[translated poetry]

V

Fresheur and life

“Same current, waters always new”
The voice runs over the waters
++++++++++speeches crossed from god to god
+++++sorcerous heritage, seaswells burgeoning
+++++with careful lightness
++++++++++same as
+++++same as grass crown, thatch, lalang;
water crystalline, upslope downslope harmony,
+++++++++++++++that the spirits’ good humor won’t cloud.
Begone-become, begone as foam
+++++++++++++++leaving home
+++++++++++++++++++++++++doors and windows opened,
+++++++++++++++Beauty seated legs akimbo:
+++++++++++++++++++++++++nest fledgling
+++++++++++++++++++++++++dirtmouse wings
+++++++++++++++++++++++++lalang grass tufts     spit
+++++++++++++++++++++++++shark mouth agape.

Let frogs renew and multiply

+++++++++++++++++++++++++Chârme
+++++Ô, the quivering like a sliver of moon
+++++the red red erythrina
+++++++++++++++and below the chirruping cantations of the initiated
the little antelope climbingclimbing toward the palm divinity,
Let humidity be that venerable weave, omnipresent
+++++++++++++++witchgrass, springside presages,
Let fresh water trickle anoint drum and bullock,
Let the serpent’s carcass burrow through the sand
+++++++++++++++head and tail python enclosure-held
+++++++++++++++ring the bells to empty them;
“The great swamp waters flow downriver”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++behind the mornes
+++++++++++++++++++++++++secret
+++++++++++++++++++++++++among the leaves,

Let home be of fresheur, walls smooth
did she rattle the lightning, that little silken thing?
did she cut the flesh deep, that millstone, did she gash open the ribetting of those gounouy?
did he wash his flesh from the river,
Did he prostrate at the threshold of the city Abydos,
Did he pass through the thorns,
Did he take concession?

+++++++++++++++Is he proud, impatient?
+++++++++++++++The charm:
+++++++++++++++++++++++++at first simple millet cake,
+++++++++++++++++++++++++at first mixed millet cake
+++++++++++++++++++++++++liana leaves licorice crushed
+++++++++++++++++++++++++then millet cake, leaves liana licorice
+++++++++++++++++++++++++and honey follewz;
+++++++++++++++++++++++++and yãmn-leaffes for collecting water.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++Then charm e’jaculatoire in hushed tones (three times)
+++++++++++++++++++++++++Three times ‘round the items,

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++in the crossing.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++And obscene chanting,
+++++++++++++++++++++++++Ouaïe—Ouaïe
+++++++++++++++++++++++++Man kèy lélé-é-y
+++++++++++++++++++++++++Man kèy lélé kalalou-a
+++++++++++++++O the law of enclosure!

And open let the way be, of overflowing, of fertility,
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Vitamtènam
+++++++++++++++++++++++++in the light of the ark of the waters of the world.

IV

The child who birthed the mother

compass of winds, its rhombuses
+++++++++++++++the hill, its three palm trees,
the beauty named “Beauty”
+++++++++++++++below, rivers and lagunes.
In the water the child birdstares, the child who birthed the mother,
+++++the sixteen quarters of the sky
+++++++++++++++Yémaya’s divine body,
Grace of chills, of charms,
+++++figures carried by chance
+++++as the banks of Enjillé’s jetties, open to signs,
+++++coquillage and kola nuts
++++++++++++++++++++fem-mules.

The beauty named “Beauty” birdstares, sways,
+++++++++++++++reflective mask, peaceful, grave
+++++abandoned to the flood, the swell,
+++++++++++++++the famous hill where three palm trees grow
+++++the famous, and below d’lo,
++++++++++void approves, baptizes.
Shimmers sway, go
++++++++++one bank the other
+++++the Far-off is never far “all weighed and measured”
++++++++++the gods exist in the water
++++++++++the sky is in the water
in the water paradise,
+++++++++++++++under the leaves, basins of flood,
Refresh and appease the vestibules of pleasure,
from saliva the fecundant charm
++++++++++and above, the sorceries,
+++++the mouth where “la Belle” sways
+++++from one bank to the other
++++++++++the two banks, the waters, their depths
+++++from one bank to the other, the slicing grasses
++++++++++the copious wild leaves
+++++the riverbank rebuffs the waters sloshing to the other side,
+++++here the crouching-god, here the sacred beast,
++++++++++the hunchback opens the true path through the leaves.

Forged up the watercourse:
++++++++++in the mirrorment the paradise,
+++++the subtle game of reflections,
++++++++++reflections inebriated,
+++++the sounds enchantment,
+++++++++++++++absolute lightness,
++++++++++++++++++++++++Appear-disappear
++++++++++++++++++++++++the mask,
++++++++++++++++++++++++the showing
+++++++++++++++unity of all
+++++++++++++++piety in all.

Forging up the rivercourse,
++++++++++little shards of clay, the fat ram,
++++++++++maternal breast,
+++++peace in the body, peace in the courtyard.

Copyright: Partition noire et bleue: (Lémistè 2) (Obsidiane, 2016)

V

Fraîcheur et vie

« Même fleuve, eaux toujours nouvelles ».
La voix court sur les eaux
++++++++++paroles transmises d’un dieu à un dieu
+++++héritage magique, commencement des flots
+++++avec légèreté soyeuse
++++++++++même que
+++++même que graminée fanée du lalang ;
Eau limpide, harmonie grave aigu,
+++++++++++++++que n’assombrisse la bonne humeur des esprits.
Disparaître-devenir, disparaître comme l’écume
+++++++++++++++laissant maison
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ouvertes portes et fenêtres,
+++++++++++++++Beauté assise jambes écartées :
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++nid oiselet
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ailes solsouris
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++touffes herbe lalang      salive
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++gueule requin béante.
Que grenouille renouvelle et multiplie

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Châme
+++++Ô, cela qui palpite comme brin de lune
+++++la rouge rouge érythrine
+++++++++++++++et dessous le gazouillis de l’initié
La petite antilope qui grimpe grimpe au divin palmier,
Qu’humide toujours soit la natte vénérable,
+++++++++++++++le chiendent, les prémices près de la source,
Que tambours et taurillons soient aspergés d’eau fraîche,
Que la caresse du serpent creuse le sable
+++++++++++++++tête et queue python dans enclos
+++++++++++++++agite grelots qu’ils se vident ;
« L’eau du grand marais coule dans la rivière »
++++++++++++++++++++derrière collines
++++++++++++++++++++secret
++++++++++++++++++++parmis les feuilles,
Qu’elle soit fraîche la demeure aux parois lisses,
+++++a-t-elle ébranlé la foudre, la petite chôye soyeuse ?
+++++A-t-elle couvert la gounouille de plaies, la pierre de meule ?
Lui a-t-on enlevé sa peau sur le fleuve,
S’est-il prosterné devant la porte de la cité d’Abydos,
A-t-il passé entre les épineux,
Est-il entré dans la concession ?

+++++++++++Est-il fier, impatient ?
+++++++++++Le charme :
+++++++++++++++d’abord simple gateau mil,
+++++++++++++++d’abord gateau mil mélangé
+++++++++++++++feuilles liãne réglisse crasé
+++++++++++++++puis gateau mil, feuilles liãne réglisse
+++++++++++++++et miel ensouite ;
+++++++++++++++et fèuille-yãnm pour aller puiser l’eau.
+++++++++++++++Puis charme jaculatoire à voix basse (trois fois)
+++++++++++++++Trois fois près les affaires,
+++++++++++++++++++++++++tout au bord mait’ zaffai,
+++++++++++++++++++++++++dans l’entre-jambe.
+++++++++++++++Et des chantés obscènes,
+++++++++++++++Ouaïe—Ouïe
+++++++++++++++Man kèy lélé-é-y
+++++++++++++++Man kèy lélé kalalou-a
++++++++++Ô la loi de l’enclos !

Et qu’ouverte soit la voie de l’abreuvage, le chemin de fécondité,
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Vitamtènam
+++++++++++++++dans la lumière de l’arche les eaux du monde.

IV

L’enfant qui enfanta la mère

Rhombes de la rose des vents,
++++++++++++++++++++++++++belle colline aux trois palmiers,
La belle surnommée « la Belle »
++++++++++++++++++++++++++au-dessous, fleuves et lagunes.
Dans l’eau miroise l’enfant qui enfanta le mère,
+++++les seize quartiers du ciel
++++++++++++++++++++++++++sur le corps divin de Yémaya,
Grâce du saisissement, charmes,
++++++++++figures amenées par le hasard
++++++++++comme aux rives d’Enillé jetées ouvertes aux signes,
++++++++++coquilles et noix kola des femmes-mules.

La belle surnommée « la Belle » miroise, se balance,
+++++++++++++++masque réfléchi, grave, paisible
+++++abandonnée au flot,
+++++++++++++++la fameuse colline où poussent trois palmiers
+++++la fameuse, et au-dessous l’eau,
++++++++++vide qui agrée, fonts baptismaux.
Le reflet se balance, va
+++++++++++++++une rive l’autre
+++++le Lointain n’est jamais loin « tout bien pesé »
+++++++++++++++les dieux existent dans l’eau
+++++++++++++++le ciel est dans l’eau
+++++dans l’eau le paradis,
+++++++++++++++sous les feuillages, bassins d’inondation,
Rafraichissent et apaisent les vestibules du plaisir,
De la salive le charme fécondant
++++++++++et par-dessus, les sortilèges,
+++++la bouche où « la Belle » se balance
++++++++++d’une rive à l’autre
+++++++++++++++les deux rives, les tréfonds des eaux
+++++d’une rive à l’autre, les herbes tranchantes
+++++++++++++++les feuilles sauvages bien frues
+++++la berge qui rabroue vers l’autre berge les eaux clapoteuses,
+++++ici le dieu-accroupi, l’animal sacré,
+++++++++++++++le bossu qui ouvre le bon chemin parmi les feuilles.

Remonté le fil de l’eau :
dans le miroisement le paradis,
+++++le jeu subtil des reflets,
l’ivresse du reflet,
+++++l’ensorcellement des sons,
++++++++++++++++++++++++++l’absolue légèreté,
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Paraître-disparaître
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Le masque,
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Le laisser-apparaître
++++++++++++++++++++++++++L’unité de tout,
++++++++++++++++++++++++++La piété en tout.
Remonté le fil de l’eau,
+++++++++++++++petits morceaux de glaise, le bélier gras,
+++++++++++++++le sein maternel,
+++++la paix dans le corps, la paix dans la cour.

Translator’s Note:

For Monchoachi, language is a site of both play and resistance, a rhizomatic system of becomings, origins, and renewals. As fellow writer Patrick Chamoiseau describes, “[Monchoachi] has completely renewed our vision of the Creole language—the way we read it, practice it, defend it. He has reshaped the relationship of this language to French, and has explored the blossoming of an unheard speech, its explosion into life, which we become witness to in Lémistè.”

My translation strives to reflect/refract this performative [re-]visioning, which Monchoachi so adeptly applies to his seemingly meandering (but always intentional, and sometimes instructive) narrative. In these poems, he is reaching into an oceanic sub-terrain—emerging here into ancient Yoruban spiritual practice, there becoming a Martinican river becoming a man becoming sacred—and all of it oscillating at the tip of his tongue. By extension, these poems strive to oscillate on the tips of the readers’ [multiple] tongues, to disorient and subvert the limitations of language in order to open and influence it with magic, the mysterious. The power of these poems is found in their physical and spatial integrality; they reside in the body, in the land and in the water. As a result, although the reader is carried through the intangible into the cantatory, we remain grounded, with a taste of the air in our mouths. With these translations I hope to showcase/carry Monchoachi’s linguistic project in a way that propels both the craft of translation and the presence of Creole literature in the Anglophone world.

Special Guest Judge, William Rodarmor:

Patricia Hartland set herself a major challenge in translating Monchoachi, a poet prolific in both French and Martinican Creole. Monchoachi is the pseudonym of André Pierre-Louis, who was born in Martinique in 1946. Hartland calls his work “a site of both play and resistance… of becomings, origins, and renewals.” Patrick Chamoiseau says Monchoachi has completely renewed the relationship of the Creole language to French. This means that a vigilant translator must look in two different linguistic directions while plotting her course in a third.

Hartland brings impressive skills to the task. An MFA candidate for poetry at Notre Dame, she focuses on post-colonial, linguistically hybrid, francophone texts. And she lends a deft touch to her Monchoachi translations. Here is a sample from “The child who birthed the mother”:

Forged up the watercourse:   
                        in the mirrorment the paradise,
            the subtle game of reflections,
                        reflections inebriated,
            the sounds enchantment,
                                    absolute lightness,
                                                            Appear-disappear
                                                            the mask,
                                                            the showing
                                                            unity of all
                                                            piety in all.

—William Rodarmor is an editor and French literary translator in Berkeley, California. He has translated some forty-five books and screenplays in genres ranging from serious fiction to espionage and fantasy. In 1996 he won the Lewis Galantière Award from the American Translators Association for Tamata and the Alliance, by Bernard Moitessier. In 2016, he won the Northern California Book Award for fiction translation for The Slow Waltz of Turtles, by Katherine Pancol.

Patricia Hartland is a candidate for the MFA in poetry at the University of Notre Dame, and a recent graduate of the Iowa Translation Workshop. She translates from French, Martinican Creole, and Hindi, with a special interest in Caribbean literature. Her translations of prose, poetry, and theatre have appeared or are forthcoming in Asymptote, Circumference, Drunken Boat, Two Lines, and elsewhere.

Born in 1946 on the island of Martinique, Monchoachi is the recipient of numerous awards, including the Prix Carbet de la Caraïbe and the Prix Max Jacob. In 2007 he founded the Lakouzémi Project, an annual gathering of writers, dancers, performers, and activists: together they vivify history and generate meaningful, actioned community.

[translated fiction]

The first thing he recognized were José Luis’s mannerisms. He remembered
the way he’d sit on the bench and chew the little pink eraser on his pencil. Maybe
if he tried hard enough he’d be able to remember every part of the school: the sticky
hallways, the fossilized gum stuck under the long benches, the scratchy, pinching sleeves
of the uniforms. He could feel it all come rushing back at once in El Feeling nightclub, which was doused in fluorescent lights that danced on the tables and soaked in the bitter stench of urine that ran down the walls. Giovanni tried to light a cigarette, but his hands were shaking. When he finally got it lit, he distracted himself by looking at the artificial light diffused through the smoke he pushed from his mouth. His coworkers were off dancing in a private room. They’d all pretended to be drunker than they really were so someone might dare to suggest ending their bender at El Feeling.

Giovanni laid his head down on his hands, on top of the food-flecked tablecloth. He had a headache, and from somewhere through the pulsing murmur of the club he was able to make out a man’s booming metallic voice. The man was gigantic, monumental, even, with round legs and violet heels, and if he hadn’t been dressed as a woman, Giovanni thought, he would’ve made a handsome man. Giovanni was never really that way, but he’d had a few partners. He remembered how one had fallen in love with him, Gabriela? Or Jenny? He’d kissed her eyelids as she shivered underneath him and he ran the warm tip of his tongue over her thighs—those wide thighs like the woman’s at the table in front of him now, with her purple-painted lips and platinum hair past her waist. It was then, as she was chewing at the curve of her fake nails, that he recognized her furtive expression—as if she was waiting secretly for something inevitable. The first thing that made him recognize José Luis were his mannerisms. Besides that, she looked just like any heavily made-up woman leaning back on a Corona-brand plastic table.

The first thing he recognized were José Luis’s mannerisms. He remembered the way he’d sit on the bench and chew the little pink eraser on his pencil. Maybe if he tried hard enough he’d be able to remember every part of the school: the sticky hallways, the fossilized gum stuck under the long benches, the scratchy, pinching sleeves of the uniforms.

José Luis looked at Giovanni for a second, stunned and stuck in his seat in the middle of the dark club, his dress speckled with crumbs and beer. He let out a cackle as he clumsily got up from his table.

“Giovanni? Ideai! Well, look who it is.” She sauntered up to him and her hair covered her breasts as she crisscrossed one leg in front of the other. She leaned on the table. Giovanni invited him to sit down, but instead she hugged him, clinging to his shoulders. He found José Luis’s scent hidden under the perfume and then Giovanni was back in the hallways of the school—that evening alone on the bathroom floor, surrounded by all that blinding-white sadness. “Luisa, I’m Luisa now. Check it out, Papi, I got my chin and tits done. Although look… I still need work on my booty and dick.” She bit her lip. “But you know how it is, some guys like it, it’s a real pain in the ass! But I have my very own boy-toy now! Can you believe it? One of those for-real real boyfriends. Oh, and I have my salon, which is super successful, over on First. It’s called ‘Zielo.’ Sounds like some high-class stuff, right? You know I always liked exclusivity, because of my aunt. You remember her? What do you mean no! Yeah, she was the wife of a congressman, one of those real legit-lady types, with her roots always touched up, and my family—we were poor, I mean poor, but we all turned out cute and pretty feisty. And you? What’ve you done?”

Giovanni poured her a beer without being able to shake the memory of how José Luis had come into the bathroom that afternoon and said, “I’m a woman in the body of an ugly man.” He took out a little tube of lip gloss from his backpack and edged up close to the mirror. He must’ve seen Giovanni by then, sitting on the floor next to the urinals, his gaze drilled into the intricate blue pattern in the tile floor. Giovanni had just learned that his father finally died and had been sitting there a long time. To be honest, it was a relief for everyone—it was a relief for Giovanni. No more mopping up the black vomit, no more spending every night at the hospital, no more holding his icy yellowed hand and pretending not to be tired and pretending that they still loved him. He didn’t remember how long he’d been sitting there, looking at the line of filth collected in the grooves between the tiles, or how many boys had come in and asked if he was all right. He couldn’t remember if he’d answered them. It was then that José Luis had come into the bathroom, swinging his hips just like he was now, here in this fag nightclub.

Giovanni looked at him. He looked like a woman, and his lip quivered when he spoke. Luis was barely recognizable, but Giovanni recognized in him his familiarity, his caring nature, same as that day when Luis had stood in front of him with his backpack hanging off one shoulder and his hand on his hip. Giovanni remembered Luis’s instinctive need to comfort him. The water from the sink had been leaking towards the drain in the floor like a bitter cold comet-tail of clear water. José Luis had crouched down at his side, touched his shoulder, and called him by name in his fake and effeminate voice. Giovanni pushed him over. He remembered the sound of him falling down on the freezing-cold tiles. José Luis got up, but instead of leaving, he sat there next to him, watching the light pour in through the tiny bathroom window.

Giovanni could feel the close heat of his body. He intuited the weight of his clothes and searched for José Luis’s skin, the wetness of his tongue, his lipstick viscous with glitter, the tickling of his eyelashes against his cheek, his false scent. Giovanni shook with fear. He saw Luis now, transformed into a mass of curves with a bough of yellow roses tattooed on his wrist, and he thought about that day on the bathroom floor. How he’d forced his tongue into his mouth, and how they’d fooled around, fighting each other until the disgust and feverish trembling of his body overcame him. He’d thrown up right there, right on the pants of José Luis’s uniform.

No more mopping up the black vomit, no more spending every night at the hospital, no more holding his icy yellowed hand and pretending not to be tired and pretending that they still loved him. He didn’t remember how long he’d been sitting there, looking at the line of filth collected in the grooves between the tiles, or how many boys had come in and asked if he was all right.

“I’m not mad about the puke thing, Gio.” Luisa placed a hand on his thigh and batted her long fake lashes. “But make sure to tell your lady to go to my salon. Ugh, my Gio, don’t act all surprised. Yeah, I know all about it. It even showed up in the newspaper with all those fancy-ass people, right? Yeah, she’s pretty. I saw that it said ‘Mirta Diaz de Macuspanni,’ and I said to myself, what other Macuspanni is there in Tuxtla besides you, and I saw the photo of the baptism of your kid—what a cutie that little pichi of yours! So cute! I’m so damn happy to know you’re doing good. You were… like, the first guy I fell for. Oof, if you couldda seen me, the moment you stepped into that classroom, just seeing you made me wanna chew on the end of my pencil.”

“His name is Enrique, like my dad, he’ll be one next month. My wife is planning a party with her sisters—can you believe it, they want to make the local front-page news.” Giovanni didn’t know why he felt the need to mention this, maybe because he liked to imagine Luisa lifting up that little magenta dress, touching herself while looking at the photo in which he appeared with his wife, carrying his baby, in the house they’d just moved into.

He saw Luisa’s lipstick on the rim of her Styrofoam cup. He saw the fake breasts squeezed into her dress. He thought about his wife’s, also fake, but Luisa’s were glistening with sunflower oil. He felt suffocated by the music, by the time. He took off his blazer and sighed several times for all the lives he’d never live. He knocked the table as he stood and the beers rolled off and shattered on the floor. Luisa got up with him, and they tried to maneuver their way out between the club-goers. It was like a carnival with all the bodies convulsing to the music, and the singing queen on stage started to intone a tango. Someone threw a bottle at her that exploded into a thousand dazzling pieces around her heels.

As they walked along the street it smelled even more like urine than it had inside. They ducked around the corner to stay out of sight. Giovanni lit another cigarette, leaned against an unlit lamppost, and Luisa rested against his shoulder, whistling a little tune.

“You know, Gio, the other day I had a dream. I was dyeing a client’s hair, I think maybe it was the chemicals, because I dreamt about a man who was dying. I thought it was my dad, ’cause it’s been a super long time since I’ve seen him; but no, he’s still alive and kickin’. But the dream was so real. I dreamt about a man dying and puking up black stuff, and then I was the puke. I was your puke on my pants in the bathroom, which I hope you remember, Hum!”

“I don’t know, I don’t really dream, José Luis. I don’t have much time for that anymore.” Giovanni leaned against the wall. He didn’t want to go home, and he stroked his wallet in his pocket and then his keys. A key for the locked house where a woman slept with a child, in a room clouded by the sugary scent of vanilla candles.

“In my dream there was a city, I don’t know if you know much about dreams, I do, maybe it’s because I’m a Gemini and I feel drawn to the mystic and change, it’s on account of my cosmic ascendant: but anyways, in my dream there’s a city and I was out there workin’ it you know, just a broke-ass ho, but I was still just a little high-school brat, and I had a key that opened all the houses in town. I went into this old house and started making the bed. You know how? Like how they make the beds in hotels, like, tucking the corner of the blanket under the mattress.”

Giovanni loosened his tie. His coworkers would already be fucking someone by now. He bit his lip and let his cigarette butt fall to the ground. It bounced against the concrete, once, twice; its restless little light still glowing. He was like that cigarette, carrying inside himself a tiny ember that consumed him, small, but incandescent.

“Mmmm, so check it out, you’re not even listening! In my dream, it was like when I was still doing my show. They used to call me La Garoputa, but I actually went by Garota, which is like ‘girl’ in Brazilian. I was in high school when I did my show here, but before it was El Feeling it had another name, it was owned by don Iván and it was called… Butterflies! Ooh, I must’ve been about sixteen. I started out singing Emmanuel, but I really liked singing that one song, El Día que me Quieras. Oh, and hey, by the way, I lied to you earlier, the truth is I don’t have a boyfriend, well, I mean… not a for-real real one, anyway.” Luisa stepped a little closer and her platinum hair wound around the buttons of his shirt. She smelled like peanuts and onions, and Giovanni put his arm around her waist. “But in my dream, I was La Garoputa again, and I had a house and a crib with a baby in it and you opened the door and you said to me, you said…”

He imagined his father again, alone and facing that paradoxical clarity of death, and without even closing his eyes very tight, Giovanni could really remember it. He squeezed Luis and pulled him nearer until he held him so close he could see his wrinkles and eyeliner. He listened to the thick murky sound that escaped from El Feeling and the hissing of the few cars that crossed the avenue. He leaned his head on Luisa’s shoulder and rested his lips on her skin. He could hear her breathing, and her voice took on another quality, manly and cavernous. Giovanni felt her body come undone as he ran his hand along, stroking her uncovered back. The gritty sidewalk under the soles of her shoes, the icy slick floor of the bathroom, the smell of bar food on her breath, the locked door of his house, his child inside wrapped in a star-patterned blanket, twisting like unburying himself from the sheets, like his father in the starry blankets of the hospital. He wound his arms around José Luis tighter and tighter until he heard his stilted breathing and masculine voice that whispered in his ear, “So in my dream, you have my voice and I have yours, and you tell me, ‘El día que me quieras, baby, we’re gonna fuck this world right up its ass,’ and you look at me, just like you’re lookin’ at me now, and you tell me your blood woke you up this morning, boiling.”

Los últimos

Lo primero que reconoció de José Luis fue su gesto. Recordó la forma en que se sentaba en las bancas y cómo masticaba la cabecita rosada de su borrador. Quizá si lo intentaba, recordaría cada uno de los lugares de la escuela: los pasillos pegajosos, el chicle fosilizado debajo de los mesabancos, el escozor de las mangas del uniforme. Sintió todo de nuevo en el Feeling, rodeado por las luces fluorescentes que bailoteaban sobre las mesas y el hedor agrio de las marcas de orines que escurrían de las paredes. Giovanni intentó prender un cigarro, le temblaba la muñeca. Cuando por fin pudo encenderlo, se entretuvo viendo la luz artificial difuminada por el humo que expulsaba de su boca. Sus compañeros de trabajo estaban bailando en un privado; todos habían fingido estar más borrachos de lo que en realidad estaban, para que alguno propusiera ir a terminar la borrachera al Feeling.

Giovanni descansó la cabeza sobre las manos que posaba en el mantel moteado por las sobras de comida; le dolía la cabeza, pero en medio del murmullo, alcanzó a distinguir la voz metálica de un hombre que retumbaba en el antro, era monumental, con piernas redondas y zapatos púrpuras, de no estar vestido de mujer, pensó, hubiera sido un hombre apuesto. Giovanni nunca lo fue, pero había tenido varias parejas. Recordaba que alguna se enamoró de él ¿Gabriela? o ¿Jenny? Le besaba los párpados, mientras tiritaba debajo de él y Giovanni recorría tibiamente sus muslos con la punta de su lengua, esos amplios muslos como los de la mujer de la mesa de enfrente, que tenía los labios pintados de púrpura y el cabello plateado por debajo de la cintura. Fue entonces cuando reconoció ese gesto furtivo como el de esperar algo inminente a escondidas, mientras mordisqueaba la curva de sus uñas postizas. Lo primero que reconoció de José Luis fue su gesto; por lo demás, daba la impresión de ser sólo una mujer con mucho maquillaje, reclinada sobre una mesa de Corona.

José Luis lo observó por un segundo: perplejo y clavado en su silla en medio del antro oscuro, con la camisa salpicada de comida y cerveza; comenzó a carcajearse mientras se levantaba ruidosamente de su mesa.

— ¿Giovanni?, ¡ideai! —, se acercó a él, su cabello le cubría los pechos, caminaba cruzando una pierna frente a otra, se reclinó sobre su mesa. Giovanni lo invitó a sentarse, pero ella lo abrazó colgándosele un poco de los hombros; sintió el olor de José Luis debajo del perfume de mujer que lo enmascaraba. Giovanni volvió a los pasillos de la escuela, a la tarde en la que se quedaron solos en el baño sobre el piso, rodeados de toda esa blanquísima tristeza.

—Luisa, ahora soy Luisa. Velo papi: me puse mentón y me implanté las tetas. Aunque mirá… me faltan las nalgas y el pito —se mordió el labio—. Pero ya sabes, a algunos les gusta, ¡es un estorbo! Ahora tengo un cola, ¿tú crees? Uno de esos novios de deveritas. Ah y ya tengo mi salón, es de éxito, ahí en la primera. Se llama “Zielo” suena como de ricos ¿no? Ya sabes que a mí siempre me gustó lo exclusivo, era por mi tía, ¿la recordás? ¡Cómo que no! Si era la esposa de un diputado, una señorona de aquellas, con las raíces siempre pintadas, y eso que mi familia era pobre, pobre. Pero salimos chulas todas y tantito arrechas. ¿Y vos qué hicistes?

Giovanni le sirvió un vaso de cerveza, sin poder olvidar cómo José Luis había entrado al baño diciendo “soy una dama en el cuerpo de un hombre feo”, había sacado un tubito de brillo labial de la mochila y se acercó al espejo, debió ver entonces a Giovanni sentado detrás suyo, junto a los mingitorios, con la mirada clavada en los azulejos del piso. Había estado mucho tiempo ahí, desde que supo que su papá había muerto por fin. En realidad era un alivio para todos; en realidad, era un alivio para él: no más trapear sus vómitos negros, no más esperar hasta tarde en el hospital, no más agarrarle la mano amarillenta y gélida y fingir no estar cansado y que aún todos lo amaban. No recordaba cuánto tiempo había estado sentado ahí: observando la línea de mugre acumulada en la zanja que separaba los mosaicos, ni cuántos chicos habían entrado y le habían preguntado si estaba bien, no sabía tampoco si había respondido. Recordaba que José Luis había entrado al baño contoneándose como ahora en el antro de putos.

Giovanni lo observó. Era lo más parecido a una mujer, pero le temblaba el labio cuando hablaba, apenas podía reconocerlo. Identificaba su cercanía, su consuelo, tal como ese día cuando se había quedado de pie frente a él, con la mochila colgándole de un hombro y una mano sobre la cintura, observando su insaciable necesidad de consuelo. El agua de un grifo se escapaba por la coladera, una estela transparente de agua helada. José Luis se hincó a su lado, le tocó un hombro y lo llamó por su nombre con su voz artificiosa y afeminada. Giovanni lo empujó. Oyó cómo cayó sobre el mosaico helado y límpido. Él se incorporó, pero en lugar de irse, se quedó junto a él, observando la luz que entraba por la pequeña ventana del baño.

Giovanni sintió el cercano calor de su cuerpo, intuyó el peso de su ropa y buscó la piel de José Luis, la humedad de su lengua, el labial viscoso con diamantina, el cosquilleo de sus pestañas sobre su mejilla, su olor falso, tembló de miedo. Lo observó ahora, transformado en un bulto de curvas, con el tatuaje de un ramillete de rosas amarillas en la muñeca y pensó en ese día en el piso del baño, en cómo había arrasado su lengua dentro de su boca: juguetearon, batallando hasta que lo sacudió el asco y el temblor febril del cuerpo; había vomitado ahí mismo, sobre los pantalones del uniforme de José Luis.

—No te guardo rencor por lo de la vomitadita, Gio —Luisa le colocó una mano sobre el muslo y parpadeó con sus largas pestañas postizas.

—Pero decíle a tu mujer que vaya a mi salón. Uuuy mi Gio, no te sorprendás, si yo todo lo sé. Además aparece en el periódico con la gente nice ¿no? Está chula, es que vi que decía: Mirta Díaz de Macuspanni y qué más Macuspanni en Tuxtla que vos, eso me dije, y vi la foto del bautizo de tu niño, ¡qué pichi tan chulote! ¡reeechulo! me alegró harto saber que te va bien. Fuistes…como el primero del que me enamoré. Uuuy si vieras, desde que entraste al salón, de puro verte mordisqueaba mi borrador.

—Se llama Enrique, como mi papá, cumple un año el mes que viene. Mi mujer le prepara una fiesta con sus tías, imagínate, quieren un reportaje de primera plana. — Giovanni no sabía por qué tenía que mencionarle eso, quizá porque le gustó imaginar que Luisa se masturbaría levantando ese vestidito magenta, viendo la revista en la que él aparecería junto a su mujer, cargando a su hijo, en esa casa a la que se acaban de mudar.

Observó la marca de labial de Luisa en el vaso de unicel. Vio los pechos falsos apretujados en su vestido, pensó en los de su esposa, también operados, pero los de Luisa estaban rociados con brillantina tornasol. Se sintió asfixiado por la música, por el tiempo, se quitó el saco, resopló varias veces, por todo lo que no viviría jamás. Se levantó de la mesa, la golpeó al pararse, las cervezas rodaron hasta quebrarse en el piso. Luisa se levantó con él, intentaron salir entre la gente excitada. Le pareció un carnaval, los cuerpos estaban convulsionados por la música, aunque el mampo que cantaba había comenzado a entonar un tango, alguien le arrojó una botella de vidrio que estalló en miles de pedazos resplandecientes cerca de sus tacones.

Caminaron sobre la avenida, pero olía más a orines que dentro, doblaron en la esquina, para que no pudieran verlos. Giovanni encendió otro cigarro, se reclinó en un farol fundido y Luisa descansó en su hombro silbando una tonadita.

—Vieras Gio, que el otro día tuve un sueño, había estado tiñéndole el pelo a una clienta, yo creo que fue el líquido del tinte, porque soñé a un señor que se moría, pensé que era mi papá, como hace harto que no lo veo; pero no, ese anda aún vivo. El sueño fue bien real, soñé un hombre morir vomitando negro, y luego el vómito era yo. Yo era tu vómito en mi pantalón en el baño. Bien que te acordás ¡hum!

—No sé, yo no sueño José Luis. Ya no tengo tiempo para eso. —Giovanni se reclinó en la pared, no quería llegar a casa, palpó su cartera en el pantalón y las llaves. Una llave de una puerta cerrada, en una casa donde dormía una mujer con un niño, junto a un buró donde se consumía el olor dulce de unas velas de vainilla.

—En mi sueño, hay una ciudad, yo no sé si sabés de eso de los sueños, yo quizá porque soy géminis me siento inclinada a lo místico y al cambio, es por mi ascendente cósmico; pero bueno, en mi sueño había una ciudad y yo estaba ahí de puta perdida, arrecheando, pero aún era cuatito de la prepa y tenía una llave que abría todas las casas. Entré a una y me puse a hacer la cama de una casa vieja. ¿Sabés cómo? Como se hace en los hoteles, metiendo la punta de la cobija debajo del colchón.

Giovanni se aflojó la corbata, sus compañeros debían estar cogiendo ya con alguien, se mordió el labio, dejó caer la colilla de su cigarro, rebotó sobre el concreto: una, dos veces, con esa lucecita intranquila aun brillando. Él era como ese cigarro, cargaba una brasita pequeña pero incandescente que lo consumía.

—Mmm vélo, pues, ¡vos ni me estás pelando! En mi sueño, yo era como en los tiempos de mi show. Me decían “La Garoputa”; bueno, yo me hacía llamar “Garota” que es como “chamaca” en brasileño. Ya en la prepa hacia mi show aquí, pero esto antes de llamarse el Feeling tenía otro nombre, era de don Iván y se llamaba…Butterflies ¡Uuuuy! Yo tendría mis dieciséis. Entré cantando al Emmanuel pero a mí me gustaba más cantar esa de “El día que me quieras”. Oí, te mentí hace rato, la verdad es que no tengo novio, bueno no de deveritas. —Luisa se acercó más a él, sus cabellos plateados se enredaron en los botones de su camisa. Olía a cebolla y a cacahuate, Giovanni la rodeó por la cintura.

—Pero en mi sueño, yo era de nuevo la “Garoputa” y entonces yo tenía una casa y un bebé en la cuna y tú abrías la puerta y me decías, me decías…—Giovanni imaginó de nuevo a su padre, solo, ante la claridad inverosímil de la muerte; pero ni aun apretando muy fuerte los ojos, podía realmente recordarlo. Estrujó a Luis, lo jaló hasta tenerlo tan junto que podía verle las marcas del delineador y las arrugas de los ojos. Oyó el sonido brumoso que escapaba del Feeling y el siseo de los pocos coches que transitaban la avenida. Reclinó la cabeza sobre el hombro de Luisa y descansó los labios en su piel, podía oírla respirar; su voz tenía otro timbre, una voz cavernosa y varonil. Giovanni arrastró su mano acariciándole la espalda descubierta. Sintió su cuerpo deshacerse: el piso grumoso debajo de sus suelas, el piso helado del baño, el aliento a comida del bar, la puerta de su casa cerrada; su hijo dentro, envuelto en cobijas celestes, retorciéndose, como desenterrándose de la ropa, como su padre entre las cobijas celestes del hospital. Rodeó a José Luis con más y más fuerza, hasta oír cómo su respiración se entrecortaba y su voz de hombre le susurraba en el oído.

—Entonces, en mi sueño, tú tienes mi voz y yo la tuya y me dices: “El día que me quieras, chula, vamos a clavarle la verga al mundo” y me ves, así como me estás viendo ahora, y me decís que amaneció la sangre rabiándote.

Translator’s Note:

“The Last Ones” posed several fascinating challenges on both narrative and socio-linguistic levels during my translation process. This story takes place in a nightclub in Tuxtla Gutiérrez, Chiapas, Mexico, and follows the narrative memory of Giovanni, a closeted man who is recalling his first romantic encounter with someone of the same sex. These memories, which are deeply entangled with the memories of the death of his father, are brought back to life after running into Luisa, who has since transitioned into a woman. Luisa’s dialogue was a particular challenge when translating this story, as the voices of Giovanni and Luisa are quite distinctive in the original Spanish. Luisa uses the second-person vos form, which is typical of countries in Central and South America, but also sometimes present in the state of Chiapas, which borders Guatemala. Their register is also quite different. As I was translating, I worked hard to maintain these speech patterns while being conscious of the risk of creating a caricature of transgendered women.

Another challenge this story presented is that it is written as a close third-person narrative. Because of this, the reader is often presented with perspectives that come from the point of view of Giovanni, who is a deeply closeted man. Giovanni’s internal narrative only acknowledges Luisa as a woman about half the time, through the use of feminine pronouns. Because Giovanni often refers to Luisa as “he,” there are some instances when the actions of the two main characters seem to be indistinguishable. This narrative technique beautifully portrays some of the internal conflict that Giovanni is experiencing in this story, such as the painful longing for a life distinct from the one he is currently living, the confusion and shame of being queer in a highly masculine society, and the nostalgia of reuniting with a schoolyard love. The last paragraph of this story wonderfully captures the heartbreak of being able to peer into the window of what could have been. It also provides crucial commentary on the life of queer and transgendered people, and the societal repression they face around the world.

Allana C. Noyes is a literary translator and writer from Reno, Nevada. She is currently an MFA candidate in literary translation at the University of Iowa. She translates from Spanish and French, and her literary and journalistic translations have been published by Mexico City Lit, the Trans-Border Institute, and Solis Press.

Claudia Morales (b. Chiapas, Mexico, 1988) holds a BA in Spanish language and literature from the National Autonomous University of Mexico, and she is currently a PhD student at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. Morales is the author of the book, Hospitalidad (2014), and her first novel, No Habrá Retorno (forthcoming) received the Rosario Castellanos National Award for short novels in 2015.

Danica Mae

The Drafting Teacher  

Iphigenia’s morning

Who recognized these crossroads, these poisonous bogs,
false lights of will-o’-the-wisps on succulent marshes?
Where are you today and what are you brewing
in your copper cauldrons—what new, sudden vision
of terrible fate led you to fulfill
a familiar prophecy, to spool the skeins of wool?

As usual, you are traveling. I am sitting in a flood
of transmissive lights, trying to read the verdicts.
Maybe it is better to pour olive oil on a wrathful fire
in the very heart of Athens, to throw Iphigenia’s shawl,
torn from her shoulders, onto the hissing essence
of sandalwood, onto its white flames.

Because the mornings were cold, because she shivered,
because she did not know whom to ask for advice.
So now what can I do, when I, descended
from her kind, suspect a similar betrayal?

Oh, all of us betrayed and sacrificed,
we commiserating nursemaids, Iphigenias,
towers of bone, Towers of Babel—
I believe in the unity of language,
soft whispers, alliance.

January 2005

Toward passage

Are these forgotten graves or buried animals?
How many years have they lain here, bleached, overgrown
with moss, deprived of breath, warmth, and happiness?
What destruction passed through this sweet ravine,
and on what misfortune did the fruit ripen?
The snap of a breaking branch and the eyes see
a small blot of dimmed magic in the pupil’s darkness.
Tired, scarred, grazed by love,
we depart through a meadow where once a man
might have killed a man, a hound an animal, and the darker-haired
sister drove her sharp knife into the fairer.
Is that dawn or dusk beyond the meadows, and what
are we walking on, where are we going, toward what annihilation?
But now the moon is rising and it lays its silver
across our bones, eyes, and sockets.
All drowns in this silver as in the sieve of time,
a dog howled, a red van shot by
as we emerged from the Dantean woods onto the road,
now prepared for further passage.

And with us our pots, dogs, foals, goats,
those small, lost, compromised,
an entire crowd of creatures, matted coats,
drowned pups, frightened eyes.

In a gray cap, by ferry, someone comes for us:
our Penates are packed, our Lares corrupt.

Nieborów, October 2009

Uncertain days

No one needs dreams any longer, winter is ending—
green bark on the trees, fragrant boxwoods,
new grass, and it’s probably almost time
for buttercups. A ray of sunlight
falls and wriggles down a red, faded roof.

These days are uncertain, and if we listen
by candlelight to Russian records,
to bows sawing silver cellos in the sky,
nostalgic melodies from southern seas,
or female voices, dense and operatic,
it is only for a moment,
and then we get in the car,
spattered with the greasy mud of March,
and drive impatiently down side roads,
watching the sky now clear, now dark, now a flash
that retreats like a mole to its subterranean bed.

Relentlessly we clean the attic, we buy seedlings
at the garden store, we begin to count
the days til spring and then the deep drifts come,
the dreams and snowstorms, a freezing draft from the windows.

Nieborów, March 2, 2007

Poranek Ifigenii

Kto poznał te rozstaje, trujące moczary,
błędne ogniki świateł na soczystych bagnach?
Gdzie przebywacie dzisiaj i jakie wywary
w waszych miedzianych garnkach, jaka nowa, nagła
wizja strasznego losu kazała wam spełnić
znajomą przepowiednię? motać kłębki wełny?

Ty jak zwykle w podróży. Ja w powodzi świateł
transmisyjnych, próbuję odczytać wyroki.
Może lepiej oliwę w samym sercu Aten
lać na gniewne ognisko, na syczące soki
drzewa sandałowego i białych płomieni
rzucić zerwaną z ramion chustkę Ifigenii?

Bo ranki były zimne, bo drżała od chłodu,
bo nie wiedziała, kogo ma prosić o radę.
Więc co mam robić teraz ja, która z jej rodu
wywiedziona, podobną podejrzewam zdradę?

Ach, my wszystkie zdradzone, złożone w ofierze,
współczujące piastunki, Ifigenie, wieże
z białej kości słoniowej, wieże Babel, wierzę
we wspólnotę języka, cichy szept, przymierze.

styczeń 2005

Ku przeprawie

To zapomniane groby czy pochówek zwierząt?
Ile lat mchem porosłe, wybielone leżą
pozbawione oddechu, ciepła, i radości?
Jaka zagłada przeszła przez ten słodki parów
i owoce na jakim nieszczęściu dojrzały?
Trzask łamanej gałązki i oczy dojrzały
w ciemnej źrenicy plamkę przygasłego czaru.
Zmęczeni, naznaczeni, draśnięci miłością
odchodzimy przez łąkę, gdzie kiedyś, być może,
człowiek zabił człowieka, chart zwierzę, a siostrę
jasnowłosą, ta czarna pchnęła ostrym nożem.
Czy to brzask nad łąkami, czy zmierzcha i po czym
stąpamy, gdzie idziemy, ku jakiej zagładzie?
Ale już księżyc wschodzi i srebrem się kładzie
na kości, oczodoły i na nasze oczy.
Wszystko tonie w tym srebrze jak w durszlaku czasu,
czerwona furgonetka przemknęła, pies zawył,
gdy wyszliśmy na szosę z dantejskiego lasu,
na dobre już gotowi do dalszej przeprawy.

A z nami nase garnki, psy, kozy, źrebięta,
te, które niedorosły, chore, utracone,
cała gromada zwierząt, futra skołtunione,
i oczy przerażone, topione szczenięta.

Ktoś w szarej cyklistówce płynie po nas promem:
penaty spakowane, lary przekupione.

Nieborów, październik 2009

Niepewne dni

Nikt już nie potrzebuje snów, dobiega końca
zima, pachną bukszpany, zielenieje kora
na drzewach, wschodzi trawa i zapewne wkrótce
pojawią się zawilce, spadnie promień słońca
i spełznie po czerwonej spłowiałej dachówce.

Dni są niepewne i jeśli słuchamy
w te dni, przy świecach, z płyt rosyjskich smyczków
tnących wysoko w niebie srebrne wiolonczele,
albo nut nostalgicznych znad mórz południowych,
albo głosów kobiecych, gęstych, operowych,
to tylko krótką chwilę, a potem wsiadamy
w samochód opryskany tłustym błotem marca,
by jechać niecierpliwie bocznymi drogami,
i patrzymy na niebo raz czyste, raz ciemne,
błysk, który jak kret wraca w koryta podziemne.

Wytrwale strych sprzątamy, w sklepach ogrodniczych
kupujemy sadzonki, zaczynamy liczyć
dni do wiosny i wtedy przychodzą głębokie
zaspy, sny i zamiecie, mróz ciągnie od okien.

Nieborów, 2 marca 2007

Translator’s Note

I recently had the pleasure of doing a reading together with Anna Piwkowska, where we took turns reading her poems, she in Polish, and I in English. It was a fascinating experience to hear them side by side—the way she intended them, and the way I’d interpreted them. She told me the translations did justice to her poems, and I asked her how she knew that, since she doesn’t know English. She said it was partly because she could hear it in the way I read them, the way I felt them, in the rhythm. In the introduction to our reading, Anna cited another great Polish poet, Wisława Szymborska, who had said that poems ought to be read—and heard—in their native language, where they retain their essence and convey the magic of the poetry. On one hand, I agree, but by no means do they need to be read only in their native language. Translation gives a poem new life, expanding its depth, stretching its frame. In translating these poems, I wanted to stand by their essence and magic, but I also wanted to allow the poems to live in a second language as gracefully as they had in the first.

I have loved Piwkowska’s poetry for a long time, partly because the things she writes about are the things that also fascinate me: myths, relationships, the natural order of the world. The way she weaves mythological tropes with nature and the everyday concepts of modern life is lovely, and she continues to assert that myth, while shadowy or mystical or ancient, is also universal. The images in Piwkowska’s poems are striking—blends of Polish countrysides and forests with Mediterranean landscapes with surreal images of stars and skies and the underworld. Her poems are highly visual while also being highly aural. Their rhythm is pervasive, and rhyme is always lurking in the corners. I don’t write poetry myself, but I have found translating poetry to be a unique experience, where paying attention to the meaning is one thing, but paying attention to the sound is quite another. It makes me notice, and it makes me explore the English language in a way that I usually don’t.

These three poems, in particular, while never intended to stand side by side, work wonderfully together. All three dwell on the cusp of things, on imminent change, on an uncertainty about what comes next. They dwell on the mundane and the mysterious both. It’s an honor to be able to translate them and to be published here.

Special Guest Judge, Tony Barnstone

“The best thing that translation can do is to extend the possibilities of writing in your home language. These translations of the Polish poet Anna Piwkowska bring over to English some absolutely gorgeous poems, but even more, they naturalize to English an aesthetic that is not native, and in the process they make English richer and make the possibilities for writing in English larger. How unexpected is the snap of a branch and the sudden vision of a small blot of dimmed magic in the pupil’s darkness in the violent woods. How gorgeous is the rising moon, laying its silver across our bones, eyes, and sockets. How surreal and emotional evocative are the bows sawing silver cellos in the sky. These are lovely poems, and they leave the reader with that hungry greediness that comes from eating something so delicious that you are left wanting more and more.”

– Dr. Tony Barnstone is a poet, translator, essayist, and the author of sixteen books, including Monster Verse: Poems Human and Inhuman (Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets, 2015), Beast in the Apartment (Sheep Meadow Press, 2014), and, most recently, Pulp Sonnets (Tupelo Press, 2015).

Anna Piwkowska is a poet and writer and the author of nine acclaimed books of poetry, including, most recently, Farbiarka (2009), which won the Warsaw Literary Prize, and Lustrzanka (2012). She is also the author of a novel based on the life of Austrian poet Georg Trakl, two books about the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova, and a young adult novel, Franciszka, which won the 2014 Polish IBBY Prize for best YA novel of the year. Her poems have been translated into English, German, Italian, Slovenian, French, Spanish, Catalan, and Slovak, and published in numerous anthologies. She lives in Warsaw.

Iza Wojciechowska received an MFA from Columbia University in 2012. She is the winner of PEN/Heim Translation award, and her translations of Anna Piwkowska’s poetry have appeared in A Public Space, Hayden’s Ferry Review, The Common, and The Massachusetts Review, which awarded her the Jules Chametzky Translation Prize. She works as a freelance writer and editor in Durham, NC.

(September 1884)

Last Monday, in Etretat, Bapu Sahib Khanderao Ghatgay died. He was an Indian prince, a relative of His Highness, the Maharaja Gaikwar, Prince of Baroda in the province of Gujarath,in the Bombay Presidency.

For about three weeks, we saw about a dozen young Indians passing through the streets: small, supple, with very dark skin, dressed in suits and wearing hats like English grooms. They were important dignitaries, come from Europe to study the military institutions of major nations in the West. The small army was made up of three princes, a nobleman friend, an interpreter and three servants.

The head of the mission had just died. He was forty-two years old and the father-in-law of Sampatrao Kashivao Gaikwar, brother of His Highness, the Gaikwar of Baroda.

The son-in-law accompanied his father-in-law.

The other Indians were Ganpatrao Shrâvanrao Gaikwar, cousin of His Highness Khâsherao Gadhav; Vasuded Madhav Samarth, interpreter and secretary. The servants include Râmchandra Bajâji, Ganu bin Pukâram Kokate, and Rhambhaji bin Favji.

Just as he was leaving his homeland, the man who died the other day was overcome with a terrible sense of grief; and persuaded he would not return, he wanted to cancel the trip but he had to obey the will of his noble relative, the Prince of Baroda. So he left.

They came to spend the end of summer at Etretat and, curious, we went to see them go swimming at Roses­ Blanches each morning. For five or six days, Bapu Sahib Khanderao Ghatgay suffered from sore gums, then the inflammation spread to his throat and became an ulcer. Gangrene set in, and on Monday, the doctors told his young companions that their relative was going to die. His final struggle began almost immediately, and as the unfortunate man could hardly breathe any more, his friends grabbed hold of him, tore him from his bed and laid him on the stone floor of his room, so that lying down on the earth, our mother, his soul could be released according to the orders of Brahma.

They then asked the mayor, Monsieur Boissaye, for permission to cremate the corpse the same day, in order to obey the formal requirements of the Hindu religion. Hesitant, the mayor telegraphed the Administrative Offices of the area for instructions. He added, however, that the lack of a reply would amount to consent. Since no answer arrived by 9 o’clock that evening, it was therefore decided, due to the infectious nature of the disease that had killed the Indian, that the cremation of the body would occur the very same night, under the cliff at the edge of the sea at low tide.

That decision by the mayor, who acted intelligently, decisively and generously, and who was also supported and advised by the three doctors who had monitored the disease and pronounced the Prince dead, is now being criticized.

There was dancing at the Casino that evening. It was an early autumn evening, a little cold. A strong wind blew in from the sea but without causing the water to rise, and some ragged, fraying clouds moved rapidly in the sky. They reached the edge of the horizon, dark against the horizon, then the closer they floated towards the moon, the paler they grew, veiling it for a few moments without hiding it completely as they quickly passed by. The large, high cliffs that formed around the beach of Etretat and ended in the two famous arches, called Les Portes, remained in the shadows and cast two large black patches in the softly lit landscape. It had rained all day.

The orchestra at the Casino played waltzes, polkas and quadrilles. A rumor spread suddenly through the crowd. It was said that an Indian prince had just died at the Hôtel des Bains and that the Minister had been asked for permission to cremate him. We believed nothing, or at least, we did not assume the event would take place quickly, since this practice is so foreign to our customs; and as it was getting late, everyone went home.

The moon could no longer be seen, leaving the muddy, empty streets dark, but the body on the stretcher appeared luminous in the radiance cast by the white silk, and it was a wondrous thing to see the clear shape of the body passing in the night, carried by men with skin so dark, that we could not even make out their faces, their hands or their clothing in the darkness.

At midnight, the man who lit the gaslights ran from street to street, extinguishing, one after the other, the yellow flames that lit up the sleeping houses, mud and puddles. We waited, waited for the time when the small town would be silent and deserted.

A carpenter cutting wood since noon wondered in astonishment: what was going to happen with all these pieces of small, sawn boards, and why would anyone waste so much good merchandise. The wood was piled in a cart that went by side streets to the beach to avoid arousing suspicion with the night owls they met. It moved forward on the pebble beach, to the very edge of the cliff, and having emptied its load on the ground, the three Indians servants began to build a funeral pyre that was long rather than wide. They worked alone, because no irreverent hand should help with this holy work.

At one o’clock in the morning, the dead man’s relatives were told they could carry out their task. The door of the small house they occupied was open and we could see the corpse wrapped in white silk, lying on a stretcher in the narrow, barely lit hallway. He was lying on his back, clearly outlined under that pale veil. The Indians, serious, standing at his feet, remained motionless. One of them, murmuring mysterious words in a low, monotonous voice, performed the required ceremony. He walked around the body, sometimes touching it, then taking an urn suspended at the end of three chains, he sprinkled him with sacred water from the Ganges for a long time, holy water that all Indians must always take with them, wherever they go.

Then the stretcher was lifted by four of them, who began walking slowly. The moon could no longer be seen, leaving the muddy, empty streets dark, but the body on the stretcher appeared luminous in the radiance cast by the white silk, and it was a wondrous thing to see the clear shape of the body passing in the night, carried by men with skin so dark, that we could not even make out their faces, their hands or their clothing in the darkness.

Three Indians followed behind the dead man, then a tall Englishman, a head taller than all of them. He was wrapped in a large, pale gray traveling cloak, amiable and distinguished, their friend, who guides and advises across Europe.

Under the foggy, cold sky of this small Northern beach, I felt I was witnessing a sort of symbolic image. It seemed there was, before me, the conquered spirit of India, followed, as the dead are followed, by the victorious spirit of England, dressed in a gray overcoat.

On the pebbly beach, the four bearers stopped a few seconds to catch their breath, then set off again. They took small steps now, bending under their load. They finally reached the pyre. It was built in a fold of the cliff, at its foot, which rose above it, very straight, a hundred meters high, all white but dark in the night.

The pyre was about one meter high. They put the body on it, then one of the Indians asked if we could point out the North Star. We showed it to him, and the dead Rajah’s feet were turned towards his country. Then they poured twelve bottles of oil on him and covered him entirely with pine boards. For nearly an hour longer, relatives and servants built up the pyre that resembled the piles of wood that carpenters keep in their attics. Then they spread twenty bottles of oil on it and emptied a bag of small wood shavings on the very top. A few steps away, a light flickered in a small incense burner, which had remained lit since the arrival of the corpse.

The moment had come. The relatives lit the fire. As it barely burned, they poured a little oil and suddenly a flame rose, illuminating the entire expanse of the great wall of rock. An Indian leaning over the incense rose, both hands in the air, elbows bent, and we saw suddenly a huge shadow emerge, the shadow of Buddha in his sacred pose, very black against the immense white cliff.  And the little pointed hat the man wore seemed an imitation of the God’s. The effect was so striking and unexpected that I felt my heart beat, as if some supernatural apparition stood before me. It was indeed the God, the ancient, sacred figure having hastened from the Far East to the furthest point in Europe, watching over her son, who we were about to cremate.

The vision disappeared. We brought the fire. The wood shavings lit up atop the pyre, then the wood caught fire and a fierce light illuminated the pebble beach and the foam of the waves crashing on the shore. The fire grew brighter by the second, lighting up the sea and the crest of dancing waves in the distance. The sea breeze blew in gusts, fanning the flames, which died down, whirled, then rose up again, throwing thousands of sparks into the air. The sparks wafted up along the cliff with extraordinary speed, disappearing high into the sky to mingle with the stars and increase their number. Awakened seabirds uttered their plaintive cry, and circling in long curves, their white wings extended, flew high above the bright light of the funeral pyre before disappearing into the night.

Soon the pyre was no more than a fiery mass, not red but yellow, a blinding yellow, a furnace whipped by the wind. And suddenly, in a stronger gust, it tottered, leaning toward the sea as it partly collapsed. And the whole body of the dead man could be seen, black on his bed of fire, burning amid long blue flames. And since the right side of the pyre had collapsed, the corpse turned over, like a man does in his bed. He was immediately covered with new wood, and the fire raged even more violently than before. The Indians, seated in a semi-circle on the beach, watched with sad, serious faces. And as it was very cold, the rest of us drew closer to the pyre, so close that smoke and sparks flew into our faces. All we could smell was the burning fir and oil.

The hours passed; it was dawn. About five o’clock in the morning, nothing but a pile of ashes remained. The relatives collected them. Some they threw to the wind, some to the sea and a little they kept in a bronze vase they would bring back to India. They then returned to their homes to grieve. Thus the young princes and their servants, with hardly anything they required at their disposal, were able to carry out the cremation of their relative perfectly, with singular skill and remarkable dignity. Everything was accomplished according to the rites, ­­­­according to the absolute requirements of their religion. Their dead man now rests in peace.

In Etretat, as day broke, we felt an indescribable emotion. Some people claimed we had burned someone alive, others that it was meant to hide a crime and that the mayor would be imprisoned; still others that the Indian prince had succumbed to an attack of cholera. Men marveled; women were indignant. A crowd of people spent the day where the pyre had been set up, searching for fragments of bone amid the still warm pebbles. They collected enough bones to make ten skeletons, for the farmers on the coast often threw their dead sheep into the sea. The gamblers carefully put away these various fragments in their wallets. But none of them had any real part of the Indian prince.

That same evening, a government delegate came to open an investigation. He seemed a man of intellect and reason in judging this exceptional case. But what will he say in his report?

The Indians said that if they had been prevented from cremating the dead man in France, they would have taken him to a more liberal country, where they could carry out their rites.

And so I saw a man cremated on a funeral pyre and it made me wish to disappear in the same way. That way, it is all over immediately. Man hurries the slow work of nature instead of further delaying it in a hideous coffin where one decomposes for months. The flesh is dead, the spirit has fled. Fire purifies and scatters what used to be a person within hours. It throws him to the wind, it turns him into air and ashes, not revolting rot.

Fire is clean and healthy. The putrefaction underground in that closed box where the body becomes pulp, black, stinking pulp, has something repugnant and atrocious about it. The coffin that descends into the deep mire fills the heart with anguish; but a flaming pyre beneath the sky is magnificent, beautiful and solemn.

(1884)

Lundi dernier est mort à Étretat un prince indien, Bapu Sahib Khanderao Ghatgay, parent de Sa Hautesse le Maharaja Gaikwar, prince de Baroda, dans la province de Gujarath, présidence de Bombay.

Depuis trois semaines environ, on voyait passer par les rues une dizaine de jeunes Indiens, petits, souples, tout noirs de peau, vêtus de complets gris et coiffés de toques de palefreniers anglais. C’étaient de hauts seigneurs, venus en Europe pour étudier les institutions militaires des principales nations de l’Occident. La petite troupe se composait de trois princes, d’un noble ami, d’un interprète et de trois serviteurs.

Le chef de la mission était celui qui vient de mourir, vieillard de quarante-deux ans et beau-père de Sampatrao Kashivao Gaikwar, frère de Sa Hautesse le Gaikwar de Baroda.

Le gendre accompagnait le beau-père.

Les autres Indiens s’appelaient Ganpatrao Shrâvanrao Gaikwar, cousin de Sa Hautesse Kâsherao Gadhav; Vasudev Madhav Samarth, interprète et secrétaire; Les esclaves: Râmchandra Bajâji, Ganu bin Pukâram Kokate, Rambhaji bin Favji.

Au moment de quitter sa patrie, celui qui est mort l’autre jour fut saisi d’une crise affreuse de chagrin, et, persuadé qu’il ne reviendrait pas, il voulut renoncer à ce voyage, mais il dut obéir aux volontés de son noble parent, le prince de Baroda, et il partit.

Ils vinrent passer la fin de l’été à Étretat, et on allait les voir curieusement, chaque matin, prendre leur bain à l’établissement des Roches-Blanches.

Voici cinq ou six jours, Bapu Sahib Khanderao Ghatgay fut atteint de douleurs aux gencives; puis l’inflammation gagna la gorge et devint une ulcération. La gangrène s’y mit, et, lundi, les médecins déclarèrent à ses jeunes compagnons que leur parent allait mourir. L’agonie commença presque aussitôt, et comme le malheureux ne respirait plus qu’à peine, ses amis le saisirent, l’arrachèrent de son lit et le déposèrent sur les pavés de la chambre, afin qu’il rendît l’âme étendu sur la terre, notre mère, selon les ordres de Brahma.

Puis ils firent demander au maire, M. Boissaye, l’autorisation de brûler, le jour même, le cadavre pour obéir toujours aux formelles prescriptions de la religion hindoue. Le maire, hésitant, télégraphia à la préfecture pour solliciter des instructions, en annonçant, toutefois, qu’une absence de réponse équivaudrait pour lui à un consentement. Aucune réponse n’étant venue à neuf heures du soir, il fut donc décidé, en raison de la nature infectieuse du mal qui avait emporté l’Indien, que la crémation du corps aurait lieu la nuit même, sous la falaise, au bord de la mer, à la marée descendante.

On reproche aujourd’hui cette décision au maire qui a agi en homme intelligent, résolu et libéral, soutenu d’ailleurs et conseillé par les trois médecins qui avaient suivi la maladie et constaté le décès.

On dansait au Casino, ce soir-là. C’était un soir d’automne prématuré, un peu froid. Un vent assez fort soufflait du large sans que la mer fût encore soulevée, et des nuages rapides couraient déchiquetés, effiloqués. Ils arrivaient du bout de l’horizon, sombres sur le fond du ciel, puis à mesure qu’ils approchaient de la lune ils blanchissaient, et, passant vivement sur elle, la voilaient quelques instants sans la cacher tout à fait.

Les grandes falaises droites, qui forment la plage arrondie d’Étretat et se terminent aux deux célèbres arcades qu’on nomme les Portes, restaient dans l’ombre et faisaient deux grandes taches noires dans le paysage doucement éclairé.

Il avait plu toute la journée.

L’orchestre du Casino jouait des valses, des polkas et des quadrilles. Un bruit passa tout à coup dans les groupes. On racontait qu’un prince indien venait de mourir à l’hôtel des Bains, et qu’on avait demandé au ministre l’autorisation de le brûler. On n’en crut rien, ou du moins on ne supposa pas la chose prochaine tant cet usage est encore contraire à nos mœurs, et, comme la nuit s’avançait, chacun rentra chez soi.

À minuit, l’employé du gaz, courant de rue en rue, éteignait, l’une après l’autre, les flammes jaunes qui éclairaient les maisons endormies, la boue et les flaques d’eau. Nous attendions, guettant l’heure où la petite ville serait muette et déserte.

Depuis midi, un menuisier coupait du bois en se demandant avec stupeur ce qu’on allait faire de toutes ces planches sciées par petits bouts, et pourquoi perdre tant de bonne marchandise. Ce bois fut entassé dans une charrette qui s’en alla, par des rues détournées, jusqu’à la plage, sans éveiller les soupçons des attardés qui la rencontraient. Elle s’avança sur le galet, au pied même de la falaise, et ayant versé son chargement à terre, les trois serviteurs indiens commencèrent à construire un bûcher un peu plus long que large. Ils travaillaient seuls, car aucune main profane ne devait aider à cette besogne sainte.

Il était une heure du matin quand on annonça aux parents du mort qu’ils pouvaient accomplir leur œuvre.

La porte de la petite maison qu’ils occupaient fut ouverte; et nous aperçûmes, couché sur une civière, dans le vestibule étroit, à peine éclairé, le cadavre enveloppé de soie blanche. On le voyait nettement étendu sur le dos, bien dessiné sous ce voile pâle.

Les Indiens, graves, debout devant ses pieds, demeuraient immobiles, tandis que l’un d’eux accomplissait les cérémonies prescrites en murmurant d’une voix basse et monotone des paroles inconnues. Il tournait autour du corps, le touchait parfois, puis, prenant une urne suspendue au bout de trois chaînettes, il l’aspergea longtemps avec l’eau sacrée du Gange que les Indiens doivent toujours emporter avec eux, où qu’ils aillent.

Puis la civière fut enlevée par quatre d’entre eux qui se mirent en marche lentement. La lune s’était couchée, laissant obscures les rues boueuses et vides, mais le cadavre sur la civière semblait lumineux, tant la soie blanche jetait d’éclat; et c’était une chose saisissante de voir passer dans la nuit la forme claire de ce corps, porté par ces hommes à la peau si noire qu’on ne distinguait point dans l’ombre leur visage et leurs mains de leurs vêtements.

Derrière le mort, trois Indiens suivaient, puis, les dominant de toute la tête, se dessinait, enveloppée dans un grand manteau de voyage, d’un gris tendre, et coiffé d’un chapeau rond, la haute silhouette d’un Anglais, homme aimable et distingué qui est leur ami, qui les guide et les conseille à travers l’Europe.

Sous le ciel brumeux et froid de cette plage du Nord, je croyais assister à une sorte de spectacle symbolique. Il me semblait qu’on portait là, devant moi, le génie vaincu de l’Inde, que suivait, comme on suit les morts, le génie victorieux de l’Angleterre, habillé d’un ulster gris.

Sur le galet roulant, les quatre porteurs s’arrêtèrent quelques secondes pour reprendre haleine, puis repartirent; ils allaient maintenant à tout petits pas, pliant sous la charge. Ils atteignirent enfin le bûcher. Il était construit dans un repli de la falaise, à son pied même. Elle se dressait au-dessus, toute droite, haute de cent mètres, toute blanche, mais sombre dans la nuit.

Le bûcher était haut d’un mètre environ; on déposa dessus le corps; puis un des Indiens demanda qu’on lui indiquât l’étoile polaire. On la lui montra, et le rajah mort fut étendu les pieds tournés vers sa patrie. Puis on versa sur lui douze bouteilles de pétrole, et on le recouvrit entièrement avec des planchettes de sapin. Pendant près d’une heure encore, les parents et les serviteurs surélevèrent le bûcher qui ressemblait à ces piles de bois que gardent les menuisiers dans leurs greniers. Puis on répandit sur le faîte vingt bouteilles d’huile, et on vida, tout au sommet, un sac de menus copeaux. Quelques pas plus loin, une lueur tremblotait dans un petit réchaud de bronze qui demeurait allumé depuis l’arrivée du cadavre.

L’instant était venu. Les parents allèrent chercher le feu. Comme il ne brûlait qu’à peine, on versa dessus un peu d’huile et brusquement, une flamme s’éleva, éclairant du haut en bas la grande muraille de rochers. Un Indien, penché sur le réchaud, se releva, les deux mains en l’air, les coudes repliés; et nous vîmes tout à coup surgir, toute noire sur l’immense falaise blanche, une ombre colossale, l’ombre de Bouddha dans sa pose hiératique. Et la petite toque pointue que l’homme avait sur la tête simulait elle-même la coiffure du dieu.

L’effet fut tellement saisissant et imprévu que je sentis mon cœur battre comme si quelque apparition surnaturelle se fût dressée devant moi.

C’était bien elle, l’image antique et sacrée, accourue du fond de l’Orient à l’extrémité de l’Europe, et veillant sur son fils qu’on allait brûler là.

Elle disparut. On apportait le feu. Les copeaux, au sommet du bûcher, s’allumèrent, puis l’incendie gagna le bois, et une clarté violente illumina la côte, le galet, et l’écume des lames brisées sur la plage.

Elle grandissait de seconde en seconde, éclairant au loin sur la mer la crête dansante des vagues.

La brise du large soufflait par rafales, accélérant l’ardeur de la flamme, qui se couchait, tournoyait, se relevait, jetait des milliers d’étincelles. Elles montaient le long de la falaise avec une vitesse folle et, se perdant au ciel, se mêlaient aux étoiles dont elles multipliaient le nombre. Des oiseaux de mer réveillés poussaient leur cri plaintif, et, décrivant de longues courbes, venaient passer avec leurs ailes blanches étendues dans le rayonnement du foyer, puis rentraient dans la nuit.

Bientôt le bûcher ne fut plus qu’une masse ardente, non point rouge, mais jaune, d’un jaune aveuglant, une fournaise fouettée par le vent. Et tout à coup, sous une bourrasque plus forte, il chancela, s’écroula en partie en se penchant vers la mer, et le mort découvert apparut tout entier, noir sur sa couche de feu, et brûlant lui-même avec de longues flammes bleues.

Et le brasier s’étant encore affaissé sur la droite, le cadavre se retourna comme un homme dans son lit. Il fut aussitôt recouvert avec du bois nouveau, et l’incendie recommença plus furieux que tout à l’heure.

Les Indiens, assis en demi-cercle sur le galet, regardaient avec des visages tristes et graves. Et nous autres, comme il faisait très froid, nous nous étions rapprochés du foyer jusqu’à recevoir dans la figure la fumée et les étincelles. Aucune odeur autre que celle du sapin brûlant ou du pétrole ne nous frappa.

Et des heures se passèrent; et le jour apparut. Vers cinq heures du matin, il ne restait plus qu’un tas de cendres. Les parents les recueillirent, en jetèrent une partie au vent, une partie à la mer, et en gardèrent un peu dans un vase d’airain qu’ils rapporteront aux Indes. Ils se retirèrent ensuite pour pousser des gémissements dans leur demeure.

Ces jeunes princes et leurs serviteurs, disposant des moyens les plus insuffisants, ont pu achever ainsi la crémation de leur parent d’une façon parfaite, avec une adresse singulière et une remarquable dignité. Tout s’est accompli suivant le rite, suivant les prescriptions absolues de leur religion. Leur mort repose en paix.

Ce fut dans Étretat, au jour levant, une indescriptible émotion. Les uns prétendaient qu’on avait brûlé un vivant, les autres qu’on avait voulu cacher un crime, ceux-ci que le maire serait emprisonné, ceux-là que le prince indien avait succombé à une attaque de choléra.

Des hommes s’étonnaient, des femmes s’indignaient. Une foule passa la journée sur l’emplacement du bûcher, cherchant des fragments d’os dans les galets encore chauds. On en ramassa de quoi reconstituer dix squelettes, car les fermiers de la côte jettent souvent à la mer leurs moutons morts. Les joueurs enfermèrent avec soin dans leur porte-monnaie ces fragments divers. Mais aucun d’eux ne possède une parcelle véritable du prince indien.

Le soir même un délégué du gouvernement venait ouvrir une enquête. Il semblait d’ailleurs juger ce cas singulier en homme d’esprit et de raison. Mais que dira-t-il dans son rapport ?

Les Indiens ont déclaré que, si on les avait empêchés en France de brûler leur mort, ils l’auraient emporté dans une terre plus libre, où ils auraient pu se conformer à leurs usages.

J’ai donc vu brûler un homme sur un bûcher et cela m’a donné le désir de disparaître de la même façon.

Ainsi, tout est fini tout de suite. L’homme hâte l’œuvre lente de la nature, au lieu de la retarder encore par le hideux cercueil où l’on se décompose pendant des mois. La chair est morte, l’esprit a fui. Le feu qui purifie disperse en quelques heures ce qui fut un être ; il le jette au vent, il en fait de l’air et de la cendre, et non point de la pourriture infâme.

Cela est propre et sain. La putréfaction sous terre, dans cette boîte close où le corps devient bouillie, une bouillie noire et puante, a quelque chose de répugnant et d’atroce. Le cercueil qui descend dans ce trou fangeux serre le cœur d’angoisse; mais le bûcher qui flambe sous le soleil a quelque chose de grand, de beau et de solennel.

Translator’s Note

I have rekindled, in the past few years, a literary friendship with master writers I have enjoyed reading in the past and others I have recently discovered. This has led to an opportunity to investigate aspects of how they approach the process and craft of writing; essentially, of using language in ingenious combinations to convey human emotions, concerns and preoccupations (Bridglall, Beatrice. On Exploring Craft: Writers as Architects. University Press of America / Hamilton Books, 2015.).

In the midst of reading several novels by Gustave Flaubert (one of the authors featured in the book) and his biography, I became aware of Flaubert’s role in encouraging Guy de Maupassant to write. The world now benefits from de Maupassant’s six novels, 300 short stories, three plays, some poetry, and travel books; a stunning oeuvre that reveals a mind attuned to the complexities of culture, diversity, human behavior and emotions. This multi-faceted complexity can be seen in his short story, Le bûcher (The Funeral Pyre), which tells of the cremation of an Indian prince in Étretat, France. At its heart, it seems, is the narrator’s realization that the funeral ceremony he witnesses, which is imbued with a tradition that is unfamiliar, honors the dead in a way that preserves their dignity. And although a Frenchman in a culture with different burial traditions, he too wishes to ‘disappear’ in the same way. This wish however, is conveyed in a dignified, restrained manner, much like the quiet blaze of the burning funeral pyre.

It is my hope that my translation of de Maupassant’s short story preserves his subdued yet lyrical style evidenced in the source language, which is French. Additionally, this translation, my first, has been proofread by Sandra Smith, to whom I am grateful.

Guy De Maupassant (1850 – 1893); French novelist, travel and short story writer, and poet.

Beatrice Bridglall, Fulbright Specialist in Higher Education and Director, Office of Special Projects, Office of the Secretary of Higher Education, New Jersey, has a Masters in Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Fairleigh Dickinson University and a Doctorate in Education from Columbia University.