido en tal desesperación por el frío

corazón de una esposa inel y las grasientas manos de un banco al acecho de pagos por

préstamos morosos. Ángelo Mendoza, recolector de basura en el vertedero The Cherry

Island, bebedor asiduo y padre de tres niños acionados al barro y las ruedas todoterreno,

se encontraba una noche encorvado sobre un teclado desgastado por el tiempo y con un

cigarrillo cómodamente encendido entre las teclas numéricas, calumniando el nombre

de su propio hermano en la página de Facebook del pueblo. Me imagino sus muñecas

temblando con la excitación arrítmica de un pianista de jazz siguiendo la dirección de

alguna fuerza más allá de toda comprensión y gusto humanos. Sí, ese era el estado de mi

tío Ángelo cuando decidió deshacerse de toda credibilidad social y anunciarse como el

último de una serie interminable de emocionantes grotescos en la ciudad. Probablemente

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few more doubly intoxicating episodes of a true crime show.

The show he referred to in the post had done an episode on his friend, Jack

Tealy, a man who none of the people mentioned in the post had even met let alone

ordered the muder of. He was launching an inquisition and just about everybody saw

it and took it upon themselves to bring it up in that hushed excitement characteristic

of small town intrigue to my father, Antonio Mendoza. If Angelo had written his

indictment of my father within the standards of the English language observed on

Facebook, I worry that people would not have bothered to come to my father to ask his

side of the story rst. Perhaps I should be thankful that Angleo was so upfront about

his complete derailment.

Based on the post, I came to the conclusion that my uncle Angelo had been

cracked. His presence in my life up until that point was made up of the narrative my

father drip-fed me over the years of his precipitous decline into the online baron of

provincial conspiracies that I am forced to portray him as today. In a brief period

of peace during my adolescence, Angelo used to take me out to the riverfront with

my Aunt Maria, and according to my father, we would play mini-golf, but I can only

remember throwing dice against a brick wall and hanging out with an off-duty cab

driver whose left leg stopped growing when he was only eight years old. His name was

Jehu. Come to think of it, my Aunt Maria was never there at all. She was at home, not

with the kids, but with another man from Angelo’s now-defunct construction company,

devising ways to siphon money out of the business. She maintained this grift with

imperturbable cool for about a decade before she disappeared entirely, leaving a broken

man and three sons, who even then, were very fond of treaded wheels and mud.

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había bebido unas cuantas copas que lo mal entonaron y algunos episodios, doblemente

embriagadores, de un true crime show.

El programa al que se refería en la publicación había hecho un episodio sobre su

amigo, Jack Tealy, un hombre que ninguna de las personas mencionadas había conocido

y mucho menos había mandado a matar. Estaba desatando una inquisición, la cual casi

todo el mundo vio y se encargó de traerla a conversación en esa discreta emoción, típica

en las intrigas de los pueblos pequeños, contra mi padre, Antonio Mendoza. Si Ángelo

hubiera escrito su acusación contra mi padre dentro de los estándares del idioma inglés

que se observan en Facebook, me preocupa que la gente no se hubiera molestado en

acudir primero a mi padre para preguntarle su versión de los hechos. Tal vez debería

estar agradecido de que Ángelo fuera tan sincero sobre su completa decadencia.

Basándome en la publicación, había llegado a la conclusión de que mi tío

Ángelo había enloquecido. Su presencia en mi vida hasta ese momento se componía

de la narrativa que mi padre me fue metiendo a lo largo de los años, acerca de su

precipitado declive hasta convertirse en el barón de las conspiraciones provinciales de

internet, a quien hoy me veo obligado a retratar. En un breve periodo de paz durante

mi adolescencia, Ángelo solía llevarme a la orilla del río con mi tía María y, según mi

padre, jugábamos minigolf; pero solo recuerdo tirar dados contra una pared de ladrillos

y huevear con un taxista fuera de servicio, cuya pierna izquierda había dejado de

crecer cuando solo tenía ocho años. Su nombre era Jehú. Ahora que lo pienso, mi tía

María nunca estuvo allí. Estaba en casa, no con los niños, sino con otro hombre de la

—ahora desaparecida— empresa constructora de Ángelo, ideando formas de desviar

dinero del negocio. Ella mantuvo este vínculo con una frialdad imperturbable durante

372

My father, being the most successful of his siblings, bailed Angelo out of the complete

economic destitution my aunt left him in. He took another mortgage out on our house to help

Angelo pay off his debts, but this didn’t keep him from borrowing even more money. We found out

about his troubles when we came upon him wallowing away in a nest of beer bottles and cigarette

butts at our beach house while my cousins ripped muddy gure-eights into our backyard with their

dirt bikes. He had foreclosed on his house, and he had too much pride to ask for help. I’ll never

forget the cold detachment with which my father treated them. I didn’t agree with this, I couldn’t

understand it; my early adolescent conscience couldn’t rationalize how a brother could treat his own

like he was nothing but a squatter. His presence after that was like that of a ghost exorcised from

our lives by the cleansing holy water of a fraternal loan, the only type of money you can default on

without being ruthlessly chased down for.

I went to bed fairly early the night of the break-in (walk-in). I spent the day working on

a piece of reporting on the local mushroom festival, an event of interest to almost no one who did

not attend besides the six local seniors that still read the community newspaper. I heard the scream

of the cellar door opening, and I walked downstairs expecting to see my father had returned home

from his trip early. I found him in the most unceremonious fashion: He was prying at the safe door

with my father’s favorite crow bar. The uorescent lights in the basement exposed all the blemishes

on his face and stains on his t-shirt; one mustard, two beer, and a few assorted reds that could have

been ketchup, sriracha, a light BBQ, or blood. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. He

turned around, and the color drained from both of our faces. He started laughing, bagging up; he

couldn’t contain himself. I’d be remiss if I did not admit that I, too, started laughing. I thought

that maybe if I indulged him he would put down the crow and not disbar me from the living in any

of the thousands of horric and gruesome ways my mind thought up in the moments between my

373

aproximadamente una década antes de desaparecer por completo, dejando a un hombre

destrozado y tres hijos, a quienes, ya en ese entonces, gustaban mucho de las ruedas y el

barro.

Mi padre, siendo el más exitoso de sus hermanos, salvó a Ángelo de la miseria

económica en la que mi tía lo había dejado. Pidió otra hipoteca sobre nuestra casa para

ayudar a Ángelo a pagar sus deudas, pero esto no le impidió pedir prestado aún más dinero.

Nos enteramos de sus problemas cuando lo encontramos revolcándose en un nido de botellas

de cerveza y colillas en nuestra casa de playa mientras mis primos hacían guras en forma de

ocho en el barro de nuestro patio trasero con sus motos de Cross. Había ejecutado la hipoteca

de su casa y era muy orgulloso como para pedir ayuda. Nunca olvidaré el frío desapego con el

que mi padre los trató. Yo no estaba de acuerdo con esto, no podía entenderlo; mi conciencia

de adolescente no podía racionalizar cómo un hermano podía tratar a los suyos como si no

fueran más que un ocupante ilegal. Su presencia después de eso fue como la de un fantasma

exorcizado de nuestras vidas por el agua bendita puricadora de un préstamo fraternal, el

único tipo de dinero que puede dejar de pagar sin ser perseguido despiadadamente.

En la noche del allanamiento, me había acostado temprano. Estuve todo el día

trabajando en un reportaje sobre el festival local de hongos, un evento de interés para casi

nadie que no asistiera además de los seis adultos mayores locales que aún leen el periódico

de la comunidad. Oí el sonido de la puerta del sótano abriéndose y bajé esperando ver que

mi padre había regresado antes de su viaje. Lo encontré de la manera menos ceremoniosa:

estaba haciendo fuerza en la puerta de la caja fuerte con la palanca favorita de mi padre. Las

luces uorescentes del sótano expusieron todas las imperfecciones de su rostro y las manchas

de su polera; una de mostaza, dos de cerveza y algunos rojos que podrían haber sido de

374

arrival in the basement and his turning around; the two toothed curve cutting my ear in half and

hooking my head like the rst stab at a watermelon; a toss of the crobar and some simple blunt

force trauma, tragedian justice for Jack Tealy. I started to think that I, too, was a softcore-snuff-

lm-addled victim of the Investigation Discovery channel. He stopped laughing and took a deep

breath.

“Angelo, please, I don’t know anything about my father’s prostitution ring.”

He dropped the crowbar and reverted to the kindhearted delinquent I knew him to be

in those days playing craps in Wilmington. He said “I know you don’t son. Have a beer with me.”

He disarmed me by the time we made it up the stairs and onto the porch. Though

somewhat of a vermin, he retained an admirable amiability in his attitude and I’m convinced that

he could disarm anyone so long as he disarmed himself. He referenced our days on the riverfront,

when we allegedly played minigolf. “I still talk to Jehu,” he said, “he owes me from games back

when I used to take you out with me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the gimp-leg owes you a few

bucks too eh?” He chose not to mention my parentage, he chose not to even acknowledge the

Facebook post, but he did give me further details about his wife’s indelities on several occasions.

Nonetheless, we sat there chatting shit and enjoying each other’s company in the half-paternal,

half-fraternal banter of uncles and grown nephews. He made me smoke cigarettes.

He said “Smoke that to the tip, we’re not rich men. Have you ever had to iron your

clothes with a boiling pot of water?”

I had not.

Once we were settled in on the porch, he said “Wait here, I’m gonna go grab a brew, two

375

kétchup, sriracha, salsa barbacoa o sangre. No sabía qué decir, así que no dije nada. Se

dio la vuelta y el color desapareció de nuestras caras. Empezó a reírse, metiendo cosas en

una bolsa; no pudo contenerse. Sería negligente si no admitiera que yo también comencé

a reír. Pensé que tal vez si lo complacía, bajaría la palanca y no me excluiría de la vida

en ninguna de las miles de formas horribles y espantosas que mi mente pensó entre mi

llegada al sótano y el instante en que se dio vuelta; la curva de dos puntas cortando mi

oreja por la mitad y enganchando mi cabeza como la primera puñalada a una sandía; un

alzamiento de la palanca y un simple trauma de fuerza contundente, justicia trágica para

Jack Tealy. Empecé a creer que yo también era una víctima atontada por las películas

snuff del Investigation Discovery. Dejó de reírse y respiró hondo.

“Ángelo, por favor, no sé nada sobre la red de prostitución de mi padre”.

Dejó caer la palanca y volvió a ser el delincuente de buen corazón que sabía

que era en aquellos días jugando a los dados en Wilmington. Dijo: “Sé que no, hijo. Ven,

tomémonos unas chelas.”

Me desarmó cuando subimos las escaleras y salimos al porche. Aunque algo

asqueroso, conservaba una admirable amabilidad en su actitud y estoy convencido de que

podía desarmar a cualquiera con tal de desarmarse a sí mismo. Se rerió a nuestros días

en la orilla del río, cuando supuestamente jugábamos minigolf. “Todavía hablo con Jehú

—dijo—, me debe de los juegos cuando solía llevarte conmigo. No me sorprendería si el

cojo también te debiera plata” Eligió no mencionar lo de mi parentesco, eligió ni siquiera

reconocer la publicación de Facebook, pero me dio más detalles sobre las indelidades

de su esposa en varias ocasiones. No obstante, nos sentamos ahí hablando huevadas y

376

for me and one for you, nephew,” and he stumbled out to his trunk, unlatched the hatchback

and brought back a thirty rack with him. Before he handed me a beer he held it in front of

me and asked.

“It skips a generation Eddy, like hair loss, now here you go.”

I watched his gullet undulate as he guzzled a Corona, depositing it behind the taut

hairy skin wrapped over his belly, which I could not help but notice looked like a newborn

baby’s head peeking out from under his t-shirt which was framed by green suspenders and

screaming denim waistband about two sizes too small. He had a righteous set of tits, birthed,

earned, in the alcoholic labor that begot the belly. At some point, he turned on country music

and let it play through the tin can speaker on his phone.

It was almost as if he had come that night for no reason other than to see me, as if

there were no ulterior motives in the visit whatsoever. “You work, you’re in good spirits, why

break in?”

“It’s not a break in if the door is unlocked.”

“Is that true?”

“Sure is.”

I didn’t know what to say to this, so I steered my eyes towards his truck. Its hood

was splotched like the face of an iron leper, and he was rocking two worn donuts instead of

front wheels. I could see a mass of trash sitting in the back seat, and it looked like he had a

lling cabinet lodged between the passenger and driver seat. He noticed my silence.

377

disfrutando de la compañía del otro en esa onda media paternal, media fraternal, de tíos

y sobrinos adultos. Me hizo fumar cigarro.

Dijo: “Fúmatelo entero, no somos ricos. ¿Has planchado tu ropa con una olla

de agua hirviendo?”

No lo había hecho.

Una vez que nos acomodamos, dijo: “Espera aquí, voy por unas chelas. Dos

para mí y una para ti, sobrino”. Salió tropezando hacia su camioneta, abrió el maletero

y trajo un pack de treinta. Antes de darme una cerveza, la sostuvo frente a mí y dijo:

“Se salta una generación, Eddy, como la calvicie. Aquí tienes”.

Vi su garganta moverse mientras engullía una Corona, depositándola detrás

de la piel tensa y peluda que envolvía su guata, la cual no pude evitar asimilar a la

cabeza de un recién nacido asomándose por debajo de su camiseta enmarcada por unos

suspensores verdes y la cintura de sus jeans ajustados. Tenía un par de tetas, surgidas,

obtenidas a partir del trabajo alcohólico que había engendrado el vientre. En algún

momento, puso música country y la dejó sonar a través del altavoz de lata de su teléfono.

Era casi como si él hubiera venido esa noche sin otro motivo que verme, como

si no hubiera motivos ocultos en la visita. “Trabajas, andas de buen humor, ¿por qué

hacer esto?”

“No es allanamiento si la puerta está abierta”.

“¿En serio?”

378

“You know, I’m a sick man, Ed.” This admission struck me blind. He could see that

much and he pursued it. “You may nd yourself where I am one day and I can only hope you

handle it as well as I have. I know I’ve stolen, I’ve lost bad and been down worse, I made mistakes

I cannot atone for. But I’ve tried to do better than my father, and your father seems to have been

the only one of us that has done it.”

This was my godfather; a thief, a liar, a conniver of a man chewed up spit out by the

community that raised him, devoured as prey by Investigation Discovery channel and online

conspiracy theories, a man who could not be further from God without nding himself on an

episode of “My Husband, The Manslaughterer.” He must not have been like this when my father

saw him t to guide my souls away from the brimstone cradle of eternal damnation. He could not

have been.

––––

The day we decided to see if we could bust the safe open, dad went into the shed for the

crowbar and came back out with his eyes wide. I didn’t tell him about my vigil with Angelo, and

I didn’t want to. I have yet to see him again. I hope I will not later see him in myself.

“Bastard stole my crowbar.”

Matt started to work at the hinges. He gave up and asked if he could bring the safe to

his frat house and put the new pledges to work on it, to nd out if they had what it took to be

brothers. We loaded it into the back of his truck and drove it to the basement of a dilapidated

Newark townhouse where three boys of inrm convictions on any matter that did not concern

their potential brothers beat at it with wooden baseball bats for three hours. They took out a

379

“Claro”

No sabía qué decir, así que me puse a ver su camioneta. El capó estaba manchado

como la cara metálica de un leproso y estaba ocupando dos neumáticos gastados en lugar

de las ruedas delanteras. Pude ver un montón de basura en el asiento trasero y parecía que

tenía un archivador alojado entre los asientos del piloto y del copiloto. Se dio cuenta de mi

silencio.

“Soy un enfermo, Ed”. Esta confesión me impactó. Él pudo notar eso y prosiguió:

“Es posible que algún día te encuentres en mi situación, solo espero que lo manejes tan bien

como yo. Sé que he robado, he perdido mucho y he estado peor. Cometí errores que no

puedo reparar, pero he intentado ser mejor que mi padre. Tu padre parece haber sido el

único de nosotros en haberlo logrado”.

Este era mi padrino: un ladrón; un mentiroso; un conspirador mascado y escupido

por la comunidad que lo había criado, devorado cual presa por el Investigation Discovery

y las teorías conspirativas de internet; un hombre que no podía estar más lejos de Dios sin

verse reejado en un episodio de “Mi esposo, el homicida”. No debió haber sido así cuando

mi padre lo vio apto para guiar mi alma lejos de la cuna de azufre de la condenación eterna.

No pudo haber sido así.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

El día en que decidimos ver si podíamos abrir la caja fuerte, mi papá fue al

cobertizo por su palanca y volvió con los ojos muy abiertos. No le conté sobre mi velada

con Ángelo y no quería hacerlo. Todavía tengo que verlo de nuevo, solo espero no verlo

380

381

reejado en mí mismo.

“El bastardo se robó mi palanca”.

Matt comenzó a trabajar en las bisagras. Se dio por vencido y preguntó si podía

llevar la caja fuerte a su spot y poner a trabajar en ella a unos conocidos, para averiguar si

tenían lo que se necesitaba para ser “hermanos”. Lo cargamos en la parte trasera de su camión

y lo condujimos hasta el sótano de una casa en ruinas de Newark, donde tres muchachos, de

convicciones débiles en cualquier asunto que no incumbiera a sus potenciales “hermanos”, la

golpearon con bates de béisbol durante tres horas. Sacaron un montón de archivos y lo último

de los ahorros de mi abuelo. Le devolví el contenido a mi papá, quien tomó con gratitud los

archivos y dejó la plata sobre la mesa. “Pura basura”, dijo.

382

Translator’s Note

As an introduction, I believe a list of topics discussed

by the writer and I during the process of translation

best reveals the foundation on which the translation was

built. Most of the items on this list were created before

either of the writer or I were born in places neither of

us have been, however they were the common ground.

The List:

• The anime Neon Genesis Evangelion (1995) created

by Hideaki Anno, how it is discussed in academic

circles in Santiago, but not in New York.

• The Southern California post-hardcore band

Drive Like Jehu, their album Yank Crime

(1994), the appearance of the name Jehu in my

story which the writer of the following poem

was translating, where I got it from (the band,

Drive Like ––), and it’s actual origin (the tenth

king of the northern Kingdom of Israel).

• The French lmmaker Chris Marker

and his lm Sans Soleil (1983).

• The Lithuanian American cameraman Jonas

Mekas and his lm As I Was Moving Ahead

Occasionally I Saw Brief Glimpses of Beauty

(2000), a lm the seemingly seemingly random

construction of, provided me with a loose visual

representation of the rhythm of the translation.

• The Washington emo band Death Cab for

Cutie, and a line of theirs that the writer

translated and the translator untranslated

somewhere in the body of ‘december 1.’

383

• Garbage men, junkers, weigh masters, world

champion weightlifters, truckers, motorbikers;

all men of garbage and motors.

• The D.C. post-hardcore band Fugazi, and the

writer’s favorite song by them (“Last Chance for a

Slow Dance” off of In On the Kill Taker [1993]).

• The Spanish verb “desgastar,” and how it

can be used to describe the yellowing of

gray late-90s computer hardware shells.

• The writer’s cat, Juan, whose butthole ashed

across his Zoom window every other time we met.

• The English prog-pop/post-punk band XTC and

how their logo (as seen on the cover of their album

Drums and Wire [1979]) appears on the area below

the neckline of Shinji’s pajamas in a single shot of

the aforementioned anime Neon Genesis Evangelion.

• The poet Anne Sexton, the source of another

translated-into-Spanish-and-untranslated line.

• A mutual aversion to dogs.

• I owe the following translation to the above,

but most of all to Martin Nuñez.

384

MARTÍN NÚÑEZ

1 de diciembre

Ya que la mía sigue electrocutada, se tuerce y quema negando la ceniza en tu oído,

aprovecho la inocencia. Parece que no hay escape. Otra vez soñé con el pasillo en que

cada puerta es de un color diferente. ¿Siempre le tuve miedo a lo real? Si un pájaro se

incrustara en mi ojo no sé si podría tomarlo. Evadiendo plazas o canchas de fútbol,

evito lo que nunca llega: un pelotazo constante. Diría que es un miedo a lo imprevisto,

más que a lo real. Lo espontáneo del ladrido corresponde a mi perdición, no el perro.

Pienso en la mirada de un conejo al ser apedreado. Cuando estás con tu familia o

amigos, ¿aún te dan ganas de irte pensando que una campana es el cuerpo de Dios?

Niños entrando a la sala después del recreo. Se juran amarrados a un árbol invisible.

Quizá la palabra adecuada sea “transparente”. Alguien viene —con su arco y echa

diminutos—, les pica la yugular y guarda la sangre en balde, tropieza y bota la sangre

al río. Descubrir la cabeza de amantes en la noche. Mirabas a una pareja echada sobre

el pasto, lejos de la luz. Yo miraba esas manos blancas que tomaban por debajo del

mentón. Tampoco te lo dije. Cuando volví a mirarte, las manos se habían convertido

en ramas encajando con el perl de tu mandíbula. No sé. A veces, me veo durmiendo

al nal de una sala de clases. Llamabas por teléfono, maldiciendo, pero nadie llamó.

Había manchas de sangre en mi almohada. Es infantil y asqueroso, intento ser discreto.

Despertar en otra ciudad y no deslavarse uno, sino el día. Un sol que vibra, la intención

que ignoro. Concentración y calor son igual de difusos. Una mujer barre el frente de su

casa, la hija juega lanzando piedras de un lugar a otro. Es la imagen que ofrece al novio

cuando le pregunta por recuerdos de infancia. En realidad, piensa en la madre y su

contorno ambarino: “¿Qué tiene mi pelo? ¡Se parece al fuego!”. Deforme cara del amor.

Me perdí buscando al gato sin orejas, siempre maúlla y se acerca. Dice mi hermana:

“Quizá llore más cuando se muera el papá”. En el zoológico, la mayor de sus hijas

había aplastado una abeja. El padre la patea por la espalda. La madre me mira, con su

boca entre el tedio y la sonrisa. ¿Lo ves? Acaba de ocurrir. Mi hermana se maquilla en

el baño. Un poquito más abajo de la nuca, el tatuaje de una mirada. No había visto a

nadie y nadie lo había visto. Las cabezas de un gecko, mordiéndose y lamiendo heridas.

Llueve. Se ríe tan fuerte. Solo queda esperar la noche y que voltee las hojas. Cúmulo de

385

translated from the spanish by

MATEO ALEXANDER RISPOLI

december 1

Since mine is still electried, it contorts and burns, it rejects the cinder in your ear, and

I take advantage of innocence. It seems like there is no escape. Again, I dream of a

hallway where every door is a different color. Have I always been afraid of the real? If

a bird crashed into my eye I don’t know if I could take it. Avoiding parks and soccer

elds, I avoid whatever comes my way: there’s always a ball. I would say it’s a fear of

the unexpected more than of the real. The spontaneity of the bark is my undoing, not

the dog. I think of the look on a rabbit’s face when it’s about to get stoned to death.

When you’re with your family or friends, do you still feel the urge to leave, thinking that

the sound of a bell is the body of God? Children return to class after recess. They’ve

convinced themselves that they’re tied to an invisible tree. A better word would be

“transparent.” Someone comes –with his tiny bow and arrow– stings their jugular and

saves the blood, but it’s all in vain as he stumbles and spills it into the river. To come

across the heads of lovers in the night. You watched the couple lay in the grass, far from

the light. I looked at those white hands cupping my chin. I didn’t tell you either. When

I looked at you again, the hands had turned into branches tting the prole of your jaw.

I don’t know. Sometimes, I see myself asleep in the back of the classroom. You’d call on

the phone, cursing, but no one called. There were blood stains on my pillow. It’s childish

and gross, I try to be discreet. Waking up in another city and not wasting a day, but

letting it wash away. A vibrating sun, the intention I ignore. Concentration and heat

are equally hazy, A woman sweeps the front of her house, her daughter plays throwing

stones from one place to another. The image she offers to her boyfriend when he asks

about childhood memories. Actually, he thinks of her mother and her amber contour:

“What’s wrong with my hair? It looks like re!” Deformed face of love. I got lost look-

ing for the earless cat, it always meows and comes near. My sister says “Maybe he’ll cry

more when dad dies.” At the zoo, the eldest daughter crushed a bee. The father kicks

her in the back. The mother looks at me, her mouth somewhere between boredom and a

smirk. Do you see it? It just happened. My sister is putting on makeup in the bathroom.

A little below the nape of her neck, the tattoo of a look. I had seen it but no one else

had. The heads of a gecko, biting and licking its wounds. It’s raining. It laughs so hard.

386

sensaciones que volverán cuando salga: la carrera de una gota y el posar de una polilla.

¿Por qué? Algún motivo, no pretexto, para volver a sentarse tras gritarle al perro de

un vecino. Todas las mañanas aparecía una canica en el patio. Una paloma devorada

por hormigas. En la cama, el cuerpo negro seguía transmitiendo desde lejos. No ocurre

lo mismo con el sillón carmesí. Creo que este es el comienzo. Del nal se dice poco. Los

platos se alinean como limpias costillas goteando, relucientes. El viento entre huesos

de pollo. Incluso viendo nada, no verías la nada. Cómo se mueven las manillas de una

micro vacía. El arrastre de hojas en la noche. La brisa imaginaria que entumece el

cuerpo. Debes imaginarme escribiendo al azar. Puede ser. Lo más querido y molesto del

recuerdo es que vuelve como un garabato a deshilachar. La incertidumbre de cuando te

dicen “piensa un color nuevo”. Algo que ralentiza el pensamiento. Escribir es inhibirse

(cacofonía). Tiemblan dedos y la rigidez de la palma impide su cierre. El cítrico aroma

del tiempo en los limones me calma. Cambio imponente. Nada que escribir. Paseando

por la orilla, lo encontramos. El color del cielo, de una jaiba y una vasija. Se volvió la

imagen más grande, la orgullosa que al reptar se quita las pequeñas de encima. Existe,

debe existir, una diferencia entre “amor” y “amor, amor”. Un incremento o una pérdida,

no la indiferencia. Un delfín de oro clavado sobre la encía. Portón sin cáscara. Teníamos

que comprar una jaula más grande. Al restregar los huevos de mosca en la nevera

dejan algo parecido a mermelada. En n, retomar el avance. Verde pisar de las cosas.

Desearía escribirte como antes. Aquí viene, aquí viene otro día. Almorzamos afuera,

mirando a los que nos rodeaban. Él aplaudió cuando le entregaron su plato. Nunca lo

hice ni lo pensé. La supervivencia en aparentar. “Estas son las hojas que comían los

dinosaurios”. Omitir se ha vuelto necesario. El desfase entre mi lengua y yo. Vive sin

mí —como un niño—, cuando la miro no se mueve. El poema será el grito cuando se

mueva. Lo inmutable dentro del poema, el silencio también varía. Soldaron estatuillas

de cupido a los faroles. Pero no. Siguen ahí, como discurso ante el “supongo”. Hierve

el aceite. La cara en yeso de la Virgen, encendida por los cirios que abren mejillas.

Siento aire por debajo del jirón. Algo similar dice, o me hace decir, un poema. Mi lira

de lenguas no es lira, instrumento, musical, mía, ni lenguas. Creo que algo inconcluso

es suciente.

387

All that remains is to wait for the night to come and turn the leaves. The accretion of

sensations that will return when it hatches: the rush of a drop and the perching of a

moth. Why? Some reason, not a pretext, to sit down again after yelling at a neighbor’s

dog. Every morning a marble appeared in the yard. A pigeon eaten by ants. On the

bed, the sleeping body kept broadcasting from afar. It’s not the same from the crimson

armchair. I think this is the beginning. Little is said about the end. Wet dishes lined up

like a rack of ribs, glistening. Wind ying between chicken bones. Even seeing nothing,

there was nothing there all along. Like the handholds of an empty minibus swinging.

The shufing of leaves in the night. The imaginary breeze that numbs the body. You

must imagine me writing at random. I might be. The most precious and annoying thing

about memory is that it comes back like a scribble in a fray. The uncertainty of being

told to “think of a new color.” Something that slows down thinking. To write is to be

inhibited (cacophony). Fingers tremble and the stiffness of the palm hinders its closure.

The citrus aroma of time in lemons calms me. Imposing change. There is nothing to

write. Walking along the shore, we nd it. The color of the sky, of a crab and a pot. It

became the bigger picture, the proud one that crawls away from the small ones. There

is, there must be, a difference between “love” and “love, love”. An increase or a loss, not

an indifference. A golden dolphin nailed along the gum. A gate without a shell. We had

to buy a bigger cage. By rubbing y eggs together and storing them in the fridge, you

get something similar to jam. Anyway, back to progress. Green footsteps on things. I

wish I could write to you as before. Here comes here comes another day. We ate lunch

outside, looking at those around us. He clapped when was handed his plate. I never did

or thought about it. Survival in appearing. “These are the leaves the dinosaurs ate.”

Omitting has become necessary. The gap between me and my tongue. It lives without

me -like a child-, when I look at it it does not move. The poem will be the cry when it

moves. The immutable within the poem, the silence also varies. They welded lanterns

to the cupid statuettes. But no. They are still there, as speech, before the “I suppose”.

The oil boils. The plaster face of the Virgin, lit by the candles that open cheeks. I feel

air underneath the street. Something like that says, or makes me say, a poem. My lyre

of tongues is not a lyre, instrument, musical, mine, nor tongues. I think something

unnished is enough.

388

1 de enero

Como elefante, vine para morir tranquilo. Podré quejarme intentando pensar en cosas

que me conmuevan: mi chaqueta sobre el respaldo de una silla y frascos bien cerrados.

Masticaré hojas que suelten agua. Cuando salga de mi cuerpo, ¿por dónde lo haré? Lo

oscuro dentro de la luz. Círculo blanco en medio del párrafo. ¿Existe diferencia alguna

entre morirse del miedo y morirse de vergüenza? Me deendo con sangre y orina. Dejé

de leer sobre mi enfermedad. Era incómodo. Saber que los pulmones se iban a cerrar

y que el cerebro, de a poco, iba a oscurecer. Ojalá fuese algo teológico: A á: melodía

del asentamiento (el yo del cuerpo); E é: melodía del logro (el yo del acto); I í: melodía

en apuros (el yo de la escritura); O ó: melodía de risa (el yo del habla); U ú: melodía

desconocida (el yo esencial). Una sexta melodía que sirva de escotillón o tapa. Ritmo

sinusal de cuarenta y siete latidos por minuto. Entra y sale. Presenta “Conducción

Alternada del Pensamiento”. Es decir. Lámina linear a los costados. Irrupción de otro

ujo de imágenes perpetuo. En ocasiones húmedo y concreto, pero líquido e intuitivo.

Dice que volverá pronto. Perdido en la niebla por voluntad propia. Transita desde la

necesidad de cercanía con otro, al distanciamiento, lejanía y aislamiento social. En la

orilla siguiente, se arrastra una mímesis constante. En los retratos de Lope aparecen

dos Monstruos de la Naturaleza. La diferencia entre una guarida y una madriguera

es que el primero es un lugar que haces tuyo, mientras que el segundo es un lugar

que haces tú. Espero que este sea el último de estos sueños. Recuerdos ajenos. En

casa del primo que se despertó gritando en una noche de tormenta. Todos sabían lo

que le pasaba, excepto él. Había desarrollado hiperacusia: empezó escuchando los

ladridos de un perro y las conversaciones de los vecinos; después, las raíces de un árbol

extendiéndose bajo tierra (según él, lo más doloroso era cuando las raíces crecían fuera

de la tierra). Al nal, los ruidos se habían mezclado en su cabeza como pensamiento

ajeno y ruidoso, un bioma. Las sillas de plástico y su logo de Coca-Cola. Una estaca

interminable atraviesa los nervios. Anticucho. Los niños en rehabilitación, con un

tronco y una plancha de zinc, hicieron una rampa. Conversación en la escalera de

servicio: cuando le devolvieron las llaves de su casa, el baño estaba repleto de agujeros.

“Era como si un ratón no hubiera sabido en cuál esconderse”. Los días de los Díaz

son lentos. Un grupo de introvertidos, que interactúa lo justo y necesario, resulta más

interesante. Mi abuelo aplastaba arañas y después se las metía a la boca. Mi hermana

389

january 1

Like an elephant, I came here to die peacefully. I’ll be able to complain as I try to

think of things that move me: my jacket over the back of a chair and tightly closed

jars. I will chew leaves that release water. When I leave my body, where will I do it?

The dark inside the light. White circle in the middle of the paragraph. Is there a

difference between dying of fear and dying of shame? I defend myself with blood

and urine. I stopped reading about my illness. It was uncomfortable. Knowing that

my lungs were going to close and my brain, little by little, was going to go dark. If

only it were theological: A á: melody of settlement (the body self); E é: melody of

achievement (the act self); I í: melody in distress (the writing self); O ó: melody of

laughter (the speech self); U ú: melody unknown (the essential self). A sixth melody

that serves as a cap or lid. Sinus rhythm of forty-seven beats per minute. In and out.

Presents “Alternate Conduction of Thought”. That is to say. Lamina leaves on the

sides. Irruption of another perpetual ow of images. At times wet and concrete, but

liquid and intuitive. He says he will be back soon. Lost in the fog of his own free will.

He transitions from the need for closeness with another, to estrangement, remote-

ness and social isolation. On the next shore, a constant mimesis creeps in. In Lope’s

portraits, two Monsters of Nature appear. The difference between a lair and a den is

that the former is a place you make your own, while the latter is a place that makes

you. I hope this is the last of these dreams. Other people’s memories. At my cous-

in’s house, the one who woke up screaming on a stormy night. Everyone knew what

was wrong with him, except him. He had developed hyperacusis: he started hearing

dogs barking and the neighbor’s conversations; then, the roots of a tree spreading

underground (according to him, the most painful thing was when the roots grew out

of the ground). In the end, the noises blended together in his head as a noisy, for-

eign thought, a biome. The plastic chairs and their Coca-Cola logo. An endless stake

through the nerves. Anticucho. Children in rehabilitation made a ramp with a log and

a rufed metal sheet. Conversation on the service stairs: when his house keys were

returned to him, the bathroom was riddled with holes. “It was as if a mouse didn’t

know which one to hide in.” Los días de los Diaz are slow. A group of introverts, in-

teracting only as much as necessary, is more interesting. My grandfather would crush

spiders and then put them in his mouth. My sister said, “Soon I’ll be gone and you’ll

390

dijo: “Pronto me iré y volverás a estar solo. No levantaremos baldosas para ver gusanos

o chanchitos de tierra”. Despidieron a mi hermano por mostrarle sus propios puntos

lagrimales a sus alumnos. ¿Qué es lo excitante al nal de un poema, sino el deseo de

continuarlo? Escribir de manera que la palabra tenga un leve recuerdo de sí misma.

Encontrar un lugar de conanza en cual dejar a un niño. El hospital en que nació mi

padre sigue bajo un escorial. Una sombra se acerca hasta mi mano como un perro.

391

be alone again. We won’t be picking up tiles to look for worms or roly polies.” My

brother was red for showing his tear ducts to his students. What is most exciting

at the end of a poem but the desire to continue it? To write in such a way that the

word has a faint memory of itself. To nd a trustworthy place to leave a child. The

hospital where my father was born is still under a slag heap. A shadow approaches

my hand like a dog.

392

Translator’s Note

Zoe Engels nació en un suburbio cerca de Chicago,

Illinois, en 1998. Se tituló de Literatura con Escritura

Creativa y Asuntos Internacionales, con un minor en

Español, de la Universidad de Washington en San Luis.

Actualmente, vive en Nueva York mientras obtiene su

Maestría en Bellas Artes en Escritura Creativa de No

cción y Traducción Literaria en la Universidad de

Columbia.

El texto de Zoe es de no cción y una de mis principales

preocupaciones fue mantener la “hibridez” del texto

original, en que cuesta diferenciar si se está leyendo algo

de cción o no. Esto es algo que Zoe hace habitualmente

en sus escritos; en este, especícamente, fue una decisión

consciente para representar la realidad del protagonista,

ya que este no siempre puede diferenciar qué es real o no.

La escritura de Zoe cumple excepcionalmente lo que

llamamos “forma y contenido”, ya que a través de

palabras muy bien elegidas logra crear imágenes,

símbolos y conceptos muy profundos. A menudo utiliza

frases bastante largas con palabras que, además de

sonar bien, son utilizadas perfectamente. Intenté cuidar

muchísimo ambos aspectos, por un lado, mantener la

formalidad, o incluso solemnidad, del lenguaje cuando

correspondía, y por otro, que las imágenes creadas no se

perdieran en la traducción. Para lograr esto, aprendí una

cantidad considerable de palabras nuevas, tanto en inglés

como en español.

Volviendo al tema del largo de las frases, fue un desafío

lograr mantenerlas del mismo largo y que uyeran igual

a como uyen en inglés, sin salir del tono de voz original.

Utilicé palabras que entraran en el mismo “contexto”

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dependiendo de la formalidad de las oraciones, y

también incluí algunas palabras o conceptos ligados al

habla chilena, que es con la que me siento más cómoda.

Además, habían dichos en inglés que no contaban con

una traducción concreta en español, así que debí inventar

algunas frases equivalentes.

Por último, quería destacar los temas que son tratados

en el texto, donde hay diversas reexiones sobre qué es la

realidad y sobre la desconexión con esta. Hay instantes

de tristeza, angustia, desesperación e incluso ira en el

escrito, que tiene momentos muy intensos, e hice un

esfuerzo por intentar mantener esas voces.

El escrito de Zoe es realmente destacable en cuanto a

sus temáticas y cómo estas son abordadas y descritas.

Trabajar con ella en su traducción fue una experiencia

realmente enriquecedora.

394

ZOE MAYA ENGELS

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR (EXCERPT)

They send the Bulgarian on vacation.

Yes, Raisa Bronstein and her daughter, Inessa, take a shot in the dark,

and it works. They decide to pack the nonexistent man’s metaphorical bags and

ship him off to Timbuktu. That is, they send him to Bulgaria and make him out

to be some sort of gloried vigneron, ready for the world’s carafes to brim with

his own ambrosial product. They likely do not know that Bulgaria had been the

world’s fourth-largest wine exporting country in the 1980s. They likely do not know,

with the fall of communism, land for grape-planting was dramatically reduced,

constricting Bulgaria’s wine industry like a Boa coiled around its prey. And they

likely do not know that these days, wine production in Bulgaria is again on the rise.

So, we could say that the Bulgarian’s departure comes at the most opportune

moment. Carpe diem. It’s time to make wine. We could say these things, but they’re

only half-truths.

The news of the Bulgarian’s departure is delivered to Mark Bronstein when

he is again standing, statuesque, in the center of the bathroom (that is, in his shared

space with the Bulgarian) so that only half of his frame is captured in the mirror.

This time, perhaps all too conveniently for Raisa’s intents and purposes, Mark does

not face the mirror. It is unclear why, but he stares at the toilet instead. It sits

just two feet across from the mirror and another two feet to the left, so one might

imagine that the world in the mirror and the world in the remainder of the bathroom

are separate, but, for Mark Bronstein, they now seem to have converged into one.

Just an oblique space lled with the shadows of people who are not there and have

never been there—a space where invisible friends come and go, leaving only Mark

Bronstein behind. Always behind.

He stares at the toilet as his wife delivers the news of the Bulgarian’s

departure. She stands in the doorway, out of reach of the mirror’s threats. As a

symbol of false composure, her hands are folded rmly in front of her, demure and

intentional. But inside her hands is a thin red string, scrunched up like a wad of

paper. At some point, she likely wore the string as a bracelet around her left wrist,

knotted seven times as is the Kabbalist Jewish tradition, even though she is not a

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traducido del inglés por

ESPERANZA DÍAZ

EXTRACTO DE “EL HOMBRE EN EL ESPEJO”

Mandan al Búlgaro de vacaciones.

Sí, Raisa Bronstein y su hija, Inessa, se arriesgan y funciona. Deciden empacar los bolsos

metafóricos del hombre inexistente y enviarlo a Tombuctú. Es decir, lo envían a Bulgaria

y lo convierten en una especie de viñatero enaltecido, listo para que los decantadores

del mundo se rebalsen con su propio producto ambrosíaco. Probablemente no saben que

Bulgaria había sido el cuarto mayor exportador de vino en los 80s. Probablemente no

saben que, con la caída del comunismo, la tierra para plantar uvas fue dramáticamente

reducida, comprimiendo la industria vitivinícola de Bulgaria como una Boa enrollada

alrededor de su presa. Y probablemente no saben que estos días la producción de vino

en Bulgaria está nuevamente en auge.

Entonces, podríamos decir que la retirada del Búlgaro llega en el momento más

oportuno. Carpe diem. Es hora de hacer vino. Podríamos decir estas cosas, pero solo son

verdades a medias.

La noticia sobre la retirada del Búlgaro es entregada a Mark Bronstein cuando está

de pie, como una estatua, nuevamente en el centro del baño (es decir, en su espacio

compartido con el Búlgaro), por lo que solo la mitad de su silueta se reeja en el espejo.

Esta vez, quizás demasiado convenientemente para las intenciones y propósitos de

Raisa, Mark no encara el espejo. No está claro por qué, pero en su lugar mira hacia el

wáter. Está a medio metro del espejo y a otro medio metro a la izquierda, por lo que

uno podría imaginar que el mundo en el espejo y el mundo en el resto del baño están

separados, pero, para Mark Bronstein, parece que ahora se convirtieron en uno solo. Es

solo un espacio oblicuo rebosando con las sombras de personas que no están y nunca

han estado ahí, un espacio donde los amigos invisibles van y vienen, dejando solo a

Mark Bronstein detrás. Siempre detrás.

Está mirando el wáter mientras su esposa le entrega las noticias de la partida del

Búlgaro. Ella se queda de pie en la puerta, fuera del alcance de las amenazas del espejo.

396

Kabbalist herself. In ancient Jewish rituals, it’s said that women would tie a red

string around the tomb of Rachel and knot it seven times to endow the string

with protective energy and good luck. Rachel, as the Bible story goes, was Jacob’s

favorite wife, and she gave birth to his favorite son, Joseph. She died during

childbirth; her second son, Benjamin, miraculously survived. She represents the

Jewish Mother, the Matriarch, which is said to be why, after praying around her

tomb, the women would then remove the string from the tomb and cut it into

bracelet-sized portions to be worn on their left wrists—the side of the body that

is supposed to receive blessings and abundance—as a charm for fertility and for

protection from the evil eye.

Yet, in theory, the red string should never leave your wrist—not if it is

expected to work. Cut it off and ruin the protection; it’s also probably bad luck. If

it falls off too soon, that’s a bad omen. But if it falls off due to natural wear, often

after months or even years, you’re in the clear. It means the bracelet has done its

job—has reached its maximum evil-absorbing capacity and can no longer hold any

more negativity. It is time for a new bracelet. No need to mourn the old bracelet,

no need for some sort of ritual burial. Out with the old, on with the new.

Out with the old… is that how Raisa Bronstein feels? Does she clutch the

red string, crumpled up like an unwanted page from a notebook (surely, that must

negatively impact the bracelet’s protective energy), to symbolize the out-with-the-

old of the Bulgarian’s departure? And what will be the new? She cannot expect

Mark Bronstein to lose one friend and not make a new one. She cannot expect

her husband to see only what she sees and nothing more. And why does she hold

the red string in her hands like rosary beads? Has the string fallen off—old and

useless? Is it a new string that she has simply yet to put on? What’s the point?

Maybe there is none. Maybe she just needs something to hold onto, something soft

to run between her ngers so that she doesn’t have to be fully present with her

husband. Maybe she, too, only wants to be half-present in the world, just like her

husband. Maybe she doesn’t need to tie the red string into seven knots because

she’s already tied up in knots, pulled in different directions and living each day on

repeat like a red string wound round and round an ancient tomb.

“He’s leaving now,” she tells him coolly in Russian. Her voice rings out

softly, like chimes in a gentle breeze. “He has a family. Responsibilities. I don’t

think he’ll be back.”

“Where?” Mark manages to ask as he stares, blankly, at the toilet. His

voice sounds stuck, muddled, as if the sound has been velcroed in him and cannot

escape. He does not cry, but maybe he should.

Raisa does not take her eyes off her husband. She looks at him with pity

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Como señal de falsa compostura, sus manos están cruzadas rmemente en frente de

ella, con recato y propósito. Pero al interior de sus manos hay un delgado hilo rojo,

arrugado como una bolita de papel. En algún momento, es probable que usara el hilo

como una pulsera alrededor de su muñeca izquierda, anudado siete veces como en

la tradición Judía Cabalista, aunque ella no fuera Cabalista. En los rituales judíos

antiguos, se decía que las mujeres ataban un hilo rojo alrededor de la tumba de Raquel

y lo anudaban siete veces para infundir el cordón de energía protectora y buena suerte.

Raquel, según cuenta la Biblia, era la esposa favorita de Jacob, y dio a luz al hijo

favorito de este, José. Ella murió en el parto; su segundo hijo, Benjamín, sobrevivió

milagrosamente. Ella representa a la Madre Judía, la Matriarca, por lo que se dice

que, después de rezar alrededor de su tumba, las mujeres sacaban el hilo y lo cortaban

en porciones del tamaño de una pulsera para usarlas en sus muñecas izquierdas (el

lado del cuerpo que se cree recibe bendiciones y abundancia) como amuleto para la

fertilidad y protección contra el mal de ojo.

Sin embargo, en teoría, el hilo rojo nunca debería salir de tu muñeca, no si se espera

que funcione. Córtalo y arruinas la protección; probablemente también da mala suerte.

Si se desprende muy pronto, es un mal augurio. Sin embargo, si se desprende por el

desgaste natural, a menudo después de meses o incluso años, estás librado. Signica

que la pulsera hizo su trabajo, ha alcanzado su capacidad máxima de absorber el mal

y ya no puede contener más negatividad. Es momento de una pulsera nueva. No hay

necesidad de estar de luto por la pulsera antigua ni de un tipo de ritual funerario. Fuera

lo viejo, bienvenido lo nuevo.

Fuera lo Viejo… ¿así se siente Raisa Bronstein? ¿Acaso agarra el hilo rojo, arrugado

como la página indeseada de un cuaderno (seguramente afectando en forma negativa

la energía protectora de la pulsera), para simbolizar el fuera-lo-viejo de la partida del

Búlgaro? ¿Y qué sería lo nuevo? No puede pretender que Mark Bronstein pierda un

amigo y no haga uno nuevo. No puede esperar que su esposo solo vea lo que ella ve y

nada más ¿Y por qué toma el hilo rojo en sus manos como las cuentas de un rosario?

¿Acaso el viejo e inútil cordón se ha desprendido? ¿O se trata de un nuevo hilo que no

se ha puesto todavía? ¿Y para qué? Quizás para nada. Quizás solo necesita algo a lo

que aferrarse, algo suave que recorrer con sus dedos para no tener que estar totalmente

presente con su marido. Quizás ella, también, solo quiere estar semi presente en el

mundo, tal como su esposo. Quizás no necesita hacer siete nudos en el hilo porque ella

misma está anudada, tirada en diferentes direcciones y viviendo cada día una y otra

vez como un hilo rojo enrollado alrededor de una tumba antigua.

— Se va ahora — le dice fríamente en ruso. Su voz sale suavemente, como

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and love and remorse and an undercurrent of resentment that embeds itself like a

tattoo into the faint wrinkles around her eyes.

“To Bulgaria. Home. To grow grapes and make wine. He’ll be happy

there with his wife and family.”

Silence lls the bathroom. Raisa unclasps her hands and runs the red

string between her ngers, weaving it around each nger as if she is trying to

escape into a labyrinth—to get lost in it.

The only noise is the sound of Mark’s labored breathing, caused in part

by the Parkinson’s Disease that plagues him and in part by the emotional blow

he has just sustained. He stares at the toilet as if the toilet itself has transformed

into an airport terminal, but the only thing terminal about the bathroom is Mark

Bronstein’s condition. He is watching a movie that only he can see. He stares

at the toilet and waits patiently for the Bulgarian’s wife to follow her husband

aboard the plane. He stares at the toilet and waits in vain; he cannot spot her.

Where has she gone? He concludes that she left a few days prior to prepare the

house in Bulgaria for her husband’s arrival. She is gone, and her loss will not be as

palpable as that of his friend and his shadow, the Bulgarian.

Sure, after his prior outburst at the man in the mirror, maybe one

wouldn’t expect Mark Bronstein to be upset by the Bulgarian’s absence, but he is

upset, and he is offended. The Bulgarian never divulged his knack for winemaking

to Mark, who cannot help but see this as a major snub and gaping hole in their

friendship. They were like brothers. Sure, they ght, but how dare his dear friend

keep such a talent—and such a big life change—from Mark Bronstein? The sting

of betrayal runs deep. If Mark Bronstein’s hands worked like they used to, and if

he knew where his wife hid the wine, he likely would reach for the bottle and glug

away his sorrows.

He is suffering from the burns of abandonment. He can’t escape the sense

of loss that enraptures him as he watches the Bulgarian man walk onto the toilet-

turned-tarmac, a pile of old, beat-up suitcases in tow, ready to board the plane to

his new life. Perhaps Mark Bronstein wants to go, too. Nobody ever asks him and,

deep down, it seems he knows that such an invitation will never arrive. He only

wishes it would.

The plane leaves the runway, and the man in the mirror departs just as

suddenly as he had arrived, disappearing into the clouds.

***

It remains a mystery why Mark Bronstein is so easily able to believe his

wife’s story about the man in the mirror. The mere utterance of the Bulgarian’s

departure seems to switch off a light in Mark’s mind, and the man in the mirror is

gone. Poof. Sayonara. Enjoy your new life. But where was Mark’s new life? Why

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campanadas en una brisa delicada. — Tiene una familia. Responsabilidades.

No creo que vuelva.

— ¿Dónde? — Mark logra preguntar mientras mira, en blanco, el wáter. Su voz

suena estancada, difusa, como si el sonido se le hubiese pegado con velcro y

fuera incapaz de salir. No llora, pero quizás debería.

Raisa no aparta la mirada de su esposo. Lo mira con lástima y amor y remordimiento

y un trasfondo de resquemor que se impregna como un tatuaje dentro de las nas

arrugas alrededor de sus ojos.

— A Bulgaria. A casa. A plantar parras y hacer vino. Será feliz ahí con su esposa

y su familia.

El silencio llena el baño. Raisa separa sus manos y enreda el hilo rojo entre sus dedos,

pasándolo por cada uno como si estuviese intentando escapar hacia un laberinto,

perderse en él.

El único sonido es la respiración dicultosa de Mark, causada en parte por el Parkinson

que lo azota y en parte por el golpe emocional que acaba de recibir. Está mirando el

wáter jamente como si el propio wáter se hubiese transformado en un terminal de

aeropuerto, pero la única cosa terminal de ese baño es el estado de Mark Bronstein.

Está viendo una película que solo él puede ver. Se queda mirando el wáter y espera

pacientemente a que la esposa del Búlgaro siga a su marido a bordo del avión. Mira

jamente al wáter y espera en vano; no la puede divisar ¿Dónde se ha ido? Llega a

la conclusión de que se fue algunos días antes a preparar la casa en Bulgaria para la

llegada de su esposo. Se ha ido, y su falta no será tan palpable como la de su amigo y

su sombra, el Búlgaro.

Claro, después de su anterior exabrupto contra el hombre en el espejo, quizás uno no

esperaría que Mark Bronstein estuviera molesto por la ausencia del Búlgaro, pero

está molesto, y está ofendido. El Búlgaro nunca divulgó su habilidad de hacer vino a

Mark, quien no podía evitar ver esto como un gran desaire y un enorme vacío en su

amistad. Eran como hermanos. Sí, pelean, pero, ¿cómo se atreve su querido amigo

a ocultar un talento como ese (y tal cambio de vida) a Mark Bronstein? El dolor de

la traición cala profundo. Si las manos de Mark Bronstein funcionaran como antes,

y si supiera donde su esposa escondía el vino, probablemente tomaría la botella y se

bebería sus lamentos.

Está sufriendo las quemaduras del abandono. No puede escapar la sensación de

pérdida que lo invade al observar al Búlgaro caminar hacia el wáter-convertido-en-

pista, con un montón de deterioradas y viejas maletas a cuestas, listo para abordar el

400

was he stuck in the damn house, talking to hallucinatory subjects and objects

as if he didn’t have any real family around him? And what’s this thing called

“reality” even mean, anyways? It seems to me that it’s just this thing that we’ve

constructed to give our lives a shape, a sense of direction; it’s just this thing that

we’ve constructed because we’re so adamant about nding a purpose, as if we

can’t merely exist and be satised doing so. Why can’t existing be enough?

It’s fucked up.

Mark Bronstein is my grandfather, and when I look at him, I just want to

cry or scream or both at the same time. When I look at him, I see a shadow of my

grandfather. I see the man in the mirror. I see a man who is only half-present—a

mere reection of himself. When I see him, I pity him, and I love him, and I just

want to help put him out of his misery. I don’t mention his hallucinations to him.

I acknowledge their presence when he points to gures that are not there, turning

the hallucinations into something tangible. I do not make him feel as though he is

the only one who sees. That is, except for the one time when he started to scream

because he thought I slammed my ngers in the closet door, but I was standing

on the other side of the room; I grabbed my ngers as if to make sure they were

still there and then gently tried to draw his attention away from the closet door

and the invisible ngers, breaking.

I once took a class on the subject of pain in literature. My professor, an

astute and balding 70-something British man with a satisfying accent and dog

named Basil, shared with the class on Zoom: “I told my children, that if my mind

goes, let me go. Let me throw myself into the ocean and drown. When my mind

goes, I don’t want to live.”

My eyes widened like in those old-time cartoons, and I stared at my

screen in shock and disbelief and agreement. He could sense it. “Yes, Zoe,” he said

as he nodded. “Yes.”

You get it, he seemed to tell me.

I get it.

But my grandfather isn’t going to throw himself into the ocean, and we

wouldn’t let him anyways, no matter how much he insists in his increasingly rare

and ever-eeting moments of clarity that he wants to end it all and no matter

how much we want to save him from himself—from his mind. So instead of

letting him be free and one with the earth, it feels like we’ve made my grandfather

into a prisoner, and there’s something about taking the hallucinations away that

irks me, like we’re shackling him to a reality that he does not want and that he is

401

avión hacia su nueva vida. Quizás Mark Bronstein también quiere ir. Nadie nunca

se lo ofrece y, en el fondo, pareciera que él sabe que tal invitación jamás llegará. Solo

desearía que sí.

El avión despega de la pista, y el hombre en el espejo se va tan rápido como llegó,

desapareciendo entre las nubes.

***

Sigue siendo un misterio por qué Mark Bronstein fue capaz de creer tan fácilmente

la historia de su esposa acerca del hombre en el espejo. La mera verbalización de la

partida del Búlgaro parece haber apagado una luz en la mente de Mark, y el hombre

en el espejo, puf, desaparece. Sayonara. Disfruta tu nueva vida. Pero, ¿dónde estaba

la nueva vida de Mark? ¿Por qué estaba pegado en esta maldita casa? ¿Por qué sigue

conversando con sujetos y objetos alucinados como si no estuviera rodeado por una

familia de verdad? Y, por lo demás ¿qué signica esta cosa llamada “realidad”? Me

parece que es algo construido solo para dar forma a nuestras vidas, un sentido de

dirección; construimos ese “algo” porque nos empecinamos en encontrar propósito;

como si existir simplemente no fuera satisfactorio ¿Acaso existir no es suciente?

Qué mierda.

Mark Bronstein es mi abuelo, y cuando lo miro, solo quiero llorar o gritar o ambas

al mismo tiempo. Cuando lo miro, veo la sombra de mi abuelo. Veo al hombre en el

espejo. Veo a un hombre que solo está semi presente, un mero reejo de él mismo.

Cuando lo miro, siento lástima y amor por él, y solo quiero ayudarlo a salir de su

miseria. No le menciono sus alucinaciones. Cuando señala guras que no están ahí,

reconozco esas presencias, convierto a las alucinaciones en algo tangible. No lo hago

sentir que es el único que ve. O sea, excepto por esa vez en que empezó a gritar

porque pensó que me apreté los dedos con la puerta del clóset, pero yo estaba parada

en el lado opuesto de la pieza; tomé mis dedos como para asegurarme que seguían

ahí, y después, gentilmente, intenté desviar su atención de la puerta del clóset y los

dedos invisibles, rompiéndose.

Una vez tomé una clase sobre el tema del sufrimiento en la literatura. Mi profesor,

un astuto británico de unos 70 que se estaba quedando pelado y tenía un acento

agradable y un perro llamado Basil, compartió con la clase de Zoom: “Le dije a mis

hijos, si mi mente se va, déjenme partir. Dejen que me tire al océano y me ahogue.

Cuando mi mente se vaya, no quiero seguir viviendo.”

Mis ojos se abrieron tan grandes como en esos monitos animados antiguos, y miré

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constantly trying to escape. The man in the mirror gets to be and do more than

Mark Bronstein will ever be able to do again.

Sure, the nonexistent Bulgarian man is now an exile, pushed out of the

mirror by two desperate women—my mother and my grandmother—who just

want to uncover some semblance of the “real” Mark Bronstein in a now very

sick man’s body. Not to mention that they’re afraid of what he could do if the

hallucinations get worse. We all are. If the Bulgarian man decides to set the

house on re or shatter the mirror, will Mark Bronstein decide to do it, too? Will

he help nd the match to start the ames or the hammer to break the glass? Will

he agree to the seven years of bad luck? What difference do seven more miserable

years make, anyways?

A cynic might say that the Bulgarian man is not free because he’s

subject to the whims of a matriarchy, but that feels like a stretch. The Bulgarian

man gets to leave the mirror. Period. Full stop. It doesn’t matter whether

he’s forced out or not. He walks free, unscathed. A miracle. The Bulgarian is a

gment of Mark Bronstein’s imagination, and he’s more than that all at once. He

is free to live in a narrative outside the mirror—a matter that utterly outweighs

the pitfalls of the fact that his narrative is constantly being constructed and

reconstructed for him; Raisa and Inessa successfully craft an actual life for him,

one that extends far beyond the mirror and digs its roots into Bulgarian soil. But

they can’t do the same for Mark Bronstein, and maybe that’s what really eats

away at them; no matter how much they search for the Mark that was, they are

confronted only with the Mark that is. It bothers me, too… that cruel irony:

The man in the mirror is free, and Mark Bronstein—my grandfather—is not.

The man in the mirror is who Mark wants to be, unfettered by his body. When

he looks in the mirror, maybe he refuses to see and cannot see himself because, if

his body can’t be free from the Parkinson’s Disease, his reection might as well

be. Part of him must be let free, even if it’s just his reection. The Parkinson’s

Disease Dementia comes as a sort of relief; his imagination is all that he really

has left.

***

403

a mi pantalla concordando, pero en shock y desconcierto. Él lo podía percibir. “Sí,

Zoe,” dijo asintiendo. “Sí.”

Lo entiendes, parecía que me dijera.

Lo entiendo.

Pero mi abuelo no se va a tirar al océano, y tampoco lo dejaríamos, sin importar

cuanto insista en sus cada vez más escasos y siempre fugaces momentos de lucidez

en que quiere terminarlo todo y sin importar cuanto queramos salvarlo de sí mismo,

de su mente. Así que en vez de dejarlo ser libre y uno con la tierra, se siente como si

hubiésemos convertido a mi abuelo en un prisionero, y hay algo sobre quitarle las

alucinaciones que me irrita, como si lo estuviéramos encadenando a una realidad

que no desea y de la que constantemente está intentando escapar. El hombre en el

espejo llegará a ser y hacer más de lo que ya nunca logrará Mark Bronstein.

Claro, el Búlgaro inexistente está exiliado, expulsado del espejo por dos mujeres

desesperadas (mi mamá y mi abuela) quienes solo quieren desvelar algo de la

semblanza verdadera de Mark Bronstein, ahora en el cuerpo de un hombre enfermo.

Eso sin mencionar que temen a su reacción si las alucinaciones empeoran. Todos

tememos. Si el Búlgaro decide incendiar la casa o romper el espejo, ¿Mark Bronstein

también decidirá hacerlo? ¿Lo ayudará a encontrar los fósforos para encender las

llamas o el martillo para romper el vidrio? ¿Aceptará los siete años de mala suerte?

En todo caso, ¿qué diferencia hacen otros siete miserables años?

Un pesimista diría que el Búlgaro no es libre porque está expuesto a los caprichos de

un matriarcado, pero eso parece excesivo. El Búlgaro puede dejar el espejo. Punto.

Ya está. No importa si lo echan o no. Camina libre, intacto. Es un milagro. El Búlgaro

es un producto de la imaginación de Mark Bronstein, y es más que eso a la vez. Es

libre de vivir en una narración fuera del espejo, un detalle que supera demasiado

los enredos de que su historia sea constantemente construida y reconstruida para

él; Raisa e Inessa logran crearle una auténtica vida, una que se extiende mucho

más allá del espejo y echa sus raíces en la tierra de Bulgaria. Pero no pueden hacer

lo mismo por Mark Bronstein, y quizás eso es lo que realmente las carcome; sin

importar cuanto busquen al Mark que fue, solo encuentran al Mark que es. También

me molesta… esa ironía cruel: El hombre en el espejo es libre, y Mark Bronstein

(mi abuelo) no. El hombre en el espejo es quien Mark quiere ser, sin las trabas de su

cuerpo. Cuando mira en el espejo, quizás se rehúsa a ver y no puede verse a sí mismo

porque, si su cuerpo no puede librarse del Parkinson, su reejo sí debería lograrlo.

Parte de él debe estar libre, aunque solo sea su reejo. La demencia del Parkinson

llega como una suerte de alivio, su imaginación es lo único que realmente le queda.

404

Translator’s Note

Esperanza Díaz Madina was born in Rancagua, Chile

(2000). Currently, she is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in

Creative Literature at the Universidad Diego Portales

in Santiago, Chile. Like the other young adult ction

writers that she admires, including Rainbow Rowell,

Angie Thomas, Jennifer Nevin, and John Green,

Esperanza’s writing is lled with whimsy and quick wit.

In this piece, titled “00:00,” Esperanza’s characters are

fresh and refreshing, not only through their relatability

but also their sincerity and honesty. That is to say, our

narrator always tells it like it is.

Esperanza makes her characters feel like real teenagers as

she puts their thoughts on the page. Our narrator, So,

speaks casually and, in many instances, with a stream-

of-consciousness monologue. This style is one of many

attributes that made the piece fun yet challenging to

translate. I wanted to maintain the sense of intimacy

between the narrator and reader—as if a friend were

telling you, the reader, a story. To do so, I concentrated

on voice. So speaks casually, but there are moments

when she slips into a higher register, as if she is trying to

sound more “grown-up.” I worked to incorporate words,

like “gestures” and “wanderings,” without their feeling

out of place within the larger framework of the piece.

A second feature in both the narration and dialogue is

the use of words specic to Chile, like “po” and “cachai.”

It was an enjoyable challenge as I hadn’t heard some of

these words before and they can be difcult to dene. For

instance, “pucha” can mean “oh no,” “wow,” “bummer,”

“darn it,” “jeez,” etc. depending on the context.

Esperanza and I spoke at length, too, about Chilean

swear words and how “intense” each one is to determine

their English equivalents. I’ve tried to maintain the

405

***

resonances of each of these Chile-specic words within

this translation.

Esperanza is also highly conscious of the ways that

language, especially Spanish, is gendered, which is

particularly relevant as she avoids a cliché ending for

the piece and shows her characters just beginning to

explore their sexualities. In one exchange, Basti uses the

word “amigos,” which So corrects to the gender neutral

“amigues.” Because the English “friends” isn’t gendered

in the way “amigos” is, I’ve opted for “bros” and then

“besties” and then “homies” in this quick dialogue

sequence to show that Basti and So are alluding to the

nuances and importance of word choice.

The title, too, shows the importance of word choice—or

lack thereof. The numbers and colon, 00:00, indicate

midnight or a new year. Because the 24-hour clock

is not predominantly used in the United States as in

Chile or elsewhere, I considered translating the title to

“Midnight,” “12am,” or “A New Year.” However, what

makes “00:00” so effective as a title is its wordlessness;

the repetition of zero creates a sense of urgency, as if

time were running out, and suggests new beginnings, a

blank slate. By preserving the title of “00:00,” my aim

is to avoid oversimplication, much like Esperanza’s

writing avoids oversimplifying teenage relationships,

emotions, and intimacy. Ultimately, we walk away

from the piece ready to reect upon its contents and

its characters—a quality I hope comes through in this

translation.

It was a joy and honor to work closely with Esperanza

throughout the translation process.

406

ESPERANZA DÍAZ

00:00

Nooo, me puse mal el labial. A ver, ¿y si…? Me paso un dedo tratando de borrar lo que hice y

queda mucho peor. Pucha, siempre pasa lo mismo. Y lo sigo haciendo. Saco desmaquillante

y algodón para limpiar y empezar de nuevo. Aplico el labial. Sí, ahora sí, increíble. Es un

labial rojo demasiado bueno, onda nada que coma ni tome me lo va a sacar. Sonrío al espejo

y creo que se ve bien, en verdad nunca distingo cuando el labial me queda “bien” o, parejo,

por decirlo de alguna forma. No sé si las demás personas se jarán tanto, tampoco. Pero

siempre reviso.

El labial y el vestido negro se ven muy bien. Me gusta. El vestido es corto, ¡y tiene bolsillos!

Por n tengo un vestido con bolsillos, siempre he querido hacer el gestito. Ese cuando te

dicen “que lindo tu vestido” y dices, “gracias, ¡y mira, tiene bolsillos!”, entonces te metes

las manos en los bolsillos y te inclinas un poquito. Me encanta la idea. Ojalá hoy día me lo

digan muchas veces. En la noche tenemos la esta de año nuevo con mis compañeras, es

primera vez que no ceno con mis papás. Antes cenaba con ellos, y después de las 12 salía

con mis amigas. Pero este año me vine a Santiago a estudiar, y pucha, todas lo iban a pasar

aquí. Estamos en clases todavía porque nos fuimos a paro, entonces no sé, pensamos que

era más fácil cenar entre nosotras. Igual me da un poco de pena, cuando les dije a mis papás

dijeron que estaba bien, pero obvio que igual se pusieron tristes.

Por otro lado, me emociona un poco. Cenar con mis amigas para año nuevo, no sé, suena

a panorama de gente grande. Aunque está claro que no soy tan grande si pienso en cosas

como “panorama de gente grande”; pero es que esto de crecer es todo un poco raro. Hasta

cierto punto es todo ngir.

En n, ojalá el otro año ser adulta de verdad. No una persona de 19 que es más o menos

como una adolescente, o no sé, ¿post adolescente?, pero en denitiva no una adulta,

407

translated from the spanish

ZOE MAYA ENGELS

00:00

Oh no, I screwed up my lipstick. Let’s see… what if—I rub it with my nger

and try to erase my mess, but that just makes it worse, way worse. Darn. This always

happens. And I keep doing it. I grab my makeup remover and a cotton pad—time to

clean up and start over. I reapply the lipstick. Yes… this time, yes. Incredible. It’s a kick-

ass red lipstick—the kind that won’t come off no matter what I eat or drink. I smile at

the mirror and think it looks good, but I can never really tell when I’ve put a lipstick on

right, like perfectly in the lines and stuff. I’m also not sure if other people pay this much

attention. But I always check carefully.

The lipstick and black dress look amazing. I like this look. The dress is short.

And it has pockets! Finally, a dress with pockets. I’ve always wanted to do that thing,

that little gesture, where they tell you, “Your dress is so lovely,” and you say, “Thank

you. And look! It has pockets!” and then you stick your hands in your pockets and lean

forward a smidge. I love the concept. I hope people will say that to me a bunch. Tonight,

my friends and I are having a New Year’s party, and it’s the rst New Year’s Eve I won’t

be eating dinner with my parents. I always used to eat dinner with them and then go out

with my friends after midnight. This year is different because I’m studying in Santiago

and, well, all my friends are gonna be here for New Years. My holiday vacation was de-

layed because most of us students went on strike, so we’re still having classes, and then,

oh I dunno, it just seemed easier to have dinner here together, without my parents. But

I do still feel guilty because even though my parents said it was okay when I told them

about this plan, I could tell it made them sad, naturally.

On the ipside, I’m kinda thrilled. Having dinner with my friends to celebrate

the New Year—it just sounds, I dunno, like a grown-up event. Even though it’s clear that

I’m not that grown-up if I think of things as “grown-up events.” It’s just that this whole

process of growing up is a little strange. In some ways, it’s all a game of pretend.

Anyway, I hope I’ll be a real adult in the new year. Not some 19-year-old that’s

408

jugando a ser mayor. Igual de repente me pregunto eso, si la mentalidad de adolescente se

pasa en algún momento. Si las adultas dejan de ser conscientes de que tan “de grandes” son

las cosas que hacen, y solo las hacen, sin pensar.

Tocan la puerta, se interrumpe (casi) por completo mi divagación mental. Estoy casi segura

que es el amor de mi vida, el Bastián. Bueno, el amor de mi vida, pero en amistad. Ya

tiene llaves de mi departamento. Nos hicimos amigues en la media, estudiando para la

PSU, y entre tanto estrés nos volvimos condentes. Es de región como yo, y les dos nos

vinimos a Santiago. Ahí la condencia aumentó mucho más, nos entendíamos caleta

respecto a demasiadas cosas en verdad. Nos vemos todos los días casi; de hecho, tenemos

un día mega hiper reservado en caso de no poder los otros: la hora de almuerzo de los

jueves. Nos hemos recorrido todo Santiago, de hecho, ni se imaginan el lugar cuático

que fuimos el otro día, era en…

– ¡So, ya po! ¿Puedo pasar? – Chucha, ni me doy cuenta cuando me quedo en

nada, pensando.

– ¡Sí, sorry, pasa no más!

Entra el Bastián, usando un pantalón de vestir negro y camisa blanca, se ve bien. Nunca

lo veo con ropa así en verdad.

– Oye, que te ves linda. – me dice.

– ¡Y tú! O sea, wow. – se ríe y me va abrazar. Siempre que me abraza me levanta

un poquito o quedo en puntillas, porque hay 30 centímetros de diferencia.

– Oye, So, ¿me podis peinar?

– Sí, sí, obvio, siéntate no más. – a este punto no sé si en verdad quiere que lo

peine o es porque le gusta que le haga cariño en el pelo.

Se sienta en la cama mientras voy a buscar el cepillo y la crema para peinar. Me siento

al lado de él y empiezo, primero le desenredo el pelo con los dedos; lo hago más rato del

necesario, si soy honesta, porque a mí igual me gusta hacerle cariño en el pelo, nunca se

lo voy a contar eso sí. Después de un rato con el cepillo y la cremita lo logro, ya hasta

develé el gran misterio de cómo se logran dejar el pelo medio parado, pero que se vea

natural.

– Ya, estamos. ¿Vamos? – le digo.

***

Llegamos al departamento de la Bea, que vive con la Lili, su polola. Ya hay un par

de amigas, todas se ven increíbles como siempre. Dejo la lasaña que traje en la mesa

409

denitely not an adult, that’s still more or less an adolescent—or, like a post-adolescent?

—pretending to be a grown-up. Suddenly, I wonder if this adolescent mindset will ever

pass and if adults ever stop thinking about how “grown-up” the things they do are and

then actually do those things without a second thought.

The doorbell rings, and my mental wanderings are (almost) completely in-

terrupted. I’m pretty sure it’s the love of my life, Bastián. Well, the friend love of my

life. He already has a set of keys to my apartment. We met in high school when we

were both studying for the University Selection Test and, somehow, in the middle of all

that stress, we got close. He’s from outside Región Metropolitana like me, and we both

moved to Santiago, where we got even closer, like partners in crime. We understand each

other a ton about way too many things, honestly. Now we see each other almost every

day. We even set aside time once a week for a super chill hangout in case the other days

don’t work out: lunchtime on Thursdays. We’ve explored all of Santiago. In fact, you

wouldn’t believe this dope place we went to the other day. It was in—

“So, come on already! Can I come in?”

Damn it, I don’t even realize when I’m getting lost in thought.

“Sí! Sorry. Come on in!”

Bastián enters, wearing black dress pants and a white dress shirt. He looks good. I

really never see him dressed like this.

“Hey, you look pretty,” he tells me.

“You, too! I mean, wow.” He laughs and comes in for a hug. Every time he hugs me,

he lifts me up a little bit or I end up on my tiptoes because he’s a foot taller than me.

“Listen, So, can you style my hair?”

“Yeah, of course, obviously. Take a seat.” He asks this so often that I don’t know if

he actually wants his hair done or if he just likes it when I show his hair affection.

He sits down on the bed while I go look for a brush and styling gel. I plop down

next to him and start untangling his hair with my ngers. I keep it up for a lot longer

than necessary because, if I’m being honest, I also like to play with his hair. I’d never

say that to his face, of course. After some time with the brush and gel—success! I’ve

even gured out the big secret of how guys get that spiky, faux-hawk hairstyle and still

make it look natural.

“All set. Ready to go?” I ask.

***

410

y empezamos con los abrazos y los piropos; pude hacer el gestito del vestido. Después

el Pato, el pololo de la Maite, dice que van a comprar un poco más de copete con el

Fernando, el pololo de la Andrea. El Bastián los acompaña y apenas salen se giran todas

hacia mí.

– Oye, ¿y el Bastián y tú qué onda? – me pregunta la Andrea. Se sienta en el

sillón y todas nos vamos sentando alrededor.

– ¿Qué onda qué? – pregunto.

– Ay, So, si tú cachai de lo que hablamos. – dice la Maite.

– Noo, si no pasa nada. Si me preguntaron hace un tiempo ya po. – les digo.

– Pero amiga, si no pasa na’ es porque tú no atinai no más po. – dice la Bea.

– Ya, ¿qué onda ustedes? ¿han estado hablando del tema acaso? Amigas si con el

Basti ya nos conocemos hace… no sé, ¿sus tres años? y nunca nada, si en verdad

que no. – les digo, ya un poco chata del tema.

– Amiga, ya, pucha, sí, hemos hablado un poco del tema. Pero es que son

demasiado tiernos, no podíamos, como, dejarlo pasar, ¿cachai? – dice la Maite.

– So, es que sí, demasiado sí. Es que tú no te dai cuenta de los ojitos que pone

cuando te mira. – dice la Bea.

– Es cierto eso. – dice Lili, que es bien callada. Demás lo hizo solo pa darle la

razón a la Bea.

– Pucha, en volá tiene lindos ojos no más. – ya debo estar sonando un poco

pesada, pero es que no me gusta este tema. Si el Basti y yo somos amigues, y

buenos amigues.

– Ya amiga, si no te enojis. En verdad no lo decimos por molestarte. – la Andrea

me toma la mano. – Es que amiga, en verdad pensamos que podrían tener algo

bacán ustedes, por eso te lo decimos no más… Es que, weona, siento que ni mi

pololo es tan lindo conmigo.

– Weona, yo siento que ni cagando veo tanto al mío como tú al Bastián. – agrega

la Maite.

– Pucha, yo no puedo decir lo mismo, básicamente porque la Lili es increíble

conmigo y porque vivo con ella. – dice la Bea y todas nos reímos un poquito; su

polola le guiña el ojo y nos reímos de nuevo.

Después Lili me mira a los ojos, cosa que nunca hace, y asiente. Me quedo callada unos

minutos.

411

We get to the apartment that Bea shares with her girlfriend, Lili. A few of our

other friends are already there, and everyone looks incredible, as always. I leave the

lasagna I brought on the table, and we start in on the hugs and compliments. I get to do

that little gesture with my dress. Afterwards, Pato, Maite’s boyfriend, says that he and

Fernando, Andrea’s boyfriend, are gonna buy some more booze. Bastián goes with them

and they’re barely out the door when all the girls turn and look at me.

“Ey, what’s up with you and Bastián?” Andrea asks me. She sits down on the

couch, and we all grab a spot around her.

“What’s up with what?” I ask.

“Ugh, So, you know what we’re talking about,” Maite says.

“Noo, nothing’s going on. You guys already asked me about that a while ago,” I

tell them.

“Listen girl, if nothing’s happening, well, it’s only ‘cause you haven’t done any-

thing about it,” Bea says.

“Alright chicas, what’s going on? I guess you’ve all been talking about this?

Guys, Basti and I met like, I don’t know… three years ago? And nothing—never. Hon-

estly, nada,” I tell them, already a bit sick of the conversation.

“Girl, ok ok. Yeah, so maybe we’ve talked about it a little. You guys are just all

over the place with your PDAs. We can’t, like, let it slide, ya know?” Maite says.

“So, it’s just … well, yeah. Over-the-top, for sure. You don’t notice those goo-

gly eyes he has whenever he looks at you,” Bea says.

“That’s true,” Lili, the quiet one, adds. I bet she’s only chiming in to help Bea

prove her point.

“Alright. Honestly, maybe he does have nice eyes. That’s all.” I must sound

kinda annoyed at this point, but it’s only ‘cause I don’t like the topic. Basti and I are

friends—good friends.

“Fine, amiga don’t get mad. We really aren’t saying this to bug you,” Andrea

takes my hand. “Girl, we just think you guys could have something amazing. That’s

why we’re telling you all this—really, that’s it. I mean, I don’t even think my boyfriend

is that sweet with me.”

“Dude, there’s no way I see my guy half as much as you see Bastián,” Maite

adds.

“Well, I can’t say the same… because Lili is incredible with me, and I live with

412

– Ya, pero, ¿están seguras de todo lo que me están diciendo? – todas asienten. –

ya, bueno… pero, pucha, si fuera tan así como dicen, ¿qué hago, igual? Si en

verdad nosotres nunca nada.

– Pucha que eris pava, So. Y te lo digo con todo cariño amiga, pero estamos en

año nuevo po. – me dice la Maite. La miro como “ya, ¿y?”, y estoy clara que la

Andrea, su dupla dinámica, le va a complementar la idea. Y así pasa.

– A las 12 te lo agarrai no más po.

Estaba intentando decir, o preguntar, algo más, pero se adelanta la Bea.

– Amiga, tú tranqui, nosotras vamos a ver todo.

Me quedo callada de nuevo. Era demasiada información de la nada, nunca habíamos

hablado tanto de este tema, creo. Pero, ya, lo. Les asiento. Lili me guiña el ojo.

***

Después los chiquillos vuelven, llegan con la prima del Pato. Es preciosa, onda

demasiado. Tiene el pelo morado y está con un enterito negro. Sabía que venía, pero

antes de hoy no la conocía.

Nos sentamos a cenar, pero como que no estoy aquí por completo, estoy un poco aquí y

un poco divagando en mi mente. Preguntándome hartas cosas igual, qué pasa si le doy

un beso al Basti y él en verdad está ni ahí, ¿vamos a dejar de hablar? En serio no quiero

dejar de hablar con él. O peor, seguimos hablando, pero se vuelve incómodo. No, chao,

me muero.

Pero, por otra parte, ¿y si tienen razón mis amigas? ¿y si en verdad nos estamos perdiendo

de algo lindo de pavos no más? En verdad que complicado. No voy a decir que nunca lo

había pensado antes, pero era de mí para mí no más. Ahora es más, no sé, “real”.

***

Al n llega el momento, se hizo eterno. Estamos afuera, en el balcón del departamento,

esperando que den las 12. Después de esto vamos a ir a carretear aquí cerca. Ya. 5, 4,

3, 2, 1. ¡Feliz año nuevo! Abrazo a todas mis amigas bien fuerte. Estoy emocionada

de empezar el año con personitas tan increíbles. Abrazo a les pololes de mis amigas

después, a elles no tan fuerte. Y después veo a la Nati, así se llama la prima del Pato.

Le doy un abrazo, demás que bien torpe. Al n veo al Basti, que había quedado al otro

extremo del balcón. Antes de acercarme a él, la Maite me agarra del brazo:

– Amiga, nos vamos a ir en el Uber con la Andrea, la Nati, el Fernando y el Pato.

Las chiquillas van a ir a buscar algo a la conserjería para que las esperen y

413

her,” Bea says, and we all laugh a little. Lili winks at her, and we all start laughing

again.

Then Lili looks me in the eyes, something she never does, and nods. I stay silent

for a few minutes.

“Ok, but are you guys really sure about everything you’re saying?” Everyone

nods. “Ok, well… dang, even if it’s like you guys say, what am I supposed to do? Hon-

estly, we’ve never done or been anything—never ever.”

“Jeez, you’re so oblivious, So, and I’m telling you this because I care. But it’s

about to be New Year’s,” Maite says to me. I give her a look like, “Ok, and?” but then

I’m certain that Andrea, Maite’s partner-in-crime, will back her up. And that’s what

happens.

“All you have to do is latch on to him at midnight.”

I was trying to say or ask something else, but Bea cuts me off.

“Girl, you chill. We’ll be watching everything.”

I get quiet again. It’s too much information pulled out of thin air, and I don’t

think we’d ever talked so much about this topic before. But, in the end, yeah whatev-

er… I give them all a nod. Lili winks at me.

***

The guys come back later… with Pato’s cousin. She’s gorgeous—insanely hot.

Her hair is dyed purple, and she’s wearing a black jumpsuit. I knew she was coming but

had never met her before.

We sit down for dinner, and it’s like I’m not really there—I’m all over the place,

rambling in my head and ring off a whole bunch of questions like, what happens if

I give Basti a kiss and he’s totally not into it? Will we stop talking? Seriously, I don’t

want to stop talking to him. Or worse—what if we keep talking, but it’s awkward. No,

adiós, I’d die.

On the ipside, what if my friends are right? What if we really are missing out

on something amazing just because we’re oblivious? Honestly, it’s all so complicated. I

can’t say I never thought about it before, but it was just that—a thought in my head,

just for me. Now it’s more, I don’t know, “real.”

***

The moment nally arrives, and it feels like it’s taken forever to get here. We’re

outside, on the apartment balcony, waiting for midnight. Then we’re gonna head to

414

después se van con ellas, ¿dale? – asiento porque ya estoy tan nerviosa que no

creo que le pueda hablar sin tartamudear. Me guiña el ojo.

Juro que en medio segundo el balcón queda vacío, mis amigas van saliendo y me hacen

gestos de ánimo, yo creo que intentan ser disimuladas, pero eso lo hace mil veces peor.

La Bea me tira hasta besitos po. Puta, ojalá el Bastián no las haya visto. Medio segundo

después el departamento también queda vacío.

– Feliz año nuevo, So. – me dice el Bastián acercándose.

– Feliz año nuevo, Basti. – También voy caminando hacia él, hasta que nos

encontramos y nos damos un abrazo bien fuerte. Después logro poner los pies

de nuevo en el piso, pero no nos separamos.

– Oye… en verdad que te ves muy hermosa hoy día.

– Gra-gracias. Tú igual te ves muy bien. – ya siento que me puse roja, puta la

wea.

Nos estamos riendo un poco, bien bajito. Al menos no soy la única nerviosa. Lo miro a

los ojos. Siento que agarra mi cintura un poco más fuerte, acercándome más. Llevo mis

manos a su cara, para tomarla. ¡¡¡Conchetumare no puedo creer que esté pasando esto!!!

Acerca su cara. Y pasa. Y siento… pucha, ¿nada?

***

A ver, no nada. No, no nada. Porque le tengo demasiado cariño, pero no sentí nada fuera

de nuestra amistad. Nada distinto a cuando nos abrazamos, como si el beso hubiese

sido, no sé, innecesario. Puta que la cagué, ¿qué le voy a decir ahora?

Nos separamos y estamos callades, mirando al piso. Nos miramos a los ojos y se nos

escapa una carcajada al mismo tiempo. Ya, parece que pa él fue igual, menos mal.

–

Oy, Basti, en verdad sorry. No sé bien que estaba pensando, es que mis amigas…

– No, no, si tranqui. – me interrumpe. – Si también me aweoné, es que los

chiquillos igual me empezaron a decir cosas, y no sé…

– ¿Es broma? – ahora lo interrumpí yo – puta que son weonas, ¿cómo le cuentan

hasta a sus pololos?

– Tranqui, si sabis que no lo hicieron en mala.

–

No, no, sí sé. Si las quiero mucho, las buenas intenciones estaban… La Andrea y

la Maite son como nosotres, siento. – El Bastián se sienta en el piso, apoyándose

en la ventana y me siento al lado de él.

– ¿Cómo?

415

a party nearby. Here it is. 5… 4… 3… 2… 1. Happy New Year! I hug all my gal pals

real tight. I’m so excited to start the year with such incredible people. I hug their baes

next—not as tight. Then I spot Nati. That’s the name of Pato’s cousin. I give her a hug,

but I’m nervous, so it’s awkward. I nally nd Basti. He’d stayed at the other end of

the balcony. Before I can get anywhere near him, Maite grabs my arm.

“Girl, I’m gonna take an Uber with Andrea, Nati, Fernando, and Pato. Lili and

Bea have to check on something downstairs. You and Bastián can wait for them to come

back up, and then you’ll all leave together. Alright?” I nod because I’m so nervous I

don’t think I can talk without stuttering. She winks at me.

I swear, in less than half a second the whole balcony is empty. My friends make

little gestures of encouragement at me as they leave, and I think they’re trying to be

secretive, but that just makes everything a thousand times worse. Bea even blows little

besos at me. Shit, I hope Bastián didn’t see all that. Half a second later, the apartment

is empty, too.

“Happy New Year, So,” Bastián says, coming over.

“Happy New Year, Basti.” I walk towards him, too, until we meet and give

each other a big hug. Eventually, I manage to get my feet back on the ground, but we

don’t separate.

“Hey… honestly, you look so beautiful today,” Basti says.

“Gra-gracias. You look really good, too.” I can feel myself blushing. Holy shit.

We’re giggling a little bit, real softly. At least I’m not the only nervous one. I

look into his eyes. I feel him tighten his grip around my waist a little bit, pulling me in

closer. I move my hands to his face, to grab it. Fuck, I can’t believe this is happening!!

He moves his face closer. And it happens. And then I feel—damn, absolutely… nothing?

***

Well, not nothing. Not exactly. Because I care about him so much—but I

just don’t feel anything besides friendship. It’s no different from any other time we’ve

hugged, like the kiss had been, I don’t know, unnecessary. Shit, I really screwed up.

What am I gonna say to him now?

We part, and we’re both quiet, staring at the oor. Then we look each other in

the eye and burst out laughing at the same time. I guess he felt the same way. Thank

goodness.

“Listen, Basti, sorry. I mean it. I don’t really know what I was thinking, it’s

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– Como amores de la vida, pero en amistad. – se ríe y me abraza por el hombro.

–

Todo el rato… So, si en verdad te encuentro una mina increíble y todo, pero…

– Tranqui, si no te tenis que explicar. – lo interrumpo. – Yo también te encuentro

una persona increíble, es solo que, no sé…

– Estamos destinados a cosas más grandes como amigos, quizás. – nos reímos, de

repente el Basti se saca comentarios así de la nada.

– Destinades, amigues. – le digo, pa webiarlo.

– Ya, sí, destinades, amigues. – nos reímos. – Oye, y supongo que todo esto de

dejarnos atrás era como un plan, ¿o no?

– Todo parece indicar que sí, amigo. Les voy a mandar un mensaje a estas weonas

pa decirles que vuelvan, y de paso putearlas porque bien malo su plan.

– Oye, tampoco así malo, malo, si igual estuvo bueno el beso, ¿o no? – me pongo

un poco roja. Le pego con el codo en la costilla.

– Ya, cállate, no se vuelve a hablar de eso nunca.

– No sé yo… Igual quizás tenía que pasar po, pa’ que nos diéramos cuenta que…

– Basti, ya. – lo interrumpo – Mucho por hoy, creo. En un mes más lo hablamos,

hasta yo te saco el tema si queris.

– Ya, bueno… Oye, ¿y sabis si nos vamos con la Nati?

– No, se fue antes.

– Ahh… - nos miramos con esa cara de complicidad que ya reconozco.

– Es demasiado linda la Nati, y es muy simpática – le digo.

– Sí, en verdad sí… El Pato me dio su Instagram.

– ¿Real?

– Síp.

– ¿La seguiste?

– No, todavía no.

– ¿Me lo dai?

– No po, si yo la quiero seguir.

– Puta que eris egoísta.

– Ya, bueno. – saca su celular y busca el perl.

– Ya, ¿la seguimos al mismo tiempo?

– Mmm… ya, yo cuento. – estoy consciente de que era una wea idiota.

– Ya.

417

just that my friends…”

“No, it’s ok, relax,” he interrupts me. “I also got caught up ‘cause the guys

started telling me things, too, and I don’t know…”

“Is that a joke?” now I’m doing the interrupting. “Shit those chicas are such

blabbermouths. I mean, they even told their boyfriends about this?”

“C’mon, chill. You know they didn’t do it to hurt you.”

“No, no, I know that. I love them lots, and they denitely had good intentions.

… Andrea and Maite are like us, I think.” Bastián sits down on the oor, leaning his

back against the balcony door, and I plop down next to him.

“Huh?”

“Like, the loves of each other’s lives, but the friend version.” He laughs and

wraps his arm around my shoulders.

“Totally… So, honestly, you’re an incredible girl and everything, but…”

“It’s cool, you don’t have to explain,” I interrupt him. “I also think you’re an

incredible person, it’s just that, I don’t know…”

“Maybe we’re destined for huge things, I mean, as bros.” We laugh. Every once

in a while Basti just says things like this out of nowhere.

“Yeah, as besties,” I say, kinda making fun of him.

“Yeah yeah, we’re homies.” We laugh. “Hm, and I guess leaving us here alone

was part of their plan, right?”

“It does look like it, amigo. I’m gonna send a text to these blabbermouths and

tell them to come back up, and, while I’m at it, I’m gonna tell ‘em off because their plan

was shitty.”

“Hey, not like shitty, shitty,” he says. “I mean, it wasn’t that bad, since maybe

the kiss was kinda good, wasn’t it?” I turn a little red and elbow him in the ribs.

“K, shush, let’s never talk about that again.”

“I dunno, maybe it had to happen so we could realize that…”

“Basti, stop,” I interrupt him. “I think that’s way more than enough for today.

We can talk about it again in a month, I’ll even bring it up if you really want me to.”

“Ok, ne… so um, do you know if we’re going in the Uber with Nati?”

“No, she already left.”

“Ahhh gotcha,” we glance at each other like we’re in cahoots or something—I

know that look.

418

– Oye, oye no, pero igual dame ventaja po. Si tengo mal internet.

– Ya, mira, tú síguela al 2 y yo la sigo al 3.

– Ya, bueno, ¿estai lista?… 1…. 2…. – toca su pantalla – y 3. – la sigo.

– Veis, ¿qué andabai haciendo tanto problema? – le toco la costilla con el dedo

porque sé que le dan nervios, y a mí risa.

– Ya po, Sofía, córtala. – lo sigo haciendo un rato más para que nos riamos, si en

el fondo no le molesta tanto.

Cuando pensé que el Bastián y yo quizás nos estábamos perdiendo algo lindo por pavos

no pude estar más equivocada. No sé cómo pensé algo así, si nuestra amistad ya es lo

más bonito que tengo.

419

“Nati’s denitely super pretty, and I think she’s so nice, too” I tell him.

“Yeah, she really is. Pato gave me her Insta.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“Did you follow her?”

“No, not yet.”

“What’s her handle?”

“No way. I’m the one who wants to follow her.”

“Jeez, you’re so selsh. Share.”

“Ok, ne.” He gets out his phone and looks up her prole.

“Got it,” I say, “Should we follow her at the same time?”

“Umm… yeah, I’ll count,” Basti says. I know it’s such a ridiculous thing to do.

“Ok.”

“Wait, wait no, give me a head start. My internet connection sucks.”

“Sure, you follow her on 2, and I’ll follow her on 3,” I say.

“Ok, cool, are you ready? … 1… 2” —he touches his screen— “…and 3.” I

follow her.

“See, and you were making such a big deal out of it!” I tickle his ribs with my

nger because I know it makes him nervous and it makes me laugh.

“Alright, Sofía, cut it out.”

Since it doesn’t actually bother him that much, I keep it up for a little while

longer so we can laugh some more—together.

When I thought that Bastián and I were missing out on something amazing

just because we were oblivious, I couldn’t have been more wrong. I don’t know how I

could’ve thought something like that since our friendship is already the most beautiful

thing I have.

420

Translator’s Note

El hijo que mira al padre, el padre al retrato de su

amante, el hijo que se siente observado por el retrato

y no puede apartar la mirada de este… En ese deseo

triangular, Abby logra una compulsión al compás de la

repetición y el taller al que siempre se retorna, en un

lenguaje encriptado en la corporalidad y una sensualidad

que sugiere sin jamás sobrepasarse. Al menos no hasta el

nal, donde lo no dicho es tanto que lo real no basta para

expresar, por lo que el cuento traspasa ese umbral con el

amante saliéndose de los límites del marco, arrinconando

al narrador, así como también me arrincono a mí, al

dejarme ante el desafío de transmitirles la extrañeza de lo

sucedido.

Al traducir este cuento me encontré con diferencias

lingüísticas como la repetición de palabras adjetivizadas

(por ejemplo: paint-ecked stool), que en inglés

funcionan, pero en español hacen ruido y decidí

solucionarlas alternando la manera de describirlas a lo

largo del cuento. Sin embargo, más allá de tecnicismos,

lo verdaderamente desaante fue cuidar mantener

esa tensión que siempre empuja y empuja en un

lenguaje disfrazado de cotidianidad pero que no deja de

narrar cosas raras, el exceso de corporalidad, y tenue

sensualidad.

Para eso me fue necesario ir suavizando el alado ritmo

del inglés al lenguaje más uido del español e indagar en

las diferencias entre el erotismo español e inglés, pues no

es lo mismo decir “my small damp mouth” y traducir de

manera literal “mi pequeña boca húmeda” a en vez decir

“la humedad de mi boca”, que consta de un mayor grado

de sutileza.

Bien lo plantea Abby, todas las familias guardan secretos,

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así que dejense arrinconar y preguntense… pregúntese

cuál es la pregunta que la suya no se atreve a formular.

422

ABBY MELICK

FIGURE DRAWING

Every Saturday after lunch, I am allowed to sit on the paint-ecked stool

in the corner of my father’s art studio and watch him while he draws you. The

one condition of my presence is that I do not interrupt. Today, I sit on the stool

and watch with wide, seven-year-old eyes as he dips his quill into the murky ink

and begins to scratch lines into the fresh parchment that stretches across his great

white drafting table.

Hours pass, or maybe minutes, and the scratched ink lines morph on the

parchment, becoming muscles, becoming arms, becoming feet and thighs and hairs

that y in thick tendrils around the top of your head. You reveal yourself slowly in

the face—your eyes will always come last of all—but it is not long before you are

there in full, apparated into this world, and just as quickly captured into stillness.

At rst, your pelvis region is sketched out to be the same smooth mound

I’ve found between the legs of my Ken dolls and G.I. Joe action gures. But it

will not stay this way; I know this by now. My father glances up at me for just a

moment to see if I am watching him but I quickly shift my gaze out the window,

pretending to be bored. So his head lowers to the page once more, exposing the

cowlick swirl on the back of his head. He does not notice me carefully turn back to

the table to catch my favorite part of the process: the addition of the tantalizing

lines between your thighs. Some deep and terrifying part of me never wants to look

away from your new pelvic appendage, which looks like mine and yet nothing like

mine.

I watch my father’s face as he takes out the digital camera and ips back

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traducido del inglés por

TAMARA MALDONADO

FIGURA HUMANA

Cada sábado después del almuerzo, tengo permitido sentarme en el

taburete salpicado de pintura en la esquina del taller de mi padre y mirarlo

mientras te dibuja. La única condición de mi presencia es que no interrumpa.

Hoy, me senté y observé, con ojos de siete años, mientras sumerge su pluma en

tinta oscura y comienza a trazar líneas en el fresco papel que se extiende a lo

largo de su gran blanca mesa de dibujo.

Horas pasan, o tal vez minutos, y las líneas de tinta trazadas se

transforman en el papel, se convierten en músculos, brazos, pies, muslos y

gruesos rizos que caen sobre tu rostro. Rostro que es desvelado lentamente,

siendo tus ojos los últimos en aparecer — el gran nal— pero no pasa demasiado

antes de que estés ahí completo, aparecido en este mundo y, tan pronto eso

sucede, con la misma rapidez, la quietud te captura y te deja inmovilizado.

Al principio, tu zona pélvica es dibujada de manera idéntica al montículo

suave que encontré entre las piernas de mis muñecos Ken y guras de acción G.I

Joe. Pero no permanece así, ya he aprendido esto. Mi padre me mira para ver si yo

lo estoy mirando, pero rápidamente desvío mi mirada hacia fuera de la ventana,

ngiendo estar aburrido. Entonces su cabeza baja hacia la página una vez más,

dejando al descubierto el remolino en su cabello. No nota cuando me vuelvo con

cuidado para apreciar mi parte favorita del proceso: la adición de las tentadoras

líneas entre tus muslos. Una parte profunda y aterradora de mí nunca quiere

apartar la mirada de tu nuevo apéndice pélvico, que se parece al mío sin parecerse

en nada al mío.

Miro el rostro de mi padre mientras agarra la cámara digital y regresa

a la imagen del verdadero tú, el tú no de tinta, sino de carne que le ha modelado

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to the image of the real you, the you not of ink but of esh who has modeled this

twisting move for him in New York City, where, as you know better than anyone,

my father teaches drawing classes Thursdays and Fridays. He taps at the worn

silver buttons: zooming in, zooming out, searching for the line of you he needs

to bring you more fully onto the page. For hours, or maybe minutes, his eyes it

between the you on his camera screen and the you on the parchment as he scratches

your lifelines. He doesn’t want to look away from you either.

I am suddenly jealous of the attention he pours into you and only you. I

ease off the paint-ecked stool and crawl along the deep blue river of rug to slip

silently beneath the desk. I reach up to feel its smooth underbelly. I reach up and

over the lip of the drawing table, grubby ngers searching until I feel the cool of

the paper. Then, quickly, I yank the parchment, and you along with it, down to

under the table. Scrrriiiiittch—his quill skids across the page as I drag you down

and before he can stop me, I stuff as much of the parchment as I can into my small

damp mouth. I want to see if you will have the same metallic tang as the nosebleeds

I get in the middle of the night when blood drips down the back of my throat and

jolts me awake. Does your lilting body of dark ink, so different from my own, still

taste like me? Our creator is the same.

My father takes the paper from my mouth before I can swallow it and blots

at the wet half-circle of teeth-marks I’ve made. He uncrumples the page to assess

the damage: not only are you soggy and bite-marked, but you now have an extra-

long eyelash. You will have to be redrawn; he will start you over on a new sheet.

He does not yell at me. There is only quiet disappointment. He has never

been one to make a scene. He pats my head and crumples up the destroyed version

of you, sends you ying into the bin on the other side of the room. Then, a new sheet

on the drawing table. Then, he enters back into the trance of the dance of pulling

the you on the camera into the you on the page. You did not taste like blood, but

the aftertaste of a avor I can’t quite place sits heavy on my tongue.

I am sitting on the paint-ecked stool in the corner of his art studio,

watching with twelve-year-old eyes as he pulses you into being on the paper. I’ve

425

ese curvado movimiento en Nueva York, donde, como sabes mejor que nadie,

mi padre da clases de dibujo los jueves y viernes. Palpa los gastados botones

plateados: acercando, alejando, buscando la línea de ti que le falta para traerte

en tu totalidad a la página. Durante horas, o tal vez minutos, sus ojos intercalan

entre el tú en la pantalla de la cámara y el tú en el papel, trayéndote a la vida con

sus pinceladas.

De pronto siento celos de la atención que vierte en ti y solo en ti. Me

levanto del taburete salpicado de pintura y navego a lo largo del río azul profundo

de la alfombra para deslizarme silenciosamente debajo del escritorio. Me estiro

para acariciar la suave panza del dibujo y me estiro hacia el borde de la mesa,

donde mis dedos sucios tantean hasta que dan con el frío del papel. Entonces,

rápidamente, arranco el papel y lo tiro al suelo hasta debajo de la mesa, y a ti

junto a este. Gwssss— su pluma resbala mientras te arrastro y antes de que pueda

detenerme, meto todo el papel que pueda dentro de la humedad de mi boca. Quiero

ver si tienes el mismo sabor metálico que los sangrados de nariz que me dan a

mitad de la noche cuando la sangre gotea por mi garganta y me despierta de golpe.

Tu cuerpo rítmico de tinta oscura, tan diferente al mío, ¿sabe cómo yo? Nuestro

creador es el mismo.

Mi padre saca el papel de mi boca antes de que pueda tragarlo y seca el

semicírculo húmedo de marcas de dientes. Desarruga la página para evaluar el

daño: no solo estas pegajoso, sino que ahora tienes una pestaña extra larga. Vas a

tener que ser redibujado; él te hará de nuevo en una hoja nueva.

No me grita ni hace dramas. Solo decepción silenciosa. Me da unas

palmaditas en la cabeza, arruga la versión destruida de ti, y te envía volando hasta

la papelera al otro lado de la habitación. Luego, con un nuevo papel en la mesa

de dibujo, vuelve al trance, la danza de tirar del tú de la cámara hacia el tú de la

página. No sabias a sangre, sino que a un sabor que deja un regusto de no sé qué

pero que reposa con pesadez sobre mi lengua.

Estoy sentado sobre las manchas del taburete en la esquina de su taller,

mirando con ojos de doce años mientras al pulso de su dedo te trae al papel. He

crecido exponencialmente en el último año: la supercie de la mesa ahora me llega

a la cadera. Del rostro de mi padre, caen nuevos cabellos plateados.

426

grown exponentially in the past year: the surface of the great white drafting table

now comes up to my hips. New silver hairs are etched into my father’s temples.

I am in his studio on a Saturday afternoon instead of out playing soccer

with the other neighborhood boys because I am hoping that by watching I will

gure out why it’s you that he constantly conjures with his ink. Why are you the

subject of every one of his drawings? You are never wearing clothes, but sometimes,

a twist of cloth clings to your waist or spurts from your hands. Sometimes, you

are caught mid-leap: your limbs arced upwards in triumph, perpetually thwarting

the laws of gravity. But these strokes of his quill have imprisoned you, despite the

yearning for motion inherent in your limbs and there will be no escape. Sometimes,

you are alone on the page: shy and exposed on a blank background. More often,

your body contorts around the body of another man. We can never see this man’s

face, but the cowlick swirl of the back of the head is gnawingly familiar.

Always naked. Always motionlessly in motion. Always the eyes last: he

must not want you to see him drawing you. Your eyes from the lines, the lines from

the quill, the quill in the hand of my father as he sits at the great white table in his

studio and draws your rippling body, just as he’s always done since I was small.

These days, I draw like he does. But I do not scratch with ink like he does;

squelch and squeak are the language my felt-tipped markers speak. I refuse to draw

realistically like he does; my creations are ghoulish cartoons with sagging jowls and

poison-tipped teeth. I take care to draw their eyes rst. I want their eyes to watch

me as I curve their bulbous noses and shape their elsh ears and draw their hairs in

thick tendrils about the top of their heads. They watch me so there will be no secrets

between us, my drawings and I. They don’t have bodies. At least, not bodies like

yours. Smooth Ken doll mounds are what separate leg from leg.

My father has hung up his collection of your bodies all over the house. In

the bathroom, three Ken-sized yous wrestle each other above my toothbrush. In the

living room, my mother’s collection of vintage pillboxes sits dusty and delicate on

the mantle beneath a grand portrait of you sprawled spreadeagle on a pile of sheets.

On the kitchen table, my older sister’s collection of prescription pill bottles sits

below a framed drawing of you running away, with just the tip of your nose and side

427

Estoy en su taller un sábado por la tarde en lugar de jugar al fútbol con

los demás niños del barrio porque tengo la esperanza de que mirando descubriré

por qué eres tú a quién constantemente conjura con su tinta. ¿Por qué eres el tema

de cada uno de sus dibujos? Nunca estás vestido, pero a veces, un trozo de tela se

aferra a tu cintura o sale disparado de tus manos. A veces, te encuentras congelado

en la mitad de un salto: con tus extremidades arqueadas hacia arriba en señal de

triunfo, derrotando para siempre las leyes de la gravedad. Tus extremidades ansían

movimiento, pero las líneas de su pluma te han aprisionado y no tienes escapatoria.

A veces estás solo en la página: tímido y expuesto sobre un fondo blanco.

Más a menudo, tu cuerpo se moldea alrededor del cuerpo de otro hombre.

Nunca podemos ver el rostro de ese hombre, pero el remolino en el cabello es

dolorosamente familiar.

Siempre desnudo. Siempre en quieto movimiento. Siempre los ojos siendo

los últimos en aparecer: no debe querer que lo veas dibujándote. Tus ojos desde las

líneas, las líneas de la pluma, la pluma en la mano de mi padre mientras se sienta

ante la mesa de su taller y dibuja tu ondeante gura tal como siempre lo ha hecho

desde que yo era pequeño.

Ahora dibujo como él. Pero no doy pinceladas delicadas con tinta; chirriar

y chillar son la lengua de mis marcadores. Me rehúso a dibujar de manera realista;

mis creaciones son dibujos animados macabros con mejillas caídas y dientes

envenenados. Me aseguro de hacer sus ojos primero. Quiero que me vean mientras

curvo sus narices bulbosas y doy forma a sus orejas puntiagudas y dibujo sus

cabellos en gruesas espirales que nacen desde la raíz de sus cabezas. Me vigilan

para que no haya secretos entre nosotros, mis dibujos y yo. No tienen cuerpo.

Al menos, no cuerpos como el tuyo. Suaves montículos de Ken son lo que separa

pierna de pierna.

Mi padre ha colgado su colección de tus cuerpos por toda la casa. En el

baño, encima de mi cepillo de dientes tres tús del tamaño de Ken luchan entre

sí. En la sala, la colección de cajitas de pastillas vintage de mi madre reposa

polvorienta y delicada sobre la repisa debajo del gran retrato de ti despatarrado

sobre un montón de sábanas.

En la mesa de la cocina, la colección de frascos de pastillas prescritas de mi

428

slit of your eye looking coyly back over your shoulder to laugh at the pursuer.

How smart of you, to get him to feature you on every available wall. You

slipped into our everyday architecture so that we cannot round a corner without

seeing your face. Even when we are breathing deeply in sleep, we are inhaling little

pinpricks of your paper dust.

My mother and sister do not question your bodies, for you are the backdrop

to their own dramas. My sister was injured in a Volleyball game three years ago and

prescribed Vicodin. She says she’s still in pain. She has graduated from high school

but does not leave the house. My mother watches her take more pills than she needs

and does not try to stop her but instead loudly smacks the sourdough lump onto the

counter as she bakes her umpteenth loaf of the week. No one asks where my father

stays when he teaches in New York. On Wednesday nights, as he packs to catch the

Acela from Union Station, my sister, prostrate on the couch in the den, does not

look up from the endless stream of the HGTV. Meanwhile, my mother cuts calmly

into crusty baked pillows of pumpernickel and rye. The released steam from the

bread fogs up her glasses as she slathers a slice with Kerrygold and sprinkles Maldon

salt across the top. Her rst bite into the buttery esh always perfectly aligns with

the door closing quietly behind my father. I wonder if she’s in on the joke: his

leaving is her bread and butter.

When my father calls on Friday to say he must stay in the city an extra

day to get in one more modeling session with you, neither mother nor sister bats an

eye.

Even though he will not be there working, I still go down into his studio

on Saturday afternoon to draw my own drawings. I sit on the oor, facing the wall,

resisting the urge to go over and look at the current you rolled out in progress on

the drafting table. I fear I will nd you smirking an all-knowing grin. I win. You’ll

say if I look. I win him. You win nothing.

No one looks up from their TV or their bread when my father comes home

late on Sunday. No one asks him how he is. No one wants to know about New York

so no one says anything at all. I go into my room and the click of my door as it

latches shut is the only sound that breaks our silence.

429

hermana mayor se encuentra bajo un dibujo enmarcado de ti huyendo, con solo la

punta de tu nariz y el rabillo del ojo mirando tímidamente por encima del hombro,

riéndote del perseguidor.

Que inteligente de tu parte, lograr que él te dibuje en cada una de las

paredes disponibles. Te inltraste en la arquitectura de nuestro día a día de tal

manera que no podemos doblar una esquina sin verte la cara. Da igual que tan

profundamente durmamos, seguimos inhalando pequeñas motas del polvo de tu

papel.

Mi madre y hermana no cuestionan tus cuerpos, porque eres el telón de

fondo de sus propios dramas. Mi hermana se lesionó en un partido de voleibol hace

tres años y le recetaron Vicodin. Ella dice que aún siente dolor. Terminó el colegio,

pero no sale de casa. Mi madre la ve tragar más pastillas de las que necesita y,

en vez de intentar detenerla, golpea con fuerza la porción de masa madre contra

el mostrador mientras hornea su enésima hogaza de la semana. Nadie pregunta

dónde se queda mi padre cuando enseña en Nueva York.

Los miércoles por la noche, mientras él hace las maletas para tomar el

tren más rápido de la Union Station, mi hermana, desparramada en el sofá del

estudio, no levanta la vista del ujo interminable de HGTV. Mientras tanto, mi

madre corta tranquilamente las almohadillas crujientes recién horneadas de pan

integral y centeno. El vapor que emana del pan empaña sus anteojos mientras

unta una rebanada con Kerrywold y espolvorea sal Maldon por encima. Su primer

mordisco de la rebanada mantecosa siempre se alinea a la perfección con la puerta

cerrándose de manera silenciosa detrás de mi padre. Me pregunto si ella está en el

chiste: su partida es su pan de cada día.

Cuando mi padre llama los viernes para decir que debe quedarse en la

ciudad un día más para tener una última sesión de fotografía contigo, ni mi madre

ni mi hermana se inmutan. Por más que él no esté ahí trabajando, igual bajo a su

taller los sábados por la tarde para dibujar mis propios dibujos. Me siento en el

piso, frente a la pared, resistiendo el impulso de acercarme y mirar al tú actual,

enrollado y aún en proceso sobre la mesa blanca. Temo que te encontrare sonriendo

una sonrisa presuntuosa. Yo gano. Dirás si miro. Lo gane a él. Tú no ganas nada.

Nadie levanta la vista de su televisor o su pan cuando mi padre llega tarde

a casa el domingo. Nadie le pregunta cómo está. Nadie quiere saber sobre Nueva

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I am nineteen years old and I am as tall as I will ever be and yet I’m still

not as tall as my father. Maybe I am still not as tall as you, but I can’t know for

sure because I have never met you in person. I have not sat on the paint-ecked

stool in a long, long time.

I am home for fall break from my freshman year in college, home for the

last time because I am here to pack up the house and the studio before it is sold.

We need the money for your sister’s rehabilitation program, my mother explains.

Besides, with your father now spending so much time in New York… I just

don’t need all this space. So here I am to help her wipe clean the imprints of my

childhood and hand a glistening shell over to a new family with new secrets.

Boxes are everywhere, but you still cling to the walls, the last to be

packed away. I oat around the house and take you in, one by one. I drift from

the kitchen to the living room to the bathroom to the bedrooms and back to the

kitchen again. Throbbing muscles of naked men tangled up in sheets creased with

colored ink. The weight of your eyes peering from the frames is heavy and I am

dizzy from your presence.

These rst months away from home, I kept thinking I saw you sprinting

across the quad, or standing by the keg at the frat party, or sitting in front of me

in the lecture hall. Always, though, the boy I think is you comes into focus as

just another sleek-bodied curly-haired verisimilitude. They are not you, but the

quickening of my pulse lingers as my eyes rake the sinewy limbs of your doubles. I

do not like that I do not want to look away from them; I blame you for it.

The studio is the last place I go to pack. There is that same creaky step as

I descend, an alert that I am coming down into the basement, entering his sacred

space. Without thinking, I knock quietly on the door, just as I always did on those

Saturday afternoons. But of course, there is no answer. The door swings open and

he is not there. He is still in New York, drawing your bodies into being in a room

I’ve never seen.

But you, you are everywhere. You are freed from the paper that hangs in

frames and freed from the paper that sits coiled in the corners. You rise as one and

431

York, así que nadie dice absolutamente nada. Entro a mi habitación y el clic de la

herradura de mi puerta al cerrarse es el único sonido que rompe nuestro silencio.

Tengo diecinueve años y soy lo más alto que llegare a ser y aun así no

soy tan alto como mi padre. Quizás sigo sin ser tan alto como tú, pero no puedo

estar seguro ya que nunca te he conocido en persona. Hace mucho, mucho tiempo

que no me siento en la esquina. Estoy en casa por las vacaciones de invierno de

mi primer año de universidad, es la última vez que estaré porque estoy aquí para

empacar la casa y el taller antes de que se venda. Necesitamos dinero para la

rehabilitación de tu hermana, explica mi madre. Aparte, con tu padre pasando

tanto tiempo en Nueva York… no necesito todo este espacio. Así que aquí estoy

para ayudarla a limpiar todas las huellas de mi infancia y entregar una cáscara

reluciente a una nueva familia con nuevos secretos.

Hay cajas en todas partes, pero tú aún sigues aferrado a las paredes, el

último en ser empacado. Me deslizo a lo largo de la casa y te tomo, uno por uno.

Voy de la cocina a la sala, al baño, a las habitaciones y de nuevo a la cocina.

Músculos palpitantes de hombres desnudos que se entrelazan bajo sábanas

arrugadas con tinta pigmentada. El peso de tus ojos mirando desde los marcos es

demasiado y me siento mareado ante tu presencia.

Los primeros meses fuera de casa, me parecía verte corriendo de clase en

clase a lo largo del campus, parado junto al keg lleno de cerveza en la esta de

fraternidad, o sentado frente a mí en la sala de clase. Siempre, sin embargo, que

mis ojos se detienen en los chicos que creo que son tú, comprendo que son poco más

que otra imitación de rulos y cuerpo esbelto. Ellos no son tú. Pero la aceleración de

mi pulso persiste mientras mis ojos estudian los torsos fornidos de tus dobles. No

me gusta no querer apartar la mirada de ellos; te culpo por ello.

El taller es el último lugar al que voy a empacar. Ahí está el mismo

escalón chirriante mientras desciendo, una alerta de que estoy bajando al sótano,

ingresando a su lugar sagrado. Sin pensarlo, toco suavemente la puerta, tal como

solía hacerlo aquellos sábados de tarde. Pero por supuesto, no hay respuesta. La

puerta se abre y él no está ahí. Sigue en Nueva York, dibujando tus cuerpos que

serán colgados en una habitación que nunca veré.

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corner me in the middle of the room. You place your collective hand – rendered so

carefully in jet black ink that the tendons in your extensor digiti minimi catch the

light – onto my throat.

You ruined everything and I hate you for it. And yet, to be so close to your

overwhelming beauty quickens the pulse in my pelvis and pricks goosebumps into

the back of my neck and makes my mouth wet with sudden, undeniable desire.

No. No. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want you.

I grab your hand and pull you towards me and tear you in two. Every last one of

you.

As you bleed out onto the oor, I go and touch the great white drafting

table, which has become a great yellowed drafting table. I pick up scraps of paper

that have been strewn this way and that, studies for your feet and hands and

muscles, drafts of twisting sheets. I think: paper is thin and see-through and, when

pressed up to the light, it is bad at hiding things.

I want to eat you all over again, as I did when I was small. No longer

searching for a familiar taste, but now to feel the black ink slide through my

stomach and to feel the relief when I puke the paper up again, returned to

amorphous bodies of meaningless mush. Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans

everything. I want to sludgeify the secrets of your naked bodies.

Naked men. You and my father. His drawings and mine.

I am small, reaching for the table. I am tall, afraid to ask the question.

I am tall and I am small, and I am reaching for the bodies to place in my mouth

and reaching for the bodies to tear them in two and he is reaching for your body in

the room in New York and I am recoiling from the bodies I do not want to want

to touch so instead I watch as he scratches them in ink in the cool damp quiet of

the basement on the great yellowing desk and I know then like I know now that

perhaps it is only me who is afraid to answer the question.

433

Pero tú, tú estás en todas partes y de golpe te liberas del papel que cuelga

en los marcos y te liberas del papel que se encuentra enrollado en las esquinas.

Te levantas como uno solo y me acorralas en medio de la habitación. Levantas

tu mano colectiva– ejecutada con tanto cuidado en tinta negra azabache que los

tendones de tu extensor digiti minimi captan la luz –y encierras mi garganta.

Arruinaste todo y te odio por eso. Y, aun así, estar tan cerca de tu

abrumadora belleza acelera el pulso de mi pelvis, me da escalofríos en la nuca, y

hace que mi boca se sienta aguada por un súbito e incontrolable deseo.

No. No. No quiero esto. No quiero ser como él. No te quiero. Agarro tu

mano y te atraigo hacia mí y te parto en dos. A cada uno de ti.

Mientras te desangras en el suelo, voy y toco la amarillenta mesa de

dibujo. Recojo trozos de papel que han sido esparcidos por aquí y por allá, apuntes

de tus pies, manos y músculos, bosquejos de hojas retorcidas. El papel es delgado y

transparente y, presionado contra la luz, es malo para ocultar.

Quiero devorarte de nuevo, como lo hice cuando era pequeño. Ya no

buscando ese sabor familiar, sino que ahora para sentir la tinta negra deslizarse

desde la garganta hasta mi estómago y sentir el alivio cuando vomito el papel de

nuevo, retornando cuerpos amorfos. Sin dientes, sin ojos, sin palabras, sin nada.

Necesito enlodar los secretos de tus cuerpos desnudos.

Hombres desnudos. Tú y mi padre. Sus dibujos y los míos.

Soy pequeño, estoy tomando la mesa. Soy alto, temeroso de hacer la

pregunta. Soy alto y soy pequeño, y estoy tomando los cuerpos para colocarlos

en mi boca y estoy tomando los cuerpos para partirlos en dos y él está tomando

tu cuerpo en la habitación de Nueva York y yo estoy retrocediendo de los cuerpos

que no quiero tocar, así que en vez miro como él los pincela con la tinta en el frío y

húmedo silencio del sótano sobre el gran amarillento escritorio y entonces sé que

lo sabía antes tal como lo sé ahora que tal vez soy solo yo quien teme responder la

pregunta.

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Translator’s Note

The form of Tamara Maldonado’s “In a City Similar to

Asunción” matches the restlessness of its protagonist.

Deprived of stimulation in a city which may or may not

be Asunción, Paraguay, the narrator generates her own

high-stakes, over-the-top drama to pass the time. As she

wanders the city streets, it’s as if she’s donned glasses

that bring the world into sharp relief. This gives her the

power to see technicolor beauty in her surroundings, but

it simultaneously sharpens the darkness too: the cogs

of this urban machine have rusted to a stand-still. By

playing with undulating registers of voice, Maldonado’s

project permits a love affair with the sky to exist side-

by-side with the grim and grimy details of life in a

suffocating metropolis.

Indeed, in both plot and prose, Maldonado’s writing

bucks the reader’s expectations of what will come

next. In the very rst sentence, a pause to appreciate a

hummingbird sipping from a ower catapults directly

into murder in cold blood. The voice is equally whirling

– in both this short story and the accompanying poem

“When I Became a Burrow,” a moment of embellished

supplication can quickly morph into one of wry and

caustic wit. Sentence to sentence – and sometimes

mid-sentence – Maldonado’s writing telescopes between

beauty and horror until happy serendipity and cruel

twist of fate collapse into one and the same.

Beginning this translation project, my most pressing

concern was how to preserve the high drama of these

vicissitudes without the shifts feeling sticky or jarring.

In the original text, the ow is uid, seamless as the

narrator moves around the city. I found that to capture

the same effect in English, I frequently needed to

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break up sentences into a more staccato rhythm. The

translation therefore walks to a slightly different beat,

but one that hopefully still pulses at the same barreling

pace.

Maldonado also experiments with juxtaposing verse

and prose. The song that comes halfway through the

short story and the nal paired poem seem to be in

conversation with each other, both interested in how

lust and longing for the possession of hidden entities –

swallowed stars and weeping angels alike – can generate a

synchronous blend of hope and desperation.

The biggest challenge for me in translating these lines

in verse was rendering the inherently romantic cocktail

of tenderness, playfulness, and sanctity in the Spanish

songs into a non-romance language. Many of my

conversations with Maldonado centered on how the

English, lacking the romance of the Spanish, needed

to be turned up a few notches to capture the re of the

original. To heighten the drama, I needed to heighten

the language. To accomplish this, I relied heavily on

my copy of Roget’s International Thesaurus, ipping

to nd the perfect adjective that would bring a more

charged connotation to the translation. In this way, the

word sostiene, which I rst translated as holds, became

the more dramatic grips. The word confecciona, rst

translated as makes, became the heightened bestow. In

the nal line of the story, the word alegra started as

happy, but happy felt too quotidian a match for being

cradled by an angel among the stars. I went for the much

more dazzling synonym of exultant.

I hope that the resulting translation captures the

effervescence of the original. My other hope is that, after

reading Maldonado’s work, if you someday nd yourself

fed up with the earth beneath your feet, you might look

skywards instead to nd solace in celestial bodies.

436

TAMARA MALDONADO

En Una Ciudad Parecida A Asunción

Los colibríes pican las ores de la vereda mientras un motochorro apuñala a un

hombre para llevarse su billetera y, por inercia, le deja lo suciente como para que

se pague la micro. Todo bajo el dulce aroma del mango estrellado contra el suelo. La

sangre se mezcla con la tierra rojiza del camino que la municipalidad jamás asfalto

y adquiere un color precioso, parecido al del vestido que use en la colación de mi

hermana. Me alejo de la escena, dobló la esquina, mi corazón retumba en mi pecho,

pero antes de darme cuenta veo ramas de árboles que se asemejan a una multitud de

dedos extendiéndose para acariciar las tumbas que resguardan. Los troncos oscuros

y las hojas de color verde profundo resaltan entre el blanco de la piedra y el mármol.

En el centro se alza un gran ángel de rostro sereno y cabello largo que sostiene una

rosa entre sus manos. Me arrodillo por impulso y justico mi inacción diciendo que

nunca pedí ser testigo. Paseo entre las largas hileras de personas en descanso eterno,

todas descuidadas y olvidadas, excepto por una que tiene depositada una crisantema

delante. Me la robo a modo de compensación. Nací en un país que parece no existir

y, como segundo castigo, se me dio la ambición de perseguir fantasías lejanas a mí.

Salgo de ahí, ahora voy pasando frente a casonas antiquísimas convertidas en bares,

farmacias, y despensas. Los vendedores de la calle me abruman, me incomodan, siento

culpa, los ignoro cada vez, al igual que a los hombres que me silban como si fuese

perro cuando no lo soy. Entro a una despensa, me compro una botella de agua, sin sed,

solo por hacer algo, y, con disimulo, guardo en mí bolso un pintauñas transparente.

Afuera la oscuridad comienza a hacerse, aunque aún es temprano. Las bocinas de los

autos compiten con los látigos de los recolectores de basura que van en carretas tiradas

por caballos. Sigo el aroma a marihuana que tanto me tranquiliza, pues conduce al

parque. Llego hasta la estatua pintarrajeada del mariscal que destaca en el medio,

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translated from the spanish by

ABBY MELNICK

In a City Similar to Asunción

The hummingbirds sip from the owers along the sidewalk while a thief on a

motorcycle stabs a man, steals his wallet and, thanks to inertia, leaves behind just

enough change to pay for the bus. All this, cloaked in the sweet scent of mango

splattered on the ground. The victim’s blood mixes with the ruddy dirt of the road –

which the government never paved ¬– turning it a pretty color, similar to the dress I

wore to my sister’s high school graduation.

I hurry away from the crime scene. Turning the corner, my heart thundering in my

chest, I’m surprised by tree branches reaching out like a multitude of ngers to

caress the tombs they shelter. Dark trunks and leaves of deep green stand out against

the white of stone and marble. In the cemetery’s center rises a colossal angel with a

serene face and long hair, cupping a rose in her hands. I kneel on impulse and justify

my passivity by telling her I never asked to be a witness.

I stroll down the long rows of people taking their eternal rest, all of them neglected

and forgotten. Except for one grave which has a fresh chrysanthemum deposited in

front of the headstone. I steal it by way of compensation – I was born in a country

that seems not to exist and, as form of double punishment, has sentenced me to the

ambition to pursue fantasies far beyond my reach.

I get out of there, rush past the creaking colonial mansions that have been converted

into bars, pharmacies, corner stores. The street vendors overwhelm me, harass me. I

feel guilty that I always ignore them, the same way I ignore the men who whistle at

me as though I’m a dog. Which I am not.

I walk into a corner store and buy a bottle of water, thirstless, just to do something.

Surreptitiously, I slip a bottle of clear nail polish into my bag.

Back outside, darkness is falling even though it’s still early. Car horns compete with

the whipcracks of garbage collectors atop their horse-drawn carts, and I follow the

tranquilizing aroma of pot to the park.

At the center stands the defaced statue of the Marshall. He may be imposing but I

don’t respect him one bit. As always, troops of vagrants’ tents surround him as if

438

imponente, pero no me despierta respeto. Como siempre, hay varios grupos y carpas

rodeándolo, parecen su batallón. Hay voces, pero no entiendo el idioma que hablan,

así que los registro como si fuesen pájaros en el ambiente. Las aves pueden hacer

sonido y seguirá siendo silencio. Ese es su gran secreto para ser un refugio necesario

de la realidad. Me echo en el pasto y veo a las nubes gordas esconder al cielo. Sonrío

porque sé que ella está siendo tímida, mi dulce amada, ¿acaso no fuiste tú misma

quién me llamó? Puedo verte, dulce emperatriz de los cielos, aunque te escondas

detrás de las nubes, tu poder es tan grande que no puedes evitar ltrar rayos de luz

que bastan para guiarme hacía vos. Aunque la distancia que nos separa parezca

inabarcable, acá en la tierra, voy a dejar un rastro tan grande de hierbas malas,

gruesas, y feroces, que será imposible no las puedas ver. En ese momento sonreirás, de

seguro, pensando que eso es tan típico de mí, hacer el ridículo así, pero te agradara,

porque te gusto así. De seguro premiaras mi voluntad y determinación, mostrándome

la gracia de la fuerza de una mujer, no bajando hasta mí y haciendo algo absurdo

como humanizarte, sino que me confeccionaras alas con las que yo pueda subir hasta

vos. Por mi parte, como gratitud, pondré todo mi corazón e inteligencia en cada

una de las cosas que haga para ser digna de reinar a tu lado. Mis justos puños jamás

volverán a caer en la obediencia desesperada de las circunstancias, que demasiado

bien sé, atan y privan de libertad al alma. Entre nuestra fuerza e inteligencia, ¿quién

podría competir? Por favor, emperatriz, antes de que se me vaya la vida, aplaca mi

alma expectante, se la causa de mi sonrisa triunfante, entrelaza nuestros caminos para

que al n pueda descansar el destino sin voluntad que le niegue. Así que lluvia, sé que

esta es respuesta tuya a mis ruegos, solo que no estoy segura de sí es para invitar o

intimidar mi temperamento. Entonces, suciente dialogo verbal, ahora saco el recibo

de la despensa, hago un esfuerzo de barquito, diluyo pintauñas con el agua sobre

el pasto, formando hileras plateadas, gotas gruesas que brillan como la luna. Se las

dedico como tributo, como si estuviésemos fusionando nuestras salivas. El barco las

navega dejando una estela similar a las de los cometas. La crisantema va como única

tripulante. Canto:

Hay un triste ángel

Llora sobre la tierra, llora sobre los cerros,

439

they were his battalion. There are voices, but I can’t understand the language – they

silent when sparrows sing. That’s their big secret: their song provides a vital refuge

from reality.

I lie down in the grass and watch the plump clouds obscure the sky.

I smile, for I know she’s being shy.

My sweet love, was it not you who called me? I see you, darling Empress of the Sky.

Even though you hide behind the clouds, your power is too vast, you cannot stop

the rays of light from escaping, guiding me to you. Though the distance between us

seems insurmountable, here on Earth I will leave a trail of weeds so wild and thick

it will be impossible for you to ignore!

At this, you will surely soften. You’ll think: how typical of me, to make a fool of

myself. You’ll laugh, because you like me this way. No doubt you’ll reward my

persistence and determination and aunt the grace of a woman’s power. You won’t

look down on me. You won’t do something ridiculous like take on human form.

Instead, you’ll bestow wings upon me to whisk me skyward, and in gratitude I shall

pledge to pour my heart and mind into being worthy of reigning by your side. No

more desperate obedience to fate – my righteous sts shall never fall again, for I

know all too well how circumstance can bind the soul and deprive it of freedom.

With our combined strength and intelligence, who could compete? I implore you,

Empress, before the life leaves my body, appease my aching soul! Grant me a

triumphant grin! Intertwine our paths so at last destiny may rest of its own accord!

And so…

Rain.

I know this is your answer to my plea, but I’m not sure if it’s meant to tempt or

intimidate my temperament.

In any case, enough talk.

I take out the receipt from the corner store and fold it into a little boat. I dilute my

new nail polish with the dew of the grass to form shimmering trails, thick gleaming

droplets of moonlight. I dedicate them to you as my offering, as if we were pooling

our saliva. We will sail the paper boat and leave comet tails in our wake. The

kidnapped chrysanthemum will be our only crew.

I sing:

There is a forlorn angel

She weeps over the land, weeps upon the hills,

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Sobre las plantas y los barcos de papel

¿Cómo doy un pañuelo a un ángel

que no se deja ver?

Empapada me levanto, sin saber a dónde ir, divago por el centro y sus calles

pobremente iluminadas. El farol de cristal roto parpadea e ilumina a los mosquitos

que se reúnen entorno a ella en una especie de discoteca en miniatura. De repente

me siento agotada, las piernas me pesan. Temo la vitalidad se me va desgastando

y que la impotencia es lo único que queda dentro de este cuerpo. No, no es verdad:

la impotencia siempre acaba pariendo al resentimiento. Entro a un pub, voy hasta

el baño, es pequeño, no hay papel, y la puerta está rota. Intento atajarla apoyando

mi pie contra esta. En este país, en esta ciudad, donde nada sucede, voy y busco

aventuras, pero este resentimiento con el que regreso, las manos vacías con las que

regreso, no me otorgan nada. Algún día me voy a ir bien lejos y viviré historias, ya

verán. Por ahora, me pido un trago, nadie me pregunta mi edad, me señalan que

estoy mojada y yo conrmo que lo estoy, pero ni por un segundo quito la vista del

bartender para asegurarme de que no le eche nada. Parece seguro, me lo tomo de

un golpe. Un hombre se me va acercando e imploro que no lo haga. Lo hace. Me

hace preguntas, me levanto, me siento abrumada, digo que tengo que ir al baño. En

realidad, abandono el lugar. En la calle, el viento sopla pétalos rosas hacía mí. Los

lapachos son la resistencia de la magia. Las abejas buscan postergar el apocalipsis.

Hay diminutos reinos revoloteando alrededor de los mangos. Un ruido de motor

me acorrala, las vueltas del destino, sostiene lo que parece una daga. Sus ojos

desorbitados, parece le sale espuma de la boca, me clava la mirada, justo segundos

antes de darme en el riñón. Antes de darme cuenta, mi cabeza estrellada contra el

suelo. Estiro mi mano y arranco con la fuerza que me queda un puñado de hierbas

verdes. Hago una especie de sendero desde la base del lapacho hasta mí. Allá arriba,

la emperatriz de los cielos se deja ver por n. Me confecciona alas, me lleva con ella,

en sus robustos brazos, me acuna junto a las estrellas, me da una patria, un hogar.

Luego, me dice que la alegra tenerme a su lado, que supere muy bien las pruebas.

441

Onto the leaves and paper boats

How do I give a tissue to an angel

who refuses to unhide?

Soaked, I rise, not knowing where to go. I drift along the poorly lit streets towards

the city center. The cracked-glass streetlamps icker and faintly illuminate the

mass of mosquitos dancing in some sort-of mini-disco. All of a sudden, I’m

exhausted. My legs are lead. I fear my vitality is waning, draining my body of

all but impotence. No, no that’s not true: my impotency will perpetually re-birth

resentment.

I walk into a pub and nd the bathroom. It’s tiny, there’s no toilet paper, and the

stall won’t lock. I try to keep the door shut by bracing it with my foot. In this

country, in this city where nothing ever happens, I go looking for adventures, but

my resentment resurges every time I come back empty-handed. My country grants

me nothing. One day I will y far from here and live out epics, you’ll see.

But for now, I order a drink. No one asks how old I am. They do point out that I’m

soaked and I shrug to conrm, but not for one second do I take my eyes off the

bartender to make sure he doesn’t slip me something. The drink seems safe, I toss

it back in one gulp. A man makes a move to approach me and I silently beg for him

not to. He comes anyway. He starts asking questions and soon I’m feeling agitated.

I get up and tell him I have to go to the bathroom but instead, I make my escape.

In the street, the wind blows pink petals my way; the lapacho trees ght to keep the

magic alive. Bees strive to stave off apocalypse. Tiny kingdoms orbit the mangos.

The roar of a motorcycle stops me in my tracks. The wheel of destiny spins:

the rider grips what appears to be a dagger. His eyes bulge out of their sockets.

Frothing at the mouth, he locks eyes with me seconds before stabbing me in the

kidney.

The next thing I know, my head smashes against the ground. I reach out a hand

and, with all my remaining strength, rip up stfuls of green weeds from along the

sidewalk. Dragging myself to the base of the lapacho tree, I leave a path of blood

in my wake.

Up in the heavens, my Empress of the Sky nally unhides. She bestows wings upon

me and whisks me skyward. In her powerful arms, cradling me among the stars, she

gives me a homeland, a home. By and by, she’ll tell me she’s exultant to have me at

her side, and that I’ve passed her test with ying colors.

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De cuando me convertí en madriguera

Una estrella se cayó silenciosa

Espectáculo único y personal

La tome con cuidado

Aun quemaba un poco, pero no importo

Era tan bella que me lleno de lágrimas dulces

Ya nada sería igual y lo sabia

Eso era un antes y un después

¡La apoteosis de mi historia!

Hice lo único racional y predecible podía hacer:

me la trague.

A veces, hasta hoy, cuando toso me sale polvo de estrella

Y en mis ojos, de la nada, se puede colar un extraño brillo intenso

Me veo obligada a vestir ropa ligera, incluso en invierno, por el calor

Si me rio muy fuerte, se me puede escapar fuego, entonces trato de no hacerlo

Pero no me molesta.

Tengo una estrella

Mi estrella

y me da ilusión.

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When I Became a Burrow

A star fell silently

Spectacle singular and mine

I caught her with care

It burned a bit, but was no bother

Her radiance lled me with sweet tears

Nothing would be the same, and I knew

There was after now, and before

The apotheosis of my history!

I made the only rational and predictable choice:

I swallowed her.

At times, even now, I cough out sprays of stardust

And in my eyes, out of nowhere, strange pricking shimmers coalesce

Even in winter, I must wear light summer clothes for the heat

Flames may leap from my mouth if I laugh too hard, so I try not to

But I don’t mind.

I possess a star

My star

And she hides my hope.

444

445

word for word / parola per parola

Columbia University School of the Arts

Scuola Holden

446

Translator’s Note

“The Other Girl”, by Evelyn Batchelder Burd, is a dark

fairy tale which tells the story of two unnamed girls who

live in a forest, throughout their youth and puberty.

The tone of the narration is grotesque, turning almost

into horror sometimes, even if there is no violence or

true fear. Writing this story in such a genre is brilliant to

me, especially because the central topics of the story are

so often related to “pinkness”, especially when it comes

to narratives.

The main theme of the story is in fact, without any

doubt, the growth of the two girls and their relationship

with themselves and with each other, the changing of

their bodies and the need to be close despite any cracking

between them.

The biggest challenge in translating was to keep the

same atmosphere of the original text, the genre, and the

touch of magic that follows every page without being too

invasive.

It was crucial to me to be intentional with the meaning

of certain words that are used in an unconventional

way in the English. It was my duty to bring these words

into the Italian while maintaining the same feeling of

“weirdness”, to not lose the deeper sense that the author

had in mind.

Because of this, I had to carefully choose the correct

level of language to use, which in English is a complex

one without ever being an obstacle to the reader’s

comprehension.

447

It was a priority to me not to make the importance of

the theme of the story, in its delicacy and complexity,

seem typical, or even worse, stereotypical. The risk

of missing Evelyn’s eye, which is very personal and

particular, was very high and made me seriously consider

things which might appear obvious, such as the meaning

of even small words like “girl”.

In general, while translating this story it was very

important to not to rely on the rst translation that

came to mind, but always to dig deeper, looking for the

inner, light-bringing, true meaning of each word.

Atmosphere, sound of words, and rhythm were all

crucial aspects of the text that I could not keep apart.

In this case, the simple meaning of words was not

everything, and “The Other Girl” is proof that form is

also substance.

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EVELYN RUBY BATCHELDER BURD

THE OTHER GIRL (EXCERPT)

There were two girls who lived in the forest and ate rocks. It was their

secret; a part of the games that they played. They would play evil witch and little

prince, they would stare at each other and see who could go the longest without

blinking, one above water, one below, the surface of the river acting as a mirror.

The rocks taught them everything; how to shave their teeth, how to catch the

rabbits, how to lter water.

They tumbled through trees down hills together, to nd the rocks, hidden

under mushrooms and trapped away in caves. The rocks started with mundane

whispers, then murmured desires, thoughts, rumbled whole lives they would have

lived on two legs. The girls tried to live for the rocks.

The girls loved the forest. There they drank from the rocks and ate in the

streams and found each other. The water was where the games claried. The moss

would gurgle and the sh would slip and the girls would lock eyes, noses above the

water mouths below. Wet hair would drip down their faces and explode below the

surface. They wouldn’t touch, they would just look, enchant, meld and mold.

Through the discovery of games, they invented their world. They played

the fairytale games that the river stones had taught them, but they also played

others that they had created; the game of the sh, or the game of the wolves.

The game of the sh made them two koi, encircling each other so slowly that you

almost couldn’t tell they were moving. Maybe they didn’t know that they were.

The game of the wolves was the most complicated and involved more energy than

the others. There were more gestures to imitate, more connections to understand.

It’s harder to transform your gure into a wolf than into a sh, but that wasn’t

the trickiest part. They could never quite complete the perfect act of giving.

It was something they’d watched the wolves do. After a wolf died, whether by

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tradotto dall’inglese da

ACHIM NOFFKE

L’ALTRA FANCIULLA

C’erano due fanciulle che vivevano nel bosco e mangiavano le pietre. Era

il loro segreto; parte dei loro giochi. Giocavano alla strega cattiva e al piccolo

principe, si guardavano negli occhi per ve-dere chi riusciva a stare più a lungo

senza chiuderli, una sott’acqua, l’altra fuori, con la supercie del ume a fare da

specchio. Dalle pietre imparavano tutto; come limarsi i denti, come catturare i

coni-gli, come ltrare l’acqua.

Insieme ruzzolavano in mezzo agli alberi giù per le colline, per cercare le

pietre, nascoste sotto i funghi e intrappolate nelle grotte. Le pietre cominciavano

con normali sussurri, poi mormoravano desideri, pensieri, borbottavano a

proposito delle vite che avrebbero vissuto su due gambe. Le fan-ciulle provavano a

vivere per le pietre.

Amavano il bosco. Lì bevevano dalle pietre, mangiavano nei ruscelli e si

trovavano. Era nell’acqua che i giochi si rivelavano completamente. Un gorgoglio

usciva dal muschio e i pesci sguazzavano e le fanciulle chiudevano gli occhi, il naso

fuori e la bocca dentro l’acqua. I capelli ba-gnati sgocciolavano sui loro volti ed

esplodevano sotto la supercie. Loro non toccavano mai, si limitavano a guardare,

incantarsi, fondersi e plasmarsi.

Attraverso la scoperta dei giochi, inventavano il loro mondo. Oltre a quelli

delle abe che ave-vano imparato dai sassi del lago, ne crearono altri; il gioco

dei pesci, oppure il gioco dei lupi. Il gioco dei pesci le rendeva due carpe che si

giravano attorno così lentamente da sembrare quasi immobili. Forse neanche loro

sapevano di muoversi.

Il gioco dei lupi era il più complicato e richiedeva gli sforzi maggiori.

C’erano più gesti da imita-re, più passaggi da capire. È più difcile trasformarsi

in lupo che in pesce, ma non era quella la parte più spinosa. Non riuscivano mai a

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course or by force, another wolf would sniff it out, tear through its chest, and

take its heart. The game would have been easy if all it required was taking. But

after the wolves performed the simple, invasive magic, they would give the heart

away. The girls would watch, crouched in the dirt and the leaves, shy behind

tree trunks but captured by the scene. One wolf would tenderly place the heart

on the cold earth before another and then bow away. The girls had never seen a

heart rejected. They felt that they were missing some part of the ritual. During

these moments the air felt softer, thinner, and they weren’t sure if they could

breathe. They felt queasy, had to look away. They were enthralled with this magic

but couldn’t quite settle with it themselves. They were excited by the idea of a

new game but were unsure how to imitate it. That magic was distant from them,

something the wolves must have learned from the trees, a magic more difcult

than unzipping yourself for someone else to see. They’d known this from the

beginning; they’d learned it from the rocks.

Most games they found in the middle of the day, but there was one

game that they learned in the middle of the night. The stars had been high and

clear; crystals. The girls had lain in the grassy leaves under a blanket of dirt and

listened to the stars which were the oldest rocks; the ancestors. Millions of years

old they were, and hundreds of millions of games had they invented. The stars

whispered to the girls about unzipping, about unfolding, about seam ripping.

They lay there in the dirt under the stars and felt for the seams. It was hard to

nd the separation bumping along the ridges of the ribs, rather than the hidden

places under their armpits, inside their lips, or even in the folds between their legs.

They used their sharpened teeth to tear at the thread, and their mucky ngernails

to catch any strand left standing. They knew that they could do this, because it

was external. They touched no internal organ as they turned themselves inside

out for that game, and traded skins.

The rst time they played was a bit jarring. At rst, they struggled to

use their ngers, unsure of how their bones would t, whether there would be

wrinkles or stretch marks to come. They tripped over their feet and scraped at

their cheeks to see. They laughed at each other and cackled to hear their own

laughs coming from mismatched mouths. They were exhilarated by this new type

of transformation they had discovered. It brought them closer to each other,

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completare no in fondo il perfetto atto di donare. Lo avevano visto fare ai lupi.

Alla morte di un lupo, naturale o violenta che fosse, un altro lupo lo annusava,

gli squarciava il petto, e prendeva il cuore. Un gioco facile, se si fosse trattato

solo di prendere. Ma do-po aver eseguito quella magia semplice e invasiva, i

lupi regalavano il cuore. Le fanciulle guardava-no, accovacciate sulla terra e le

foglie, spaventate dietro i tronchi degli alberi ma ammaliate dalla scena. Un

lupo adagiava con cura il cuore sul terreno freddo davanti a un altro, per poi

allontanarsi a capo chino. Le fanciulle non avevano mai visto riutare un cuore.

Sentivano che in quel rituale qualcosa gli sfuggiva. In quei momenti l’aria si

faceva più dolce, più sottile, e non erano certe di riu-scire a respirare. Si sentivano

male, dovevano distogliere lo sguardo. Quella magia le affascinava, ma non

riuscivano a comprenderla del tutto. L’idea di un nuovo gioco le entusiasmava, ma

non sapeva-no bene come imitarlo. Era una magia lontana da loro, i lupi dovevano

averla appresa dagli alberi, un tipo di magia più difcile che slacciarsi per farsi

vedere da qualcun altro. Loro questo lo sapeva-no sin dall’inizio; lo avevano

imparato dalle pietre.

Scoprivano la maggior parte dei giochi durante il giorno, ma uno lo

avevano imparato a notte fonda. Le stelle erano alte e luminose; cristalli. Le

fanciulle si erano stese sul terreno erboso sotto una coperta di terra ad ascoltare

le stelle che erano le pietre più antiche; le antenate. Erano lì da mi-lioni di anni,

e avevano inventato centinaia di milioni di giochi. Le stelle sussurrarono alle

fanciulle come slacciarsi, schiudersi, scucirsi. Loro rimasero sdraiate sotto le stelle

a tastarsi le cuciture. Era difcile trovare la commessura che emergeva lungo la

cassa toracica, oppure le parti nascoste sotto le ascelle, dentro le labbra, o perno

nelle pieghe tra le gambe. Usarono i denti aflati per strappare i bordi, e le unghie

sporche per tirare via ogni lo che rimaneva. Sapevano di poterlo fare, perché era

all’esterno. Rivoltandosi da capo a piedi per il gioco, non toccavano organi interni,

e si scambia-rono di pelle.

La prima volta fu un po’ fastidioso. All’inizio fecero fatica a usare le

dita, non sapendo come le ossa si sarebbero adattate, se si sarebbero create rughe

o smagliature. Fecero qualche passo e si stro-picciarono le guance per riuscire a

vedere. Ridevano l’una dell’altra e sghignazzavano sentendo le loro risa provenire

da bocche diverse. Le divertiva il nuovo tipo di trasformazione che avevano

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closer to the rocks who had guided them, closer to the sky.

They would exchange and meld again at night, shifting skins back and

forth until the once new casings felt as natural to them as those of the koi and the

wolf; as natural as the rocks against their teeth. The skin stretching game made

most sense below the stars and in the water, where the sounds of the frogs and

the bears and the howls and the bees ran together, where they echoed between the

trees on either bank, and between the water and the sky. That’s where the girls

decided maybe there was no need for a skin to return to a certain set of bones.

Maybe they could last a little bit longer in each other’s skin, maybe more than

just a night, maybe a day. Maybe even a stretch of the moon.

They melded, they separated, they couldn’t remember which skin had

been theirs to start with. And one night, a girl felt something warm slip from

between her legs. The water ran red and lled with blossoms and plumes. The

other girl felt dry. Whose skin had produced the owers, the paint, the art that

could ll the lakes and the sky? Which girl could claim credit, which girl wanted

to? And here was the rst opportunity for competition, the rst place to claim

something outside of the forest and for themselves. All of a sudden, the skins felt

uncomfortable; one too much like the moon and the other too much like the sun.

How could they change skins now, when one of them was so clearly different?

What would it mean for them to trade, and would the blood come with the skin

or with the organs? One felt jealous and the other scared, unsure what made them

different, strange, broken. The stars had not told them of this power, that the

balance they had not realized was so fragile could break. The rocks had betrayed

them, and they could not forgive each other.

That was the rst night the girls ever spent apart.

One left the other, slipped away into the shadows, found a wolf skin, or

a rabbit, and loped away while the other lay her head against the leaves. Howls

echoed through the trees those nights, when a girl couldn’t nd the other. They

had never considered that they could be lost, that there could be an issue nding

one another. There had never been a need to invent calls to nd each other, or to

speak to the bees to spread the word. One thought they would never unite again.

The other ooded the river with her blood and her tears.

453

scoperto. Le portò a essere più vicine, più vicine alle pietre che le avevano guidate,

più vicine al cie-lo.

Si scambiavano e si rimodellavano la notte, alternandosi le pelli no

a sentirsele addosso con la stessa naturalezza di quelle della carpa e del lupo;

naturali come le pietre contro i loro denti. Il gioco di tirarsi via la pelle aveva

più senso sotto le stelle e dentro l’acqua, dove i versi di rane orsi gu e api si

mescolavano, echeggiando tra gli alberi su entrambe le sponde, e tra l’acqua e

il cielo. Fu lì che le fanciulle decisero che forse non era necessario che una pelle

ritornasse a un preciso insieme di os-sa. Forse potevano stare un po’ di più nella

pelle dell’altra, forse più che una sola notte, forse un giorno. Forse perno una fase

lunare.

Si fondevano, si separavano, non ricordavano qual era stata la loro pelle.

E una notte una fan-ciulla sentì una cosa calda colarle da in mezzo alle gambe.

L’acqua si tinse di rosso e si riempì di ori e piume. L’altra fanciulla si sentì

asciutta. Di chi era la pelle che aveva prodotto i ori, il colore, l’arte che riusciva

a riempire i laghi e il cielo? Chi poteva prendersene il merito, chi voleva farlo? Fu

la prima occasione di competere, la prima opportunità di pretendere qualcosa al

di fuori del bosco e per loro stesse. All’improvviso, le pelli erano fastidiose; una

troppo simile alla luna e l’altra troppo simile al sole. Come potevano scambiarsele

ora che una era tanto diversa? Cos’avrebbe comportato? Il sangue avrebbe seguito

la pelle o gli organi? Una era gelosa e l’altra spaventata, incerte di cosa le rendesse

strane, diverse, rotte. Le stelle non avevano detto che esisteva quel potere, che

quell’equilibro più fragile del previsto si potesse rompere. Le pietre le avevano

tradite, e loro non potevano perdonarsi.

Fu la prima notte che le fanciulle non passarono assieme.

Una abbandonò l’altra, si inoltrò nell’oscurità, trovò la pelle di un lupo,

o di un coniglio, e corse via mentre l’altra poggiava la testa sulle foglie. Quelle

notti i gu echeggiavano tra gli alberi, quando una fanciulla non riusciva a trovare

l’altra. Non avevano mai pensato di potersi perdere, che ritro-varsi potesse essere

difcile. Non avevano mai avuto bisogno di inventare un richiamo o di parlare

con le api per spargere la voce. Una pensava che non si sarebbero mai più riunite.

L’altra inondava il ume di sangue e lacrime.

454

The skins changed.

One girl embraced her blood. She wondered how it could keep coming

and yet she could feel stronger, feel the dull pain in her gut pulsing through her

veins and fueling her legs to run with the wolves. Under the full moon of the

third month after the rst blood, hunting with the wolves, she fell. Something

strange had happened, a root had creeped and curled its way above the soil,

perhaps overnight, because she knew that she had never met this root before. Her

ankle swiveled and something sharp marked her side. She could feel the hot blood

coursing, not just from between her legs but along her seams, as well. The rib cage

was not enough to stop it, and the other wolves left her behind. She lay, in the

dirt, heaving, having come so abruptly to a stop, and asked the stars to help her

stop the blood. They were silent.

So she limped to the river, where the water had taken her excess before,

where it had sewn together the shredded skin and built it up stronger, though

thicker and bumpier, resistant to the rocks which might be angry and point out a

sharp edge.

Once her skin had stitched itself together again and her ankle had

straightened and strengthened, she felt a certain satisfaction, a gratication,

one that felt familiar, yet distant; lost somehow. But the warmth only lasted a

moment before following the red strokes away from her, downstream. She watched

it go. She wanted to feel it again, immediately, to understand where it had come

from, when it had coursed through her veins before.

found a sharp edge, a rock peeking out of the dirt, one that was isolated,

outcasted, alone. She drew it along her elbow, her cheek, against the soft part of

her thighs. And she realized where the missing warmth had come from.

The other girl had been spending much time as a passive spectator to her

body. She’d watched as when she spent more time in the river, her skin browned,

her hair lightened, and little brown dots turned her skin into a reection of

the night sky. Her thighs began to thicken like the trunks of the trees, her hips

spiraling outwards, her chest slipping and dripping into waterdrops of skin.

In the water, sometimes she could pretend it was all the same, the way

455

Le pelli cambiarono.

Una fanciulla accolse il proprio sangue. Non capiva come potesse sentirsi

più forte nonostante quello continuasse a uscire, sentiva il dolore sordo alla pancia

pulsarle nelle vene e rinforzarle le gambe per correre con i lupi. Sotto la luna piena

del terzo mese dopo il primo sangue, cacciando con i lupi, cadde. Era successo

qualcosa di strano, una radice era uscita e si era curvata fuori dal terreno, forse

durante la notte, perché sapeva di non aver mai incontrato prima quella radice.

Le si storse la caviglia e qualcosa di aflato le ferì il anco. Sentì colare il sangue

caldo, non solo da in mezzo alle gambe ma anche lungo le cuciture. La gabbia

toracica non bastava a fermarlo, e gli altri lupi la la-sciarono indietro. Dopo quella

brusca battuta d’arresto, si sdraiò sulla terra, ansimante, e chiese alle stelle di

aiutarla a fermare il sangue. Loro tacquero.

Zoppicò no al ume, dove l’acqua aveva già accolto i suoi eccessi, dove la

pelle lacerata si era ricucita e ricostruita più forte anche se più spessa e tumefatta,

resistente alle pietre che potevano essere iraconde e tirare fuori angoli aflati.

Una volta che la pelle si fu rimarginata e con la caviglia di nuovo dritta e

forte, provò una certa soddisfazione, una graticazione, che le sembrava familiare,

ma allo stesso tempo lontana; in un cer-to senso perduta. Ma il calore durò solo un

momento prima di andarsene insieme ai rivoli rossi che seguivano la corrente. Lo

guardò scomparire. Voleva sentirlo di nuovo, in quell’istante, per capire da dove

provenisse e quando le aveva già attraversato le vene.

Trovò un angolo aflato, una pietra che aforava dal terreno, isolata,

lontana, sola. Se la fece scorrere lungo il gomito, le guance, contro la parte

morbida delle cosce. E capì da dove proveniva il calore svanito.

L’altra fanciulla aveva trascorso molto tempo da spettatrice passiva del

proprio corpo. Aveva os-servato come quando passava più tempo nel ume, si era

abbronzata, i capelli le si erano schiariti, e piccoli puntini marroni le rendevano

la pelle un riesso del cielo notturno. Le cosce cominciarono a ingrossarsi come i

tronchi degli alberi, i anchi a curvarsi verso l’esterno, il petto a cadere e a colare

in liquide gocce di pelle.

Nell’acqua, a volte poteva ngere che non fosse cambiato nulla, che

456

that it had once been. If she covered herself in the dirt and the leaves, she was

just a small one, a rabbit, under the brush.

Her hair started to dry in waves, in separated tendrils. She spent as much

time looking at the peaks and caves and valleys of her skin as she did playing the

game of the sh or the wolves, as she did hibernating with the bears. The body

was not hers, she felt, and yet it was always there when she nished a game. She

wanted a different body, one that she could call her own, and she thought of

the other girl. She had forgotten, after what seemed like years, that there was a

possibility the skin was not hers.

When the girls found each other again, they had been drawn together by

the water, and the bodies that had once been as familiar as their own skin looked

foreign.

That night they traded one last time and didn’t play the game anymore.

They thought, perhaps, that exchanging skins would help them to understand

the time they had spent apart; that feeling the inside of unfamiliar marks and

scars wrinkle as one girl straightened an elbow or bent a knee or raised an eyebrow

would call to her attention the foreign past which lay there.

Walking with the new bodies, they discovered untold stories, and soon, without

words but with an understanding, they could no longer remember why they had

separated in the rst place, and they were running with the wolves again. The

stars sang above them and the dirt and the rocks and the water moved like waves

and time and feet.

But they didn’t run quite like before. One of them had a large scar on her

side which rippled with every movement, and the other was a bit slower, couldn’t

lope as far for as long, and always seemed to have hair tangling with her line

of vision. Now, their feet were more calloused, and they’d traveled parts of the

forest the other didn’t know. They made a practice of taking each other to these

hidden nooks, ngers interlaced, eyes closed or open; they had feeling ngers and

translating toes. They could trust the other to know the space and let themselves

be blind with trust. Two beating hearts discovered new caverns, instead of one.

It made a difference, they thought, to be somewhere with the other half of their

457

tutto fosse come un tempo. Se si copriva di terra e di foglie, diventava piccola, un

coniglio, immersa nella boscaglia.

I capelli le cominciarono a seccarsi in forma di onde, in singole ciocche.

Passava tanto tempo a guardare le guglie grotte e vallate della propria pelle

quanto a giocare ai pesci e ai lupi, ad andare in letargo con gli orsi. Quel corpo

non le apparteneva, lo sentiva, eppure ogni volta che niva un gioco lo trovava lì.

Ne voleva uno diverso, che potesse sentire suo, e pensava all’altra fanciulla. Aveva

dimenticato, dopo quelli che sembravano anni, la possibilità che quella pelle non

fosse sua.

Quando le due si incontrarono di nuovo, ad avvicinarle era stata l’acqua,

e il corpo che un tempo era stato familiare quanto la propria pelle sembrò

sconosciuto.

Quella notte si scambiarono di pelle per l’ultima volta e misero per sempre

ne al gioco. Pensa-vano, forse, che fare a cambio le avrebbe aiutate a conoscere

il tempo che avevano trascorso lonta-ne; che sentire sfregare l’interno di segni e

cicatrici nuove al distendersi di un gomito o al piegarsi di un ginocchio o alzando

un sopracciglio avrebbe fatto emergere il passato nascosto lì.

Camminando con i nuovi corpi, scoprirono storie mai sentite, e presto, senza

parlare ma capen-dosi, non riuscirono più a ricordare perché si erano separate, e di

nuovo correvano con i lupi. Le stelle cantavano sopra di loro e la terra e le pietre e

l’acqua si muovevano come le onde, il tempo, i piedi.

Ma non correvano come in passato. Una aveva sul anco una grossa

cicatrice che si raggrinziva a ogni movimento, l’altra era più lenta, non riusciva

più a correre tanto lontano e a lungo, e sembrava che i capelli le offuscassero

costantemente la visuale. Ora avevano più calli sui piedi e avevano gira-to per

parti del bosco che l’altra non conosceva. Presero l’abitudine di portarsi a vicenda

in quegli angoli nascosti, le dita intrecciate, gli occhi chiusi o aperti; avevano dita

delle mani che sentivano e dita dei piedi che traducevano. Potevano darsi l’una

dell’altra per conoscere lo spazio e permetter-si di essere cieche nella ducia. A

scoprire nuove grotte furono due cuori pulsanti, invece di uno. Non era la stessa

458

soul.

Once, they stumbled upon a new cavern, at a different edge of the forest,

at the end of a trail of moss that squished through their toes as they got closer,

one with stalactite and stalagmite teeth, one that was foggy and steamy and lled

with a drip drip sound and a chorus of frogs. They gathered rocks that had fallen

off from the top of the cave and made a circle; they found wax and made candles,

creating light around themselves and encircling their bodies in warmth. This was

the rst time they’d ever felt the gap between their hands.

There was something there, in that touch, that the girls hadn’t expected.

An awareness coupled with a sort of leafy texture, without the wax or the cold.

When they had exchanged skins, there was a cool feeling to it, removed, detached,

external. But here, placing one palm against the other and wrapping ngers

around wrists, there was a different sort of feeling. Like touching the trunk of a

tree or gathering up a stone; they couldn’t feel from the other side.

The magic here was different. More traditional, from a time when the

rocks were still inventing their own games by watching animals. Even knowing

the insides of each other’s skins couldn’t meld them the way they were melded

here. There was a droplet of a gift, one they didn’t know how to give.

They felt too the eyes of the frogs around them, the ways in which the

fresher magic was pulsing here, the ways in which they could climb up the sides

of the rock and not fall, the ways in which they could see the scene from strange

angles.

But they sat still, the light ickering across the cavern and reecting

on the water of the pool, lighting the whole space up in rippling and moving

waves. There were sounds; the water lapping softly at the rocks’ ridge, the frogs,

sometimes croaking sometimes leaping, and the soft crackles and pops that

candles make, when the wicks get smaller.

This was a moment they would remember, one that echoed not just in

the cavern, but in the pulse of their palms and thoughts, too. When they left the

cavern, when they lost it, their internal compasses could no longer point the way

to the squishy seeded path, the one they’d found as if by fate, and the magic of

the cave seemed like the magic of a dream.

459

cosa, pensavano, stare in un posto con l’altra metà della propria anima.

Una volta si ritrovarono in una nuova grotta, in un punto diverso del bosco, alla

ne di un sen-tiero di muschio che affondava sotto i lori piedi man mano che si

avvicinavano; la grotta aveva zanne di stalattite e stalagmite, era nebbiosa e

umida, pervasa di un plic plic e di un coro di rane. Raccolsero le pietre cadute

dall’alto della grotta e le misero in cerchio; trovarono la cera e fecero candele,

ricavando la luce e circondandosi i corpi di calore. Fu la prima volta che sentirono

lo spa-zio tra le loro mani.

C’era qualcosa lì, in quel tocco, che le fanciulle non avevano previsto. Una

consapevolezza unita a una specie di sensazione erbosa, senza la cera o il freddo.

Quando si erano scambiate la pelle, la sensazione era fredda, distaccata, distante,

esterna. Ma qui, sovrapponendo i palmi e stringendo le dita attorno ai polsi, la

sensazione era diversa. Come toccare il tronco di un albero o stringere in mano un

sasso; non potevano sentirla dall’altro lato.

Qui la magia era diversa. Più tradizionale, appartenente a un tempo in

cui le rocce ancora inven-tavano i giochi osservando gli animali. Persino conoscere

l’interno della pelle dell’altra non le aveva fuse come lo erano adesso. Lì c’era una

stilla di dono, che non sapevano come trasmettere.

Sentivano anche gli occhi delle rane attorno, il modo che quella nuova

magia aveva di pulsare, i modi in cui potevano scalare le pareti di roccia senza

cadere, i modi in cui potevano vedere la scena da prospettive insolite.

Ma restarono sedute, la luce che tremolava per la grotta e si rietteva

sull’acqua della pozza, il-luminando tutto l’ambiente di onde agitate e increspate.

Si udivano rumori; l’acqua che sbatteva dolcemente sui bordi di pietra, le rane,

che ora gracidavano ora saltavano, e i piccoli scoppiettii e crepitii che fanno le

candele, man mano che lo stoppino brucia.

Fu un momento che avrebbero ricordato, che avrebbe echeggiato non solo

nella caverna ma an-che nel pulsare dei loro palmi e pensieri. Quando lasciarono la

caverna, quando la smarrirono, la loro bussola interiore smise di indicare la strada

per il sentiero di muschio, quello che avevano tro-vato come se l’avesse voluto il

destino, e la magia della grotta sembrò quella di un sogno.

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Translator’s Note

In Achim Noffke’s story “Gli Angeli”—or “The

Angels”—our unnamed narrator reects on his childhood

with his best friend Ari, whose funeral he is going to as he

walks through LA.

Noffke writes in a style that is sparse, using as few words

as possible to get at the idea he’s expressing. This style is

very different from my own; my writing has often been

described as owery, and sometimes there’s actually an

excess of words on the page. Especially in a translation,

where there inevitably will be more words than in the

source text because of stealth glosses or extra details to

help the reader of the translation, this was my biggest

challenge with the piece. I did end up adding words at

times; for example, the narrator orders pancakes “for the

novelty of it,” words that aren’t in the original because

in the Italian “pancakes” is in English—there’s no word

in Italian for pancakes so I needed to express that this

wasn’t a typical breakfast order in some other way.

To counteract additions like this, I tried to make the

voice sound more clipped by making clauses shorter; for

example ending the rst sentence earlier in the English,

after “goes off” so that “It’s time” can be its own quick

sentence, giving a rhythm that emulates the sparse voice

of the original. Another place I drew back to counteract

my additions was in describing the narrator’s speech.

In Italian it’s “il discorso che ho scritto,” literally the

speech that I wrote, which is a bit wordier in English. So

I traded it for “my speech,” using fewer words and still

retaining the meaning.

So much of this piece is about nostalgia, remembering

a friend who is gone, especially in the context of their

biggest joy, in this case a romanticized sport. At the same

time, the narrator is reserved, holds back, and doesn’t

461

give any thoughts related to his feelings until the end,

when he reveals that he nds the speech he’s written for

the funeral pointless, a weak gesture at remembering his

friend’s lively life.

Ari is the main character of the piece, but even so, I

enjoyed making my relationship with the narrator. The

narrator for me became a bit more sentimental. Not in

the sense that he would begin to profess his feelings, or

diverge from the stark voice that characterizes Achim’s

style, but it was helpful for me to understand where he

was coming from, to think about what these specic

memories mean to him, why he’s reecting on them as he

walks to Ari’s funeral.

Ari was able to embody an endless go-getter attitude

for the more reserved narrator. I’ve often had that

experience with friends, where I think of them as more

outgoing than me, more outrageous, more the way that I

wish I could be. Once I drew that connection between the

narrator and myself, the translation started to really feel

like it was owing through me.

462

ACHIM NOFFKE

GLI ANGELI

Suona la sveglia, è presto. Mi vesto al volo ed esco per andare a fare colazione.

Ordino pancakes e succo di arancia e mentre mangio sento due operai chiacchierare

con la barista al bancone del ristorante. Dicono che la linea del treno sarà sospesa

no a domani. Non riesco a capirne il motivo. Sono in America solo da qualche

giorno e il mio inglese è zoppicante.

Pago la colazione e torno nella camera che ho afttato. Mi faccio la doccia, metto

il completo nero che ho portato per il funerale e leggo per l’ultima volta il discorso

che ho scritto. Sono quasi le nove e il funerale di Ari è alle due del pomeriggio. Vado

no alla stazione di West Pasadena sperando di aver capito male. È chiusa. Prendo

il telefono e cerco le indicazioni per la chiesa metodista di Lynwood.

Il navigatore indica che ci vogliono più di quattro ore. Dovrò attraversare tutta Los

Angeles a piedi e vestito di tutto punto. Mi inlo nella tasca dei pantaloni il foglio

su cui ho scritto il discorso e mi tolgo la giacca per gettarmela sulla spalla. È una

calda giornata di estate e nel cielo non c’è una nuvola. Apro l’ultimo bottone della

camicia e allargo il nodo della cravatta. Mi incammino verso la chiesa di Lynwood,

dall’altra parte della città.

Quando frequentavamo le medie, dopo la scuola andavo tutti i giorni a casa di Ari,

perché i miei genitori non erano a casa. Sua madre ci preparava da mangiare e poi

si metteva in salotto a leggere o a parlare al telefono in inglese.

Trascorrevamo i pomeriggi nel quartiere Trieste di Roma. Ogni giorno ci mettevamo

a giocare a calcio con gli altri ragazzini a Piazzale Jonio, ma regolarmente, dopo

massimo un’ora, Ari mi diceva di andarcene perché si annoiava.

Dal giorno in cui ci eravamo conosciuti, mi aveva sempre detto di voler diventare

un pilota di Formula Uno, e che per questo non aspettava altro che diventare più

grande e più bravo, e passare dai kart, su cui già gareggiava, alle vere monoposto

da Gran Premio. Spesso mi faceva discorsi di ore su motori, pneumatici e altre cose

che non conoscevo, per di più mischiando inglese e italiano e usando anche parole

che non capivo.

463

translated from the italian by

EVELYN RUBY BATCHELDER BURD

THE ANGELS

The alarm clock goes off. It’s early. I dress quickly and leave to get

breakfast, order juice and pancakes. While eating I hear two workers chatting

with the barista at the restaurant counter. They’re saying the train line will be

held up until tomorrow. I can’t make out the reason why. I’ve been in America for

just a few days and my English struggles to keep up.

I pay for breakfast and return to my hotel room. I take a shower, put on

the black suit I brought for the funeral and read over my speech for the last time.

It’s almost nine and Ari’s funeral is at two. I get all the way to West Pasadena

Station, and hope I’ve misunderstood. It’s closed. I get out my phone and look up

directions to Lynwood Methodist Church.

I don’t think to call an Uber and the GPS indicates that it takes more

than four hours to walk. I will have to get through all of Los Angeles on foot

and in a suit. I put the speech in my pocket, take off my jacket and toss it over

my shoulder. It’s a hot summer day and there’s not a cloud in the sky. I undo the

top button of my shirt and loosen the knot of my tie. I walk towards Lynwood

Church, to the other side of the city.

When we were in junior high, after school I would go to Ari’s house

because my parents were never home. His mom always made us food and then sat

in the living room to read or talk to family in English on the phone.

We spent our afternoons in the Trieste district of Rome. Every day we

played soccer with other boys in Piazzale Jonio, but usually, after no more than an

hour, Ari would say he wanted to leave because he was bored.

In all the days we knew each other, he always said that he wanted to be a

Formula One driver. He couldn’t wait to be older and better, to move on from the

little cars he’d already competed in to the real one-seaters they drive in the Grand

Prix. Often he made me talk with him for hours about cars, tires and other things

I didn’t know about, getting more and more animated, mixing English and Italian

and using words I didn’t understand.

One windy Sunday in November when we had just started high school,

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Una nuvolosa domenica di Novembre, avevamo da poco cominciato la seconda

media, andai con lui e il padre al circuito dell’Eur. Quel giorno Ari aveva una gara,

e così io mi misi seduto sugli spalti di anco al padre per vedere queste macchine

di cui Ari mi aveva tanto parlato ma che no ad allora non avevo mai visto, se non

in alcune foto che mi aveva mostrato. I kart su cui gareggiava erano molto piccoli

e sembravano più dei giocattoli che vere auto, ma appena sentii rombare i motori

e vidi questi ragazzini della mia età sfrecciare ad oltre 100 Km/h, mi irrigidii e mi

voltai a guardare il pubblico, tirandomi istintivamente su il cappuccio della giacca.

Dopo un po’ cominciò a piovere, prima solo qualche goccia, poi a dirotto. Ci

spostammo a guardare la gara in un’area coperta sulla cima degli spalti. Tutti i kart

rallentavano, tranne quello di Ari che continuava a spingere sull’asfalto bagnato

come se niente fosse, e tempo un paio di giri, si ritrovò primo con molto scarto sugli

altri.

Mancava poco al traguardo, quando per superare un pilota rimasto indietro, fece

una curva brusca, e il suo kart cominciò a girare su se stesso per poi nire fuori

strada. Sbandò sulla parte in terra al bordo della pista senza riuscire a fermarsi, e

si andò a schiantare contro la barriera di sicurezza. Il kart fumava sotto la pioggia

e la squadra medica si precipitò a soccorrerlo. Lo vedemmo riemergere dal veicolo

i cui pezzi erano volati tutt’attorno. Fu caricato su una barella e immediatamente

portato verso l’ambulanza. Il padre si precipitò giù dagli spalti, e io lo seguii

spaventato. Arrivammo al anco dell’ambulanza mentre ad Ari veniva tolto il casco

e portato di peso a bordo. Mi avvicinai ancora di qualche passo e lo vidi disteso sul

lettino. Gli infermieri stavano dicendo al padre che stava bene ma che dovevano

portarlo all’ospedale per degli accertamenti. L’equipe medica salì a bordo e suo

padre si girò per tornare alla macchina: mi avrebbe riportato a casa e poi sarebbe

corso via. Poco prima che chiudessero la porta posteriore dell’ambulanza, riuscii a

incrociare lo sguardo di Ari che in tutto ciò rideva mostrando il pollice alzato.

Circa una settimana dopo l’incidente, mentre tornavamo da scuola, gli chiesi se

facendo il pilota non avesse paura di morire durante una gara. I miei genitori,

dopo quello che era successo, avevano cercato di sminuire l’accaduto per non farmi

spaventare, ma sapevo che con un incidente simile si poteva morire, qualunque

cosa volesse veramente dire. Lui mi rispose sorridendo come al solito, e mi disse

che no, questo non era qualcosa che lo preoccupava. Secondo lui, mi disse, la morte

era sopravvalutata. Dopo tutto se muori al massimo può essere un problema per

gli altri, non per te. E in più, morire guidando una macchina da corsa è il modo

465

I went with him and his dad to the Eur district circuit. Ari had a race that day. I

sat in the stands next to his dad to watch the car Ari had talked so much about

but that until now I had never seen, aside from in photos. The cars he competed in

were very small and seemed more like toys than real cars. But as soon as I felt the

rumbling of the motors and watched these guys about my age shoot off at over

100 km/hr, I stiffened. I glanced at the audience behind me, instinctively pulling

up my jacket hood.

After a bit it started to rain, rst just a couple drops and then it came

down in oods. We moved to watch the race from a covered area at the top of the

bleachers. All the cars slowed down, except for Ari’s. His continued to streak like

lightning along the wet asphalt as if it were nothing. And after a couple loops he

found himself in rst with a big lead on the others.

He was not far from the nish line when, to overtake a driver left behind,

he took a sudden turn. His car started to go on its own and ended up off of the

track. He swerved to the area of dirt along the side without managing to regain

control and smacked right into the safety barrier. His car was smoking in the rain

and the medics ran to assist him. We watched him emerge from the vehicle, car

parts strewn all over the place. He was put on a stretcher and immediately taken

to the ambulance. His dad ran down the bleachers and I was right behind him,

terried.

We got to the ambulance while Ari was being extracted from his helmet

and brought on board. I took a few more steps and saw him stretched out on a

hospital cot. The EMTs were telling Ari’s dad that he was ne but he needed to go

to the hospital just to be sure. The medical team climbed in after him and his dad

turned around to go back to his car—he would take me home and then meet them

at the hospital.

Just before they closed the back door of the ambulance, I was able to get

a glance of Ari who was laughing despite it all, giving me a thumbs up.

About a week after the incident, when we were both back in school, I

asked if, driving down the track, he had no fear of dying. My parents had, after

everything that happened, looked for ways to downplay the danger to keep me

from worrying. But I knew, no matter what they said, that in a similar accident

he could have died. He looked at me, smiling as always, and told me that no,

it wasn’t something he worried about. From his perspective, he told me, death

was played up. After all, when you die it’s a problem for others, not for you. And

anyways, dying while driving a car down a race track was the best way to go.

I’ve lost track of how much time has passed since I set out this morning.

466

migliore di andarsene.

Ho perso il conto di quanto tempo è passato da quando mi sono incamminato

stamattina. Tutta Los Angeles mi è passata accanto e mi sembra di essere stato

in dieci città diverse. Messicani, africani, armeni, ad ogni quartiere che attraverso

mi sposto di migliaia di chilometri. Le scarpe eleganti mi stanno distruggendo i

piedi che quasi non sento più. Metto una mano in tasca e tiro fuori il foglio con il

discorso che ho scritto per il funerale. Lo leggo di nuovo, e quello che ho scritto così

faticosamente nei giorni precedenti ora mi sembra inutile e fastidioso. Mi hanno

chiesto di parlare di Ari, sono l’unico venuto no a lì dall’Italia. Penso che alla ne

l’unica cosa che dirò è che è morto a bordo di un’auto di Formula Uno, il modo di

gran lunga migliore.a

467

All of Los Angeles goes by and it seems I’ve walked through ten different cities.

Neighborhoods with as many different cultures. With every neighborhood I walk

through I move thousands of kilometers. My dress shoes are destroying my feet

so I almost can’t feel them anymore. I put a hand in my pocket and bring out my

speech. I read it again, and the words I painstakingly wrote in the past few days

now sound feeble and fabricated. They asked me to speak about Ari, I’m the only

one who came all the way from Italy. I think in the end, the only thing I’ll say is

that he died in a Formula One car, by far the best way to go.

468

469

acknowledgments

470

Columbia University and the other participants in the 2022 Word for

Word workshop would like to thank the following individuals for support-

ing 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

Lis Harris, Chair of the School of the Arts Writing Program

Susan Bernofsky, Director of Literary Translation at Columbia, School of

the Arts Writing Program

Katrine Jensen, LTAC Coordinator, School of the Arts Writing Program

Franklin Winslow, Director of Academic Administration, School of the

Arts Writing Program

William Wadsworth, Former Director of Academic Administration, School

of the Arts Writing Program

Binnie Kirshenbaum, Professor of Fiction, School of the Arts Writing

Program

Jörn Dege and Linn Penelope Micklitz, Deutches Literaturinstitut Leipzig

Wang Anyi, Hongtu Wang, and Tao Lei, Fudan University

Roberto Taddei, Márcia Fortunato, and Livia Lakomy, Instituto Vera Cruz

Martino Gozzi and Mattia Zuccatti, Scuola Holden

Rodrigo Rojas, Universidad Diego Portales

Lionel Ruffel, Vincent Message, and Vincent Broqua, Université Paris 8

Safwan Masri, Executive VP, Columbia Global Centers and Global

Development

Thomas Trebat, Director, Columbia Global Centers | Rio de Janeiro

Karen Poniachik, Director, Columbia Global Centers | Santiago

471

par ticipating

institutions

472

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.

The Master of Fine Arts Writing Program at Columbia

University School of the Arts was founded in 1967, and is one

of the foremost creative writing programs in the United States.

Students in the Program pursue degrees in fiction, poetry, or

creative nonfiction, with the option to pursue a joint course of

study in literary translation. The Program is distinguished by

the intellectual rigor of its curriculum, the eminence of many

of the writers on faculty, and the significant number of its

alumni who have gone on to become eminent authors in their

own right.

The Escuela de Literatura Creativa at Universidad Diego Portales was

founded in 2003, the first of its kind in Chile. The program offers an

undergraduate major and two graduate programs in which students

pursue degrees in publishing or writing. Translation workshops are

part of the curriculum in all three programs. The students work with

noteworthy writers from the Spanish-speaking world and beyond,

thanks to Cátedra Abierta UDP, international lecture series in homage

of Roberto Bolaño that has invited more than 150 writers.

Established in 2011, the MFA in Creative Writing at Instituto Vera

Cruz focuses in two areas: Fiction and Nonfiction, with secondary

concentrations in Writing for Children and Young Adults and

Creative Writing Methodology. Vera Cruz was founded in 1963 and

started offering undergraduate and graduate courses in 2005. The

MFA has 80 students now enrolled in an intensive two-year course,

with a faculty of award-winning and recognized writers. It is among

the most renowned in Brazil.

473

Founded in 2009, the Creative Writing program at Fudan University

is the first professional master's degree program in mainland China

devoted to cultivating literary talents. Unlike traditional academic

programs in literary studies, this program is explicitly designed to

educate creative practitioners of the literary arts. Graduates of the

program go on to work at the highest level as writers, teachers,

researchers, critics, journalists and other media professionals in a

wide range of professional contexts including arts organizations,

theaters, colleges and universities, museums, scholarly institutes,

media, and government-related agencies.

The 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 Master in Creative Writing at Université Paris 8 was

founded in September 2013, with the goal of allowing

students the opportunity to start or continue a work of

literary creation. While programs of this type are common,

especially in the United States and Great Britain, they are

still rare in the French academic system. The Master in

Creative Writing is therefore destined to play a pioneering

role in the Francophone world.

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