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Saturday
Oct192013

Verano (part 3)

The conclusion to a short story ("Summer") by this Argentine.  You can read the original here.

Zulma ended up accepting, passively.  Without switching on the lights, they went to the stairs and Mariano gestured towards the sleeping girl, but Zulma hardly glanced at her and stumbled up the stairs.  Mariano had to restrain her as they entered the bedroom because she was about to walk into the door frame.  From the window looking out onto the wing of the house they espied the stone staircase and the most elevated terrace in the garden.  You see, it's gone, said Mariano, as he straightened Zulma's pillow while watching her undress mechanically, her gaze still fixed upon the window.  He got her to take her sedative, rubbed some cologne on her neck and hands, and softly drew the sheet to Zulma's shoulders.  She had already shut her eyes and was trembling.  He dried her cheeks, waited a moment, then went downstairs to look for the flashlight.  With the flashlight switched off in one hand and a large candle in the other, he gradually went around the living door and out the lower terrace.  From here he could survey the entire side of the house that faced east.  

The night was identical to so many other summer nights: crickets were cricking in the distance; a frog was releasing two alternating drops of sound.  Without using the flashlight Mariano could make out the trampled shrub of lilies, the potted plant overturned at the foot of the stairs, and the enormous tracks through the quarry of his thoughts.  So it had not all been a hallucination; and of course, it was better that it hadn't been.  In the morning he and Florencio would go investigate the smallholdings in the valley, and it would not be so easy for them to get down there.  Before coming inside he righted the potted plant, walked over to the initial knot of trees, and listened for a while to the crickets and the frog.  When he looked back towards the house, he caught sight of Zulma naked and very still in the bedroom window.  

The girl had not moved.  Mariano went upstairs without making a noise and began to smoke next to Zulma. You see now that it's gone, we can sleep peacefully; we'll see what tomorrow brings.  Little by little he led her back to bed, got undressed, and, still smoking, lay down on his back.  Sleep, everything's going to be fine, it was nothing more than a scare, an absurd scare.  He put his hands through her hair, his fingers slipping to her shoulders and grazing her breasts.  Without a word Zulma turned to the side, giving him her back; this, too, was like so many other summer nights.      

Although it must have been very hard to do, Mariano abruptly fell asleep – almost, in fact, as soon as he had put his cigarette.  The window was still open; mosquitoes would certainly float in; yet sleep, imageless sleep, won out, the total nothingness of what, at some waking moment, erupted into unspeakable panic, the pressing of Zulma's fingers on his shoulders, and panting.  Almost before realizing it he was already listening to the night, to the perfect silence punctuated by the crickets.  Sleep, Zulma, there's nothing, you were probably dreaming.  He insisted that she agree to this and lie down again with her back to him; but she had suddenly withdrawn her hand and was sitting up, quite stiff, and looking at the closed door.  Unable to prevent her from opening the door and going to the top of the stairs, he got up at the same time.  He came up next to her and asked himself vaguely whether it wouldn't be better if he smacked her, brought her back to bed by force, and had his way with her in her state of petrified alienation.

Zulma stopped halfway down the stairs and leaned on the banister.  Do you know why the girl is here?  It was a voice that seemed like it still belonged to a nightmare.  The girl?  Two more steps, almost at the bend in the staircase right above the kitchen.  Please, Zulma.  And the cracked, almost falsetto voice: she's here to let it in, I tell you she is going to let it come in.  Don't make me do something very stupid, Zulma.  And then the voice, now almost triumphant, still rising in tone: look, just look if you don't believe me, the bed is empty, the magazine is on the floor.  Mariano shoved his way past Zulma, and jumped down to the light switch.  The girl was looking at them, her pink pyjamas were against the door to the living room, her face was sleepy.  What are you doing up at this hour, said Mariano, throwing a dish cloth around his waist.  With something between sleepiness and embarrassment, the girl looked at Zulma all naked as if on the verge of tears and with the sole desire of going back to bed.  I got up to go to the bathroom, she said.  And you went out to the garden when we told you the bathroom was upstairs.  Her hands comically vanishing into her pyjama pockets, the girl began to convulse into a sob.  Ok, it's nothing, just go back to bed, said Mariano, stroking her hair.  He tucked her in and placed the magazine underneath her pillow.  The girl turned towards the wall, a finger in her mouth in consolement.  

Go upstairs, said Mariano, you see that nothing's happening, don't just stand there like a sleepwalker.  He saw Zulma take two steps towards the living room door and stepped right in her way.  Everything down here was fine, damn it all.  But don't you realize that she opened the door for it, said Zulma in that voice that wasn't her own.  Stop your silliness, Zulma.  Go see if you're not sure, or let me go see.  Mariano's hand seized her forearm which was trembling.  Go upstairs right now, he said pushing her until he had brought her to the foot of the stairs; in passing, he looked back at the girl who hadn't budged, who must have already fallen asleep.  

On the first step Zulma screamed and tried to escape.  But the staircase was narrow and Mariano, holding her by her shoulders, pushed her with his whole body, the dish cloth coming undone and slipping off at the foot of the staircase.  He dragged as far as the landing, threw her in the bedroom, and closed the door behind him.  She's going to let it in, Zulma repeated, the door is open and it's going to come in.  Go to bed, said Mariano.  I'm telling you that the door is open.  Who cares, said Mariano, it can come in if it likes, now I don't give a damn whether or not it comes in.  He caught Zulma's hands as they tried to push him away and shoved her onto her back on the bed.  They fell down together, Zulma sobbing and begging, incapable of moving beneath the weight of a body that stuck to her ever the more tightly, that furiously bent her into murmured consent, mouth to mouth, between tears and obscenities.  I don't want to, I don't want to, I never want to again.  But it was too late, her strength and pride were yielding to this oppressive weight that brought her back to an impossible past, to the summers without letters and without horses.  At some point everything cleared up; Mariano got dressed in silence and went downstairs to the kitchen; the girl was sleeping with her finger in her mouth; the door of the living room was open.  Zulma had been right, the girl had opened the door; but the horse had not come into the house.  Unless – he thought, lighting his first cigarette and gazing upon the blue edge of the hills – unless Zulma had also been right about this and the horse had indeed entered the house.  But how could they know if they hadn't heard it, if everything was still in order, if the clock continued measuring the morning, and if after Florencio came to pick up the girl, perhaps around twelve, the postman whistling from afar left on the garden table the letters which he or Zulma would collect without saying a thing, a small while before agreeing on what they wanted to have for lunch. 

Tuesday
Oct152013

Verano (part 2)

The second part to a short story ("Summer") by this Argentine.  You can read the original here.

Mariano was sifting through the piles of records for a Beethoven sonata to which he hadn't listened this summer when Zulma heard the first sound.  He stood there, his hand in the air, and looked at Zulma.  A sound that seemed to come from the stone staircase of the garden, but no one came to the cabin at this hour; no one ever came at night.  From the kitchen she switched on the lamp shining onto the most immediate part of the garden, saw nothing, and switched it off.  A dog looking for something to eat, said Zulma.  It sounded odd, almost like a snort, said Mariano.  A enormous white spot whipped against the window, Zulma cried out as if drowning, Mariano turned back too late, with the glass reflecting only the furniture and pictures of the living room.  He had no time to ask, the snort resonated near the wall facing north, a suffocated neigh like the cry of Zulma who had her hands on her mouth as she clung to the back wall looking fixedly at the window.  It's a horse, said Mariano without believing it, it sounds like a horse, I heard its hoofs, it's galloping through the garden.  Its mane, its blood-red lips, its enormous white head grazed against the window; the horse hardly looked at them, the white spot disappeared towards the right, and anew they heard the hoofs, a brusque silence beside the stone staircase, the neigh, the gallop.    

But there are no horses around here, said Mario, who had seized the liquor bottle by the neck before he realized what he had done and placed it on the banquette.  It wants to come inside, said Zulma glued to the back wall.  But no, don't be silly, it might have escaped from some smallholding in the valley and come towards the light.  It wants to come inside, I tell you, it's rabid and it wants to come in.  Horses don't get rabid as far I as I know, said Mariano, I think it's gone, I'll go take a look from the window upstairs.  No, no, stay here, I still hear it, it's on the terrace stairs, it's trampling the plants, it will come back, and this time it will break the window and come in.  Don't be silly, what's it going to break, said Mariano faintly, perhaps it'll scare it away if we switch on the lights.  I don't know, I don't know, said Zulma slipping down the wall until she was seated on the banquette, I heard something like a neigh, it's up here.  They heard the hoofs going down the stairs, the irritated panting against the door, Mariano thought there was some pressure against the door, a repeated scratching, and Zulma ran towards him screaming hysterically.  He pushed her away gently, and held his hand to the switch; in the darkness (light remained in the kitchen where the girl was sleeping) the whinnying and the hoofs became louder; but the horse was not right in front of the door: one could hear it coming and going in the garden. 

Without even looking at the corner they had laid out for the girl, Mariano ran to switch off the kitchen light.  He came back to hug Zulma who was sobbing; he stroked her hair and her face, begging her to be quiet so that he could hear better.  In the window the horse's head was rubbing up against the largest pane without tremendous force; the white spot looked transparent in the darkness; they felt that the horse was peering inside the house as if looking for something; it could no longer see them, yet it was still here, whinnying and panting, with sharp jerks from one side to the other.  Zulma's body was slipping from Mario's arms, and he was helping her sit back down on the banquette, leaning her against the wall.  Don't move, don't say anything, now it's going to leave, you'll see.  It wants to come in, said Zulma faintly, I know that it wants to come in and if it breaks the window, what's going to happen if it kicks the window until it breaks?  Hush, said Mario, please be quiet.  It's going to come in, mumbled Zulma.  I don't even have a shotgun, said Mariano, I'd put five bullets in its head, that son of a bitch.  It's no longer here, said Zulma, getting up all of a sudden.  I hear it up there; if it sees the terrace door, it could come in.  It's properly closed, don't be afraid, consider that in the dark it's not going to enter a house where it can't even move around, don't be such a fool.  Oh yes, said Zulma, it wants to come in, and it will smash us against the walls, I know that it wants to come in.  Hush, Mariano said again.  He was thinking the same thing, but could do nothing but wait, his back soaked in cold sweat.  Once more the hoofs resounded upon the slabs of the stairs, and suddenly there was silence, the distant crickets, and a bird in the walnut tree above. 

Without turning on the lights now that the window let in the night's vague clarity, Mariano poured a glass of liquor and held it to Zulma's lips, forcing her to drink even though her teeth rattled against the cup and the alcohol spilled onto her blouse.  After that he took a long drink straight from the bottle and went to the kitchen to look at the girl.  With her hands beneath the pillow as if holding her precious magazine, the girl was, incredibly enough, asleep: she hadn't heard a thing.  He had hardly been there a moment while, in the living room, Zulma's crying was turning slowly into a drowning hiccough, almost into a scream.  It's over, it's over, said Mariano now sitting down next to her and shaking her softly, it was nothing more than a scare.  It's going to come back, said Zulma, her eyes fixed on the window.  No, it's probably already far away, I'm sure it escaped from some herd down there.  No horse does that, said Zulma, no horse want to come into a house like that.  I have to admit it's odd, said Mariano, we'd better take a look outside.  I have the flashlight here.  But Zulma had pressed herself against the wall; the idea of opening the door, of going out towards the white shadow that could be close by, waiting below the trees, ready to charge.  Look now, if we don't make sure that it's gone, no one is going to get any sleep tonight, said Mariano.  Let's give it a little longer; in the meantime, go to bed and I'll give you your sedative; an extra dose, you poor thing, you've really earned it.  

Sunday
Oct132013

Verano (part 1)

The first part to a short story ("Summer") by this Argentine.  You can read the original here.

It was twilight when Florencio brought the girl down to the cabin, following the path replete with loose stones and potholes that Mariano and Zulma alone found some amusement in crossing with the jeep.  Zulma opened the door for them and her eyes gave Florencio the impression she had been peeling onions.  Mariano emerged from the other room and told them to come in; but Florencio only wanted to ask them to watch the girl for the night because he had to to go to the coast for an urgent piece of business, and in the village there was no one of whom to ask such a favor.  Of course, said Zulma, just leave her here and we'll set up a bed for her downstairs.  Come have a drink, insisted Mariano, five minutes max, but Florencio had left the car in the town square and had to continue his trip immediately.  He thanked them and gave a kiss to his daughter who had already discovered the pile of magazines on the banquette.  When the door had been closed Zulma and Mariano looked at each other almost quizzically, as if everything had happened too quickly.  Mariano shrugged his shoulders and returned to his workshop where he was in the midst of gluing together an old armchair.  Zulma asked the girl whether she was hungry and suggested that she go ahead and busy herself with the magazines; in the pantry she could find a ball and a butterfly net.  The girl said thank you and set to looking at the magazines; Zulma watched her for a moment while preparing the artichokes and decided that she could let her play by herself.    

At this time of the year twilight already came early in the south.  Barely a month remained before they would have to go back to the capital and enter another life, that of winter, which, in the end, was one and the same act of survival: being distantly together, amiably friends, and respecting and carrying out the innumerable delicate, conventional, and trivial ceremonies of a married couple.  Like now when Mariano needed one of the burners to warm up the jar of glue, and Zulma took the potato casserole off the stove and said she would finish cooking it later, and Mariano thanked her because the armchair was almost finished and it was better to apply the glue only once, but of course, warm it up.  While the girl was leafing through the magazines at the other end of the big room which served as both a kitchen and dining room, Mariano searched for some candy for her in the pantry.  Now was the time they usually went out to have a drink in the garden and watch the sun set over the hills.  There was never anyone on the path, with the first house from the town hardly visible at the highest spot and the slope descending before them into the heart of the valley, into the shadows.  I just prepared everything, said Zulma, now I'm coming.  Everything was completed cyclically, every item at its hour and one hour for every item, with the exception of the girl who, all of a sudden, had slightly adjusted the scheme.  A stool and a glass of milk for her, a caress of her hair and words of praise for her behavior.  Cigarettes and swallows gathered atop the cabin; everything was repeating itself, everything seemed to fit, the armchair was already almost dry, glued together this new day that had nothing new about it.  The insignificant differences this evening involved the girl, just as sometimes, around noon, the postman would steal a moment of their solitude with a letter for Mariano or Zulma, which the addressee would receive and hold on to without saying a word.  One more month of predictable repetitions like rehearsals, and the jeep loaded up to the roof would bring them back to the capital, to the life which was merely another one of those forms, Zulma's group, or Mariano's painter friends, her afternoons in the stores and his nights in the cafés, separate comings and goings although they would always meet to carry out those intermediary ceremonies, the morning kiss, for example, or watching neutral, agreed-upon television programs.  Just as Mariano was now offering Zulma another drink, and just as Zulma was now accepting, her eyes lost in the most distant hills already tinged in deep violet.             

What would you like to have for dinner, sweetie?  Whatever you're having is fine with me, ma'am.  She probably doesn't like artichokes, said Mariano.  Yes, I do, said the girl, with oil and vinegar but not a lot of salt because that burns.  They laughed: they would make a special vinaigrette.  And what about soft-boiled eggs?  With a spoon, said the girl.  And not a lot of salt because that burns, joked Mariano.  Salt burns a lot, said the girl, I give my doll mashed potatoes without salt.  I didn't bring her today because my dad was in a hurry and he didn't let me.  It's going to be a beautiful evening, said Zulma aloud, look how clear the air is toward the north.  Yes, it's not too hot, said Mariano taking the chairs into the room downstairs and turning on the lamps next to the window gazing onto the valley.  He also mechanically turned on the radio.  Nixon was headed to Beijing.  What are you talking about, said Mariano.  There's no more religion, said Zulma, and they both roared with laughter at the same time.  The girl had been devoting herself to the magazines, marking the comics pages in case she wanted to re-read them.    

Between the insecticide Mariano sprayed in the upstairs bedroom and the scent of an onion Zulma was cutting as she sang a pop tune from the radio under her breath, night arrived.  In the middle of dinner the girl began to nod off over her soft-boiled egg; they kidded her and encouraged her to finish; Mariano had prepared a cot for her with an inflated mattress in the corner farthest away from the kitchen so that it would not bother her if they stayed downstairs a little while longer reading or listening to records.  The girl ate her peach and admitted that she was sleepy.  Go to bed, honey, said Zulma, and remember, just come upstairs if you have to go to the bathroom.  We'll leave on a light on the stairs.  Wobbly from sleepiness, the girl kissed each of them on the cheek; yet before going to bed, she picked out a magazine and placed under her pillow.  They are incredible, said Mariano, what an inaccessible world.  And to think it was our world, everyone's world.  Perhaps it's not all that different, said Zulma who was clearing off the table, you also have your manias, your eau de cologne on the left and your razor on the right, and we're not even going to talk about me.  But, these weren't manias, Mariano thought, but rather a response to death and nothingness, to fix certain things and times, to establish rites and passages against disorder so laden with holes and stains; the only difference is that I didn't say them out loud.  Each time it seemed less necessary to talk to Zulma; and Zulma, for her part, made no demand to change the subject.  Bring the coffee pot, I already put the cups on the banquette of the fireplace.  Can you see whether there's any sugar in the sugar bowl; there's a new packet in the pantry.  I can't find the corkscrew, this bottle of liquor looks good, don't you think?  Yes, a nice color.  When you go upstairs, bring the cigarettes I left on the dresser.  This liquor is really very good.  Don't you find it warm out here?  Yes, it's muggy, we'd better not open the windows, or we'll be swarmed with butterflies and mosquitoes.  

Thursday
Oct102013

Samain, "Je rêve de vers doux"

A work ("Of softest verse I dream") by this French poet.  You can read the original here.

Image result for Albert SamainOf softest verse I dream, of birdsong near, 
Of verse to graze the soul like feathers shear; 

Of verse whose fluid sense unknots as fair
As does, beneath the waves, Ophelia's hair; 

Of silent verse bereft of plot or lilt,   
Where soundless rhymes will glide like oars through silt;

Of verse of ancient cloth, some weary shroud, 
Impalpable just like both sound and cloud; 

Of verse of autumn's eve, beguiled hours swell  
By female rite of minor syllable;  

Of verse from lovestruck nights, by vervain stress'd,  
Wherein exquisite souls are scarce-caressed ...

Of softest verse, rose-like to die, I dream. 

Monday
Sep302013

Ein Traum

A short story ("A Dream") by this German-language writer.  You can read the original here.

Joseph K. dreamed:

It was a fine day and K. wanted to go for a stroll.  Hardly had he taken a step or two, however, when he found himself at the cemetery.  Here the paths took very artificial and impractical turns, yet he glided over such a path as if it were water rippling below him in an imperturbable state of suspension.  Already in the distance he espied a freshly dug-up tumulus where he wished to stop.  This tumulus exerted a sort of attraction over him and he believed that he had not arrived there soon enough.  Sometimes he could barely see the tumulus: now it was cloaked in flags whose fabrics spun and struck each other with mighty force.  One could not make out the flag-bearer; yet it was as if great jubilation reigned there.  

Still gazing off into the distance, he suddenly caught sight of the same tumulus beside him by the path, now almost behind him.  He quickly jumped onto the grass.  As the path below his leaping foot raced on, he tottered and fell onto his knees right in front of the tumulus.  Two men were standing behind the grave, holding in the air between them a tombstone.  Hardly had K. appeared when they shoved the stone into the earth and it stood there firmly.  A third man, whom K. immediately recognized as an artist, suddenly stepped out from behind the bushes.  He was wearing only pants and a poorly buttoned shirt; on his head was a velvet cap; and in his hand was an ordinary pencil with which, K. noticed as he approached him, he was drawing figures in the air.    

He sat down now with this pencil atop the tombstone.  The stone was very high, so he didn't have to bend down at all, but he did have to bend over since the tumulus separated him from the stone and he did not wish to step on the tumulus.  Thus he got up on the tips of his toes and leaned with his left hand on the surface of the stone.  With a particularly deft manoeuvre he managed with an ordinary pencil to carve out gold letters.  He wrote: "Here lies –."  Each letter seemed beautiful and pure, deeply embedded, and of immaculate gold.  After he had written the two words he looked back at K.  Being very interested in the continuation of the inscription, K. barely concerned himself with the man and looked only at the stone.  Suddenly the man set to writing again and yet could not; some sort of impediment prevented him.  He let the pencil drop and turned back towards K.  

Now K. was also looking at the artist and noticed he was greatly embarrassed, but could not tell K. the reason why.  All his former liveliness had vanished.  K. too grew embarrassed; they exchanged helpless looks; a wicked misunderstanding stood between them, yet neither of them knew how to solve it.  In an untimely coincidence, the grave's small bell began to peal, but the artist waved his raised hand and it stopped.  After a short while it began again, gently this time, then without any particular prompting once more broke off, as if the bell were simply testing its own sound.         

K. was inconsolable about the artist's plight; he began to cry and for a long time he held his hands to his face, sobbing.  The artist waited until K. had calmed down and then decided that there was nothing more he could do but continue writing.  The first small cut he made released K. from his tension; but the artist obviously performed the cut with extreme reluctance.  No longer was the inscription beautiful – to begin with, it seemed to lack gold – each stroke was pale and uncertain.  The letter was now very big.  It was a J, and almost as soon as it was complete, the artist stomped so angrily upon the tumulus that all the soil around him flew into the air.  Finally K. understood him; there was no more time to apologize; he began digging with every finger into the soil, which hardly resisted.  Everything seemed ready; only a thin crust of earth was erected for appearance's sake; right behind that layer a large hole with precipitous walls opened up, and it was into this hole that K., flipped onto his back by some gentle current, now sank.  But when, down below, he raised his head upon his neck and took stock of the impenetrable depths, his name in boldest adornment splashed across the tombstone above.

Captivated by this sight, he woke up.