Havana reverberates, resists,
bursting through the cobblestones.
Light years,
I sense a galaxy of infant stars.
I don’t use its name and it doesn’t use mine […]

[translated poetry]

Excuse Us

Excuse us for fleeing
the wars that you fed
with your own arms

Excuse us for getting poisoned
with the toxic waste buried
by your powerful industries

Excuse us if you’ve bled
out our land, depriving us
of any possible resource

Excuse our poverty
daughter of your richness
of your neo-colonialisms

Excuse us for being massacred
and for disturbing your vacation
with our invisible blood

Excuse us for occupying
your detention centers
with our filthy bodies

Excuse us for breaking our
backs in your tomato fields
slaves without any right

Excuse us for living in
your tin huts
stacked like beasts

Excuse us for our presence
that causes each of your crisis
and doesn’t make you live well

Excuse us if your laws
aren’t strict enough
and many of you would love the gallows

Excuse us for existing,
for breathing, for eating
even for daring to dream

Excuse us if we didn’t die at sea
and if we did, excuse us again
the impudence of informing you.

The Dead People of Mogadishu

Are unlike those in Las Vegas
killed by an American armed to
the teeth by his own government
the dead people of Mogadishu are shadows

figures told to be forgotten
as a teleshopping of pain
to the global rhythm of a remote control
the dead people of Mogadishu are shadows

no keyboards cry pity for them
no painted flags bloom for them
on faces flaunting fake tears
the dead people of Mogadishu are shadows

invisible ruins to indignation
nobody sings their torn apart spoils
or tells their stories, we know
the dead people of Mogadishu are shadows.

Scusate

Scusate se siamo fuggiti
dalle guerre che voi nutrite
con le vostre stesse armi

Scusate se ci siamo avvelenati
con i rifiuti tossici sotterrati
dalle vostre potenti industrie

Scusate se avete dissanguato
la nostra terra, deprivandoci
di ogni possibile risorsa

Scusate la nostra povertà
figlia della vostra ricchezza
dei vostri neo-colonialismi

Scusate se veniamo massacrati
e disturbiamo le vostre vacanze
col nostro sangue invisibile

Scusate se occupiamo
coi nostri sudici corpi
i vostri centri di detenzione

Scusate se ci spezziamo la schiena
nei vostri campi di pomodoro
schiavi senza alcun diritto

Scusate se viviamo nelle
vostre baracche di lamiera
ammucchiati come bestie

Scusate per la nostra presenza
che causa ogni vostra crisi
e non vi fa vivere bene

Scusate se le vostre leggi
non sono abbastanza severe
e molti di voi vorrebbero la forca

Scusate se esistiamo
se respiriamo, se mangiamo
persino se osiamo sognare

Scusate se non siamo morti in mare
e se invece lo siamo, scusate ancora
l’impudenza d’avervelo fatto sapere.

I morti di Mogadiscio

Non sono come quelli di Las Vegas
ammazzati da un americano armato
fino ai denti dal suo stesso governo
i morti di Mogadiscio sono ombre

numeri detti per essere dimenticati
come una televendita del dolore
al ritmo globale del telecomando
i morti di Mogadiscio sono ombre

per loro le tastiere non dicono pietà
non fioriscono di bandiere dipinte
su volti che ostentano finte lacrime
i morti di Mogadiscio sono ombre

macerie invisibili all’indignazione
nessuno ne canta le spoglie straziate
o racconta le loro storie, lo sappiamo
i morti di Mogadiscio sono ombre.

Translator’s Statement:

Marco Cinque is a major Italian activist poet and his poems explore themes dealing with human, civil, and environmental rights. His poetical world centers on the perspective of the “last ones” of any rank and latitude.

Cinque is a funambulist of the word and layers of meaning lie deep in each of his lines. Translating his poetry is a sort of tightrope walking exercise, moving along the rope of analogy, striving to say exactly the same thing. But, above all, I have tried to be as faithful as possible to Cinque’s voice that is the bearer of a deep, poignant message and the real core of his poems.

“Excuse Us” is a powerful poem on migrants—a topic that is very dear to Cinque—and the subject of one of his most touching books Mari e muri (Waves and Walls). The Mediterranean Sea has become over the past few years the deadliest migration route in the world and Cinque highlights the devastating reasons behind this perilous choice. His irony is clearly directed to the reader, disguised through the sense of guilt of the migrants who must excuse themselves for having fled their homeland for a variety of reasons, including to escape persecution, conflict, famines, droughts, economic instability, and lack of opportunity. The repetition of the words “Excuse us” makes the reader more and more aware of how cynic the world we live in is: victims are forced to feel guilty whereas Westerners have clearly lost their sense of humanity and pleas for help leave them indifferent and undisturbed.

“The Dead People of Mogadishu” deals with victims of terrorist attacks and how, again, Westerners react differently whether such attack takes place in Africa or in the Western world. If we cry: “The horror! The horror!” for people who have died in Las Vegas, we hardly raise our voice for the people killed in Mogadishu. These are indeed, as Cinque writes “figures told to be forgotten / as a teleshopping of pain / to the global rhythm of a remote control.”

Alessandra Bava is a poet and a translator from Rome. Her translations from and into English have appeared in Italian and American journals such as Waxwing and Patria Letteratura. She has edited and translated A New Anthology of American Poets (2015) and most recently Anthology of Contemporary American Women Poets (2018), which includes work by Nikky Finney, Joy Harjo, Patricia Smith, Natalie Diaz, Diane Seuss, as well as others. She is currently writing the biography of a contemporary American poet.

Marco Cinque is a poet, a photographer, a performer as well as a musician from Rome. His work has appeared in many publications both in Italy and in the States. He has been defined by San Francisco Poet Emeritus Jack Hirschman as “a social poet whose every breath is grounded in the revolutionary turning of the pages to the new tide of revelation.”

[translated poetry]

The Fourth Astral Plane

We bolted from empty stores,
Army bullies,
Chernobyl,
Afghanistan,
Nagorno-Karabakh and
Happy drunkards euthanized in the snow.
We were afraid that tomorrow another curtain would fall,
And the pogrom-happy Czar would return, or the dictator, or the
terrorists,
So amidst the hot Brooklyn spring we came
To the Hasidim dressed in all black,
And to those, who stay black no matter the clothes,
We walked knee-deep in the snow
Circled the Jewish cemetery starving as if for prey
Arguing in hoarse voices about Berdyaev and Shestov,
And we ran away from dull rabbis,
Matronly priests,
And Buddhists, annoying as flies in their complacency,
But terrorists caught up with us like Karma
And we choked coughing,
And covered our mouth
When New York swelled with asbestos dust
From the rotting twin corpses.
And in the snow desert by Chicago
We listened to the howling Tom Waits
And were mocked by the everlasting
And golden San Francisco fall.
We couldn’t bear it and ripped
The shirts off our backs.
And spending our last money
We ripped across the ocean, back to the East.
In a London bar we listened
To the joking oligarch, “I drink only beer,
Where I can see the polonium better.”
And in the Berlin “USSR” bar
We opened the bathroom door
Decorated with a stolen authentic sign
“Embassy of the Soviet Union.”
I wanted to steal it back.
And when we landed in Sheremetyevo,
Boryspil and Pulkovo
At the stores pregnant with merchandise
On Nevsky, Arbat or Khreshchatyk,
We were met by frozen drunkards with hardened, happy eyes
Who welcomed us.
And the Kiev salesgirl pretended
That she knew no Russian,
And the cops frisked us for money
At the Novoslobodskaya metro
And we kissed our sleeping bride on the forehead,
Sure that we would never see her again,
And early morning we left the cozy place
On Bolshoi Karetny.
Played hide-and-seek with armored troop-carriers,
And the OMON lines
Waiting in ambush for marchers,
And when the taxi driver asked, “Where to?”
We lingered, muttering,
“To the Fourth Astral Plane.”

We Have Arrived

There was no one there
to meet my mother and I
at JFK airport.

2 weeks before us
my uncle came to america
and got lost on the way.

He did not know english.

In the middle of the terminal
I stood with my mother
with a fountain of bags
and no money. Our own language
not enough currency or food

to be
found
lost

in the lost world.

 
ЧЕТВЁРТЫЙ АСТРАЛ

Мы уезжали от пустых прилавков,
Дедовщины,
Чернобыля,
Афганистана,
Нагорного Карабаха и
Счастливых алкашей храпящих в сугробах,
Боясь, что завтра захлопнется
Приоткрывшаяся дверь
И вернётся Царь, диктатор или террористы
И мы приехали в жаркую бруклинскую весну
К одетым во все чёрное хасидам,
И к тем кто и без одежды полностью черный
И мы ходили по колену в снегу
Вокруг еврейского кладбища
Споря до хрипоты о Бердяеве и Шестове
И мы убежали от тоскливых ребе
Заботливых батюшек
И надоедливых как мух буддистов
И террористы настигли нас здесь
И мы захлёбывались кашлем,
Закрывая рот платком
Когда Нью-Йорк окутала асбестовая пыль
От гниющих трупов Близнецов,
И в снежной пустыне под Чикаго
Мы слушали завывания Тома Вэйтса
И нас раздражало вечная
Золотая осень Сан-Франциско
И мы не выдержали и рванули
На себе рубаху
И рванули тратя последние деньги
Назад на Восток
И слушали как в Лондоне
Олигарх в баре шутил
«Я пью только пиво.
В нем заметней полоний»
И в Берлине в баре «СССР»
Мы открыли дверь в туалет
Украшенной украденной реальной табличкой
«Посольство Советского Союза»
И когда мы приземлились в Шереметьево,
Борисполе и Пулково,
К заваленным магазинам,
На Невском, Арбате или Хрещатике
То нас встретили те же
Счастливые алкаши давно замёрзшие в сугробах
С округлившимися глазами,
Киевская продавщица сделала вид, что не понимает по-русски
Менты обыскали и забрали деньги у метро «Новослободская»
И мы поцеловали в лобик спящую невесту
Зная, что никогда её больше не увидим
И вышли рано утром из уютного дворика
На Большом Каретном,
Посмотрели на затаившийся бронетранспортёр
И роты ОМОНа
Ожидающих в засаде демонстрантов
И когда таксист спросил
«Куда шеф?»
Замедлили и сказали
«В Четвёртый Астрал»

Мы Прибыли Сюда Жить

Когда я с матерью прилетел в Нью Йорк
Нас никто не встретил в аэропорту
Мой дядя приехавший в Америку
За две недели до нас
Сам не зная английского
Заблудился по дороге.
Я стоял с мамой посередине
Огромного терминала с
Кучей чемоданов
Не зная языка, без денег
Потерянные в потерянном мире.

Collaboration Statement:

Alex wrote the original poems and rough versions of translations which were probably unreadable. Stella (“Fourth Astral Plane”) and Thomas (“We Have Arrived”), both American poets, then helped Alex polish up the poems under his guidance.

Poet, social worker, mama, and—perhaps by the time you are reading this—ex-wife, are among the identities of Stella Padnos. Stella’s debut book of poems and subsequently released chapbook—brightly titled In My Absence and Next to Nothing—have been published by Winter Goose Press since 2016. Stella enjoys writing about ambivalence, attraction, and general emotional discomfort.

Thomas Fucaloro is the author of two books of poetry published by Three Rooms Press, most recently It Starts from the Belly and Blooms, which received rave reviews. The winner of a performance grant from the Staten Island Council of the Arts and the NYC Department of Cultural Affairs, he has been on six national slam teams. He holds an MFA in creative writing from the New School and is a co-founding editor of Great Weather for Media and NYSAI press. He is an adjunct professor at Wagner College where he teaches world literature and advanced creative writing. He is a writing coordinator at the Harlem Children’s Zone and lives in Staten Island.

Alex Galper was born in Kiev, Ukraine, in 1971. He came to America in 1990 escaping draft to the Soviet Army. Alex graduated from Brooklyn College majoring in creative writing in 1996. He still writes in Russian and is well-known in Moscow and Saint Petersburg. Alex’s short stories about living in New York appear regularly in major Russian periodicals. He works for New York Department of Social Services and does acting part-time. Alex had a small part in HBO miniseries Show Me a Hero. His poems and short stories were translated into English, Swedish, German, and Georgian.

[translated fiction]

Just a moment please (they all look at me: they’re recent graduates, twenty-four, twenty-seven years old), then you can try out the program and do what you have to do, but before you download it be aware that it isn’t compatible with Macs or the latest version of Windows. So, if you’re using a Mac or the latest version of Windows, take this flash drive and install the Virtual Machine I’ve prepared for you. Do you all know what a virtual machine is? You all know? Yes? No? Yes? On the count of three: one two three? (they laugh). I’ll take that as a no. Okay, let’s take a coffee break and then we’ll get back to the virtual machine.

*     *     *

Involuntarily, in life, we think proportionally. When you know someone much worse off than you, when you see a bomb go off on TV on the other side of the world, everything that you’ve been through is no longer proportionally relevant on the scale of human suffering and you tell yourself I am, for the moment, lucky. It doesn’t really matter how much you’ve suffered: you’ll still always be luckier than someone else, and no matter who you are you’ll still feel the subtle relief and twinge of guilt at having avoided misfortune.

Years ago I taught Italian to foreigners. I stopped because etcetera etcetera. But I don’t want to talk about me; I want to talk about them. It’s an undefined them, because I don’t know anything about them—I met them in a classroom where, as I said, I taught Italian. We called them “migrants.” Some of them didn’t know how to write, so the problem was using a pen or pencil, making some symbols and giving those symbols a meaning. But that turned out to be a secondary problem. The first issue was how to pronounce it, this language of salvation: “mi chiamo” (my name is), “vengo da” (I’m from), “ho bisogno di” (I need), “non mi sento bene” (I don’t feel well), “mi fa male qui” (it hurts here), “quanto costa” (how much for), “pane” (bread), “sto cercando” (I’m looking for), “mi può dare indicazioni per” (can you give me directions to), “lavoro” (work), “grazie” (thank you), “per favore” (please), “prego” (you’re welcome). Others knew how to write, and of course they understood more quickly. In certain classes, at a certain point, there were also study-abroad students who had just arrived in Italy. They wanted to supplement their courses at the university and so they showed up at the center. The problem was that they asked too many questions: they came from foreign universities and they wanted to know the whys and the hows, why that ending was like that and how you used that saying and in what context. Some of them helped the ones who couldn’t write; some became friends and everything mixed together, the boy from Oslo and the girl from Eastern Europe and the boy from Africa-who-knows-where. There was the issue of deciding whether we should have mixed classes with migrants and students—with all the educational advantages of that setup—or whether we should isolate the university students in a specialized class so that neither group felt uncomfortable. There were those of us who said that the center couldn’t take on the study-abroad students, because if the study-abroad students had the money to come all the way here and take courses at the university they should take a private class. Then there were those who said that’s not true, they have tiny scholarships and who are we to say they’re rich; we should just teach everyone without distinction—and so on and so forth.

I never asked any of them why they were here: not the ones we called study-abroad and not the ones we called migrants. I never asked how they got here—I only know that a couple of them were waiting for news about their situations, and some would take the exam at a certain point.

In class there was an Asian girl: she never spoke (how could she have?) and she nodded yes even when she obviously didn’t understand. The first day I asked her to show us her country of origin on the map, pointing first at her and then the map, smiling, as if to say tell us, explain to us, we’re curious, but she wasn’t able to find it. They told me she came from ___, but that they knew next to nothing about her.

I never asked any of them why they were here: not the ones we called study-abroad and not the ones we called migrants. I never asked how they got here—I only know that a couple of them were waiting for news about their situations, and some would take the exam at a certain point. My task was not to know what they would do later, because I would never know anything about them in the coming years; my task was to teach them—in that very moment and on their different levels, in the most simple and concise way—how to survive here linguistically. So that, despite everything else, they could leave that classroom with a language of survival. I only knew tiny things about them, which I deduced from their lateness (the lady she took care of had had a problem), from their hands (he built houses starting at dawn and in the evening he came to class), from their gratitude (handshakes, smiles, their eager requests to know more, to see if that exercise was correct—but the gratitude should have been all mine), from their eyes (a woman who brought her infant with her, not knowing who could take care of him during class: she took notes with one hand, and with the other she rocked her baby: the baby—he must have been four, five months old—couldn’t know or understand; he would cry the universal cry and she would apologize, as if the crying disturbed us: so I would speak with whimpers in the background, and then with wails. I would smile, looking at the child; I would say poor thing, he has a point. We all understood that cry: it was the cry of survival. Of course, we understood only that there was something wrong, but we didn’t know what: could it be that he’s teething? Could it be that we’re speaking too loudly? Could it be that he’s hungry? And all of us, along with his mother—she, more astutely—would each make our own hypotheses).

*     *     *

Are we all back? We were talking about virtual machines: basically, they’re programs that create a virtual environment, emulating things on your computer that are not, let’s say, typical of your computer. They pretend. Our virtual machine will emulate an operating system on another operating system. Got it? This way we’ll be able to open and use our program, which wasn’t designed for certain operating systems, and we’ll make it run on another operating system. So, we’re essentially tricking the machine? the student in the last row asks me. In a way, yes, we’re tricking it, I answer. With a clever little ploy, we make it use a language that isn’t its own without it realizing.

*     *     *

Life is a matter of proportion and particulars. You decide whether you want to look at everything all together or sink into specifics: whether you’d rather consider certain aspects or others. Generally, when we go from the big to the small we tend to lose ourselves, and to find our way again it’s best to break our problems down into small pieces and then get back up.

Whatshername was hospitalized and placed in the ___ ward for ten days or so, and there she could essentially do nothing. Her freedom was curtailed by the ward’s rules, which weren’t written down anywhere: it’s not like you get there and they read you your Miranda rights. When you’re checked in, and then step-by-step over the following days, you learn what to do without asking questions: it took Whatshername a couple of days to ask for some tape to replace the shoelaces they had taken from her when she checked in. With the tape she could walk normally in her tennis shoes, feeling them grip her feet the way they should. The nurses respected her because, unlike the other patients, when she managed to speak, she spoke well: she used complex language, she knew all the difficult terms, she understood the concept of therapy.

In there, Whatshername had to ask for anything and everything: her lighter to smoke, her charger for her cellphone—and she had to eat with the others even though she had asked not to. The first few days, in fact, she didn’t eat at all, and they said all right miss, if you won’t eat with the others we’ll have to give you an IV, because you need to eat with the others; it’ll do you good to be around the others. So, one morning, convinced by her hunger pains, she got up and went to the dining hall, and she ate with horror in front of a misshapen man as he yelled in her face. The nurses said don’t worry, he isn’t dangerous. She said to herself all right, you want me to be with the others? I’ll show you all how it’s done and you’ll have to deal with the consequences. And so, her parallel life began: she put her body in hospital mode—without thinking about how her body would have reacted if it had realized that it was in reality mode—and then she was able to survive and exist, with all the educational outcomes of that setup.

Some nurses had brought a shouting thing on a stretcher into her room: an animal, a flailing rag. They slammed the rag onto the bed and the rag didn’t want to take off its coat; they strapped it down and the rag was yelling, it was speaking an incomprehensible language, and then they gave it an injection, shouting enough, that’s enough, calm down, that’s enough, and the rag lost consciousness, transformed into a freeze-frame shot.

One night, Whatshername opened her eyes and heard yelling. Some nurses had brought a shouting thing on a stretcher into her room: an animal, a flailing rag. They slammed the rag onto the bed and the rag didn’t want to take off its coat; they strapped it down and the rag was yelling, it was speaking an incomprehensible language, and then they gave it an injection, shouting enough, that’s enough, calm down, that’s enough, and the rag lost consciousness, transformed into a freeze-frame shot.

She watched from the other side of the room without understanding, still and unperturbed, merely foggy and tired. The next day she woke up to the light coming in. Every day it took her a few seconds to remember that she was hospitalized in the ___ ward. Waking up was the scariest moment. She rolled onto her side and saw a motionless girl with Asian-looking features, her eyes open, completely strapped to the bed. I didn’t dream her, she said to herself, but due to matters of proportions and particulars she didn’t go near her for the whole morning.

*     *     *

Life is made up of proportions, particulars, and chance. Three hundred and three kilometers away from the classroom where the computer-programming course was taking place, Elisa’s father was being diagnosed with cancer. Francesca’s mother was in the hospital three hundred and sixty-three kilometers away, and the other Francesca was three hundred and seventy kilometers away and six months pregnant. One thousand and fifty kilometers away, in the sea, a boat with two hundred people on board was approaching the Italian coast. Two hundred and seventeen kilometers away from that classroom the politician Salvini was making another racist declaration. Three hundred and fifty kilometers away someone was in a church, inserting a coin into a candleholder. On the other side of the world, more than eight thousand kilometers away, someone entered a nightclub and started shooting. Four hundred and eighteen kilometers away from that classroom my Asian student was not among the other students: she was absent once, then again, then yet again, and no one knew what had happened to her. In a bar fifty meters away, people were gearing up for the soccer game. A bird, on the A1 highway, was run over around the exit for Roncobilaccio. At the same time, someone was swallowing a Xanax before their meeting. A professor was reading Adorno, Minima Moralia; he was handing out photocopies on Hannah Arendt; one of his students was sticking a piece of gum under their seat. Someone was losing his job, someone was finding out that he was going to be a grandfather, someone was naked in front of the TV with a Heineken in hand. None of these people knew about the others: everyone was living, ignorant of the proportions, the particulars, and the chance of others’ lives.

*     *     *

How did you do it? the stunned nurses asked her. Are you using the informal with me because my shoes are held together with tape? Do you think I walk around with tape on my feet when I’m not in here? How do you think I did it? said Whatshername, who left the infirmary and went back to her room to hide under the covers.

Life is made up of proportions, particulars, chance, and actions. No one knew anything about this Asian girl. She had no identification in her suitcase and when they brought her to the ___ ward no one knew what to do, as if there were no protocol for these cases. They didn’t even know which interpreter to call: they knew she was Asian but she was crying nonstop—she wasn’t explaining herself. They sedated her and tried to convince her to take off her coat, but they didn’t take it off of her themselves; she kept yelling and they sedated her again. She didn’t want to give them her arm to draw blood, and they weren’t able to use a stethoscope to listen to her heartbeat. Everything came to a halt, and it wasn’t clear why they weren’t following protocol.

*     *     *

In the afternoon Whatshername gets up and goes over to the Asian girl’s bed. She points to her heart with one finger and says I’m Emma. Then she points to the girl and raises her eyebrows, as if to say and you? Tell all of us in the ___ ward, tell us because we’re all curious. The Asian girl doesn’t answer, and Whatshername tries again: my, name is, Emma. She takes the Asian girl’s hand and puts it on her shoulder: I’m Emma. Then she takes the Asian girl’s hand and together with her own hand they both rest on the Asian girl’s shoulder: you?

The Asian girl speaks a sweet sound. Whatshername repeats it. The Asian girl laughs and corrects her. Whatshername repeats it, is corrected once again, and she patiently repeats. Whatshername says sweet sound comma, sweet sound you have to help them understand who you are. They’re really unpleasant, I know, but you have to help them anyway. You have to take off this coat—if you don’t take it off they’ll take it off anyway, they’ll run the tests anyway, but they’ll strap you down again, and Whatshername points to Sweetsound’s coat and then lies down on her back like a mummy and starts to flail around. So then Sweetsound laughs, and Whatshername slowly eases her into a sitting position on the bed. She takes off one sleeve first, then the other, and then she takes the coat off and puts it on a chair. Whatshername doesn’t know what to do after that. She begins speaking to Sweetsound in rapid Italian, because either way it doesn’t matter: how did you end up here? Do you want to know how I ended up here? But I don’t want to talk about me; I want to talk about you. Sweetsound looks at her in silence, then checks that her coat is still there.

Whatshername walks toward her nightstand and takes out some body lotion. Here, she tells Sweetsound, your hands are all dry and cracked, let’s put some lotion on. And Whatshername puts lotion on Sweetsound’s hands. Sweetsound closes her eyes and seems content. When Whatshername stops, Sweetsound opens her eyes and mumbles something that Whatshername thinks means again. How old are you? I’m two (right hand) and six (left hand plus right thumb). You? Sweetsound gets up and takes a crumpled piece of paper out of her coat pocket. Whatshername unfolds it and finds a table with strange symbols and corresponding Italian words:

[one_third]

Mi chiamo (My name is)

[/one_third]

[one_third]

Lavoro legalmente (I’m working legally)

[/one_third]

[one_third_last]

Chiedo di parlare con (I’d like to speak to)

[/one_third_last]

[one_third]

Per favore (Please)

[/one_third]

[one_third]

Ho anni (I am __ years old)

[/one_third]

[one_third_last]

Sono in Italia legalmente (I’m in Italy legally)

[/one_third_last]

[one_third]

I miei diritti (My rights)

[/one_third]

[one_third]

Prego (You’re welcome)

[/one_third]

[one_third_last]

Vengo da (I’m from)

[/one_third_last]

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Scuola (School)

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Grazie (Thank you)

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Etcetera

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Good, says Whatshername, let’s start here. With one finger she points to Ho anni, and Sweetsound nods; Whatshername uses her hands to say two and six, and Sweetsound makes one and then makes nine. They move their fingers as if they were using a Ouija board; they try to connect through the tiny conversion table. Whatshername says now we have to learn the numbers, because when they ask you how old you are when you’re back on the outside, you can’t just point to Ho anni and gesture. What would you do if you lost the piece of paper? We have to learn the alphabet, too, for everything else. Okay? Whatshername starts tapping one finger on the palm of her hand and singing Frère Jacques; instead of the words she uses the letters of the English alphabet. Ay bee see, dee ee eff, gee aych eye, el em en. She takes Sweetsound’s finger and taps it on her own palm to the rhythm of the song, and after a bit Sweetsound is also singing and nodding, as if to say I know this. Sweetsound, you know the English alphabet? You speak English? So little by little, getting up, Whatshername—with Sweetsound’s finger in her palm—keeps singing ay bee see, and Sweetsound—with her finger in Whatshername’s palm—follows her, tapping out the rhythm. They walk down the hallway singing; the other patients, glued to the walls, look at them as if they were crazy. Ay bee see, and they enter the infirmary. Everyone gets up and looks at them. Whatshername says stay calm or you’ll scare her, ay bee see, and Whatshername lays Sweetsound down on the cot. She points to her arm and nods, telling her with her eyes it won’t hurt you, stroking her hair, they won’t hurt you. A nurse comes near with the tourniquet. Whatshername keeps singing ay bee see and continues to nod and smile; the nurse looks for the vein and Sweetsound, horizontal, ay bee sees as well.

*     *     *

Now, those of you who have installed the virtual machine with the operating system on it, turn it on. No, you can’t just drag files from your desktop to the virtual desktop. We may be tricking it, but it’s not like we’re dealing with an idiot: our machines have ancient histories, stretching all the way back to Babylonian tablets.

*     *     *

We may be tricking it, but it’s not like we’re dealing with an idiot: our machines have ancient histories, stretching all the way back to Babylonian tablets.

Life is made up. The moment came for Whatshername to leave. Her family arrived and she began to pack her suitcase. Sweetsound understood and began to get ready, too. She got her coat and put it on; she opened her closet and took out her suitcase; she rested it on the bed. No, Sweetsound, you can’t come with me. I wish you could, but it’s not possible. Take this lotion, it’s for you; use it every day or your hands will crack. Sweetsound saw Whatshername shake her head no but she kept getting ready. She moved around, agitated, stubborn in the thought that she would leave as well. Whatshername took everything and went to sign some documents in a room; Sweetsound waited for her outside with her suitcase and her coat. Whatshername took a few steps toward the exit, and then she turned toward Sweetsound, who was following her. Go back to your room, please, said Whatshername, please, go away, don’t do this. Whatshername’s parents came to the ward; her father took her suitcase and her mother took her hand. Sweetsound grabbed onto Whatshername’s stomach—the nurses intervened and Sweetsound started yelling. The nurses told Whatshername to leave the ward right away; her parents pushed her out and Whatshername closed the doors, closed out Sweetsound. A few days later, when she asked if she could come back to the ward to see Sweetsound, they told her that she absolutely couldn’t, that it was a terrible idea.

Whatshername dreams about Sweetsound sometimes—nightmares—but she never asks herself where Sweetsound is or what she’s doing. She only asks herself if Sweetsound has that little she needs to explain herself to the world: the language of survival, the virtual machine that tricks life when life isn’t working.

“Questioni della lingua”
Originally published in Ma il mondo, non era di tutti?, edited by Paolo Nori and published by Marcos y Marcos in collaboration with Arci Nazionale, 2016

Per favore un attimo solo (tutti mi guardano, sono neolaureati, hanno ventiquattro, ventisette anni), poi provate il programma e fate tutto quel che dovete fare, però prima di scaricarlo sappiate che non funziona per chi ha il Mac e per chi usa l’ultima versione di Windows, quindi se avete Mac o ultimo Windows prendete questa chiavetta e installate la Virtual Machine che vi ho preparato. Sapete tutti cos’è una macchina virtuale? Qualcuno non sa che cos’è una macchina virtuale? Lo sapete tutti? Sì? No? Sì? Tre due uno? (ridono). Lo prendo per un no. Ok, ora facciamo la pausa caffè e poi torniamo sulla macchina virtuale.

*     *     *

Con la vita, involontariamente, si usano ordini di grandezza. Quando conosci qualcuno che sta molto peggio di te, quando vedi alla TV una bomba che scoppia dall’altra parte del mondo, tutto ciò che hai passato non ha rilievo nella scala dei dolori umani e ti dici je suis, per il momento, fortunato. Non importa davvero quanto hai sofferto, sarai sempre e comunque più fortunato di qualcun altro, e per quanto tu abbia il tuo carattere sentirai comunque il sottile piacere e la piccola colpa di averla scampata.

Anni fa ho insegnato italiano agli stranieri. Ho smesso perché eccetera. Ma non volevo parlare di me, volevo parlare di loro. È un loro indefinito, perché non so niente di loro, li ho conosciuti in un’aula dove appunto insegnavo italiano. Noi li si chiamava ‘migranti’. Alcuni di loro non sapevano scrivere, il problema era dunque usare la penna, la matita, fare dei segni e dare a quei segni un senso. Ma quello era in fondo un problema secondario, la prima cosa era pronunciarla, la lingua della salvezza: ‘mi chiamo’, ‘vengo da’, ‘ho bisogno di’, ‘non mi sento bene’, ‘mi fa male qui’, ‘quanto costa’, ‘pane’, ‘sto cercando’, ‘mi può dare indicazioni per’, ‘lavoro’, ‘grazie’, ‘per favore’, ‘prego’. Altri sapevano scrivere, e ovviamente capivano più velocemente. In alcune classi per un certo periodo c’erano anche studenti erasmus, appena arrivati in Italia, volevano integrare le lezioni universitarie e allora si presentavano all’associazione. Solo che facevano troppe domande, arrivavano da università straniere e volevano i perché e i percome, perché quella desinenza faceva così e come quel modo di dire si usava e in quale contesto. Alcuni di loro aiutavano quelli che non sapevano scrivere, alcuni facevano amicizia e si mischiava tutto, il ragazzo di Oslo e la ragazza dell’Est Europa e il ragazzo dell’Africa del boh. C’era il problema di decidere se fare classi miste con migranti e studenti, con tutti i vantaggi didattici del caso, oppure se isolare gli studenti universitari in una classe differenziata per non far sentire a disagio gli uni e gli altri. C’era chi di noi diceva che l’associazione non poteva farsi carico degli erasmus, perché gli erasmus se avevano soldi per venire fin qui e seguire i corsi all’università si facessero un corso privato. C’era chi diceva non è vero, hanno delle borse scarsissime e chi siamo noi per dire che sono ricchi, noi insegniamo a tutti e non facciamo distinzioni, e così via.

In una classe c’era una ragazza orientale, non parlava mai (come poteva?) e faceva sì con la testa anche quando palesemente non capiva. Il primo giorno le chiesi di indicarci sulla cartina quale fosse il suo Paese, segnando con il dito prima lei e poi la cartina, sorridendole, come dire spiegaci, raccontaci, siamo curiosi, ma lei non riuscì a trovare il luogo. Mi dissero che veniva da, ma che non si sapeva praticamente nulla di lei.

Non ho mai chiesto a nessuno di questi loro perché stavano qui, né a quelli che chiamavamo erasmus né a quelli che chiamavamo migranti, non ho mai chiesto come sono arrivati qui, so solo che qualcuno di loro aspettava notizie sulla propria situazione, qualcuno avrebbe fatto l’esame a un certo punto, e il mio compito non era sapere che cosa avrebbero fatto dopo, perché non avrei mai saputo niente di loro negli anni successivi, il mio compito era quello di insegnare loro, esattamente in quel momento e a livelli diversi, nella maniera più semplice ed economica, come sopravvivere linguisticamente qui. Che uscissero da quell’aula, indipendentemente da tutto il resto, con una lingua della sopravvivenza. Di loro sapevo solo minuscole cose (la signora a cui faceva la badante aveva un problema), dalle loro mani (costruiva case dall’alba e alla sera veniva a lezione), dalla loro gratitudine (strette di mano, abbracci, sorrisi, le avide domande per sapere di più, per vedere se quell’esercizio è corretto, ma la gratitudine doveva essere la mia), dai loro occhi (una donna che portava con sé il bambino, non sapendo a chi affidarlo durante le lezioni: con una mano scriveva appunti, con l’altra cullava il bambino: il bambino, avrà avuto quattro, cinque mesi, non poteva sapere né capire, piangeva il pianto universale e lei si scusava, come se a noi il pianto disturbasse: così parlavo con i vagiti di sottofondo, e poi coi pianti, sorridevo guardando il bambino, dicevo poveretto, ha ragione anche lui. Quel pianto lo capivamo tutti, era il pianto della sopravvivenza, certo capivamo solo che c’era qualcosa, ma non si sapeva cosa: saranno i dentini? Sarà che parliamo ad alta voce? Sarà la fame? E noi e la madre, lei con più cognizione, facevamo ipotesi ognuno per sé).

*     *     *

Ci siamo tutti? Parlavamo di macchine virtuali: per farla breve sono dei programmi che creano un ambiente virtuale, emulando sul vostro computer cose che non sono diciamo tipiche del vostro computer. Fanno finta di. La nostra macchina virtuale emulerà un sistema operativo su un altro sistema operativo. Ci siamo? In questo modo potremo aprire e utilizzare il nostro programma che non è stato disegnato per alcuni sistemi operativi, e lo faremo girare su un altro sistema operativo. In pratica freghiamo la macchina? mi chiede lo studente in ultima fila. In qualche modo sì, la freghiamo, gli rispondo, con un piccolo espediente le facciamo usare una lingua che non è sua senza che lei se ne accorga.

*     *     *

La vita è questione di ordini di grandezza e di granularità. Decidi se guardare tutto nell’insieme o scendere nel particolare, se considerare certi aspetti o altri. Tendenzialmente se si va dal grande al piccolo ci si perde, per uscirne si consiglia di prendere i problemi in piccoli blocchi e poi risalire.

Tizia venne ricoverata al reparto di, per una decina di giorni, e fondamentalmente lì dentro non poteva fare niente. La sua libertà era limitata dalle leggi del reparto, che non sono scritte da nessuna parte, perché non è che arrivi e ti danno la carta dei diritti e dei doveri. Quando entri, e poi a gradi nei giorni successivi, impari come si fa senza farti domande: tizia ci ha messo qualche giorno a chiedere dello scotch per sostituire i lacci che le avevano tolto appena entrata. In questo modo poteva camminare bene nelle sue scarpe da ginnastica, sentendo il piede stringere come si deve. Gli infermieri la rispettavano perché lei, diversamente da altri pazienti, quando riusciva a parlare parlava bene, utilizzava un linguaggio complesso, sapeva i termini difficili, conosceva il concetto di terapia.

Lì dentro tizia doveva chiedere per qualsiasi cosa: l’accendino per fumare, il caricabatteria per il cellulare, e doveva mangiare insieme agli altri pur avendo chiesto di non mangiare con gli altri. I primi giorni in effetti non mangiò, e loro dissero bene, se non mangia con gli altri allora le facciamo la flebo, perché deve mangiare con gli altri, le fa bene stare con gli altri. Allora una mattina, per i morsi della fame, si alzò e andò nella sala del cibo, e mangiò con orrore di fronte a un uomo completamente sformato che le urlava contro. Gli infermieri le dissero stia tranquilla, non è pericoloso. Lei si disse bene, mi volete insieme agli altri? La pagherete cara e ve la farò vedere io. Così iniziò la sua vita parallela, che se avesse messo il corpo in modalità reparto, senza pensare a come avrebbe reagito il corpo se si fosse reso conto di essere in modalità reale, allora poteva sopravvivere e stare con, con tutte le conseguenze didattiche del caso.

Una notte tizia aprì gli occhi e sentì delle urla. Dei barellieri avevano portato nella sua stanza una cosa che continuava a urlare, un animale, un cencio che si dibatteva. Avevano sbattuto il cencio sul letto e il cencio non voleva togliersi il cappotto, l’avevano legato con dei lacci e il cencio urlava, parlava una lingua non comprensibile, poi lo siringarono urlando basta, ora basta, calmati, basta, e il cencio perse conoscenza, messo come in fermo immagine.

Dall’altra parte della stanza, immobile, lei guardava, nemmeno turbata, solo rincoglionita e stanca, senza capire. Il giorno dopo, con la luce, si svegliò. Ogni giorno ricordava solo dopo qualche secondo di essere ricoverata nel reparto di. Il risveglio era il momento più spaventoso. Si mise sul fianco e vide una ragazza completamente legata al letto, con il viso orientale, immobile a occhi aperti. Non l’avevo sognata, si disse, ma per ordine di grandezza e questioni di granularità non si avvicinò a lei per tutta la mattinata.

*     *     *

La vita si compone di ordini di grandezza, di granularità e di caso. A trecentotré chilometri di distanza dall’aula dove si teneva il corso di informatica, al padre di Elisa veniva diagnosticato un cancro. La madre di Francesca era ricoverata a trecentosessantatré chilometri, l’altra Francesca era al sesto mese di gravidanza ed era a chilometri trecentosessanta. A milleduecentocinquanta chilometri di distanza, in mare, una barca con duecento persone a bordo si stava avvicinando alle coste italiane. A duecentodiciassette chilometri da quell’aula Salvini rilasciava un’altra dichiarazione. A trecentocinquanta chilometri qualcuno stava inserendo una monetina dentro la cassetta dei lumini di un santuario. Dall’altra parte del mondo, a più di ottomila chilometri, qualcuno entrava in un locale e sparava. A quattrocentodiciotto chilometri da quell’aula la mia studentessa orientale non era tra gli studenti, assente una volta, poi un’altra volta, poi un’altra ancora, e nessuno sapeva più niente di lei. In un bar a cinquanta metri ci si stava per preparare alla partita di calcio. Un uccello, sull’autostrada A1, veniva investito all’altezza di Roncobilaccio. Qualcuno contemporaneamente stava ingurgitando un Lexotan prima della riunione. Un professore leggeva Adorno, Minima Moralia, distribuiva fotocopie su Hannah Arendt, un suo studente attaccava una ciunga sotto il banco. Qualcuno stava perdendo il lavoro, qualcuno stava apprendendo che sarebbe diventato nonno, qualcuno era nudo davanti ala TV con una Heineken in mano. Nessuna di tutte queste persone sapeva delle altre, ognuno viveva ignorando gli ordini di grandezza, la granularità e il caso delle vite altrui.

*     *     *

Ma come hai fatto? le chiesero le infermiere pietrificate. Siete passate al tu perché ho delle scarpe chiuse con lo scotch? Pensate che fuori io vada in giro con lo scotch ai piedi? Come volete che abbia fatto? disse tizia, che uscì dall’infermeria e ritornò nella sua stanza, a nascondersi sotto le lenzuola.

La vita si compone di ordini di grandezza, granularità, caso e azioni. Di questa ragazza orientale nessuno sapeva niente. Non aveva documenti in valigia e quando l’hanno portata nel reparto di, nessuno capiva niente, come se non esistesse un protocollo per questi casi. Non sapevano nemmeno che interprete chiamare, si capiva che era orientale ma piangeva solo, non si spiegava, la sedavano e cercavano di convincerla a togliersi il cappotto, però non glielo toglievano, lei urlava e la sedavano ancora. Non voleva dare il braccio per i prelievi, non riuscivano ad auscultarle il cuore, era tutto bloccato e non si capiva perché non usassero un protocollo.

*     *     *

Nel pomeriggio tizia si alza e si avvicina al letto dell’orientale. Si segna il cuore con un dito e dice io Emma. Poi segna lei e alza le sopracciglia, come dire e tu? Dillo a tutti noi che siamo nel reparto di, diccelo che siamo curiosi. L’orientale non risponde, tizia allora riprova: io, mi chiamo, Emma. Prende la mano dell’orientale e se la mette sulla spalla: io Emma. Poi prende la mano dell’orientale e insieme alla sua vanno sulla spalla dell’orientale: tu?

L’orientale emette un suono dolce. Tizia lo ripete. L’orientale ride e la corregge. Tizia lo ripete, viene ricorretta, e lei pazientemente ripete. Tizia dice suono dolce virgola, suono dolce devi aiutarli a capire che sei. Molto antipatici, lo so, ma tu devi aiutarli a capire chi sei. Devi toglierti questo cappotto, se non lo togli te lo toglieranno loro comunque, ti faranno le analisi comunque, ma ti legheranno ancora, e tizia con un dito segna il cappotto di Suonodolce e poi si metta nella posizione della mummia iniziando a dimenarsi. Allora Suonodolce sorride, e tizia piano piano la mette in posizione seduta sul letto, le toglie prima una manica, poi l’altra, poi sfila il cappotto e lo mette su una sedia. Poi tizia non sa più cosa fare. Inizia a parlarle in italiano veloce, perché tanto è uguale: tu perché sei finita qui? Vuoi sapere perché ci sono finita io? Ma non voglio parlare di me, voglio parlare di te. Suonodolce la guarda in silenzio, poi controlla che il suo cappotto sia ancora lì.

Tizia va verso il suo comodino e prende un olio per il corpo, ecco, dice a Suonodolce, hai tutte le mani screpolate, aspetta che proviamo a metterci un po’ di olio. E tizia mette l’olio sulle mani di Suonodolce, Suonodolce chiude gli occhi e sembra contenta. Quando tizia smette, Suonodolce apre gli occhi e mugugna qualcosa che tizia crede significhi ancora. Quanti anni hai? Io ne ho due (mano destra) e sei (mano sinistra più pollice destro). Tu? Suonodolce si alza e prende dal suo cappotto un foglietto sgualcito. Tizia lo apre e trova una tabella con segni strani e parole italiane corrispondenti:

*     *     *

Bene, dice tizie, proviamo da qui. Con un dito segna Ho anni, Suonodolce fa sì con la testa, tizia dice con le dita due e sei, Suonodolce fa uno e poi fa nove. Come fosse una tavola Ouija spostano le dita, cercano di connettersi attraverso la minuscola tabella delle conversioni. Tizia dice ora dobbiamo imparare i numeri, perché quando fuori ti chiederanno quanti anni hai non puoi segnare solo Ho anni e gesticolare. E cosa fai se perdi il foglio? Dobbiamo anche imparare l’alfabeto, per tutto il resto. Ok? Tizia inizia a battere un dito sull’incavo della mano e canticchiare Fra Martino, al posto delle parole usa le lettere dell’alfabeto inglese. Ei bi si, di i ef, gi eich ai, el em en. Prende il dito di Suonodolce e lo fa battere sul proprio palmo a ritmo della canzone, e dopo un po’ anche Suonodolce canta e fa sì con la testa, come dire lo so. Suonodolce, sai l’alfabeto inglese? Parli inglese? Così piano piano, alzandosi, tizia con il dito di Suonodolce nel palmo continua a cantare ei bi si, e Suonodolce con il dito nel palmo di tizia la segue battendo il ritmo. Percorrono tutto il corridoio cantando, gli altri pazienti incollati ai muri le guardano come se fossero pazze. Ei bi si, ed entrano in infermeria. Tutti si alzano e le guardano, tizia dice fate con calma perché se no la spaventate, ei bi si e tizia fa stendere sul lettino Suonodolce, le segna il braccio facendo sì con la testa, dicendole con gli occhi non ti farà male, accarezzandole i capelli, non ti faranno male. Un’infermiera si avvicina con il laccio emostatico, tizia continuando a cantare ei bi si continua a far sì con la testa e sorride, l’infermiera cerca la vena e Suonodolce, in orizzontale, ei bi si anche lei.

*     *     *

Ora, chi ha installato la macchina virtuale con dentro il sistema operativo la accenda. No, non è che potete trasportare così i file dal vostro desktop al desktop virtuale. Ok che la freghiamo, ma non è che abbiamo proprio a che fare con un’imbecille, le nostre macchine hanno storie antichissime, almeno dalle tavolette dei babilonesi in su.

*     *     *

La vita si compone. Per tizia venne il momento di andarsene. Arrivarono i familiari, iniziò a preparare la valigia. Suonodolce capì e iniziò a prepararsi anche lei. Prese il cappotto e se lo mise, aprì l’armadietto e prese la valigia, la appoggiò sul letto. No, Suonodolce, non puoi venire con me, vorrei tanto, ma non si può. Tieni questo olio, è per te, usalo ogni giorno perché se no ti si screpolano le mani. Suonodolce vedeva tizia dire no con la testa ma continuava a prepararsi. Si muoveva agitata, ostinandosi a credere che se ne sarebbe andata anche lei. Tizia prese tutto e andò a firmare dei documenti in una stanza, Suonodolce la aspettò fuori con la valigia e il cappotto. Tizia faceva dei passettini verso l’uscita, si girava verso Suonodolce che la seguiva. Torna in camera, ti prego, diceva tizia, ti prego, vai via, non fare così. I genitori di tizia entrarono in reparto, il padre prese la valigia e la madre prese la mano. Suonodolce si aggrappò alla pancia di tizia, intervennero gli infermieri e iniziò a urlare. Gli infermieri dissero a tizia di uscire dal reparto subito, i genitori la spinsero fuori e tizia, chiuse le porte, chiuse Suonodolce. Qualche giorno dopo, chiedendo se poteva entrare nel reparto di per vedere Suonodolce, dissero che non si poteva assolutamente, che era una pessima idea.

Tizia sogna Suonodolce ogni tanto e sogna incubi, ma non si chiede mai dov’è e cosa fa, si chiede solo se Suonodolce abbia quel poco per spiegarsi al mondo, la lingua della sopravvivenza, la macchina virtuale che freghi la vita quando la vita non funziona.

Translator’s Note:

The title of Carbé’s short story, “Questioni della lingua” (“Language Matters”), harkens back to the sixteenth-century debate between Renaissance humanists regarding the selection of a standard Italian language. Carbé updates this debate to globalized, twenty-first-century Italy in her short story: Now, the language matters being discussed are not only the various Italian dialects, but also the many languages of immigrants and tourists flocking to contemporary Italy. In the story, Carbé oscillates between “proportions and particularity” to show how a lack of specificity in language—the broad, general ideas we express without paying attention to detail—allows us to neatly categorize and, thus, sometimes dehumanize our fellow human beings. In the storyline regarding the language center, for instance, the students are divided into the simplistic, vague categories of “study abroad” and “migrants”; this indefinite language facilitates certain assumptions about each group on the part of the teachers at the center, no matter how well-intentioned they may be.

The issue of language and dehumanization continues through the storyline in the psychiatric ward. Whatshername is treated marginally better than the other patients because she has a language with which to express herself; Sweetsound, on the other hand, does not share a language with anyone else in the ward, and this leaves her so undefined and ambiguous that, at first, she is merely described as a rag. She is then described as simply an “Asian girl,” another term that explains very little about her—who she is and why she is in the ward. There seems to be little effort on the part of the nurses to understand her beyond the mere label they have assigned her; they do not even attempt to find an interpreter to help her communicate. The intimate, personal bond developed between Whatshername and Sweetsound, founded on the linguistic idiosyncrasies of these two young women, is the one element of human communication within the psychiatric ward.

Still, the story’s ending questions the possibility of that personal, specific language to take root and remain. As the storyline that follows the computer science course reminds us, we want immediate, easy translation in our communications with one another. That swiftness is untenable if we desire any kind of meaningful linguistic connections with others. At the same time, the end of the story between Whatshername and Sweetsound prompts us to wonder whether it is possible to cultivate those personal linguistic bonds in the world as we know it and as we live in it.

These linguistic themes—the questions of generality and specificity in language, and the ethical implications of these issues—were in the forefront of my mind as I translated the short story. The very act of translation involves a certain level of trust in language: in its ability to transfer the text into another language and still communicate in a way that does not erode the original’s particularity. Translating this short story, then, provides one possible answer to the open-ended question presented in its conclusion: I translate it in the hopes that it is possible to cultivate linguistic bonds across languages in a way that, rather than relying on broad categories or wide generalizations, focuses on the text’s own specific set of rules and finds ways to bend and respond to them in different linguistic contexts.

Isabella Livorni was born in New Haven in 1993 and grew up moving between Italy and the United States. She currently lives in New York, where she is a PhD candidate in Italian and comparative literature at Columbia University. Her translation of some of Emmanuela Carbé’s early work appeared in the Susquehanna Review in March 2016, and her translation of Carbé’s short story “Alta Marea” (“High Tide”) was published in Asymptote journal in October 2016. Other translations of hers have appeared in Accenti magazine and Nazione Indiana. She is currently working on a translation of Emmanuela Carbé’s debut novel, Mio salmone domestico (My Pet Salmon).

Emmanuela Carbé was born in Verona in 1983 and currently lives in Siena. In 2002, she won the Campiello Giovani prize. Her debut novel, Mio salmone domestico (My Pet Salmon), was published by Laterza in 2013. The novel received critical acclaim and was included in Andrea Cortellessa’s anthology La terra della prosa: Narratori italiani degli anni Zero (1999-2014) (The Land of Prose: Italian Narrators from the Aughts (1999-2014)) (L’Orma, 2014), attesting to her position as one of the most original voices in contemporary Italian literature. In 2017 she published an article for Minimum Fax, “L’unico viaggio che ho fatto,” a piece of narrative reportage on Gardaland, Italy’s largest amusement park. A number of collections have featured her short stories, such as “Alta marea” (in L’età della febbre, edited by Christian Raimo and Alessandro Gazoia, Minimum Fax, 2015, whose translation by Isabella Livorni was published in Asymptote in 2016), and “Questioni della lingua” (in Ma il mondo, non era di tutti?, edited by Paolo Nori and published by Marcos y Marcos in collaboration with Arci Nazionale, 2016).

[translated fiction]

Where was he coming from? The question lacked any possible answer. Other than “from home.” For the following reason: a cat never arrives anywhere, he returns.

Each time I see him returning from his walk, I tell myself the same thing. That’s the feeling a cat always gives you. Even when he sets his paws down somewhere he has never been before. This constitutes a second principle of feline phenomenology quite compatible with the preceding one, the one I had established the night of the “first time,” which maintains that you see a cat disappear before seeing it appear. First, the evening: a shape running away, a silhouette dissolving so fast that you say to yourself it was never there. Then in the morning: the same shape, the same silhouette recomposing itself, very calmly reinvesting the place that for all time will have been marked as being his among things that appear.

He leaves before arriving. Divided into two halves of himself that seem totally foreign to each other, since they never meet. Like the moon and the sun. Two heavenly bodies that chase each other and cannot share the same sky. In this case, a nocturnal cat that leaves, a diurnal cat that returns. Each taking one of the twin doors by which one travels from one side of the wall to the other. Exactly like the figures you see on those old barometers sold to tourists in the mountains and at the seashore, or on the medieval clocks of certain cathedrals. For example, the man with his umbrella, the woman with her parasol. Or other more sinister allegories—the mother with her son in her belly, death as a skeleton with his scythe in hand—which signify what a pathetic little merry-go-round life resembles and how mechanical is the movement that commands the clock of time. You enter and you leave. It’s day and night. Or rather in this order: it’s night and then it’s day. And then night once more.

*     *     *

Slowly he advances from the back of the garden. Silently, supplely, simply, in the sun. At this hour of the day it shines at its highest point in the sky, crushing all the shadows, which barely emerge from under the objects on which the light is projected almost vertically. Walking on the sandy ground that extends from the back wall to the terrace, through the low weeds. Taking his time. With the air of one who has no doubts. Feeling himself at home everywhere. As simple as that.

Seeming to return home. Calm. Not a care in the world. This impression most likely stems from the assurance a cat displays when he enters the territory he has chosen as his. Apparently knowing the place perfectly for having lived there already. Taking up the unchanged thread of his former habits. As if he had always been the sole and legitimate proprietor. And had only left for an instant—even if this instant, of a few seconds, has seemed as long as an eternity of centuries in human eyes.

*     *     *

He is returning—perhaps after all that is precisely the case.

He leaves before arriving. Divided into two halves of himself that seem totally foreign to each other, since they never meet. Like the moon and the sun. Two heavenly bodies that chase each other and cannot share the same sky.

Then it would be the former owners’ cat, rather than the neighbors’. Such things happen, they say. Returning home after a few years’ absence and not even deigning to notice the change that occurred while he was away. Considering such a change as insignificant and in no way his concern. Humans appearing as totally interchangeable creatures, in his cat’s eyes. To the extent that perhaps he can’t actually manage to tell them apart, not even taking the trouble to recognize them, confusing the faces, not retaining the names, not caring what a name or a face is as long as someone is there so that the commodities of his existence are assured. Just noticing, a bit distractedly, that at his house, before his eyes, over by the terrace and behind the lighted windows of the kitchen or the bedroom, like shadow puppets on a screen, something sometimes manifests itself on the other side of the garden in the shape of a human. According to a very legitimate, because strictly reciprocal, principle of mutual indifference between species.

And suppose it was the drowned man’s cat? Taking his place again in the walnut tree where he liked to sleep, comfortably settled in the hollow formed by the four main branches where they leave the trunk, and sometimes a little higher, climbing up toward what used to be the crown, of which only a few wooden stumps remain, reaching toward the sky. That does seem rather unlikely, I have to admit, because he seems too young. But since we know neither the year he was born—the veterinarian really did not want to say—nor the year of the man’s death—the neighbors proved hardly more exact—it is not completely impossible. So he could be it. Taking possession of his former home again. The drowned man’s cat. Dispatched from the beyond. The emissary of the deceased, charged by him with the mission to mutely inspect the place where he had lived, to fix things so that the story that was his, in another existence, would continue in secret.

*     *     *

We never know when a story begins. Lacking the memory to represent everything that went before. A very long time before. Reverting to the time of origins that legends speak of.

For instance, the one that says that the earth used to belong to the race of cats and that they left it millennia ago for a very short walk, leaving the temporary use of their domain to humans. And that the time will come when one day the cats will return and claim their possessions. Silent conquerors.

So that all these cats that seem to emerge from nowhere today, penetrating everywhere as if they were at home, would be like scouts, preparing the moment when their species would be legitimately restored to its rights.

One day: the day of the cats.

*     *     *

I had read a similar story some time ago. It was not exactly the same story, but it resembled it a great deal. Let’s just say they had something in common that made me confuse them. Which book was it in? Like the old encyclopedia we had consulted, now outdated, all the books I had possessed had ended up there in the house, her house, shelved on the large bookcase in the office. Accumulated since childhood, dating from all the periods of my life as a reader. Disparate, worn, in all sorts of formats, without any logical connections among them. So much so that even I had difficulty imagining that they could have belonged to one and only one person—which must have been me, but who? me?—and it was hard to picture the interest this unknown person must have had in them, which had decided on their acquisition. Amazed, now, as I often go look at them, by these objects of paper most of which no longer mean anything at all to me. Remembering not a single one of the stories they tell nor my having had them in my possession one day. Sometimes I take one down at random, the way you consult an oracle. I open it to no particular page. That’s how I found the tale I’m talking about.

Amazed, now, as I often go look at them, by these objects of paper most of which no longer mean anything at all to me. Remembering not a single one of the stories they tell nor my having had them in my possession one day. Sometimes I take one down at random, the way you consult an oracle.

A Chinese legend, I think. It tells how our world and the world of mirrors, between which one could travel freely, lived in perfect harmony. As different one from the other as two universes can be, and without one being in any way the reflection of the other at that time. Until the populace of the mirrors undertook to invade our world and a long and terrible war ensued in which our side was finally victorious, the invasion repulsed and the aggressor driven back into his territory. That is when, to obstruct the passage between the two worlds and prevent a new conflict from taking place, they had erected everywhere the impenetrable walls of metal or glass to which henceforth we have given the name mirrors. A powerful charm had been cast by the victors upon the vanquished to force the latter to adopt the appearance of the former and to servilely imitate each of their gestures.

*     *     *

I was thinking about it again now. I hadn’t forgotten either the fable or how it had plunged me into perplexity when I read it, for it had reawakened certain questions from my childhood. Envisaging all the hypotheses to which it naturally lent itself. Since there immediately occurred the question of knowing on which of the two sides of the mirror we are each actually located. Of course. Sometimes thinking that if it was the bad side, then I belonged to the race of the losers. With passing time, that race had forgotten the fate once cast upon it, with no consciousness of the perpetual sentence it was serving ever since: subjected to an eternal slavery, constrained to copy the postures of those who were living on the other side, without realizing it and without any idea what they meant.

So as a child I often looked in mirrors. To try to catch the person whose traits I shared doing something wrong. In order to discover which one of us was the copy of the other. Inventing all sorts of optical experiments to get to the bottom of the matter. Using the bathroom cabinet hanging above the sink, with its three pivoting mirrors, each mounted on its hinge, which let you multiply any image to infinity—mine, seen from the side, and behind it the image of the room prolonged by the corridor toward the back of the apartment and farther still in the direction of the space to which I had my back turned, and which was equivalent to the depth of the world.

Wondering if the reflection of a reflection constituted or restored reality, the sum of two illusions producing a truth the way the product of two negative values gives one that’s positive, or if the reflection of a reflection, on the contrary, made another universe appear in the heart of this reality, a universe that in this instance would have been the copy of a copy. And so on. So that there would not be only two worlds but rather two further worlds inside those two worlds, and on and on, an unimaginable multitude of realities disappearing finally in the inscrutable fuzziness of an inaccessible foundation.

In front of the mirror, I watched for a sign exactly the same as those I sought in the dark as a child. Something from the farness of things that would slowly return to me.

*     *     *

The legend also said that a day of revenge would come for the populace of the mirrors. A few infinitesimal indications would announce the moment of the revolt of the reflections as they slowly freed themselves from their servitude, refusing to obey orders once, then a second time, then ceasing to imitate their models altogether, then breaking the transparent walls of their prison to retake possession of the universe. But first, in the thickness of the glass, there would appear a precursor sign, a very discreet anomaly: a miniscule wave starting to vibrate, a wrinkle of an unrecognized color marring the surface, widening until there emerged the first of the creatures from the other world, free once more and in the avant-garde of all the others ready in its wake to inhabit the visible, to invade the universe.

A sort of animal, said the tale, whose silhouette would emerge in the very vague distance, in the deep and still quiet waters of an initial mirror: a fish, a tiger, or a cat, depending on the versions of the story. Crossing the now porous border separating the two worlds, without my being able to say at all, naturally—since I was uncertain on which side I was myself—whether this troubling scout would indicate the moment of my enslavement or of my deliverance. Something returning and leading the cortege of all creatures banished from life.

A cat, at first, settling on the border as it is abolished, where all the once separate shapes of the world would soon be assembled.

Le Chat de Schrödinger
Chapitre 11: Le Jour des Chats

D’où venait-il? La question était sans réponse possible. Sinon, celle-ci: de chez lui. Pour la raison suivante: un chat n’arrive jamais nulle part, il y revient.

A chaque fois que je l’aperçois rentrant de sa promenade, je me fais la même remarque. Tel est le sentiment que toujours donne un chat. Même quand il met ses pattes quelque part où jamais auparavant il n’a été. Cela fait un second principe de phénoménologie féline assez compatible avec le précédent, celui que j’avais établi la nuit de la “première fois” et qui veut que l’on voit disparaître un chat avant que de l’avoir vu apparaître. D’abord, le soir: une forme qui file, une silhouette qui se dissout, si vite qu’on se dit qu’elle n’a jamais été là. Ensuite, au matin: la même forme, la même silhouette qui se recompose, réinvestissant très calmement la place qui depuis toujours aura été marquée comme étant la sienne parmi les apparences.

Il part avant d’arriver. Divisé en deux moitiés de lui-même qui paraissent tout à fait étrangères l’une à l’autre puisqu’elles ne se rencontrent jamais. Comme la lune et le soleil. Deux astres qui se chassent et ne peuvent partager le même ciel. En l’espèce: un chat nocturne qui s’en va, un chat diurne qui s’en revient. Chacun empruntant l’une des portes jumelles par lesquelles on voyage de l’un à l’autre des côtés du mur. Exactement à la manière de ces figures que l’on voit sur les vieux baromètres que l’on vend aux touristes à la montagne et à la mer ou sur les horloges médiévales de certaines cathédrales. Par exemple: l’homme avec son parapluie, la femme avec son ombrelle. Ou d’autres allégories plus sinistres—la mère avec son fils dans son ventre, la mort en squelette avec sa faux à la main—qui signifient à quel triste petit manège ressemble la vie et quel mécanique mouvement de pendule commande au temps. On rentre et on sort. C’est le jour et la nuit. Ou plutôt dans cet ordre-là: c’est la nuit et puis c’est le jour. Et de nouveau: la nuit ensuite.

*     *     *

Il avance lentement depuis le fond du jardin. Silencieusement, souplement, simplement, sous le soleil qui, à cette heure de la journée, brille au plus haut du ciel, écrasant toutes les ombres qui dépassent à peine de dessous les objets à la quasi-verticale desquels la lumière se projette. Marchant sur l’espace de sable qui s’étend depuis le mur du fond jusqu’à la terrasse, parmi les herbes basses. Prenant son temps. Avec l’allure de ne douter de rien. De se sentir partout chez soi. Comme si de rien n’était.

L’air tout à fait de revenir chez lui. Tranquille. Sans s’en faire. L’impression tient certainement à cette assurance dont fait preuve un chat lorsqu’il pénètre dans le domaine dont il a décidé qu’il était le sien. Connaissant parfaitement, semble-t-il, les lieux pour y avoir déjà habité. Reprenant le fil inchangé de ses anciennes habitudes. Comme s’il en avait toujours été l’unique et légitime propriétaire. Et ne s’était absenté que pour un instant—même si cet instant de quelques secondes, aux yeux des humains, a semblé long comme une éternité de siècles.

*     *     *

Qu’il revienne, c’est peut—être le cas après tout.

Au lieu de celui des voisins, ce serait alors le chat des précédents propriétaires. De telles choses arrivent, dit-on. Rentré chez lui après quelques années d’absence et ne daignant même pas s’apercevoir du changement qui a eu lieu alors qu’il était loin. Considérant qu’un tel changement est tout à fait insignifiant et ne le concerne en aucune manière. A ses yeux de chat à lui, les humains apparaissant comme des créatures tout à fait interchangeables. Au point que peut-être il ne parvenait pas vraiment à les distinguer, ne se donnait même pas la peine de les reconnaître, confondant les visages, ne retenant pas les noms, ne se souciant même pas de ce que c’est qu’un nom ou un visage tant qu’il se trouve quelqu’un pour que les commodités de l’existence lui soient assurées. Notant juste un peu distraitement que chez lui, sous ses yeux, du côté de la terrasse et derrière les fenêtres éclairées de la cuisine ou de la chambre, comme des ombres chinoises sur un écran, quelque chose se manifestait parfois de l’autre côté du jardin sous forme d’humain. Selon un principe, tout à fait légitime car strictement réciproque, d’indifférence mutuelle entre les espèces.

Et si c’était le chat du noyer? Je veux dire: du noyé. Reprenant sa place dans l’arbre où il aimait à se coucher, bien confortablement installé dans le creux que font les quatre branches principales quand elles s’éloignent du tronc, et parfois un peu plus haut, escaladant vers ce qui en était autrefois la cime et dont ne restent plus que quelques moignons de bois se déployant vers le ciel. Cela paraît assez peu vraisemblable, il faut l’admettre, car il a l’air trop jeune. Mais comme on ne connaît ni l’année où il est né—le vétérinaire n’a pas voulu vraiment se prononcer—ni celle où l’autre est mort—les voisins ne se sont pas montrés beaucoup plus précis—cela n’est pas complètement impossible. Alors ce serait lui. Reprenant possession de son ancienne maison. Le chat du noyé. Dépêché depuis l’au-delà. L’émissaire du disparu, chargé par lui de la mission d’inspecter muettement les lieux où il avait vécu, d’y faire en sorte que secrètement s’y continue l’histoire qui, dans une autre existence, avait été la sienne.

*     *     *

Car on ne sait jamais quand une histoire débute. A défaut, on la fait commencer avec le dernier récit raconté. Sans même imaginer que celui-ci prend la suite d’un autre, et puis d’un autre avant lui, et qu’il s’insère ainsi comme un élément parmi d’autres encore dans la série de tous les précédents. Par manque de mémoire ne se représentant pas tout ce qui a été auparavant. Depuis très longtemps. Remontant aux temps originels dont parlent les légendes.

Ainsi, celle qui dit que la terre appartenait autrefois au peuple des chats et que celui-ci l’a quittée il y a des millénaires pour une toute petite promenade, en laissant aux humains la jouissance passagère de son domaine. Mais que le temps, un jour, viendra où les chats rentreront et réclameront leur bien. Conquérants silencieux.

Si bien que tous les chats qui aujourd’hui semblent surgir de nulle part, pénétrant partout comme s’ils y étaient chez eux, seraient comme des éclaireurs, préparant pour leur espèce le moment de son légitime rétablissement dans ses droits.

Ce jour-là : le jour des chats.

*     *     *

J’avais lu autrefois une histoire semblable. Ce n’était pas exactement la même histoire mais elle lui ressemblait beaucoup. Disons qu’elles avaient quelque chose en commun qui me faisait les confondre. Dans quel livre? Comme l’ancienne encyclopédie, désormais désuète, que nous avions consultée, tous les livres que j’avais possédés autrefois avaient fini là, dans “sa” maison, rangés dans la grande bibliothèque du bureau. Accumulés depuis l’enfance, datant de toutes les périodes de ma vie de lecteur, disparates, usés, dans tous les formats, sans aucun lien logique entre eux. Si bien que moi-même j’avais du mal à imaginer qu’ils avaient pu appartenir à une seule et même personne—qui devait être moi, mais qui moi?—et à me faire une idée du goût qu’avait pu avoir d’eux cet inconnu qui avait décidé de leur acquisition. M’étonnant maintenant, quand je vais souvent les regarder, de tous ces objets de papier dont la plupart ne me disent plus rien du tout. Ne me rappelant plus aucune des histoires qu’ils racontent ni même de les avoir eus un jour entre les mains. Parfois j’en tire un au hasard comme on consulte un oracle. Je l’ouvre à n’importe quelle page. C’est ainsi que j’ai retrouvé le conte dont je parle.

Une légende chinoise, je crois. Elle relate qu’autrefois notre monde et celui des miroirs—entre lesquels on pouvait aller librement—vivaient en parfaite intelligence. Aussi différents l’un de l’autre que deux univers peuvent l’être et sans que l’un ne soit alors aucunement le reflet de l’autre. Jusqu’à ce que le peuple des miroirs entreprenne d’envahir le nôtre et que s’ensuive une longue et terrible guerre où notre camp fut finalement victorieux. L’invasion repoussée et l’agresseur refoulé dans son domaine. C’est alors qu’afin d’obstruer le passage entre les deux mondes et d’interdire qu’un nouvel affrontement ait lieu, on avait érigé partout les impénétrables parois de métal ou de verre auxquelles on donne désormais le nom de miroirs. Un charme puissant avait été jeté par les vainqueurs sur les vaincus afin de forcer les seconds à adopter l’apparence des premiers et à imiter servilement chacun de leurs gestes.

*     *     *

J’y repensais maintenant. Je n’avais oublié ni cette fable ni la perplexité dans laquelle elle m’avait plongé quand je l’avais lue car elle avait réveillé certaines de mes interrogations d’enfant. Envisageant toutes les hypothèses auxquelles elle se prêtait naturellement. Puisque, bien sûr, la question se posait immédiatement de savoir duquel des deux côtés du miroir chacun se trouvait en fait. Pensant parfois que si c’était du mauvais côté, j’appartenais alors au peuple des perdants. Le temps passant, celui-ci avait oublié le sort qui lui avait été autrefois jeté, sans aucune conscience de la peine perpétuelle qu’il purgeait depuis, soumis à un esclavage éternel, contraint à copier, sans s’en douter et sans avoir aucune idée de ce qu’elles signifiaient, les attitudes de ceux-là seuls qui vivaient vraiment de l’autre côté.

Petit, ainsi, je regardais souvent les miroirs. Pour essayer par surprise de prendre en faute celui dont je partageais les traits. Afin de découvrir qui de lui ou de moi était la copie de l’autre.  Inventant toutes sortes d’expériences optiques pour connaître le dernier mot de l’affaire. Usant ainsi du meuble de la salle de bain, accroché au-dessus du lavabo et qui avec ses trois miroirs pivotants, chacun monté sur sa charnière, permettait de faire se démultiplier à l’infini toute image: la mienne, vue de côté, et derrière elle celle de la pièce se prolongeant par le couloir vers le fond de l’appartement et plus loin encore en direction de l’espace auquel je tournais le dos et qui se confondait avec la profondeur du monde.

Me demandant si le reflet d’un reflet constituait la réalité, la restituait, la somme de deux illusions produisant une vérité, comme le produit de deux valeurs négatives en donne une qui soit positive, ou bien si ce reflet d’un reflet faisait au contraire apparaître au sein de cette réalité un autre univers qui aurait ainsi été la copie d’une copie. Et ainsi de suite. De telle sorte qu’il n’y aurait pas eu deux mondes mais à l’intérieur de chacun de ceux-ci, deux mondes à nouveau et, de proche en proche, une multitude inimaginable de réalités se perdant enfin dans le flou inscrutable d’un fond inaccessible.

Devant la glace, je guettais un signe, tout à fait semblable, ainsi, à ceux que j’épiais enfant dans le noir. Quelque chose qui, depuis le lointain des choses, serait remonté lentement vers moi.

*     *     *

La légende racontait enfin qu’un jour viendrait pour le peuple des miroirs de sa revanche. A quelques indices infimes s’annoncerait le moment de la révolte des reflets, ceux-ci s’émancipant lentement de leur servitude, se refusant d’abord une première fois à obéir aux ordres, puis une deuxième, cessant ensuite complètement d’imiter leur modèle, puis brisant les parois transparentes de leur prison pour reprendre possession de l’univers. Mais d’abord, dans l’épaisseur de la glace, apparaîtrait le signe précurseur d’une très discrète anomalie: une onde minuscule se mettant à vibrer, une ride troublant la surface, d’une couleur inconnue, s’élargissant pour qu’y apparaisse la première des créatures de l’autre monde, de nouveau libre, à l’avant-garde de toutes les autres prêtes à sa suite à investir le visible, à envahir l’univers.

Une sorte d’animal, disait le conte, dont la silhouette surgirait dans le lointain très vague, dans l‘eau profonde et encore calme d’un premier miroir: selon les versions de l’histoire, un poisson, un tigre ou un chat. Franchissant la frontière, poreuse à nouveau, séparant les deux mondes, sans pouvoir dire du tout bien sûr, puisque j’étais incertain du côté où moi-même je me trouvais, si cet éclaireur inquiétant indiquait pour moi le moment de mon asservissement ou celui de ma délivrance. Quelque chose s’en retournant et guidant le cortège derrière elle de toutes les créatures bannies de la vie.

Un chat, le premier, s’installant sur la lisière en train de s’abolir où se mélangeraient bientôt toutes les formes autrefois séparées du monde.

Translator’s note:

I met Philippe Forest several years ago when I invited him to talk about his work at the university where I was a professor in the department of French. I had heard of his admirable novel, L’Enfant éternel, about the death from cancer of his four-year-old daughter Pauline, a wrenching account in all its excruciating details, and I had read his studies of Philippe Sollers and the Tel Quel group. I had several others of his novels under my belt when I heard about Le Chat de Schrödinger, and I quickly wrote Forest to say that I wanted to translate it. He was more than pleased.

And this novel posed immense challenges. There are the long, long sentences that spool out as only French lets a writer do, with indulgence and delight; I worked to make a readable English text without betraying the author’s style and my own preference for complex syntax. There is the peculiarity of the narrator-protagonist’s relation to reality, seen in this excerpt in the way he views the actual cat that appears in his garden; how to enter the mind of this suffering middle-aged man and speak for him in English? The story claims ancestry in legends and tales the protagonist calls “Chinese,” without any real justification; do I need to research Chinese legends? I made the decision to trust the author and his version of the story he needed to tell.

I brought other parts of Schrödinger’s Cat to the 2015 meeting of the American Literary Translators’ Association and wondered how well Forest, translated by Mortimer, would meet with interest among specialists of translation; I got feedback from translators from several different perspectives—those who wanted a completely domesticated product, those who thought the English had to preserve the peculiarities of the French, and some in between.

Personally, I lean toward keeping strangeness when the original is strange, and that is what I have done with all my translations to date.

After a long career interpreting French literature, for which she was awarded the Palmes académiques honor, Armine Kotin Mortimer is translating contemporary authors from the French and writing fiction. Her translations of Philippe Sollers’s Mysterious Mozart and his Casanova the Irresistible have garnered excellent reviews, and Columbia University Press will publish her translation of The Enchanted Clock by Julia Kristeva. Translated excerpts have appeared in 3:AM Magazine, The Brooklyn Rail, The Cossack Review, Asymptote, and AGNI, among others.

Born in 1962, Philippe Forest is one of the most important living authors in France today, highly regarded not only for his penetrating analyses of modern literature but also for his novels. His first, L’Enfant éternel (1997), narrates in painful detail the illness and death of his four-year-old daughter Pauline. Every novel he has written since, in a similar auto-fictional vein, returns to this event that has driven this excellent critic of literature and other arts into the compulsion to use the tools of fiction to speak of the unspeakable.

[translated fiction]

The compartment door banged open and the conductor informed us that we’d arrive in Montpellier in one hour. I repacked my things, freshened up, and went out to the corridor, waiting to see the city that would be my new home. I don’t really remember why we’d picked Montpellier for me to attend university. Maybe because Dadatoa Robert, my doctor uncle, had studied there and remembered it fondly. Or because the hospital sisters where my mother worked had told her about a hostel there that their order ran for foreign girls. Maybe both of those things.

Another Malagasy on the train, a guy, came and stood next to me. No one was waiting for us at the train station. Fortunately, I’d been given a simple map of the city, marked with useful addresses for new students. Dési and I walked to the regional headquarters of the International Student Office, lugging our suitcases behind us. He didn’t have any problems, having already secured a room on the university campus. I was told, however, that unless I could find somewhere to stay on my own, I’d have to transfer to Perpignan. The hostel worked, though. A taxi drove me to the Plan des Quatre Seigneurs and left me in front of a giant green gate. I rang the bell. A nun opened the door, surprised to find me standing there—so early. She showed me their future hostel: the foundations had just been laid. Still, she offered to house me in their sacristy to give them time to find a different solution. I’d leave the room whenever the priest or the sisters needed to use it. The cot where I slept would be folded and put away early every morning, before mass. Another minor detail: my room and board would be higher than my mother had initially agreed to, and breakfast wouldn’t be included. The mountain of unexpected changes dampened my arrival considerably, and I dragged my things morosely into the room I was shown to. I went back out to the garden, utterly depressed, trying to find some consolation among the flowers.

At noon, one of the sisters, a student, led me to the closest dining hall, just at the bottom of the hill. I saw a few Malagasies there who greeted me with flustered smiles. They later told me that they’d thought I was a religious initiate. I was miserable and couldn’t convince myself to eat. My guide was a glutton, wolfing down her food and destroying what little appetite I’d had. That afternoon, in the sacristy, I grit my teeth to keep from screaming in disappointed rage. I felt deceived, cheated. I awoke in the middle of the night, terrified—I believed I was hearing voices from beyond the grave. It was the sisters, intoning their prayers in the chapel next to me. The songs made me less afraid but wholly demoralized, and after a long while of not sleeping, I felt the dawn coming.

The next day, the nun who’d met me at the door said that they’d set up the cellar for me, just underneath the workshop, until the hostel was ready. The bathroom was a closet with a toilet. Since there was no running water, I was given a large basin and a pitcher to fetch water from the pump in the garden whenever I needed it. The cellar had no heat, and there was a five-centimeter gap between the door and the concrete floor. They lent me several quilts until I could buy some. That day, my second one there, I still couldn’t eat anything—my chaperone’s company was hardly encouraging.

I awoke in the middle of the night, terrified—I believed I was hearing voices from beyond the grave. It was the sisters, intoning their prayers in the chapel next to me. The songs made me less afraid but wholly demoralized, and after a long while of not sleeping, I felt the dawn coming.

The first night in the cellar was awful. I was cold and scared. I thought about my mother, my brother, and my sisters, back home in our cozy apartment—a simple one, yes, but warm and dry. I thought about my unoccupied bed back home, and my mind raced, each new thought crazier than the one before. Did the sisters think that I wasn’t made of flesh and blood, that I didn’t have the same needs as every last one of them? Or did they think that what they were “providing” for me was obviously far better than anything I could have possibly experienced in my own country? Our countries are so often portrayed as primitive regions that people can easily jump to very wrong conclusions about them. I realized that I couldn’t tolerate another night in that horrifying cellar, and rage flooded me, leftover from the day before, toward these women who recited the sublime prayer of St. Francis of Assisi from their empty, hollow hearts.

The next day, at lunchtime, I got some good news: I would no longer be chaperoned. As I ambled slowly down the hill, it started to rain.

I thought about my childhood, when we’d be let out of public school. We adored the rainfall. We’d take off our sandals to splash around in all the puddles and tiny rivers, our raincoats folded neatly at the bottom of our backpacks. We didn’t miss a single drop. Just before rounding the last corner where Mamabe could see us from the kitchen window, we’d put on our rubber boots and walk slowly, carefully, so they had time to get wet. The front door would fly open in a tizzy: “Bring a large towel, quick! I knew it, the vendor lied to us, this oilskin doesn’t do anything! Come here, my porcelain doll, let’s get you into bed and cover your legs. I’ll bring you a nice hot mug of tea with lots of sugar.” And the pampering would continue for the rest of the night.

Of course, there were also the less fun rainy days, when Papabe would come to pick me up from school with his gigantic Golaz. A full fifteen minutes before the bell rang, he’d already be there, wearing his dark suit and fedora, even underneath the umbrella. Then the whole class would screech, “Who’s the mother hen with a Papabe waiting with a great big Golaaaaz?” Mother hen—the kids at school had nicknamed me that because I wore glasses, like the mother hen on the farmyard vocabulary poster. Underneath the Golaz, my oilskin buttoned up tight and my hood fastened below my chin, my hand in Papabe’s and both our hands stuffed into one of his pockets, there was no fear of getting wet! Worse still, I didn’t get to walk home with my friends—Papabe took the “mavo adala,” the big yellow bus that squealed and scraped and groaned, but us kids did love it for its long aisle down the middle that we’d pretend was a balance beam. I’d press my nose to the back window and stick my tongue out at my cackling friends, and then be consoled with hard candy, the unforgettably clear-blue mint suckers that Papabe would slip into my hand. At the Carrefour de Soarano, I’d sigh in jealousy yet again, reveling in Edwige’s father and his black traffic cop slicker. He was so dreamy, gesturing with his handsome white baton and whistle. Oh, plump Edwige was so lucky, being able to say that her father was a policeman! All of us said that, it was as if we wanted the whole school to be filled with policemen’s kids. But her father really was a policeman. We passed him four times a day, and Edwige was the only one who didn’t sigh in admiration. After two suckers, we’d drive into the tunnel, and as tradition dictated, I’d scream at the top of my lungs for as long as it took to get through. Papabe didn’t scold me. Papabe never scolded anyone. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure if he even knew how. Mamabe was a different story… After three suckers, we’d be home. Arriving home was gloomier on those days: staying dry on a rainy day would only warrant a routine: “Wipe your feet, hang up your raincoat, put your backpack away, wash your hands, and come get your snack.” And yet, my porcelain doll rhymed so well with rainfall.

I slowed down, letting the raindrops mingle with the tears that I’d held back for too long. I spotted Dési on the sidewalk in front of the Triolet dining hall. He was with another guy, who smiled broadly at me and asked if I was Ratsara’s sister.

“Ratsara?”

“Yeah, Ratsara, from Rabearivelo High School.”

Ro’s name rang like a joyful psalm in my heart, and I clung to my lifeline, the one who’d uttered her name.

“Oh, yes! I am her sister!”

“Go grab something to eat real quick, we can wait for you here, if you’re okay with that.”

“Yes, please wait for me!”

I was so scared they’d leave that I’m pretty sure I just walked in and came right back out again. Richard asked me how my sister was, how I’d settled in. And I told him everything. We went back to the International Student Office together. After hearing my story, the director suggested I go down to Perpignan for the year. I was fine with that. While we were discussing the logistical aspects of my transfer, the phone rang. It was the gentleman who placed international scholarship recipients, complaining about a Senegalese student’s failure to show up at the Clos Boutonnet dorms. I got her room. We went to see it immediately, and after all the administrative formalities, I stared, completely dumbstruck, at the little key that I’d been given.

We all went back to the Plan des Quatre Seigneurs, accompanied by a delegation from the Malagasy Student Association. The head of the sisterhood bristled at losing two hundred fifty francs per month. In an even tone, Richard asked her what was more important: two hundred fifty francs, or my health and studies. She reddened and changed tactics, claiming a moral responsibility to my mother, since I was a minor. Only parental authorization could relieve her of her duty, and she would keep me until then. I told her that my mother could call her on the phone the next day. She refused, claiming that I might stage a false call. She eventually consented to a telegram. Richard took me to the post office to call Neny. She cheered me up and told me that she’d go send the telegram right after we hung up, reassuring me that she loved me and was praying for me. Her voice made her feel so close, but I knew she was so far away, and I broke down into tears.

And later, much later, when passing time had soothed all the hurt sustained during my first few days in Montpellier, I finally managed to let go of my grudge against the nuns and think of those days as part of the ridiculous adventure at the dawn of my student years.

That evening, when I had to go back and sleep in the cellar, one of the sisters came to tell me that she didn’t really think that my mother would send a telegram. I refused to say anything because I knew that that was absolutely the last night I would spend there, in such unimaginably dreadful and humiliating conditions. The head sister woke me early the next morning to inform me that I was free to leave that day—the telegram had just arrived. Richard and his wife came to pick me up with their little Dauphine in tow, and I never looked back at the cellar. In a rush of relief, I think I even promised to come visit the hostel when it was done.

The first moment of happiness I’d had since boarding the train in Paris was when all my friends had left and I found myself alone in my room. A real bedroom! Not a cellar, not a sacristy. I spent the days that followed organizing it with care and love, setting up all the Malagasy pictures and mementos that I’d brought with me. And later, much later, when passing time had soothed all the hurt sustained during my first few days in Montpellier, I finally managed to let go of my grudge against the nuns and think of those days as part of the ridiculous adventure at the dawn of my student years.

*     *     *

It’s raining. A cold, heavy, rhythmic rain, like dripping iron bars. Yesterday, the sun was still shining. Early this morning, the city woke up under a damp, chilly blanket. Above, a uniform sky of pearly, shimmering gray. The city shivers. The red slate roofs can’t manage their fragile smile that glistens shyly in the sunlight. The walls of the old houses are drenched and dark. Thin fog seeps into everything. Reach out a hand and you can feel it. It fills the air, replaces it. I’m scared of walking into it, of filling my lungs with it, for fear that I’ll choke, and I’m amazed that I can still breathe, that I’m not suffocating. The gray houses, the faded-red roofs, the bare trees: they are the image of the nostalgia and regrets in my soul. The wind is picking up. Gusts of air rattle the shutters. Cars pass by and water sprays up from their tires. A woman walks up. She whistles, and her clacking heels die in the echo of a door opening and closing again.

Oh, Palavas! Such a dreary night in November, pebbles crunching under my feet. I would rather be barefoot, pushing my toes into loose, cool sand. The wind, coming off the sea. And the ocean, there, cloaked in its infinite indifference. Calm sea with silent breath, it’s as if you were afraid of shattering the halo of sadness holding me captive. Would I thus be a stranger to you? Why hide beneath a vast black shawl with such a pristine border of fringe? Endless sea, if you agreed to take me away tonight, I’d see friendly shores tomorrow.

The wind off the sea whistles into my bedroom through cracks in the shutters. The whispering branches grow louder of their own accord. The garbage truck rumbles by. People shout and talk. The night murmurs in the background, its sound occasionally swallowed by a passing car. Every so often, the north wind wails, shrieking like the siren of a ship in distress.

A thick veil of pure-white snowflakes fills the sky. The wind blows hard. A flock of sparrows is carried on the swirling wind. More birds lift off from bare trees to pierce through the heavy tapestry hiding the sun. Turned toward the southeast, I race into the wind, to the island where my roots run deep. Its name hums in me like a plucked string whenever its wind, its sky, its sun or ocean comes to mind. I’m reminded by the rustling leaves. By a letter of the alphabet, a tree, a hymn, a texture of the sky, a certain kind of weather, a word: thousands upon thousands of returning journeys. A gleaming ship on a sea of rice fields, bobbing over the waving hills…

I miss Tana. At sunset, a gossamer curtain of orange-pink, then pale purple, covers every western face in a gentle caress.

My heart, a ring of jacarandas that beats in time with your name, Tana.

Tana… Tana… I left my heart in Tana.

“Rendez-vous manqué”

La portière du compartiment s’ouvrit avec fracas et le contrôleur du train annonça l’arrivée à Montpellier dans une heure. Je rangeai mes affaires, fis un brin de toilette et sortis dans le couloir, attendant de découvrir la ville qui m’accueillerait. Je ne sais plus au juste pourquoi nous avons choisi Montpellier pour mes études supérieures. Peut-être parce que Dadatoa Robert, mon oncle médecin, y fit ses études et en gardait d’excellents souvenirs ? Ou parce que les sœurs de la clinique où travaillait ma mère lui avaient parlé d’un foyer international de jeunes filles tenu par leur congrégation ? C’était peut-être pour les deux raisons à la fois.

Le compatriote qui avait fait le voyage avec moi me rejoignit. Personne ne nous attendait à la gare. Heureusement que j’avais reçu un plan simplifié de la ville avec les adresses utiles aux nouveaux étudiants. Nous allâmes à pied, chargés de nos valises, jusqu’à la direction régionale de l’OCAU. Dési n’eut aucun problème. Il avait déjà une chambre retenue dans une cité universitaire. Quant à moi, il me faudrait aller à Perpignan, à moins de trouver un logement par mes propres moyens. Je parlai du foyer et tout s’arrangea. Un taxi me conduisit au Plan des Quatre Seigneurs et me laissa devant un immense portail vert. Je sonnai. Une religieuse vint ouvrir et s’étonna de me voir arriver, déjà ! Elle me montra le futur foyer dont les fondations venaient à peine d’être jetées. Elle accepta toutefois de m’héberger dans la sacristie, le temps de trouver une solution… Je sortirais chaque fois que le prêtre ou les sœurs auraient besoin de s’y rendre. Le lit de camp sur lequel je coucherais serait plié et rangé tôt le matin, avant la messe. Un petit changement aussi : ma pension serait plus élevée que convenu initialement avec ma mère et le petit déjeuner ne serait pas assuré. Refroidie par ce chapelet de nouvelles inattendues, je portais tristement mes affaires dans la pièce qu’on m’indiqua et revins dans le jardin pour trouver, parmi les fleurs, quelque consolation.

À midi, une sœur, étudiante, me guida jusqu’au restaurant universitaire le plus proche, juste au pied de la butte où nous étions. J’y rencontrai quelques malgaches qui me saluèrent et me sourirent, gênés. Ils m’avouèrent plus tard qu’ils me croyaient au noviciat et en étaient atterrés. J’étais malheureuse et ne pus rien avaler. Mon guide mangeait gloutonnement et me coupa le peu d’envie que j’avais d’essayer de me restaurer. L’après-midi, dans la sacristie, je me sentis trompée, volée et serrai les dents de rageuse déception. Dans la nuit, je me réveillai avec terreur. Il me semblait entendre des voix d’outre-tombe… C’étaient les sœurs qui bourdonnaient leurs prières dans la chapelle, à côté. Leurs chants me firent moins peur mais finirent par me démoraliser, et je sentis l’aube venir sans être arrivée à me rendormir.

Le lendemain, la religieuse qui m’accueillit me dit qu’on aménagerait pour moi la cave, juste au-dessous de la menuiserie, jusqu’à ce que le foyer fût habitable. Un petit cabinet me servirait de salle de bain et de toilettes. Comme il n’y avait pas l’eau courante, on me donna une grande cuvette et un broc pour aller chercher moi-même l’eau à la pompe du jardin chaque fois que j’en aurais besoin. La cave n’était pas chauffée et il y avait bien un espace vide de cinq centimètres de hauteur entre le bas de la porte et le sol cimenté. Six ou sept couvertures m’avaient été prêtées, le temps que je m’en achète. Cette deuxième journée, je ne mangeai rien non plus, car la compagnie de mon cicérone ne m’encourageait guère. La première nuit dans la cave fut atroce. J’avais peur et froid. Je pensais à ma mère, à mon frère et à mes sœurs, là-bas, dans notre charmant appartement tout simple mais chaleureux et confortable. Je pensai à mon lit inoccupé, là-bas, et j’en vins à me poser une foule de questions, toutes plus folles les unes que les autres : les religieuses croient-elles que je ne suis pas faite de chair et de sang pour ne pas avoir les mêmes besoins que chacune d’entre elles ? Ou pensent-elles que ce qu’elles « m’offrent » est surement, et de loin, meilleur que tout ce que j’aie pu connaître dans mon pays ? On présente si souvent nos pays comme des contrées primitives qu’on en arrive bien vite à des conclusions complètement erronées ! Je sentis que je ne supporterais pas une nuit de plus dans cette cave d’horreur et la rage de la veille, contre ces femmes qui récitaient d’un cœur mort la sublime prière de Saint François d’Assise, me reprit jusqu’à la nausée.

Le lendemain, à l’heure de déjeuner, une nouvelle me réconforta : je ne serais plus chaperonnée. Je descendis lentement la cote lorsqu’il se mit à pleuvoir…

Je me revis enfant, à la sortie de l’école publique. La pluie faisait nos délices. Nous enlevions nos sandales pour patauger dans toutes les flaques et rigoles, sans rater une seule gouttière, l’imperméable bien plié au fond du cartable. Juste avant le dernier coin du chemin après lequel Mamabe pouvait nous voir de la fenêtre de la cuisine, nous enfilions nos caoutchoucs en prenant soin de marcher prudemment à petits pas pour avoir le temps de les mouiller. À l’entrée, des cris d’affolement m’accueillaient : « Vite, une grosse serviette ! Ce n’est tout de même pas possible ! Le marchand nous a trompés, ces cirés ne servent à rien !… Voilà, parcelle de ma vie, va sur ton lit et couvre-toi les jambes, je t’apporte un grand bol d’infusion bien chaude et sucrée ! ». Et c’était parti pour un éternel moment de gâteries. Évidemment il y avait des jours de pluie moins gais, lorsque Papabe venait me chercher à l’école avec son immense Golaz. Un bon quart d’heure avant la cloche, il était déjà là, dans son costume sévère et coiffé de son chapeau mou, même sous le parapluie ! Toute la classe hurlait alors : « Quelle est la mère poule que son Papabe attend avec un gros, gros Golaaaaz ? ». Mère poule ? tous les écoliers m’avaient surnommée ainsi, car je portais des lunettes, tout comme la mère poule du tableau de langage sur la basse-cour. Sous le Golaz, le caoutchouc bien fermé et le capuchon serré sous le menton, la main dans celle de Papabe et nos deux mains enfoncées dans une de ses poches, je ne risquais plus du tout de me mouiller ! D’autant moins que je ne pouvais pas aller à pied avec mes camarades : avec Papabe, on prend le « mavo adala », ces grands bus jaune criard qui geignent de partout mais que nous adorions pour leur long couloir central qui nous servait de piste d’équilibristes ! Le nez collé contre la vitre du fond, je tirais la langue à mes amis hilares et me consolais avec les belles pastilles à la menthe d’un bleu transparent inoubliable que Papabe me glissait dans la main. Au carrefour de Soarano, je soupirai une fois de plus d’envie en admirant le père d’Edwige dans son ciré noir d’agent de la circulation. Il maniait son bâton blanc et son sifflet avec tellement d’allure ! Ah ! quelle chance elle avait la grosse Edwige de pouvoir dire que son père était policier ! Nous le disions bien tous à l’école, à croire que nous fréquentions une école de rejetons policiers ! Mais le sien l’était vraiment, policier ; nous passions devant lui quatre fois par jour et seule Edwige ne bavait pas en l’admirant ! À la deuxième pastille, nous entrions dans le tunnel et, conformément au rite établi, je me mis à crier tout mon soul le temps de la traversée. Papabe ne me gronda pas. Papabe ne grondait jamais. À bien y réfléchir, je crois qu’il ne savait même pas ce que c’était gronder… Mamabe, c’était autre chose… À trois pastilles, nous étions arrivés. Ces retours-là étaient plutôt mornes : rentrer sec un jour de pluie n’a jamais valu qu’un routinier : « essuie tes pieds, étends ton caoutchouc, pose ton cartable, lave-toi les mains et viens gouter ! ». Et pourtant, « parcelle de ma vie » rimait si bien avec « pluie »…

Je ne pressai pas le pas et laissai les gouttes de pluie emporter mes larmes trop longtemps retenues. Sur la petite esplanade, devant le restaurant universitaire du Triolet, je vis Dési avec un autre garçon qui me sourit largement et me demanda si j’étais la sœur de Ratsara.

– Ratsara ?

– Mais oui, Ratsara, du lycée Rabearivelo !

Comme un cantique, le nom de Ro résonna en moi et je me raccrochai à celui qui l’avait prononcé comme à une bouée de sauvetage.

– Oh oui, je suis sa sœur !

– Va vite manger ! Nous t’attendons ici, si tu le veux bien.

– Oui, oui. S’il vous plaît, attendez-moi !

Je crois bien que je ne fis qu’entrer et sortir, tellement j’avais peur qu’ils s’en aillent. Au cafeteria, Richard me demanda des nouvelles de ma sœur, puis de mon installation. Je lui racontai tout. Nous revînmes ensemble à l’OCAU. La Directrice, après m’avoir entendue, me proposa d’aller à Perpignan pour un an. J’étais d’accord. Comme nous étions en train de discuter les modalités pratiques de mon transfert, le téléphone sonna. C’était le responsable du placement des étudiants boursiers qui se plaignait de la défection d’une sénégalaise au Clos Boutonnet. J’obtins la chambre. Nous allâmes la visiter sur le champ et, à l’issue des formalités administratives, je regardais, incrédule, la petite clef qu’on me remit.

Avec une délégation de l’Association des étudiants d’origine malgache, nous allâmes au Plan des Quatre Seigneurs. La directrice de la communauté se fâcha de perdre ainsi deux cent cinquante francs par mois. Richard lui demanda tranquillement ce qui était le plus important : deux cent cinquante francs ou ma santé et mes études. Elle rougit et changea d’argument, avançant ses responsabilités morales envers ma mère. J’étais mineure. Seule une autorisation parentale la déchargerait de ses devoirs et elle me garderait jusque-là. Je lui dis que ma mère pourrait lui téléphoner dès le lendemain. Elle refusa, arguant quelque mise en scène de ma part. Elle finit par accepter le principe du télégramme. Richard m’emmena à la poste pour téléphoner à Neny. Elle me dit qu’elle câblerait le télégramme dès la fin de notre conversation et m’encouragea beaucoup, m’assurant de tout son amour et de ses prières. Je fondis en larmes de la sentir si proche par la voix et de la savoir si loin pourtant.

Le soir, lorsqu’il fallut bien revenir dormir dans la cave, la sœur vint me dire qu’elle ne pensait vraiment pas que ma mère enverrait ce télégramme. Je ne lui répondis rien car je savais que c’était bien la dernière nuit que je passais là, dans un dénuement et une humiliation que je n’aurais jamais soupçonné. Très tôt le lendemain, la directrice me réveilla pour m’annoncer que j’étais libre de partir ce jour-là : le télégramme venait d’arriver. Mimi et sa femme vinrent me chercher avec leur petite Dauphine et je quittai la cave sans un regard en arrière. Je crois même qu’au comble de l’apaisement, je promis de venir visiter le foyer lorsqu’il serait terminé.

Mon premier moment de bonheur depuis le départ de Paris fut lorsque, tous mes compatriotes une fois partis, je me suis trouvée seule dans ma chambre. Une vraie chambre, pas une cave ni une sacristie ! Je passai les jours qui suivirent à l’arranger avec amour et sortis tous les bibelots et tableaux malgaches que je lui destinais. Lorsque, plus tard, bien plus tard, le temps finit par mettre un baume sur toutes les blessures des premiers jours à Montpellier, je réussis à penser aux sœurs sans rancune et à ces moments comme à un épisode rocambolesque de ma naissance à la vie d’étudiante.

Il pleut. Une pluie fine, serrée, régulière et froide comme des barreaux de fer mouilles. Hier encore, le soleil brillait. Ce matin, la ville s’est réveillée au creux d’un manteau glacé et humide. Là-haut, un ciel uni, d’un gris laiteux et argenté. La ville frissonne. Ses toits de tuile rouge n’arrivent plus à lui donner ce fragile sourire qu’elle esquisse au soleil. Les murs des vieilles maisons ont noirci, imbibés d’eau. Une mince brume s’insère partout. Il suffirait de tendre les mains pour la palper. Elle emplit l’air, se substitue à lui. J’ai peur de cogner contre elle, d’en remplir mes poumons au risque de les bloquer et je m’étonne de respirer encore, de ne pas suffoquer. Ces maisons grises, ces toits d’un rouge délavé, ces arbres nus sont l’image des regrets et nostalgies qui m’habitent. Le vent s’est levé. Des rafales viennent fouetter les volets. Des voitures passent et l’eau gicle sous les pneus. Une fille monte. Elle siffle, et le claquement régulier de ses talons vient mourir dans l’écho d’une porte qui s’ouvre et se referme.

Palavas ! nuit de cafard, nuit de novembre. La grève crissait sous mes pieds. J’aurais voulu marcher pieds nus, enfoncer mes jambes dans le sable frais et meuble. Le vent venait du large. La mer était là, drapée d’une infinie indifférence. Mer calme, sourde respiration, on dirait que tu as peur de briser ce halo de tristesse qui me retient prisonnière ! Te serais-je donc étrangère ? Pourquoi te cacher sous ce grand châle noir bordé de franges immaculées ? Mer illimitée, si tu acceptais de m’emporter ce soir, demain j’accosterais sur un rivage ami…

Le vent vient de la mer et pénètre dans la chambre par les fentes des volets clos. Le chat des ramures s’élève et s’amplifie à son gré. Le camion des éboueurs passe. Des hommes crient et s’interpellent. En arrière-fond, le ronronnement de la nuit, noyé de temps à autre dans le vrombissement d’un moteur. À certains moments, les gémissements de la bise pleurent comme la sirène d’un bateau en détresse…

Un épais voile de flocons vierges emplit le ciel. Le vent souffle fort. Une nuée de moineaux se laisse emporter par les ondes d’un tourbillon. D’autres encore s’élancent des arbres nus pour percer cette lourde tenture qui leur masque le soleil. Le regard vers le sud-est, je vole à contre-vent, vers une île où plongent mes racines. Une corde qui porte son nom vibre en moi lorsque le vent, le ciel ou la mer l’effleurent. Le bruissement des feuillages me la rappellent. Une lettre de l’alphabet, un arbre, un cantique, une texture du ciel, un aspect du temps, un mot : mille et mille retours vers elle. Paquebot illuminé sur une mer de rizières, balloté par les vagues des collines, Tana me manque. Au coucher du soleil, un léger voile rose-orangé, puis mauve, recouvre la face ouest de toute chose en une tendre caresse…

Mon cœur ? une ronde de jacarandas qui bat au rythme de ton nom, Tana…

Tana, Tana, j’ai oublié mon cœur à Tana…

Translator’s Note:

Madagascar has some catch-up work to do in the international literature scene. Although English-speaking readers may know writers from many other francophone African countries very well, the first novel from Madagascar is only being released in English this year. And as Bao Ralambo writes in this story, “Our countries are so often portrayed as primitive regions that people can easily jump to very wrong conclusions about them.”

Ralambo is an author whose writing is a bridge: between colonized Madagascar and France; between the surge of Malagasy authors writing Western-influenced novels in the 1950s through the 1970s and the new wave of authors in recent decades experimenting with new styles and identities; and between her own past in a French-language school and a Malagasy-language home. She writes to find her place, define her identity, process her life. Her work, like many other authors, also serves as a record of her people and their history, especially in relation to the outside world.

This story has two rather distinct parts, representing the end of adolescence and the beginning of adulthood. The first is a familiar whirlwind of transitions, a snapshot in the classic coming-of-age story, serving as proof that non-Westerners have the same experiences and tell the same stories as French (and Americans) are accustomed to. The second is a pull of opposite forces, an acceptance of new surrounding while still being drawn to home and comfort, with the ocean linking past and present. In translating the whole, it felt almost like choosing to retain two “foreignesses”—both the French bureaucracy and the Malagasy humanity, both the French ignorance and the Malagasy naivety. And yet, I was continually struck by just how familiar the emotions were: the bitter taste of disillusionment, the raw hope after being run ragged by disappointment, the different flavors of yearning for home as new surroundings slowly become more normal.

On the whole, translating literature is just one way to combat the “very wrong conclusions” that Westerners are wont to draw about Madagascar and other poorer countries. Storytelling can prove them not “primitive regions” at all, but rich cultures whose people have the same preoccupations as any American.

Allison M. Charette translates literature from French into English. She has received a PEN/Heim Translation Fund Grant, been selected for the Translation Lab residency at Art OMI, and been nominated for the Best of the Net. Her translation of Beyond the Rice Fields, the first novel from Madagascar to be translated into English, was released by Restless Books in October 2017. Find her online at charettetranslations.com.

Photo by Devon Rowland Photography

Born in French-colonized Madagascar, Bao Ralambo has been a Spanish professor at the University of Antananarivo for the last thirty-six years. She is also an author of fiction, as well as a legal and literary translator between and among three languages. Her short stories have won prizes and have been featured in numerous anthologies of Malagasy literature, including the French-language Chroniques de Madagascar and the bilingual Voices From Madagascar. English translations of her stories have appeared on The Other Stories podcast and in Words Without Borders.

[translated poetry]

Rhapsody on Stench

Don’t stay at cheap hotels—just don’t, he said
prostitutes that knock on doors at midnight, just like
disposable containers containing disposable sex
disposable toilet paper and paper cups, rusty faucets
manageresses who apply too much fake perfume
even the artificial lighting and white bed sheets
all have stench
for forty years I have not felt desire, not gone near a woman, he said

Don’t visit the wet markets—just don’t, he said
fish dead with their eyes still open, bodies preserved in ice
fly traps sticky with the death of flies, dirty coins
the intestines and blood of livestock, wrong scale measurements
produce tainted with fertilizer and pesticides, poisonous rice
even the peddler’s voice and canned radishes
all have stench
for forty years I haven’t eaten meat, haven’t taken a life, he said

Don’t go to the hospital—just don’t, he said
strange doctors and equipment, artificial needles, tubes, and blood
the piercing cries of infants, garish medicine bottles
life bound in bandages, people pieced together with cloth
vacant expressions, corpses being sent to the morgue
dangerously pregnant women, faked illnesses
even the medical records
all have stench
for forty years I haven’t taken medicine, haven’t gotten sick, he said

Don’t take the train—just don’t, he said
thieves who pocket things on the sly, restless sleep
the stuffy smell of feet and sweat, strange travellers from other provinces
suspicious suitcases and packages
artificial fruit, ramen and canned beverages
the constant jabber of dialects, dirty jokes and poker games
even the train tickets
all have stench
for forty years I haven’t travelled, haven’t gone outside, he said

Don’t bother about politics—just don’t, he said
shred the national paper, smash the radio and TV set
if you see a government building, turn your head, walk away
don’t hate the country anymore, despite getting in trouble, beaten up
all the fake public documents, due process, and rights that never see the light of day
politics all over the world have stench, he said
even after forty years, as soon as he hears talk of politics, he goes mad

A man who fears stench, sleeping beside a cat until his final years
even the cat loathes the stench, loathes the smell of fish and human flesh
he is my strange neighbour without children
he was locked up by the government during the Cultural Revolution
afterwards his wife left and his family fell apart
afterwards he didn’t remarry, he feared politics and stench
“All over the world is stench. Where can I go?
I will just die in the motherland,” he said, just before his death

Rhapsody on a Man Standing in the Shadows Hammering a Nail

Like a hydrogen balloon filled to bursting with poisonous gas
he floats dangerously here and there
through the second half of his life. With a ghostly pale face
he drags along a paper-thin shifting shadow
living in fear. The dense body of the Earth
resonates with the sound of his beating hammer
Will he cover the whole Earth with man-made nails?
The man-made nails that densely pack
walls plastered with nauseating slogans, rust in the rain
A man who spent most of his life covered in paint
did not get a kick out of painting slogans
and long ago ran off to heaven, carrying his man-made paint
Yet the man with the hammer continues to hide on Earth
stubbornly hammering his nails. His left hand that holds the nails
bleeds year-round, the rotten flesh attracting maggots and flies
Late in the night, his middle-aged body
starts from a nightmare with a scream, his head bathed in sweat
and he lies paralyzed in a bed covered in blood
soberly waiting the rooster’s crow.
Day and night his bird claw-like right hand firmly holds
an angry hammer. His four middle-aged pockets
are always full of rust-spotted man-made nails
He was my fifth-grade primary school teacher, a language teacher
He was recognized by the meatpacking village for being a good person
so good that even his shadow was the honest and benevolent kind
But in autumn 1993, he suddenly went bad
No one in the whole village dared to believe
he had used five terrifyingly long rivets
with wrath and hate
to nail his unfaithful wife to an iron bedframe
The jaws of the people dropped in fright and stayed that way
as if their mouths had been stuffed with invisible megaphones
and in the choking dust there was the smell of piss.
After this, the whole village called him a demon and kept their distance
After this, he desired only the shadows, man-made walls and nails
After this, he desired only, with his deep and hateful wrath
to hammer man-made rust-spotted nails
into the flesh of walls. After this, he beat his drum
alone in the world. Only from a distance did we dare
watch him crazily beating his drum
watch the man-made nails in the world become less and less
If he continues, sooner or later the Earth will be hammered full of nails
If he continues, all the man-made nails
will soon be hammered up by him.
We fear, when the world runs out of man-made nails
will he then, with his deep and hateful wrath
hammer himself into the earth? Like one
surplus man-made nail, in the middle of an epoch
that collects rust
speck by speck

Rhapsody on Young Death

Stars like cookies
In the heavens sparkle sweetly scented
When night arrives
The whole Milky Way is surging with scented stars
Children who died young
In the heavens hungrily scramble after them
Sometimes they will discover
One cookie as large as the moon
And fight over it, bruising each other and shedding blood
On Earth, balconies in the dark night
Become covered with delicate drops of fresh blood and tears
At that moment
Unaware of the things outside the window
In our nightmares, we panic and try to flee
Early morning we wake with a start
Brilliant rays of morning light drape the sky
And the fresh blood and tears of those children
That covered the balconies on Earth
God has long ago
Quietly quietly quietly wiped clean
Leaving not a speck

Rhapsody on Smearing Paint

A woman with autism lives in the seclusion of her home
alone in a strange human-flavoured world
She has a compulsion for painting, there is no relief for her plight, no medical cure
Carrying a bucket of sombre black paint, 89.9 percent composed of night sky, she
grasps the childhood in a toy doll, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the doll black
grasps the illness in the medicine bottle, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the bottle black
grasps the music in the speaker, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the speaker black
grasps the speed in the bicycle, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the bicycle black
grasps the youth in the facial mask, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the facial mask black
grasps the friendship within the photo album, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the photo album black
grasps the chastity in the dress, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the cloth black
grasps the lie in the rose, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the petals black
grasps the expression in the mirror, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the mirror black
grasps the glow in the lightbulb, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the glass bulb black
grasps the sitcom in the TV set, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the TV screen black
grasps the time in the wall clock, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the clock’s frame black
grasps the content of the magazine, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the papers black
grasps the sleep in the bed, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the mattress black
grasps the secret within the chest, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the keyhole black
grasps the summertime in the electric fan, takes it out, covers it in paint
then puts it back, then paints the electric fan black
grasps all her happiness anger sorrow and joy, takes them out, covers them in paint
then puts them back, then paints herself black
She lets go of the paintbrush and plastic container and crouches down in the corner of the room
like a hedgehog whose spirit has been dealt a terrible blow
Her body shrinks with fatigue, her face is distorted with bitter tears and a runny nose
Her cries are like the wail of a sudden air raid alarm
that startles awake however so many countries, and causes them to lose
a dozen or so nights of sleep

Rhapsody on Hitmen

The year’s end is near. At this time
the buzz of a crackdown is constant, so constant that even the flies
don’t feel free to fly around and breathe
Bailiffs sent out by the country constantly search the country
carpet bombing day and night
like ten million dogs, searching an expansive carpet
Even a thread-like crack
is repeatedly sniffed dozens of times
Ten million sensitive sniffing noses
one after another get chronic hypertrophic rhinitis
The country has no choice but to stuff into the pocket of every bailiff
a bottle of the finest nasal spray for emergency purposes
After X number of searches, day and night, the bailiffs’ penises
are so worn out they droop like used condoms
The bailiffs return home muddle-headed and fall asleep in their clothes
trousers and leather shoes covered in dirt and piss
Their forsaken wives, who burn with desire
yet lack the guts to have an affair
are forced to hide their faces and go to the sex shop
They take home Japanese models of gel penises
then hide themselves in the toilet, masturbating with one hand over their mouths
The year’s end is near, outside the country’s sex shops
day and night, you can always find a bustling
long long long procession of hidden faces
And as soon as the hitmen see that
long long long procession of hidden faces
They stop taking on work, conceal their pistols and ammo
alter their appearance, get rid of their camouflage
Right hands holding bribes, left hands holding
the flirtatious waists of American girls
they travel in a private Apollo spaceship, soaring straight to the moon
On top of the moon, they smoke the finest
marijuana from Cambodia, and admire the man-made landscape on Earth
The hitmen watch the country’s bailiffs
leap until their leather shoes break, ruin their noses from sniffing
yet the bailiffs still end up empty-handed
Bored senseless, the bailiffs
one by one raise Browning 92 rifles
aim them at the heads of mosquitoes, and start to play
a cruel and inhuman game of exploding heads

Rhapsody on the Person Racing a Great Rain

Once summer arrives, the sky in the meatpacking village
looks like it has suffered the cruel blows of a man. Swollen dark clouds
look like skin covered with bruises
like a sanitary napkin soaked in menstrual blood
From time to time, the clouds will float
queasily at the top of our heads
Once summer arrives, we multitask
watching the sky above our heads while harvesting
Once a black cloud appears, we desperately run
in the direction of the commune’s area for drying corn
There, one year’s worth of food is laid out to dry
We rush to bag it all up, and cover it well
before the great rainfall splashes down
Once summer arrives, it is as if we
repeatedly become the butt of God’s practical jokes
One joke was targeted at a woman, everyone in her family
had already died and left her behind
She was already quite old. Last year her legs
could still muster the speed of an old hen
Yet this year, no matter how much she tried
she could only run as fast as a tortoise
Yet she ran everywhere she went, the whole time giving the sky a tongue-lashing
The people in the sky became incensed at her
One after another they held up big basins of cheap water
and as if taking revenge, splashed it at her
Some fucking idiots even lost all sense of reason
and in her direction
spat wrathful spit

Rhapsody on Magpies

My country will never have magpies again
The last one died from a man-made epidemic
in 2648
Its body is hung in the national bird museum, where people pay homage
Its chirp has been recorded and duplicated an unlimited number of times
and used to soothe lonesome souls in the final years of their lives
From the faraway corners of the nation, there are no more happy tidings
For several years, there has been not a single correspondence
from the people who care about me, nor from those I care about
All day I sit in a German wheelchair waiting death
On the rooftop of the building, in the winter of 3121
a smart-machine navy-blue magpie
given for free to the elderly by the nation
plays the recorded bird song on repeat
Far off, the man-made scenery of the nation
vanishes into smoggy haze
The airplane of the environmental protection agency is busy sterilizing the air
Above the electronic clouds, there are broadcasts
ads for extra strength medicine to calm the soul
My tree will never again be graced with birds
For several years, the stark bald branches have not seen a single leaf
The whole day, there is no sunlight on my balcony
The cured meat hanging on the window’s iron bars
crawls with maggots

腥的狂想曲

不住小旅馆。坚决不住。他说
那些半夜敲门的妓女，仿佛张开的
一次性器皿，盛装着一次性的性
一次性的卫生纸和纸杯。生锈的水笼头
喷了过多人造香水的旅馆老板娘
连人造的灯光和白床单里的睡眠，都是腥的
我已四十年不近色不思欲了。他说

不逛菜市场。坚决不逛。他说
死不瞑目的鱼，冰的冷里藏着它的肉体
苍蝇纸上，粘着苍蝇的死。脏的货币
畜生的內脏和血。缺斤少两的无良的称
人造化肥和农药培育的蔬菜。毒大米
连商贩的语气和防腐剂里的萝卜，都是腥的
我已四十年不杀生不吃肉了。他说

不上医院。坚决不上。他说
古怪的医生和器械。人造的针筒和人血
尖锐的婴儿哭声。色彩缤纷的药
苟活在绑带里，像衣服那样缝接而成的人
没有表情的脸。推往太平间的尸体
危险的孕妇。夸大的病。连病历都是腥的
我已四十年不生病不吃药了。他说

不坐火车。坚决不坐。他说
随时顺手牵羊的小偷的手。不安的唾眠
窒息的脚气和狐臭。可疑的外省旅客
可疑的行李箱和包裹。罐装的人造饮料
水果和方便面。滔滔不绝于耳的方言
黃色笑话和扑克牌。连火车票，都是腥的
我已四十年不出门不远游了。他说

不关心政冶。坚决不关心。他说
撕毁国家的报纸。砸掉收音机和电视机
看见政府机构，别过脸去，绕道而行
不再仇恨国家。虽然曾遭它暴打
虚伪的公开的公文。见不得光的手段和权
全世界的政治都是腥的。他说
四十年了，一闻到政治，他就抓狂

一条害怕腥的人，与猫共眠至终老
连喂养的猫，也厌恶腥，厌恶人和鱼肉
他是我的一条古怪的邻居。无后代
文革时曾遭国家关押。从此家破妻散
从此不再娶。从此害怕政治和腥
全世界都是腥的。我能躲到哪里去
我就死在祖国里。临死前他说

站在墙的阴影里钉钉子的人狂想曲

就像一只毒气充沛的人造氢气球
在地球里，他危险地飘飘忽忽，飘飘忽忽
下半辈子，他惨白着落魄的人脸
拖着单薄如纸的变异影子
苟活于恐惧中。肉体密密麻麻的地球里
昼夜响彻着他的敲打声
他要将人造的钉子钉满整个地球吗
那些粉刷着肉麻的教育标语的墙
密密麻麻的人造钉子，在雨水中生着锈
那条满身油漆，写了大半辈子标语的家伙
觉得在地球里写得不过瘾
早已提着鲸鱼牌的人造油漆
奔天堂写去了。唯独他依然躲在地球里
顽固地敲打着。拿钉子的左手，常年流着血
伤口的肉，常年腐烂着，招蛆引蝇
中年的身体，常常在鸦雀无声的下半夜
从黑色的噩梦中，尖叫着惊醒过来
满头冷汗的瘫坐于沾血的床，清醒地等待鸡鸣
鸟爪一样的右手，昼夜紧握着
愤怒的羊角锤子。四个中年的口袋
昼夜装满了锈迹斑斑的人造钉子
他是我小学五年级的班主任
教授语文。肉镇公认的一条好人
好得连影子，都是善良牌的
可在一九九三年的秋季，突然坏掉了
整个肉镇，没有一条人敢相信
他竟然使用了五根长得吓人的人造铆钉
将他的贱货女人，狠狠狠狠地
钉死在一张铁制的床上了
整个肉镇的嘴，吓得久久不见合上
仿佛塞进了一只隐形的扩阴器
在窒息的灰尘中，倒吸着屎味的空气
整个肉镇，从此视他为恶魔，远而避之
从此，他只热爱阴影、人造的墙和钉子
从此，他只热爱，将锈迹斑斑的人造钉子
狠狠狠狠深深深深地钉入到
墙的肉里去。从此，他独自在地球里
噼噼啪啪地敲打着。我们只敢站在远处
恐惧地看着他，疯狂的敲打
看着地球里的人造钉子，越来越少
长此以往，整个地球，早晚会被钉满钉子的
长此以往，地球里的人造钉子
早晚会被他，钉得一根也不剩的
我们担心着，那时的地球
再也没有人造的钉子了，他会不会
将自己也狠狠狠狠深深深深地
钉入到地球的深处去？就像一根
锋利的人造钉子，在时光中
一微米一微米的
锈蚀掉

夭折狂想曲

饼干似的星星
在天上闪闪发香
一到夜晚
整条银河就星香涌动
夭折的孩子们
就会在天上饥饿地哄抢之
有时他们发现了
一只月亮大饼
就会哄抢得头破血流
人间的深夜阳台
就会滴满幼嫩的鲜血和泪
那时的我们
正于噩梦中落慌而逃
浑然不觉窗外物
待到早晨我们惊醒过来
光芒早已挂满了天空
人间的阳台之上
孩子们的鲜血和泪
早已被上帝
悄悄悄悄悄悄地抹掉了
了无痕迹

涂抹狂想曲

一条深居简出的雌性孤独症患者
她独自在人味古怪的地球里
痴迷于涂抹，不能自拔，无药可救
她提着一桶悲伤成分高达89.9％的夜色
将玩偶里的童年，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑玩偶
将药瓶里的病，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑药瓶
将音箱里的音乐，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑音箱
将单车里的速度，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑单车
将面膜里的青春，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑面膜
将相册里的友谊，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑相册
将裙子里的贞操，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑布匹
将玫瑰里的谎言，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑花瓣
将镜子里的表情，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑镜面
将灯泡里的光，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑玻璃壳
将电视里的节目，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑荧屏
将挂钟里的时间，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑钟框
将杂志里的内容，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑纸张
将床上的睡眠，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑床
将箱子里的秘密拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑锁孔
将风扇里的夏季，拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑风扇
将喜怒哀乐，统统拿出来，涂抹一遍
然后放回去，然后涂黑自己
她放下塑料桶和扫刷，卧于墙角
就像灵魂遭受了重创的刺猬
肉体倦缩，嘴脸扭曲地流涕痛哭
她的哭，就像突然响起的空袭警报
吓得好几个国家，丢掉了
十几夜的睡眠

杀手狂想曲

年关临近。风声
总是很紧，紧得连苍蝇
也无法自由地飞行和呼吸
国家派出的捕快，总是地毯式地
昼夜将国家搜查
就像千万条狗，搜查一张宽阔的地毯
连一条线似的裂缝
也要来来回回地嗅上几十遍
嗅得千万只敏感的鼻子
纷纷患上了慢性肥厚性鼻炎
国家只好往每条捕快的裤袋里
都塞进了一瓶优鼻喷剂，以备不时之需
N个昼夜的搜查，捕快们的鸡巴
早已累得如同疲软的避孕套了
回家便和衣蒙头昏睡
裤管和皮鞋上，沾满了恶臭的泥巴和屎
被冷落的妻子，欲火焚身
却又没胆出轨
只好蒙面到性爱用品商店去
购回仿真的日本硅胶鸡巴
独躲于厕所内，掩嘴自慰
年关临近，国家的性爱用品商店外
总是昼夜涌动着
长长长长长长的蒙面队伍
杀手们一见到
那长长长长长长的蒙面队伍
便不再接活了，藏好了手枪和子弹
用易容术，卸掉了伪装
右手提着脏款，左手搂着
一条美国骚腰，光明正大地
乘坐私人阿波罗号飞船，奔月去了
月亮之上，他们抽着高级的
柬埔寨大麻，赏着地球的人造风景
任由国家的捕快，在地球里
蹿烂皮鞋，嗅坏鼻子
依然一无所获
无聊至极，捕快们
纷纷举起了勃朗宁92式手枪
瞄准蚊子的脑袋，玩起了
惨无人道的爆头游戏

与大雨赛跑的人狂想曲

一到夏季，肉镇的天空
就像遭人暴打过。浮肿的乌云
仿佛充满了淤伤的皮肤
又像经血渗透的女性卫生棉
时不时的，便恶心地
漂浮在我们的头顶
一到夏季，我们就得一心二用
埋头收割之时，还得留心头顶的天空
一看见乌云，就得拼命地奔跑
朝着公共晒谷场的方向
那里，正摊晒着我们一年的粮食
我们必须要赶在大雨倒泼下来之前
将它们装袋，并覆盖好
一到夏季，我们就仿佛
反复置身于上帝的一场场恶作剧中
其中有个角色，她的家族
只死剩下她一条了
她的年事，又已高。她的腿
前年还奔跑得出一只老母鸡的速度
今年，再怎么用力
也只能奔跑得出一只老乌龟的速度了
于是她一路奔跑，一路将天空臭骂了起来
于是满天空的人，全都给她惹怒了
纷纷捧起了一大盆廉价的雨水
报复似的，泼向了她
一些失去了理性的偏激的傻逼
甚至朝她，吐下了
愤怒的口水

喜鹊狂想曲

我的国家，再也没有喜鹊了
最后的一只，病故于2648年的
一场人为的瘟疫
它的遗容，被吊挂在
国家的鸟类博物馆里，供人凭吊
它的鸣叫，被国家无限次地刻录和复制
用以抚慰孤寂的晚年心灵
国家的远方，再也没有喜讯传过来了
喜欢我的人和我喜欢的人
已多年，音讯全无
在3121年的冬季顶楼天台上
我终日瘫坐在一辆德国籍的轮椅里等死
一只藏青色的国家免费发放的
安老智能机械喜鹊
终日反复地欢唱着刻录的虚拟鸟鸣
远处，国家的人造风景
终日隐没于雾霾中
环保局的飞机，终日忙于给空气消毒
电子云层上，终日播放着
特效的安魂药广告
我的树，再也没有鸟雀光临了
光秃秃的树枝，已多年不见一片树叶
我的阳台，终日不见阳光
吊挂在防盗网上的腊肉
爬满了蛆虫

Translator’s Statement:

I first came in contact with poetry by Black Bird (乌鸟鸟) in the documentary Iron Moon (2015) on migrant-worker poets in China. Black Bird was one of the five migrant-worker poets showcased in this powerful documentary. For almost ten years, Black Bird worked as a forklift driver at a factory in Guangdong province, and he currently works at a stall in a food market in Guangzhou. For this reason, his poetry is sometimes viewed in terms of his social status and labelled by literature critics in China as dagong wenxue, “migrant worker literature,” or diceng wenxue, “subaltern literature.” This type of literature is promoted by left-wing scholars as having the potential to stimulate a critique on the increasing socioeconomic inequality brought by China’s neoliberal turn.

However, Black Bird is very critical of his poetry being seen in terms of his social status and being labelled as “worker poetry.” Unlike other well-known migrant-worker poets such as Xu Lizhi and Zheng Xiaoqing, his poetry rarely touches on his work or the degrading nature of migrant worker labor. His poetry is better characterized by its experiments in language and form, and I believe the experimental nature and surreal imagery of his poems makes him stand out as a unique voice in contemporary Chinese poetry. Furthermore, his poetry often incorporates a sharp criticism of such social ills as political corruption and environmental pollution, something that is rare to find in mainstream poetry.

Translating Black Bird’s poetry made me reflect more deeply on the relationship between translator and author. Due to his poetry’s provocative and sometimes political subject matter, his readership in Chinese is limited beyond underground and avant-garde poetry circles. When translating these poems, then, it was important for me to attempt to capture and preserve Black Bird’s voice in the translation. Black Bird experiments with language and form, often incorporating enjambment, puns, and repetition. These elements introduce a strangeness to the text that coexists with the oftentimes provocative subject matter of his “rhapsodies.” I attempted to faithfully translate and maintain these stylistic elements and surreal imagery in the English translation.

Kimberly Wright is originally from Bloomington, Indiana. She attained a BA in East Asian languages and civilizations at the University of Chicago, and then an MA in East Asian languages and cultures and a certificate in literature translation at Indiana University. She now works in international education in Shanghai and pursues her interests in Chinese literature and translation on the side.

Black Bird is the penname of the poet Chen Yagui. He was born in 1980 in Huazhou, Guangdong province. After graduating from high school, he began working in a factory in 2002 and writing poetry in 2005; he has written more than fifty poems in a “rhapsody” series. His poetry has won awards in the Chengmai Experimental Poetry and 2nd Artsbj.com International Chinese Poetry competitions. His poems have been published in online journals as well as the Shanghai-based avant-garde poetry journal Piston (活塞), for which he also serves as a board member.